News of Jinyu’s Death
Zhongli Mingye looked down at the emperor and eased himself onto the dragon bed as if taking his time. “Father…”
“You know… the realm is mine now…” the emperor croaked, but the words fell hollow. Mingye reached out and tucked the coverlet around the old man’s shoulders. A thin, bitter smile curled at his lips, and the sight of it made the emperor’s gaze go cold with fear. Ever since that day when he had strangled Qin Fei with his own hands, the emperor’s health had gone steadily downhill. Now he could barely form words; only his eyes stared wide and uncomprehending.
Without waiting for any reaction, Mingye said, “Why torment us like this? Making us pass through trials with the throne—forcing us to repeat what you once suffered.”
“The Crown Prince fell pierced by arrows, Chengze was killed in an ambush, and the Brave Prince lives forever on edge,” he said, the fragrance of sandalwood curling lazily from the incense in the room. His phoenix-shaped eyes narrowed slightly and drifted toward the pale yellow curtains of the canopy. “And I… I lost the woman I loved most. Life has become worse than death.”
“You should rest. Soon we’ll move you to the Eastern temporary palace.”
The emperor’s hands trembled as he clutched at the bedding. After a long moment of hoarse silence, he spat, “Re—bel—” His voice broke. “You’re…”
“You forced my hand.” Mingye’s voice was a hard, cold thing. He hated it—hated the man who had made a game of their lives. “You know I only wanted to live quietly in Liuzhou with Song Jinyu.”
“Because of your negligence, Mother was hurt. Song Jinyu—missing. No trace.”
“You and I are done as father and son. From now on… tend to your remaining years.” He turned his face back to the emperor, eyes like steel. “Tomorrow, move the emperor to the Eastern Palace.”
“Yes!” Strong palace women moved in like trained fish, hauling and heaving with professional efficiency.
Outside the Hall of Supreme Harmony, Mingye lifted his face to the sky as if seeking someone. Where are you? No one could bow you now, but you were gone.
He remembered winter days when she had knelt beside him in the palace courtyard—Jian Shuiqiu had never shown a hint of fear in her eyes. A bitter smile touched his mouth as he climbed the steps to Hanguang Hall. Consort Shu’s health had improved, but the coughing fits remained.
“Any news?” Consort Shu asked, unable to bear the sight of her son so bereft.
Mingye didn’t know what to say. “None yet.”
They sat in the hush, both understanding the terrible truth their silence confirmed: Song Jinyu might not ever come back.
“It’s my fault,” Consort Shu murmured, half-lying down against the pillows. “I would have saved Jinyu if I’d known… after all, Yuanbao is still so small.”
“Mother—this is my fault,” Mingye said. “If I had been more careful, none of this would have happened.” He ordered the maids to care for Consort Shu. “Mother, if you do not wish to become his empress dowager, then I will follow your wishes.”
A few days before, the emperor had spoken of elevating Consort Shu as his next empress, but she declined. “What does it matter to be empress? Even husband and wife are always scheming against each other… it makes no sense.” Mingye had followed her lead.
When she learned he was moving the emperor to the Eastern Palace, her brow furrowed. “He is still your father, Yè—The Eastern Palace is old and falling into disrepair.”
“Do not argue further, Mother.”
With the court stabilised and the shadowy households in the harem dealt with—those puppeted by the secret parasites had been purged, eunuchs and servants replaced—the inner palace had been remade in Prince Yu’s image. The East and West Bureaus had been cleansed. Lotus-fall—former lead eunuch—now headed the imperial eunuchs.
“Consort Jia, thank you for helping Mother manage the harem,” Mingye told the surprised Consort Jia. “Soon you will take the East Palace.”
She looked at him—gaunt, drawn—and pressed a small bundle of herbs into his hands. “If Jinyu had lived, she would have wanted you to shoulder this dynasty. Do not falter.”
From the palace he went to the Song minister’s house. After negotiations and quiet councils, he steadied himself and swore that for the time being no one would speak Song Jinyu’s name. Lately, Song Qinzhou’s hair and beard had gone snow-white; he handled state affairs while his sorrow gnawed at him. The Fuguo and Minister Song together reclaimed the reins of government.
“Your Highness, the Emperor is ill. Make your plans accordingly,” a subordinate said.
Across the capital, Xiao Xueyi smiled at the three sprigs of yincao in his palm—an odd stroke of fate. He had acquired them from that fair woman with the kind eyes; now they were the very thing that might save her life. The woman lay on a bed, cheeks drained of color, a bandage wound round her head. The cut at the base of her skull was knitting. “Women are vain—don’t let her have a scar,” he told the physician.
“Master Xiao, the wound is deep. A scar is unavoidable,” the court doctor said as he packed his medicine case. “At least her hair is long—she can hide it.”
“Fine—reward them.” After two days on the yincao, her complexion had come back, though she still hadn’t woken. Xiao Xueyi came every day. The attendants in Tingran Pavilion hovered like careful shadows.
Only Yìngran, his chief maid, bristled. “Where did this street-finder girl come from? How could she be allowed into Tingran?”
“Yìngran—don’t speak out of turn,” Yunran snapped. She was Xiao Xueyi’s most trusted, and if the mistress heard, Yìngran would be in trouble. Pouting, Yìngran retreated.
Vice-master Lin Qingge watched the sleeping woman with a thoughtful frown. She suspected this visitor had come from somewhere significant. Xiao Xueyi, who never missed an opportunity, had placed extraordinary attention on the girl. That alone made Lin uneasy.
“Who is she?” Lin asked.
“None of your concern,” Xiao Xueyi said, turning his wheelchair, a soft warmth in his expression. “Do your duty. I will handle what I must.”
“Understood.” Lin’s loyalty had never faltered—she had always trusted him. Being brushed aside brewed a strange, inexplicable resentment toward the unconscious stranger.
“Take good care of her,” Xiao Xueyi ordered. “If anything is delayed, accept the punishment yourself.” He hid his schemes behind the smooth click of his finger ring. If she recovered, Tingran Pavilion would prosper; if she didn’t, his curiosity would die with her. It was a pity, though—such a woman, beauty often a prelude to misfortune.
Fortunately, she began to mend.