“To see my father.”
Isn’t he angry with you?
I faltered. “I’ll find out.” I touched my bird’s wing. “You stay. It’s something I have to do alone.”
My mother’s shrine was in the northeast corner of the imperial gardens, surrounded by willow trees. This was the quietest part of the palace grounds, and many assumed I didn’t respect my mother because I didn’t visit often, but that wasn’t it. Coming to this place was like reopening an old wound.
Father was already there, ascending the wooden stairs. Pale rays of sunlight shone upon his back, and when our shadows overlapped, he didn’t acknowledge me.
“May I join you?” I asked.
He looked up warily, his expression guarded. I trusted that Hasho had offered some explanation for my abrupt departure at the ceremony, but he still looked displeased. Duly so.
“Please, Father?” I said softly.
Finally, he gave a nod.
I followed him into the shrine. It was cool inside, in spite of the open doorway and the afternoon heat. Ivory banners hung from the rafters, wishing my mother safe passage to heaven. There were three priestesses tending the shrine’s fire, a blazing pit that would burn forever in the empress’s memory. When they saw us, they bowed and dutifully shuffled outside.
Behind the offering of rice, gold, and wine on the altar, there was a wooden statue of my mother. Father often told me I looked like her, but I saw little resemblance, except for our long ebony hair and pointed chins. Her eyes were round and kind. Mine were sharp, defiant.
Father bowed deeply to the statue and murmured his prayers.
I bowed too, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not think of any words for my mother. The few memories I had of her weren’t even real. Raikama had planted them in my mind to bring me peace and happiness, but now that I knew the truth, I felt only remorse.
“What was she like?” I asked when Father rose.
It was a question he’d always deflected by saying something vague, like “She was very kind. Very beautiful.”
I expected the same today, but Father made one last bow before the altar. Then he replied, mistily, “She hated incense because it made her sleepy. Once, she fell asleep during Andahai’s naming ceremony.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Father turned for the stairs. “She was more like you than you know.”
The reproach brought a pang to my chest. “I’m sorry about what happened this morning. My behavior was…inexcusable.”
He stopped abruptly. “It is fortunate that Bushi’an Takkan is a patient man. A good man. For I can name no other who would take you, princess or not, after you have dishonored his family thus.”
I dipped my head, bearing the rebuke. I wanted to argue that I hadn’t dishonored his family as much as before. I had run out with him, after all. Wisely, I kept my thoughts to myself.
“You disappointed me, daughter. I expected that you would have a stronger sense of duty. Especially after everything that has happened with you and your brothers.”
His pause was deliberate, giving me a moment to wince.
“I will not rebuke you further at your mother’s shrine.” Father crossed his arms, long sleeves folded so as not to sweep the sacred ground. “All I will say is that I planned to send you away as punishment, but your brothers begged me to reconsider. Regardless, it is not my forgiveness you should seek, but Lord Takkan’s.”
I looked up, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Yes, Father. Of course you are right.”
My agreeableness made him frown. “Rare words from my only daughter. I take it from your earlier…sprint that you’ve already spoken to him?”
When I gave a careful nod, he let out a harrumph. “May the gods reward young Takkan for his forbearance.” A sigh. “Come. Walk the gardens with me before the rest of the palace discovers we are here.”
The setting sun lit up the treetops, painting them a wild red. I savored the sight, knowing it’d be gone in a matter of minutes. Then I swallowed, wondering if Father used to walk this path with my mother. “Do you miss her? My mother.”
“Your mother was bound to me by Emuri’en. If the gods are kind, I’ll find her again when I ascend to the heavens.”
“I wish I’d known her better.”
Father walked on, and I thought that it would be the end of the subject—until he stopped on the wooden bridge over a pond of carp. “Your mother was stubborn, like you, and often impertinent, like you. But she always considered others before herself. When she fell ill, I swore never to marry again. She wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted you to grow up with a mother. Even if it meant you’d forget her.”
A lump swelled in my throat, making it hard to speak. “That’s why you remarried.”
“My marriage to your stepmother was not a love match, but we were friends. Seeing my children take to her, and her to them, eased some of the pain of losing your mother. It helped your stepmother as well.”
“She was grieving, too,” I murmured. “For her sister.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes, before she died,” I said thickly. “Didn’t you find it odd that she never spoke of her past, that she didn’t even have a name?”
“She had a name when I met her, but she wanted to forget it. Her life back home wasn’t a happy one. I met her only because her father was trying to marry her off in a—”
“A selection ceremony,” I murmured.
“Yes.” Father looked surprised that I knew, and I averted my eyes as he continued. “Kings and princes who had heard of her beauty gathered in Tambu with offerings of jewels and gold. Initially, I went too. I’d heard she was kind and compassionate, and I’d hoped to find a new mother for you. But I was unsettled by the contest, so I left.”
“Then how did she come to marry you?” I asked.
“It is a long story,” replied Father. “The contest lasted many months, causing strife between the suitors. One of Tambu’s great kings feared a war would break out. He asked that I return to aid her in making a decision.
“When I met her again, she was in mourning for her sister. The poor girl died not long after the selection began.”
I lifted my head, my breath going shallow. “Did you ever meet her?”
“Once,” said Father. “But I don’t remember it well. Your stepmother never liked to talk about the past. Especially not about her sister.”
I retreated, sensing Raikama had something to do with the gaps in Father’s memory. But then he spoke again.
“What I do remember is that she had the loneliest eyes I had ever seen.” Father’s voice drifted, as if skimming off memories. “And she had a snake at her side. I always supposed that was why your stepmother found solace in snakes. Because they reminded her of her sister.”