At that, she handed me her sketchbook. I flipped through the pages, discovering landscapes, still lifes, portraits. One drawing gave me pause—a lone figure standing at the edge of a cliff, gazing into the river below as her long hair billowed loosely around her. Something about the inherent melancholy of the piece spoke to me. As if the artist had touched something deep within me—something I’d believed I was alone in feeling.
“You’re very talented,” I said, handing her sketchbook back.
“It passes the time.” She shrugged one shoulder with a practiced smile.
“Do you come here often?”
She nodded, a pleasant smile still pasted on her face. “It’s my favorite part of the palace.”
“And what is your favorite work?”
At this, her smile grew genuine. “This one,” she said, leading me into an adjoining room, to a glass display in a corner. Inside was asmall statue that appeared like a fossilized piece of amber, which caught and reflected the dappled light. The longer I stared, the more its colors seemed to shift and change. At first it appeared blue, but now I was beginning to think it green, or gold.
“What is it?” I asked in a hushed voice.
“It’s a reproduction of a remnant of the old gods,” she said, her voice also lowered in respect.
“The old gods?” I repeated, surprised.
She glanced at me. “Do you know the stories?”
I shook my head.
She laughed again, a self-deprecating sound. “They’re quite silly, superstitions, you know—”
“I’d love to hear them.”
She wavered, glancing back at me. I waited, making no effort to fill the silence. At last, watching the flickering amber, she said:
“Long, long ago, in a time before ours, spirits and men walked the earth together. They say it was an era of chaos and instability, because the spirits were capricious and fickle, and the emperor a weak and corrupt man. But one day, as the people cried out for change, the Mandate of Heaven shone upon a worthy man called the Red Sword, who took the throne only to rule for eighty-eight days. When a spiteful monkey spirit kidnapped his youngest son, he pursued the spirit up the mountains to present-day First Crossing, where he battled the monkey and overpowered him with his great life force. But as he ventured into the caves to retrieve his son, he found the young prince at the brink of death, for the monkey had stolen his heart. And so the emperor removed his own heart and gave it to his son, and the Mandate of Heaven passed on to him.
“Unable to carry his father, the son buried him in the Red Mountains, weeping all the while. The earth grew wet and pliantwith his tears, so that the following day, the buried body reemerged from the soil. Only, the emperor’s bones had fossilized into amber, and just as the father had once shared qi with his son, now this amber could be used to bridge qi from person to person. Understanding his father’s last gift to him, the prince gave the amber to his people. Together, they joined hands and shared their qi across the land, and thus with their great numbers the first veil between spirits and men was formed.”
Interesting, how these old legends diverged and shifted with every retelling. For I had heard a different version of this tale, like a warped mirror reflection. Regardless, it was impossible to tell fact from fiction now.
“Do you believe it?” I asked, watching her expression.
She flushed. “Of—of course not,” she said. “I guess I just like the old stories, although they’re quite silly, are they not?”
She was the consort to the Imperial Commander—young, pretty, and powerful—yet she tiptoed through conversations like she was walking on glass, voicing every statement as if it were a question, downplaying even her most remarkable talents.
Had I too been like this once?
“I believe it,” I said.
She glanced sharply at me. “In—in the stories?” she stammered. “In magic?”
“I’ve never been able to resist a good story,” I admitted. “And to be honest, it would be harder for me to believe that a world as wondrous as ours is entirely without magic.”
She smiled. “I’m prone to belief as well,” she said, as if confiding a secret. “I know everyone seems fearful of spirits these days, but I remember tales of kind ones too, and even beautiful ones. In the stories of old, spirits were as varied as men, each with their own personality and inclination.”
I, who knew only one spirit, said nothing.
As we passed into the next room, a collection of ink and wash paintings, I asked, “Can we find your work here, Consort Caihong?”
“Mine?” Her eyes went round. “Of course not, Lady Hai. I would never dream…”
“And why not?” I asked, thinking of the way her art had made me feel. “I would love to be able to admire your work here, and I’m sure your future children would agree.”
