Piaopeng supported Li Congjia as they arrived outside the room where A-Shui was being held. When he ordered the door opened, everyone hesitated. “The Duke of Anding is still injured, and this criminal is extremely agitated. This subordinate fears…”
“Open it.” He was dressed in plain white mourning robes. The Crown Prince’s mourning period had not yet passed, and for convenience while resting and moving about, he had not bound his hair, allowing it to fall loose over his shoulders.
The wooden door had barely opened when they saw the man seated at the table in the middle of the room. His face was disheveled and covered in grime, enough to make even Piaopeng frown. A-Shui was still wondering why someone had come. Were they finally preparing to execute him? Then he suddenly caught sight of Li Congjia outside the door. Fury flashed in his eyes, and he sprang up to charge at him.
The guards beside him hurriedly stopped him. With no time for niceties, they forced him back into the room at swordpoint and bound him tightly with rope. Li Congjia had not wanted them to do this, but A-Shui truly became far too agitated at the sight of him. In such a state, there would be no way to talk even if Li Congjia wanted to.
Only after A-Shui had been rendered completely unable to move, leaving nothing but his mouth free to keep shouting, did Li Congjia enter and sit down. Across from him, A-Shui twisted from side to side in furious defiance.
“A-Shui, calm down first.”
“Calm down, my ass! You murderer! If I killed Ehuang, let’s see whether you could still sit there and tell me to calm down!”
Li Congjia knew he was angry and did not take offense. “Do you know why Hongxiu died?”
“I don’t want to know, and I couldn’t care less about all the scheming and infighting between you people. Whatever the reason, the fact is that she is dead!” A-Shui’s hands were bound to the chair, but his eyes remained fixed fiercely upon the culprit before him. All he wanted was to split Li Congjia in two. “There’s no point saying anything more. Since you survived, I lost. If you intend to do something to me, just say it. I can’t wait to follow Hong’er right now.”
“You loved her very much? If you truly loved her, then you should live well. Don’t do anything foolish.”
“I don’t need you to teach me that! The word love sounds ridiculous coming out of your mouth! What do you understand, Li Congjia? The high and mighty Sixth Prince, the Duke of Anding. You were destined from birth to be different from everyone else. Do you know what it is like in Green Willow Lane, where daylight barely reaches? Do you know that Hongxiu would shiver from the cold in winter? Do you know that all she ever wanted was a better life because she suffered too much when she was young?” The more he spoke, the angrier he became, nearly tipping himself and the chair over together.
Li Congjia could not bear to see him like this. A-Shui looked so despondent that he seemed to be begging Li Congjia to kill him immediately. If Hongxiu’s spirit in heaven could see him this way, how would she feel? “A-Shui, sit properly and listen to me.”
“I don’t want to waste words with you. Give me a quick death. I injured you, so naturally I won’t be walking out of this estate alive. I might as well follow Hong’er now.” He truly tried to throw himself against the nearby wall, but the ropes held him so tightly that he could do nothing but struggle in the chair without even managing to turn himself around.
Li Congjia frowned at his determination to die. “A-Shui, sit properly.” His voice was not loud, but his tone was noticeably heavier. He usually spoke with quiet detachment, and this was the first time A-Shui had heard him speak this way. Li Congjia was not a man who was mild in all things. When he wanted you to obey, there was no room for question. He seemed capable of controlling people’s hearts with ease. A-Shui froze in the chair, then came back to himself and glared at him. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
“Hongxiu died because of your uselessness. Although I still don’t know what happened between the two of you in the past, you are a man, yet you allowed her to fall this far and even had to rely on her to stand up for you. You truly deserve to die.” Every word came slowly and evenly. There was no threat in his voice, nor anything particularly sharp, yet every sentence struck directly at A-Shui’s deepest wound. This was the very thing he had always hated most about himself. Now, spoken so lightly by the man dressed entirely in mourning white, it hurt more than a knife.
Li Congjia, you really are ruthless. You can hurt someone without even using a blade.
A-Shui burst into laughter. “Everything you said is right. I should hate myself for being useless. But things have already come to this. Whether in life or death, Hongxiu and I should never be separated again. Since she is already gone, I have no reason to go on living alone. I am the man who tried to assassinate the Duke of Anding. That crime alone is enough.”
“Don’t you want me dead?” Li Congjia asked. He glanced at the loose hair over his shoulder and casually raised a hand to sweep it behind his neck. A-Shui stared blankly at Li Congjia dressed all in mourning white, yet somehow still saw that pale blue-green figure. Every movement the man made carried effortless grace. It seemed to have nothing to do with his clothing or status. No matter where he stood, he was always surrounded by that Tianshui Blue dyed by night rain and the faint, lingering fragrance of sandalwood, inexplicably making people quiet down and listen to him.
Elio’s Notes: Tianshui Blue (天水碧) is a pale blue-green color historically associated with the Southern Tang court of Li Yu. Historical accounts relate that blue-green silk left out overnight became more vivid after being touched by dew, after which the color became fashionable at court. Its use here is especially deliberate because Li Congjia is Li Yu.
Someone like him could, at times, be a danger without sound or movement.
“I do want you dead. Day and night, I wish people like you would hurry up and go see King Yama. But you are imperial kin. A single word from you can cost someone their life. Since I failed to kill you, I am willing to submit to punishment.” He was still waiting for Li Congjia to announce how he would die.
Li Congjia rose with one hand pressed against his abdomen and slowly walked toward the window. Because A-Shui was being guarded here, the wooden window had long since been nailed shut. Li Congjia tapped the sill with what looked almost like regret. “The mountains and rivers are beautiful, yet a grown man spends his days sitting here waiting for death. A-Shui, no wonder Hongxiu looked down on you. I look down on you too.”
“Nonsense! How could Hong’er possibly look down on me!” His roar had already grown hoarse. Behind him, Li Congjia heard another burst of struggling and the chair rocking violently. He studied the carved pattern in the wood and laughed softly. A-Shui shouted again, “What are you laughing at? If you’re going to kill me, then kill me! What do you gain from making a fool of me?”
“I’m laughing because you truly are hidebound to the point of absurdity. I seem to remember you were once a scholar. How can you still be this ridiculous at a time like this?” Li Congjia’s pale fingertips traced the carved pattern. It depicted the Three Friends of Winter and was extremely elegant. “Everyone who lives must eventually die. Li Congjia is no exception. Who says you cannot kill me? Setting everything else aside, if you truly hate me to the bone, then for argument’s sake I can be counted as the chief culprit behind your wife’s death. Should that vengeance not be repaid?”
Elio’s Notes: The “Three Friends of Winter” (岁寒三友) are pine, bamboo, and plum. Because they endure the cold, they traditionally symbolize steadfastness, integrity, and lofty character.
He was actually encouraging A-Shui to seek revenge. A-Shui could not make sense of what he meant. That blade had truly struck Li Congjia and left him unable to move normally for many days, yet today the man had come here and was actually telling him to avenge himself.
A-Shui fell silent.
Li Congjia’s finger came to rest precisely at the center of a plum blossom. “I will let you go, on one condition.”
A-Shui was even more shocked, but his thoughts quickly turned. “Don’t think I’ll commit evil deeds for you.” That only made the other man smile more deeply. “If you had put that cleverness toward your studies, how could you still have accomplished nothing by now? You can relax.” Li Congjia had originally come here intending to explain everything properly. But after seeing A-Shui in this utterly hopeless state, he knew that no matter what he said, A-Shui would not listen. As for things that could not be explained clearly, Li Congjia could not be bothered wasting more words. Saving one life was more meritorious than building a seven-story pagoda. If revenge could make A-Shui come to his senses a little, then that too could count as a good deed.
Elio’s Notes: “Saving one life is more meritorious than building a seven-story pagoda” (救人一命，胜造七级浮屠) is a traditional Buddhist-derived saying emphasizing the immense merit of saving a human life. Here, futu (浮屠) refers to a Buddhist pagoda or stupa.
“The condition is this. You must swear that for as long as Li Congjia remains alive, you will not seek your own death.” His tone remained light, as though he had merely opened his fingers and casually dropped a sentence. It seemed to scatter before it could even reach the ground, yet the invisible weight behind it startled A-Shui.
What kind of state of mind did this man possess? With just one sentence, he easily stirred admiration in A-Shui’s heart, just as he had that day on the street. The two of them had crossed paths only a handful of times, and at this very moment they should have been enemies. Yet his enemy, smiling with effortless grace, was telling him, Live. If I do not die, then you are not allowed to die.
“Do you agree or not?”
“Li Congjia, you’ll regret this.”
“I have never liked the word regret. A-Shui, everything you have become today is because you allowed yourself to regret. You regret not stopping her that day. You regret your own lack of ability. That is why you are destined to fail.”
The man bound tightly to the chair sank once more into despondency. Li Congjia was right, even though he did not even know what had truly happened between A-Shui and Hongxiu, or what they had missed.
“Fine, Li Congjia. A-Shui promises you. I will spend this life searching for an opportunity to take revenge on you. No matter what happens, as long as Li Congjia does not die, A-Shui will not go see Hong’er!”
The man in white nodded in satisfaction. His finger lifted as though it had touched something unclean, and he examined it closely with a frown. A-Shui thought he had something else to say, only to hear him remark, “How can plum blossoms be stained by dust? It truly has been far too long since anyone cleaned this place.” He lightly pinched away the dust, shook his head, then spread his fingers and flicked it off.
Plum blossom?
A-Shui immediately thought of the plum tree in Green Willow Lane beneath which Hong’er had been buried.
Li Congjia opened the door and met Piaopeng’s anxious gaze. Seeing his master emerge safely and even wearing a smile, Piaopeng was both bewildered and worried. He looked Li Congjia up and down carefully before hurrying over to support him. “I’m fine. Why are you so nervous?” Li Congjia knew that Piaopeng was only in his teens and still had a youthful temperament, so he could not help comforting him.
The guards were even more confused. At first they had still been able to hear the madman shouting inside, but after only a short while, the Duke of Anding had opened the door with a smile and everything within had gone completely silent. The assassin had been extremely agitated earlier. Every one of their swords had already been drawn, ready for them to rush inside the instant anything happened.
But then the Duke of Anding said, “Untie him.” That left everyone completely at a loss. Piaopeng looked at the man inside, then back at the Duke of Anding, before suddenly dropping to his knees with a thud. Li Congjia was startled. “Piaopeng, what are you doing? Get up.”
The boy stubbornly remained kneeling and shook his head. “Who in this estate does not know of the Duke of Anding’s kindness? But this time, we absolutely cannot agree. This man is extraordinarily dangerous. Duke of Anding, please do not forget that the wounds on your body are all because of him.”
“I have spoken to him. Get up first.”
“He still bears hostility toward the Duke of Anding…”
Li Congjia was completely out of options and could only harden his tone. “I said, get up.” Piaopeng rose reluctantly. “Master… at least think of Madam. She was so terribly worried about you, and now you say you’ll simply release him…”
“Are you the one who makes the decisions, or am I? Whose estate is this?” Li Congjia turned toward the guards. “I said, go inside and untie him.”
When the ropes were removed, A-Shui had already regained his calm. He strode forward until he stood directly before Li Congjia, close enough to see his double-pupiled eye. “People always say that a double pupil is the countenance of an emperor. Li Congjia…” He left the rest unsaid, abruptly changing the subject. “I promise you. When the day comes that I have the ability to kill you openly and honorably in revenge for Hong’er, I will come find you myself.”
Elio’s Notes: Chongtong (重瞳), literally “double pupil,” is a legendary physical trait in Chinese historical tradition. Figures such as the sage-emperor Shun and Xiang Yu were said to possess it, and the term later became associated with rulers or an imperial physiognomy.
Li Congjia said nothing. He merely smiled faintly and gave a slight nod before stepping aside. The men on both sides did not dare say anything. However unwillingly, they too moved out of the way and watched A-Shui walk straight out.
A-Shui watched the flowering branches drift past beside him. Since Hong’er had left, this was the first time he had looked at the world around him with such calm. He had once carried a heart full of rage and wanted nothing more than to kill Li Congjia. He had waited obsessively along the route Li Congjia was bound to take, hoping to use the stupidest possible method to exact his revenge. Yet now, he suddenly did not want to see Li Congjia die so quickly.
He would wait until he had the ability to accomplish something great. Then he would return and make Li Congjia see him with new eyes, and Hong’er, wherever her spirit might be, would no longer have to worry about him.
Every life has meaning. He should not treat his own life lightly.
A-Shui left the Duke of Anding’s estate with a bitter smile. He had never imagined that one day, these truths would be taught to him by his own enemy.
That man clothed in the colors of night rain was perhaps not quite as undeserving of his reputation as A-Shui had once believed. For no apparent reason, A-Shui began to believe those absurd rumors. A double-pupiled eye, the countenance of an emperor. Yet there was something regrettable in the image of that figure riding the wind through the Nine Heavens. How could he imagine that blue-green man dressed from head to toe in brilliant imperial yellow? The color was far too dazzling. Rather than complementing his bearing, it seemed unworthy of him.
Li Congjia was tired, so he let Piaopeng support him back. The young page sulked beside him but did not dare show it openly, his entire face turning red enough to amuse Li Congjia. “I have my reasons. Don’t worry.”
“Master is always like this. If Master could only harden his heart a little, how would you ever have gotten hurt? I’ll have someone bring your medicine.” Remembering that Li Congjia had not yet taken his medicine that day, Piaopeng could only sigh helplessly.
Piaopeng was still young then. All he knew was worry. He did not know that one day his fears would become reality. When blood splashed across the mountains and rivers, would he remember this very day? Were all the causes and consequences of this world already destined somewhere beyond human sight?
After taking his medicine, Li Congjia should by all rights have gone to the couch and rested properly for a while. Instead, he rose, threw on another layer of clothing, and decided to take a walk through the garden.
There was little point staying cooped up inside with nothing to do. His injury made it difficult for him to leave the estate, and these past several days truly had been tedious.
He did not want anyone following him, but who could possibly feel at ease? Piaopeng kept some distance behind him as he walked, close enough that someone would be there if Li Congjia suddenly felt unwell.
Spring breath fills the woods with fragrance; a spring outing must not be forgotten. Falling blossoms are nearly blown away; broken willow sprays grow long again. Mulberry girls sing Huainan songs; golden saddles bear northern dress. Step after step, they dance the Little Drooping Hands; sunset glows over the Wei River.
Li Congjia softly recited the Tang poet Wang Han’s verse and lingered over the lines, Mulberry girls sing Huainan songs; golden saddles bear northern dress. Huainan and the lands beyond the northern passes. What might the scenery be like over there? Would they be beneath the same spring?
Elio’s Notes: The poem is Wang Han’s Ziye Spring Song (《子夜春歌》). The source quotes the complete eight-line poem. Xiao Chuishou (小垂手), rendered here as “Little Drooping Hands,” was also the name of a sleeve-dance movement known from earlier Chinese dance tradition and still current in the Tang period.
The corridors of the estate twisted through nine bends with no end in sight. His steps were aimless, for he had never intended to follow any particular path. He simply walked until he raised his head and froze.
The side courtyard.
A moon gate stretched between the two ends of memory.
It had not been very long, yet when he stepped inside again, his state of mind was completely different. Li Congjia walked past that wall around which so much had once become entangled. That man had slammed him hard against it. He could still remember the marks left upon his wrists.
He remembered what he had once thought. Who could truly value you as their very life?
The wind flows, the spring murmurs,
Even pipes and song can break the heart. A person could not spend forever looking back. Li Congjia stood at the edge of a bottomless abyss, yet still insisted upon lingering among the clouds and smoke of the past, stubbornly refusing to turn around. He had always believed that he still lived within the golden age that belonged to the two of them.
But later, he met him. The air around him seemed to grow steadily warmer. Everything that had happened before this wall inevitably disrupted the course his life had once followed. Ehuang had stumbled upon something she should never have learned, regardless of whether she truly remembered it or merely took it for a dream and forgot.
No one has the power to reverse what has already happened. You are not a god.
None of us are the same anymore.
Li Congjia told Piaopeng to wait outside. He drew a deep breath and pushed open the door once more.
Just as he had ordered, people had continued taking good care of the room. There was no dust on the table or beside the bed. Li Congjia closed his eyes, and everything returned vividly before him.
“Let me remember you, Li Congjia.” Remember me. You said you would remember me.
Li Congjia slowly sat down upon the couch. The wound on his shoulder was almost completely healed, yet he always found himself thinking of it. Marks did not necessarily preserve anything. Perhaps even after every trace disappears, I will still remember you.
That sword wound could never have seriously hurt Zhao Kuangyin. But he had said he wanted to remember him. So long as that wound remains, the sandalwood has not faded, and neither have I gone.
“Remember this. As long as the sandalwood has not faded, neither have I gone.”
By now, your wound has probably healed too. Li Congjia bent down and pressed his face against the newly changed bedding, silently speaking to the dust motes dancing through the sunlight.
Returning to this room made Li Congjia suddenly feel light. After everything that had happened in recent days, it was as though he had finally escaped long enough to strip away every mask he had forced himself to maintain. Once again, he was the Li Congjia who had stood before Zhao Kuangyin that day, somewhat childish and stubborn, doing as he pleased and surrendering himself freely to his feelings.
He spoke into the empty air, his eyes fixed upon the place where the sword-browed man had once sat. “Zhao Kuangyin, I really, really wanted to go to Phoenix Terrace.”
But Heaven had other plans.
Spring is almost over. When the snow falls, remember me.
Who sat silently in a cabin battered by raging river winds? A scroll was slowly unfurled, revealing a pale blue-green figure, peerless and untouched by the mortal world. What a beautiful painting it was, except that the person in the painting had no eyes.
Zhao Guangyi leaned coldly against the opposite side, watching his elder brother hold the painting and study it closely.
He had only glimpsed one corner of it, yet he could already guess who the figure was. With colors that quiet and restrained, there was no need to think twice. Watching through the shifting light, he felt that the painter’s mind must have been terribly unsettled. The painting was skillful, but the strokes carried too much force, almost as though everything had been wagered upon a single throw.
Zhao Kuangyin reached out and brushed his fingers over the blank space where the eyes should have been.
He had carried this painting close to his body all along. Strangely enough, the absence of the eyes had become the painting’s greatest stroke of genius. Zhao Kuangyin remembered the scene of Li Hongji’s death. Someone like you truly could never have captured his spirit.
The wind rushed violently inside, setting the scroll rustling.
The sword-browed man rarely showed anything resembling panic, yet now it appeared for the sake of a single painting. Afraid that it might be damaged, he carefully rolled it up and put it away.
At that very moment, the wind swept past, wrinkling the waters of the spring river and making the withered branches tremble. Before a dead plum tree stood a heart that had died with it.
A-Shui gripped the hairpin tightly in his hand. He had once imagined, full of happiness, that it would become a betrothal gift. It was nothing remarkable, but it had carried his heart. Now, no matter how precious that feeling was, there was nowhere left for him to send it.
Hong’er, are you well?
Someone passed behind him. The people of Green Willow Lane did little more than the lowest kinds of menial labor. A woman from some household hurried past, yet still did not forget to cast him a contemptuous glance. Aunt Fan’s son was standing there stupidly staring at that tree again. Did he expect a dead tree to suddenly bloom with golden flowers? Word had already spread several days ago that the Hong girl had tried to climb onto a higher branch, only to somehow meet a violent death. The woman pursed her lips and shook her head. Born to a lowly fate, what could she possibly have expected?
A-Shui merely stood there and stared. Beneath that small mound of earth lay all the warmth he had ever possessed in this life. He had originally believed that whether or not his revenge succeeded, he would never escape death himself. He had even left instructions at home asking his mother to bury him together with this hairpin beside Hong’er. But today he had not died, and A-Shui had changed his mind.
Hong’er, wait for me. When the day comes that I can openly make Li Congjia pay the price, I will bring this betrothal gift to you. I wonder if it is cold where you are.
He crouched and stroked the small patch of yellow earth. Hong’er’s lively phoenix eyes could never be something this place was capable of hiding.
The day was drawing to its end.
Between light and shadow upon the mountains, all rivers flowed toward the sea. Yet because of the rare occasion of the Crown Prince’s great mourning, the entire city grieved. Flags were furled, drums fell silent, and a bleak stillness hung over everything.
The bells of Andong Temple rang unchanged throughout Jinling. Pray ask the east-flowing water: which is longer, the river or the sorrow of parting?
Elio’s Notes: The line is from Tang poet Li Bai’s Farewell at a Wine Shop in Jinling (《金陵酒肆留别》). The poem compares the seemingly endless east-flowing river with the depth and length of separation, making its placement here particularly pointed as Li Congjia thinks of Zhao Kuangyin.
Li Congjia suddenly awoke with a start. He had relaxed so completely here in the side courtyard that drowsiness had overtaken him. He rose, stepped outside, and carefully closed the wooden door.
At the ends of earth and sea, beneath what sky are you now?
Piaopeng had been waiting quietly. When Li Congjia emerged, he asked in confusion, “Young Master Zhao left in such a hurry. Is he not coming back?”
Li Congjia raised his head and looked toward the peach blossoms from that day, now beginning to fade. He had once asked Zhao Kuangyin whether he had ever tasted peach blossoms.
“He hasn’t left.”
The moon from those days is still there; once, it shone upon the returning cloud.
Elio’s Notes: The closing line, and the source of the chapter title, comes from Northern Song poet Yan Jidao’s Linjiangxian (《临江仙·梦后楼台高锁》): 当时明月在，曾照彩云归. In the original lyric, caiyun (彩云, “colored cloud”) metaphorically evokes the beloved woman returning beneath the moon, so the line carries an intense sense of remembering someone after separation.