She sent men to hunt down the Liu woman, wishing to take the son and leave the mother, to secure the foundation of the commandery prince’s household.

Who knew, however, that the woman would flee with her son. On a night of pouring rain, with her final breath, she entrusted her son—only nine years of age—into the care of her late father’s friend, Mister Linjiang.

“I changed my name and surname, followed Mister Linjiang in wandering for seven years. The Commandery Prince’s household of Yingchuan never ceased their search for my whereabouts. Until the sixteenth year of Tianyou, when Mister Linjiang recommended me to enter the Mingde Hall.”

Liu Baiwei leaned against the balustrade, speaking calmly: “The following spring, I encountered the Crown Prince, who lodged at Mingde Hall.”

He hated to the utmost those imperial kinsmen and nobles who had destroyed the Liu family, and hated equally that half of filthy blood within himself. All his life’s desire was only to see daylight clear and bright, and specters of the dark having no place to hide, thereby bringing comfort to the spirits of his mother and maternal grandfather.

Therefore, on the very first day he conversed with the Crown Prince, he knew he had followed the right person.

Zhao Yen suddenly recalled—at Tingyu Pavilion of Yuquan Palace, when Liu Baiwei had revealed to her the truth of “Fu Deng,” he had indeed mentioned: “I came to Mingde Academy precisely to hide myself. To be able to hide within the Eastern Palace is even better.”

Yet at that time Zhao Yen had been shaken by the moth-to-flame pure spirit of her elder brother and his companions, her heart surging with grief, and in that moment forgot to probe more deeply into the meaning of Liu Baiwei’s confession.

Liu Baiwei turned his head aside, explaining softly: “I did not deliberately conceal. Later on, I also thought of confessing my background to Your Highness…”

But afterwards, the Jian Hall’s lamp was lit, he encountered Wang Yu, then learned that Prince Su bullied Your Highness, and was compelled to feign death… event after event surged forth, and in the end he lost the chance to confess.

Hearing this, Zhao Yen seemed to understand something.

She too leaned against the balustrade, her clear eyes gazing at the proud youth beside her, at once familiar and yet strange, and asked softly: “Your return—is it for the sake of the Eastern Palace?”

All the upheavals of Liu Baiwei’s life had been bestowed by the Commandery Prince’s household of Yingchuan. He ought to abhor, with all his being, this title of “little prince grandson.”

Liu Baiwei was taken aback, then immediately let out a laugh. Instinctively, he wished to draw Zhao Yen’s shoulder into his arm.

But then he realized—by his present identity he could no longer intimately tug at the Crown Prince’s sleeve or shoulder.

The hand he had raised turned midway in the air; he rubbed at the tip of his own nose and said: “It is not entirely for the sake of openly and justly seeing Your Highness. I merely thought through some matters. Since there is ready-made power I can make use of, why not?”

Zhao Yen, as if seeing through his thoughts, said: “You need not force yourself.”

“Is Your Highness saying this out of worry for me?”

Liu Baiwei placed his finger upon his heart, his voice bright and clear: “Your Highness may be at ease. I am merely changing my identity to fight side by side with Your Highness. My will and resolve will not be altered because of this.”

Zhao Yen understood. Yet in this world, the most precious of all were the two words: to persevere.

Liu Baiwei was such. Zhao Yan who had died, and the men of the Fu Deng Society, were likewise such.

She gave a laugh, then earnestly said: “Liu Baiwei, you truly possess the spirit of a youth, the bearing of a gentleman.”

As she smiled, all the resplendent light between the clouds seemed to fall into her eyes.

Liu Baiwei paused, then somewhat unnaturally turned his gaze aside, staring at his own boot tips: “With Your Highness praising me so wrongly, are you not afraid your conscience will ache? A pitiable background is not an excuse for willing degradation. I have struggled desperately, precisely so as not to become one who does evil. How could I, because of holding high position, forget the faith I first held?”

Yet when considered deeply, regrets still remained.

Liu Baiwei’s expression grew slightly dazed: “I often said I would look after Your Highness for Zhao Yan’s sake. Now, in truth, we have become of one family…”

“To become of one family is no ill thing. Counting it up, I ought to call you elder cousin.”

“Separated by six or seven generations, what sort of cousin is that?”

Liu Baiwei seemed resistant, and also unwilling, his teeth-gritting manner showing a shadow of “Lady Liu.”

Yet the fact of sharing the same surname was indisputable, and he could only sullenly cut off that thought.

Zhao Yen, watching him puff up one moment and deflate the next, could not help but laugh: “What did Father Emperor say?”

Liu Baiwei, with disinterest, said: “The old man begged His Majesty to bestow me a style name. That will count as acknowledging ancestors and returning to the clan.”

“So early to be granted a style name?” Zhao Yen was astonished.

She remembered that Liu Baiwei had not yet reached the age of the capping ceremony to receive a style name.

Liu Baiwei explained: “The old man is in urgent need of me to uphold the family’s face, so even though I have not yet reached twenty, I may be given a style name¹Style name (字 zì) was a formal name given to a person—usually men of the scholar-official and noble classes—in traditional Chinese culture. It served as a polite or respectful form of address among peers, colleagues, and in formal settings. People would avoid using a man’s given name (名 míng) directly, since that could be seen as overly casual or even disrespectful..”

Zhao Yen understood, recalling that her uncle, Marquis of Ningyang Wei Yan, had been head of the family at fourteen, and by fifteen already took the style name “Zeran.”

As for Wenren Lin?

She seemed never to have heard anyone call Wenren Lin by a style name, though he had already reached capping age two or three years earlier.

As she was thinking this, Liu Baiwei remembered the true purpose of this visit, and interrupted her thoughts: “Your Highness is still investigating the source of that poisonous incense?”

Zhao Yen returned to herself, her gaze steady: “Yes.”

Just as he had thought. Liu Baiwei’s expression grew solemn.

“I have discovered that even the Commandery Prince’s household of Yingchuan has been seeking pills and medicines, having dealings with the Daoists of the Shen Guang Sect. It shows that the tentacles of this group of evil Daoists already extend throughout the court and commonwealth.”

Cloud shadows swept across, cicadas sang low and subdued. Liu Baiwei lowered his voice: “I cannot shake the feeling that some great matter will soon occur. Your Highness must be careful.”

Zhao Yen nodded: “I know. The literary tradition is the soul of a state—leave the Mingde Hall in your care.”

The two exchanged intelligence, when they saw an inner attendant coming from afar.

Liu Baiwei knew that attendant was there to summon him. Straightening, he said: “I should go.”

Though he said so, his feet could not bear to move half a step.

Zhao Yen nodded and said, “Very well.”

Liu Baiwei opened his mouth, seeming as though he wished to say something. In the end he merely turned his head away and said: “I will come often to see Your Highness.”

When he finished, he made a scholar’s bow, drew in a deep breath, and only then turned to leave.

Zhao Yen returned to Chongwen Hall, late by half a cup of tea’s time.

The bamboo blinds in the hall were half lowered, smoke from the beast-shaped brazier curling and dispersing. Pei Sa and all the attendants were nowhere to be seen. Only Wenren Lin stood by the window, the sunlight filtering through the gaps of the blinds, gilding his official robe in brilliant gold and red. His profile was cold-white and handsome, as if set within a painting.

That position—just enough to overlook the corridor of the rear hall.

Zhao Yen’s heart gave a sudden leap. She lowered her eyes and meekly slipped back behind the desk to sit.

“Where are Attendant Pei and the rest?” she could not help but ask.

Wenren Lin turned his head, gazing at the properly seated little prince. He said slowly: “I suddenly thought to check Your Highness’s lessons, so I had the ones in the way dismissed.”

Zhao Yen’s eyelid twitched. She knew not what “lessons” he meant.

The empty hall’s atmosphere was truly ambiguous, making her feel as if sitting on needles, uneasy and restless.

Feigning composure, she spread paper and moistened ink. Suddenly recalling something, she held the brush and asked: “What is Grand Preceptor’s style name?”

Wenren Lin raised his eyes toward her.

Zhao Yen knew her way of changing the topic was somewhat clumsy, yet she truly wished to know the answer. With no other choice she pressed on, saying: “It suddenly came to me, Grand Preceptor has already reached capping age, and yet I do not know what style name you have taken.”

A style name—Wenren Lin did indeed have one.

At the time of his capping and coming of age, all the elders of his family were already dead. The name he had given himself.

Now that he had become the alien-surnamed prince who grasped the realm in his hands, beneath one man and above ten thousand, naturally none dared to call his style name. Were it not for the little prince, timidly raising it, he himself might have forgotten it altogether.

Zhao Yen studied Wenren Lin’s expression. From his face, not a trace of resistance or displeasure could be discerned.

He merely walked steadily from the window, strips of sunlight falling away from him layer by layer.

He halted behind Zhao Yen, then bent low, cool-jade-like fingers wrapping around her right hand that held the brush. His cheek pressed against her cheek, guiding her hand upon the xuan paper as though teaching a child to suspend the wrist. Together they wrote two forceful characters.

Zhao Yen could even feel the long breath brushing at her ear, Wenren Lin’s presence enveloping her from all sides. Her heart pounded wildly, her arm numb as if it no longer belonged to her, leaving her only able to let Wenren Lin direct the writing.

“Shao… Yuan (少淵)?”

Zhao Yen sounded out the still-wet ink. The strokes stood rugged and lofty like a sword, vast and magnificent. She tilted her head and asked: “Is it the yuan of ‘erudition’?”

Wenren Lin let out a laugh.

For some reason, Zhao Yen felt that laugh carried a trace of mockery.

Wenren Lin, feeling the delicate skin within his palm, his voice unruffled, said: “It is the yuan of ‘abyss (淵).’”

Footnotes

• 1
  Style name (字 zì) was a formal name given to a person—usually men of the scholar-official and noble classes—in traditional Chinese culture. It served as a polite or respectful form of address among peers, colleagues, and in formal settings. People would avoid using a man’s given name (名 míng) directly, since that could be seen as overly casual or even disrespectful.