Heaven was on the move. Mhara stood in front of the throne, watching as hundreds of people massed outside the Imperial Palace. These were the folk who had agreed to travel to Earth, there to take up roles in Singapore Three, to begin with, to see how they might best assist that city's benighted populace.
He'd left it up to them in the end, no exhortations, no enforced control. And this was what they'd chosen, restoring their Emperor's tattered faith, at least to some degree.
But there was another school of thought. Mhara could sense it, running through the Palace like a thin black wind. Discontent, dismay, a wind that could easily be fanned into flames and burning. He knew who was holding the fan, too. If he closed his eyes, he gained a small, incomplete vision of his mother, standing on the back steps of the Palace, whispering. During his time on Earth, she had managed to close him off to a considerable degree and he shivered to think of what kind of price she had paid to withstand Imperial magic.
Oh, my mother, what have you become? But he already knew the answer to that; it had lain in the whistle of a poisoned pin and the beheading flash of a sword. Mhara's lips tightened. Chen had insisted—with utmost politeness—that the Emperor return to Heaven, that he and Zhu Irzh would handle things from then on. There was too much at stake for Mhara to enter into purely personal engagements, Chen had said, and with reluctance Mhara had agreed.
So he was back here, after the second assassination attempt, to find his mother still plotting. She must be furious, to learn that Seijin had once more failed. Furious, and also desperate, for she must know, too, that her son would now be forced to take steps.
House arrest at the very least, but Mhara did not want to disrupt things still further on the verge of the Celestial exodus to Earth. See them safely off, and then act. With that in mind, he'd better get on with it. The presence of the Dowager Empress was like a poisoned thorn, reaching the very heart of the Palace.
Motioning to the courtiers, Mhara walked down the long hall, so quickly that the courtiers were obliged to scurry in order to keep up. The courtyard of the Imperial Palace was an ocean of upturned faces and Mhara experienced more than a twinge of doubt. He had no wish to be Heaven's Mao, sending them off on their Long March to Earth . . . Their faith in him, so hard won at first, had kindled to a blaze—and what if he simply let them down? So many longed for angels; he had spoken about it with Kuan Yin, she of Compassion and Mercy, not so long ago.
"They all cry out," the goddess had said. "They all read books about angelic powers—their own culture, other people's. They haunt the churches and temples, hoping for revelation. They see it on the television."
"And what would happen if you gave them angels?" Mhara had asked, unease rat-gnawing within.
"They'd be horrified," the goddess said. This, in essence, was what he was doing now, and would they be grateful? Probably not, but he had to try.
He raised his voice to address them and the murmurs immediately stilled. They were rapt, waiting.
"You are about to begin your journey," the Emperor said. Don't call it a march, too many memories, even all the way up here. In Heaven's terms, all that was a moment ago. "Be warned! Earth may not welcome you. There are those who want things made worse, not better, so that they can scavenge on the remnants. Remember what you know already: the human world is filled with predators. But you have to try. Do your best and if you ask, if you have need, then Heaven will take you back and there will be no blame." He held up a hand. "You have my blessing." And it rolled out from his outspread fingers, a blue wave, sparkling through the air, settling over their heads.
A horn sounded. Kylin danced at the head of the procession, the crowd now forming into a neater queue. The manes of the kylin were golden; their protruding eyes gleamed with a ferocious wisdom. They grinned, displaying gilded teeth. Mhara had forbidden them from entering Earth itself, mindful of recent deific incursions: the mad goddess Senditreya's rampage through the city, in her oxen-drawn chariot, was still unpleasantly fresh in human minds. But they would see the Celestials safely through Heaven and across the Sea of Night. Difficult to say when they would arrive: these things took their own time and not even the Emperor could rearrange temporal space, not for so large a gathering. They would get there when they were meant to.
The horn sounded again and the kylin wheeled, herding stray Celestials into line. Mhara watched, hand still upraised, as they set off, a joyful procession, singing, playing flutes, and banging drums. He hoped they'd still be happy in a week or so's time. And it would mean more work for Robin: he envisaged a stream of dislocated Celestial personnel showing up at the temple door, all needing urgent advice about dealing with the human realm. Robin would cope, she always did. But that still didn't mean it was fair.
He watched until, some time later, the last members of the procession threaded their way through the groves of flowering trees and out of direct sight, and the final capering notes of the flutes faded into birdsong. Enough, they were gone, and he would watch over them all the way as far as he could. But now, it was time to deal with the Dowager Empress.
He did not find his mother immediately. He went methodically through the Palace, searching room by room, always half-expecting the strike of a pin between his shoulder blades. He couldn't sense Seijin but that hadn't stopped the assassin last time, had it? He thought of Inari and regret made him shiver. Standing in the middle of an ornate room, one of the guest banqueting halls for visiting dignitaries, causing the silken drapes to billow from the walls, checking for someone hiding. Finally he reached the last chamber of all and she was not there. She had not been on the back steps of the Palace for some time.
Enough and enough. Mhara stood still once more, and summoned her.
The Dowager Empress arrived with a shriek. It was, her son thought, the only time he'd seen her anything approaching disheveled. Her robes still streamed behind her, as if caught in a stormwind, and her hair was coming down. She tried to glare at her son, but the decades of habit held her face in its masklike expression.
"How dare you." Her voice was low and cold.
Mhara said, equally icy, "On the contrary, madam. Since you've been trying to have me killed, I think I've demonstrated admirable restraint."
The Dowager Empress grew very still. "Killed?" she echoed.
"You're a terrible liar, Mother." Mhara circled her, wolflike, and the Dowager Empress tried to turn with him, but was hampered by her skirts. "The Lord Lady Seijin. The assassin. Tried twice and failed twice; I imagine there'll be a third attempt soon. You won't be there to see it."
The Dowager Empress' countenance grew even paler, becoming glassy and translucent. Maybe she'd simply disappear, Mhara thought: that would be helpful.
"Are you threatening me?" the Dowager Empress whispered.
"With what? Death? Treason, a trial? Oh no. I'm going to do far worse than that. I'm going to issue you with a home all of your own. Comfort, luxury, all you could ever need. What son could do more for a mother?" Distantly, Mhara wondered where he'd dredged up this aspect of cruelty: probably no need to work out where he'd got it from, given who was standing in front of him. Now the eyes of the Dowager Empress were distinctly fearful as well as angry, but Mhara meant what he'd said. He'd even had the place made ready, arranged before the Celestials were dispatched to Earth.
"Try not to see it as house arrest—more as a holiday. I'm sure that, given time to reflect on matters, you'll reach a more balanced perspective. Healing. Inner peace."
The Dowager Empress looked as though he had offered her a bowlful of scorpions. "I—" she began, but Mhara hissed, "Enough." Blue light surrounded the Dowager Empress, darkening to indigo, muffling her sudden scream. The light lapped around her feet like water, pooling, rippling, then rising to first one wave crest, then another. There was a strong wind blowing, out of nowhere. Mhara looked up and saw stars all around, reflected in the depths, an untethered moon sailed by, its sharp crescent cutting through the waves. Beneath his feet, the bare boards were encrusted with something white and grainy: if this had been an ocean of Earth, it might have been salt. The ship rocked and plunged, causing the Dowager Empress to stagger, and grip the nearest mast.
"Where are we?"
"Why, Mother, I thought you'd know. You can see it from the Palace windows, after all. This is the Sea of Night." Mhara pointed to a bright and distant line. "Look—you can even see Heaven from here. You won't be able to sail to it, unfortunately. In fact, you won't be able to sail anywhere, as this boat is anchored. Permanently." He pointed to the chain, gleaming blue, which ran over the deck and down into the sea.
The Dowager Empress gave him a look that was filled with hate.
"Nor will you be able to leave; the boat's warded. I'm sure you'll get used to a gentle retirement. There's a state room, it's all very elegant. And now, I really have to leave. I'll visit you, from time to time. When things quiet down."
He wondered, as he left, where his mother had picked up some of the curses she was currently employing. Certainly not from the parlors of Heaven. He looked back, once, and saw her standing there on the rearing ship, tiny against the vast expanse of the Sea of Night. Her face was upturned, and she had made some progress, at least, for the mask was finally gone: her expression was one of pure rage.
"Goodbye, Mother," Mhara murmured, as Heaven's shore grew closer and the darkness fell behind.