◎Shame and Regret◎

The funeral rites for the young mistress of the Du household had not yet concluded when another misfortune was added to them. The white mourning hall had stood for seven days without being taken down, and Madam Du had wept herself into unconsciousness in the mourning hall, only to be helped back to her room by others.

Du Hui’s eyes were red-rimmed; when he walked out of the mourning hall, the light stung them.

He had no shortage of concubines and had four or five daughters, but had only managed to father this one son, Du Gaojun—and a late-life child born when he and Madam Du were forty, at that. It was hard not to spoil him a little.

He hadn’t expected that his own indulgence would let the boy grow so reckless and unaware of his place in the world. Du Gaojun had gone probing for leverage against the current Chief Councilor that his father held in secret, and somehow his wife had discovered it.

This daughter-in-law had originally been chosen by Du Hui himself; what he’d valued in her was her gentleness and deference. He hadn’t imagined it was all a surface act. Liu Lianxi had feigned compliance, quietly building her position within the household, learning every corner of it thoroughly—she understood the Du household better than even Madam Du did.

It must have been that Du Gaojun let something slip while drunk, letting her find her way into the hidden chamber by the pond in the back garden.

Once suspicion arose, father and son had worked together to set a trap, meaning to test Liu Lianxi—and sure enough, she had discovered what he’d hidden away.

Only then did Du Hui realize with a shock: this daughter-in-law of his, who seemed so unremarkable, was far too clever.

Too clever. Which meant she couldn’t be allowed to live.

The Liu family held only a minor official post, with no ancestral merit to draw on—if their daughter died, they wouldn’t dare pursue it. That was precisely what he’d valued when he’d arranged the match in the first place: his son was prone to recklessness, and if he married into a family of high standing, there would be no peace afterward.

The matter was quietly smoothed over, never even reaching the Ministry of Justice.

Not until later did Fu Qingnian come to him and discuss a scheme.

Du Hui knew well that ever since, many years ago, he and Peng Yue had learned the hidden secrets of the Zhenru Temple, the three of them had been bound tightly together. He had risen in rank and office through Fu Qingnian’s backing, and Fu Qingnian in turn held leverage over him, keeping him from speaking too freely—the three of them should have kept each other in check right up until the age of retirement.

But he had sharply sensed that Fu Qingnian seemed to harbor considerable dissatisfaction with Peng Yue.

It was only that Fu Qingnian lacked certainty of a single fatal strike and dared not take the risk. If he could silence him for good, burying both the leverage and the evidence, Fu Qingnian would surely act.

If that was how it was with Peng Yue, then what would become of him?

Du Hui thought to himself that he ought to make himself more useful. He was different from Peng Yue—he and Fu Qingnian had old ties of friendship, and he refused to believe the man could be so ruthless.

And so he had agreed to Fu Qingnian’s scheme to deal with Zhou Tan—it had, indeed, sounded like a foolproof plan.

He had found Zhen’er, and threatened her with her parents to force her cooperation. Everything had gone smoothly; at the morning court session, Zhou Tan had been accused to his face, and His Majesty’s brow had furrowed deeply—no doubt suspicion had been cast upon him.

But Du Hui had never imagined that Zhou Tan would be so audacious as to actually kill Du Gaojun within the capital itself.

Fu Qingnian had offered endless apologies, and promised he would certainly see justice done for Du Gaojun. He had indeed won the Chief Councilor’s trust because of it—but with his son dead, all of it amounted to empty words.

Thinking this, Du Hui felt grief well up within him. He sent his attendants away and walked alone, slowly, out to the back garden.

And there, in the back garden, he found a man dressed in black.

Du Hui nearly thought it a hallucination. He rubbed his eyes, but the figure did not vanish—instead, before he could cry out in shock, the man moved swiftly toward him, seized him by the throat, and dragged him behind a rockery.

Du Hui forced down his shock and fear and barked, “How dare you! I am an official of the court—”

The man leaned in slightly, bringing his mouth close to Du Hui’s ear. His voice was coarse and hoarse, deliberately disguised.

“Lord Du, don’t you want to know how your son really died?”

The Xuande Hall did not normally burn incense—it had become the Emperor’s habit only in recent years. Whenever he reviewed documents alone in the hall, the eunuchs would set out a glazed, mountain-carved censer by his hand.

Some of the incense burned in it had even been blended by the Emperor’s own hand.

Song Chang sat propped at his desk, and seeing that Zhou Tan had remained silent for a long while, was just about to speak when he caught the scent from the censer instead, and asked abruptly, “Xiaobai, do you know anything of the art of incense?”

“I obtained a fine piece of sandalwood. What rises from it is sandalwood fragrance, what settles is agarwood… I once thought this was the sort of thing only the back palace concerned itself with, but when I tried blending it myself, I found it rather interesting. The Censorate used to love bringing this up, but hasn’t mentioned it these past two years. Come to think of it, I first learned of it from my teacher. The first piece of wood, though, was one a friend from my youth had sought out and given me. Now none of them remain…”

He seemed not to care whether Zhou Tan would respond, and simply went on speaking to himself, as though he found it amusing. “Seeing your name reminded me of all this… You have knelt here so long. Have you still not decided what you meant to say?”

Zhou Tan still did not raise his head.

Song Chang opened his eyes and looked at him, laughing somewhat helplessly. “You’ve already arranged for your wife to come plead your grievance before me—if I were to have you put to death today, or simply let the Zanjin Guard close the case as it stands, what would the streets and markets say of it? Even if I don’t fear rumor, I’d worry about your wife dashing herself to death before the palace gates, bringing no end of ill omen… You’re a clever man. When you should have been afraid to die, you dared to speak. Now that you clearly understand I cannot kill you, why do you falter?”

Though his words carried a smile and his voice was light, Zhou Tan knew the Emperor was suppressing hidden fury—Qu You’s drumming before the throne had been meant precisely to force him to spare Zhou Tan’s life, at least for today; even if he wished to kill him, it would have to wait until after the Zanjin Guard closed the case.

When he had first told the Crown Prince everything, the Prince had immediately suggested finding Qu You to stir sentiment among the common people. He had refused—it was too great a risk, and the slightest misstep would drag her into it as well.

He had planned that if he succeeded, there would be no need for Qu You to come at all; and if he failed, he would have Bai Shating take her back to Jinling to take refuge.

He hadn’t expected that she would come anyway.

“What a coincidence. Your Majesty mentioning my name reminds me—when my mother named me, it was because of a piece of sandalwood my father had once given her.”

He could no longer hold back. Having come this far, there was no turning back now.

Song Chang’s interest seemed to wane. “Oh?”

“My father returned from the south bearing a fine piece of sandalwood. He had a wooden tablet carved from it as a gift for my mother, and gave the rest to a friend.”

Hearing this, Song Chang’s eyes gradually widened. He straightened up at his desk and looked anew at the young official kneeling before the steps, saying, “Your father—”

Zhou Tan said calmly, “It’s a pity my father died young. Afterward, I searched everywhere for fine sandalwood, had hairpins made, bracelets made, but I never again found anything so fine.”

“No, no,” Song Chang’s brow furrowed deeply, and he suddenly said, “I recall from the Ministry of Personnel’s records that your father died together with your mother. How can you say he died young?”

He rose from his desk and walked over again. “I recall you’re from Lin’an, aren’t you?”

“My mother remarried, and lived in Lin’an for decades—I suppose I might count as half a Lin’an native myself,” Zhou Tan knelt perfectly upright, like a pine standing unbowed against the cold. “Your Majesty—in all these years, has there been anything you’ve regretted?”

Hearing this question, Song Chang’s spirit shook violently. He stepped closer and pressed a hand to Zhou Tan’s shoulder. Zhou Tan showed no fear, and lifted his head to meet his gaze.

Looking into the man’s eyes, he felt his own hand trembling, and could only force himself to suppress it. “I am the Son of Heaven! What would I have to regret—”

“But I regret it every single day,” Zhou Tan said, staring at him unblinkingly—a great disrespect, but he narrowed his eyes slightly, tears rising hazily. “I regret that when I first arrived in Bian Capital, I did not go at once to kneel and kowtow before the Chief Councilor’s gate, to beg my father’s murderer to spare me, to stop hounding me again and again! My father, on his deathbed, left a letter telling me to remain loyal to the sovereign my whole life, and I have not dared forget it for a single day—yet how is it that the man who refused to spare him back then still refuses to spare me now?”

Song Chang stumbled back a step, nearly tripping on the bright yellow gilded steps. He stared at Zhou Tan as though he had seen a ghost, and all at once understood why, on their very first meeting in the Xuande Hall, this man’s eyes had seemed so familiar to him. He and his father had the exact same eyes!

And yet he still could not bring himself to believe it.

Song Chang looked about him in bewilderment. There was not another soul in the Xuande Hall—only the faint sound of incense dissolving within the mountain-carved censer.

“Your Majesty!” Zhou Tan’s voice caught as he called out to him, bowing his head low, his tone heavy with grief. “In all the years since I came to Bian Capital, and since I was fortunate enough to be taken in as my teacher’s student, there has not been a single day I have not thought of becoming Your Majesty’s right hand, of becoming a cornerstone of the Song imperial house! For this I have studied day and night without rest, never once allowing myself to grow idle. Even when I was thrown into the Imperial Prison and reviled by the world, I still meant to preserve my life, to do what I could for Your Majesty, and never betray my father’s dying wish!”

“Ha—ha,” Song Chang pointed a finger at him, sinking down weakly onto the steps behind him. His face twisted, as though he could not decide what expression to wear, and at last he forced out through gritted teeth, “Do you know what crime it is to deceive the throne?”

“Three generations of my ancestors gave their lives on the battlefield, and now I cannot even offer them proper rites,” Zhou Tan said, raising his voice, as though releasing something he had suppressed for years. “That iron tally of merit is still hidden within my residence. If Your Majesty does not believe me, send someone to fetch it and verify it for yourself!”

“I am without ability, weak of body, unable to guard the borders as my ancestors did, and so I have had no choice but to live on in hiding, under a false name—I could die for the nation, but I could not let myself die from a false accusation! Now that I have been driven to my last resort, with no way to clear my name, I have finally dared to speak these words, so that Your Majesty may know my true loyalty. If Your Majesty believes I have concealed the truth and deceived the throne, then take my life—when I go beneath the earth, I may at least tell my parents that their child did everything he could!”

Song Chang stared at him, agitated, his chest rising and falling unevenly, unable to tell whether he wanted to weep or laugh.

“Qingong! Qingong!”

He called out loudly. The chief eunuch, who had just pushed open the door and entered, hurried in at a trot. Seeing the scene before him, he was startled, but said nothing and knelt respectfully. “What are Your Majesty’s orders?”

“Go find Xu Heng. Have him take the Zanjin Guard to Young Lord Zhou’s residence,” Song Chang said, clutching his chest. “Go quietly, don’t let anyone notice. Tell them, tell them—”

“Knock five times at the side gate, and say someone has come from before the throne,” Zhou Tan said, prostrate on the ground. “There is someone within the residence who will naturally hand over what Your Majesty seeks.”

“Go, go!”

Qingong hurried out. Song Chang braced himself against his forehead and struggled to rise, feeling as though he could barely speak, and could only manage, “You—you rise first…”

But Zhou Tan refused to obey, remaining prostrate on the ground with his whole being.

The Zanjin Guard acted with great speed—Qu You had given them special instructions before she left. In less than half an hour, Qingong returned, carrying in his hands a box wrapped in black cloth, walking swiftly and kneeling before Song Chang’s feet.

He undid the black cloth, then at once lowered his head and withdrew from the hall. The sound of armor gradually receded into the distance—it seemed he had ordered the Imperial Guards stationed before the hall to withdraw ten paces.

Beneath the black cloth was revealed a sandalwood box carved with the Vermilion Bird and Black Tortoise. The moment Song Chang laid eyes on the box, his face went deathly pale, and a rasping sound escaped his throat.

He reached out and lifted the lid, then flung it aside with a clatter. In the light of the gilded candle-stands around him, the character “Xiao” carved into the black iron shone clear and unmistakable.

Song Chang felt the world spin beneath him.

He turned his gaze once more to the young official kneeling before the steps. Zhou Tan finally lifted his head from the ground, his eyes lowered, his face full of grief as he looked back at him, the corners of his eyes reddened as though stained with tears.

An old friend, arriving from far away, as if in a dream.

“Your Majesty—in all these years… has there been anything you’ve regretted?”