"I do not like this period much," says Lung Tien Chuan meditatively. But he does not object to Mianning's preference of poetry. This could be due to manners, but the Celestial is never shy to make his opinion known. Mianning can make his own guess, which is confirmed when Chuan says, "But of course I am glad to hear your interpretation, my prince."
Chuan's disdain falls on the entirety of the Tang dynasty – or, rather, the poets produced in that era. The dragon always says, generously, that he cannot know if the monarchs of that time were at all to blame for the "lamentable and trivial poems their people produced".
But Mianning enjoys Tang Dynasty poems. So the Celestial sits across from him, indulgent, and nods politely as a group of servants lug out a steaming vat of tea for his use. A much smaller tray and cup, these of fine patterned porcelain, are placed in front of Mianning.
But the prince ignores his drink. He leafs through his small book.
"I quite like this one," he tells Chuan. "I have erred in your education, Chuan, or else all words avoid your ears, and you are deaf. It must be so, if you do not recognize good poetry. I suppose it is my duty to teach you the classics if you will not seek them out yourself."
Chuan snorts indelicately. "We have a different opinion of what is classic," he teases, and takes the first sip of tea. "You should not even be here; give that book to a servant. The Emperor has enough need of you that you should not be reading to me in the middle of a day."
"The Emperor has four other sons," says Mianning dryly, and neither of them say that Mianning is the crown prince, the heir, the most important son in the palace. This they do not discuss, if they can. Chuan uses the address prince and it is a name, not a title. His fingers skim over the little book of poems. "Has something happened?"
"I do not know what you mean."
Mianning blinks slowly. Pretends to peruse the poems. "If my presence has become contemptible to you," he begins, in a martyr-like tone.
Chuan sputters a bit, and Mianning allows himself a quick, faint smile. "My prince," says Chuan at last, wounded, upon recognizing his bait. Mianning shakes his head.
"You are still too easily provoked," he chides. The Celestial bows his head.
"I shall learn restraint," the dragon promises. It is a necessity for the court, but some dragons have more temper than others.
Then, after a pause, Chuan tells him:
"I would usually want you with me, always, if I felt unease or a threat of danger... But somehow I think you should not be here. You should be inside. With the Emperor, perhaps. Nothing can harm the Emperor." Chuan says this with an unshakable certainty Mianning has never quite managed to dispel. "Or Uncle, which would be even better." He refers to his own uncle, the Jiaqing Emperor's companion, Chu.
"I am safe here." He means this quite literally. The gardens are quiet today. They are alone but for a few silent servants.
"My prince, I will protect you if I can. But no one is safe." The death of Yongxing is still a suffocating weight. With unaccustomed viciousness, the Celestial adds, "And if anyone should hurt you I will drag them down through each of the ten courts of hell myself."
"Drink your tea before it is cold," Mianning chides mildly. "And stop this talk; nothing will happen, but you should not let loose ears catch such thoughts anyway. I will read to you now."
He opens the book, finally, to an acceptable page. The poem is "Hearing a Flute on a Spring Night in Luoyang".
It is one of Mianning's favorites. He thinks at first that Chuan listens in appreciative silence, as is appropriate. But when he finishes the dragon says nothing. Mianning looks away from the text and up to where the great dark dragon stares at his empty tea-vat.
"That really is a terrible poem," says Chuan softly. And then, with a sigh, he slowly sinks down.
Mianning sets aside the book.
"I am sorry," Chuan says weakly. "Go to the Emperor. Go. Now, hurry. Go to Chu."
Mianning stumbles forward. Chuan's huge, liquid eyes are as tall as he; they cloud over with pain and won't focus on him. Mianning touches his companion's soft snout and realizes: he has not done this. He has not touched his dragon's face with such an intimate hand since the Celestial was a smooth youngling with no ruff.
Chuan dies, and there is no art to it.
Mianning goes to Chu because the Emperor is, as always, involved in his own matters. He sits in the throne room, hunched under the claws of his father's dragon, while the corpse of Chuan cools in the garden and servants cover it with shrouds of white silk.
Mianning thinks: I will not be Emperor, now.
It is the worst thought he has ever had and he hates himself for it.