From the time he was born, everything had been decided for Gyouyoh: what he would do, what he would be. As the emperor’s only son, that was the position he had been given.
There was always someone watching him; very rarely could he do what he pleased. The closest he came to freedom was when he was playing with his milk siblings.
“It’s time to eat,” Gaoshun informed him, marking an end to administrative business and the constant sitting it involved. Gaoshun, a milk sibling two years older than Gyouyoh, had been temporarily assigned to Zuigetsu.
Really, Gyouyoh had been told, it should have been not Gaoshun but some other member of the Ma clan assigned to Zuigetsu. As Gyouyoh’s bodyguard and second-in-command, Gaoshun—although he had been known by a different name at the time—could hardly be replaced. But in Gyouyoh’s mind, that was all the more reason he should look after Zuigetsu.
For lunch, Gyouyoh was served soup with no actual solid ingredients and congee that didn’t appear to contain a single grain of rice. His meals had been this way for more than two weeks now, and he’d lost a fair amount of weight. His cheeks were starting to become sunken, a fact he concealed with special whitening powder that Gaoshun made for him.
There was also another meal too, separate from the congee. If they only brought him a sick man’s food, there were those who might guess, well, that he was sick. For that reason, Gaoshun also brought him an ordinary meal.
“Take this before you eat, sir.”
“Must I?”
“I’m afraid you must.”
Gaoshun handed Gyouyoh some medicine with a uniquely acrid smell. Initially they had mixed it with fruit juice or honey to soften the taste, but although this diluted the flavor it increased the amount that Gyouyoh had to drink, so he had asked them to stop.
He drank down the medicine, then stuck his spoon into the glue-like congee. It was suffused with flavors of salt and meat; in some other form, it might have tasted a little better.
After about three bites, Gyouyoh put down his spoon.
“Does it hurt, sir?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
His chronic stomach pain had been getting gradually worse. Sometimes he felt nauseous or got low-grade fevers. He’d experienced this pain before, and had assumed the same treatment would do the trick—but there was no sign of the condition improving.
“What are the physicians doing?” he demanded.
“My sincere apologies, sir,” Gaoshun said.
“They’re not lying about my illness, are they?”
“The possibility seems remote, sir.”
Gyouyoh knew there was no point in lashing out at Gaoshun. If he didn’t release his feelings on someone, though, there was a risk that they would escape him in public.
There were only so many people around whom Gyouyoh could be vulnerable, and Gaoshun was one of them. He leaned on Gaoshun’s good grace, just as Zuigetsu did.
Even among the members of the Ma clan, Gyouyoh thought, Gaoshun was particularly well put together.
The scene was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and then there was a voice on the other side of the door.
“You can’t come in,” Gaoshun answered. “His Majesty is taking his meal.”
“I certainly can. Do you know who I am?”
Gyouyoh did indeed know who it was, even through a closed door, and dejection overtook him. Gaoshun swiftly hid the half-eaten congee and replaced it with the ordinary meal.
In came a group centered around a man roughly fifty years old. He was tall and thin, and looked young despite his age—a gift of his bloodline, perhaps.
“You must pardon my rudeness in interrupting your meal,” the man said. He approached with an unctuous smile, but Gaoshun positioned himself between Gyouyoh and the newcomer. Gyouyoh’s bodyguards were likewise keeping a watchful eye from just outside the room.
“If you knew it was rude, then let me suggest you shouldn’t have come,” Gyouyoh replied.
“Ha ha ha! Your words are harsh, sire. Are you really so stern even with your uncle?”
His uncle: that was to say, the older brother of Gyouyoh’s mother, Anshi. His name was Hao.
“Mm. So you propose that because you are my uncle, you can interrupt my lunch?” Gyouyoh said, stabbing a piece of cubed meat with his chopsticks.
“Heavens, sire, perish the thought.” Hao waved his hands emphatically in a gesture of dismissal, but showed no sign of actually leaving the room.
Anshi herself was not terribly ambitious—but her family was another matter. Maternal relatives they might have been, but they were almost sickeningly covetous. They had sent Anshi into the rear palace to ingratiate themselves with the former emperor, who had been solely interested in very young girls. Just as they had hoped, she became pregnant—with Gyouyoh—and a member of their family had been first empress, and now Empress Dowager.
The empress regnant—Gyouyoh’s grandmother and the former empress dowager—had been alert to that ambition. That was why, so long as she had been alive, no maternal relative of Gyouyoh’s had been appointed to any important position.
However, after the empress regnant had died and Gyouyoh had ascended to the throne, his family began to assert themselves. Anshi’s father was long dead, but her older half-brother had no qualms about throwing his weight around.
There was no one at court who could take a firm hand with them—they were the Emperor’s family, after all. And they had only grown more arrogant after the destruction of the Shi clan.
Part of the reason Gyouyoh was intent on raising up the Gyoku clan was to counterbalance Hao and his kin. It might have looked like a nasty move, but he had no choice; he had to avoid being politically dominated by his own subjects.
As for Anshi, she didn’t have very fond feelings for her half-brother. Neither did Gyouyoh, but it wasn’t good for him to show that outwardly. The slightest display of displeasure on his part could send any number of heads rolling.
“Surely you could have a more pleasant meal than this,” Hao said, eyeing Gyouyoh’s food. If there had been nothing there but congee and plain soup, Hao would certainly have suspected something was up.
“It would only mean more trouble making sure I had enough tasters,” Gyouyoh replied, forcing himself to put the bite of meat in his mouth. He raised his cup, and Gaoshun obligingly filled it with wine.
“Of course, of course. One never knows when or where an attempt upon your exalted life might come. Particularly from... Well, those western folk are such barbarians, you know. They and all who share their blood.”
It was all too obvious what Hao was trying to say. He did not like the current Crown Prince. In terms of lineage, the Crown Prince was the grandson of Hao’s younger half-sister Anshi, so Hao himself was the prince’s great-uncle. However, the Crown Prince’s mother was Gyokuyou. Hao might be a blood relation of the prince, but power would come to reside in the hands of the Gyoku clan.
That alone had to be enough to make Hao sweat. Just when he thought the empress regnant was finally out of the way and he could start wielding power, it turned out that his relative Anshi was passive—and then a clan that he despised as a bunch of western barbarians received a name before he did!
Hao had been dropping roundabout hints that he wanted a name for a long time now, but Gyouyoh had consistently ignored them.
“You may be my uncle, but I must ask you to refrain from offering your opinion on the Crown Prince or his bloodline. This is something I have already decided.”
“Of course, sire, of course. My sincere apologies. What if I were to simply suggest that to me, it appears as if the Crown Prince has only thus far assumed his position?” Hao’s eyes narrowed. It made it look as if, behind his hands, which were clasped in front of him in a gesture of supplication, he was smiling. “It was the same with Consort Lihua’s first royal child. She gave birth to a little boy, and thus a crown prince.”
“Lihua is an upper consort. Is there some sort of problem?” the Emperor asked.
“Heavens, no. I merely...can’t help thinking. What if that child were alive today?”
“That matter is finished.” Gyouyoh gave his cup a shake, watching the red liquid within it ripple but not drinking a drop.
Yes, that was over long ago. It was widely believed that his child with Ah-Duo was dead. For Hao, it would have been most convenient had that child been alive. If he could become a guardian for Ah-Duo, who had no political backer of her own, he could continue to exercise his influence into the next generation.
And, most unfortunately, that was what Gyouyoh wanted as well.
“Oh, sire, I’m sure he would have grown into a fine young man. Much like Master Zuigetsu.”
Gyouyoh only glowered silently at Hao—but then his vision was blocked.
Hao made a choked sound, his eyes almost bulging out of his head. He found a sword inches from the tip of his nose.
Who had put it there? Gaoshun. He was ordinarily so put-upon, taciturn, with a perpetual furrow in his brow—and meanwhile, people mocked him as a henpecked husband. Not to mention that thanks to Zuigetsu’s selfish whim, he’d had to spend nearly seven years pretending to be a eunuch.
You could call this man a wimp to his face and he would hardly look fazed—but now he had a sword on Hao.
“Wh-What’s the meaning of this?!” Hao demanded. His bodyguards had reacted immediately. This being the Emperor’s chamber, they were not permitted to wear swords, but they were still three imposing men.
“I would ask you the same question,” Gaoshun replied. “What made you think that you could speak the Moon Prince’s name and emerge unscathed?” His gaze was even sharper than his sword, and likewise leveled directly at Hao.