Zhao Guangyi shot to his feet. “Why?”
His elder brother looked up at him, plainly finding his reaction strange. “Yunjie and I have known each other for years. Is this really so surprising?” Without thinking, Zhao Guangyi blurted, “But Elder Brother’s feelings for her have never been those of a man for a woman.” Only after the words left his mouth did he realize he had lost composure. His gaze slid aside toward the table and chairs.
Zhao Kuangyin ignored that. “I have changed my mind. I will agree to Madam Wang’s proposal.” Zhao Guangyi said nothing for a long while. He stood there blankly, then abruptly turned to leave. As he reached the door, Zhao Kuangyin called after him, “Elder Brother will rest for a while. Go tell Madam Wang. I will visit Autumn Pavilion myself later.”
Zhao Guangyi did not answer. He only asked, “The painting. You destroyed it?” Zhao Kuangyin fell silent for just as long. “You ask too much.” Zhao Guangyi’s fingers tightened around the door until the knuckles strained. “A person is not a painting. You cannot take someone as your own because you like them today, then return their freedom at whim when you tire of them tomorrow. Elder Brother, think carefully.”
“Once Zhao Kuangyin gives his word, it stands. Guangyi, what has gotten into you today?” He turned to look at him. Zhao Guangyi shut the door behind himself and left.
＊
He walked away slowly, yet did not go to Autumn Pavilion. Instead, alone, he returned to the Buddhist hall in the rear garden. The bronze lock outside sealed away memories buried in dust. More than ten years had passed since the first time he saw that fool, since the two of them supported one another while confined together in Andong Temple. After all those years, there was so little left he could still remember, yet when he tried to look closely he lacked the courage to turn those memories over again. Zhao Guangyi reached toward the bronze lock. Halfway through opening it, he glimpsed the faint light inside the dim hall, a muted golden sheen seeping through the darkness, and his irritation only deepened. Zhao Guangyi did not know what to call this feeling. Had he not spent more than ten years shut inside a Buddhist temple, perhaps he could have spoken honestly about his heart. Once he had stepped beyond those temple walls, even the color of the sky had changed. And the woman who had once sat beside him on these stone steps… he simply did not want to see her cry.
It was not the first time he had thought this way. She was the second person to make Zhao Guangyi feel so. The first time, he had not wanted to see that child cry, and afterward he never saw him again for the rest of his life.
This was the second time. Zhao Guangyi was afraid that this time, too, he would be wrong.
He sat on the stone steps. The weather was fine today, nothing like the oppressive bank of dark clouds that day. From far away came the chirring of cicadas. The longer he listened, the more their clamor disturbed his heart.
He hated the sound of cicadas. It always made Zhao Guangyi lose all sense of where he truly was. He glanced at the sun’s shadow. Everyone in the residence knew Elder Brother had returned today, so Yunjie would certainly not appear again. Yet somewhere inside him, he was waiting.
That child had taught him the force of expectation. Yunjie had made him truly understand what it felt like to wait for someone.
＊
He sat there for a very long time, until the sun slanted westward, still unwilling to go anywhere. Then Ling’er’s voice suddenly rang out from ahead, unmistakably startled. “What are you doing here?”
Her voice was immediately hushed. Other voices followed, but Autumn Pavilion lay too far from the Buddhist hall for him to make them out. It had to be Elder Brother going there. Zhao Guangyi could no longer sit still. He rose and quietly followed.
Hidden behind a decorative rock outside Autumn Pavilion, he remembered the first time he had met Yunjie alone. She too had sat there by herself, grieving in silence. She was plainly not strong enough to bear everything alone, yet she refused to seek too much comfort from others.
She was a good woman. That had been the voice in his heart then. It was a pity Elder Brother would not turn around and look at her.
And today?
Standing in the shadow, he suddenly wanted to laugh. What could he learn by hiding here? What did he even want to know? His thoughts spun in confusion until he saw Madam Wang escort Zhao Kuangyin out. Her face was full of smiles. Yunjie was nowhere in sight.
Perhaps it was better not to see her. Neither side objected to the marriage. Anyone who did could only ever remain an outsider.
＊
Night fell. Zhao Guangyi was still sitting on the stone steps outside the Buddhist hall.
Someone approached from afar. He did not raise his head.
Long skirts brushed past and the person sat beside him without speaking. The distinctive fragrance of a woman’s powder stood out amid the night-dark plants and trees. Zhao Guangyi smiled faintly. “How is Miss Yunjie today?”
The voice beside him was unsteady. “My lord surely knows what happened. Why ask whether Yunjie is well?” Hearing the difference in her voice, Zhao Guangyi looked over. She had plainly been crying, though she had lightly powdered her face before coming out to hide the traces. “There is no need for this. Calm yourself and think about it. Perhaps it truly is a good thing for you.”
Disappointment entered Yunjie’s eyes. “I thought my lord would be different from everyone else.”
“Different?” Zhao Guangyi looked genuinely puzzled. “Why should I be? In a chaotic age, everyone fears for themselves. Besides, Madam Wang is ultimately doing this for your sake. It is only human nature.”
Yunjie shook her head. “I do not blame Mother. I only…”
“You cannot understand why he agreed to the marriage?”
“Does my lord know the reason?”
Zhao Guangyi lowered his head again and said nothing.
Yunjie smiled. “Even if my lord will not say it, Yunjie knows.” The man before her irritably lifted a hand to drive away the insects riding the wind. “What does any of this have to do with me? Whether I know or not, I cannot save anyone.”
Yunjie turned slightly and looked toward the Buddhist hall. “Would my lord accompany me inside?”
“I told you before, the Buddha saves no one. When people are heartbroken and desperate, they come begging for deliverance. Once there was someone who watched an eternal lamp burn day after day and truly, wholeheartedly believed that what he wished for must one day be granted. Yet in the end, he still met no good end.”
Yunjie turned her face and listened with unusual seriousness. Zhao Guangyi’s heart was unsettled and he had spoken almost carelessly, without thinking, yet she heard every word. “My lord is wrong.”
He looked at her. “Wrong?”
Yunjie slowly rose. “My lord thinks he was a fool, that he pleaded so bitterly for so many years and still came to no good end. But if the dead have knowledge, then he must have left this life without regret. At least…” Sorrow filled her eyes. “He truly believed. He never lied to his own heart.”
Zhao Guangyi tilted his head toward the sky and slowly closed his eyes. In the end, who was it that had lied to his own heart?
“Come inside with me and offer a stick of incense.”
＊
The sutras were chanted softly. Whenever he did this, if he recited long enough, his heart truly could grow still. He knelt with her in quiet worship before the Buddha, not knowing whether, when tomorrow’s sun rose and they pushed open the door, there would ever be another chance like this.
Zhao Guangyi asked her, “Elder Brother deceived you. Will you still marry him?”
Yunjie kept her eyes closed. “After so many days, he entered Autumn Pavilion again. I did not speak with him, but I knew he was no longer the Zhao Kuangyin he used to be. There is something in his heart. Before, he would have laid out every complicated detail clearly, whether honorable or not, whether important or trivial. Zhao Kuangyin disdained hiding secrets. But today, he has a story he cannot tell.” Tears suddenly slipped from her eyes. “Zhao Kuangyin has never deceived me. He is deceiving himself.”
Zhao Guangyi felt even more desolate. He wished she were not such an intelligent woman. He wished she could possess a simpler, foolish heart, so that if what she had longed for truly came to pass today, she could simply rejoice and perhaps live more happily afterward. Unfortunately, she was not that kind of woman.
If she were, his own heart would not have been moved by her either.
Zhao Kuangyin did not believe in fate. Zhao Guangyi believed deeply in cause and consequence. He reached out and gently brushed Yunjie’s long hair, his voice low and hoarse. He had only just finished reciting an entire sutra, yet for the first time in his life the act had cost him real effort. People were forever teaching the Buddha to kill, and that was why their stories became so magnificent, so violently grand. But apart from love and compassion, where in this world was there any Buddha at all? The lingering cadence of mercy was still between his lips and teeth, yet what he said was, “Yunjie… Zhao Guangyi also has someone he wants to cherish. No matter who it is, I will make him regret this.”
His hand tightened. Yunjie’s eyes flew open in shock and she jerked backward, but several strands of her fine hair were torn free in his grasp. Only one weak candle burned in the Buddhist hall. In its wavering light, the man’s smile looked unbearably sorrowful. He lifted those strands to his nose, breathed in their scent, then swept his hand through the candle flame and burned them to ash.
He had made up his mind. No matter what it took, he would make Zhao Kuangyin learn the taste of sorrow. Zhao Guangyi turned and left, abandoning Yunjie alone in the Buddhist hall.
She broke down sobbing.
＊
The night was just as deep in the Southern Kingdom.
This too was a Buddhist chamber, but brocade gauze hung from its walls. A pale-jade figure knelt before the Buddha, murmuring words no one else could understand. Li Congjia had been unable to sleep peacefully for many days now.
At night he would close his eyes upon the pillow, crystal curtains around a glass pillow, warm fragrance coaxing dreams from mandarin-duck brocade, yet no matter how he tossed and turned sleep would not come easily. Ehuang’s warm body lay beside him, warmth spreading across his skin but offering no comfort to his mind. He listened to the quiet rhythm of her sleeping breath, then rose and slipped on an outer robe.
Night after night there was not the slightest trace of sleep. He wondered whether that bowl of medicinal broth she had given him had truly exhausted every last scrap of slumber remaining in this life. Once, he had thought only in dreams could he find refuge. Now he had lost even the ability to dream.
But there was nowhere to begin speaking of it. He had no right to grieve.
And so Li Congjia withdrew even farther. Without disturbing anyone, he went alone before the Buddha. Sometimes he quietly read the sutras. Sometimes he knelt there and spoke softly. He forgot what he had wanted to say, and no longer knew what else there was to say. He merely wanted someone to understand that, in truth, he had never regretted it.
He wanted very much to tell him that Li Congjia did not like regret.
The night was already deep. He did not know that someone outside the window was weeping onto the paper lattice. Through the glow she looked in and saw, dimly, a hazy wash where sky and water seemed to merge into one hue, stripped of every mask and every trace of elegance. Only then did she realize he was thinner and more fragile than the window paper itself.
＊
When dawn came again, life seemed to have returned to its old course.
After Li Congjia changed in haste and went to court, Ehuang sat alone in Cloud-Dragging Pavilion in the Eastern Palace and played the pipa. She treasured the fragmentary score he had brought back and thought constantly of finding a way to complete it.
If she could no longer be his comfort, then at the very least she wanted to preserve the intention he had once held in his heart.
Sometimes Nüying slipped over in secret. She too was accomplished in music. Though young, her skill did not lose to her elder sister’s, and she had always been proud enough never to neglect her practice. Once she heard that Li Congjia had brought Ehuang a fragment of the Rainbow Skirt and Feathered Robe Dance, there was no chance she would let it pass. She insisted on coming to see it.
Ehuang agreed, if only for the company. During the day there was no one else in the Eastern Palace who could understand her heart and stay beside her, and Nüying could help her with the score besides.
The first time Nüying saw the score, she too found it strange. “My pipa playing cannot compare with Elder Sister’s, but I have seen a very great many scores. This one is unusual.”
Ehuang nodded. “I know. Yet when I play it carefully, there are passages of extraordinary subtlety. This score is different from others. There must be some principle behind it.”
Nüying said no more. She held her pipa and seriously studied the piece with Ehuang. The weather was humid and warm, but the pavilion stood at a turn in the covered corridor where cool wind blew straight through, so Nüying did not find the heat oppressive. She was just about to praise how thoughtfully the pavilion had been built when she noticed that after only a few run-throughs, sweat had appeared on Ehuang’s forehead. Amused, she asked, “Elder Sister, are you hot?”
Ehuang shook her head. “It is strange. I have been like this for the past few days. Perhaps my old illness has returned and left my mind unsettled.”
Nüying froze, then hurriedly changed the subject. After a while Ehuang began to feel unwell. She set the pipa aside and reached for tea. “I find it strange too. Gauze hangs on all four sides of this pavilion to block the sun, and the place is so well ventilated. I used to sit here reading for half a day without feeling overheated. Yet these past few days, whenever I play the pipa, my chest feels stifled.”
Nüying thought it over, then laughed. “Elder Sister must have neglected her practice after marrying Brother-in-law. No wonder.” The implication embarrassed Ehuang, who came over and swatted her. “Talking like that at your age. If Father hears you, he will beat you to death.”
Nüying looked aggrieved and turned her face away. Then something occurred to her. “Father has never praised me anyway. He is always saying that if Nüying had even a trace of Ehuang in her, he would have far less to worry about.” Ehuang came over and took her hand. “Is my little girl sulking now?” Nüying said nothing. Her gaze fell on the score. “Brother-in-law truly put his heart into this. Elder Sister’s old wish can finally be fulfilled.” Her tone was mild, but the unwillingness beneath it was unmistakable.
The words made Ehuang ache all the more. A beautiful pair amid the splendor of youth, admired wherever they went, yet who knew of the lowered eyes outside a window in the dark of night? All the envy surrounding them had become a hidden poison, waiting only for the day it would seep deep enough to destroy heart and bone.
The breeze stirred ripples through her pale-gold skirt. Ehuang caught the faint scent of pomegranate blossoms and released a long breath. “Nüying, sometimes Elder Sister has simply thought too highly of herself.” Nüying did not understand. Thinking Ehuang merely felt guilty because she had complained that Father never praised her, she said, “Nüying only said it casually. Elder Sister need not take it to heart.”
Beautiful fingers tapped Nüying lightly on the forehead. Sorrow was plain in Ehuang’s eyes, though the corner of her mouth still curved in a smile. “You truly are still a little girl. Perhaps when you grow older you will understand. We all think too highly of ourselves. With some people, merely being allowed to look upon them from afar is already a gift.”
Nüying looked at her. So there are things even you cannot do. She pressed her cheek to the jade plaque at the head of the pipa. Its chill seeped into her heart, flowering and bearing fruit in an instant. “Elder Sister, have you ever regretted anything?”
Ehuang looked at her gently, but with complete seriousness. “Why ask that all of a sudden?”
“I am only curious. Elder Sister is so perfect. Have you truly never regretted anything?”
Ehuang laughed despite herself. “No regrets. At least, as of this moment, I have never felt regret.”
Nüying lightly brushed away a fallen blossom beside her. “If that is true, then it really is a blessing.” Ehuang took another small sip of tea and slowly told her, “He does not like regret. Neither do I.”
Nüying’s expression did not change. Her fingernails dug into the flower petals until crimson stained them.
A sudden gust rose. The light gauze outside Cloud-Dragging Pavilion billowed upward, carrying waves of grassy fragrance. Ehuang hurriedly stood and gathered the fragmentary score of the Rainbow Skirt and Feathered Robe Dance. “Let us go back. The wind is rising.”
At that same moment, Li Congjia stood at a palace balustrade looking out. North winds swept everything in sight. Several days had passed and the wound on his wrist had nearly healed, leaving only a faint mark.
The scar ran diagonally along his wrist. It did nothing to mar his devastating beauty, yet it could not bear close inspection. Had the wound gone a little deeper, had Zhao Kuangyin’s strength not been blunted so greatly by the wooden bracelet and the jade, the angle of the freshly broken wooden splinter could easily have severed his wrist. Then Li Congjia would no longer have needed to wander alone through the deep palace courtyards for all the years ahead.
It was just like knowing full well that he did not wish to become Crown Prince, only for Zhao Kuangyin to agree to the trade and make his accession seem inevitable. Just as Li Congjia could not easily allow himself to die, he could not live whole either. Even if he returned to the old course of his life, he would carry forever the scar Zhao Kuangyin had given him. Li Congjia had never thought there was anything particularly fine about his wrist. It attracted too many eyes. Yet now that a flaw had truly been carved into it, he could not quite bear to lose it.
＊
Layered ridges seemed to rise along the horizon. Far away, wind and clouds changed without warning, and in an instant the gale came.
High above the palace, he stood against the wind. The bright moon rises from Tianshan, amid the vast sea of clouds. Li Congjia pulled his robes more tightly around himself.
Elio’s Notes: The chapter title and the line here come from Li Bai’s “Moon over the Mountain Pass” (Guan Shan Yue), whose opening is “The bright moon rises from Tianshan, amid the vast sea of clouds.”
Several elderly ministers passed behind him. They bowed and sighed when they saw him. Li Congjia waved a hand and they immediately fell silent. Something serious had happened today. The Emperor insisted on moving the capital to Nanchang Prefecture. Their remonstrances had failed and they had been forced to withdraw. They had hoped to hear the Crown Prince’s view, but Li Congjia merely rubbed his wrist and smiled faintly as wind and clouds churned behind him. “The Southern Capital cannot compare with Jinling. Father is ill. I ask all of you to ensure everything is properly safeguarded. Do not defy Father’s wishes.”
The old ministers exchanged helpless looks. Han Xizai happened to approach from behind, and after a few polite greetings the others withdrew. Li Congjia smiled and told him there was no need for ceremony. “Lord Han looks quite spirited lately.”
Han Xizai laughed heartily and pointed toward the sky. “When the signs of Heaven change, fortune and disaster may come by morning or evening. Why not enjoy ourselves while we can? Once Your Highness is free from these few days of government business, might you honor this subject’s residence with a visit?”
Two or three palace attendants hurried past behind them, pale with fear. The relocation had thrown everyone into panic, yet the two men stood in the wind chatting as though nothing were wrong. For a moment the surroundings fell quiet. Han Xizai took his leave. As Li Congjia opened his fan to depart, the long slanting scar on his wrist showed clearly. Han Xizai frowned. “Forgive this old subject for speaking plainly. A single wrist of Your Highness could overturn all under Heaven. How did you come by such a dangerous wound?”
Li Congjia drew his wrist back into his sleeve without turning. In an apricot-yellow robe embroidered with dragons, he slowly descended the white-jade steps. “I had an absurd dream in broad daylight and was burned by fire.”
Han Xizai smiled faintly. That was plainly a puncture wound. What fire could have caused it? Li Congjia’s temperament… He sighed deeply and remembered Li Hongji years ago beneath the window, gathering all his concentration simply to write the character for state.
There was no easy answer as to which of them was more suited. Han Xizai himself did not know whether the fortunes of a dynasty mattered more, or the lives of ten thousand common people. He raised his eyes and watched Li Congjia recede into the distance. Along the way people bowed again and again, and each time he merely waved them off. Behind a vermilion pillar, several young palace maids stared after him in a daze, covering their mouths as they giggled.
It did not matter that he was a legend to all under Heaven. Immortal fame could not purchase a single night’s sleep today.
＊
Han Xizai also made his way out of the palace. The Han Residence carriage had been waiting for some time. He beckoned over a trusted retainer accompanying him. “That unusual incense the Crown Prince mentioned the last time he visited my residence. Have you found it?”
The man bowed his head. “It is on the road. It should arrive within the next few days.” Han Xizai nodded and climbed into the carriage.
From far behind came the sound of strings and pipes once more. In Weiyang Hall, another endless night had begun.
＊
Three days later, the imperial physicians gathered outside Shouyuan Hall. The Emperor had suffered a high fever for days and remained unconscious. That night, senior ministers kept vigil inside the palace without leaving. Rumors surged through the entire city as torrential rain swallowed the capital.