"I am honored, Chieh Hsia. Deeply honored."
Behind him his three sons looked on, tall yet somehow colorless young men. And beside them, her eyes lowered, demure in her pink and cream silks, Fei Yen herself, her outward appearance unchanged from that day when she had stood beside Han Ch'in and spoken her vows.
Li Shai Tung studied her a moment, thoughtful. She looked so frail, so fragile, yet he had seen for himself how spirited she was. It was almost as if all the strength that should have gone into Yin Tsu's sons had been stolen—spirited away-^-by her. Like the thousand-year-old fox in the Ming novel Feng-shen Yen-I that took the form of the beautiful Tan Chi and bemused and misled the last of the great Shang emperors. . . .
He sniffed. No. These were only an old man's foolish fears— dark reflections of his anxiety at how things were. Such things were not real. They were only stories.
Li Shai Tung turned, one hand extended, and looked across at his son. "Li Yuan . . . bring the presents for your future wife."
THE SHEPHERD BOY stood apart from the others, staring up at the painting that hung between the two dragon pillars on the far side of the Hall. Li Yuan had noticed him earlier— had noted his strange separateness from everything—and had remarked on it to Fei Yen.
"Why don't you go across and speak to him?" she had whispered. But he had held back. Now, however, his curiosity had got the better of him. Maybe it was the sheer intensity of the boy that drew him, or some curious feeling of fellowship; a sense that—for all his father had said of Ben's aversion to it—they were meant to be companions, like Hal and his father. T'ang and advisor. They had been bred so. And yet...
"Forgive me, General," he said, smiling at Nocenzi, "but I must speak with Hal's son. I have not met him before and he will be gone in an hour. If you'll excuse me."
The circle gathered about the General bowed low as he moved away, then resumed their conversation, an added degree of urgency marking their talk now that the Prince was no longer among them.
Li Yuan, meanwhile, made hfs way across the room and stopped, a pace behind the boy, almost at his shoulder, looking up past him at the painting.
"Ben?"
The boy turned his head and looked at him. "Li Yuan. . . ." He smiled and lowered his head the tiniest amount, more ac-
knowledgment than bow. "You are to be congratulated. Your future wife is beautiful."
Li Yuan returned the smile, feeling a slight warmth at his neck. The boy's gaze was so direct, so self-contained. It made him recall what his father had told him of the boy.
"I'm glad you could come. My father tells me you are an excellent painter."
"He does?" Again the words, like the gesture, seemed only a token; the very minimum of social response. Ben turned his head away, looking up at the painting once again, the forceful-ness of his gaze making Li Yuan lift his eyes as if to try to see what he was seeing.
It was a landscape—a shan shui study of "mountains and water"—by the Sung painter Kuo Hsi. The original of his Early Spring, painted in 1072.
"I was watching you," Li Yuan said. "From across the room. I saw how you were drawn to this."
"It's the only living painting here," Ben answered, his eyes never leaving the painting. "The rest..."
His shrug was the very symbol of dismissiveness.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, the rest of it's dead. Mere mechanical gesture. The kind of thing a machine might produce. But this is different."
Li Yuan looked back at Ben, studying him intently, fascinated by him. No one had ever spoken to him like this; as if it did not matter who he was. But it was not simply that there was no flattery in Ben's words, no concession to the fact that he, Li Yuan, was prince and heir; Ben seemed to have no conception of those "levels" other men took so much for granted. Even his father, Hal, was not like this. Li Yuan laughed, surprised; not sure whether he was pleased or otherwise.
"How? How is it different?"
"For a start it's aggressive. Look at the muscular shapes of those trees, the violent tumble of those rocks. There's nothing soft, nothing tame about it. The very forms are powerful. But it's more than that—the artist captured the essence—the very pulse of life—in all he saw." Ben laughed shortly, then turned and looked at him. "IVe seen such trees, such rocks. . . ."
"In your valley?"
Ben shook his head, his eyes holding Li Yuan's almost insolently. "No. In my dreams."
"Your dreams?"
Ben seemed about to answer, then he smiled and looked past Li Yuan. "Fei Yen____"
Li Yuan turned to welcome his betrothed.
She came and stood beside him, touching his arm briefly, tenderly. "I see you two have found each other at last."
"Found?" Ben said quietly. "I don't follow you."
Fei Yen laughed softly, the fan moving slowly in her hand. Her perfume filled the air about them. "Li Yuan was telling me how much he wanted to speak to you."
"I see____"
Li Yuan saw how Ben looked at her and felt a pang of jealousy. It was as if he saw her clearly, perfectly; those dark, intense eyes of his taking in everything at a glance.
What do you see? he wondered. You seem to see so much, Ben Shepherd. Ah, but would you tell me? Would even you be that open?
"Ben lives outside," he said after a moment. "In the Domain. It's a valley in the Western Island."
"It must be beautiful," she said, lowering her eyes. "Like Tongjiang."
"Oh it is," Ben said, his eyes very still, watching her. "It's another world. But small. Very small. You could see it all in an afternoon."
Then, changing tack, he smiled and turned his attention to Li Yuan again. "I wanted to give you something, Prince Yuan. A gift of some kind. But I didn't know quite what."
It was unexpected. Li Yuan hesitated, his mind a blank, but Fei Yen answered for him.
"Why not draw him for me?"
Ben's smile widened, as if in response to her beauty, then slowly faded from his lips. "Why" not?"
They went through to the anteroom while servants were sent to bring paper and brushes and inks, but when it arrived Ben waved the pots and brushes aside and, taking a pencil from his jacket pocket, sat at the table, pulling a piece of paper up before him.
"Where shall I sit?" Ei Yuan asked, knowing from experience how much fuss was made by artists. The light, the background— everything had to be just so. "Here, by the window? Or over here by the fcang?"
Ben glanced up at him. "There's no need. I have you. Here." He tapped his forehead, then lowered his head again, his hand moving swiftly, decisively, across the paper's surface.
Fei Yen laughed and looked at him, then, taking his hand, began to lead him away. "We'll come back," she said. "When he's finished."
But Li Yuan hesitated. "No," he said gently, so as not to offend her. "I'd like to see. It interests me. . . ."
Ben looked up again, indicating that he should come across. Again it was a strange, unexpected thing to do, for who but a T'ang would beckon a prince in that manner? And yet, for once, it seemed quite natural.
"Stand there," Ben said. "Out of my light. Yes. That's it."
He watched. Saw how the figures appeared, like ghosts out of nothingness, onto the whiteness of the paper. Slowly the paper filled. A tree, a clutch of birds, a moon. And then, to the left, a figure on a horse. An archer. He caught his breath as the face took form. It was himself. A tiny mirror-image of his face.
"Why have you drawn me like that?" he asked, when it was done. "What does it mean?"
Ben looked up. On the far side of the table Fei Yen was staring down at the paper, her lips parted in astonishment. "Yes," she said, echoing her future husband. "What does it mean?"