Elio’s Notes: The chapter title comes from Tang poet Zhang Jiuling’s Gazing at the Moon and Thinking of One Far Away. The line describes the speaker extinguishing the candle to cherish the moonlight filling the room. Here, the allusion can be read as deepening the chapter’s atmosphere of sleepless longing and separation.
Having followed Zhao Kuangyin all the way through the conquest of the realm, Zhao Pu now ignored the cumbersome formalities and spoke plainly. “This subject has concerns regarding the Prince of Jin. When he entered the command tent late that night at Chenqiao, I saw at once that His Highness’s expression was strange; I sounded him out with a few words, and what followed was everything that happened when the troops acclaimed Your Majesty.”
Zhao Kuangyin sat on the dragon throne without answering, broken fragments strewn across the floor between them. Zhao Pu silently tried to judge just how completely he trusted the Prince of Jin; the matter was already plain enough. Only after a long while did Zhao Kuangyin slowly say, “The Chancellor suspects that the rebels at Chenqiao that night were entirely the Prince of Jin’s doing. But even if so, such a trifling matter could never have altered the larger outcome, so what could the Prince of Jin possibly have hoped to gain?”
Zhao Pu considered the question calmly. “Naturally, the Prince of Jin hoped to gain Your Majesty’s trust.”
Zhao Kuangyin laughed. “He is my own flesh-and-blood brother. Why would I not trust him?” Zhao Pu smiled, his meaning deep. “That is precisely why this subject believes the Prince of Jin has something to hide.” No sooner had he finished than he felt Zhao Kuangyin’s gaze sharpen. “Does the Chancellor know that those words alone could cost him his life?”
Zhao Pu remained perfectly composed. “Since ancient times, civil officials have died for remonstrance.”
Zhao Kuangyin asked in a low voice, “The Chancellor should know that I spent more than ten years searching for him, unable to sleep in peace. Knowing that, what do you imagine I feel hearing this now?” Zhao Pu had expected as much. He sighed softly. “This subject knew long ago that Your Majesty would react this way.”
The Emperor summoned his palace attendant Wang Ji’en to have the shattered table cleared away and gave Zhao Pu no further attention, leaving him no choice but to bow and withdraw. When Wang Ji’en entered Wende Hall and saw the Chancellor, he hurriedly saluted with a broad smile, but Zhao Pu ignored him and turned away. Wang Ji’en watched until his figure vanished from sight, then glanced toward the upper end of the hall, where the Emperor sat alone upon the dragon throne with an unreadable expression. After steadying himself, Wang Ji’en called several attendants to clear away the broken table with care and quietly withdrew.
Wang Ji’en led the attendants out of Wende Hall, looked around to make sure no one else was nearby, dismissed the palace servants, and slowly made his own way toward the rear of the hall.
Poplars stretched in long ranks along the Imperial Avenue. After the Prince of Jin, Zhao Guangyi, passed through Vermilion Bird Gate, word reached him in secret that Zhao Pu had indeed gone to speak openly about his concerns over that night at Chenqiao; judging from his imperial brother’s reaction, however, the wound Zhao Guangyi had taken had been well worth it. He had incited that man to rebel, yet the man had never known that Zhao Guangyi had even calculated the path of that arrow and stepped forward to take it for Zhao Kuangyin. As their party rode toward the Prince of Jin’s Residence, Zhao Guangyi suddenly remembered something and, looking toward the luxuriant willows, asked the men at his sides in a low voice, “What became of the man who shot this prince that night?”
His subordinate Wang Fu urged his horse closer and answered quietly, “Your Highness, everything was done according to your previous instructions: the corpse displayed for three days belonged to a drunkard this subordinate found in some remote village, and once he was beheaded, no one would know who he had been.”
Zhao Guangyi gave a slight nod, and Wang Fu continued, “This subordinate has already explained the circumstances to that man. Your Highness did not betray Military Governor Wang’s former retainers; you merely changed course temporarily for the sake of the larger situation.”
Zhao Guangyi smiled. “So long as you understand, and from now on, no one is to use the phrase ‘Wang’s former retainers’ again.”
“Yes, Your Highness!”
“From now on, I will still rely on you to keep Wang Rao’s former retainers close; you will not go wrong by following this prince.” Zhao Guangyi’s gaze deepened as the men around him swore one after another that they would follow him forever. Wang Fu said indignantly, “The Military Governor spent his whole life in the army and treated the present Emperor well, yet His Majesty repaid kindness with betrayal!”
Zhao Guangyi made a silencing gesture and rode on.
After burning the Buddhist scriptures that day, he had sworn to cast off the past and every memory of Andong Temple, then secretly sought out Wang Rao’s former retainers and his adopted son Wang Fu. No one else knew of Wang Rao’s private collusion with Jiangnan or everything he had arranged for Zhao Guangyi, and Chai Rong would never reveal the true circumstances behind how a powerful regional military governor had ultimately ended up beheaded with his household confiscated. The charge of treason and collusion with the enemy sounded perfectly respectable on its face, but once Zhao Guangyi embellished the story, it naturally became a convenient lever for channeling those men’s resentment.
Zhao Guangyi told Wang Fu outright that although he and Zhao Kuangyin were brothers, they had been separated since childhood and no longer shared much affection; the Military Governor had personally rescued him from Jiangnan only to meet such an end, and Zhao Guangyi would never forget that grievance. After the mutiny at Chenqiao, Zhao Kuangyin had far too much weighing on his mind to notice where the loyalties of those former retainers were turning, and Zhao Guangyi seized that opening tightly.
The newly bestowed Prince of Jin’s Residence was already before them when Zhao Guangyi swung down from his horse. Exceptionally intelligent by nature, he learned everything quickly, whether riding at full gallop or winning people to his side. The wound from that night had not healed, and although Zhao Kuangyin had kindly arranged a carriage to send him home, once they passed Vermilion Bird Gate Zhao Guangyi insisted on returning on horseback; of course the wound still hurt, but more than ten years in a temple had cost him too many opportunities, and after helping Zhao Kuangyin seize the realm his heart had begun to stir at how many things now seemed almost within reach. Zhao Guangyi smiled faintly: he still had to proceed one step at a time, but no matter what happened, everything this world had cheated him of would be taken back, piece by piece.
At Zhao Guangyi’s request, a Buddhist hall had been arranged inside the Prince of Jin’s Residence, but all four walls stood bare, without a single statue or scripture. Holding a hand over his abdomen, he had meant to return to the rear garden to rest, yet when his gaze fell upon the western path leading to the Buddhist hall, he hesitated. A household servant behind him stepped forward to urge, “Your Highness, His Majesty remains worried about your injury and still sends an imperial physician every day to examine you; the physician is waiting in the rear courtyard now.”
Many memories surfaced in Zhao Guangyi’s mind. Frowning, he waved a hand. “Let him wait; this prince is occupied for the moment.” Then he turned onto that path and walked slowly toward the Buddhist hall.
Before that earthshaking upheaval, there had also been a Buddhist hall.
He had reached out and gently brushed her long hair, his voice low and hoarse. He had just finished reciting an entire Buddhist scripture, and for the first time in his life it had cost him real effort of heart: the world was forever demanding that even Buddhas kill, as though only then could anything become magnificent and sweeping; yet without love and compassion, where in this world could there be any Buddha at all? The lingering cadence of compassion still rested between his lips, but what he said was, “Yunjie… Zhao Guangyi also has someone he wants to cherish. No matter who it is, I will make him regret it.”
His fingers tightened, and Yunjie opened her eyes in startled confusion and jerked backward, only for him to tear several strands of hair from her head. In the Buddhist hall, lit by only one weak candle, the man’s sorrowful smile flickered in light and shadow as he lifted those strands to his nose, breathed in their scent, then swept them through the flame and burned them to ash.
＊
Only four empty white walls remained. Zhao Guangyi had left himself nothing. He had said that no matter who it was, he would make that person regret it.
He too had someone he wanted to cherish. The first time, that child had exhausted every bit of his heart and still failed to wait for the person he wanted to come. This time, no matter what happened, he would not repeat the same mistake.
Zhao Guangyi gazed toward some nameless corner. Yunjie was now inside the palace.
＊
Anchun Pavilion in the inner palace. Ling’er was combing her hair.
“Miss, it has grown a little longer again.” The young maid was cheerful simply because the weather was fine today. She gently gathered Yunjie’s hair, which had grown well past her waist. Yunjie stared blankly at the bronze mirror, where her swollen red eyes could not quite be hidden, and sighed softly.
“Miss, why keep thinking yourself in circles? He has become Emperor now. For a while he will hardly have time to concern himself with our side. The weather is so nice today. Why not go out for a walk?” Ling’er still had the temperament of a young girl. A glimpse of flowers and birds was enough to turn her mood bright again. But the pressure in Yunjie’s heart could not be relieved so easily.
“If you are bored, go walk around by yourself. You are not to leave the outer gate of Anchun Pavilion.” Yunjie remained unmoved and only sent her away.
Seeing that she was still in poor spirits, Ling’er could not say much more. She carefully finished combing her hair and brought over some face powder. “Miss… you cried again last night.”
Yunjie neither admitted nor denied it. She took the powder, her bare face looking especially pale, then suddenly smiled. “Bring the rouge instead.” Ling’er obeyed. Once the words had left her mouth, Yunjie found the instruction pointless. At a time like this, why was she still sitting before a mirror and sighing?
Zhao Kuangyin had feared that Yunjie and her mother would be caught up in the mutiny, so after taking the palace he had insisted that they stay within it. But what was this supposed to mean? Yunjie had not wanted to remain, yet she knew how to consider the larger situation. During those crucial days, she absolutely could not add the burden of old grudges to everything already weighing on him, so she had stayed for the time being. Now that affairs everywhere were gradually settling into order, what was she supposed to do next?
Resting her chin on her hand in frustration, Yunjie wound a loose strand of hair at her temple around her finger and found herself thinking of the man in that Buddhist hall. He too was now the exalted Prince of Jin. Surely he no longer had time to sit idly before a Buddhist hall.
Looking at her hair, she remembered the force of his hand that day. The broken strands he had torn loose had fallen away and then turned to ash in an instant above the candle flame. Perhaps this was simply how things were. What hope could human hearts have in a world of chaos? He understood it, and so did she. Perhaps that night before the Buddhist hall could only be looked back upon alone in the darkness, with quiet sorrow.
Perhaps it had nothing to do with any other sort of feeling. It was only that after the world had changed in an instant, looking back made that piece of memory seem exceptionally warm. And so she remembered it all the more clearly.
＊
In the still-empty Buddhist hall of the Prince of Jin’s Residence, Zhao Guangyi sat alone for a long time, until his stomach cramped with pain. Only then did he finally leave to see the imperial physician. Making someone sent from the palace wait too long would be a slight to his imperial brother, but his emotions had been unsettled just now and he had been unable to care about such things until the pain became unbearable.
The physician repeated the same warning as before: when the Prince of Jin pulled out the arrow, he had misjudged his strength and injured his stomach; the wound was not serious, but he still needed to take great care. Zhao Guangyi had never spent years campaigning on battlefields, so after being wounded he had not known how much force to use. That night, he had insisted on wrenching the arrow out with his own hand only to win his elder brother’s trust and leave the entire army with the impression of a brave, dependable man, never expecting to injure himself further. Zhao Guangyi could only smile bitterly at the result and eat a little congee that evening; fortunately, years of vegetarian food had long accustomed him to a plain diet, so he did not find it especially difficult.
Elio’s Notes: The raw briefly says Zhao Guangyi injured his stomach while “pulling the sword,” but the same paragraph immediately describes him pulling the arrow from his wound. The surrounding scene makes clear that the intended action is pulling the arrow, so the first wording appears to be a source typo.
＊
Flowers flew and swallows danced over Jiangnan.
The vast Weiyang Hall rang with music and dance, its splendor carrying a faint, lonely elegance. The Empress was still ill and lucid for only two or three hours each day, yet no one could find the cause. Whatever Nüying had done, it surely should not have produced an illness this severe, and besides, the original cause had already been discovered. Once the strange fragrance was kept away from the red sandalwood whose scent clashed with it, Ehuang ought to have gradually recovered. Yet Li Yu saw no improvement at all; instead… she seemed to be growing worse.
It was dusk, and a fine rain had begun again, falling softly and without end.
Before Li Yu, dancers moved on light, lotus-like steps; night had brought another palace banquet, and the sound of drums and zithers filled his ears without easing the knot inside his chest. He kept looking back. “How is the Empress today?”
Piaopeng hurried forward to report. “Your Majesty, Liuzhu has remained with her the entire time. Nothing has happened.” While he was still speaking, someone slowly emerged from behind the golden gauze. It was Liuzhu, coming as usual to report on the Empress’s medicine. Li Yu nodded slightly. “Has the Empress gone to sleep?”
Liuzhu looked worried. “I tried to persuade her. Her Majesty said she feels much better today, so she is still looking over the score.”
Li Yu set down his wine cup. Still uneasy, he rose to go see her.
Leaving the hall full of song and dance behind him, he entered the depths of the rear palace. Faint notes of a pipa drifted from somewhere ahead, but the music and dancing in Weiyang Hall were too loud behind him, muddling the sound until he could barely make it out. A quiet ache rose in Li Yu as he quickened his pace. The palace attendants were likely afraid the Empress would strain herself working on the score by lamplight at night, and so Fengque Palace had been lit with far too many candles. He had barely reached the doorway when he found smoke drifting everywhere. Behind the paper window stood the fragile shadow of a woman. Li Yu softly called Liuzhu over. “From now on, no candles are to be burned in Fengque Palace. Tomorrow, have luminous pearls hung on all four walls. Their glow will be enough at night.”
Liuzhu answered yes and was about to go inside to announce him, but Li Yu stopped her and gently pushed open the door himself.
Ehuang sat with her eyes closed in concentration, her fingertips moving quietly across the strings, when she suddenly sensed someone enter and the music stopped. Just then another of those now-frequent spells of dizziness struck, and the dragon-robed figure before her eyes blurred and swayed. She set down the score, steadied herself, and slowly recovered.
Ehuang tried to rise and salute, but he stopped her. “There is no one else here. Why bother?” She smiled. “The banquet is not over yet. Why has Your Majesty come back early?” Li Yu studied her expression carefully. Seeing that she still looked calm and no different from usual, he secretly relaxed. “I knew you still would not rest, so I came to look in on you.”
Ehuang set down the score and went to pour him tea. “While I am still… lucid…” Before she could finish, he caught her hand and tightened his grip. Li Yu remained seated at the table, unwilling to look up. “You have always been lucid.”
Ehuang drew her hand free and passed him a teacup patterned with peonies. “Perhaps. I cannot remember what I say when the illness takes me, but I can guess a little from the way everyone around me looks. They cannot have been pleasant words.”
Li Yu’s voice was very low. He accepted the cup and wrapped both hands around its warmth, which made him feel a little steadier. “Ehuang, everything you wanted to say to me, you already said while you were ill. I am afraid those were your true thoughts.” He hesitated slightly. “That day in the side courtyard, when you saw him and me… you actually remember it very clearly.”
“Yes. I remember it very clearly.”
“Then that day, you truly should not have let me return to Phoenix Terrace.” Li Yu raised his head slightly, seated beside the table while Ehuang stood opposite him. For one fleeting instant, his expression resembled that of a child who had done something wrong, his eyes clear yet unfathomable. Today she wore an extraordinarily luxurious gown, soft scarlet gauze studded with beads flowing down around her; with her expression perfectly calm, she stood before him neither servile nor overbearing, like a phoenix.
She kept smiling as she listened. “I only wanted you to go and look so that you would not regret it, but unfortunately, afterward I could no longer control myself.” Her brows drew together, almost in vexation, as she added, “Your Majesty, you know that I… do not want to become some woman from the marketplace, crying and making scenes, but that day I truly was heartbroken.”
He remembered Phoenix Terrace that day, cold enough for dripping water to freeze, with rain pouring down as everything beneath it was stripped bare and revealed for what it was. Li Yu shook his head. “That was not your fault. You were…” At the time she had been under the influence of Nüying’s scheme, so of course she had been unable to control herself. The light rain continued outside; Ehuang turned to look at it, then suddenly crossed the room to shut the window. “Your Majesty, there is still something you have not told me.”
Li Yu rose and walked up behind her, yet Ehuang’s straight-backed composure was so proud that now, today, he did not even dare reach out and embrace her. “Do not call me Your Majesty.”
“Very well, Li Yu.”
“Ehuang… are you trying to make me angry?”
She did not turn, and he could not step around to face her. Ehuang gave a soft laugh. “This consort would not dare. It is only that the other name can no longer be spoken.”
He said nothing as she continued, direct and utterly calm. “You changed your name because of him, did you not? You no longer want Li Congjia, but I…”
He still did not speak. She waited a long while, then finally forced the words lodged in her throat all the way out. “But I… love Li Congjia very much.”
His hand stopped half an inch from her back, trembling faintly.
＊
“So you gave Li Congjia a bowl of medicine to calm him and make him sleep. Simply because you loved him, you did not want him to go out that day.”
Ehuang looked genuinely startled. “Medicine?”
Li Yu smiled. “I no longer want to ask about it. That bowl of medicine was prepared to perfection, and it destroyed many things. I still remember that you carried the glass bowl to me with your own hands that day.”
Only then did Ehuang realize he meant the time when he had been feverish; she had indeed prepared his medicine herself, but she had no idea what he was referring to. “I… what was wrong with that medicine?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. It was quite a remarkable bowl of medicine. It taught me that even you can be willful.”
＊
Ehuang felt that too many things needed to be made clear and at once remembered the question she wanted answered even more. “Your Majesty, what else have you not told me?”
Li Yu turned away as well, leaving their backs to one another. “You want to ask about your illness?”
Her voice came slowly, as if she truly were tired. “Tell me. You suddenly stopped Nüying from coming near me. What did she do?” Li Yu answered quickly, “She told you about the envoy from the Northern Court, and I was angry.” Ehuang turned around, but all she could see was his back. Tears fell from her eyes one by one, yet her voice remained perfectly calm, betraying nothing. If Li Yu could have waited only a little longer, perhaps he would have seen her turn toward him. Perhaps he would have seen how much she hurt.
But his back remained toward her, and he could not bear to say anything more; Ehuang plainly did not believe him. “I considered that, but Your Majesty, I know your nature too well. You would never blame her for something like that; besides, if I had not told you, how would you even know that I had learned whom you went out to see during those days?”
Li Yu said nothing; already facing the doorway, he raised a hand and, out of habit, rubbed the scar at his wrist as he began walking out.
“Your Majesty.”
He stopped.
“Tell me. Perhaps I have only a few lucid days left. At the very least, I should be allowed to know why I became like this.”
Li Yu shook his head.
She persisted. “Can you truly be so cruel? Even if today you are no longer Li Congjia, Your Majesty should at least remember the affection we once shared and tell me.”
He dug his fingers hard into his wrist. “Ehuang, why must you speak to me like this?” He had never meant to distance himself from her, never meant to turn cold. Worried about her illness, he had left everyone else behind and insisted on coming to be with her, yet every barb in Ehuang’s words drove straight into his heart. What else could he possibly say? “Ehuang, sometimes I almost wish you would go mad the way you do when the illness takes you, scream at me, even cry and hit me. That would be easier for me to bear than the way you are treating me now.”
Ehuang suddenly laughed loudly. “Yes. If I could be like other women, shouting the moment something happened, hounding you and refusing to let the matter rest, perhaps both of us would have an easier time. Unfortunately, I would despise myself for becoming that sort of person. And if I wished to stand beside you, I could never have been that sort of woman in the first place.” Her voice gradually softened until she sounded almost as though she were coaxing him. “So tell me. What did Nüying do?”
“The sachet she gave you did not contain some special kind of red sandalwood; it held the root of a plant brought in from a foreign land, harmless when carried by itself, but its scent clashes specifically with red sandalwood, and together the two can drive a person into mental collapse and frenzy.”
Ehuang gave a slight nod. “No wonder every time she came to the Eastern Palace to spend time with me, she would casually mention that she disliked the smell of red sandalwood. I even changed the incense to accommodate her tastes. I suppose she was afraid of being affected herself.” Her tears fell harder, but her voice remained steady so he would not hear them.
“Now that you know everything, what can you possibly do?” Li Yu had never thought there was any need to tell her. Nüying was her own younger sister. Ehuang sighed. “I will do nothing. She is my sister. It is just like how Your Majesty felt then. Everyone at court and beyond knew how relentlessly Li Hongji pressed you. Even if I knew little about palace affairs, I understood that much. For close blood relatives to destroy one another was never what either of us wanted…” By the end, her words faded into weary murmuring. “Your Majesty, this consort has one more request.”
“We do not permit it.” Since she insisted on addressing him this way, he could only answer in kind.
“Will Your Majesty not first hear what this consort wishes to ask?”
“The Empress wishes to see Nüying.”
Though tears filled her eyes, there was relief in them: as expected, he still understood her better than anyone. “Then let this be me begging you: let her enter the palace and keep me company for a while.”
＊
Li Yu stood at the doorway listening to the fine rain murmuring outside while, far away, the music and dancing in Weiyang Hall still had not ended. How had everything suddenly become like this? Why did he no longer even have the strength to turn around? It was his own sin, but he had never been willing to admit regret at any time. Whether as Li Congjia or Li Yu, the things he did not want to face but had no choice but to face had always remained, and he and Ehuang should never have come to this. Yet word by word, she had said, “I beg you.”
One day, she had actually opened her mouth and begged him.
Who, in the end, refused to let whom go? He had driven a woman as brilliant as a peony to say the word “beg,” and it kept exploding again and again in Li Yu’s ears.
From the day his own heart had first begun begging her to forgive him.
＊
“Ehuang, in all these years, from the first day I met you until now, this is the first time you have ever said the word beg to me.” The grief in his voice could not be hidden.
“Yes. I beg Your Majesty. I beg Li Yu. Let my younger sister enter the palace and keep me company.” She could beg anyone, but she had never begged Li Congjia.
“We permit it. Whenever the Empress wishes Second Young Miss Zhou to enter the palace, she may.” He pushed open the door and stepped out into the rain.
The strings in Weiyang Hall continued without pause. Piaopeng cried out and hurriedly raised an umbrella over him, then asked, “Your Majesty, where are you going now?”
“Back to Weiyang Hall. Pass down the decree. The palace banquet will continue throughout the night.”
＊
After the Emperor left, Liuzhu came into the inner room to look in on Ehuang. “Is Your Majesty tired? Why are you crying again? You should rest.” Turning around, she saw that the red sandalwood in the incense burner was nearly spent and said out of habit, “Ah, the incense is almost gone. Liuzhu will go replenish it.”
“No need. Leave me.”
Ehuang sank limply into the chair.