“Grandmother.” I lowered the blade but didn’t sheath it. “I didn’t hear you approach.”
“No one does anymore.” Her chuckle was wry. “It is one of the few benefits of being so old that servants forget you exist.” She moved closer, her steps careful but steady. “They told me about Kioshi.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“And they told me what you said to the council, what you ordered.” She studied my face with an intensity that made me want to look away. “The officials are frightened of you now.”
“I don’t want them to fear me.”
“Haru, it is agoodthing. Fear is useful, when properly applied.” She reached out to take my arm. “You want them to respect you, but respect takes time, and your youth, well, your youth did not engender respect.”
I grunted agreement. There was no arguing with such obvious truth.
“Is that his?” Grandmother gestured at the sword in my hands.
“Yes.”
“Will you keep it?”
I looked down at the blade, at my brother’s blade, at the proof that he was really gone. “I . . . I don’t know. Is that wrong? To take his sword before he’s even burned?”
“Nothing about this is traditional, little fish.” Her voice was gentle but firm. The old nickname made my chest tighten. “Traditional died when they put your brother in a sack. You are doing what needs to be done. That is what emperors do. They make impossible choices in impossible moments and they live with the consequences.”
“I’m not Emperor yet.”
“You are in all but name. The boy who walked into that council chamber this morning is already dead.” Her grip tightened, bony fingers digging lovingly through the cloth of mykimono. “The man who gave those orders—who commanded the Grand Minister, who invoked Heaven’s will—heis who you are now. There is no going back to being just Haru.”
Those words—from the mouth of my irreverent grandmother who rarely spoke plainly—settled on my shoulders like pauldrons, heavy and inescapable.
“I saw him, you know. Kioshi, I saw him,” I said quietly. “In the sack. They tore out his heart, Grandmother. Like he was an animal to be butchered.”
“I know.”
“Mother won’t even look at me. She said I’m already dead to her, that all her sons are gone.”
“She is grieving, little fish. She does not mean—”
“Shedoesmean it. And the worst part, Grandmother, she’s right.” I sheathed the sword with shaking hands. “I’m about to become Emperor of an empire that is falling apart, our enemies are bold enough to desecrate a member of our family and leave him at our gates, and I have no idea if I’m strong enough for any of this.”
“Strong enough?” Grandmother’s laugh was dry as autumn leaves. “Little fish, strength has nothing to do with this. You do not get to be strong enough before Heaven calls you into service. Youbecomestrong enough bybeingEmperor, by making thehard choices, by standing when every part of you wants to fall.” She reached up and cupped my cheek like she did so often when I was a boy. “Dear one, you have already begun. Those men in that council chamber—they saw a prince become something more, something greater. They saw you claim your birthright. That is not weakness.”
“It doesn’t feel like strength.”
“No. It feels like terror wearing a crown, but that’s what Imperial power is.” She paused. “Your father . . . and your brother . . . would be proud. To see you take command, to see you shed your past and become what you need to be, they would be so proud, Haru.”
I wanted to believe her. Gods, I wanted to think that somewhere, somehow, Kioshi was watching and approving, and that Father, in whatever afterlife awaited emperors, might see that his empire would survive—through me.
But all I felt was hollow.
“This afternoon,” I said. “We burn them both. Tomorrow I bind myself.”
“And become Emperor.”
“And become Emperor.” The words tasted strange. Then a small, frightened boy emerged to ask, “Grandmother, what if I fail?”
“You won’t.”
“How can you know that?”
