Incense burned in the front hall, gauze curtains drifting like mist. The Council of State was piled high with ancient texts accumulated over the centuries since the founding of Great Yan — stacks reaching the height of pillars — and the assembled officials sat in solemn silence beneath these mountains of books.

At their head, Yu Qiushi wore a deep vermilion official’s robe, his expression grave.

Through the pearl curtain, Luowei glanced in.

The hall was not particularly bright. She first noticed his white gauze square-necked collar — round as heaven, square as earth, a symbol of the celestial and terrestrial.

Song Lan gave a light cough, and Liu Xi stepped forward, lighting the topmost candle on the golden branch candelabra set before the assembled ministers. Then he and his apprentice Liu Mingzhong took their places at either end before the curtain.

And so everyone understood that the day’s deliberations had officially commenced.

By Great Yan’s established custom, the Son of Heaven ought to preside from the dais above, while the ministers sat in a circle below to discuss affairs of governance. But now Song Lan still required the pearl curtain, and the Empress had requested leave from morning court. After deliberation, it had been decided that the Council of State would convene once in the middle of each month, with both the Emperor and Empress in attendance.

Beside Yu Qiushi stood a crane-shaped incense burner, wisps of mist curling upward like mountains in cloud. Yet today his heart was far from at peace.

Nearly ten days had passed since the assassination at the Muspring Grounds. Throughout those ten days, not a single piece of news had emerged from the Forbidden Palace — the silence was so complete it was as though nothing had ever happened.

Yet precisely this calm was far more unnerving than swift and decisive punishment would have been.

Lin Kuishan had come repeatedly to his door over the past ten days, begging for his son’s life. Though he had many children, his principal wife had given him only this one son. He had doted and indulged the boy from childhood — losing him here would be like losing half his own life.

This Lin Zhao was notorious in Biandu for being a rampant, debauched young scoundrel. Over these past days, he had sent people to investigate, and his subordinates had reported back that in his earlier years Lin Zhao had not only been involved in criminal affairs resulting in deaths, but had also been entangled in the examination fraud case of the second year of the Tianshao era — the case handled by Crown Prince Chengming.

At the time, Lin Kuishan had spent a great deal of money to barely keep Lin Zhao’s life intact in that affair. After that, Lin Zhao restrained himself in Biandu, and lived quietly and properly for two years.

It was only after the Crown Prince was assassinated that he had breathed a sigh of relief and swaggered back to the pleasure quarters.

Yu Qiushi thought coldly: had he such a son, he would likely have beaten him to death in the ancestral hall long ago.

Yet this worthless creature happened to be Lin Kuishan’s legitimate son, and since he and the Lin Family were close, both sentiment and reason demanded that he do what he could to preserve the life of this legitimate heir.

But Lin Zhao was not implicated in an ordinary case. This was an assassination carried out before the Emperor himself — an act that could very well be classified as high treason against the sovereign, with three clans put to death.

Yu Qiushi saw it as plainly as a mirror: this useless person had certainly been set up. But Song Lan would not necessarily see it this way — otherwise, he would not have kept so perfectly composed for ten full days without once summoning him into the palace for counsel.

He was still turning this over in his mind when the aged Minister of Finance had already unrolled the document in his hands and begun his long-winded recitation of the spring revenue and expenditure figures for each ministry.

Song Lan’s spring tour had been an elaborate undertaking, no small expenditure — but still within the bounds of reason.

This year, however, the spring drought in Jiangnan required disaster relief funds, last year’s fire in the Forbidden Palace had yet to be repaired, and these too required funds.

All these matters combined meant that in just a single quarter, a shortfall of two million and three hundred thousand taels had accumulated.

Minister of Finance Zhang Pingjing was sixty-two years old this year, yet his voice remained resonant and full: “…The spring tour was originally about border affairs to the north. Youzhou is difficult to hold — our dynasty’s northern territories face the predatory gaze of the four-clan alliance, and they frequently harass the borders. This old official has never had dealings with the Privy Council, yet even I must say: how can this item of expenditure be cut?”

Zhang Pingjing had served through two dynasties and was the most slippery old fox in the Council of State. When Song Lan first came to the throne, Luowei and Yu Qiushi had been locked in open and covert struggle — yet he had managed to stand apart from it all and offend no one.

The late Emperor had originally taken note of exactly this quality and confidently placed the great financial authority of the Ministry of Finance in his hands.

Though his nature was smooth and flexible, at his core he remained an orthodox Confucian scholar. Despite holding financial power, he seldom enriched himself, took few bribes, formed few factions, and had remained steadily in the Ministry of Finance to this day.

Once Zhang Pingjing had spoken, Minister of Rites Cai Zhang, who was close to Yu Qiushi, chimed in: “What Zhang says is most reasonable. As for the spring drought in Jiangnan, that too cannot be ignored. The Ministry of Rites has already submitted a memorial: though the Clear and Bright Festival has passed, His Majesty ought still to go to the Flame Candle Tower and the Imperial Ancestral Temple to pray for rain. When Heaven perceives the sincerity of the heart, it will surely send forth sweet rain.”

Minister of Justice Hu Minhuai, upon hearing this, could not stop himself from laughing coldly: “The Ministry of Rites, whenever disaster strikes, always produces a torrent of empty words. Can Lord Cai tell me whether Heaven, Earth, and our ancestors are capable of resolving the assassination case at the Muspring Grounds, filling the national treasury, and addressing the great afflictions of the present?”

“…”

The assembled ministers, trading a few sharp exchanges, grew so agitated they were nearly overturning the table in argument. Yu Qiushi came to himself, and was about to set down his teacup as a signal for order — but before he could act, from behind the pearl curtain the Empress suddenly spoke: “Gentlemen and ministers, let us remain calm.”

The officials immediately fell silent, clasping their hands in deference. A few, unable to help themselves, only dared mutter briefly in private.

Song Lan glanced at Luowei through the pearl curtain. Luowei, resting her hand on the cold gold-sculpted armrest of her seat, smiled at him: “This is a spring of many affairs. The ministers stand for the nation and the people, and in their hearts they are anxious — Your Majesty and I understand. Only — these matters must each be addressed in turn.”

Yu Qiushi was still pondering what Luowei meant by these words when she continued: “The Muspring Grounds assassination is a grave case. Though His Majesty has dispatched the censors and the Zhuque Division to jointly handle it, it must still pass through the hands of the Court of Judicial Review and the Ministry of Justice. After today, the two offices shall consult with the Censorate and open a public hearing to reach a verdict — surely then Minhuai will have no objection?”

Hu Minhuai had just been making pointed digs at the Ministry of Rites, but he was also expressing his dissatisfaction with Song Lan’s use of the Zhuque Division and the censors to handle the case. Hearing these words, what reason did he have not to comply? He immediately prostrated himself in gratitude: “Your Highness is most enlightened.”

But if the Ministry of Justice and the Court of Judicial Review jointly opened a public hearing, then with Ye Tingyan’s abilities, Lin Zhao would be utterly beyond saving.

Before Yu Qiushi could open his mouth, Luowei had already spoken with unhurried composure: “As for the memorial from the Ministry of Rites to go to the Imperial Ancestral Temple — this Empress concurs. The memorial is approved. His Majesty will travel to the outskirts of the capital to pray for rain for ten days. Court affairs during this time shall be jointly deliberated between this Empress and the Grand Preceptor.”

The Son of Heaven’s ceremonial crown with its dangling jade beads swayed and clattered. Song Lan turned to look, but Luowei avoided his gaze.

The assembled ministers saw the young Emperor sitting calmly behind the pearl curtain — yet in that moment, his heart was far from calm.

After the ‘Thorn of the Rose-Apple’ case, Yu Qiushi had feigned support to push him forward, manufacturing the appearance of a powerful minister and a young Emperor, while in truth the two had long since been in collusion. Luowei had always regarded him as a timid and helpless prince, and with a moment of softened heart, she had smoothed the path to his enthronement.

Song Lan knew Luowei came from a family of distinguished chancellors whose generations had served with integrity and loyalty to the sovereign. After being enthroned as Empress, she had not betrayed his expectations — she had not only managed the affairs of governance with meticulous efficiency, giving him ample room to grow, but when controversy arose she had also taken a step back and withdrawn from morning court behind the pearl curtain.

In this way, whether he was exercising personal rule or not had become far less pressing a matter — after the Empress had partially relinquished power, only Yu Qiushi remained to assist in governance. To outsiders, it appeared that he feared Yu Qiushi’s authority, but in truth, his grip on court affairs and on Yu Qiushi ran far deeper than anyone had anticipated.

And so Song Lan had simply let things unfold, delegating the court’s lesser matters, letting Luowei and Yu Qiushi clash while he cultivated his own trusted subordinates and waited for the natural moment to assume personal rule at the age of twenty.

At that time, he would no longer need to fear the Empress learning of old matters.

Of course, with a sword hanging over his head, he would not trust completely — only, the witnesses to that matter from back then were mostly dead or scattered, and those who remained were either corpses or those directly implicated in the crime.

Luowei had no opportunity to learn of this matter, and so would have no grounds to move against him.

And today —

Though Luowei had been assisting in governance for a long time, and the court officials could not detect anything unusual, Song Lan himself understood perfectly clearly: this was the first time Luowei had made a decision on his behalf without prior consultation.

Why had she acted so abruptly?

Could it be that after long immersion in the waters of the court, she too had tasted… the flavor of power?

Song Lan was still musing on this when he said aloud: “What the Empress says is correct. Border affairs and agricultural affairs are both matters of great importance to the nation — no distinction of priority need be made. As for the national treasury…”

He paused briefly in thought: “Last autumn, north of the Qinling Mountains the harvest was abundant and yielded great profit. I was thinking — perhaps we could increase taxes to allow south and north to provide for each other, or perhaps introduce new strains of crops so that drought-prone land may still yield a harvest. What does the Empress think?”

Luowei said nothing. Yu Qiushi then spoke: “This official submitted a memorial on this matter in spring. It is a strategy that benefits all without disadvantage. This official concurs.”

Zhang Pingjing hugged his ivory tablet and cast a glance, but like the Empress, offered no words.

After the Council of State dispersed, Song Lan and Luowei rode together in the imperial litter back to Qianfang Hall. Along the way, he turned matters over in his mind and ultimately still lowered his voice to instruct Liu Mingzhong, Liu Xi’s apprentice: “Go to Qiong Ting and find Lord Ye. Tell him to wait for me in the rear study of Qianfang Hall.”

Liu Mingzhong accepted the order and departed. Song Lan had just raised his eyes when he found himself passing before a stretch of neglected and decrepit palace halls.

Something stirred within him. He called out: “Lower the litters.”

Luowei’s palanquin was directly behind his. The Emperor came forward to receive her, and she stepped down with the help of his hand: “Your Majesty, what is it?”

The palace attendants waited in place. Only Liu Xi and Yan Luo followed at a distance. Song Lan held Luowei’s hand and walked along the green stone-paved path into the depths of the courtyard. A trace of nostalgia showed in his voice: “Does elder sister remember this place… it is where we first met.”

Luowei had been waiting for him to ask about what had happened in the Council of State, but instead he showed such composure. And so she raised her eyes to look, and said: “Zi Lan is teasing me — how could I forget?”

Before her gaze lay a plum grove. The season of plum blossoms had long passed; the grove now held only bare branches. Though there were people tending to it, the care was not attentive.

Beyond the plum grove — a stretch of quietly neglected and colorless desolate palace grounds.

Luowei’s heart sank heavily.

She recalled things from long ago — recalled how at the age of five she had followed her father into the palace, and at six had been summoned to serve as a companion reader to the Emperor’s own sister, Shu Kang Princess Song Yaofeng, entering and leaving the Academy for the Virtuous together with the imperial princes and princesses, occasionally even staying overnight at the Empress’s invitation.

When she thought of it, she had spent more days within the palace than she had at home.

She had listened to the teachers in the Academy for the Virtuous, practiced zither, chess, calligraphy and painting, gone on spring hunts, accompanied the Emperor on tours… one thing after another, she remembered with perfect clarity, yet the memories also felt blurred.

Of the people who had been around her then, few remained now. At times when she woke from a dream at night, she would feel the melancholy of realizing she had forgotten a few more faces.

If she were to choose a few places that had left a deep impression, places she could not forget, this place would be counted as one — and the moment… was likely sometime near the end of the eleventh year of the Changning era.

That year, Luowei was nine and a half. Song Ling was not yet twelve.

Emperor Gao was building in Biandu the future residence for Song Ling. The location had already been designated, and only awaited the coming of spring to break ground.

On an ordinary winter’s day that was still fine and clear, Luowei and the Shu Kang Princess, along with the palace attendants, were playing hide-and-seek. By chance, she wandered into a slightly neglected section of the palace grounds.

She had never been to that place before, and before long lost her way. She had no choice but to follow the moss-covered stone-paved path and walk deeper inward.

At the end of that path, she met Song Lan for the first time as a young boy.