HOME | DD

Description
Chapter Twenty: Golden Hours

Pale pink mountains topped with gold leaf shone in the midday sun. Silent, motionless herons stood ready to spear the lake, and yet they never moved.  And they never would. They were little more than ink and wax on a papyrus scroll, and yet their lifelike appearance held Bianca captivated. It was as if it was not a painting that hung on the wall, but a moment of time, frozen forever and ensconced in the paper, and the spell might break at any moment; the birds fly away, the rushes rustle and the herons zero in on their quarry.
It had been a gift from Prince Tetsuo. In return she had given him a snow globe, containing a mini castle and flakes of Aurora crystal in place of the snow. It still felt an inadequate gift in exchange for such a masterpiece, and many hours were wasted sat before it, lost in the half-glimpsed rectangle of the Orient, dreaming of a different life. In Daichi’s absence, Bianca was sharing lessons with the Oriental princeling. His own teacher and chaperone were present in the Empress’s entourage, and her father had not objected to their sharing lessons, although they were tailored for an heir and not a mere secondary princess.
Maruyama-Sensei was a lush looking young woman, her skin a delicate shade caught between the colours of stale honey and sweet-tea, her waist-length dark hair tightly braided in rows down her back.  Bianca never felt afraid to ask about something that confused her, which was just as well, as Tetsuo’s lessons were far too advanced for her, despite his junior age. The challenge did her well and for the first time in her life she felt as if she were truly blossoming. Even the ache in her heart where Llew had once been was throbbing less and less; the bruise to her psyche seemed to be fading. In its stead was a new, delicate flutter in her stomach when her eyes met with those of the Oriental prince. She could now write competently in Oriental, the brush strokes that formed the exotic characters now as fluid and confident as those that wrote in Otarian. Not that this did her any favours, as Maruyama-Sensei was able to read any notes she and Tetsuo passed forth.
Delphia perched on the edge of the bed, brushing some of Blisane’s clumsy plaits out of her hair.
“That wall hanging of yours certainly is exquisite, Bianca. I think that Tetsuo boy has taken rather a shine to you.”
Bianca ignored her, but her cheeks answered for her by turning the colour of rose petals.
“It’s alright. I turned down all of my suitors and let me tell you, I have no intention of marrying a boy who is only just over half my age.  Not that it is our place to marry for love...but I may put a good word in with father. A match between yourself and the Orient is by no means out of the question.”
Talk of marriage already! Bianca pretended not to hear but busied herself in preparing a skin lotion by pouring water from the cistern into a pestle full of herbs.  She no longer trusted Poppaea fully, and insisted on preparing her own ointments. This hurt Poppaea, who seemed to have no recollection of the smoke that hovered above her, and at times it made Bianca’s chest twinge to see her chaperone and confidante slowly excluded like this.  Delphia crossed over the mirror and started to polish its surface lazily with a darned handkerchief. The mirror’s image of the room was perfect and innocent, down to the last stone slat in the walls. In the real world they seemed bright and friendly in the sun, and cool and protective under the moon’s ghostly pallor. Yet always in the mirror...they looked so sinister.
“Delphia, had you not better dress yourself? The council will convene in two hours, I am sure you are needed.”
“Yes,” The princess’s eyes flashed. “I am sure I will be.”

“The people of the Rill, sire. They are restless. The warlords and hereditary clan leaders are sure to lead a rebellion against our castle here in Otaria.” Delphia’s words were whispered curtly, like a blade in the air to her father’s ear. “I would never council full on war, but we must think of ourselves here, my visions-”
The room bristled at the mention of her supposed power. Delphia-or rather, Samuel wearing the face of Delphia-paused to take a breath, well aware that the words of the prophecies carried less and less weight with each passing day. Delphia swept the assembly of Lords and Nobles with an imperious glare, her head held high and defiant. Just dare to challenge me. Just try it. Finally, one of them rose to his feet, just as Delphia took a breath to fuel her next sentence.
“Yes your visions,” muttered Malak Clandawr, a Lord from the Farming Plateau. “They have not proved to be so reliable of late. How are we to know you have not lost your power? How can we trust you?”
She closed her eyes and yet the lids of her eyes still pierced him with their gaze.
“Yes, Mr. Clandawr. How indeed. It is a wonder you can even trust your own wife. How many times this year has Bryony made a cuckold of you? Six? Or is it seven? And that son of yours. I have reason to believe that he’s not really studying in Phyrgia is he?”
The man went pale, and his lips flapped against each other, soundlessly. Uselessly.
“I am right, am I not? Did he not elope to Rasmussen with a peasant girl, bringing about such great disgrace and shame to your family that you had them followed by three thugs and-”
“Delphia, enough!” The king growled in a barely tempered voice. She smiled sweetly at Malak, whose knees were knocking together, and a slimy film of sweat was congealing over his skin.
“I trust there are no more objections to my observations? Good. As I was saying, the people of the Rill must be subdued. As their capital city lies beyond the mountain pass, I can foresee a siege working. Yes, I see...I see, if we starve them out, victory shall be ours. We show no mercy, and no other nation shall dare rise against Otaria. This I promise you by my gift of prophecy. And Malak, please sit down. You look ready to faint. ”
The ministers on the benches shuffled uncomfortably. The Councillors and Lords exchanged uneasy glances beneath heavy-lidded eyes, but they knew better than to speak out. The King cleared his throat to break the silence, although he too was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of taking military action unprovoked. In lieu of his agreement, Delphia continued to argue her cause.
“I can see it as clear as I ever saw you here before me. The people of the Rill are angry; they live in a desert that rubs shoulders with our lush fields, our land of plenty. They see our grain, our fine buildings, our beautiful women, and their eyes turn green with avarice. They have alliances with the villages in the deserts and mountains, and the land beyond the forests, more men than we can ever hope to fend off. We must strike now and starve their rebellious spirits, lest we fall in thrall of them. Cut off the head, and the body shall follow it into death.”
“I can see now we may have no choice,” the King conceded. “Delphia, leave me with my generals to discuss further tactics.”
The past month had not been kind to the king. Indeed, it had taken many years but at last wrinkles, bags and sallowing skin had finally hidden all trace of the handsome man he had been in his youth, and he was all too aware of it. The robes of office had never sat so awkwardly on his shoulders; the crown on his head had never felt so heavy and oppressive. Either Delphia did not notice the sudden change in her father, or he had hidden it well. Deciding it must be the latter, he silently congratulated himself on keeping such a distressing matter private from his children. It did not look as if Rhiannon and Sophronia had long to wait before he joined them after all.

“This Zen garden was a present to Daichi, from Mitsuko.” Bianca explained, leading Tetsuo up the cobbled path. The koi pond was the garden’s most prominent feature, and its song reached their ears even before the sight of it found their eyes. To Bianca, it sang of adventures in a distant land. To Tetsuo its notes were stale and held little promise. The young boy was not homesick in the least; in truth much preferring the company of his graceful and noble aunts to that of his mother Temari. Even so he appreciated Bianca’s concern for him.
The koi-pond and miniature waterfall were surrounded by a circular marble patio, which in turn was edged with a border of oriental plants and then a knee-high jade green fence. On the outside of the fence were rows of sakura trees, from which empty paper moons, wind chimes, strings of beads and various other charms hung; their pink petals standing out like coloured flames from all the greenery. At the far end of a garden was a miniature pagoda, with violet-painted walls and a faded jade roof. Two stone dragons arched along the entry gate, and around the patio were three oriental gongs. Bianca wondered why she did not come here more often; the mere sight of it, coupled with the song of the water, seemed to turn her nerves into silk, the worries and stresses smoothed away as easily as one of Mitsuko’s maids might ease the creases from a kimono.
“I don’t suppose it can hold a candle to the gardens back in the East, can it?” She laughed nervously, as they approached the gate. One inside they found Miyako and two of her maids taking tea, sat on cushions beside a miniature pagoda. One maid was pouring a small amount of sweet, herbal tea into one of the earthenware saucers. It had a deep cerulean glaze, and dim green lights seemed to dart around inside of it, and Bianca couldn’t help admire it.
“Tetsuo, Princess Bianca.” She acknowledged them. Tetsuo bowed deeply, and Bianca curtseyed, aware Miyako was smiling at her. “It is a beautiful piece of handicraft, isn’t it? Emperor Ichigo had them imported from Yamahagi especially for me. Will you not join us?”
She instructed the other maid to fetch cushions and mats from inside the pagoda, and two take another two saucers. Bianca sat cross-legged, finding the kneeling position to be very uncomfortable. Tetsuo took respectfully shallow sips of the drink, whereas Bianca swallowed hers in two almighty gulps. The water was tepid, and not warm, but the flavour was delicate. It had been sweetened with honey and cinnamon, and brewed using a more aromatic type of leaf. The Otarian take on tea, the imported powdered stuff, tasted like bitter mud in comparison. She hiccupped, once then twice, provoking giggles from the maid, and a barely concealed smile from Miyako and Tetsuo.
“I do wish Amaranthos would build a tea-room on the disused lawn beside this garden,” Miyako chimed in, “How lovely it would be, a small pavilion.”
Bianca nodded her agreement. The chimes hanging from the Sakura trees chased the breeze through with their sound, and sent a handful of pink petals to the ground. Bianca stretched out her legs, fearing they would lock into position if she stayed sat down much longer.
“You really should see the garden by night. By the light of the lanterns, and when the servants hand paper moons from the trees. When it was first opened Amaranthos released some fireflies into the garden, but I guess the birds must have eaten them all.”
“Is that so? I must say I have no doubt it must be beautiful.”
“Yes, it is...Miyako? I have just thought, is it wise of you to have left Mitsuko alone?”
The lady visibly bristled. The saucer shook in her hands.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I heard she had caught a fever, and that was why she had not been seen these past few days. I can send Poppaea to care for her, she is a very competent nurse as well as-”
“I appreciate the thought, but really that won’t be necessary. We have our own skilled healers and physicians with us in our entourage, and they are tending to her as best she can hope to be tended. But perhaps you are right. I shall return to her bedside.”
Wordlessly the maids gathered up the cushions and utensils, but waited for Miyako to rise and leave before walking wordlessly in her wake, like tiny junks in the wake of a galleon.

* * *
If Empress Mitsuko had not been aware of the dangers she was facing when she left the castle, she was certainly aware of them now. How on earth was she supposed to slip back in to the place as easily and unnoticeably as she had spirited herself out? She prayed her story of falling ill with a fever had held fast, and that her loyal maids had continued to bring food and drink to the guest rooms in her absence, and had ensured no one was able to see her.
The robes and veils of a Northern widow were not comfortable travelling attire. The black netting obscured her vision at the best of the times, and the blustery wing kept pressing it into her face, and whirled the sleeves and bodices around her in a way that hampered her movement. The bonnet that the veils clung too was large and unwieldy, yet she could not remove it for the risk of anyone seeing her face.  As she walked along the path that led away from the forest, she experienced the grimmest weather Otaria had to offer her.
The grey iron sky was bleak, the wind was chill, cutting through rather than passing round her, and the distant memory of hunger was slowly awakening in her stomach, digging its claws in. She had always had a healthy respect for the peasant classes, and this journey only served to fortify that. If they could make longer journeys in less clement conditions, day in and day out, then surely she could survive this one. She felt the dispirited clunk of the coin purse strapped to her right thigh. It was nearly half empty, and she felt certain there was not enough left to pay for both food and shelter for all the remaining days of the journey- On foot, it would be two days before she reached the farming plateau, and another day and half on top of that before she reached the castle. At any rate, she did not trust her disappearance would go unnoticed for that long; indeed, she was very lucky indeed if those in the castle were still unaware she was gone.  All along the roadside, austere wooden buildings alleviated the monotone of the flat, viridian countryside. Not quite villages, they formed small roadside communities, the most prominent building usually being the Inn. Had she been any other Empress, Mitsuko was well aware she would not survive the journey. But she had not been born for the throne, she was born to The Ka family, and the formative years of her life had been spent in the wilds of that island.
She came across a cairn of stones piled neatly in the roadsides, a shrine to the Otarian Lady, goddess of the lands. Unlike the Golden East, those in Otaria were rarely steadfast in their faith, and the rocks of the shrine bore only the most perfunctory offerings-strings of flowers, odd cupper coins, thick tallow candles and small wax carvings of the goddess’ likeness. She kneeled before it and muttered a prayer in her native Oriental, regretting she had nothing to leave. A sudden rustle from behind the stones made her lift her head, warily.
“Dangerous, ain’t it, for little old ladies to travel alone?”
A rough, squat man in heavily soiled travelling gear appeared in front of her. His face was grubby and unshaven, his teeth where clean but have a matt of food smeared over them, his sensual lips were thick and rubbery.
“To be sure, I have no idea what you mean.” She struggled to keep both the Eastern twang and the rising panic from her voice. She soon found she couldn’t do both, and despised herself for sounding so feeble.
“Them’s some mighty fine feathers you got, y’auld biddy.” A second voice chipped in behind her, as sharp and clipped as the dagger its owner wielded.  “They must a’ cost y’ a fair fortune. How much of it is still about your person?”
“Just because I am a widow, why does everyone assume I am old?”
She had not been stupid enough to make this journey unarmed; but neither had she ever had cause to test her lessons in self-defence. She pulled the dagger from her robes and hoped the spur of the moment would carry her through. She lunged towards the first bandit, but the black taffeta caught around her calves and forced her to stumble, and she couldn’t keep the dratted veil out of her eyes.  She flailed her arm desperately, the blade cutting nothing but air. She pulled herself around just in time for the man behind her to lock his arms around her throat and waist. She had never felt so graceless in all her life. With a cruel, sharp movement he jerked her arm out to shake the weapon from her hand. He whispered gruffly in her ear.
“Just for that little stunt, we’ll gouge your eyes out, yeah. Nice and slow, nice and slow...”
She scrunched her eyes shut, trying to judge whether or not a final lash with her feet was wise. She was an empress; she would not die like this! She would not.
A horse whinnied, and the man baring down on her grunted and ran. The other bandit holding her pushed her to the ground and slipped after his partner. Looking up through the gauze of the veils, she saw a county wagon, and a man dismounting. He helped her up.
“It’s a dangerous road for women to travel along. Especially alone. What were you thinking?”
Mitsuko grimaced as she forced herself to stand unaided. She must have bruised her leg when the bandit pushed her over, and pain etched itself across the core of her bones.
“Important news, I must get to Otaria,” she made herself say, eliminating as much of her accent as possible. The man put his arms around her to steady her, and felt how young and supple she was beneath the robes and garb.
“You cannot be old for a widow, lady. How old are you?”
“Oh, I am pushing my fortieth year!” she lied, “Please, will you take me to Otaria?”
“Oh. No. I am a local Justice of the Peace; my duty binds me to this village. But my brother is a wine merchant. If he has a shipment to deliver to the caslte, and he often does, then I shall see to it that you accompany him.”
“That’s most kind of you.”
Mitsuko wheezed, a scream pared down to a mutter through gritted teeth. All the gods on heaven and earth, damn this leg! How would she explain this to Amaranthos? And her bruises? Her sword-arm still hung limply by her side, radiating the twinge of bones forced to grind the wrong way against each other.  Without asking her another word, he helped her into the front seat of the wagon, and she sat beside him with all the elegance and refinement she could muster.
“Would you not remove your veil, lady? It cannot be comfortable for you.”
“I am from Rasmussen,” she replied, thinking fast on her feet and praying he was as unfamiliar with the country’s customs as she was herself. “My husband Olaf passed away not three weeks ago, and during the mourning period I must hide my face, as I am obliged to conceal my grief.”
“I understand. Would you please favour with your name? I am Justice Ulriah Daniels, of the Village of Tremore.”
“Freya Karensdatter. Thank you for coming to my aid.”
Ulriah nodded, and pulled on the horse’s reigns to let it know it had to keep moving. Let’s just hope, Mitsuko prayed to herself, that this man’s brother leaves for Otaria before the day is out, before removing this veil becomes and absolute necessity. She wondered how much longer she could keep the Orient out of her voice for, but more importantly what Ulriah would do to her if he found out she had lied. Perhaps it was better not to think on it. Overhead, the sun was still high in the sky, although its watery light did little to warm the lush scenery as the wagon ambled through. Mitsuko felt as if she was travelling through an ink-washed painting, the mottled greens and emerald hues around her did not seem real, or even appear to be solid. What a world away from the women in the rice paddies where the thickset Otarian men, reaping wheat and barley with their scythes. She shivered, pretending to still be shaken from the attack. Ulriah seemed to understand her need for silence, and kept his eyes fixed squarely on the road ahead.

Description
Chapter Twenty: Golden Hours

Pale pink mountains topped with gold leaf shone in the midday sun. Silent, motionless herons stood ready to spear the lake, and yet they never moved.  And they never would. They were little more than ink and wax on a papyrus scroll, and yet their lifelike appearance held Bianca captivated. It was as if it was not a painting that hung on the wall, but a moment of time, frozen forever and ensconced in the paper, and the spell might break at any moment; the birds fly away, the rushes rustle and the herons zero in on their quarry.
It had been a gift from Prince Tetsuo. In return she had given him a snow globe, containing a mini castle and flakes of Aurora crystal in place of the snow. It still felt an inadequate gift in exchange for such a masterpiece, and many hours were wasted sat before it, lost in the half-glimpsed rectangle of the Orient, dreaming of a different life. In Daichi’s absence, Bianca was sharing lessons with the Oriental princeling. His own teacher and chaperone were present in the Empress’s entourage, and her father had not objected to their sharing lessons, although they were tailored for an heir and not a mere secondary princess.
Maruyama-Sensei was a lush looking young woman, her skin a delicate shade caught between the colours of stale honey and sweet-tea, her waist-length dark hair tightly braided in rows down her back.  Bianca never felt afraid to ask about something that confused her, which was just as well, as Tetsuo’s lessons were far too advanced for her, despite his junior age. The challenge did her well and for the first time in her life she felt as if she were truly blossoming. Even the ache in her heart where Llew had once been was throbbing less and less; the bruise to her psyche seemed to be fading. In its stead was a new, delicate flutter in her stomach when her eyes met with those of the Oriental prince. She could now write competently in Oriental, the brush strokes that formed the exotic characters now as fluid and confident as those that wrote in Otarian. Not that this did her any favours, as Maruyama-Sensei was able to read any notes she and Tetsuo passed forth.
Delphia perched on the edge of the bed, brushing some of Blisane’s clumsy plaits out of her hair.
“That wall hanging of yours certainly is exquisite, Bianca. I think that Tetsuo boy has taken rather a shine to you.”
Bianca ignored her, but her cheeks answered for her by turning the colour of rose petals.
“It’s alright. I turned down all of my suitors and let me tell you, I have no intention of marrying a boy who is only just over half my age.  Not that it is our place to marry for love...but I may put a good word in with father. A match between yourself and the Orient is by no means out of the question.”
Talk of marriage already! Bianca pretended not to hear but busied herself in preparing a skin lotion by pouring water from the cistern into a pestle full of herbs.  She no longer trusted Poppaea fully, and insisted on preparing her own ointments. This hurt Poppaea, who seemed to have no recollection of the smoke that hovered above her, and at times it made Bianca’s chest twinge to see her chaperone and confidante slowly excluded like this.  Delphia crossed over the mirror and started to polish its surface lazily with a darned handkerchief. The mirror’s image of the room was perfect and innocent, down to the last stone slat in the walls. In the real world they seemed bright and friendly in the sun, and cool and protective under the moon’s ghostly pallor. Yet always in the mirror...they looked so sinister.
“Delphia, had you not better dress yourself? The council will convene in two hours, I am sure you are needed.”
“Yes,” The princess’s eyes flashed. “I am sure I will be.”

“The people of the Rill, sire. They are restless. The warlords and hereditary clan leaders are sure to lead a rebellion against our castle here in Otaria.” Delphia’s words were whispered curtly, like a blade in the air to her father’s ear. “I would never council full on war, but we must think of ourselves here, my visions-”
The room bristled at the mention of her supposed power. Delphia-or rather, Samuel wearing the face of Delphia-paused to take a breath, well aware that the words of the prophecies carried less and less weight with each passing day. Delphia swept the assembly of Lords and Nobles with an imperious glare, her head held high and defiant. Just dare to challenge me. Just try it. Finally, one of them rose to his feet, just as Delphia took a breath to fuel her next sentence.
“Yes your visions,” muttered Malak Clandawr, a Lord from the Farming Plateau. “They have not proved to be so reliable of late. How are we to know you have not lost your power? How can we trust you?”
She closed her eyes and yet the lids of her eyes still pierced him with their gaze.
“Yes, Mr. Clandawr. How indeed. It is a wonder you can even trust your own wife. How many times this year has Bryony made a cuckold of you? Six? Or is it seven? And that son of yours. I have reason to believe that he’s not really studying in Phyrgia is he?”
The man went pale, and his lips flapped against each other, soundlessly. Uselessly.
“I am right, am I not? Did he not elope to Rasmussen with a peasant girl, bringing about such great disgrace and shame to your family that you had them followed by three thugs and-”
“Delphia, enough!” The king growled in a barely tempered voice. She smiled sweetly at Malak, whose knees were knocking together, and a slimy film of sweat was congealing over his skin.
“I trust there are no more objections to my observations? Good. As I was saying, the people of the Rill must be subdued. As their capital city lies beyond the mountain pass, I can foresee a siege working. Yes, I see...I see, if we starve them out, victory shall be ours. We show no mercy, and no other nation shall dare rise against Otaria. This I promise you by my gift of prophecy. And Malak, please sit down. You look ready to faint. ”
The ministers on the benches shuffled uncomfortably. The Councillors and Lords exchanged uneasy glances beneath heavy-lidded eyes, but they knew better than to speak out. The King cleared his throat to break the silence, although he too was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of taking military action unprovoked. In lieu of his agreement, Delphia continued to argue her cause.
“I can see it as clear as I ever saw you here before me. The people of the Rill are angry; they live in a desert that rubs shoulders with our lush fields, our land of plenty. They see our grain, our fine buildings, our beautiful women, and their eyes turn green with avarice. They have alliances with the villages in the deserts and mountains, and the land beyond the forests, more men than we can ever hope to fend off. We must strike now and starve their rebellious spirits, lest we fall in thrall of them. Cut off the head, and the body shall follow it into death.”
“I can see now we may have no choice,” the King conceded. “Delphia, leave me with my generals to discuss further tactics.”
The past month had not been kind to the king. Indeed, it had taken many years but at last wrinkles, bags and sallowing skin had finally hidden all trace of the handsome man he had been in his youth, and he was all too aware of it. The robes of office had never sat so awkwardly on his shoulders; the crown on his head had never felt so heavy and oppressive. Either Delphia did not notice the sudden change in her father, or he had hidden it well. Deciding it must be the latter, he silently congratulated himself on keeping such a distressing matter private from his children. It did not look as if Rhiannon and Sophronia had long to wait before he joined them after all.

“This Zen garden was a present to Daichi, from Mitsuko.” Bianca explained, leading Tetsuo up the cobbled path. The koi pond was the garden’s most prominent feature, and its song reached their ears even before the sight of it found their eyes. To Bianca, it sang of adventures in a distant land. To Tetsuo its notes were stale and held little promise. The young boy was not homesick in the least; in truth much preferring the company of his graceful and noble aunts to that of his mother Temari. Even so he appreciated Bianca’s concern for him.
The koi-pond and miniature waterfall were surrounded by a circular marble patio, which in turn was edged with a border of oriental plants and then a knee-high jade green fence. On the outside of the fence were rows of sakura trees, from which empty paper moons, wind chimes, strings of beads and various other charms hung; their pink petals standing out like coloured flames from all the greenery. At the far end of a garden was a miniature pagoda, with violet-painted walls and a faded jade roof. Two stone dragons arched along the entry gate, and around the patio were three oriental gongs. Bianca wondered why she did not come here more often; the mere sight of it, coupled with the song of the water, seemed to turn her nerves into silk, the worries and stresses smoothed away as easily as one of Mitsuko’s maids might ease the creases from a kimono.
“I don’t suppose it can hold a candle to the gardens back in the East, can it?” She laughed nervously, as they approached the gate. One inside they found Miyako and two of her maids taking tea, sat on cushions beside a miniature pagoda. One maid was pouring a small amount of sweet, herbal tea into one of the earthenware saucers. It had a deep cerulean glaze, and dim green lights seemed to dart around inside of it, and Bianca couldn’t help admire it.
“Tetsuo, Princess Bianca.” She acknowledged them. Tetsuo bowed deeply, and Bianca curtseyed, aware Miyako was smiling at her. “It is a beautiful piece of handicraft, isn’t it? Emperor Ichigo had them imported from Yamahagi especially for me. Will you not join us?”
She instructed the other maid to fetch cushions and mats from inside the pagoda, and two take another two saucers. Bianca sat cross-legged, finding the kneeling position to be very uncomfortable. Tetsuo took respectfully shallow sips of the drink, whereas Bianca swallowed hers in two almighty gulps. The water was tepid, and not warm, but the flavour was delicate. It had been sweetened with honey and cinnamon, and brewed using a more aromatic type of leaf. The Otarian take on tea, the imported powdered stuff, tasted like bitter mud in comparison. She hiccupped, once then twice, provoking giggles from the maid, and a barely concealed smile from Miyako and Tetsuo.
“I do wish Amaranthos would build a tea-room on the disused lawn beside this garden,” Miyako chimed in, “How lovely it would be, a small pavilion.”
Bianca nodded her agreement. The chimes hanging from the Sakura trees chased the breeze through with their sound, and sent a handful of pink petals to the ground. Bianca stretched out her legs, fearing they would lock into position if she stayed sat down much longer.
“You really should see the garden by night. By the light of the lanterns, and when the servants hand paper moons from the trees. When it was first opened Amaranthos released some fireflies into the garden, but I guess the birds must have eaten them all.”
“Is that so? I must say I have no doubt it must be beautiful.”
“Yes, it is...Miyako? I have just thought, is it wise of you to have left Mitsuko alone?”
The lady visibly bristled. The saucer shook in her hands.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I heard she had caught a fever, and that was why she had not been seen these past few days. I can send Poppaea to care for her, she is a very competent nurse as well as-”
“I appreciate the thought, but really that won’t be necessary. We have our own skilled healers and physicians with us in our entourage, and they are tending to her as best she can hope to be tended. But perhaps you are right. I shall return to her bedside.”
Wordlessly the maids gathered up the cushions and utensils, but waited for Miyako to rise and leave before walking wordlessly in her wake, like tiny junks in the wake of a galleon.

* * *
If Empress Mitsuko had not been aware of the dangers she was facing when she left the castle, she was certainly aware of them now. How on earth was she supposed to slip back in to the place as easily and unnoticeably as she had spirited herself out? She prayed her story of falling ill with a fever had held fast, and that her loyal maids had continued to bring food and drink to the guest rooms in her absence, and had ensured no one was able to see her.
The robes and veils of a Northern widow were not comfortable travelling attire. The black netting obscured her vision at the best of the times, and the blustery wing kept pressing it into her face, and whirled the sleeves and bodices around her in a way that hampered her movement. The bonnet that the veils clung too was large and unwieldy, yet she could not remove it for the risk of anyone seeing her face.  As she walked along the path that led away from the forest, she experienced the grimmest weather Otaria had to offer her.
The grey iron sky was bleak, the wind was chill, cutting through rather than passing round her, and the distant memory of hunger was slowly awakening in her stomach, digging its claws in. She had always had a healthy respect for the peasant classes, and this journey only served to fortify that. If they could make longer journeys in less clement conditions, day in and day out, then surely she could survive this one. She felt the dispirited clunk of the coin purse strapped to her right thigh. It was nearly half empty, and she felt certain there was not enough left to pay for both food and shelter for all the remaining days of the journey- On foot, it would be two days before she reached the farming plateau, and another day and half on top of that before she reached the castle. At any rate, she did not trust her disappearance would go unnoticed for that long; indeed, she was very lucky indeed if those in the castle were still unaware she was gone.  All along the roadside, austere wooden buildings alleviated the monotone of the flat, viridian countryside. Not quite villages, they formed small roadside communities, the most prominent building usually being the Inn. Had she been any other Empress, Mitsuko was well aware she would not survive the journey. But she had not been born for the throne, she was born to The Ka family, and the formative years of her life had been spent in the wilds of that island.
She came across a cairn of stones piled neatly in the roadsides, a shrine to the Otarian Lady, goddess of the lands. Unlike the Golden East, those in Otaria were rarely steadfast in their faith, and the rocks of the shrine bore only the most perfunctory offerings-strings of flowers, odd cupper coins, thick tallow candles and small wax carvings of the goddess’ likeness. She kneeled before it and muttered a prayer in her native Oriental, regretting she had nothing to leave. A sudden rustle from behind the stones made her lift her head, warily.
“Dangerous, ain’t it, for little old ladies to travel alone?”
A rough, squat man in heavily soiled travelling gear appeared in front of her. His face was grubby and unshaven, his teeth where clean but have a matt of food smeared over them, his sensual lips were thick and rubbery.
“To be sure, I have no idea what you mean.” She struggled to keep both the Eastern twang and the rising panic from her voice. She soon found she couldn’t do both, and despised herself for sounding so feeble.
“Them’s some mighty fine feathers you got, y’auld biddy.” A second voice chipped in behind her, as sharp and clipped as the dagger its owner wielded.  “They must a’ cost y’ a fair fortune. How much of it is still about your person?”
“Just because I am a widow, why does everyone assume I am old?”
She had not been stupid enough to make this journey unarmed; but neither had she ever had cause to test her lessons in self-defence. She pulled the dagger from her robes and hoped the spur of the moment would carry her through. She lunged towards the first bandit, but the black taffeta caught around her calves and forced her to stumble, and she couldn’t keep the dratted veil out of her eyes.  She flailed her arm desperately, the blade cutting nothing but air. She pulled herself around just in time for the man behind her to lock his arms around her throat and waist. She had never felt so graceless in all her life. With a cruel, sharp movement he jerked her arm out to shake the weapon from her hand. He whispered gruffly in her ear.
“Just for that little stunt, we’ll gouge your eyes out, yeah. Nice and slow, nice and slow...”
She scrunched her eyes shut, trying to judge whether or not a final lash with her feet was wise. She was an empress; she would not die like this! She would not.
A horse whinnied, and the man baring down on her grunted and ran. The other bandit holding her pushed her to the ground and slipped after his partner. Looking up through the gauze of the veils, she saw a county wagon, and a man dismounting. He helped her up.
“It’s a dangerous road for women to travel along. Especially alone. What were you thinking?”
Mitsuko grimaced as she forced herself to stand unaided. She must have bruised her leg when the bandit pushed her over, and pain etched itself across the core of her bones.
“Important news, I must get to Otaria,” she made herself say, eliminating as much of her accent as possible. The man put his arms around her to steady her, and felt how young and supple she was beneath the robes and garb.
“You cannot be old for a widow, lady. How old are you?”
“Oh, I am pushing my fortieth year!” she lied, “Please, will you take me to Otaria?”
“Oh. No. I am a local Justice of the Peace; my duty binds me to this village. But my brother is a wine merchant. If he has a shipment to deliver to the caslte, and he often does, then I shall see to it that you accompany him.”
“That’s most kind of you.”
Mitsuko wheezed, a scream pared down to a mutter through gritted teeth. All the gods on heaven and earth, damn this leg! How would she explain this to Amaranthos? And her bruises? Her sword-arm still hung limply by her side, radiating the twinge of bones forced to grind the wrong way against each other.  Without asking her another word, he helped her into the front seat of the wagon, and she sat beside him with all the elegance and refinement she could muster.
“Would you not remove your veil, lady? It cannot be comfortable for you.”
“I am from Rasmussen,” she replied, thinking fast on her feet and praying he was as unfamiliar with the country’s customs as she was herself. “My husband Olaf passed away not three weeks ago, and during the mourning period I must hide my face, as I am obliged to conceal my grief.”
“I understand. Would you please favour with your name? I am Justice Ulriah Daniels, of the Village of Tremore.”
“Freya Karensdatter. Thank you for coming to my aid.”
Ulriah nodded, and pulled on the horse’s reigns to let it know it had to keep moving. Let’s just hope, Mitsuko prayed to herself, that this man’s brother leaves for Otaria before the day is out, before removing this veil becomes and absolute necessity. She wondered how much longer she could keep the Orient out of her voice for, but more importantly what Ulriah would do to her if he found out she had lied. Perhaps it was better not to think on it. Overhead, the sun was still high in the sky, although its watery light did little to warm the lush scenery as the wagon ambled through. Mitsuko felt as if she was travelling through an ink-washed painting, the mottled greens and emerald hues around her did not seem real, or even appear to be solid. What a world away from the women in the rice paddies where the thickset Otarian men, reaping wheat and barley with their scythes. She shivered, pretending to still be shaken from the attack. Ulriah seemed to understand her need for silence, and kept his eyes fixed squarely on the road ahead.