The emperor and I knelt side by side, thick silk cushions under our knees. Once we had finished bowing, a gong signaled for us to change direction. I numbed my mind as the priest gave the new blessing. All I needed to do was get through today. A’landi would be whole again, and I would have done everything I could for my country.
When the ceremony was complete, the emperor and I proceeded to the final wedding banquet. Afterward, there would be a ritual to make sure the marriage was consummated.
I wasn’t planning to stay in the palace long enough for that.
The emperor strode three steps ahead of me, and I followed, my head held high, bearing an enormous phoenix crown with strands of pearls obscuring my face. Whereas the dress of the sun was so brilliant no one could even look at me, the dress of the moon shone gently, its silvery light more radiant than the thousands of lanterns illuminating the palace. Even under the afternoon sun, it was a beacon of splendor, and again, everyone looked at me instead of at the emperor. This time, he was not irked. It was part of his plan.
Wine perfumed the air, sharpened by the pungent aromas of three hundred different dishes: fried fish and braised pork, eight-spiced bean curd, and crispy shrimp fried with pineapples brought over from the Tambu Islands. The best acrobats, dancers, and musicians had come from throughout A’landi, and the afternoon was spent reveling in their talents. I might have enjoyed their performances were I anywhere but here.
When at last the banquet began, the shansen sat in the same seat as before, across from the emperor and me. He laughed and drank with his men, throwing subtle insults at the emperor, but I could feel him watching me. The empty chair on his right would have been Lord Xina’s; I wondered whether everyone truly believed my outburst last night was an act of grief.
Something told me the shansen did not.
“Lady Sarnai,” said one of his warriors, slightly drunk, “your dress outshines the moon. We thought it impossible there could be a gown more beautiful than the one you wore yesterday, but the Jewel of the North has set an example for these Southern court ladies.” He chuckled. “My wife should like to commission your tailor for a dress of her own.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Khanujin interrupted, “We shall ask the imperial tailor on your wife’s behalf, Lord Lawar, as a token of peace between the North and South.”
“I’ve heard the imperial tailor is a woman,” the lord continued. “She must be gifted, to be able to sew the dresses of Amana.”
The shansen grunted. “Bring her forth. I should like to meet this girl.”
I held my breath, trying hard not to glance at Khanujin.
“I’ve a better idea,” said the emperor smoothly. “Lady Sarnai, why don’t you demonstrate the tremendous power of your dress?”
It took all my control not to glower at him. Surely he had to be joking.
“The goddess’s power is not mine to invoke,” I said in the flattest tone I could muster.
“My daughter speaks at last,” rumbled the shansen. His eyes narrowed. He knew there was something different about me. “It’s not like you to be shy, Sarnai. Come, show us what the dress can do.”
I wouldn’t rise. I forced a morsel of roasted squab into my mouth, chewing defiantly.
“She’s still angry with me,” Khanujin said, laughing. A chorus of awkward chuckles joined him. “Stand, Sarnai. Show us Amana’s strength.”
The emperor’s calm surprised me. Had I underestimated him? Edan’s enchantment had brought upon him the appearance of majesty, but I was starting to wonder if the charm of his tongue was his own entirely.
He left me no choice, so I made a show of leisurely setting down my napkin and rising from my seat, deliberately taking my time.
The dress of the moon had the most fabric of all the three gowns, with long sleeves and a sheer jacket over the bodice tied with a wide embroidered sash. Tiny pearls studded every inch of the gown, representing the tears of the moon. It had been painstaking work, sewing them onto the fabric, and it had paid off. The pearls rippled, almost like the reflection of the moon over water—a breathtaking effect.
I unrolled the sleeves, letting them hang loose and brush against the ground. Slowly, I turned, ignoring the loud cheers and cries as silvery lights cascaded over the fabric.
Only the shansen was unimpressed. “A few sparkles and shiny silks are hardly representative of Amana’s power. Are you sure the tailor did not fleece you, daughter?”
“This gown is embroidered with the tears of the moon,” I said, an edge to my voice now. I’d gone through so much to make these dresses. How could anyone doubt them?
I gripped the sides of my skirts, bunching as much fabric as I could into my fists and squeezing. How could I show him?
I sought the moon through one of the latticed windows, the curtains sheer, dancing slightly in the autumn wind. The moon was as starved as it had been the night before, a fragile crescent—according to legend, that meant the goddess of the moon could not see her lover, the god of the sun. When the moon was full, she could see him, so she was happier.
Remembering the story made me think of Edan. I’d likely never see him again, never feel his arms around me, or inhale the warmth of his skin touching mine, never hear his voice caress my name.
We were like the sun and the moon, sharing the same stars and the same sky.
Somehow, that made him feel less far away. And made my heart feel slightly less alone. Less cold. For a moment, the darkness inside me weakened, and my dress came alive—
“Look!” one of the ministers cried. “The dress…it’s…”
Glowing wasn’t the right word. I could understand why he stumbled to find the right one. Light burst from my dress, permeating the entire hall as if stars were shooting forth from the ceiling. A powerful gust of wind rushed across the room, followed by a sudden flash.
The flames on the candles went out with a snap, and the bronze goblets and porcelain plates sang from the sting of an invisible kiss. Some of the guests ducked under the banquet table, while others marveled at my dress.
When it was over, the servants hastened to relight the candles, and the chamber broke into applause. Even the shansen’s lips curled with interest. The emperor basked in everyone’s praise—as if he had been the one to make Amana’s dresses.
Maia Tamarin, the imperial tailor, was forgotten. Lady Sarnai, the Jewel of the North, was forgotten.
But I, whoever I was at this moment, did not forget.
I returned to my seat, my mind reeling. The dress had glowed beautifully, and its fabrics had shone with the mysterious light of the moon—enough to impress the shansen.
But this couldn’t be all Amana’s dresses could do. I’d seen their power destroy Lady Sarnai, disfigure her beyond recognition. What other secrets did they hold?