In defense (ish) of Csoru Zhasan(ai)
You're sixteen. You are your father's only daughter. You are very beautiful. You know you are beautiful. More people than your father have said that the emperor himself is taken by your beauty. It is well-known that the emperor was forced to marry a woman he found quite ugly- but like his other wives, she's dead. Maybe a part of you considers that for a moment, worries a little, but most of you sees an opportunity. You are very beautiful, it's the most important attribute you've had your entire life. So you become the sweet, beautiful elven girl you know the emperor must crave. You dress in beautiful gowns and smile at him shyly when he asks to dance.
(He's so old, you think, holding his wrinkled hands. But you can feel the power swirling around him. People fear this man, this man who is touching you so softly, so reverently. You've never had power, not like this and it's intoxicating. When the marriage contract is signed, your father is ecstatic. For the first time, you think, he might be glad you are a daughter and not a son. )
You're eighteen and married to the emperor. You are the empress. And no one cares. The Untheileneise Court is a place rife with rumors and vipers. You've heard the murmurs (never said in your presence or the emperor's) about why an old man who is likely past his childbearing years would choose a young woman with nothing to offer besides her beauty. The emperor himself treats you like you're delicate, breakable, little more than a possession or a trinket. He chooses your dresses and has your hair dressed in elaborate styles. You are the empress, and you have no more power than you ever have.
You're twenty and have nothing to do. The emperor still gives you nothing beyond his suffocating doting, no matter that you've thrown tantrums, begged, pleaded. You can be more than a beautiful doll. You have nothing to do but spread vicious gossip about those you hate most. When you hear something about the previous empress being mad, it's the barest effort and satisfying to spread the rumor further. The emperor has little regard for his fourth wife, so even if he were to notice the gossip, he's unlikely to censure you for "behavior unbecoming an empress". It's a giddy, pointless thrill.
You're twenty-one and your cousin has become embroiled in a scandal so vile that your family has disowned him. You and your cousin have never liked each other (despite his lifestyle choices, his vow of poverty, his eerie obsession with death, he's had more freedom than you've ever enjoyed. He's had choices.) But of course, he can stay with you, you are not beholden to your grandmother's will. It's a choice you can make and for once, no one can stop you. The emperor, as much as he notices, can say nothing about an obvious act of charity.
(There are rumors, of course. But it's a simple matter to redirect attention to other matters. Your cousin's story is juicy and you will tell it, but you will spin it so that you are the benevolent empress helping a wayward soul.)
You're twenty-two and your husband is dead. You did not love him. You did not like him. In some ways, you may have even hated him for the way he treated you. But without him, you have nothing. You are nothing. Your only chance is to gain power with the half-forgotten fourth son who has never been to court.
The meeting with Maia Drazhar (your stepson, who is eighteen and barely younger than you) does not go as planned. This boy is not intimidated by your beauty or interested in anything you have to say. He is nothing like you imagined, not even as ugly as you would have assumed from descriptions of the fourth empress. Zhasanai, he calls you. Widow. You're twenty-two. You're a childless widow with little chance at remarriage. And of course, your upstart of a step-son flaunts your deceased husband's first disgraced wife by inviting her to court. (You've heard that he calls *her* Zhasanai, too. You hate him for it. You hate him for being alive. You hate him for having power you never could.)
