Page 71 of A Song to Drown Rivers
“Call upon your father first,” I told her. “It’s time.”
Most of the guests had already retired when I finally went back to the king’s side. There were men passed out on the table, heads lolling, their goblets bleeding wine. A few giggling noblewomen had snuck off into the shadows with the more charming guards and scholars, the pairs wrapped in a private embrace. Silks and streamers littered the floors; two of the hangings had slid from the walls. The music had died down too. Only a single instrumentalist remained, playing a soft, stirring tune on his guqin. As expected, Goujian was nowhere to be found.
Meanwhile, Fuchai was undoubtedly drunk, lying back on his throne with its raised view of the hall and twirling his crown around his finger like it was a toy.
“Xishi,” he slurred as I approached, his eyes focusing on me. “What took you so long?” Before I could even reply, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me onto the throne with him, reaching around my neck, his breath warm against my ear. “Doesn’t matter. Just—do not leave my side again.”
I wanted to be unmoved. But perhaps it was how he gazed at me, so unassuming and sincere and trusting; perhaps it was because I had just been with Fanli, while Fuchai watched the crowds and waited for me; or perhaps it was because I knew what was coming. A wild guilt tore through my chest, and I pressed my bodytighter to his, letting him wrap his arms fully around me. I could hear his thundering heartbeat, that familiar rhythm, always so quick to respond to my presence, my every word.
“What do you want tonight?” I asked him. “Name it, and it is yours.”
He pulled back slightly, his mouth parted in surprise. Then he laughed. “What is this? I’m usually the one to grant your wishes.”
“I know,” I said, feeling that odd, unwelcome pain again. My stomach felt cold. I imagined the scene unfolding outside the hall, beyond the dark city gates. The Yue army would have mobilized already, having taken the route down the just-built canal. I imagined thousands of feet marching, their spearpoints glinting in the moonlight. “I just want to—to repay you. Whatever you ask, I won’t say no.”
He peered down at me with interest, his eyes intensely dark. “Whatever I ask?”
A flush crept up my neck. I thought I had some idea of what he desired. Part of me was still surprised he had waited so long.
“It cannot be here,” he said, rising from the throne. I had to hold his arm to keep him steady. “Come with me.”
I went, my skin growing hotter by the second. In his room, surrounded by scarlet lanterns and gilded furniture and forest-green jade carvings, he lay down on the bed and patted the space next to him. I approached slowly, carefully, on tiptoe, shrugging loose the satin sash and my heavy outer robes. My every breath felt fraught.
He waited, patient. But when I took my place beside him, he made no movement to kiss me. Instead he curled his body around mine like a child, his chest pressed to my back. The warmth of his skin engulfed me, not in an unpleasant way; it was like sleeping next to a blazing fire. There was something so… peaceful about the gesture.
“What are you doing?” I asked, unable to hide my confusion.
“You asked me what I wanted,” he said simply, his voice muffled by my hair. “I…” He cleared his throat. When he spoke again, he sounded almost shy. “I want to hold you for a while, like this. Is that all right?”
It felt like someone had jabbed a needle through my heart. I inhaled. “Of—of course, Fuchai.”
He sighed, then began to comb my hair back with his fingers. He moved ever so slowly, his fingertips scraping against my scalp, a light brush, there and then gone. “I would give up everything for you, you realize?”
It was not the first time he had said something like this, but in the deceptive quiet after the banquet, in light of everything yet to happen, it suddenly felt ominous. I tried to hide the tension in my body. “Don’t say such dire things,” I scolded, my tone teasing.
“Fine,” he acquiesced. “Then tell me something good. A story. A memory from your childhood.”
“My childhood?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was testing me, searching for information about my background. But his tone was gentle as ever, his touch even more so. A heaviness settled in my bones. “What kind of memory?”
“Anything.”
I mulled it over. He wanted something good, but so many of my memories from our village were tinged with some shade of sadness, or fear, or worry. I could not tell him about the days when our grain stores were depleted, when we forced ourselves to go to sleep earlier just to escape the pinch of hunger in our stomachs, the rationing of a single yellow millet bun into thirds, and then fourths, and then fifths. I could not tell him about the plague that had swept through our kingdom, the terrifying and uncertain months where everyone stayed huddled in their houses and covered their faces with scraps of fabric when they went out; how a small scratching sensation in the back of the throat, a faint rash, felt like a deathsentence. I could not tell him either about the times the skin on my hands split open, from soaking in the river too long and scrubbing raw silk too hard.
But were there good things? Of course. Even when life was terrible, there was still my mother’s comfort, my father’s presence, Zhengdan’s ringing laughter, the budding peonies and the flowing river.
“We used to play a game,” I began. “My parents and I. One would be designated the role of wolf, and the other two were sheep—but you only knew your own role, and not the others. You would close your eyes, and the wolf would choose its victim, and when you opened your eyes again, you had to guess who the wolf was. You only had one chance to get it right.”
He nodded at me to go on. He was still playing with my hair. It was surprisingly pleasant, surprisingly soothing—almost too soothing. I could feel my eyelids growing heavier and heavier.
“My mother and I would often team up in secret,” I said, ignoring the pang inside me.It cannot hurt to share this much with him, I reasoned to myself. Not now. Or perhaps I wanted to give him something honest, something real; perhaps I thought he deserved that much. “It was an ongoing joke between us. No matter who the wolf was, we would always accuse my father. But of course we could tell when it really was him; he was a terrible liar, and he would always ramble when he was nervous, and rap his knuckles on the table. If he suspected that I was the wolf, though, he would try to act like he didn’t know. He didn’t want to accuse me of anything, even if I was in the wrong—” A lump formed in my throat. I pushed on. “Even if it was only a game.”
“They sound lovely,” Fuchai murmured.
“What about you?” I asked, eager to shift the focus away from me. “What games did you play as a child?”
“I don’t remember much,” he said. “Once I was declared the crown prince… I stopped playing.”
“You weren’t allowed to?”
