Xiao Yanshu · Conversa

Red candlelight sways, and the hall is so still you can hear the echo of your own heartbeat. You kneel before the dragon bed, knees pressed against the icy floor of golden tiles. The red gauze nightgown, as thin as a cicada's wing, cannot keep out the deep-autumn chill seeping through the gaps in the windows. You dare not move, dare not lift your head, and you keep even your breathing soft and shallow. When the attendants bathed you, they used the plum-blossom incense tributed from Nan Chu; a trace of that warm fragrance still lingers in your hair, but it, too, is cooling inch by inch. Footsteps sound from outside the hall — unhurried, steady, powerful, each step landing as if on the very tip of your heart. The door is pushed open. The candle flame lurches violently. Instinctively you shrink your shoulders, and the stray strands of hair falling over your forehead tremble. You hear the dull thud of a heavy black cloak tossed carelessly onto the table, then the light click of a wine cup set down on wood — he is looking at you, you know it. That gaze is like a blade still in its sheath, pressing down on your lowered brows from across the whole span of the bedchamber. You dare not raise your head, only stare toward the tips of his boots. They are black boots embroidered with dragons in golden thread, with a trace of dried dark color clinging to the rim — you dare not think about what it is. He moves. The sound of his boots draws nearer step by step, circles around your side, and stops behind you. You feel him bend down, his breath brushing the bare skin at the nape of your neck, carrying the faint, sharp bite of strong liquor. You freeze, not daring even to tremble your eyelashes. "Raise your head." His voice is lower than the rumors say, faintly hoarse, like a mark left by years of drinking hard liquor. You bite your lower lip and slowly lift your face. The candlelight happens to fall across your face, and you see his features — even more severe than the palace maids described in whispers. His browbone is high and deep, his phoenix eyes long and narrow with slightly upturned tails, and his pupils are an ink-black too thick ever to dissolve. At this moment they watch you, heavy and focused, the way one appraises a trophy of war. His lips are thin and lightly pressed, and the line of his jaw looks as if it were pared by a blade. You forget to breathe. He looks at you for a long, long time. So long that your eyes begin to ache, so long that you begin to think he will, as the rumors say, simply drag you onto the dragon bed — but he only straightens up, looks down at you from above, and raises a long-fingered hand to grip your chin. The force is not heavy, but it carries a hardness that leaves no room to dodge. "The youngest princess of Nan Chu," he says, tilting your face a little to the left, then a little to the right, as if confirming something, "what is your name?" You part your lips, your voice as thin as a candle flame in the wind: "...In answer to Your Majesty, your subject's daughter... has no name." He pauses. You see that thin, cold gleam in his phoenix eyes seem to waver for an instant. Then he releases your chin, straightens up, and turns toward the table. You hear him pour the wine, hear him tilt his head back and drink it dry, hear the crisp sound of the cup landing back on the tabletop. "No name," he repeats, the end of the word rising slightly, as if savoring something interesting. "The King of Nan Chu was quite willing to part with you — he sent you over without even leaving you a name." He turns back to look at you, his gaze settling on the thin red gauze that drapes your body. You remain kneeling where you are, arms crossed and pressed against your chest, but it cannot hide the outline of your collarbones and shoulders beneath the fabric. You feel his gaze move slowly down from your face — across the line of your neck, the hollow of your shoulder, your waist — as if he were tracing the path with his fingertips. You hear your own heartbeat racing as if it might break through your chest. Suddenly he walks over, bends down, and wraps one arm around your waist — that arm is long and powerful, and he lifts you off the floor with almost no effort. You crash into his embrace, the tip of your nose brushing the cold golden embroidery on his black dragon robe, and all your breath is filled with the smell of strong liquor mixed with rusted iron. Your hand instinctively clutches the fabric at his chest. "...Your Majesty —" Your voice is trembling. You close your eyes, your lashes brushing the knotted buttons at his collar, and you feel the heartbeat coming from his chest — steady, unhurried, carrying the certainty of a predator. And he lowers his head, his lips against your ear, his breath scorching, his voice low and hoarse as if rolled out from the depths of his throat — "I happen to like you just like this." He says nothing more. You bury your face in his chest, hear him undo the golden buckle of his sash, hear the rustle of fabric slipping down — but his hand pauses when it touches the skin of your back. His cool fingertips rest against your spine for about two breaths. He does not continue. He sets you down on the inner side of the dragon bed, draws the quilt up over your shoulders, then turns over and lies down beside you. You hear the rustle of his clothing as he settles flat, hear him let out a long, very soft breath, like a man who has been weary for a long time and has finally set down a burden. The bedchamber falls quiet. The candles still burn. His breathing gradually steadies, and now and then the wine-warmed heat of it brushes across your forehead. You dare not move. A very, very long time passes — so long that you think he must be asleep — before you dare to turn your face a little to the side and look at him in the candlelight's dying glow. His eyes are closed, his browbone casting shadows deep and shallow, his lips still pressed together, yet in his sleep he frowns faintly, unconsciously. His right hand rests on the quilt between you, fingers long, with old calluses at the base of his thumb. You watch him for a long time. Then you hear yourself ask softly, in a voice only you can hear: "Your Majesty... are you asleep?" He does not answer. But his hand moves — his broad palm slides slowly across the quilt and comes to rest over the back of your hand, the hand that grips the quilt's corner. The pressure is very light, as if afraid of startling something away. You go still. That hand does not move again. It simply lies over yours — quiet, warm, feather-light — like a wounded beast that has finally found the one creature willing to come near it, and will not let go even in sleep. From outside the hall comes the drum marking the third watch. On the red candle, a small ember of snuff blooms at the wick and, with a soft crackle, falls away. You close your eyes.