Imperial Lady

Epilogue

Court officials had argued protocol and precedence for months before the heir of the shan-yu arrived in Ch’ang-an. He was the subject, too, of much gossip in the Inner Courts. Some even said that his mother had resided there, half a lifetime ago, before being sent into exile upon the plains.

Half barbarian; half Han. Delicious speculation had it that he, like all others of the Hsiung-nu, ate his meat raw or that he was an alchemist, or that a fox-spirit had been his midwife. Rumor ran so wild in the Inner Courts that even the gossip-loving eunuchs had, finally, to suppress it. One thing, though, everyone finally could agree upon. This prince of the Hsiung-nu had come to Ch’ang-an not to argue for a treaty nor to wed a Han princess—at least not yet—but to be educated in the way of his mother’s people.

It would be fascinating to see if he could, decided the chief eunuchs, then turned to the more important matter of bribes. These days, ever since the unfortunate Mao Yen-shou had lost his head over the trifling matter of a flawed portrait, one had to be so much more discreet. Perhaps this savage prince would prove to be generous.

The young man who finally arrived in Ch’ang-an, accompanied by a troop of dour and fully armed horsemen, wore silks and furs. A lute hung beside his bow upon his saddle, and he spoke the tongue of Ch’in with elegance and propriety. Even the warriors who rode with him and who had been chosen for patience and steadiness (which meant that there were but a few, far fewer than should have accompanied the shan-yu’s heir) muttered at the height and breadth of the city’s walls. They had been warned by the shan-yu not to think of Ch’ang-an simply as a larger, more permanent winter camp; it seemed more like a huge trap, a . . . the word was prison , a fixed abode into which men were hurled and from which they could not escape. It was my mother's city, my mothers land , the prince had told them; and, respecting Silver Snow as much as they did her son, they nodded and accepted what they could not change.

For a moment, however, the prince rebelled in thought. He was a free man of the grasslands and desert, used to riding where he would. How could anyone expect him to spend what might be years of his life pent within walls and under roofs? Behind him, his men muttered, and the Ch’in soldiers who accompanied them closed in, looking dour.

Those dour looks steadied him. He flashed his warriors a warning look, knowing that they would feel shame that he must thus reprove them in the presence of men of Ch’in, who wanted only to regard them as savages. If he had not protested, they must not either.

He had not protested when his father had ordered him to Ch’ang-an; the shan-yu Vughturoi was the chosen under heaven, and it was unthinkable to oppose him, as even his own brother had learned. Was it not Vughturoi who had consolidated all of the warring clans of the Hsiung-nu?

And just as he dared not present himself to his father as aught but an obedient, loyal son, he certainly could not fail in duty when his mother sat nearby, her thin, fragile fingers holding some piece of stitching, which he could see, and the reins of his father’s heart and his, which he could not. It was not just unfilial to disappoint her: it was unthinkable.

So tiny she was, her once-pale skin weathered by half a lifetime spent among the Hsiung-nu out under the holy sky, her dark, thoughtful eyes webbed in a fine network of wrinkles from staring into vast distances, either of the grasslands themselves or her own thoughts, her incredibly long braids frosted with a silver snow like that of the name that only the shan-yu dared to speak.

His journey to her home meant a great deal to her, he knew. He might, warrior to warrior, have protested being sent to what was, for a Hsiung-nu, a luxurious prison; Vughturoi his father had lived among the Han and could sense his unease and distaste. But what of the lady his mother, who had accepted exile from her own people? So tiny she was, and so frail; but so brave withal. Had he not heard the tales, since he was old enough to sit his first horse, of how she thrust herself before the ruler of the Yueh-chih and mended the old quarrel that had abetted treason and nearly brought on another war? His mother was the queen who had brought peace to the Hsiung-nu; a year of his life within walls was a small gift if it pleased her.

With as much courage as he would have faced a battle, he rode through the city, confronted rank upon rank of officials, and, ultimately, was allowed the supreme felicity of hurling himself at the feet of the Son of Heaven. When he rose, he held out a roll of silk, carefully sealed against dust and storm. He cautioned himself that anything he said or did might reflect not just upon the Hsiung-nu but upon the lady who had left these courts to lead them. Drawing a deep breath in lieu of the weapons that would have been far readier to his hand, he prepared to speak.

“This unworthy one who is permitted to style himself as Khujanga, prince among the Hsiung-nu, begs leave to greet the Son of Heaven,” he began. Some officials frowned at his audacity; the eldest among them remembered that his mother, too, had had a history of being . . . unconventional might be the most tactful way of expressing it. The lady had taught him the trick of observing such men from the corners of his eyes and of reading the tiny signals of approval or disfavor that they sent to one another; it was a gift for which he was grateful.

“His father, the shan-yu, and his mother, she who brings peace to the Hsiung-nu, bow themselves before the Son of Heaven, and beg him to receive this wretched one within his courts to learn the ways of the Middle Kingdom, most illustrious under heaven.”

The Son of Heaven nodded and, very faintly, smiled. Although the prince had promised himself that he would not care what such a soft creature—with his silks, his stiff cap, his Dragon Throne, and these oppressive walls—might think of him, he sighed inwardly in relief.

The court relaxed, and the Emperor beckoned the Hsiung-nu prince closer for a brief, precious moment of almost private speech. To Prince Khujanga’s surprise, warmth lurked in the Emperor’s wise, sly eyes.

“Your mother’s letters, all these years, have informed us well. Aye, and told us—allowing for a mother’s favor—what manner of young man we now welcome. Be as a son within our walls. We shall try to make your stay pleasant, and not too confining.” Then, as if he had delivered the message that he had set himself, he turned to matters of state. “Now, your mother has told me about the barbarians to the west.”

It surprised Khujanga that the Son of Heaven included him on the inside of that comment: it was the westerners, not the Hsiung-nu, whom he considered the barbarians. “What can you tell me about them, and what else does she say?” Khujanga had been primed for that moment, ready with his opinions of the men from beyond the Roof of the World and their horses. Before he spoke of them, however, he owed his mother to deliver one more message and one more gift.

“This one’s mother sends her greetings and her observations, contained in her letter. And she begs the Son of Heaven to receive this for her who keeps his tents!”

With a flourish that suited a Hsiung-nu feast better than it did the Bright Court of Ch’ang-an, the young prince beckoned, and two of his men laid a chest before the Dragon Throne. The prince himself knelt to open it.

It held a suit of jade armor, cunningly fastened with delicate gold wire, the mate to the suit that, years ago, the Lady Silver Snow had presented to the Son of Heaven.