The Emperors Soul

dumbfounded. He looked at her, as if trying to pierce through to her soul. Shai didn’t know why he needed to bother; this conversation had already stripped her thoroughly bare.
    “A master of his caliber is hard to imitate,” Shai said, “particularly without the original to work from. If you think about it, you’ll realize I needed his help to create those fakes. He gave me access to his studies and concepts; he told me how he’d gone about painting it. He coached me through the brush strokes.”
    “Why not just have you return the original to him?” Gaotona asked.
    “He’s dying,” Shai said. “Owning a thing is meaningless to him. That painting was done for a lover. She is gone now, so he felt the painting should be as well.”
    “A priceless treasure,” Gaotona said. “Gone because of foolish pride.”
    “It was his work!”
    “Not any longer,” Gaotona said. “It belonged to everyone who saw it. You should not have agreed to this. Destroying a work of art like that is never right.” He hesitated. “But still, I think I can understand. What you did had a nobility to it. Your goal was the Moon Scepter. Exposing yourself to destroy that painting was dangerous.”
    “ShuXen tutored me in painting as a youth,” she said. “I could not deny his request.”
    Gaotona did not seem to agree, but he did seem to understand. Nights, but Shai felt exposed.
    This is important to do, she told herself. And maybe . . .
    But he did not give her the plates back. She hadn’t expected him to, not now. Not until their agreement was done—an agreement she was certain she would not live to see the end of, unless she escaped.
    They worked through the last group of new stamps. Each one took for at least a minute, as she’d been almost certain they would. She had the vision now, the idea of the final soul as it would be. Once she finished the sixth stamp for the day, Gaotona waited for the next.
    “That’s it,” Shai said.
    “All for today?”
    “All forever,” Shai said, tucking away the last of the stamps.
    “You’re done?” Gaotona asked, sitting up straight. “Almost a month early! It’s—”
    “I’m not done,” Shai said. “Now is the most difficult part. I have to carve those several hundred stamps in tiny detail, melding them together, then create a linchpin stamp. What I’ve done so far is like getting all of the paints ready, creating the color and figure studies. Now I have to put it all together. The last time I did this, it took the better part of five months.”
    “And you have only twenty-four days.”
    “And I have only twenty-four days,” Shai said, but felt an immediate stab of guilt. She had to run. Soon. She couldn’t wait to finish the project.
    “Then I will leave you to it,” Gaotona said, standing and rolling down his sleeve.

Day Eighty-Five
    Yes, Shai thought, scrambling along the side of her bed and rifling through her stack of papers there. The table wasn’t big enough. She’d pulled her sheets tight and turned the bed into a place to set all of her stacks. Yes, his first love was from the storybook. That was why . . . Kurshina’s red hair . . . But this would be subconscious. He wouldn’t know it. Embedded deeply, then.
    How had she missed that? She wasn’t nearly as close to being done as she’d thought. There wasn’t time!
    Shai added what she’d discovered to the seal she was working on, one that combined all of the various parts of Ashravan’s romantic inclinations and experiences. She included it all: the embarrassing, the shameful, the glorious. Everything she’d been able to discover, and then a little bit more, calculated risks to fill out the soul. A flirtatious encounter with a woman whose name Ashravan could not recall. Idle fancies. A near affair with a woman now dead.
    This was the most difficult part of the soul for Shai to imitate, for it was the most private. Little an emperor did was ever truly secret, but Ashravan had not always been emperor.
    She had to extrapolate, lest she leave the soul bare, without passion.
    So private, so powerful . She felt closest to Ashravan as she teased out these details. Not as a voyeur; by this point, she was a part of him.
    She kept two books now. The formal notes of her process said she was horribly behind; that book left out details. The other book was her true one, disguised as useless piles of notes, random and haphazard.
    She really was behind, but not so far as her official documentation showed.