The dragon throne was cold. The twelve imperial emblems embroidered in golden thread glimmered dully in the candlelight. I lowered my eyes and traced the dark cloud patterns on my cuffs. When my fingertips brushed the raised threads, I suddenly remembered how, many years ago, Father had held my hand just like this and taught me to recognize the vermilion annotations on memorials.
They all say that the first empress of the Great Zong dynasty was the late emperor's most beloved child. But only I know it was because I was the child Mother left behind, so he wanted to give me the very best.
Father always said, "Lin Xi, this realm was always meant to be yours." But I remember even more clearly the first time he taught me to read the Canon of Governance in his study. The magnolias outside the window were in full bloom. Pointing to the words "Women must not interfere in state affairs," he told me, "Rules are made by people. Your father will make a new one for you."
At the time, I didn't understand how much of himself he would have to give to make those words come true. Just as at seven, I didn't understand why my little sister stayed in this world for only a moment before being carried away in a plain white swaddling cloth. I also didn't understand why, as Mother lay dying, her eyes held not only love for me but a worry that would not fade.
Now I sit in the place that once belonged to Father. The drums and music outside the hall thunder in my ears, yet what I hear is the nursery rhyme Mother taught me beneath the crabapple tree so many years ago, and Father's sigh as he tucked my blankets around me late at night.
This dragon throne is Father's gift to me. But the thing that has always kept me seated here is not supreme power.
