The Palace at Lian'huayen :: [closed]

[zingibeer]

Lei Shan smelled Lian'huayuen long before he saw it, and smiled. That was how every story about the Garden Palace started, and it was true. The scent of Jasmine hung in the spring evening, the air already thicker, softer, warmer than it had been even a few days ago. When he had set out from his home in the high plains, over three weeks ago now, he had been wearing fleece under his riding clothes and a thick cloak around his shoulders. Now, some six hundred miles south, too warm in only a linen tunic, a swell of excitement rose in his stomach. What a long way he'd come to finally smell these gardens, he thought. First on horseback to the upland river-port at Bei'bai, then a slow journey south by barge to the great plains city of Qing'guang Zhou, and finally by horse again, west into mountains once more.

Like all visitors to the Garden Palace, guests and servants alike, he and his entourage had been stopped at Shi Men, the Lion Gate, a fort spanning the river two miles south-east of the palace itself. He had shown his seal and his paperwork, and been offered water and candied fruits while officials noted the names of his party. They were twenty in all. His father's infamous Master of Horse, Zhao Tu, as dear to him as an uncle, rode next to him, followed by his family's priest, Lao Liu, and a scribe who spoke little but recorded every detail of their journey. Sixteen officers accompanied them, carrying the unmistakable straight longswords and quilted jerkins of northern cavalry. Shan suspected that they were kept waiting longer than the checks truly required, but that was the way southerners liked to control the pace of things, he told himself. The officials seemed to enjoy the note taking, copying and stamping, so he and some of the cavalry officers had made use of the time to pace the courtyard, stretching out their legs, then stood in a circle and smoked twists of tobacco. Shan was someone who knew how to respect his superiors, but saw no reason to distance himself from his anyone who worked for his family. Lao Liu shook his head at the young nobleman's familiarity with the riders and pulled at his moustache as he always did when he disapproved of something. Shan smiled back. The priest was a kind and gentle man, and not the snob that his protestations suggested. Doubtless he was thinking only of making a good impression on strangers. Once each member of the party had been identified by name, rank and home town, a messenger bird was sent to inform the palace of their approach, and they were allowed to proceed onto the road that led north-west, upwards, towards Lian'huayuen.

To be invited to stay at the Garden Palace was a high honour. Every year, when the baking heat and crowds of the Capital grew oppressive, the Imperial family decamped to their summer retreat in the foothills of the Blue Mountains. Established centuries earlier as a modest retreat for contemplation and quiet, the Garden Palace was today a cluster of guest houses, halls, pagodas, pools, miniature canals, temples, libraries and gardens, clinging to the hillsides like a climbing vine in flower. Few families, however noble, were invited to spend time there, and Shan knew that however luxurious the location, much would be expected of him. In the autumn past, his father, Lei Gang, the Steward in the North, had intercepted a large force of foreign raiders as they marched on Bei'bai, shattered their ranks with cavalry, and chased down survivors as far as the shore of the Opal Tarn. In gratitude, and remembering that Lei Gang's youngest son had a love of leaning and the arts, the Emperor had requested that Shan spend the summer at the Garden Palace, to continue his education among the Emperor's scholars and historians.

He had only hazy memories of his one previous visit, as a child of six, when he visited with his family. The recollections were but scenes, lacking sequence, as early memories do. He knew that they had arrived in the evening on that occasion too, two nights before the then-Emperor's eightieth birthday celebrations. Even as a small child he had understood that his mother and father had been deeply honoured, if surprised, at the invitation, living as they did at such a distance from the Imperial heartlands. One sunny morning he had discovered a courtyard fountain of coloured glass that seemed to ripple in the light as if it itself were water. Where the fountain was, or how the palace was arranged, he couldn't say. He remembered shining trees of glass, entire rooms of greenery, and how in some parts it was impossible to say whether one was inside or out. Two things he remembered clearly, though: the scents of the place, and the lanterns. The lanterns had captivated him above all, glowing squares and spheres and ovals of every hue, hanging from each window and doorway. Their visit had been both pleasant and a personal success; Lei Gang had made a favourable impression on the old Emperor, and the families had remained close. Trusting his father to be an astute man, the current Emperor had kept Lei Gang close, and the two discussed matters of governance often in their correspondence.

As the sun started to set over a far peak, a bird's trill brought Shan back from his thoughts. The party had emerged from woodland, and a wide, single-story wooden bathhouse with whitewashed walls now stood beside the road. The Travellers' Bathhouse provided an opportunity to pause and wash before guests approached the palace, and the twenty riders certainly had need of it. As he swung from his horse and tethered the reins, smiling attendants emerged from the building and wordlessly gestured to him to enter. Inside the bathhouse was one long corridor, spanning left to right, off which were warm, humid cubicles, with large basins of water, towels, and fresh tea. Shan slid a cubicle door shut, stripped to his underwear and washed himself down in the warm water. At nineteen, the young nobleman had a physique which might be powerful one day, but wasn't yet. What muscle he did carry was testament to his people's love of riding, boxing and the outdoors, but he was no warrior. Deep green eyes sparkled from an oval face which bore delicate features. His skin was pale, but with a slight blush and tan around his face, the sign of folk who spent time riding the windswept uplands and plains of the north country. Black-brown hair was gathered into a neat top-knot above and behind his head. He untied it, combed his hair thoroughly, and tied it up again, before dressing in the same clothes he had removed, knowing that he would wash and change again before dining that evening.

When all were washed and groomed, they left the bathhouse behind and made their way along a winding pathway, flanked on each side by clouds of magnolia, torches in silver stands marking the route. The final turn came suddenly, and Shan drew in his breath. The entrance hall of Lian'huayuen stood before them in the dusk. The last rays of sunset caressed the spires of the roof. Lanterns of purples, whites and golds, the Imperial family's colours, blinked in every door and window.

Shan turned to Zhao Tu as they stopped to take in the scene. “Worth it?”, he asked, with a broad smile. It had become an ongoing joke among the officers that Zhao Tu couldn't mask his dislike of being so far south, away from his beloved windswept plains. The master horseman nodded slowly. "Aye," he admitted with a wink. “It's alright, I suppose”.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Well, if you scratch at it, it’s simply going to itch worse.” Airy words, dismissed with an equally airy wave of a delicate hand. “That’s what you get for fooling around with the horse boy.” Then, a shift in tone. A leer across a delicate face. “Was it worth it?”

“Does the sun rise in the east? Does the reflection of the moon on a pond bring tears to my dottering old father’s eyes? Of course it was worth it. Don’t be stupid, An Hei. He was as strong as the horses he tends to, twice as beautiful, and three times as endowed.”

“And probably smelled a score worse.” Giggling ensued, before being muffled by pillows. “Your adventurous spirit never ceases to amaze me, Aigai.”

Deep within the bowels of the central home of the Garden Palace, The Golden Hall, there was no risk of the two women’s conversation being heard. Only the highest born were permitted to darken the entryway with their shadow, and it was rarer still for them to be permitted in this, the most intimate and private of the Emperor’s abodes. It was here, deeper still, and branching off into its own separate wing, that the Princess stayed. Down black lacquered hallways, walking on creamy wood polished so often that a guest’s reflection could be seen, behind painted screens as light as feathers, through the coils of sandalwood incense burning from ornately forged bronze censors, were her true quarters.

It would be in the largest of her rooms, the receiving room, that the princess and her guest were speaking now. The room was larger than some nobleman’s homes, and draped sumptuously in pale reflections of the rainbow Seating were lush silken pillows, larger than a man, twice as wide, trimmed with glimmering gold thread. Lazy trails of incense wove their way to the expansive ceiling, before collecting in a fragrant cloud above them. Sunlight cut through bamboo screens, landing in sharp white lines across the floor. Beyond the window, the heady fragrance of magnolia and gardenia seeped through, bolstered by the endless song of birds. Outside of the window was the princess’s personal garden – an elegantly kept sanctuary where roses bloomed alongside hibiscus, herbs littered small foot paths, and, while it was rumored (and never quite proven), a small garden, little more than a few feet of earth, devoted to the most poisonous plants known. It had become custom for those, wanting to curry favor with the young woman, to bring the most beautiful native plant from their corner of the kingdom. As the princess rolled lazily to her side, she caught a glimpse of the pomegranate tree that Aigai’s people had brought her, the second time that they’d been invited to the Garden Palace. From a mere scrubby bush, it had flourished over the years, and now, with the summer approaching, bore the promise of heavy ruby colored fruit.

“Without adventure, life is but a mere repetition of eating, sleeping, and then, the sweet release of death. Though,” sighed Aigai, “adventure does pose its own risks. The balm is supposed to be effective within a day’s time, but the itching in the meantime does me no good. I was hoping for you to prepare me a bath?”

“Do I look like your lady in waiting?”

“But An Heiiii,” the tone was wheedling, combined with a heavy fluttering of Aigai’s dark lashes. “You’re as wise as the mountains, beautiful as the pearl in the oyster-”

An Hei, the Princess, given the nickname once, out of malice, out of remembrance of introductions and old prejudices, and now, so claimed, because though the Emperor’s skin was dark, her own skin a tawny brown, he had proven himself to be worthy of the throne, a subduer of barbarians, a master of strategy, and a bringer of prosperity, the digs at their skin color were simply barks of a wounded dog. Besides, having been called it so long in the company of supposedly finer, fairer ladies, it made the princess smile to herself to think of how those very same ladies would flush and recoil hearing that name, that mockery, used so freely. She leaned over, and placed her hand over Aigai’s mouth.

“If you will stop your baseless flattery, I will see what I can do.”

Aigai’s dark eyes glittered under her heavy brows, and she pulled An Hei’s hand away from her mouth. Aigai was the princess’s oldest friend – and usually the first of the nobles to arrive at the Garden Palace. Through their smiles and laughter now, it would be near impossible to imagine that the two of them, years ago, had come to blows. Aigai had scoffed at seeing someone with darker skin than her own, and called the princess a slave girl. An Hei, Mahaba to her father and brothers, and the Princess Hua Zhen Zhu to all others, in a borrowed tongue in a borrowed land, had responded as her blood would have her.

She bloodied Aigai’s nose.

Since then, the two had become thick as thieves, bonding over their hatred of the other noble ladies, with their ox-milk skin and their perpetual parasols and the constant songs of troubadours flouting beauty that was comparable to the palest of the full moons. Aigai, from a southern island, had inherited her people’s salt tanned skin, aquiline nose, abundant, coarse dark hair, and dark eyes that were more like a starless night than the horizon at dawn. The princess, of course, thought her beautiful, with how she bundled up that dark hair carelessly around her diadem, and with Aigai’s full mouth that always suggested a laughing secret, but her skin, far too dark to be that of a “noble woman,” kept her from receiving the poems that were often written to her fairer sisters. Though, it would seem, that was changing here as well.

Thin arms covered in rich gold bracelets lifted up to gently push An Hei’s hand from her mouth. An Hei removed it, still marveling at how smooth and even the brown of her skin looked against Aigai’s golden hue.

“Anyway, one would hope that there would be men of a higher quality here,” Aigai continued. “While I am quite sure that the horse boy is in love with me, I’m already bored of him and looking for a distraction.”

“Give it time,” An Hei sighed, leaning back into her pillow. “Your family is always the first to arrive. There will be plenty of men here. As usual. Plenty of sad, social climbing boys that can barely hide their disgust with empty words of flattery about my beauty, my intellect, my ability to sing, to play music. How my hands flutter like butterflies and my eyes, darker than the moonless night, can entrance with a single glance. It’s all very tiring.”

“Mmm,” and Aigai leaned over, tweaking one of the princess’s bare toes. “You like it.”

“I’d rather drown myself.”

“I could help you.”

An Hei shifted on her pillow, pulling herself up to full, regal height. Fixed Aigai with a long, cool stare out of the corner of her eye – before the two women burst into laughter, An Hei flopping back down on her pillow.

 

[zingibeer]

As the door to his suite was slid shut from the corridor, Lei Shan closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. He had forgotten how awkward and unfamiliar formal interactions still were to him. He was young, and easily embarrassed. Here, formality dictated that Lao Liu often spoke for him. Nowhere at home would he think to have Zhao Tu loudly announce his arrival, and he spoke freely with his father's attendants. Thank the world for Lao Liu, he thought, and the priest's ability to know precisely where to stand and what to say in these situations.

They had been received at the entrance hall by a senior palace steward and countless attendants, who had immediately started to untie luggage rolls and saddlebags, disappearing them to predetermined locations according to some wordless, well-practised system. The cavalry officers and scribe had been led away to an entirely separate cluster of buildings, beyond a cloud of enormous rhododendron trees. Throughout their long journey, Shan had thought nothing of sitting, eating, smoking and sleeping alongside the riders; that was impossible here, although he suspected that even the accommodation provided to visiting soldiers was far more luxurious than most places in the known world. Lao Liu and Zhao Tu had been escorted to rooms somewhere in the building Shan now occupied, but precisely where they were in the disorientating network of corridors, sliding partitions and anterooms, he had no idea.

What Shan wanted now was to be left undisturbed with his thoughts for an hour or so, before getting ready to dine with the Imperial family and other palace guests. He took a steady breath, opened his eyes and surveyed the room. It was a rectangular lounge, one long side of the room forming the outside wall of the building. A sliding door led to a veranda with views south and east, down over the valley, and steep stone steps gave access to shared gardens below. The lounge was centred around a fire bowl and a cluster of wide, low settees. The entire suite appeared to have been newly decorated in greens, blues and silvers, colours traditionally associated with the arts and crafts of the steppe. After a moment he recognised the wallpaper design as a northern botanic motif, 'Wind in the Grasses', and smiled. Ever curious, Shan peered closely at the wallpaper and stroked it with fingertips. It was silk on wood. At home, palaces and manor houses had need of fleece, hair and even fat to keep the elements at bay.

A screen door led to to a bedroom, where a green canopy bed was strewn with a rainbow of pillows and cushions that put Shan in mind of a peacock. His eyes came to rest on a familiar writing pouch atop a bureau, and he realised that his belongings had, somehow, already been arranged around the suite. A large painting of horsemen charging from right to left across a wild landscape dominated one of the short walls. 'Northern cavalry at full gallop', read a small line of calligraphy. Shan smiled. Such touches were typical of meticulous Imperial planning and hospitality. He imagined that some palace official or other had been well pleased to see their artistic suggestions acted upon.

On the far side of the bed a perforated wooden screen door stood slightly open, and Shan knew immediately where it led. The rain baths at Lian'huayen had been the talk of the Empire for a year now. After many months of planning and experimentation, engineers had successfully diverted spring water from far above the palace into storage tanks above wood-fired burners, meaning guests could wash as if standing in a personal monsoon. Shan had never experienced a monsoon, neither natural nor artificial, but he was looking forwards to discussing the baths' design with the Emperor's engineers.

The Emperor! As honoured as Lei Shan was to be invited to the Garden Palace, his stomach twisted into knots whenever he thought about formally meeting him, and so the young man had spent the majority of the journey south trying not to think about it at all. The imperial ruler had a reputation as a fair-minded man, but a man with little patience for fools or sycophants. It had been seven years since Shan had last seen him, when following the death of his father, the newly-crowned Emperor had made a tour of the many provinces and kingdoms of the Empire. Shan remembered a large man with a deep chestnut complexion and a thick black beard streaked through with silver. Lei Gang was a man of far too much integrity to ever talk about his private conversations, but Lei Shan had the strong impression that the new Emperor was, at that time, a new ruler deeply saddened at the loss of his father. The two men had spent four days riding the grasslands together, hunting, and watching bouts of wrestling and boxing. By night they had confined themselves to Lei Gang's apartments, talking earnestly into the small hours over pipes of tobacco and a chess board. When the time came for the Emperor to depart, the two men had foregone ceremony and embraced fiercely.

A knock at the door to the suite put a halt to Shan's recollections.

“Enter”. Shan cringed inwardly at hearing himself call a direct command. After a brief pause, the door slid open and a tall attendant of about forty entered the room and bowed low from the waist.

“The Honourable High Steward humbly requests that you join him in his parlour”, he announced, a slight strain in his voice. Shan though he looked distinctly worried. “Now?”, he inquired.

“At your convenience, my lord, of course” the reply came, before the man seemed to think for a moment, cleared his throat, and added “But yes, now, really, sir”. Shan noted the man's unease, but didn't know what to make of it. It was only proper for noble guests to be met by the High Steward of a household upon their arrival. If anything, Shan thought, he had expected the High Steward to have met them immediately at the entrance hall, but it hardly mattered. It certainly wasn't worth the attendant looking so troubled over.

Shan gestured for the other man to lead the way, and slid the door shut behind him. The attendant walked at a brisk pace, down a corridor and across a courtyard to another wing of the building. They soon came to a stop outside a purple door bearing the seal of the High Steward. Knocking three times, the attendant opened the door without waiting for a reply, and stood to one side to let Shan pass.

An older man who had been sitting at a writing desk stood suddenly and paced across the room before bowing deeply in front of Shan. His hair was loose, and a brown beard and moustache obscured most of his face. He was of average height, but was near spherical, and reminded Shan immediately of the sort of miniature plains terriers currently fashionable as fluffy lapdogs among northern women.

“My Lord Lei Shan,” began the High Steward, before the younger man could speak. “I must apologise. This is not at all the welcome to the Garden Palace I had planned for you.” Shan blinked. He had been at the palace barely twenty minutes, and had no cause to complain.

“I am sorry that I must inform you,” continued the High Steward, “that His Imperial Majesty is not in residence at Lian'huayen. Before daybreak this morning, the Emperor rode south with the Imperial Life Guard. He rides to war”.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

An Hei cradled the fleshy magnolia blossom between her cupped palms. It was marvelous. But then again, it would be difficult to consider any of the other thousands of flowers blooming within her garden as anything less. Letting her fingers slip from around it, she tilted her face up to feel the faint whisper of the evening breeze. It was so heavy with the fragrance of her night bloomers – jasmine, evening primroses, queen of the night – that it felt that the smell hung around her shoulders, drew invisible fingers through her ornate top knot, whispering across the bared skin of her neck.

Night was rapidly falling, and with it, a drop in the weather. Not that she would feel much of the chill, not beneath her heavy cotton robe, suggestions of rippling water painstakingly stitched onto the back. It was the latest style - influenced by the sharp geometric patterns of Aigai’s homeland. The color, too, was influenced by those sunny islands - white with deep blue, almost black, patterning. Only the interior bore the empire’s colors - a deep violet that seemed luminous against the white. Beneath the robe, she wore a diaphanous blue gown, bound loosely with red cord across her breasts, and snaking across her hips. Her feet were bare, slipping across the cool stone pathways.

Her father and brothers, (the two that remained at court, anyway) had left. Her father had hugged her fiercely, his beard prickling into her cheeks, her eyes, and the intensity of his embrace had heaved the air from her lungs. For many, such a display of affection was considered unseemly - in another time, even the emperor would not be above mockery for such an open display. But, as most things were with the emperor in his inner chambers, such things were accepted. From her father to her brothers, to her father again, they all blurred together for her, the same warmth, the same fierceness. And her younger brother – Sing Chi to others; ‘Bao’, his affectionate nickname she’d given him, for his propensity to eat sweets until he was sick when he was younger. Even at 20 years of age, he still had the plump cheeks of a youth, and the hints of a former pot belly. It had been hardest to say good bye to him, hardest to hold back her tears when he kissed her forehead – it felt like it was merely the day before that he barely came to her knees. Still, she had to hold her tears back – not out of shame, but as not to pain her family any more than they already were.

So, as they left, thundering off on horseback, she had watched from an inner chamber, her hand resting against the cool wood of the window frame. Even now, she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Now, alone save for the occasional chamberlain, steward, maid, cook - the command of the Garden Palace fell to her. In past times, it would have been unheard of, leaving so much power to a woman, and an unwed one at that, but things were different. And she was not entirely on her own. Though many of the nobles and visiting royals had turned away to lend their efforts to their emperor, she was expecting at least one other visitor, sent for by the swiftest of messenger birds, the monk Xing Yu. His presence would be welcome by all that were still left at the Garden Palace.

Though the thought of the young monk was usually enough to make her heart lurch forward, the dread of watching her father and brothers fade into the distance was enough to quell it. Besides, one of the things that she deeply admired about Xing Yu was his fealty - not just to her father, but to his faith.

His temple, Shining Cloud Gate, was located higher into the mountains, and some would say more into the land of myth than reality. It was a rarity for the saffron and orange robed monks to leave their temples, where they prayed for the souls of all of those below who would wander from the true path, those who wandered deeper into the darkness of human longing and the misery of the never-ending cycle of rebirth, only broken when one was freed from all desire.

However, for as long as she could remember, the monks had been a quiet presence among the Garden Palace in the summer. They would make the arduous journey, in tattered straw sandals, begging for alms as they went, being fed by the kindness of others. By the time they had arrived, they would be sunburnt, nearly barefoot, and their robes dull and tattered. But even the shabbiness of their apparel did not mute the sunniness of their smiles, the kindness of their gestures.

The Elder Monk, usually with two or three monks following, would stay with them for weeks. The Elder Monk, for as long as An Hei could remember, was like a grandfather to her. He played with her in the gardens, let her use his malas, and hang from the edges of his robe. It was only when she was old enough to realize how sacrilegious her actions were that she apologized profusely – until he stopped her mid sentence, and playfully tugged on one of her ornate loops of hair. In quiet times alone with him, she still called him “Yeye,” father of her father.

Xing Yu…

It must have been, oh, 10 summers back, when the Elder Monk brought Xing Yu for the first time. He was older than her, but had the beatific face of a saint, even at such a young age. Overheard conversation would reveal that Xing Yu would be the reincarnation of the Elder Monk - the Elder Monk, yet his own being at the same time, still striving to bring light to the people, to the world.

Unsure of how to greet this young man, An Hei, little more than a child at the time, had bowed deeply, her forehead touching the ground in front of her. It was only at the warm touch of a hand on her back that she lifted up, and looked directly into the smiling face of Xing Yu. It would be a smile, she knew, that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.

Lost in her memories, An Hei had walked through the rapidly emptying Palace. It wouldn’t do to be sulking in the garden, or, even worse, to be summoned. The last thing she wanted was the nagging voice of an elderly maid, chiding her for neglecting her duties. Hmph. Funny how advanced age gave some people the illusion of being wise and knowing better. She would show them all. She would still hold an appropriate dinner, worthy of those who still stayed at the Palace – though, to be sure, she was not certain how many of them would remain. A sumptuous dinner and graceful conversation would be called for, no, owed, for the trouble of coming out to the Garden Palace. She sucked in a deep breath, the smell of sandalwood filling her senses. She could do this. She would do this. And she would not suffer any hints of disappointment that guests would meet the Princess, the one that was mockingly called “Dark Black”, but had adapted the nickname as a diminutive, instead of the Emperor himself.

Still, it would have been nice if Aigai had stayed, she mused, as she approached her quarters.

Aigai, called back to her kingdom, had departed with a flurry of tears and kisses, promising to write as soon as she got settled. She, too, An Hei realized, might be preparing to go to war on her father’s behalf as well.

In Aigai’s culture, women were warriors as much as the men, and her being a princess meant absolutely nothing. Aigai had battle stories to match some of the more seasoned warriors of the palace, and though her face was beautiful, those who pressed close to her would notice the scars across her arms, her legs, her back. Not that Aigai was ashamed of them in any manner. Though she was an outlier, an outspoken and sunburnt island bird, as some of those at court had called her, among her people, Aigai was much loved, and the fact that she was still unmarried showed that her father held out hope that his most fierce daughter would bring an alliance that would last 100 generations. For Aigai’s part, as long as she had her dalliances, she could care less who her eventual husband would be.

As An Hei settled herself in front of the shining silver that served as her mirror, she slide her outer robe from her shoulders. Through the sheer blue of her gown, her nipples were dark ghosts. Cupping them in her hands, she smiled, just a bit. Well. Aigai had her way of entertaining herself, and so, as An Hei let her breasts go, she thought that she should figure something out. But first, she had to see what all she was dealing with.

 

[zingibeer]

Lao Liu set down his teacup on its saucer and sighed deeply. Lei Shan had sent for his two companions the moment the High Steward had begun to impart his grave news, and neither the old priest nor Zhao Tu had spoken once since their arrival. Lao Liu knew how to speak eloquently at court, but in times of crisis he wasted few words. There would be no verbal hand-wringing or worrying aloud from either Lao Liu or Zhao Tu, and Shan was grateful for their presence.

While the three guests had sipped at their teacups and listened, Steward Xi described the events of the last thirty-six hours. Shortly after the seven-bell the previous day, the Emperor had received messenger birds carrying reports of unfamiliar sails sighted off the Indigo Coast in the far south-east of the Empire. They had grown in numbers until scouts estimated over thirty ships, and had stopped neither to trade nor seek provision at any of the established smaller coastal settlements, but had continued west in the direction of the Empire's major port city of Lan Bao, ignoring all attempts at communication. The Emperor had summoned his advisors and personal staff, but there had been little to discuss. All were in agreement that the ships were making to sack Lan Bao, and may well bear infantry with which to pillage settlements along the Indigo Coast. Failure to meet piracy with anything other than full force would send a message to the known world that the Empire could not protect its trade cities. Nowhere would be safe.

Less than an hour after receiving such troubling news, the Emperor had sent birds winging southwards to the Capital and to Lan Bao, informing his many aides of his intention to return to the Capital at once and, after an evening at court, to ride to Lan Bao personally. The Empire's complex messaging system was a source of great pride among Imperial officials and bureaucrats, and all who aspired to become a civil servant or officer of any kind were expected to study it from a young age. A healthy messenger bird, bred for speed and endurance, could fly over six hundred miles in a single day. Within moments of a bird's arrival at its destination, officials of the Imperial Messenger Service would read the papers it carried, decode any sensitive information, and make copies for the Imperial archive. Within minutes, officials could issue further instructions or news as necessary, relaying military orders, summoning advisors, and convening meetings. The recently-arrived bird was thus at its home destination, the place to which it would always return, and so could be fed, rested and transported slowly overland to another location to await its next mission. Shan lost himself for a moment in wonder at the sheer audacity of it all; two people, a thousands miles apart across the Empire, could communicate with one another with barely a full day's delay. What an age of progress and accomplishment had blossomed in the Empire, the young man thought to himself, shaking his head.

Lao Liu pulled gently on his moustaches, smoothing them into points before speaking. “I will send word to His Lordship, Lei Gang,” he said at last, “and inform him of our intention to attend court in the Capital as soon as possible. Doubtless he will already be aware of the threat to Lan Bao”. Zhao Tu nodded once in agreement. “We will, of course, ride after His Imperial Majesty and hopefully meet with him at court before he continues south, although I expect that we will be asked to return home after we have learned the latest news,” continued the priest. "We will leave at daybreak".

Shan felt a sting of bitter disappointment. He had anticipated his visit to the Garden Palace for many months now, had imagined the conversations he would have with the Emperor's scholars and historians, pictured himself walking the gardens with retired generals or recuperating merchant-explorers. Now, it seemed, that ideal summer had slipped between his fingers and vanished into the humid spring night. Still, he ought not to be so selfish, he told himself. The Empire was under great threat. If he wanted to continue his education, to see the known world, then what better opportunity than in the defence of Lan Bao, the Blue Jewel? Yes, he convinced himself, he would ride to the Capital and take his place among the Emperor's retinue in his father's stead. His disappointment began to give way to excitement, and he cleared his throat to speak.

“At what hour shall we leave?”, he asked. He didn't at all care for the pause that followed, or the look that passed between the three older men.

It was the High Steward who spoke first, choosing his approach with obvious care.

“I had hoped - indeed, his Imperial Majesty himself had hoped - that you, My Lord, would do Lian'huayen the honour of summering here as planned, despite his absence. Although the Emperor's plans may be disrupted, temporarily, I have no doubt, there is no reason for you to feel anything other than supremely welcome at the Garden Palace”.

Shan grimaced inwardly. He knew a good play when he heard one. Why, that manoeuvrer was something Lao Liu might have employed.

“I cannot possibly spend the summer in the Emperor's home while he himself rides to war!” Shan protested, already knowing that it had been decided.

“Your father would absolutely forbid you going to war”, countered Lao Liu, tersely. “On that matter I need not consult him”.

“I am nineteen!”.

“And as such will be of little use to the Imperial Life Guard!”.

Shan glared at the priest, who seemed immediately to regret his words. “My dear Lei Shan,” spoke Lao Liu, softening his tone and resting a hand on the other's shoulder, “the Empire is defended by two hundred legions of infantry, sixty thousand horse, and a navy. We must use our judgement at this time, not emotion. I expect that, after attending court, Zhao Tu and I will be advised to return home. It would do no good to ride to the defence of Lan Bao in the south, only to neglect our governance in the north. We will have been gone nearly seven weeks by the time we return, and your father will have need of us. Besides, I doubt eighteen cavalrymen, a scribe and an old priest would make much of a difference to the fate of the Indigo Coast”.

Zhao Tu grinned at Shan and winked. “Oh, I dunno”, he sighed, in a characteristically deadpan attempt at lightening the mood. “Clearly you've not seen me after a bottle of vodka”.


: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :


True to the stories that had spread throughout the Empire, the Garden Palace was now home to hot rain baths. Shan stood under the large metal grille in the centre of the tiled bathroom and muttered darkly into the steam. First, his summer had been ruined by invaders, causing the Emperor's absence. Second, and arguably worse, his summer had been ruined further by being practically forbidden to ride south. In years to come, he imagined, people would talk about the attack of Lan Bao, and recount their own roles in its defence, before asking where had been that summer.

His temper gradually subsided the longer he spent under the water. After a little while staring blankly at the wall tiles, he reluctantly admitted to himself that riding hundreds of miles south in addition to the hundreds he had already travelled, only to find himself possibly face to face with invaders sounded terrible. Still, his pride was wounded. Another way of looking at it, he told himself, was that his father, Lao Liu, the High Steward, even the Emperor himself, all seemed to want him to stay in safety at Lian'huayen.

His fingers clawed the wall in search of the porcelain fixture that would halt the flow of water. In a way, Shan reasoned with himself, he had been strongly discouraged from leaving the Garden Palace by other people. The lever slid shut and the water stopped. He must make a good first impression, he knew, and he must start tonight at dinner. Maybe it wouldn't be the festive welcome reception he had imagined, but it was a dinner hosted by members of the Imperial Family, nevertheless. With a sigh, he realised that the thought of trying to eat in a room full of people watching him like hawks made his stomach churn. Standing naked in the steam, he attempted to wrest positivity from bitter disappointment. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, held his breath for a few moments, then released it slowly through his mouth. He would make the best of this opportunity. He would not spend the summer focusing on how it differed from a non-existent, imagined summer, but would instead make the best use of his time at the palace. He would educate himself, read histories and geographies, sketch, swim. Hell, he would even mediate, he decided in a moment of ambition.

Shan paced slowly from the bathroom to the dressing table, towelling his long hair. It was pleasant to feel the evening air on his skin; for most of the year at home it was only sensible to dress oneself while still inside the bathroom or the sauna. Here, he decided, he would cultivate new routines. After rubbing himself down with oil, he pulled on loose linen shorts and tied up his hair into a knot.

A sharp rap at the door made Shan curse. Without waiting for an answer, a haughty voice called out. “Open this door at once, in the name of the High Steward of Lian'huayen!”.

Shan's eyes widened. What in the nine hells could possibly be wrong now? He looked around the room for his gown, but before he could move the door was dragged open nosily.

Zhao Tu stood in the doorway, beaming ear to ear. “I've been sent arrest you for being late”, he chuckled. “Crime of holding up dinner. Insulting the Imperial Household. The Princess will want to throw you in the dungeon, I imagine”.

“Am I late?”, asked Shan, his eyes wide.

“Nah, not really. Just trying to help keep you on track, you know?”.

Shan let out a growl of exasperation, but grinned. He couldn't help but be amused by Zhao Tu, even when the other was being deliberately annoying.

“Look, will you just kindly fuck off?”.

“Off I'll fuck”, Tu agreed. “But here”. He threw something into the room, and Shan darted his hand out to pluck it from the air. It was a firm leather flask, the type carried on a saddle.

“What is it?”.

“That vodka I mentioned”.

Shan tutted loudly and rolled his eyes. Zhao Tu was already gone.


: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :


Shan finished dressing and stood in front of a mirror by his bed. He supposed he ought not to have sipped at the vodka while he was getting ready – Lao Liu would certainly not approve – but he felt that he had judged it right: enough to make the blood run warm in his limbs, and to bring a rosy glow to his cheeks, but not enough to affect him adversely. 'Enough to dull the wind's knife', as Zhao Tu described it. He forgave himself the sneaky draught. After all, he would represent his father and the entire northern kingdom at dinner. His clothes had been chosen accordingly; a modern outfit with nods to tradition. He wore soft trousers of a deep teal silk, and a collarless knee-length shirt that moved from deep teal to jade, to green, to blue, patterned all over with a fine golden vine motif. A large, curved hunting knife tucked into an ornate leather loudly declared his upland heritage.

Smoothing his tunic a final time, he suddenly realised that he didn't have the slightest idea about where where he was meant to go. He slid open the suite door, intending to look for someone to ask, and to his surprise saw that a steward holding a candle lantern was waiting in the corridor. Shan shook his head. The servants here seemed just to know things.

At the steward's request, Shan followed him left along the corridor in the direction of the gatehouse, then right, further into the palace. Their route took a path over a miniature bridge spanning a pond, dark shapes gleaming and splashing softly in lamplight below. Turning again, they passed through a small square garden thick with the scent of culinary herbs, and finally ascended a short flight of stone steps which ended before an ornate wooden pavilion overlooking the valley far below. Voices and slow music carried across the warm air. Shan didn't remember this building from his one previous visit. Looking closely, he guessed that it hadn't existed then. Low and broad, its frame supported an intricate wooden roof, but was open to the evening air on all sides, save for individual stems of bamboo swinging gently on thin wires. Entering the pavilion by a doorway cleverly suggested by shorter lengths of bamboo, Shan found himself in a brightly lit space occupied by around forty fellow guests and officials. Lao Liu and Zhao Tu stood talking nearby, and moved to join him.

“The newly-built Lotus Pavillion”, Lao Liu stated, smiling. “Magnificent, isn't it?”. The question was clearly rhetorical. Inside the rectangular frame of the building stood another frame, it too supporting hanging lengths of bamboo, each painted a deep violet, silver or gold. No, probably not painted, Shan realised. Through the interior curtain Shan could just make out a further space arranged for dinner.

“I have already passed our gifts to the High Steward”, explained Lan Liu, gesturing to a large table by the pavilion entrance, piled with brightly coloured parcels and boxes. For the third time that day, Shan was thankful that the priest liked to oversee things. Shan's gifts to the Imperial family in thanks for his visit had been carefully considered by multiple people. Symbolism and sentiment counted for far more than value in these matters. In addition to their own equipment the cavalry officers had carried between them bottles of vintage northern vodka and a horn chess set for the Emperor, vodka and upland-style smoking jackets for his elder sons. Sing Chi, the Emperor's youngest, had been gifted a bespoke set of soft hide boxing gloves, open at the fingers, alongside two specially-made copies of classical texts on boxing and grappling in the old northern style. Lei Gang had produced some of the sketches inside himself. Shan was most pleased, however, with the gift for the Emperor's daughter, for he had thought of it himself. After Lao Liu and other elders had debated for an hour on how best to transport fruit tree rootstock so far south, Shan had declared that they should instead make new copies of rare northern botanical and geographical texts. The idea had been met with approval from his mother, father and Lao Liu alike. Shan had then searched through the stores of his father's Master of the Gardens, collecting the seeds of fruit trees and wild flowers mentioned in the text, pressed them into small orbs of wet clay and left them by the fire to dry.

The palace musicians, playing from an unseen position, brought their music to a halt as the High Steward, Xi, entered the pavilion. The chatter among the other guests faded away, and Xi produced a sheet of paper from his sleeve. Shan had forgotten that a dinner such as this would mean the formality of being announced. How he hated to hear his own name and titles called aloud. Sensing exactly the young man's thoughts, Lao Liu gently guided him by the elbow to the back of the room, smiling. This only made Shan feel worse. To be announced last in this situation meant that the guest had arrived most recently and was therefore the temporary guest of honour, as was tradition, but also gave everyone else the chance to get a good stare at them. Steward Xi began to announce guests by name and title, upon which they entered the inner pavilion and be shown to their places.

The group of guests shrank steadily over several minutes, before only the three northerners remained. Shan smiled to himself. Next was Zhao Tu, a thoroughly modest man in most situations, but someone who seemed to take particular satisfaction in hearing his name and rank announced to members of the nobility. Not only was Zhao Tu not of noble birth, but none at Lian'huayen would know that he was an orphan, caught as a boy of seven stealing apples from the palace orchard by Lei Gang's father, who sent him to the kitchen to be fed instead of to the stable yard to be beaten. He had started his career in the cavalry as a stable boy at the age of nine, had been commissioned into the Imperial Life Guard on recommendation by the age of thirty, and toured the Empire in that role for five years, before being allowed to return north to serve Lei Gang, not only keeping his commission in the Life Guard, but being given a promotion. When members of the Imperial family ventured north of the Fenland Gap their protection was Zhao Tu's responsibility. The horsemen of his homeland were ferociously proud of him. Shan had once made the mistake of informing the veteran of a rumour that drinkers in a tavern not far from the northern palace had composed vulgar and violent drinking songs about him, and Zhao Tu had mithered him for weeks to divulge the words, cackling impishly every time he thought about it. At forty two, a decade Lei Gang's junior, and with grey streaking his moustache, he cut a handsome figure, of average height and slight build, but rippling with compact, lean muscle built by many years in the saddle and on the wrestling mat. Barmaids, serving girls and not a few noble ladies blushed scarlet and giggled to one another when Zhao Tu entered a room. It wasn't their fault, Shan thought, that they didn't know of Xiao Lang, the petite, fierce, tousle-headed woman of the plains, earthy, wild-haired, buxom, and in every way Zhao Tu's equal. The two glowed in one another's company, as much in love as the day they had met twelve years previously.

Now, Tu's clothes subtly matched Lei Shan's, dark blue for dark green, green where Shan's were blue, bright bronze thread in place of Shan's gold. Several large earrings and his hunting knife were the first clues that the man was very far removed from the pen-pushing bureaucrats of the Capital.

Steward Xi cleared his throat.

“Captain Zhao Tu of the Northern Cavalry, Captain of the Imperial Life Guard, Master of Horse to the Steward in the North, the Honourable Lord Lei Gang”.

Shan chuckled as Tu silently mouthed his own announcement with mock solemnity, before parting the curtain and entering the dining room.

“The Most Reverend Father of the Carnelian Tower, Lao Liu, Counsellor to the Honourable Lord Lei Gang.”

Lao Liu stepped from view, leaving Shan shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“The Honourable Lord Lei Shan”.

Shan stepped forwards into the dining room, intensely aware of the gaze of the assembled guests. Standing in front of a large upholstered chair, watching him very carefully, was a strikingly beautiful young woman in a sparkling robe. Given the recent upheaval, Shan hadn't been sure of who among the Imperial Family was in residence, but it hadn't crossed his mind that the evening would be presided over the Princess Hua Zhen Zhu. Walking into the centre of the room, Shan turned to face the princess and bowed low from the waist, remaining silent, then stood to his full height and waited to be acknowledged. The princess met his gaze firmly, a haughty, disinterested expression on her face. After the briefest pause her face softened into feint smile, and she gracefully waved a delicate hand in the direction of the single remaining cushion at a low table. Shan sat down between Lao Liu and Zhao Tu, crossed his legs, and looked around the room.
Innumerable candles bathed the room-without-walls in a soft golden light that danced on every jewel, each polished surface, every hoop and stud of precious metal of the assembled guests. The tables were arranged along three sides of the interior space, with guests seated so that no one showed their back to the high table.

The guests sat in silence, waiting for a word from the young woman standing before them. Shan was suddenly acutely aware that in spite of all his preparations for the summer at the Garden Palace, he hadn't once considered that he would need to be prepared to converse with a princess. All eyes on her, the princess brought a goblet to her lips and drank, careful to take her time before speaking. Shan felt his cheeks flush warm as he watched her. If he had known the princess to be so beautiful, he decided, he would have spent the entire journey preparing for it.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The murmur among the guests had been reassuring to her. Certainly, there was a tenseness to the conversation, but the fact that talks of war mingled with other mundane things, such as the price of silk or the weather towards the north was enough to do her heart good. To her, it meant that her subjects felt security, even among these trying times. That life would go on as normal. Ultimately, the burden of how well the evening went, how carefree everyone would be, would fall on her shoulders.

Part of that would be how she dressed. It would have been all too easy to have gone for somber, subdued colors, or the niggling desire to show strength by dressing in the Empire’s colors. Instead, she had opted for vibrancy – a sunburst of color in a jewel-like room. Her outer robe was peony pink – a rare and gentle color, the scalloped hem sweeping her feet. The robe itself was sheer, one of many layers that suggested flower petals. Thin swirls of gold woven through the robe suggested the translucent veins of leaves, and caught the candlelight enticingly. The robe itself was voluminous, casting the impression that it was too large for her. Beneath this larger robe was yet another one, a deeper pink, with nearly magenta trim. Yet another layer beneath this one, the color darkening, and so on, until the barest hints of her figure beneath it, clothed in a deep red gossamer gown. It gave the impression of a rose blooming, petals slowly fanning out to invite the viewer into the secret depths of the blossom.

Her hair was swept up away from her face, tightly braided back with golden thread, before frothing about her neck and shoulders in a cloud of airy brown curls, dusted with flecks of gold, turning her natural features into an otherworldly corona. Having her hair braided away from her face exposed the length of her elegant neck, the suppleness of her jawline, invited one to look at her full lips, the small tattoos on her cheeks and forehead. Tattooing itself, let alone any facial tattooing, would have been considered a mark of barbarianism in decades past. However, since the reign of the princess’s grandfather, the traditions of their homeland had mingled with the traditions of this new place. The tattoos were slight as it were, but called attention to the sculpted cheekbones and high forehead. Her eyes were large, almost childish, framed with heavy black lashes and gracefully arced brows. Unlike the other women in the palace, the princess wore no discernable makeup; nothing to redden her lips, or to add a flush to her cheeks. Instead, her skin had been rubbed and massaged to a flawless glow, the lack of ornate adornment calling attention to her natural beauty and grace. Heavy golden hoops, studded with rubies, caught the candlelight and sent it back out in dots of fire. Her hands, long with tapered fingers, were intricately marked with dark henna; her feet would bear the same patterns, suggesting looping vines and lotus blossoms. The palms of her hands and the soles of her feet would have been rubbed with red ochre, an old tradition for luck and fortune.

As she stood during the announcements, her hands were folded primly in front of her, her dark eyes impassive as only royalty could look; a combination of disinterest and benevolence. On another woman, perhaps, with a harder mouth, the look would have been arrogant, cold. But on her, it made her seem as if she was keeping a wonderful secret, some laugh tucked into the corner of those full lips that made her instantly endearing, as if she were always up to some sort of mischief and would gladly welcome fellow conspirators. It was rumored that the princess, with her brothers, were always up to some jest or the other, and rumors of visiting royals being dumped suddenly into viewing pools or finding their food spiced to the point of being inedible flew. Apparently, in the Garden Palace, not even the Emperor himself was above a prank or two.

Charming impishness aside, the princess was the picture of elegance and grace as she greeted each newcomer to the dining hall. Some she had known for years; others, remote strangers that she could barely recall. And then….some were entirely new to her.

Li Shan. That name was familiar. Poor thing; he seemed uncomfortable – and his discomfort, precious in its naivety, made her want to snap him up. For the first time since Aigai’s departure, she was glad that the vivacious brunette was gone. Less competition for this one. Not like there were many young men in attendance that night – if anything, his presence was all the more notable because he WAS the only youth left. Careful to keep her gaze even (as it wouldn’t do to be caught staring at him), she settled herself down in her chair (the damn thing was always uncomfortable. The discomfort of it was typically the cause of dinner hijinks between herself and her brothers), and reached for her goblet. A faint fragrance of honey clung to the glass, and she nearly sighed in gratitude; the cooks were looking out for her. Mead was her favorite of liquors to drink; above grape and rice wines, far past the churlishness of beer.

Taking a small sip (enough to wet her mouth), she set her goblet down, and turned a gentle smile to those seated. “Thank you,” she began, resisting the urge to stand again. Then, thinking differently, she did actually rise to her feet, with a smooth unfurling of her legs beneath her, golden sandals catching the light before vanishing beneath the long hems of her robe and gown. “Please,” she held up a hand, “continue sitting. I felt that it would only be right for me to stand.” And, surprisingly of all, she then bowed to those gathered. As she straightened up, her smile was back, placid as always. “I thank all of you for your service to the Empire, to my father, and for being here in these trying times. Though I know it will be difficult, please, take this night, this meal, as an opportunity to let the outside troubles drift from you. Life is brief, and its pleasures are few. So, tonight,” she knelt, picking up her goblet in a muted hiss of silks, “Please, enjoy. I hope that you all are able to create fond memories of this night, and be reminded of our perpetual gratitude to your service and loyalty.”

Her voice was low, sonorous, suggesting an innate musicality. The musical quality of it was bolstered by the hidden musicians, who, hearing her impromptu speech conclude, began to play again, having stopped the moment she rose again. Amid polite applause, the barrier broken, conversation among those seated began in earnest. On her dais, she was above the “action” of the table, and yet, she seemed to be as part of the conversations as if she were not a princess, but another visiting noble. As food and drink now flowed freely, brought by an endless array of quiet (but not cowed) servants, occasionally her laughter slipped through, floating above the heads of all.

Now, freed a bit from formality, she would float from table to table, a butterfly, to speak with one guest personally, and then another, catching up on their lives, livelihoods themselves. To those who could catch snippets of her conversation, there seemed to be nothing that the princess didn’t know; she remembered names of children, grandchildren, pets. To each that she spoke with, she seemed intimately at home with them, and as she left each guest, they seemed to glow, invigorated by the conversation.

“You are a new face, I see!” Her voice wasn’t unkind, and whatever distance that could have been inferred by her tone was instantly eradicated by her wide smile. It was this smile that she was most famous for – at least, by those who had seen it, even moreso by those who had it turned it on them. It was the type of smile that stayed with an observer, with both its beauty and its sheer joy that seemed to radiate from her entire body. “But I thought I recognized the name – you’re the one that gifted me the book of plants from the north, aren’t you? Thank you; I’m very much looking forward to reading it.” Her thank you was sincere, something, perhaps, that would have been uncommon from any other nobility, let alone a princess. “I hope during your stay here you will have time to go through our gardens.”

 

[zingibeer]

“Wine, friend?”

Shan heard Zhao Tu's words as if from a distance, as one might hear the conversation of others though sleep. While the Princess Hua Zhen Zhu had been speaking, Shan had noticed nothing else. He supposed that he couldn't have met her on his childhood visit to the palace; even at that young age he would surely have remembered her, of that he was convinced. She raised her glass to salute the assembled guests, smiling, and Shan found himself taking in every detail of her appearance. In the common tongue of the central Empire, complexions such as hers were referred to simply as 'dark', but Shan saw immediately that the term did her an injustice. Reflected light from her gown bathed her brown throat red one moment, rose the next, while the gentle movement of her jewellery sent small points of gold travelling across her bared collar bones; purple-brown henna along slender fingers, peach at the the edge of her jaw and the bones of her cheeks. No, thought Shan, she was no more simply 'dark' than dusk over the highlands on a clear night was 'dark'.

“Shan, will you drink wine?”

Waiting for the other no longer, Zhao Tu took up a silver cup from near Shan's elbow and filled it with a deep plum liquor. The aroma of food brought the young man's attention back to the table. Palace stewards were in the process of setting down small bamboo trays before each guest and removing the lids with a flourish, sending clouds of steam mushrooming towards the pavilion ceiling. A delicate, flaky square of white fish that had been marinated in ginger and lemon distracted Shan briefly from observing the princess, and when he glanced at her again she had started to descend gracefully from her dais, the layers of her sheer robes undulating beneath each other with her movement, the darkest layer suggesting the curve of her hi– no. No, no, no, no, no, he told himself. One absolutely did not reflect on the Imperial Princess's hips. Shan looked at the fellow guests at his table to make certain he hadn't spoken his thoughts aloud. Lao Liu was listening carefully to a bespectacled man describe some of the rare philosophical texts he had recently acquired, while Zhao Tu dramatically recounted a particular cavalry charge to two pretty noblewomen, young sisters, Shan judged, who flushed deeper by the moment and looked at the cavalryman with doe eyes.

Shan watched discretely as Hua Zhen Zhu moved between tables with confidence and ease, never staying longer than a course of the meal lasted. He ought to think of something charming or interesting to say - but not about the weather, and not about war, he realised. Why was he being like this? The princess was at the table opposite now, laughing warmly at a guest's anecdote. She would probably come to him next.

When guests were near to finishing a course stewards would appear, the timing expertly judged, and serve slightly larger dishes carrying food presented with the craft and care usually afforded to fine jewellery. An oval platter of dumplings was set down in the middle of the table, and Shan reached for one with a pair of chopsticks. It was delicious, a golden dough that gave way to a soft body and a filling of minced meat and vegetables. In one fluid movement he picked up another, moving it from the communal platter to his own bowl, and dipped it in a dark, tangy sauce. As he raised it to his mouth it slipped from between his chopsticks, landing directly in his wine with a loud plop.

“You are a new face, I see!”

Hua Zhen Zhu was sitting at the short edge of the table, looking directly at him, smiling. Shan looked in horror at the wine cup, then immediately back at the beaming princess. Why?, he groaned inwardly. Why? How long had she been sitting there? Had she seen? It was impossible to know.

“But I thought I recognised the name – you’re the one that gifted me the book of plants from the north, aren’t you? Thank you; I’m very much looking forward to reading it. I hope during your stay here you will have time to go through our gardens.”

Shan found himself struggling to concentrate on the princess's words. From a distance she had seemed beautiful; close, she was enchanting. He knew he ought to pay close attention to their conversation, and not the fine lines and pinpoints of ink that patterned her cheekbones; not the gold thread twisted into her braided hair; not her scent.

“Your Imperial Majesty in most welcome”, he managed after only a moment's pause. “There are so few copies of Xiansu's works in circulation outside the Northern Kingdom, it seemed my duty to share them. No doubt, when word reaches the Capital that he is read at Lian'huayuen, our printers will hardly be able to keep up with the demand".

Hua Zhen Zhu said something effortlessly charming in agreement, but Shan couldn't later recall precisely what it had been; it was everything he could do not to look too long at her full, dark lips, or the way her dress seemed to both blossom away from her body and simultaneously hint at her figure beneath. In times past, Shan thought, people had probably been executed just for thinking about a princess's –

“Is this a dumpling? Why is there a dumpling in your wine?”

Shan cringed, and looked over his shoulder to see that Zhao Tu had taken his cup to fill it, but was now shaking his head as if offended on the wine's behalf. Shan turned back to face the princess with an awkward smile. She was already sitting at the neighbouring table, a gentle laugh sending the rubies of her earrings dancing.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Dinner had drawn to a close. The late spring night cooled, and an evening breeze began to play gently at the strands of hanging bamboo. Guests soon began to thank their hostess and retire in twos and fours, leaving with a musical rattle of the curtains. When a cool night had firmly established itself over the valley, stewards moved the dining tables to the outer edges of the pavilion, lit large metal fire bowls, and cast dried herbs and beads of resin into the flames. Around a third of the guests remained, lounging on silken cushions and mattresses. Lei Shan and Zhao Tu moved to sit together near a fire bowl, while Lao Liu and the bespectacled book collector set up a chess board.

“You and Her Imperial Majesty certainly seem to have much to talk about”, Zhao Tu observed, reaching to his pocket for a small pouch of tobacco and rice paper. Shan knew that this marked the beginning of an interrogation barely disguised as conversation.

“Hardly. She spoke with everyone".

“Hmmm”, voiced Zhao Tu, flatly, which the other knew to mean “bullshit”. “She didn't make everyone turn crimson, though”, he chuckled, coaxing fine, short ribbons of leaf into an elegant cylinder. “What did you talk about?”

Shan looked across the room to where Hua Zhen Zhu was sitting talking with three other women.

“I don't remember”, he said, truthfully.

“You don't remember?”

“Not really”.

“You don't remember what you talked about with the daughter of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, that time you arrived to summer at the Garden Palace by personal invitation?”, Tu asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I think she invited me to walk with her in the garden”, Shan said, sounding unsure. “I couldn't really say".

Zhao Tu said nothing, but held the tip of the cylinder to the flames of the fire bowl, then raised it to his lips.

“It's hardly my fault!”, Shan hissed, a little louder than he intended. He leaned closer before continuing. “She was all... you know”. He gestured vaguely, as if Zhao Tu would immediately understand.

“All what?”

“All... pretty and... glowing, and that”.

Zhao Tu blew a long, slow mouthful of white smoke into the air and shook his head.

“All pretty. And glowing. And that”, he repeated slowly, looking deep into the flames. “Fucking beautiful. Twelve weeks of poetry like that ahead of her. She's a lucky woman".

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Evening had come with a faint breath of chill, and the princess, notoriously (and somewhat humorously) cold natured, was to be found lounging near the largest fire pit. She wasn’t alone - draped over rainbow colored cushions were three other noble women, scarcely out of girlhood. Rather than the bond of equals that was shared between herself and Aigai, another royal, there was a distinct flavor of sycophancy that lingered over this collection of “delicate flowers.”

The three noblewomen seemed nervous to speak, each looking over at the princess to see how the woman would react. The princess, for the most part, was curled, rather undignified, like a cat, her back to the flame, her eyes closed in pleasure. As the silence got to be too much for her (well, the silence within their own little circle; the murmurs of distant conversation mingled with the evening’s music was ambient enough), she stretched, luxuriously, before sitting up, her back still to the flames, her legs folded under her. With the fire behind her, the flickering light played games with her shadow, her body - slipping through the thin layers of her robe to offer hints at the figure beneath all of the clothing.

“Shall we sit here in silence, then, or is there no gossip from your home to entertain a princess?” mused An Hei, looking idly at the elegant loops of henna across her hands. She looked up at the women, a moment later, a coy grin on her face.

The women, each a perfect example of the traditional Empire beauty - round, pale faces, jet black brows, carefully painted red lips - looked at one another, then, as if realization suddenly dawned on them, one, after another, started to laugh, and their shoulders instantly sank, relaxed.

“Well,” ventured one, dressed in pale blue silk that brought out the rich brown of her eyes. The sound of her voice reminded An Hei of a reed flute - high and clear. “I heard that…”

_____

The sound of feminine laughter would break through the other conversations from time to time, leaving the remaining guests to occasionally glance over. The princess would usually be in the center of it, her head tilted back, laughing without abandon. A far cry from the other women that sat with her, who more demurely covered their mouths with their hands.

“Mmm, that Lei Shan is quite handsome,” started the one in blue silk - Ying Yue -, “I heard he’s unmarried.”

“He’s the one that came with Zhao Tu, right? Ugh, if I wasn’t already married,” groaned another, in deep violet, her hair in intricate black loops pulled away from her round face. Wang Shu, An Hei, thought, that was her name.

“Oh?” An Hei feigned interest, raising her thick brows. Glanced over the fire to where Lei Shan was speaking with his party. He was as handsome as his gift was thoughtful - something that had instantly endeared him to her. She hadn’t been so blind as to miss the dumpling in his wine, or the pause before he spoke. He was naive, young - and absolutely adorable. “I hadn’t noticed,” she purred, the picture of imperial modesty.

“How could you not have,” piped up Feng Mian. Her family was from the North as well, and even though the paleness of her facial powder, hints of a deeper tan complexion could be seen. “He’s as beautiful as the desert at dawn,” she sighed, leaning dramatically over her cushion. “I haven’t had a chance to meet him yet. But I’m hoping before I have to go back home I could at least have a conversation with him.”

An Hei, brows still lifted, carefully mapped out the girl’s tone of voice, her expression. And, in a few moments, she’d come to her conclusion. Selfish, yes, petty, maybe so, but she wanted Lei Shan to herself. At least until she got to know him better - to see if that innocence was true, or a carefully planted mask. After all, no one got this far into Imperial favor without top notch acting or rare truthfulness. Besides, her father had trusted her enough to essentially leave the Garden Palace under her command. And she would do him proud.

“Mmm…is that so?” An Hei leaned back, carefully, turning to glance more fully at Lei Shan and his table. If he’d look up, he’d catch the princess looking back at him, quite pointedly.

“Yes,” murmured Feng Mian, her face blushing now. “I’ve heard he’s a good scholar, and has a level head. And I’ve never heard anything bad about him with the serving maids or anything like that. I don’t know if his father is looking to make a match for him…”

Infatuation - borne solely out of one look at a pretty face. No more than a childish crush.

“Such a pity, then,” An Hei sighed, letting her voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. The women pressed closer, eager to hear more.

“What’s a pity,” Feng Mian dared to breathe.

“Oh, that the reason why you never hear him gadding about with serving maids is that he prefers to act the role himself,” An Hei whispered, leaning forward. She could scarcely stop herself from laughing from the size of the lie she was telling. Worse case scenario, she could blame it on the other girls starting the rumor - who would believe that a princess would be a horrible gossip monger and / or a liar? And if things got too out of hand, she’d apologize personally and offer some gift to make it all go away. Besides, she knew she had the reputation of enjoying a good jest.

Feng Mian looked horrified. Ying Yue looked delighted. Wang Shu burst out into a deep guffaw.

“Oh, it’s true,” added An Hei, sparing a glance over at Lei Shan again. “Look at how delicately beautiful his face is. A man doesn’t look like that without copious amounts of cosmetics. Apparently he looks absolutely divine in silks.” She settled back down into her cushions, pulling her legs under her. “It’s a pity, really. But maybe if you want a eunuch for a husband…”

____

The moon was high over head when the trio of noblewomen had finally left An Hei’s side, leaving the princess to breathe out a sigh of relief. It was hard work, cracking the fawning nature of those who wanted to curry favor to get to the “meat” of who they really were. Feng Mian was a dreamy child, Ying Yue, more interested in the favors of beautiful women than men, and Wang Shu a sassy mother. Out of the three, Wang Shu had rapidly become An Hei’s favorite, with her earthy sense of humor and sharp tongue.

As An Hei stood up, she shook out her robes, stretching her arms over head. She’d allowed for most of the fires to slowly burn out, only alerting her attendants to keep stoking the ones that guests still populated. Attention was brought back to her as she stood, and she waved a hand with good nature, indicating that everyone was to resume what they were doing.

Now, with the room much quieter, it was tempting to give extra attention to the subject of her earlier fib, but she decided against it. Much as she had at the dinner before, she went from table to table, bidding the few remaining patrons a good night. As she approached Lei Shan’s table, she couldn’t stop her smile from sliding into the secretive. Internally, she wanted to chide herself for being so obvious, but it was late, and what he didn’t know surely wouldn’t hurt him.

Gliding over to their table in a cloud of resin incense, she smiled, before speaking. “It is with my sincerest hope that you have had a splendid evening. Please retire at your convenience to your quarters; the servants here will be at your command. Have a good night.”

There - short, sweet, and to the point. And allowed her to get one more good look at the young Lei Shan. He did have the delicate beauty of a cactus flower - just how would he look in her clothing? Hrm.

 

[zingibeer]

The valley lay in darkness but for the occasional lantern, the immense black mass of mountains and forests given shape only by the deep indigo of an early morning sky. Lei Shan, scarcely five minutes out of bed, entered the main gatehouse of the palace, stepping softly, reluctant to disturb the dawn stillness. He left the building through one of the smaller doors set within the heavy gates and descended into the grounds below. Lao Liu and Zhao Tu had agreed that their party would leave for the Capital before sunrise, avoiding as much formality as possible. Shan retraced his arrival at the palace the previous evening, following the path downhill to the Travellers' Bathhouse. Zhao Tu and several of his officers stood around a lit brazier, sipping tea, their horses already saddled and waiting. Shan approached the brazier and nodded to Zhao Tu without speaking; in the north it was considered both rude and stupid to talk much in the early morning, especially on a day of any seriousness. Far better to be left with one's thoughts or, at this hour, one's lack of them. Over Zhao Tu's shoulder, Shan could see High Steward Xi and two palace officials waiting a discrete distance at another brazier, ready to bid the riding party farewell. More officers emerged from the bathhouse and joined the group by the fire, followed soon by the scribe and Lao Liu, and before long the riding party was at full strength. Zhao Tu lifted a flask from a fold in his tunic and took a small sip before passing it to the officer to his left, who did likewise, until everyone, even Lao Liu, had shared a symbolic drink. It was then that the High Steward approached, and the two groups bowed to each other before Xi spoke.

“May the ancestors ride with you, dear guests. I am sorry that recent events mean you cannot stay longer at Lian'huayen. I hope that happier times will give us the opportunity to host you again before long”.

“The honour would be ours, if we were to find ourselves approaching these halls once more”, responded Lao Liu, giving a slight second bow. Lei Shan wondered at the priest's ability to find the patience for such polite, formulaic exchanges. And at this hour, too. Zhao Tu offered some brief words of thanks to Xi before turning to Shan, and the two men embraced warmly. They had little left to say to one another, having sat up late the previous night, drinking and talking as the moon rose high above the valley.

“Be well, Honourable Lord”.

Shan was surprised by the other's formality, the first time Zhao Tu had spoken to him in this way for many weeks. The older man showed his affection for the young noble by informal speech and sincerity, never sycophancy, and Shan valued him for it. Zhao Tu's cheerful demeanour of recent days had been replaced by a fierce scowl and the look of a soldier eager for action. Shan almost pitied any enemies of the Empire who found themselves facing down one of the veteran's infamous wild charges.

“Be safe, friend”, Shan offered in return.

As if with some unspoken understanding, the northerners swung themselves into their saddles and formed a column two abreast along the bathhouse yard. Lao Liu bowed once more to Xi from the saddle, then to Lei Shan, before urging his horse into a trot, leading the column away from the lights of the bathhouse and south into the darkness of the trees.

The first birds of the dawn chorus started their singing as Lei Shan and Xi made their way back towards the palace, both content to walk without speaking until they entered the gatehouse. Each understood that the other wanted to return to bed, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries the two parted ways, having arranged to meet again mid morning. Shan returned to his rooms by the shortest route and, leaving his clothes where they fell, slid into bed, savouring the coolness of the sheets on his skin, thankful that daylight had not yet arrived. As he spared a thought for Zhao Tu and Lao Liu, already somewhere far below him in the valley, his eyes grew heavy and he slipped from the world of consciousness, sprawled naked in the coolness of early morning.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

A distant, half-remembered part of Lei Shan knew that dinner had ended hours earlier, that his mind was replaying scenes from the previous night while he was, in fact, asleep in his bed. Yet here he was, once more sitting at his table in the pavilion, Zhao Tu to his left, again talking with the enthralled sisters, Lao Liu again in conversation with his neighbour. Shan looked to Hua Zhen Zhu, sitting atop her dais just as she had done earlier, bathed in the warm glow of lanterns, the elegant petals of her dress simultaneously inviting the eye towards her while frustrating any real sense of her figure. With a start, Shan realised that she was looking directly at him over the brim of her glass, meeting his gaze with a steady, calm confidence. Feeling caught, he looked down at the table and reached for his wine cup. He felt himself sink into dreamlessness, and when he returned to the pavilion once more he was lying on his side upon large rainbow cushions, his back to the heat of a fire bowl. Looking to his right, he saw that the space where he expected to see Zhao Tu was occupied instead by a pretty young woman in a deep violet gown, smiling and talking with two other noblewomen. Surprised to find himself lounging among strangers, he tried to sit upright, only to feel some unknown force keeping his limbs perfectly still. Unable to move, Shan could only look around the room. In front of him sat three women in formal dress, talking excitedly among themselves. Beyond them, other palace guests reclined by fires in small groups, drinking, smoking and playing chess. None gave any indication that they could see him, and the more he tried to listen to their conversation the more distant and muffled their words sounded. Panicking, he tried to move a second time, when a gentle hand cupped the back of his head and a quiet, calm voice seemed to speak from within him.

"Stay down".

As if to soothe him, the hand curled its fingers slowly though his hair, sending a wave of pleasure soaking into his body, calming him instantly. He understood at last that he was resting in the lap of Hua Zhen Zhu, and that it was she who, somehow, kept him from moving, her fingers gently but firmly massaging his scalp. The young women in front of him now seemed to be talking with the princess, giggling and smiling, but what they said or heard from her, Shan couldn't say. Engaged in some distant conversation, the princess's fingertips continued to explore his head absent mindedly, first loosening his topknot before toying with his hair, then tracing an ear, every touch making him sink a little deeper into himself.

"I saw you looking at me, Lei Shan", the calm voice spoke again, a statement rather than an accusation. Shan, his eyes closed, knew without trying that he wasn't able to speak.

"You like looking at me, don't you, Shan? You think that I'm very beautiful".

Shan knew there was no need to respond. She knew his inner thoughts exactly. Denying them would be futile.

"I think you like being curled up in my lap", the voice continued, gently teasing, but not unkind. Her fingers twisted through his hair, combing gently, then continued downwards to rub carefully below his chin. A sudden swell of warmth and pressure grew between his legs.

"Yes, I think you like it. You do look good down there. And you're here all summer. What shall I do with you, Lei Shan? Just what shall I do with you?"

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Shan awoke slowly, twisting the sheets around him, moaning with the satisfaction that comes of being awake just enough to savour one's sleep. He lay still for several minutes, barely conscious, thinking nothing, eyes shut, until the words and sensations of his dream came to him in a rush. He knew by the steady throbbing between his legs that he was almost fully hard, and his cheeks blushed crimson in spite of him being alone. He couldn't tell if he were more aroused or annoyed with himself over the dream's implications. It was tempting to slide his hand down his side and grip himself firmly, to surrender to temptation and stroke himself while returning his thoughts to the pavilion, to Hua Zhen Zhu, to the sensation of her imagined touch. But no. Thoughts like that would significantly complicate his summer, he decided, growing frustrated. True, the princess was indeed beautiful, probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but that was no excuse to succumb to fantasy, to childish infatuation. Any inappropriate thoughts, any fanciful delusions on his part, Shan reasoned, could have only a negative impact on his time at the palace. With a sigh he forced himself to roll out of bed and walk to the bathroom.

Soon he was washed, dressed, and sitting at an ornate writing desk overlooking the garden directly below his rooms. The pleasant throbbing below his abdomen had lessened, consciously replaced by a determination to start his first day at the Garden Palace with a calm and studious mindset. He untied the cords around his writing pouch and gently rolled it open across the desk, moving slowly and deliberately as his tutors had taught him, then set down a heavy teardrop inkstone, added water from a vial, and reached for a fresh stick of ink. The paper collar around the block of pigment bore a design Shan hadn't seen before, a colourful Pekin Robin perched among the leaves of a mountain pine. He unfastened the printed wrapper, smoothed it with care, and placed it into one of the many miniature draws of the writing desk. Later, when enjoying a cup of tea, he would carefully press it and add it to his collection of inkstick papers. The craftsmen and artisans of northern towns and cities took pride in presenting their materials in papers that changed with the seasons, and Shan knew for certain that he was far from the only collector.

Mindful not to rush, Shan dipped the short end of the new stick into the inkstone, drawing a few droplets away from the shallow well, and ground the ink against the base. With a few twists of the stick, the contents of the stone started to colour, and soon the well held not clear water but a rich, glossy ink. Selecting an elegant wooden pen from the pouch, he opened a small journal at its first blank page, inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. After several moments' silence he at last exhaled, opened his eyes and began to write, the movements of his arm considered and evenly paced.

breakfast
orientate myself – tour the grounds with Xi
palace history
libraries?
what scholars are in residence?
plan exercise regime
meditate
evening walk

Shan rested the pen against a notch in the inkstone and nodded. It was a good list, he decided. He always felt productive after writing a list. Pleased with himself, he stood, walked to the door of the suite, and rang the small handbell by the doorway. A steward he hadn't seen before appeared, and ten minutes later he sat on his terrace before an enormous round tray of fruits, nuts, tea and a warm bowl of creamed rice and honey. The morning was cool and fresh, and as he ate he admired the views from the terrace, the first time he had seen the palace grounds in daylight. The position of the morning sun told him that his rooms faced south-east down the valley, and the fact that he couldn't see any other buildings from the terrace suggested that the accommodation wing he occupied lay at the southern edge of the palace complex. How far the grounds of Lian'huayen extended beyond where he now sat, Shan didn't know, but he guessed that they stretched for many thousands of paces in all directions.

Finishing the last of his breakfast, Shan sat back in his chair and stretched. There was a little over an hour until he was due to meet the High Steward, and he had no desire to pass the time indoors. There was no reason, he decided, why he shouldn't walk the grounds until mid morning. He washed his hands, tidied the papers and pens atop the writing desk, then returned to the terrace and descended the narrow stone steps into the gardens below. Turning left, he followed the path along a corridor of blossoming fruit trees, neatly espaliered against whitewashed walls. This in turn led to a series of small, square gardens, each with paths and walkways leading from it, and in a short time he was pleasantly disorientated, with little sense of where he stood in relation to the gatehouse or his own rooms. He didn't mind. Having spent many weeks travelling towards this very place, he was now content to dismiss the idea of walking towards any particular destination, and wandered idly from garden to garden, admiring the care and artistry evident in every corner. Shan stooped to pass through an ornate arch, and found himself at one end of an enormous walkway of colour. Whatever supports kept the creation standing were hidden from view among the thousands of golden laburnum flowers that hung from the ceiling in a great cascade, forming one magnificent hallway of yellow light. Lost in thought, Shan started down the pathway, failing to notice the regal figure approaching from the opposite direction.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“We would have thought that you would have left with the others.” Her voice was dulcet, smooth incense smoke, heavy as honey. No mockery there - just gentle surprise, a hint of prodding. Reaching up, she fingered one of the vibrant yellow blossoms, her eyes drifting from the petals to his face. In her other hand, she held a bright ruby sphere.

Under the buttery light, she seemed less ethereal than she did the night before. Gone were the golden threads woven into her hair, and the red silks. Far from the salamander of last night, she was now a simple girl. She wore an empire waisted cream dress, trimmed in deep purple. The deep scooped neck of dress exposed the curves of her shoulders, the ample swell of her chest. Amethyst beading embellished the capped sleeves, speckled the bottom of the dress in an endless array of constellations. The dress was a far cry from the ornate wrapped robes of the night before - it certainly showed far more skin. The expanse of her arms, the curve of her neck. Her hair, braided back, was held in an intricate low chignon, pinned at the nape of her neck with a wrought gold pin shaped like an iris. The only symbol of her station was a lavender charoite diadem, held in place with thin golden braided chain across her forehead.

From the tilt of her chin, there was still the hint of an imperious, perhaps if pushed, cruel nature. “We suppose we should scold you for remaining here, instead of doing your duty to the Emperor. What would Father say, should he find an able bodied young man, lounging around in the gardens with an unsupervised princess? And not just any princess,” she paused, twisting the blossom carefully within her taper fingers, “but the only princess. And unwed, at that.” She stopped her idle fiddling, and stared directly at him once more, her full lips settled into a smooth line.

Silence, only broken by the low hum of bees and the endless song of birds, nestled between them. At his expression, her stern look dropped, and she laughed, the sound reminiscence of the distant pealing of bells. “We jest. Somewhat cruelly at your expense, Lei Shan. But we are honored, still, by your presence, and hope for your party’s continued safety.” Striding carefully forward, she stopped a foot or so in front of her, the long chains of blossoms settling around her shoulders, the crown of her head. This close to him, it was tempting to reach out, just a bit further, to caress the smooth skin of his cheek, feel the jump of his pulse beneath her fingertips. All she did, though, was smile.

Still standing before him, she brought the almost forgotten red sphere to her lips. Ah - that would make sense. Her lips, this close, were faintly stained with red, as were her fingertips. It wasn’t a ball, but a ripe pomegranate, its innards bursting with deep ruby seeds. Plucking one free, she held it out to him. “We insist,” she said, after a moment. From the lifting of her brows and the quirk of her lips, it was clear that she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

 

[zingibeer]

Chains of glowing laburnum flowers hung from the walkway ceiling, bathing the ground in a diffuse golden light. Lei Shan, lost in thought, was already several paces along the path when a voice brought him to a sudden halt.

“We would have thought that you would have left with the others”.

Shan recognised the sweet, rich voice even before he had turned to face its owner, and cursed inwardly at being taken by surprise. Princess Hua Zhen Zhu stood to the side of the arch by which he had entered the walkway, partially hidden by the shadow of a supporting column, save for gentle dappled light that played around her face. Cringing, Shan realised that he had walked straight past her. He bowed from the waist, a little awkwardly, and when he stood upright his cheeks had started to flush.

The princess took a single step forwards into the light, and Shan's eyes were drawn to her figure before he could stop himself. Her cream dress was much simpler than the previous evening's, although it was still a garment of considerable cost and good taste. She looked much more relaxed here, Shan thought, in the garden, away from her father's guests and palace officials. Some of what had been only suggested by yesterday's clever petals of silk was now bared to the morning air: deep chestnut skin, a broad, graceful décolletage, the gentle curves of collarbones.

“We suppose we should scold you for remaining here, instead of doing your duty to the Emperor”.

Immediately defensive, Shan opened his mouth to speak, but she gave no chance to object.

“What would Father say, should he find an able bodied young man, lounging around in the gardens with an unsupervised princess? And not just any princess, but the only princess”.

Shan struggled to judge her tone or meaning. First she had seemingly rebuked him for not leaving with the rest of his party, for failing the Emperor, and now she was alluding to... was suggesting that, unsupervised, he might... He didn't dare finish the thought.

Hua Zhen Zhu was looking directly at him, her expression neutral, her mood and broader meaning impossible to discern. What started as a moment's pause stretched into a silence. The sounds of the garden rang in Shan's ears, fountain, bees, birdsong all suddenly louder, somehow. He swallowed and tried quickly to calculate what he should say, glancing around the walkway for inspiration. When he looked back to the princess her stern expression at last blossomed into a smile and then a gentle, pretty laugh, amused by her own mischief. “We jest. Somewhat cruelly at your expense, Lei Shan. But we are honoured, still, by your presence, and hope for your party's continued safety”.

Shan felt indignation sputter in his chest like a signal flare. Were anyone else to joke about his honour, his propriety, he would answer with a sharp riposte or an invitation to the boxing circle. She ought to know better, he thought. She ought to know that a guest at the palace would take her every utterance seriously. Ah. His brow furrowed in displeasure at being toyed with. She did know, he realised. She knew perfectly well.

Before Shan could formulate an appropriate response to her teasing, Hua Zhen Zhu started walking towards him with slow, graceful steps. She came to stand directly in front of the younger man, smiling sweetly, and lifted a hand to her lips. Shan realised that what he had mistaken for a polished leather ball was an unfamiliar fruit. Still smiling, she loosened one of the glistening ruby seeds from the pith and held it out to him on slender fingers sticky with juice.

Shan looked at the translucent seed, then to the princess, not entirely sure that he wasn't again being teased.

“We insist”.

She kept her hand open, extended towards him, waiting, an imperious smile playing over her lips, around her eyes. After a moment's hesitation, Shan reached out and gently lifted the seed from her fingers.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

His fingers brushed hers, and now it was her turn for her brows to furrow. Before he could fully pluck the seed from her grasp, she frowned.

“Receive it properly.” Her voice, so warm a moment ago when she laughed, had chilled. Closing the gap between the two of them, she was close enough that her forearm rested against his chest. Though she was a few inches shorter than him, there was a directness in her gaze that came across as if she was looking down at him, instead of looking slightly up. Her fingertips brushed against his lower lip.

“We are waiting.” No waver in her voice, no suggestion of a joke. “Must I guide you?” Finally, a bit of emotion back into her voice; the slight weariness of a long suffering parent explaining for the fifth time that yes, a little boy must pick up after himself. “Like this.”

Rather than adding a few comforting inches of space between them, she, not breaking eye contact, took the seed from his lower lip and, sticking out her tongue, placed the small gem in the center of it. Closing her lips around it, there was the slight clench of her jaw as she bit down into the tender skin, felt the slight rush of extreme tartness. Swallowed, fought the desire to smile.

“Simple, really.” She would pluck free another seed, using the same hand in which she’d taunted him with a moment ago, the same that graced her lips. “Now…receive it properly.” There was no gentle holding the seed to his lips this time - instead, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, she pressed it against his lower lip.

 

[zingibeer]

The princess's smile clouded the moment his fingers touched hers, and Shan knew that he had somehow displeased her.

“Receive it properly”.

Her tone was no longer honeyed but stern. She was scowling, looking directly at him with an intensity that surprised him. He didn't know what he had done that wasn't proper. His mind raced to the imperial etiquette he had been taught in preparation for his visit to the palace. Had he committed some gross error in reaching out to her? In the moment it took him to wonder about his mistake, the princess took a nimble step forwards and rested her arm against his chest, supporting the delicate hand that was now at his mouth.

“We are waiting”.

Shan registered her annoyance, but was no nearer to understanding her. When he again failed to respond, she let out a sigh.

“Must I guide you?”.

Her gentle scolding put him in mind of an exasperated governess chiding a pupil, and his flushed cheeks deepened. He didn't want to annoy her.

“Like this”.

Still close, still with her arm resting against him, she turned her hand towards her and slowly extended her tongue, her movements confident, deliberate, languid. She placed the gem-like seed upon it and closed her mouth. A single, small bite, and then she swallowed, all the while keeping eye contact.

Shan, already flustered, felt the muscles of his stomach tense.

“Simple, really. Now... receive it properly”.

Hua Zhen Zhu eased another seed from the round fruit and pressed it to his lips, less gently than before. Shan, until now so unsure of what best to say or do, finally guessed at what she wanted of him. A more cautious part of him said that she was again simply trying to entertain herself at his expense, that the moment he opened his mouth for her to feed him she would giggle at his acquiescence and saunter off, amused. And yet to displease her further, he reasoned, could only invite trouble.

Slowly, unsure even as he began, Shan parted his lips, and when the princess made no move to place the ruby seed beyond them, gently brought his mouth to her finger and thumb, still looking to her for a sign of approval. Her eyes met his steadily as he closed his lips around her fingertips and gently took the seed into his mouth. His heart was racing. Her skin was warm, soft, a hint of salt and juice. His stomach swirled, and fresh warmth spread across his cheeks to his ears. A slight pressure grew in the pit of his stomach, his abdomen. The birdsong, the bees, the fountain, the cascade of golden flowers above them all seemed to fade away. He tried to concentrate on the seed. It didn't taste of much. He let it rest on his tongue for a moment, then rolled it to the side of his mouth and crushed it between his teeth. Its taut skin gave way to sharp juice that melted to a pleasant sweetness.

Hua Zhen Zhu was watching him intently, her fingers still at his lips. Shan felt as if he were being studied, his reaction assessed. Shyly, he held her gaze and swallowed.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

His lips, as pink as a fresh peony blossom, closed round her fingers. She was thankful that the shudder that passed through her body was invisible to him. It was electric – moving from the tips of her still henna’ed fingers through the center of her body, hot around her navel, hotter still at the juncture of her thighs. It was harder still not to let her tongue caress her lower lip. She had to play this calm, had to quell this infatuation. Silly; one well placed gift and a beautiful face and bearing and she was acting no better than Aigai.

Even the slight bob of his throat as he swallowed was beautiful. Perhaps the summer would be more exciting than she had initially thought. And in the face of such splendor, in the midst of the heavy yellow blossoms and dull hum of bees, An Hei felt, as sure as the sun crossed the sky, that she was quite taken with this youth. More than one of Aigai’s toys, she wanted to caress him, to possess him, to dress him prettily and to make his hair and skin shine, to see the way his brows knit in the face of ineluctable pleasure.

He was prideful (how could she have not missed his small signs of annoyance?), and young, and raw. She would need to be delicate; it wouldn’t do to overwhelm him.

She didn’t lower her eyes from his – a gaze that could be considered a challenge; far too direct for an unsupervised princess, certainly. But as far as she was concerned, he was in her palace. With her father and brothers gone, woman or not, she was the defacto ruler. She was careful to keep her expression neutral, the set of her brows calm, the line of her lip flat. A slight breeze stirred the blossoms around them, waving long fringes of yellow towards them, scattering stray petals and fragrance. Rubbing her thumb across her lower lip, she was entirely unable to stop herself from reacting.

She smiled.

Her thumb continued its slow, tender caress across his lower lip. To her, his flesh was delicate, wonderfully colored, and like velvet. Her thumb, despite her royal appearance, had skin that was not as soft; certainly it did not suggest her high station. This close, her nails were as short as a working man’s, making her otherwise taper fingers look blunt and childish. Salt, juice, and a deeper musk trace of her perfume or some other unguent lingered within on the tips of her fingers. She said not a word, her eyes flickering from his down to the fine shape of his mouth, watching her thumb trace the lower lip before slipping to the top, tracing the elegant lines of him with a hand as practiced as an artist.

Though her tongue itched within her mouth to compliment him, to compare the bow of his lips to that of a sculpture, she said nothing, and thoughtfully let her thumb continue its journey. It would seem like a lifetime before she stopped, gently withdrawing her thumb from his lips. Her eyes, dark and impossible to read, moved to hold his again. Perhaps there was a hint of a smile, perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“Was it enjoyable, Lei Shan?” A return of an airy tone, less imperial, more girlish – a young thing confessing enjoyment at something particularly naughty. Before he could respond, she tossed her next comment at him, a light thing like the bees that hummed around them, “Pomegranates are my favorite.” Such a familiar tone; completely different from the one that she’d used moments before. “They have such a lovely color.”