River of Stars Read online

  Kitai in this Twelfth Dynasty was simply not, in his opinion, set up for military triumph. Once, the army had known real—and dangerous—power. Once, high-ranking civil servants could ride well, play polo on splendid horses. They could loose an arrow, handle a blade. Now bureaucrats prided themselves on avoiding such pursuits. They were plump and soft, displaying the absence of any military threat to the throne.

  He kept most of this to himself that first night. “Of course, there needs to be a war for you to fight in the north,” was all he said that evening, listening to adequate flute and pipa music, sipping the wine on offer in Dizeng Village.

  “There will be,” said Ren Daiyan.

  His certainty was remarkable. Some people almost forced you to believe them, even when they spoke of the future, which no man could truly know.

  They went east two days later, the two of them and Fuyin’s assistants and Daiyan’s six men—Chief Magistrate Wang Fuyin’s newly appointed guards—to Jingxian.

  The last characters from the brush of Xi Wengao, scholar and historian and one-time prime minister of Kitai, had been written that same summer, in his garden in Yenling. The words were a reflection on the very different virtues of the plum blossom and the peony.

  The essay was unfinished when he died but was widely printed and read (his last words!) throughout Kitai. Master Xi had been, by any measure, one of the ornaments of the dynasty, a figure they could propose, with pride, to sit in heaven, in the celestial garden, among the great writers and scholars of the empire’s long past.

  This was so, notwithstanding the fact that the last years of his life were spent exiled from power, confined to Yenling.

  The battles of factions surely did not, for the wise, dictate the long-term importance of historians or poets. Not in a civilized world, and Kitai considered itself, of all things, civilized. One needed only to look north to the barbarians for a contrast.

  Master Xi’s last essay was about art and nature. It proposed that the blossoming of the plum in early spring was so delicately beautiful, so evocative of fragility as to render words about it or paintings of it crude, inadequate, however skilled the artist or the poet.

  Men (and one or two women, the historian noted carefully) had tried to capture the plum blossom in art and words, but its essence eluded in exquisite simplicity.

  Xi Wengao had allowed himself to explore the digressive thought that this mirrored, in certain ways, the Twelfth Dynasty itself. A smaller empire than some before it, less dramatic in its ambitions. Clothing and adornments were less provocative, porcelain and painting more subtle, too much assertion having become slightly embarrassing.

  The peony, by contrast, was loved by many—though not all—for its drama, boldness ... assertion. For the way in which it was a created beauty, a statement by men of what they could do. Art applied to nature: grafting, designing, shaping scent and colour with the skill of the gifted, especially in Yenling.

  The peony, Master Xi suggested, had been “King of Flowers” back in the Ninth and might be seen today as an echo of the power and confidence of that dynasty before the fall into chaos.

  From which long period of violence and incorrect thinking this Twelfth Dynasty had emerged—as a plum blossom through winter snow!

  The reflections in the essay were unfinished, alas. His conclusion was never laid on paper. The tale was that he had fallen asleep in his garden pavilion holding his brush, and had never awakened from that sleep. It was said that his soft black hat, insecurely pinned, had slipped from his head and lay beside him on the writing desk in morning light.

  As a result, it was never known what the intended resolution to this essay was. Xi Wengao also eluded, even as he died.

  It was reported that one of his younger woman servants died with him that day, killing herself when she discovered that his spirit had crossed through the doorways to the other world.

  The rumour was that she had been more than a servant to him in the last years of his exile. It was well known how much Xi Wengao had enjoyed the presence of women throughout his life.

  It had been thought that on her part this relationship was simply the old tale of a servant angling for a better life by way of slipping into the master’s bed. Her death by her own hand offered a rebuke to this, for some. The more cynical pointed out that with Xi Wengao gone, her status as preferred woman in that house was lost. Rather than revert to a lowly servant’s role, they suggested, she’d simply preferred to die.

  Others did see in her death something benign, perhaps even the presence of love. He had been, after all, loved by many, men and women both, all his days.

  In the end, as so often, no certain conclusion was possible.

  Illustrious Emperor Wenzong instructed that the scholar be laid to rest with honour in Yenling, despite his exile, and that a memorial stele be raised with a record of his ranks and deeds upon it.

  The woman was buried among the other servants in the cemetery at the highest point of the property. The house passed to his oldest son for a time, then changes came.

  CHAPTER XI

  On the ninth day of the ninth month, the Double Ninth, the Lu brothers went out alone—as they always did when the world permitted them to be together—to observe the Chrysanthemum Festival in the traditional manner.

  Going off together with no one else was their own tradition, attached to the ancient one. They brought chrysanthemum wine, of course. The younger brother carried this, and the cups. The older one moved more slowly after his years on Lingzhou Isle, and carried a stick.

  It was a day when people visited the graves of their dead, but their parents and ancestors were buried far to the west, and the man they were newly mourning had died in Yenling, at a writing desk.

  It wasn’t a particularly high place they found this time, even though that was part of the tradition. They had received word of Xi Wengao’s passing just days ago and neither, gathered into sorrow, was of a mind to make an overnight journey in order to climb high.

  Wengao been a mentor to both, loved by both, from the day they’d arrived in Hanjin with their father: two brothers from the west, reportedly brilliant, anecdotes and their first writings preceding them to the capital and the examinations, men pointed at the future.

  Today they went to a ridge near East Slope, which was the name the older one had given their small farm. They sat on a bench under a tree and the younger one poured wine.

  They looked east over the fall of the land. There was a stream, and just across it was boundary line. It was a property that could support a family if men were diligent and the weather was good.

  It was not yet cold, but an awareness that autumn was upon them (always, with the coming of this day) lay within both men, along with loss.

  The older brother said, “Is it possible for a man to go so far he cannot find his way back?”

  The younger one, taller, thinner, looked at him. He drank before answering. He was less quick with words or brush than his brother, not really a poet, but was nearly as renowned, honoured for composure and courage and careful argument. He had been, among many things, a diplomat north to the Xiaolu.

  “Of course it is possible,” Lu Chao said, answering. “Are you feeling that way?”

  The poet looked out at the stream. “Perhaps today.”

  His brother said, “Today is always hard. But you have your son here, your wife. We have each other every day now, and enough land not to starve. It is a gift, brother. You are back in Kitai.”

  Voicing an old thought: that Lingzhou Isle, though claimed by the empire, was a world unto itself.

  Chen hadn’t looked old when he was exiled, but you wouldn’t name him a man in his prime now. It caused the younger one pain, thinking this, seeing it. The affection he bore his brother was the deepest of his days.

  And was returned. Chen smiled at him. “A gift, yes. That I am here with you.”

  He held out his cup and the younger one filled it. They looked east and down. With their sons and f
arm workers they had cleared the brambles and bushes on this slope and planted mulberry and chestnut trees, on the advice of farmers who owned the nearby land. Neither brother was knowledgeable in country matters, both were willing to learn. There were people to be fed.

  After a silence, the older one said:

  Last night I drank too much by East Slope.

  I came home late, under stars.

  Leaning on a stick, I listened to the stream.

  They still trouble me—the longings of body and heart.

  When may I forget the busyness of the world?

  The sorrows of Kitai? The night was almost gone.

  The wind had died away. Only ripples in the stream.

  Perhaps I’ll leave here in a small boat alone

  And sail until I find the sea and then go on.

  His younger brother drank, refilled both cups, was silent. Eventually, he said, “That is new.”

  “A few days ago, yes.”

  Chao said, “You have come back. Don’t go away.”

  Chen flashed his well-known smile. “Ah. You are suggesting I am truly back? That this is still me?”

  The younger one didn’t return the smile. “I am,” he said. “I am suggesting that.”

  Then, because there was no real way to avoid it much longer, he told his brother the other news that had just come, along the roads, across the rivers, this time from the court.

  He was the one being asked to go away. It was an honour, a redemption from banishment. But it was also north, far past the capital, beyond the Long Wall, which had once been their border and wasn’t any more, and there was danger up there, always.

  A bird sang in the tree above them, another answered from down the slope. The morning was windy and bright. White clouds moving overhead, blue sky, yellow sun.

  Through two years now of irregular but ongoing invitations to attend upon him at court or in his garden, the emperor of Kitai has never indicated a wish to take Shan to his couch or bed.

  It is a relief, but because she tries to be honest with herself, she has also sometimes wondered why he shows no inclination in this way. Her mirror does not assist: a tall woman, good features, still young. Slim, in the current fashion, where women of good family are not to be “showy.”

  Of course not all the women in the Genyue are of good family. It is common for a gathering of, say, scholars and poets invited to the imperial garden to be interrupted by an arrival from the women’s quarters of the palace in an escorted litter.

  The emperor will then withdraw into a pavilion with the young woman thus transported. Curtains will be drawn for the encounter, though sounds do carry.

  Those engagements are conducted in the presence, inside the curtains, of the registrar of Imperial Congress, an unsmiling man. There are usually two other women inside who—Shan understands—disrobe both participants and, on occasion, assist the august emperor in the task of bringing his companion to her climax of passion ... while, of course, denying such release to himself.

  It is stipulated thus in the texts and doctrines of the Arcane Path. Only by undertaking congress in this way will a man achieve the enhancement to his life force that such encounters can provide.

  Shan has sometimes tried—and always failed—to imagine herself in an act of lovemaking with three spectators standing by, one with a brush and paper, observing narrowly then scrupulously recording details of time and result.

  Result. In a certain mood she can laugh at the thought, but these moods are harder to come by of late.

  She has read two of the Arcane Path books of intimate instruction. Secret Methods of the Dark Girl is the best known. Her father has it in his library. She has, a little desperately, attempted to employ some of the guidance therein in bed with her husband. Qi Wai has professed amusement at her efforts.

  He is withdrawing from her. It began, she thinks, around the time the emperor started favouring her—favouring them, in truth, though she knows it is a delicate matter to say this to Wai. She wonders if his mother or father has suggested that his prestige as a man is undermined by the attention paid his wife.

  But the truth is that because of this imperial favour she and her husband live in one of the largest houses in the imperial clan compound. Her father now has a home with them, a small house on the far side of their large courtyard. They even have a warehouse nearby, with a permanent guard, to hold their growing collection, Qi Wai’s pride, his life’s joy.

  Though Shan had begun to speculate, perhaps a year ago, that his joy might also lie elsewhere now.

  But what can she do? Pretend she isn’t happy that their elegant, cultured emperor values her songs, her ci, sung by one of his entertainers, or simply read the way he would read a poem? Is all this improper for a woman, in Qi Wai’s eyes (and others’)? Is that it?

  Husbands can withdraw from their wives. Indeed, it is often the case that they are never close to begin with. But this—this reason for a change would be painful for Shan. She misses their journeys together, sharing discoveries. With her husband she has been able to travel. He has always been an eccentric man, but they did share passions, and now he declines to share, in all ways.

  Her father, at least (and always), offers only approval and delight at her triumphs. She feels pleasure and a daughter’s virtue, that she’s able to give him a place to live in comfort. Her memory of the time he was so nearly exiled comes at night sometimes, along with the image of an assassin in her room.

  She can usually talk to her father. She doesn’t about these thoughts, however. Nor to anyone else. The women in the compound seem to have collectively decided that Shan is unladylike, deeply improper. That writing songs or poetry is unbefitting—an attempt to evade or escape her proper status and role.

  There is envy here as much as anything, her father has pointed out, and envy is—as the Cho Master wrote long ago—always and ever a part of the human condition.

  But it is powerful, and can isolate you. She doesn’t want to tell her father these feelings. He will grieve—and blame himself. Some things, Shan has come to understand, you carry alone, and hers are small burdens, not on a scale that ought to matter.

  She has wondered if Wai is of the belief that she is being bedded by the emperor. Would that explain his change?

  It isn’t their being childless, though a husband can send a wife back to her family for this. She has always known Wai has no interest in children. Within the imperial clan the impulse to protect one’s old age with a younger generation of filial caregivers simply doesn’t arise. The members of the clan are supported by the court as long as they live and through their funeral rites—which means supported by the people of Kitai, out of taxes and tariffs.

  Shan knows the enormous, growing clan she’s married into is hugely expensive and that they do nothing, by long-standing decree, for the empire. No kin of the emperor’s line is allowed anywhere close to power or influence. There are too many stories of insurrection and conspiracy from the past. They are provided for, kept together, and watched: trivial, glittering ornaments. To aspire to more is to become dangerous.

  She feels helpless when stories of drought or hardship in the countryside reach Hanjin. What can she do about it? She can write songs, but songs don’t change the world, especially not a woman’s. Perhaps their not having children—more members of the clan to be supported—counts as a good thing, though she’s aware in the night sometimes of their absence, among other kinds of longing.

  As it happens, she is fairly certain, though she cannot prove it (or say it), that she is capable of conceiving. The physician she’d quietly consulted thought so, and noted, cautiously, that sometimes the “complexity” in such matters could lie with the man diffusing his essence in various ways.

  Shan isn’t sure where Qi Wai’s “essence” is going. She does know that their once-shared passion for the collection, the journeys taken together, purchasing and cataloguing done side by side, the pleasure of discovering then assessing calligraphy or pottery
or bronze from long ago ... they don’t do that any more, not together, not side by side.

  A WOMAN IS COMING to sing for the emperor of Kitai.

  A number of his principal advisers have assembled in a pavilion in his garden, waiting for him to arrive. They will listen to the singer with varying degrees of attention and impatience, though with faces schooled to simulate extreme concentration, because that will be the emperor’s expression. Shan has seen this many times now.

  It is well known how he values music, poetry, painting, calligraphy, the role of beauty in shaping the serene heart of his dynasty. His Genyue has been designed to mirror the empire, offer that harmony. A few of those here share these feelings; the rest have learned to present the illusion that they do.

  It feels today as if summer might be ending. The paulownia leaves will fall soon, wild geese have been seen flying south. A season of restlessness, sadness, always some fear as winter comes. People die in winter. Not here so much, but elsewhere through Kitai.

  From conversations overheard, Shan has understood that something significant took place this summer among the barbarians beyond what remains of the Wall. They have just learned of it, it seems. Decisions are to be made.

  Waiting for the emperor, but largely ignored (one woman among important men), she hears a steppe name she knows, of course—Xiaolu—and others she does not. The Altai is one of these. She understands this is another barbarian tribe. An attack. A rebellion?

  There are evidently divisions among those here to meet with the emperor and shape Kitai’s response. Some seem to want to use this new tribe to put pressure on the Xiaolu; others urge caution, saying not enough is known. Shan can hear the striving in male voices.

  The old prime minister, Hang Dejin, has been sitting quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself—or saving his strength. Perhaps he is simply waiting for the music. He does not look well, Shan thinks. His son, Hang Hsien, is behind him, and the imperial heir, Chizu, is nearby.