Chapter Thirty

After that day, the imperial grandaunt set her mind on performing the fengshan rites on Mount Song, to offer sacrifices to Heaven and Earth.

Uncle Wu Sansi immediately set to work. On the summit of Junji Peak they spent days building the sacrificial platform, gathering materials from across the realm, and preparing jade offerings, ritual garments, sacrificial vessels, grain tributes, and various goods. This was the imperial grandaunt’s first fengshan since ascending the throne, so the ministers at court naturally did not dare slacken; the great clans of the five surnames and seven families and other noble lineages all hurried to pay their respects, and Mount Song’s status rose sharply.

In the pavilion, Li Longji was finishing up the endgame.

He said casually, “An unsettled mind is the worst taboo for a military man.” I held my teacup and replied, “Prince, are you talking about me, or yourself?” In that last game, though I had trouble focusing, he had often been lost in thought as well, and it ended in a friendly draw without hurt feelings.

Li Longji tossed the last piece into the basket, lounged lazily in his chair, studied me for a moment, and asked, “Have your grandaunt—the Princess Imperial—and your family’s betrothal to Wang been discussed with you?” I brushed aside the stray leaves and said, “Yes.” Li Longji’s eyes narrowed on me as he asked, “Why didn’t you block it for me?”

I smiled and said, “Compared to the empty prestige of the Northern Wei Yuan clan, the Wang family of Taiyuan ranks among the five surnames and seven clans. Why would I help you squelch such a good match? If you could marry into one of the Five Surnames, it would still be an advantage for you.”

Because the Fengchan ceremony is imminent, the clan branches of the Longxi Li, Zhaojun Li, Qinghe Cui, Boling Cui, Fanyang Lu, Xingyang Zheng, and Taiyuan Wang—these five surnames and seven lineages of the imperial house—have all arrived at Sanyang Palace. According to Wan’er, the empress dowager saw the little maid from the Taiyuan Wang household and was very pleased; she immediately bestowed a white jade ring and declared that the girl should become her grandson’s wife.

And the one to marry Wang Huan is the Prince of Linzi. I understood his being caught off guard, but I hadn’t expected him to be so unwilling.

I saw him fall silent, and recalling the amusing story my teacher once told when we were children, I urged him on: “The late emperor’s chancellor Xue Yuanchao enjoyed every luxury, yet he had three great regrets in his life — do you know what they were?” He looked at me puzzled, so I pretended to be solemn and said, “The first regret was that, although he was chancellor, he hadn’t come up through the jinshi examinations. The second was that he never managed to study the national histories. The third was that he never married a woman from those five surnames.”

When my teacher first told that story, it was meant to hint that even a chancellor hadn’t been a jinshi, a kind of consolation for his own lifelong lack of success.

What I was saying now, however, was meant to persuade him to value those five surnames. The Li, Wang, Zheng, Lu, and Cui clans consider themselves of lofty status and have always disdained marrying outside their names. According to Wan’er, the Wang Huan who caught their eye was only the daughter of a fifth-rank military officer, but because she came from the Taiyuan Wang family, she was so highly prized. For the imperial grandaunt to personally speak and secure a consort from the Taiyuan Wangs for him was, indeed, an extraordinary favor.

Li Longji looked at me thoughtfully, and after a long while said, “If your eldest brother were to marry one of the daughters from those five clans in the future, would you still say the same?” My heart gave a dull jolt; I was silent for a moment before answering, “I would.” Li Longji pinched his teacup and asked, “Why?”

I took a sip of tea and replied softly, “As an imperial grandson, one’s life hangs by a thread—any extra alliance is another chance to survive.” There were two more things I didn’t say: as a member of the imperial family he would naturally form marital ties with distinguished houses for various reasons, and as the future Princess of Linzi I would have no authority to prevent it.

Li Longji studied me intently; his eyes drew inward and he didn’t press further. After a while he sighed and said, “You forgot two clans.” I looked at him, signaling him to continue. He smiled faintly and said, “One is the Sui dynasty’s later line, the Lanling Xiao clan; the other is the Hongnong Yang clan, quietly embedded between the Li and Wu families.”

I thought it over and then nodded, “Indeed, the Lanling Xiao family has passed down Confucian learning for generations without pause and has had members in the imperial line for two successive generations. The Hongnong Yangs can also be considered a later imperial branch of our dynasty.” Even my great-aunt’s maternal family was from the Hongnong Yangs—how could they be any weaker than those five or seven clans?

I realized this, glanced at him, and found that he had already thought so far ahead.

He lightly curled the corner of his lips and said, “So, according to your meaning, I should in future marry these two clans’ daughters to save my life? Better marry a woman from each of five surnames, and then add these two clans to be thorough.” I was stunned for a moment before catching the sarcasm in his words, and involuntarily shook my head, saying, “I only advised you to marry a daughter of the Wang family; you’ve taken me for the villain.” His smile deepened by three degrees as he teased, “This king is simply admiring how magnanimous his future consort is.”

I didn’t answer and continued to drink my tea.

Seeing my expression unchanged, he was somewhat surprised. After thinking a moment he quietly said, “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you.” I nodded and said, “Ask.” He fell silent again for a while before saying, “Now that the wedding is imminent, what are your plans?”

His one sentence tugged at the tangled, complex pain in my chest. After that day, Yuan Yue was granted the title of county lord’s daughter, and Taichu Palace began preparing next year’s marriage — everything carried on in an orderly fashion. The old ministers of the Li court were using these two happy events to speculate about Great-Aunt’s intentions toward the crown prince’s post. Now it seemed this marriage truly was a monumental joy, except for me and him.

I cupped the teacup, and said, “I don’t know.” In front of Great-Aunt, legitimate sons and grandsons could be killed or stripped of rank; once-favored nephews could be exiled or executed. What could I possibly do?

Li Longji looked at me, as if wanting to speak but stopping, then suddenly said, “There isn’t much I can do, but I can promise one thing. If you truly marry me, no matter how many women I take for the Li family as father or brother, no matter which noble clans they come from, no one will be able to bully you.”

I lowered my eyes to the teacup, the pain in my heart unbearable. Ordinary women treat marriage as a joy — why did this matter, between him and me, feel like an appointment with death? I could hear the sincerity in his words. I knew he had an older brother yet was to marry him; for the sake of childhood ties and that elder brother, he was determined to protect me. By a twist of fate, everything had turned so sorrowful, and so absurd.

I was still dazed when I heard a few soft laughs outside the pavilion.

In the warm sunshine stood a girl dressed in Hu-style clothes and soft boots, her brows and eyes smiling, her features delicate, yet with a hint of masculine valor. She was studying me closely; seeing I looked back without shyness, she immediately stepped forward and bowed, saying, “Wang Huan pays respects to the Princess.” Only when I heard that name did I understand, and some of my displeasure melted away. I glanced at Li Longji, then smiled at her, “Get up — there’s no one else here, you don’t need to be so formal.”

She straightened, smiling as she looked at Li Longji and said, “The prince’s words, Wang Huan has heard them all.”

“Hearing is good; it saves me from having to repeat myself later.” Li Longji tapped the chessboard, signaling me to play another round. I shot him a glare — my earlier words had been wasted; this little prince was as wilful as ever, treating the Wang family as if they were beneath his notice.

Wang Huan wasn’t offended; she merely nodded and said, “The Emperor ordered me to pay my respects to the Prince. I didn’t expect to see my sister as well. Just as Miss Shangguan said, the Prince and my sister have known each other since childhood and are very close,” she said calmly. “Now that we’ve seen each other, we’ve seen enough. Prince, please continue your game. Wang Huan takes his leave.”

Li Longji pinched a black stone without lifting his head. I kicked him under the table; he looked at me in surprise, and when he saw I kept staring at him and wouldn’t relent, he reluctantly glanced at Wang Huan and said, “You may leave.”

After Wang Huan bowed and took his leave, I picked up a white piece and said, “You seemed so thoughtful just now—now that you see him you’ve forgotten again?” He placed his stone and replied, “Though he’s a prince whose days aren’t guaranteed, he’s still a prince.” I placed a character in response and said nothing more.

After dinner, I picked up a manual of Go openings to read.

These past few months my mind has been restless with nowhere to go, so I could only play Go with Li Longji every day, and I always ended up losing. At first I didn’t take it to heart, but losing day after day eventually roused a temper in me, and it became a habit: play Go by day, study joseki by night—at least it helped pass the time.

Yi Xi brought hot tea and, seeing me so absorbed, hesitated before asking, “Why hasn’t the Commandery Princess shown any anger?” I put the manual down and looked at her. “Why would I be angry?” I asked. Yi Xi said sullenly, “Everyone in the palace is saying that though the Commandery Princess is still unmarried, the Emperor has already arranged a marital alliance for the Prince of Linzi—it’s with the prominent Wang clan of Taiyuan. There will surely be quite a show to watch in the future.”

I looked at her, half laughing and half exasperated, and said, “The main wife of the Wu household and a concubine of the Wang family — what a spectacle?” She nodded and said, “Although that Wang girl is a concubine, I’ve heard she’s the daughter of a military family—” I cut her off, “Enough, don’t listen to palace gossip. Which of the imperial grandsons won’t have a harem one day?”

Yixi glared at me sullenly, offering herself comfort. “True enough. Prince Yongping is the legitimate eldest son; if he succeeds the throne, the imperial harem will surely number in the thousands. Compared to him, Prince Linzi is actually much better.” She muttered under her breath and carried the cold tea away.

I stared at the chess diagram in the book, my mind long since lost to it. The searing pain from the day he granted the marriage had never faded; over a single principal wife I was already like this—if, by some fortune, I ever ascended the throne…

“Princess,” Yixi suddenly came in, “Lady Yuan is outside the room.”

I hesitated for a moment, then after a while told her to bring people in. I sat up straight and set aside the game record. When Yuanyue entered, she still performed the respectful bow and rose to say, “The Commandery Princess has avoided others for many days; in the end she allowed Yuanyue to see her.” I forced a smile at her and said, “Have a seat.”

She sat quietly, and only after Yixi withdrew did she speak: “I came today to tell you something the Commandery Princess doesn’t know.” I looked at her and asked, “About you and Prince Yongping?” When I arranged the marriage, she personally delivered Li Chengqi’s note—there was an obvious connection there—though how deep it went I could not guess.

She nodded and said, “It’s rather long; I’ll try to be brief.” She seemed to fall into remembering the past, a little absent-minded; after a moment she continued, “When I first entered the palace, the prince often read beside Crown Prince Zhanghuai, and because of my mother’s position I often accompanied study sessions in the Eastern Palace. The prince was exceptionally clever—able to annotate passages others couldn’t even understand—so the Crown Prince’s fondness for him gradually surpassed that for his own son. The Crown Prince would often laugh and tell me that when I grew up he’d make me his concubine. He also said that the Yuan family of Northern Wei wasn’t like the five surnames and seven clans; only by marrying into the Li family could one escape the fate of annihilation.”

I listened quietly to her recollection, watching the light in her eyes, and gradually understood: her feelings had long since taken root.

She smiled, bitterness woven into it, and continued: “Later, the crown prince was exiled for treason, and my mother and I were sent into the Inner Court. From then on I never saw the prince again. Not until the year he was invested as the crown prince did he find me — by then my mother had already died in the Inner Court — and he arranged for me to be placed by Yidu’s side. Over these years I’ve watched him be deposed, repeatedly framed, yet still struggling to protect his younger siblings; though my heart ached, there was nothing I could do. I originally thought that by placing me next to Yidu he planned to one day have me help him, but during the five years I stood by the emperor’s side, he never asked anything of me, except for two things.”

I vaguely suspected something; my thoughts were in turmoil. I stared at her without speaking, waiting for her to go on.

She met my gaze for a moment, then spoke softly, “The first was to hide at Fengyang Gate, in case the commandery princess met with an accident. The second was to bring that slip of paper to the commandery princess.”