He pushed back from the edge, a feeling of hollowness, a tiredness that went beyond mere physical exhaustion, making him feel giddy for a moment. There had been a breach. Whereas, before, he had looked at this with casual, accepting eyes, now he saw it clear.
It was the same, and yet it was wholly, utterly different.
Like himself. Oh, he knew how he looked. He had stood there for a long time, earlier that afternoon, staring at himself in the full-length mirror. He was gaunter than he'd been back then, and there was a haunted, slightly melancholy look about him that had not been there before, yet otherwise he seemed the man he'd been. But he was not that man.
From the beginning they had kept him—as they'd kept all the Sons—in isolation. At first he had not been frightened, but had nursed his anger in silence, expecting his release at any moment. Yet as the days wore on, he had found his mood changing as no word came.
For several days he had bellowed at his guards and refused the food jhey brought. Then, changing his tack, he had adopted a more civil air, demanding firmly but politely to see whoever was in charge. Unexpectedly, his request had been granted.
He could still remember how it had felt, kneeling before the man in that tiny, awful cell. Even thinking of it made him feel cold, apprehensive. Before that moment he had never felt fear, never had to bow his head before another man. But now he knew. And that knowledge had changed him. Had made him a different man. Now, when he looked at things, he saw not a world that was his to make and shape, but a world in thrall to power and desire, a world corrupted by the dark currents of domination and submission.
In the light of which, his father's anger, earlier, at Wu Shih's treatment of him had seemed childish, almost laughable. What, after all, had he expected? Gratitude? Respect? No. For the relations of men were flawed—deeply flawed—as if they could not exist without the brutal mechanisms of power.
And now this. This celebration of his homecoming . . .
He shuddered, then turned, making his way down, knowing he had no choice; that this evening had to be faced and overcome, if only for his father's sake. Even so, he did not feel like celebrating.
I have been on my own too long, he thought, feeling a faint uneasiness as the murmur of the crowd below grew louder. I'll have to learn all this again.
At the turn of the stairs, he paused, trying out a brief, apologetic smile, conscious of how awkward it felt, of the way the skin stretched tightly across his face. Then, reluctantly, like a prisoner being taken to the place of punishment, he moved on, down, into the body of the hall.
CHARLES LEVER stared at his son, a broad grin splitting his face, then drew him close, holding him in a bear hug for the dozenth time that evening.
All about them, pressed close on every side, the pack of friends and relations laughed delightedly and raised their glasses to toast the two men, their joy unbounded.
"Have you told him yet, Charles?" one of them called out.
"Not yet," Lever called back, holding his son's head between his hands and staring once more, as if he could not have enough of the sight.
"What's this?" Michael asked quietly.
"Later," the old man answered. "There's plenty of time."
Much had changed, but he knew that tone in his father's voice. It was the tone he used when he wanted to avoid something awkward. Michael pressed him, softly but insistent. "Tell me. I'd like to know."
Lever laughed. "Okay. I wanted to keep it a while, but I guess now's as good a time as any." His smile broadened again. "I've asked Ted Johnstone about Louisa. He's given his consent to bring things forward. I thought we could announce it tonight—make it a double celebration."
Michael felt himself go cold. Louisa Johnstone... He looked down, licking his lips, then looked back at his father. "No," he said softly, almost inaudibly.
"What did you say?" his father asked, leaning closer.
"I said no. I don't want that."
"No?" Old Man Lever laughed, as if at a good joke. "Hell, Michael, you can't say no. YouVe been betrothed to the girl fifteen years now. All I'm saying is that we bring the wedding forward."
Michael looked about him at the expectant, joyous faces, then looked back at his. father. Charles Lever had grown more solid by the year. His head rested like something carved upon a bull-like neck, the close trim of his ash-white hair accentuating the robust power of his features.
That is how I will look, forty years from now, he thought. But do I have to be like him as well?
"Not now," he said, wanting to let the matter drop; to save it for some quieter, less public moment. But his father was insistent. He slapped Michael's shoulder, as if encouraging a fighter.
"No, come on, Michael! It's a great time to announce it! It'll give everyone something to look forward to. And it'll help us put this thing behind us."
Michael stared at his father, then shook his head. "Please, Father. I'm not ready for it. Let's talk about it tomorrow, neh?"
Even that, that attempt at the old, father-son tone, had been hard; had stretched his resources to their limit. But it was as if Charles Lever hadn't heard. He shook his massive head and gripped his son's arm firmly.
"Don't be silly, Michael. I know how you feel, but this'll help you snap out of it. A woman, that's what you need! And sons! Plenty of sons!"
"Help me?" The sharpness in Michael's voice made Lever jerk his head back, surprised.
Michael glared at his father, something breaking in him. "Don't you understand? Don't you fucking understand? I don't need help. I need to be left alone. Sons . . . What use are fucking sons when I feel like this?"
The great room had gone deathly silent. A hundred faces stared at him, shocked and uncomprehending.
"There's no need . . ." Old Man Lever began, but Michael made a dismissive gesture.
"You push me, Father. You always did. But I mean it. I'm not marrying the girl. Not now, not ever, understand me?"
"Michael/"
But suddenly he was beyond words. He turned away, pushing through the crowd roughly, ignoring the shouting at his back; seeing only the floor of the tiny cell, the guard above him, that ugly mouth leaning close, shouting abuse, teaching him about how things really were.
PARTI I SPRING 2209
Monsters of the Deep
Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, King Lear, Act IV, Scene II
Go into emptiness, strike voids, bypass what he defends, hit him where he does not expect you.
—TSAO TSAO [a.d. 155-220], Commentary on Sun Tzu's The Art of War
CHAPTER ONE
Earth
IN THE CLEAR, golden light of dawn the seven "gods of the soil and grain" stood at their places on the huge earthen mound. Dressed in dragon robes of imperial yellow, each held an ancient ceremonial hand plow, the primitive wooden shaft curiously curved, the long blade made of black roughcast iron. Here, at the Temple of Heaven, at the very center of the universe, the New Year rites were about to be enacted, the furrows plowed, the sacrifices made to Hou T'u, "He Who Rules the Earth," and Hou Chi, "He Who Rules the Millet," as they had been since the time of T'ang, the founder of the Shang dynasty, three thousand seven hundred years before.