The founding Emperor of the great Dayin Dynasty had loved hunting, but in the several generations that followed, civil culture flourished while military pursuits declined. The imperial hunt was reduced from twice a year to once. After Emperor Ming pacified the Western Wilds, it was nearly abolished altogether.
But now, with the various tribes of Beiyou not entirely at peace, in order to demonstrate an air of deterrence, the late Emperor had restored the annual spring hunt held on the Shangsi Festival. After Emperor Zhao ascended the throne and faced a thousand concerns competing for attention, he changed the spring hunt to be held every other year, in the year following the imperial examinations.
The Shangsi Festival had originally been a day for purification and bathing. Common folk would often go on outings together or hold banquets by the water on this day. The Jinming Pond and Qingxi outside the western city walls of the capital were both very lively. To avoid disturbing the people’s pleasure in their spring excursions, the spring hunt was set in the Muchun Field to the northeast of the capital.
The Muchun Field was built against a mountain called Luyun. Originally Luyun Mountain was not tall, but it had been carefully cultivated and improved. On the mountain and at its foot, winding waterways, gardens, riding grounds, and pavilions complemented each other in graceful accord. Wild creatures on the mountain were few, most of the birds and animals having been raised there, which also suited the true spirit of the spring hunt — that “sacrifice matters more than taking life.”
This year, the Qingming Festival and the Shangsi Festival fell close together, and both the Emperor and Empress had been fasting for six days. Today was the last day, so on the morning of the third day of the third month, Luowei rose early to bathe, then dressed with solemn care — adorning herself with orchid grass — and set off together with the Emperor, the imperial consorts, and members of the imperial clan. Also accompanying them were senior court officials, the Emperor’s close attendants, and their families.
The procession moved with great pomp and fanfare, and it took a full hour before they arrived.
During the Qingming sacrifices, Luowei had dressed simply. But for today’s spring hunt in midspring, she wore a coronet of a hundred flowers, with pearls adorning her face, a pale yellow ceremonial gown, and jade-green clasps.
Upon seeing her, Song Lan was slightly taken aback, and a flicker of admiration and nostalgic longing surfaced in his eyes: “Elder Sister has not worn the coronet of a hundred flowers in a long time. The color of the gown is also rarely seen. Though I recall that Elder Sister’s favorite color was always the pinks — peach blossom, lotus petal, and the like.”
In her youth she had naturally loved pink. Those colors were fragrant and delicate, sweet and gentle — the bright and vivid longings of her girlhood.
But now things had changed and people were changed. Since Song Ling’s death, she had never once worn that color again.
And so Luowei smiled, and said nothing in reply. She simply accompanied him forward, and together they presented wine and offered words of blessing before the grand platform of the Muchun Field, before the assembled officials.
With that, the ceremony concluded, and the crowd dispersed, each going to seek their own entertainment.
Only the imperial clan closest to the Emperor dared not stray.
The late Emperor had sired seven sons in all. Song Lan was the sixth. The seventh, the youngest imperial prince, the Prince of Xiaoxiang Commandery, Song Kuo, had been born only a few years before the Ci Tang case, and was not yet ten years old today.
Of the five elder brothers, two had died. One was stationed at the frontier, one in his feudal territory. The only one who had accompanied today’s proceedings was the fourth royal prince, who had always been carefree and idle — now enfeoffed as the Prince of Linyang.
The Prince of Linyang was still young and had no heirs yet, which only made the imperial clan seem all the more thin and solitary.
But Song Lan had never been bothered by such things.
Weary from the previous days and having never been fond of riding and archery since childhood, he had no intention of competing today. Instead, he stayed on the platform with Luowei and Yu Suiyun, first summoning the Prince of Linyang for a brief exchange of pleasantries.
Though the Prince of Linyang was somewhat older than him in years, having witnessed the dispersal and loss of his parents and brothers, he harbored a certain fear of the young Emperor. His speech was hesitant and timid.
Song Lan exchanged a few words, found it tedious, waved him off. Only then did the Prince of Linyang breathe a sigh of relief, and hastened back into the arms of the several concubines and maidservants he had brought along.
Then Ye Tingyan came to the platform to pay his respects. Song Lan saw that he held a brand-new襻膊 in his hand and was quite interested: “Will Tingyan enter the field today? I thought your old neck wound had not yet healed, and you would likely not manage.”
Ye Tingyan glanced at Luowei from the corner of his eye and replied with utmost deference: “This servant is grateful for His Majesty’s concern. The old wound is truly not yet healed, but seeing the spring light so fine, this servant intends to bind up his sleeves and take a slow walk through the woods. The Muchun Field is magnificent beyond compare, and today this servant has finally the chance to see it — however one looks at it, this servant must go and enjoy himself.”
Song Lan smiled: “Go then, as you like.”
Ye Tingyan acknowledged the order and was about to withdraw. As he turned, he came face to face with Yu Qiushi. Upon seeing it was him, Yu Qiushi’s smile stiffened for a moment, yet he said all the same: “Lord Ye, the jostling on horseback — do take care.”
Ye Tingyan put on an expression of deep gratitude: “I am much obliged for the Grand Preceptor’s concern.”
After he departed, Yu Qiushi made his bow according to protocol, then took a seat near the Emperor and began exchanging casual conversation with Yu Suiyun about family matters.
Though his manner was humble on the surface, he would occasionally and deliberately let his gaze fall upon Luowei. Luowei found it amusing to watch. Knowing he must have something to discuss with Song Lan, she took the opportunity to excuse herself: “Your Majesty, this Consort also wishes to take a stroll through the woods. She will go and change first.”
Song Lan said with delight: “Will Elder Sister go hunting?”
He seemed to want to go with her, and looked back with some hesitation — only to see Yu Qiushi’s expression grave and serious. He knew the man had something to speak of, and found himself torn.
It was Luowei who answered: “This Consort is also weary, and fears I could not manage the hunt just yet. Only I caught a glimpse of my brothers and a few close friends from my girlhood, and wish to ride with them and exchange some pleasant conversation.”
Song Lan felt somewhat regretful, but also relieved: “Then Elder Sister may go. Nanny Feng, attend upon Her Ladyship well.”
“Feng” was the false surname of Yan Luo. Upon hearing these words, she immediately pressed her palms together: “Yes.”
Luowei smiled and offered a word of reassurance: “Your Majesty need not feel regret. Was it not said that Marquis Feng Ping, using a famous sword as the prize, is to hold an archery and equestrianism competition? The competition is set for two hours hence. When this Consort returns, she will enter and win a sword for His Majesty.”
Yu Suiyun on the side made eyes at her, wrinkling her nose with unveiled disdain — she had never been fond of these pursuits since childhood, and even her riding was barely passable. Naturally, today she would have no opportunity to show off.
She had always been this way, which was rather endearing. Luowei, seizing the moment when Song Lan was not watching, raised an eyebrow at Yu Suiyun. Whether or not Yu Suiyun had misread her meaning, she paused for a moment, and then suddenly worked herself into a fit of irritation, turning to Song Lan and declaring: “Your Majesty, this Consort also wants to learn to ride!”
Song Lan was utterly baffled: “Have you not always disliked these things?”
Yu Suiyun said angrily: “Now this Consort likes them!”
As it happened, both Song Lan and Yu Qiushi wished to speak privately without her presence, so Song Lan granted her wish. Luowei and Yu Suiyun parted and went their separate ways. Luowei first went to remove her flower coronet, leaving only a single golden hairpin. She also changed into the everyday indigo-blue garments she habitually wore, paired with a crimson sleeve-binding band. Freed from the layers of ceremonial dress, she appeared far more spirited.
Yan Luo removed the pearl from her brow and sighed: “Your Ladyship has not ridden in quite some time.”
Luowei narrowed her eyes, as though recalling some pleasant memories from the past, and a smile bloomed at the corners of her lips: “Not just me — long ago, also by the Jinming Pond, you rode and took first place from me. It was only then that I realized you were not simply a young noblewoman who loved only poetry and books and ritual — and we grew somewhat closer after that.”
Yan Luo said softly: “Your Ladyship still remembers.”
Luowei took her hand, glanced around in all directions, and said in a low voice: “Although you said there was no need for a formal visit, I know your heart — you go now, change into ordinary palace servant clothes, and head out from the compound westward a hundred paces. I have left a fine horse for you there. Take my identification token, say only that you have an errand, and leave the Muchun Field heading north. In less than half an hour you can reach the mausoleum on the unnamed mountain to pay your respects. With so many people milling about in confusion today, no one will question it.”
Yan Luo was surprised for a moment and murmured: “…And what of Your Ladyship?”
Luowei said: “Today I also have things to attend to, and there is no need for you to follow. Go now.”
And so Yan Luo immediately took the identification token, bowed to her, and without another word turned and left — they both understood that any further hesitation would only be a waste of time.
Luowei rode alone on a white steed, permitting no palace attendants to follow. She quietly passed through the gathering of noble ladies from prominent households engaged in conversation, then wound her way past the place where the younger generation was playing pitch-pot, shooting arrows, and discussing literature, and circled around to the rear of Luyun Mountain.
Although the day was clear, the hour had not yet reached noon, and the boughs and leaves within the woods still carried dew, giving off a fresh and pleasant fragrance.
This place was rarely visited, yet even so, one could hear the distant sound of cheering voices. In the dense forest at the foot of the mountain, people were out hunting. From time to time came the delighted cries of “A hit! A hit!”
Clamor on one side, stillness on the other — the strange and wondrous sensation made Luowei’s heart relax somewhat.
She had once been the most fond of bustle and company. Over the past two years, she had grown ever more fond of quiet — perhaps because her heart carried too many concerns.
She rode at a leisurely pace for a while, when all of a sudden her eyes lit up. Along the side of the road in a wild patch of ground, she spotted a vivid, brilliantly red monthly rose — the first blossom of the year emerging from a thicket of pitch-black thorns.
Luowei stared at it for a moment, then could not resist turning down from her horse and drawing closer. She reached out and plucked that flower.
She held the flower in one hand and studied it, holding the reins in the other. Yet before that flower had even warmed in her hand, Luowei suddenly heard the sound of hoofbeats striking the ground reverberating from within the woods.
She looked back in surprise, and had not even glimpsed the face of the approaching rider when a red steed swept past her like a gust of wind. The rider on the horse bent forward slightly, and with one hand snatched away the flower she had just plucked.
“Whoa—”
He reined his horse to a stop and turned around. In a swift motion he tucked that flower into his own hair. Luowei had long since guessed who it was, yet was still startled by this brazen act of his, and said through gritted teeth: “Ye Tingyan!”
Ye Tingyan had already shed the scarlet official’s robe he had worn to see the Emperor. He had changed into a long robe with cross collar and broad sleeves, its base color the white of mountain cherry blossoms and printed with faint pink motifs. To make riding easier, he had removed his official’s hat and worn his hair in a simple knot. The flower Luowei had just held in her hand was now tucked into his topknot.
Among the learned men of Dayin, many delighted in the romantic and carefree — wearing pink, loving flowers worn in the hair. But Luowei was accustomed to seeing Ye Tingyan in his official’s robe, impeccably proper and correct. Seeing him in this state, she could not help but be briefly taken aback.
Hearing her rebuke, Ye Tingyan unhurried and composed rode over to her on his horse, circling around her once, and with magnificent shamelessness said: “This servant thanks Your Ladyship for the gift of this flower to wear in the hair.”
His wide sleeves were very ample, swaying and dancing in the wind, brushing across her shoulder.
It was unclear why he had been holding the sleeve-binding band earlier but was now not wearing it.
Luowei came back to herself, just about to say something cutting. Then she noticed that the pale pink pattern on his robe was actually in the shape of a lotus flower. Ye Tingyan had also caught her gaze and deliberately gave his sleeve a shake, smiling as he said: “Your Ladyship said this servant was unworthy of this pure and noble thing — now that Your Ladyship looks again, has it not become worthy?”
Luowei let out a sound of disdain, turned and mounted her horse: “My Lord riding without a sleeve-binding band, yet with a quiver of arrows hanging at one side — it is truly all show and no substance, what a pity for such fine feathered and wooden arrows.”
She let out a sharp cry of “Ride!” and bent forward, spurring her horse ahead and seizing his bow and arrows in one swift motion. Ye Tingyan was momentarily taken aback and rode his horse to give chase, drawing alongside her.
He looked to the side and saw Luowei’s brow and eyes relaxed and open, a few stray strands of hair at her temples blown across her cheek by the wind. She seemed to have been without this kind of galloping on horseback for many years. Her expression now made him think of the days long past when they had gone hunting together in the Muchun Field.
Her riding and archery had been personally taught by him. Her first pony had also been carefully chosen by him. He had led the young girl’s little horse, ambling without a care along the mountain path. The wind had been gentle and the sun warm, the sky a deep and brilliant blue. That fine spring day had seemed as though it would never come to an end. She had called out on horseback, “Second Elder Brother, Second Elder Brother,” her voice carrying a smile, her expression soft and gentle.
But just as he was momentarily distracted, Luowei suddenly let out a long cry as she reined in her horse, falling behind him. Ye Tingyan came back to his senses and, as she had done, pulled hard on the reins to stop. He had barely turned around when he saw Luowei lift the bow and arrow in her hand, pointing it coldly at him.
The bowstring was drawn taut and full, aimed directly between his eyebrows — she truly intended to loose this arrow.
Ye Tingyan stared at her in a daze, feeling a faint and obscure ache rise within his chest. This ache was familiar and cold, leaving him unable to move, unable even to think of dodging.
Wind stirred through the forest leaves. The taut string between them gave off a faint, trembling hum.