Chapter 3:
Reirin Lends an Ear
EACH TIME THEY VISITED the national treasury in the innermost depths of the main palace, Genyou’s mother, Empress Souen, would tell her son thus:
“The ‘Gen’ in your given name means ‘string.’ A bowstring, in this case. You are named for a grand weapon that once exorcised evil and brought this nation to heel.”
Her gorgeous, frosty visage was often extolled as that of an ice nymph, but in these moments alone, she would break into a smile and whisper words like sweet nothings.
“You must make that glorious bowstring sing as you aim for the throne.”
Souen was the empress, but she had never won the emperor’s heart. Despite her status as his official wife, her son was the tenth of the princes. Being of Kin descent, the emperor loved all things extravagant. A Gen was far too plain to catch his interest, so his choice of empress had been a solely political move.
This did not sit well with Souen. Not because she craved her husband’s love, mind you, but because she didn’t want a single blemish on her tenure as empress.
Souen didn’t have the slightest interest in romance. She lacked emotional range, and she had been nicknamed the “Lady of Ice” ever since she was admitted to the court. However, when she became empress and was entrusted with the Imperial Seal, she experienced yearning for the very first time.
A yearning for power.
With a single word—a single glance—she could command the obedience of countless people. They would spring into action like puppets on strings, and they would die like mindless dolls. She found this hitherto unknown sensation almost intoxicating. The heady omnipotence was akin to chugging a powerful spirit.
The intoxication and exhilaration only grew stronger with time. Each day, she tested the extent of her authority by making unreasonable demands of those around her, almost like holding a jewel up to the sun to examine it. When she found it to her liking, her mood took a sharp turn for the better. If someone ever tarnished its luster, her mood instantly soured, and she would do away with the one responsible.
Power was the one and only thing the Gen-hailing Souen had ever fixated on. And the power held by a woman of the inner court would only be complete when her son became emperor. It was her long-held ambition to put the tenth and youngest prince, Genyou, on the throne.
“You are my greatest treasure. A powerful weapon born to make me shine. I will stop at nothing to make you the next emperor.”
Had Genyou ever made an honest attempt to return his mother’s suffocating love? It was hard for him to say, in retrospect.
Genyou was a smart child. He was sickly from childhood, which had stunted his physical development, but behind his uncommunicative lips lay a swirl of complex thoughts. His downcast eyes held a glint of intelligence. He already knew that his gently smiling mother had disposed of countless people behind the scenes. If a court lady seemed likely to win the emperor’s favor, the empress would kill her before she could catch his eye. If one of the other palaces was poised to rise to prominence, she would dig up a scandal to whip them into a frenzy. When Genyou grew so enamored of his pet dog that he skipped his lessons just once, she had torn the dog asunder.
The empress did not love her child. She cared only for the power her son might bring her in the future—and it didn’t take long for Genyou to figure that out. He didn’t particularly despair over it. All he felt was a frosty resignation and a faint revulsion.
By the time he turned six, these emotions were directed not just at his mother but at the world as a whole. That was when Genyou stopped speaking altogether. It felt pointless even to bother. Sometimes his mother would attempt to flatter him into conversation, other times she would put up a front of composure. As soon as she realized neither approach was working, she resorted to yelling and beating him. All the scholars gave up on the “dunce” of a youngest prince, and the other clans came together to bathe him in ridicule.
Still Genyou insisted on maintaining his silence.
As his mother’s mood swings worsened, her tyranny reached its peak, until she and the opposing clans were embroiled in an intense power struggle. Even then—no, more adamantly than ever—Genyou passed himself off as a mute, half-witted prince. He had absolutely no desire to be a part of the world around him.
One day, when Genyou was eleven years old, someone taunted him, “Well, if it isn’t the Woodwork Prince! Hey, are you flexible enough to bend at the knees? Why don’t you grovel for us and prove it?”
It was the fourth prince, a son of the Kin consort. He was three years Genyou’s elder. Perhaps owing to his pure Kin blood, he always had a swagger about him. Although the Kou-hailing firstborn, Gomei, had already been chosen as crown prince, he was confident that he could one day depose Gomei and claim the throne himself—a belief he made no effort to hide. He had given the uncommunicative Genyou the nickname of “the Woodwork Prince,” and he often gathered his cronies to gang up on the younger boy. It was his way of flaunting his power.
“Nothing to say for yourself? Such disrespect for your elder brother! Someone really ought to teach you a lesson in fraternal duty. I suppose I must take the task upon myself.”