life.
Still, this life or any was better than what Meuti had,
tug-tug
from somewhere forgotten under earth. And Ma Lin’s own life was better with her girls. Even given the company they came with: women of the emperor’s court—only servants, they insisted, but they seemed terribly grand to Ma Lin—and soldiers too, guards to watch her daughters. Actually she thought they watched her more, to be sure she didn’t steal the girls away.
Even given the women and the soldiers and the emperor’s ownmessage, written on a paper that she could not read and was obliged to treasure.
There was no need to read it. Ma Lin had understood it from the first, just from the weight of it in her hand, the self-importance of the imperial seal. It said that her girls belonged now to the throne—the Throne Victorious, a battle fought and a city won, and all thanks to her daughter—and were returned to her only as a gesture, as a kindness, for a time. She should hold herself ready, the letter said, to say goodbye again.
The emperor’s words might be holy; she still thought they were wrong.
He might be divine, but he was not alone in that.
If her girls belonged to anyone, she thought it was to the Li-goddess whose temple this was.
S OMETIMES THEY could still just be girls, no meaning else. As now, when she sat on the height of the temple steps with Shola, shelling walnuts. Making a game of it, trying to split the shells evenly so that Jin on the step below could float them like little boats in a bowl of water, fill them with dry rice and make a fleet of them, coffle them together with fine-woven ropes of her own hair and tow them like barges from one side of the bowl to the other, as a great fleet of ships might fill itself with men and sail from Taishu to the mainland and back again if it only had Jin to play goddess, to keep the dragon at a distance.
For now there were no ships, no fleets. The biggest boat Ma Lin had seen since the invasion was a sampan on the beach below. The soldiers used that to ferry back and forth across the creek. They brought food over daily, paused to pray, went back to their tents and fires on the beach. They were building huts.
If anyone was bold enough to sail the strait, they didn’t do it under Jin’s guard; she was here.
If anyone tried to keep the dragon at bay, Ma Lin didn’t think that it was working. They saw her often from the headland here.
This little boat didn’t bother her, apparently, or else the river was not hers to claim. Sometimes she seemed to pause, to hang like a fortress in the sky, to peer down in what might be curiosity, might be discontent. There was no saying what she might be looking at: the sampan, the temple. Jin.
Ma Lin looked back, sometimes.
I am a mother; I too can be a dragon
. It was all bluff, of course, but that was easy with the temple at her back and her daughters in the temple. She could be ferocious, when she didn’t need to be.
She had been ferocious actually, physically, at need—but not against a dragon. Nor against the emperor, nor the goddess, though they took her children from her. Ma Lin knew her limits, and they were men.
T HE DRAGON was up there now, drifting against the wind, an idle undulation, a livid scar in the sky.
Ma Lin and Shola had watched for a while, but she was almost commonplace at this distance. They turned back to the nuts.
Until there was shouting on the beach across the creek, voices thinned by distance. Other sounds too, scratching jarring sounds that would be worse if they were closer, steel on steel. Ma Lin knew.
Men rose up from where they had been squatting on the headland or drowsing in the sun. Women clustered in the temple doorway.
Ma Lin told Shola to take her sister in. Yes, yes, the nuts too; the rice, the bowl of water; everything, if Jin wanted it. Just, go
in
…
Then she joined the guards at the cliff-edge, where they could look over the water to the beach.
Where men were fighting, but she knew that
Still, this life or any was better than what Meuti had,
tug-tug
from somewhere forgotten under earth. And Ma Lin’s own life was better with her girls. Even given the company they came with: women of the emperor’s court—only servants, they insisted, but they seemed terribly grand to Ma Lin—and soldiers too, guards to watch her daughters. Actually she thought they watched her more, to be sure she didn’t steal the girls away.
Even given the women and the soldiers and the emperor’s ownmessage, written on a paper that she could not read and was obliged to treasure.
There was no need to read it. Ma Lin had understood it from the first, just from the weight of it in her hand, the self-importance of the imperial seal. It said that her girls belonged now to the throne—the Throne Victorious, a battle fought and a city won, and all thanks to her daughter—and were returned to her only as a gesture, as a kindness, for a time. She should hold herself ready, the letter said, to say goodbye again.
The emperor’s words might be holy; she still thought they were wrong.
He might be divine, but he was not alone in that.
If her girls belonged to anyone, she thought it was to the Li-goddess whose temple this was.
S OMETIMES THEY could still just be girls, no meaning else. As now, when she sat on the height of the temple steps with Shola, shelling walnuts. Making a game of it, trying to split the shells evenly so that Jin on the step below could float them like little boats in a bowl of water, fill them with dry rice and make a fleet of them, coffle them together with fine-woven ropes of her own hair and tow them like barges from one side of the bowl to the other, as a great fleet of ships might fill itself with men and sail from Taishu to the mainland and back again if it only had Jin to play goddess, to keep the dragon at a distance.
For now there were no ships, no fleets. The biggest boat Ma Lin had seen since the invasion was a sampan on the beach below. The soldiers used that to ferry back and forth across the creek. They brought food over daily, paused to pray, went back to their tents and fires on the beach. They were building huts.
If anyone was bold enough to sail the strait, they didn’t do it under Jin’s guard; she was here.
If anyone tried to keep the dragon at bay, Ma Lin didn’t think that it was working. They saw her often from the headland here.
This little boat didn’t bother her, apparently, or else the river was not hers to claim. Sometimes she seemed to pause, to hang like a fortress in the sky, to peer down in what might be curiosity, might be discontent. There was no saying what she might be looking at: the sampan, the temple. Jin.
Ma Lin looked back, sometimes.
I am a mother; I too can be a dragon
. It was all bluff, of course, but that was easy with the temple at her back and her daughters in the temple. She could be ferocious, when she didn’t need to be.
She had been ferocious actually, physically, at need—but not against a dragon. Nor against the emperor, nor the goddess, though they took her children from her. Ma Lin knew her limits, and they were men.
T HE DRAGON was up there now, drifting against the wind, an idle undulation, a livid scar in the sky.
Ma Lin and Shola had watched for a while, but she was almost commonplace at this distance. They turned back to the nuts.
Until there was shouting on the beach across the creek, voices thinned by distance. Other sounds too, scratching jarring sounds that would be worse if they were closer, steel on steel. Ma Lin knew.
Men rose up from where they had been squatting on the headland or drowsing in the sun. Women clustered in the temple doorway.
Ma Lin told Shola to take her sister in. Yes, yes, the nuts too; the rice, the bowl of water; everything, if Jin wanted it. Just, go
in
…
Then she joined the guards at the cliff-edge, where they could look over the water to the beach.
Where men were fighting, but she knew that
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