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The man’s joints were strong and long, and when he kneaded and rubbed, it brought about an undeniable numb tingling.
Zhao Yen was pressed into Wenren Lin’s embrace. The moonlight faded, the lamplight disappeared, and before her eyes there was nothing but the dark-colored lapel of his robe. With each breath, she was surrounded by the familiar, cold fragrance of his body.
Zhao Yen gradually softened her body, quietly leaned against him for a while, then raised her hand and gently tugged at the fabric at Wenren Lin’s waist.
“A little hot.”
Her voice was muffled against his chest, carrying a hint of sticky softness in the nasal tone.
Only then did Wenren Lin, still somewhat reluctant, loosen his arms slightly, letting her out to breathe a little.
The bright moon peeked from the clouds, casting down a layer of clear and gentle light, illuminating the wall tiles pale white. Zhao Yen pressed the back of her hand against her flushed cheeks and muttered in a muffled voice: “On the palace wall like this, are you not afraid of being seen?”
But turning around for a look, the palace tower was empty, only the lamplight shining on the little brazier where confections were being roasted—where was there any ‘others’?
The brazier’s charcoal fire was blazing, and the confection roasting above had been forgotten to be turned over, letting out a faint scorched smell.
Zhao Yen uttered a soft “oh no,” hurriedly picked up the silver chopsticks on the table, and clamped the confection out, setting it on a plate.
Huo Zhenzhen Tuan’s auspicious-cloud-shaped red bean filling confection was still fine, but the fish-shaped crab-roe filling one Zhao Yen had pinched did not meet with such fortune. One side was already scorched, and the other side, because the filling was too full, had split open, with golden crab oil sizzling out.
Wenren Lin came over, leaned down, and looked at that cracked goldfish-shaped confection for a while, then suddenly let out a very light “tsk.”
From that barely audible breath, Zhao Yen heard a trace of mockery, and could not help but feel vexed.
Just as she was about to hide the confection, she saw Wenren Lin brace himself to sit opposite at the table, stretch out his hand, and take away that split fish-shaped confection.
Zhao Yen stared blankly, watching him put the confection into his thin lips and gently bite off a piece.
Of the three confections, he deliberately chose the ugliest, most failed one.
Wenren Lin seemed to perceive her thoughts. Only after slowly swallowing the pastry in his mouth did he speak with a faint smile: “Your Highness’s craft is still as astonishing as ever. No matter where it is placed, this prince can recognize it at a glance.”
Saying so, he slightly lifted his sleeve, revealing at his waist the hanging piece of mutton-fat jade pendant. On it, the simple design named “cat” yet resembling a “dog” faintly showed. Worn at the waist of the awe-inspiring Prince Su, it appeared rather childish and ridiculous.
Zhao Yen had no choice but to brace herself against the table, lean forward, and reach to snatch it: “I never forced you to eat it… if it’s not good, then don’t eat it.”
Wenren Lin easily pressed down her wrist. “Though the form is somewhat poor, it wins in the taste being good.”
“Ah, don’t eat it… this side is completely blackened!”
As soon as the words fell, Wenren Lin imperceptibly furrowed his brows, raised his hand and pressed his fist to his lips, and gave a light cough.
“You see, I told you not to eat it…”
Zhao Yen, annoyed, frowned and looked at Wenren Lin, who was holding a teacup to cleanse his mouth, for a long while. Roughly feeling that the scene before her eyes was absurd and childish, she suddenly turned her head away, lifted her shoulders, and gave a light laugh.
Wenren Lin slanted his eyes at her.
He rarely saw the little princess reveal an open, joyful smile. Most of the time, she hid herself beneath the mask of “Crown Prince,” with delicate grace bearing alone against the treacherous currents.
At this moment, that sudden smile was like a thread of light leaking through the clouds—brows arched, lips curved—behind her, even the blazing lights of the entire city paled into insignificance.
Wenren Lin waited until she had laughed enough before setting down the cup in his hand, and pinching the weakly curled tips of Zhao Yen’s fingers.
“On the eighteenth of the seventh month, Your Highness’s birthday, this prince may permit one wish.”
Recalling the mellow richness of crab roe and the charred bitterness of the crust lingering between his lips and teeth, Wenren Lin asked in a gentle voice, “What do you want?”
Zhao Yen, without hesitation, lifted the tips of her eyes and said: “I want the Grand Preceptor to always stand by my side.”
Not just in position, but in stance.
Wenren Lin was amused by her answer. Truly a lion opening its mouth wide—so direct it was almost adorable.
Unfortunately, for one clinging on in lingering breath, there was no such thing as “forever.”
With an unreadable faint smile in his eyes, Wenren Lin knocked warningly on the back of Zhao Yen’s hand, his voice low: “This prince does not believe in ‘forever.’ Change it to another.”
Zhao Yen did not joke again. This time, her expression grew much more serious.
She pondered for a long while, then lowered her gaze and softly said: “If convenient, at the Zhongyuan Festival I want to go out of the palace, to… pay respects to my elder brother.”
Other than avenging Zhao Yan, the small wish she could think of was only this.
…
On the fifteenth of the seventh month, a grand ritual was held at Tongtian Terrace.
After the long sacrificial text, the Emperor was made to bare his feet, clad in a green Daoist robe, and personally lit the towering piles of paper money on the high terrace, offering sacrifice to the hundred thousand soldiers who died in the great battle seven years ago.
All officials bowed prostrate. Zhao Yen knelt at the foremost, fully clear in her heart: this ritual chosen at the Tongtian Terrace of the Shen Guang Sect was nothing more than borrowing the name of offering to heroic spirits in order to plead guilty before Heaven. The remnant heart of seeking immortals and inquiring of the Dao was rekindled.
Tongues of fire rose along the mountain of money, shooting toward the sky. Paper ash filled the imperial city. Wenren Lin, in a black robe, with a white mourning band tied at his waist, stood upright at the side of the altar. The heat distorted his features.
This ritual would last three days and nights, but afterwards there was no need for the Crown Prince to appear. Zhao Yen endured until noon, then, using unwellness as an excuse, bid farewell to the Emperor and Empress, and left first.
The carriage departed from the Northern Court, turned down a passage, and came face to face with another low-key carriage.
The opposite coachman cupped his hands toward Zhao Yen. Recognizing him as Wenren Lin’s deputy general Cai Tian, Zhao Yen knew this carriage must have been sent by Wenren Lin to take her out of the palace.
She thought for a moment, then said to Liuying: “You are the Crown Prince’s personal palace maid. Following me is too conspicuous. Stay in the Eastern Palace to clean up, and do not let anyone discover that I have left the palace.”
Liuying answered “yes,” handed Zhao Yen a small basket containing incense, candles, paper money and other items, and bit her lip with difficulty, saying: “May Your Highness, on behalf of this slave, offer one stick of incense to the Crown Prince.”
Zhao Yen nodded assent. As the two carriages drew abreast, she lifted the curtain and slipped out, leaping into Cai Tian’s carriage.
The two vehicles soon passed each other. Under the palace gates the forbidden guards were on duty, and no one discovered that the person in the Crown Prince’s carriage had already been switched.
The carriage Wenren Lin prepared was low-key yet comfortable. A rui beast incense burner sent out curling fragrance, cool and refreshing.
On the table was also placed a bundle. Zhao Yen opened it to find inside an ordinary ivory-white, tight-sleeved hu robe, and a veiled hat to cover the face. Likely considering that it would be inconvenient for her to change alone in the carriage, the clothes chosen were in the style of a youth.
Zhao Yen removed the Crown Prince’s outer robe, changed into the tight-sleeved hu robe, and took off the golden crown, fastening instead a jade hairpin. She asked Cai Tian, who was driving the carriage: “Where is your prince?”
Cai Tian drove on, replying: “The prince still has important matters to handle, and ordered this humble servant to first attend Your Highness out of the palace.”
Zhao Yen recalled on Tongtian Terrace the figure of Wenren Lin, distorted and blurred by the heat waves. For some reason, her heart was pressed down by a desolate heaviness.
At mid-seventh month, the cloud layers cast a heavy shadow, diluting the yang energy of the earth.
The gates of Yong Prince Manor were tightly shut. In the rear courtyard piled countless paper effigies in the form of virgin boys and girls. On their chalk-white paper faces were dotted two patches of blush, looking exceedingly eerie.
“Yu’er! You died in disgrace, and by reason ought not to have a spirit tablet or have paper money burned for you. But father pities you, this little beast! Father can only close the doors and secretly burn them for you.”
Prince Yong sat on the steps, handful by handful throwing paper money into the bronze basin, from time to time wiping his tears, saying: “Father is useless, could not protect you. Burning you more paper money, the virgin boys and girls are also all burned, to ensure you in the underworld are without want in food and clothing, and beauties in flocks… Now a palace consort is with child, and the Crown Prince is also gradually recovering, father fears the throne is hopeless. If Yu’er has resentment, then go vent it upon those people, ah?”
Just as he muttered on, a gust of yin wind suddenly swept the ground, blowing the side gate open with a bang. The paper effigies swayed gloomily as if they had come alive.
Prince Yong was so startled he nearly fell to the ground. Hearing the sound, he looked over, but outside the door there was no figure—only a short arrow nailed upon the gate leaf.
Prince Yong, trembling, propped up his fat body and ordered a servant: “Go, go see what it is.”
The servant cautiously stepped forward, forcefully pulled out the short arrow, then quickly returned: “Prince, there is your secret letter upon the arrow.”
Prince Yong suspiciously received the arrow, took down the secret letter tied above, unfolded it, and his pupils abruptly contracted, his face changing color.
…
At the same time, in the outskirts, at West Mountain ten thousand li away.
Zhao Yen wore a veiled hat, winding her way up the twisting mountain path, climbing to the weed-covered summit.
This was the mass grave for palace slaves who died in accidents, and palace concubines who fell into disgrace. Empress Wei had ordered the Crown Prince’s death sealed off; Zhao Yan’s corpse had been mixed among the bodies of eunuchs who died of illness and carried out of the palace, then buried upon this hill.
Following Liuying’s earlier directions, Zhao Yen found beneath the great maple tree a small mound of earth—that was Zhao Yan’s nameless grave.
At this moment, before the grave squatted a tall, gloomy figure, like a stray dog without a home.
“Qiu Zui?”
Zhao Yen still could not adapt to the heavy, chilling murderous aura upon him, and cautiously retreated a step.
Since escaping from the secret prison of Yuquan Palace, Qiu Zui had disappeared for two months. Zhao Yen had not expected to meet him here.
He was still dressed in an indigo, tattered martial robe, trouser legs covered in grass seeds and mud, clearly having come at dawn’s drizzle. The weeds around the grave had been trampled flat by him, cleared into a very clean patch.
Qiu Zui just stared silently at the mound, like a wild dog guarding its cherished thing. Zhao Yen thought he would not speak, and so stepped forward two paces, setting the basket of incense, candles, and paper money before the grave.
“You are… Princess Changfeng?”
Qiu Zui squatted, long arms resting on his knees. His voice was like a beast’s growl muffled in his throat, hoarse and unpleasant.
At their last meeting, Zhao Yen had not confessed her true identity to Qiu Zui—partly from lack of time, partly from lack of trust between them.
After two months, perhaps Qiu Zui had found something out, or perhaps he had pieced it together with his meager reasoning.
Zhao Yen thought a moment, then said calmly: “I am.”
Qiu Zui woodenly turned his falcon-like eyes, staring at Zhao Yen.
A sudden gust arose, rustling the wild grasses in waves.
The prince had entrusted the little princess to his protection—should any mishap occur, even suicide could not atone!
However, when Qiu Zui’s blade was still an inch from Zhao Yen’s face, it abruptly halted. The hilt lowered, pressing against Zhao Yen’s shoulder, as he rasped hoarsely: “You stepped on Master’s flowers.”
Zhao Yen’s breath caught. Following his gaze downward, she saw indeed a small bundle of plain white wildflowers laid upon the ground, blended with the weeds so that she had not noticed earlier.
“…Forgive me.” She moved her boots away.
Sure enough, Qiu Zui withdrew his ferocity, sheathed the curved blade at his waist, and with his rough, dark hands rearranged the wildflowers, setting them again before the nameless grave marker.
Seeing Zhao Yen looking at him, he said indifferently: “In summer there are no plums. I could only find these.”
Zhao Yen was silent for a long time, then asked: “You do not doubt me?”
“Doubt.”
Qiu Zui was silent for a long while again before he muttered, “The Master trusted you.”
Because Zhao Yan trusted her, defended her even until death, he was willing to press down the hilt of his blade and not let it see blood.
A surge welled up in Zhao Yen’s throat. Only after a long time did she rasp softly: “I, like you, do not wish to betray this trust.”
Whether Qiu Zui understood or not, he turned, hand on the curved blade at his waist, and left—coming and going alone.
Only when Qiu Zui had gone far did Cai Tian return his sword to its sheath, clasping it as he circled to the other side of the maple tree, guarding Zhao Yen from afar.
From here one could overlook the scenery of the imperial city. The wind bent the grasses low, as if whispering like human voices.
Zhao Yen lowered her eyes, raising her fingers to gently stroke the cold, nameless gravestone. Her heart throbbed with a swelling ache.
She recalled how in childhood Zhao Yan had sat under the eaves with a robe draped over his shoulders, teaching her to recite that line: “Birds cry, flowers fall, where is the person? Bamboo withers, paulownia dies, the phoenix does not come.” [A verse expressing desolation and loss.]
As a child she did not understand its meaning. Now, in revisiting it, she tasted a sharp pain that cut to the bone.
Since she had returned to the palace and taken the seat of Crown Prince, she had been swept forward by the torrent. Only now did she have time to pause and look directly at the sorrow in her heart.
“Zhao Yan, are you cold here…”
She touched the gravestone, not knowing to whom she was speaking.
The only reply was the rustling sound of the wind stirring the maple leaves.
Zhao Yen smiled faintly, and stood before the quiet little mound for a long time, recounting to him the many trifles that had occurred since her return to the palace.
How Imperial Physician Zhang’s medicine grew ever more bitter; how the malicious Zhao Yuanyu was dead; how the Shen Guang Zhenren who poisoned others also died under arrows; how she truly longed to wear beautiful skirts, to pin in her hair the golden hairpin her elder brother had forged with his own hands…
Yet she also knew these trifles would never receive any reply.
If truly there were another life, Zhao Yan should now be nearing his first year of age.
Zhao Yen thought: Perhaps he already has parents of ample means and deep affection, a healthy body.
No longer trapped in a frail and sickly frame, he could grow up in peace and smoothness, become a gentle and accomplished upright gentleman, and do whatever he wished to do…
In the slanting sun, incense and candles burned, paper ash fluttered like butterflies.
“It has been a year.”
At last Zhao Yen crouched down to face the grave mound, and very softly said: “Happy first birthday, Zhao Yan.”
When Zhao Yen descended the mountain, the evening drum of the You hour (5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.) sounded from the city.
Birds flew across the dying sun. The Su Prince’s carriage was stopped by the roadside. Zhao Yen lifted the curtain and entered, unprepared to see Wenren Lin quietly waiting, his fingers pressed at his taiyang acupoint.
He had changed into a dark robe with civil and martial sleeves, and it was unknown how long he had waited within the carriage.
Seeing Zhao Yen dazed, her eyes still faintly red at the rims, Wenren Lin silently lifted his arm, gesturing to her: “Come.”
Zhao Yen said nothing, only bent down to enter, sitting into Wenren Lin’s embrace, her temple gently resting against his shoulder.
