Guo spied a flicker of light indicating they were indeed being spied upon. The naked Ming Guo raced to a door that opened onto the library, where he could see the fleeing figure of the eunuch who was his emperor’s head minister. The general turned in dismay to the beautiful daughter of a wizard, and they shared looks of dread, their forbidden love discovered.
“We should flee, my love,” she told him as they embraced on the bed.
“There is nowhere to hide,” Ming Guo said. “Nor can my love for you erase my duty as a soldier. I may disapprove of things my emperor does, but I must stay loyal, or I am nothing.”
“Your loyalty should be to our love.”
“And it is. Only by returning, and throwing myself upon . . .” He could barely say it. “. . . the mercy of my lord may we be spared.”
But though he spoke the word we, Ming Guo knew his best, his only hope, would be that Zi Yuan herself might be spared. His doom had been sealed when that eunuch had seen him in Zi Yuan’s bed.
A hot, dusty morning marked the return of the two riders through the palace gates. They rode slowly, heads held high, through row upon row of warriors assembled in the palace courtyard. The two rode to the foot of the steps of the palace, dismounted, and then the lovers bowed to each other.
Softly, her eyes moist, Zi Yuan said, “Good-bye, my love.”
“Not good-bye,” Ming Guo said. “For whatever happens, our love will live on. That much we know. And I would face far worse than Er Shi Huangdi to have shared this time with you.”
Zi Yuan nodded solemnly, then turned and began the climb, as the rest of this journey was hers to make.
In the throne room, she found herself alone with the Emperor, at whose feet she knelt, withdrawing from her robe the Oracle Bones. She held the object up to him. “Your answer is here, my lord.”
He did not take the unusual scroll, but said, “You have served me well. In return, I will grant you anything.”
She looked up from her kneeling posture. “Anything, my lord?”
“Anything you desire, yes.”
Zi Yuan swallowed. She did not stand. Her eyes sought some sign in his blank expression, but none presented itself.
Finally she said, “I have only one wish, my lord. And I mean you no disrespect. But I wish to spend the rest of my days with Ming Guo.”
“Of course,” he said, his voice, his manner, as calm as a summer day. “Just read.”
She rose and unrolled the scroll and began to read in ancient Sanskrit.
“Stop!” His brow tightened in suspicion. “What is this strange language?”
“It is more ancient than the Shan, from a land at the end of the world.”
“. . . Read on.”
What Zi Yuan did not say was that this was a dialect so ancient only a sorcerer or a sorcerer’s daughter might know it.
And what she read was this: “In the dark heart of the creator, from the depths of hate, from the mud of evil, should Er Shi Huangdi betray my love and me, cover this man with the dirt of his soul. Bake him in the kiln of torture and enshroud him in a tomb of clay for all eternity.”
The Emperor’s suspicion had faded—this was, after all, a spell, and Er Shi Huangdi did not need to understand the words for them to do their work. He felt a tingling, a warmth, a rush he had never before sensed, coursing through him.
From the window across the chamber came the whinnying of horses in the courtyard below, a terrified nickering that belied the Emperor’s calm manner. Unsettling though the sounds were, Zi Yuan continued to read aloud in the tongue of antiquity . . .
. . . unaware that the animals were reacting, as soldiers bound the hands and feet of Ming Guo, other soldiers looking on, as fearful as the nostril-flaring horses, sickened at the sight of their beloved general being prepared for the worst of deaths.
A wind kicked up dust and blew through palace windows to whip brazier fires and further give lie to the Emperor’s peaceful demeanor.
Finally, Zi Yuan closed the
“We should flee, my love,” she told him as they embraced on the bed.
“There is nowhere to hide,” Ming Guo said. “Nor can my love for you erase my duty as a soldier. I may disapprove of things my emperor does, but I must stay loyal, or I am nothing.”
“Your loyalty should be to our love.”
“And it is. Only by returning, and throwing myself upon . . .” He could barely say it. “. . . the mercy of my lord may we be spared.”
But though he spoke the word we, Ming Guo knew his best, his only hope, would be that Zi Yuan herself might be spared. His doom had been sealed when that eunuch had seen him in Zi Yuan’s bed.
A hot, dusty morning marked the return of the two riders through the palace gates. They rode slowly, heads held high, through row upon row of warriors assembled in the palace courtyard. The two rode to the foot of the steps of the palace, dismounted, and then the lovers bowed to each other.
Softly, her eyes moist, Zi Yuan said, “Good-bye, my love.”
“Not good-bye,” Ming Guo said. “For whatever happens, our love will live on. That much we know. And I would face far worse than Er Shi Huangdi to have shared this time with you.”
Zi Yuan nodded solemnly, then turned and began the climb, as the rest of this journey was hers to make.
In the throne room, she found herself alone with the Emperor, at whose feet she knelt, withdrawing from her robe the Oracle Bones. She held the object up to him. “Your answer is here, my lord.”
He did not take the unusual scroll, but said, “You have served me well. In return, I will grant you anything.”
She looked up from her kneeling posture. “Anything, my lord?”
“Anything you desire, yes.”
Zi Yuan swallowed. She did not stand. Her eyes sought some sign in his blank expression, but none presented itself.
Finally she said, “I have only one wish, my lord. And I mean you no disrespect. But I wish to spend the rest of my days with Ming Guo.”
“Of course,” he said, his voice, his manner, as calm as a summer day. “Just read.”
She rose and unrolled the scroll and began to read in ancient Sanskrit.
“Stop!” His brow tightened in suspicion. “What is this strange language?”
“It is more ancient than the Shan, from a land at the end of the world.”
“. . . Read on.”
What Zi Yuan did not say was that this was a dialect so ancient only a sorcerer or a sorcerer’s daughter might know it.
And what she read was this: “In the dark heart of the creator, from the depths of hate, from the mud of evil, should Er Shi Huangdi betray my love and me, cover this man with the dirt of his soul. Bake him in the kiln of torture and enshroud him in a tomb of clay for all eternity.”
The Emperor’s suspicion had faded—this was, after all, a spell, and Er Shi Huangdi did not need to understand the words for them to do their work. He felt a tingling, a warmth, a rush he had never before sensed, coursing through him.
From the window across the chamber came the whinnying of horses in the courtyard below, a terrified nickering that belied the Emperor’s calm manner. Unsettling though the sounds were, Zi Yuan continued to read aloud in the tongue of antiquity . . .
. . . unaware that the animals were reacting, as soldiers bound the hands and feet of Ming Guo, other soldiers looking on, as fearful as the nostril-flaring horses, sickened at the sight of their beloved general being prepared for the worst of deaths.
A wind kicked up dust and blew through palace windows to whip brazier fires and further give lie to the Emperor’s peaceful demeanor.
Finally, Zi Yuan closed the
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