◎The Burning Candle◎

The next day, Qu You woke unusually early. Rubbing her eyes, she headed to the main hall for breakfast, and had gotten halfway through a bowl of shrimp-shell wontons before learning that Zhou Tan had not yet returned home after the morning court session—the Emperor had kept him behind.

The hour for the morning court session in this era was absurdly early, even earlier than the hour she used to still be awake in her old life. Zhou Tan usually returned home after court to change, before heading to the Ministry.

Normally, by the time Qu You woke, Zhou Tan had already been handling official business for half the morning. Today, having finally managed to rise early, she’d planned to have breakfast with him when he came back to change—only he never came back at all.

Qu You stirred her wontons absently, lost in thought.

That matter of the afurong… If she asked him about it outright, given how suspicious and stubbornly prickly Zhou Tan’s temperament was, he likely wouldn’t tell her anything—he’d only grow more wary, making it even harder to get the truth out of him.

But how had he come to have such a substance in the first place?

In this era, poppy was not commonly seen in the capital, and Bo Ying himself had said few people even knew of it. Perhaps only those within the palace walls, of imperial blood, would have access to it.

Zhou Tan’s violent reaction and his refusal to take the medicine last time—that surely hadn’t been his own choice.

Her guess was… perhaps it had been a gift from Emperor De.

Emperor De, Song Chang, did not have a good reputation in the history books.

Though the Yongning era enjoyed peace and prosperity throughout the realm, that was in fact the fruit of the diligent governance of the previous ruler, Emperor Xuan of Yin. The official histories were uncertain about exactly how Song Chang had come to the throne; not a few scholars had speculated that Emperor De had poisoned his own father to seize power.

But no proof existed for such a claim—only the record of the Emperor’s actual life and reign was known for certain.

Emperor De had, in truth, always been fairly diligent in his duties—but from the very start of his reign he had also been suspicious, moody, and unpredictable. In the tenth year of Yongning, he had suspended court sessions for thirteen straight days, and following the Candlelit Tower incident, he had carried out a brutal massacre of scholar-officials and men of integrity, leaving a stain on his historical reputation that could never be erased.

Zhou Tan had betrayed Gu Zhiyan and become Emperor De’s trusted confidant. Three years later, when Emperor De fell gravely ill, the deposed crown prince attempted to seize power, and Zhou Tan had helped the future Emperor Ming put down the palace rebellion and ascend the throne smoothly.

But the future Emperor Ming was not Emperor De’s own son—he was the grandson of Emperor De’s elder brother, the Prince of Jing. That Zhou Tan’s allegiance had shifted so many times surely concealed some deeper story.

To save his own life, he had sacrificed his reputation and thrown in his lot with Emperor De, only to be met with continued suspicion—even given afurong as a “gift.” How could he not resent it? That he later came to support the Prince of Jing’s grandson made perfect sense in hindsight.

Looking back over Zhou Tan’s choices, nearly every step had been a move on a board with no other option—betray his teacher’s school or die; refuse to submit to Emperor De and die; fail to plan for the future and die all the same.

Survival, forged in deep water and raging fire.

Many scholars had written commentaries noting that Zhou Tan lacked the “moral integrity of a true scholar.” Perhaps, in a sense, his life had already ended the moment he chose not to die with unbending pride in a prison cell, as others of his kind so often did.

And that made things stranger still.

Qu You finally understood what had been bothering her these past days as she’d observed Zhou Tan. All of the above logic rested on a single premise: that Zhou Tan did not want to die.

But in all the time she’d spent around him, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t actually afraid of death at all.

If he wasn’t afraid to die, then how did the rest of it add up?

Qu You finished breakfast, troubled, and took a turn around the back garden. The sun climbed high overhead, and still Zhou Tan had not returned.

She was just about to send a guard to the Ministry to check on him when word arrived from the palace: Zhou Tan had been given a court flogging by the Emperor’s order, and she was to go to the palace gate to bring him home.

Qu You hastily had the carriage readied, and the palace guard who had brought the message led her to the side gate commonly used by the wives and family members of officials entering the palace.

Beside her rose the vermilion palace walls, at once familiar and strange, stretching along her line of sight, towering and forbidding. Yet unlike the narrow corridor she had once dreamed of, though this was only a side gate, the sky here stretched wide and the clouds hung high, a vast and imposing sight—and in the distance, she could faintly make out the resplendent palace halls.

This was the seat of the old order, the very heart of feudal power.

Even the guards on either side stood like clay or wooden statues, their faces betraying not the slightest expression.

Qu You had never had much real sense of what it meant that “Zhou Tan held high rank and great power,” but standing here, she felt, without quite meaning to, the crushing weight of imperial authority pressing down on her.

The palace walls rose so high, the halls stretched on so endlessly, and the palace attendants hurried back and forth, backs bent low, making themselves smaller still.

An absurd silence surrounded her—she could even hear the steady breathing of the guards.

Then, following the line of the endless palace wall, she saw Zhou Tan, his steps unsteady.

He wore no official cap. His somewhat oversized robe billowed in the passing wind, making his whole figure sway as though he might collapse at any moment. His head, too, was bowed, and he walked slowly—but unlike the palace attendants before him, each of his steps fell heavy on the ground.

Qu You saw a kindly-faced elderly eunuch walking beside him, yet not reaching out to steady him. Without thinking, she gathered up her skirts and ran forward. The guards at the side gate glanced up but made no move to stop her.

She covered the distance in a few quick strides and, as she had twice before, took hold of Zhou Tan’s arm. He seemed startled, but as before, did not push her away—he even laid one ice-cold hand over hers, signaling for her to relax. “I’m fine.”

“This must be Lady Zhou, yes?”

The old eunuch bowed to her, his eyes creased with deep amusement. “His Majesty ordered this servant to carry Lord Zhou out, but Lord Zhou refused, insisting on walking himself. My lady, please trouble yourself to look after him. Now that we’ve reached this point, this servant will return to report.”

“Thank you for your trouble.”

Zhou Tan raised a hand in a loose gesture of thanks; Qu You followed with a small curtsy of her own. She hooked her arm under his and took a few steps, finding it rather difficult going, and simply draped his arm over her shoulder instead.

Only then did she feel that his back beneath the robe was damp—whether from cold sweat or blood, she couldn’t tell.

The posture was intimate indeed, with most of his weight now leaning on her shoulder. After a few steps, he seemed to come back to himself and said, his voice hoarse, “Thank you.”

Qu You had no patience for pleasantries. As they walked, she asked, “Why did His Majesty have you punished?”

She hadn’t expected him to answer, but after a moment of silence, he gave a low laugh and said, “It’s because I…”

Before he could finish, a heavy bell suddenly tolled across the open expanse around them.

The smile that had touched Zhou Tan’s lips a moment before, tinged with self-mockery, froze at the sound. He stopped walking and slowly turned his head to look back. Following his gaze, Qu You saw a tall, brilliantly lit hall in the distance.

It was broad daylight, yet at the sound of the bell, a crowd of eunuchs poured out of the towering hall, lighting candles throughout its interior and exterior, one by one. The palace hall, already brilliant beneath the sunlight, grew even more radiant still, as though it might burst into flame at any moment.

Qu You looked at the hall and felt a wave of familiar, unsettling recognition rise within her. Unable to help herself, she murmured, “This is…”

Zhou Tan drew his gaze away; his amber eyes had gone utterly cold.

“The Candlelit Tower.”

Qu You’s lips parted slightly. She remembered the famous rhapsody he had once written.

…

In the fifteenth year of Yongning, the Emperor built the Candlelit Tower at the eastern gate, in the year purity first began and all things were renewed… though the jade and stone lay unpolished, its day of revelation would surely come; though the swift steed had not yet galloped, it awaited only its moment of a thousand catties’ weight. This subject, gazing far into the clouds, hears the bell and sighs, wishing that the place to which we all belong might become a great and noble sound beneath heaven. Written on the fifth day of the first month of this year.

—Preface to Rhapsody on the Candlelit Tower