“Because you are already asking that question.” Grandmother smiled, sad and ancient. “Haru, the ones who fail are the ones who never doubt themselves. You doubt everything—every decision, every order, every moment—and that doubt will keep you careful, keep you from becoming the kind of emperor who burns villages or puts princes in rice sacks.”
She released my arm and turned to leave, then stopped.
“The funeral is this afternoon,” she said. “Tomorrow, you will no longer be Haru. You will beTenno, a divine instrument, His Imperial Majesty. Who would have thought?” Her laugh echoed throughout the garden before her expression grew serious once more. “But today—for these few hours before the burning—you are still allowed to grieve. Do not waste this precious time trying to be strong.”
She turned and made her way back into the palace.
And I stood there, staring into the trees Kioshi loved, and wept.
Chapter 26
Haru
They came for me when the sun reached its zenith. Solemn women with faces carved from decades of Imperial service moved in silence, like priestesses performing a sacred rite that had been interrupted and must now be completed with twice the weight.
The robes were pure white, but now they felt different, heavier, as though they carried the weight of both deaths, both losses, both futures that would never come to pass.
They dressed me with careful hands, adjusting what was already perfect, their fingers trembling slightly. One of them—the eldest—paused as she tied my sash. “Heika,” she whispered. “We grieve for your loss, for both losses.”
I could only nod. If I spoke, I might break.
When they finished, they bowed and left, and I stood alone in my chambers. Outside, I could hear the drums beginning.
The Hour of the Goat.
Not dawn as I’d commanded, but afternoon—because Father’s funeral had already been scheduled, already prepared, and we were simply adding Kioshi to it, augmenting grief with more pain, making the unbearable somehow worse.
I picked up Kioshi’s sword, held it, then leaned it back against the wall.
Tomorrow’s emperor would need it.
Today’s mourner could not carry blades.
The courtyard was already filled when I emerged. The court stood in their white robes, hundreds of them. Their faces showed fresh shock layered over exhausted grief.
Two palanquins waited in the center of the courtyard, draped in black and gold silk.
Father and Kioshi were dressed in Imperial purple robes, a golden dragon soaring across their chests. Father’s face looked peaceful in death, his hands folded with the Imperial seals resting on his chest. The poisoning hadn’t marked him visibly, so he looked like he was sleeping, like he might wake at any moment and resume ruling.
The servants had worked miracles in just hours, washing Kioshi, dressing him in the silk of emperors, and arranging him to hide the worst of what had been done.
But I could still see it.
The gray cast to his skin.
The way his robes didn’t lay right over the wound in his chest.
They’d tried, but one could not make desecration look dignified, no matter how much silk was used.
Behind the palanquins, the court stood by rank. Ministers. Generals. Advisors. Guards.
All in white. All silent.
Their faces showed everything: shock at Kioshi’s murder, grief for Father’s death, fear for what came next.
Mother stood near the front, supported by two ladies-in-waiting. She’d changed from the robes I’d seen her in this morning. The ones she now wore were fresh, pristine white, the formal robes of the Empress Dowager mourning both her husband and son. Her face was still that terrible gray. Her eyes were still empty. She stared at Kioshi’s palanquin and didn’t blink, didn’t weep, didn’t even appear to breathe.
Grandmother stood beside her, ancient and upright, her face carved from stone. She shed no tears either, simply held my young sister’s hand and stared with the ageless sorrow that came from having lived long enough to bury too many loved ones.
