Qiu Zui escaped.

No one knew how Qiu Zui, under strict guard and close surveillance, managed to escape from that gloomy and tightly sealed prison. It was said that when Cai Tian discovered it, only the two fractured, fragile joints of the iron chain remained in the cell.

Was it Wenren Lin who secretly let him go? Zhao Yen fell into contemplation.

Two days later, Zhao Yuanyu’s corpse was escorted back to the city.

It was said that when Prince Yong came to the Dali Temple to claim the body, Zhao Yuanyu’s corpse had already been gnawed to such a state by wild beasts that apart from the face, which could barely identify him, it was hardly a complete body.

Prince Su gave the emperor this explanation: the Heir of Prince Yong committed a grave crime and fled, fell to his death from a cliff on the way, and his corpse was damaged by wild beasts gnawing.

Only Zhao Yen knew how Zhao Yuanyu had truly died.

It was not Wenren Lin who covered for her, but rather that Father Emperor had always relied on Shen Guang Sect to delude the people. He would never make the truth public and slap his own face. Only by pinning the crime firmly onto Zhao Yuanyu could the situation be stabilized.

Zhao Yen had already anticipated this outcome. When the court could not be relied upon, one could only resort to private justice. She did not regret making Zhao Yuanyu pay with his own life.

In the mountain mists of rain, Zhao Yen also fully recovered from the first illness she could remember having since childhood.

She pinched her little finger while sitting by the half-opened window to breathe. There seemed still to linger there the tingling ache from Wenren Lin’s biting warning.

Gu Xing stood outside, dutifully reporting: “Prince Su is still in the palace handling the follow-up matters of the Heir of Prince Yong’s case and has not yet appeared.”

This was indeed a good opportunity.

Zhao Yen’s fingers paused slightly, then her faintly furrowed brows slowly smoothed. She rose and said: “Summon Liu Ji… Liu Ji to come, I will return to the capital with him once.”

First, Zhao Yen followed the address Gu Xing presented, and went to the house of Cheng Jiyan beneath the outer city’s East Gate.

Deep in a moss-covered path, amidst crumbling brick walls, a dilapidated courtyard covered by a reed mat for shelter from the rain faintly appeared.

“Cheng Jiyan was truly a son of a cold gate [lowly family]. His father died early, leaving only his widowed mother, who supported his studies and examinations by washing clothes.”

The small road had long been unrepaired, full of pits and hollows. Liu Ji, whose foot injury had not yet fully healed, wore a veiled hat and walked with difficulty, saying: “Cheng Jiyan was originally the pillar of the Cheng family tomb emitting green smoke [sign of great fortune], deeply appreciated by Master Linjiang, and thus was admitted into the Mingde Hall by special exception. In both the provincial and metropolitan examinations he also ranked among the top…”

And now, this young man of barely twenty had become a small mound of earth in the ancestral tomb.

Zhao Yen, under the name of a classmate and friend, paid respects to Madam Cheng and ordered Gu Xing behind her to present heavy condolence silver.

She told this woman, whose eyes seemed to have no light: her son once bore great aspirations, concealed the Dao in his heart, and dared with the body of a tiny ant to shake the towering tree of a chaotic world, and though he died nine deaths, he did not regret.

After speaking, Zhao Yen removed her cloak and hood, stepped back, and on behalf of Zhao Yan, on behalf of the cold gates under heaven, she folded her sleeves toward Madam Cheng and offered a bow one year too late.

Madam Cheng firmly refused to accept Zhao Yen’s silver. This wooden-faced woman, her temples already frosted, wearing old clothes whitened by endless washing, looked at Zhao Yen with turbid but resolute eyes and said:

Though she did not understand the lofty words of nobles about family and nation and the world, she knew that poverty did not mean one’s aspirations could be short. Her son died for the great cause under heaven. As his mother, she would never dishonor her son’s character.

Before Zhao Yen boarded the carriage to leave, Madam Cheng seemed to remember something. In not-so-fluent official speech she said: “When claiming A’Ji’s remains, this old woman once smelled a faint strange fragrance upon his clothing. Because the authorities pressed urgently, and indeed there were no signs of external wounds or poisoning, this old woman did not doubt before. Now that Your Excellency has spoken of the inner truth, I feel it was not without cause.”

Was it again death by some strange poison?

Zhao Yen was startled, then solemnly nodded: “Do not worry. I will do all I can to uncover the truth and clear your son’s injustice.”

Madam Cheng’s eyes reddened, and she insisted on kneeling to offer a great courtesy.

The carriage turned into Da’an Street, carrying her to the residence of Shen Jingming.

Compared to the winter banquet of last year when they had met, Minister Shen’s face had grown even more thin and haggard.

He first greeted with utmost respect the “Your Highness” who had come in plain clothes, yet the moment the cause of his son’s death was mentioned, Assistant Minister Shen’s face immediately darkened, and he harshly scolded: “That worthless son of mine had a stubborn and reckless temperament, ever frivolous and dissipated. Surely it was while drinking too much yellow soup [wine] in the company of courtesans that he fell into the water and lost his life.”

Assistant Minister Shen had reason to think so.

The Shen family’s household style was strict and upright, yet Shen Jingming, relying on his talent, was arrogant and refused to be bound by rites and teachings.

Born into a dark age, to remain lucid was instead a form of pain. And when that pain was turned outward, it became unruly defiance.

Shen Jingming often poured his emotions into rivers and mountains, consorting with red-dusted companions of pleasure houses. Thus in his father’s eyes, this son, apart from possessing a little talent, was utterly worthless!

To soothe Shen Father’s knot of grief, it was by no means possible to use silver or gold.

Therefore Zhao Yen produced the letter Shen Jingming had once presented to His Highness, and handed to Assistant Minister Shen the “Essay on Taxation” written within.

She could not openly reveal that astonishing scroll to the world, but she could at least let this grieving minister know for what his son had died.

Assistant Minister Shen impatiently unrolled the heavy letter paper. His expression shifted from the severity and sternness of the beginning to incredulity at the end. He turned the signed name back and forth several times, as if confirming that this article, daring to stand against half the court with its magnificent force, had truly been penned by that son of his who lived carelessly and unrestrained.

“No matter what position one holds, I am willing to fulfill my vow with death.”

Zhao Yen recited, each word clear: “Jingming took blood for ink, took bone for knife, he was by no means the frivolous and unworthy person you say he was.”

Assistant Minister Shen’s hands trembled violently, and turbid tears spilled from his eyes, dropping one by one onto the rice paper.

Zhao Yen folded her sleeves and bowed, then took her leave. As she was walking to the courtyard, Assistant Minister Shen, supported by family servants, stumbled after her.

As though resolved, clutching his son’s grandly written essay, he slowly sank to his knees, cupped his hands toward Zhao Yen, and choked out: “If Your Highness does not despise this old servant, whatever you require, I will not decline even at the cost of my life!”

He knocked his head to the ground. The accumulated rain of the courtyard soaked his indigo sleeves. His back was sharp and bony, his figure withered and frail.

Leaving the Shen residence, the fine rain had just ceased. A faint slant of setting sun spilled from the horizon, illuminating the water puddles on the ground.

Once inside the carriage, Gu Xing asked whether they should return to Yuquan Palace. After a moment of thought, Zhao Yen lifted her eyes and said: “To the Mingde Hall.”

It was during the May Zhongtian holiday; dusk was falling, and not many Confucian scholars remained within Mingde Hall.

Liu Baiwei lifted her hindering skirts first to alight, as usual reached out to support Zhao Yen, blew aside the gauze veil of the hat, and said: “At such a time, Your Highness’s identity should not be flaunted. I know of a hidden little path by the back gate through which we may enter.”

Zhao Yen glanced at the slender, refined joints of the hand placed lightly through her sleeve, and paused slightly.

Liu Baiwei noticed, and asked openly: “Why has Your Highness suddenly become so distant? Before, when we traveled and conversed together, we were as close as sisters. Now that you know my true identity, you turn away in aversion?”

Zhao Yen withdrew her hand, smiling lightly: “It is not aversion, only that knowing you are a man… I am not yet accustomed.”

The wind blew, and the accumulated rain on the trees rustled down.

Liu Baiwei lifted his sleeve above her head to shield her from the rain, his youthful smile pure and unrestrained: “No matter, see me a few more times and you will become accustomed.”

At the roadside, a carriage with dark-patterned hanging curtains stood beneath the shade of a locust tree.

The breeze stirred the carriage curtain, and through the narrow gap one could glimpse the Crown Princess in male attire and Liu Baiwei in female attire, shoulder to shoulder as they entered the back gate of the Mingde Hall.

The youth’s back was elegant as a painting, brimming with vigor and spirit.

Wenren Lin observed for a moment, then placed the tea cup that had cooled in his hand upon the desk.

Tea splashed out, making a crisp ding-dang sound.

Within Mingde Hall, the fragrance of books was thick; everywhere were seen pines and bamboos, serene and refined.

The Mirror Pavilion stood tall before her eyes. At its five-storied top, a small pavilion could be seen, its upturned eaves outlined against the dim twilight, pitch-black without a trace of light.

Upon arriving, Zhao Yen discovered she had none of the imagined nervousness of returning to a familiar place, only the deep darkness and calm that remained after a stormy wave.

The wooden staircase coiled upward, vanishing into the unseen darkness above. She laid her hand upon the door panel and commanded: “Bring a lantern for me—make it bright.”

Liu Baiwei’s spirit moved slightly, as though realizing something, and he stumbled forward a step.

Zhao Yen knew he had followed her rushing all day, and his injured ankle must be near its limit. Thus she said to him: “I wish to go up alone and be quiet. Your leg is still hurt, there is no need to follow.”

Liu Baiwei opened his mouth, wanting to insist, but his ankle truly hurt too much. At last, reluctantly, he gave up, and with a limp walked to the corridor, found a place to sit, and caught his breath.

Gu Xing led men to patrol the empty Mirror Pavilion once over, making sure there was no danger, then finally presented a six-sided lantern into Zhao Yen’s hand.

The lantern cast a circle of warm orange-yellow light at her feet. Zhao Yen lifted her hand to brush away cobwebs above her head, and stepped slowly upward on the creaking, aged stair.

After the time of half a cup of tea, she stood within the top pavilion, breathing lightly.

The warm glow of the lantern flickered, slightly pushing back the heavy darkness like a tide. The pavilion was so silent that only her faint breathing could be heard, and in the sight of abandoned desolation, the loneliness was all the more stark.

Zhao Yen raised her hand across half-toppled shelves, across ink traces lingering on the walls, finally fixing upon the long desk in the center, thick with dust.

On the corner of the desk was a sudden and new scratch, as if once some words had been carved there, yet someone had used a sharp object to gouge them away. The raw pale wood beneath was shocking to the eye, like flesh cut open to expose the cold bones of a young scholar.

The world seemed to fall silent in an instant. Though she had never before come to this place, Zhao Yen inexplicably felt a familiarity like returning to an old land.

Was it the tacit understanding between twins? The thing beneath her fingertip seemed to have warmth, as if it came alive in her mind.

Zhao Yen seemed to see her elder brother Zhao Yan draped in robes, seated behind the desk, debating the state of the world with scholars. Some sat, some stood, some held brushes, some perused scrolls, all surrounding His Highness the Crown Prince, filling every corner of the pavilion with their lively presence…

She had once scorned her brother’s gentle humility, always feeling he was like a glazed lamp held high upon the table, too fragile to withstand the wind. Yet only now did she realize what kind of soul burned within that body that could shatter at a touch.

The wind slipped in through the window, stirring Zhao Yen’s robes, as if someone were whispering softly by her ear.

Looking out, there was no light of stars or moon. The dark night spread its vast wings to invade the earth.

The upturned eaves pressed low upon the window frame. The copper hook upon the beam was empty and rusted, no bright lanterns any longer hung high, answering from afar the torches of the Jiafu Pavilion in the Eastern Palace.

Before returning to the palace, Zhao Yen had thought that perhaps she only needed to discover the truth of Zhao Yan’s death.

But now she finally understood why Zhao Yan had died. She knew that beneath the dark night, phantoms ran rampant, yet she no longer had the courage to remain outside it all.

She wanted to take another step forward, even if only a small step…

The copper hook on the window frame was high. Zhao Yen gently set the lantern upon the ground, then dragged the long, aged desk to the window. She lifted the six-sided lantern down from its handle, and facing the soft summer night wind, she stepped upon the desk, raised her head to gaze at the copper hook so close above.

She cradled the lamp, as though holding a searing seed of fire. She lifted her arm; the orange-yellow glow fell into her clear eyes, gentle yet resolute.

“Put that lantern down.”

Behind her suddenly came a voice, calm without rise or fall, heavy as stone: “Come down.”

The desk creaked with a jolt, and Zhao Yen turned back in astonishment.

Wenren Lin stood embedded in the shadows at the stairhead, his dark robes heavy and somber, his gaze fixed straight and unyielding upon her.

The wind passed without sound, stirring her robes into fluttering sways.

Zhao Yen knew—tracing matters to Zhao Yuanyu was already the furthest Wenren Lin would allow her to press. If she continued further, what consequences would follow, what people would be implicated—even she could not foresee.

To light this lamp was to set her stance openly before him. If the flame were extinguished, the struggle would end.

Perhaps she ought to yield, hide this lamp in her heart, become a tamed and docile little cat.

But this time, she would not deceive him, nor should she.

Zhao Yen turned, her voice soft: “It is dark, I came to light a lamp.”

“Come down!” Wenren Lin remained immovable, his tone heavier.

Zhao Yen paused slightly, but in the end her arm trembled as she lifted it higher, rising on tiptoe to hang the lantern upon the copper hook.

The lamp hung like a red sun, small, yet fervent.

Wenren Lin’s black eyes seemed congealed with shards of ice, surging with thick darkness. For the first time, anger boiled within him to drag her down and thrash her soundly.

Yet with a creak, wood screamed its misery—the aged desk’s joints loosened, and one leg snapped away.

Zhao Yen, standing atop, was caught off guard. She pitched forward, her abdomen slamming heavily upon the window frame, pain near suffocating.

She scrambled to clutch the window lattice to steady herself. Almost at the same instant, her waist was seized tight, her forward fall pulled sharply back, and she crashed into a firm, broad chest.

Hair flew, sleeves billowed and fell again.

Wenren Lin held her fast, so tightly that Zhao Yen could scarcely breathe. Against her back pressed the urgent beat of Wenren Lin’s heart, each throb striking her own to a tingling numbness.

The lamplight above swayed, its glow falling into Wenren Lin’s eyes, where dark waves surged.

“Best to break your legs and chain you down.” He turned Zhao Yen’s face, scrutinizing her.

A fierce sweep of sleeve struck the window lattice—bang—and it shut tight.

The tranquil pavilion instantly became a sealed prison.