She died by fire.

It's funny how I can remember this, and not anything else. Not her face, her words, her voice, not even her touch. One would think it was like a history book, not a memory, that is embedded in my mind...how she died. But that is how I remember her. I can remember, too, how her eyes used to blaze with...something. I had no words for it then, and I have no words for them now. Either way, they would only be words, because I can't really remember how they looked like, only the way they are supposed to.

My guardian, Rugarai, would shake his head whenever we talked about her. He would tell me she died through sword, not fire...HIS sword, to be exact. And he would go on to tell me that she was a brave woman, worthy of the bronze memorial he had built for her. Then, he would snap at a servant to bring more wine and shake his head again, as if remembering hurt.

Sizin, his Chief Adviser, is more generous of words, if only snippets. He would compliment my sister, say the same things as Rugarai would, then point out, after drinking five jugs of wine, that she was a bitch, and it was such a good thing Rugarai was as much of a bitch as she was that she would've been the one ruling right now. Either way, it would be the same.

It doesn't matter.

Tasuki says it's only a matter of time before Rugarai names me his successor. He still isn't too old, and he continues to love his work, if not the ruling. Friar-Monk complains it's getting harder and harder for him to make the Milky Way Ruler stay put in the office. He says Rugarai should think of settling down once more. When said in private, people would nod wisely and let the conversation flow. When said in public, people would turn and say harshly, "The Ruler had a wife then, let him be!"

I say he should get laid.

Many people want him. I know Rayla still does, and I know Rugarai knows. Even Sizin knows, although he's more discreet about it, and Rugarai pretends the want doesn't exist. He says he doesn't need a wife, no more a son, because he has me. It's the closest way he ever admitted he feels like a father. Mostly, he just says he's just a ruler.

Even Sizin wants him, but that's another story.

Aysin says that Musami would be proud to see how Rugarai raised me, schooled and trained with the best military tactics as well as the physical training. He would never praise me, and the smallest compliments are hard for him to mention, but he would nod and tell me Musami is proud. Either way, it's always her, and not him.

It doesn't matter, really.

It gets boring, though, once in a while. I wonder sometimes if it wasn't for my sister, would I be the way I am? Would I be better? Or would I be sitting at the market now, playing go with the old people while drinking the night away? Would I even consider this thrill of captaining a ship if it wasn't for her?

I'm not thankful Rugarai raised me. It's just one of those things that happens. It's not fate or destiny or anything else except luck. My sister is dead, and I try not to waste my time with what-ifs and tears. I try not to make myself yearn for more, but still be the best in what I do. I don't owe anyone but myself for living.

Yesterday, it was the celebration of her death, and we went to the the monument of bronze Rugarai has built in her memory. It is the only time we spend together in private, the only day of the year we actually let ourselves remember...or try to, anyway.

He said he would be announcing me as his successor soon. He would give me five months to finish my training in the final arts before he gives me a title. I only thanked him and we fell silent.

Then, he continued, not looking at me, "She told me make you a blazing fire."

I glanced at him briefly before turning away. "I know," I replied, wondering where it would lead.

"She would be proud," he went on, and it was the millionth time he said it.

"She died by fire," I reminded him and he gave a nod. Then, I shrugged. A white bird flew past us and I rememember I looked up at it. The bronze monument is inside a temple's garden specially built for her. I remember I thought how public is her memory, and how different it is from Symone's memorial, which is in a thick forest. A private memory to be shared only by the closest friends. I am not one of them. I tried very hard to think of my sister and found it impossible. "Anyway," I went on, "it doesn't matter now."

He had shrugged and did not reply. I grew angry at the lack of response then but chose not comment.

But now, I think back, and realize the only answer he could have said outloud was, "No, it doesn't."

And it doesn't really matter. Not anymore.