The Prince of Huai entered the palace to pay his respects to the Emperor, his Imperial Father, and the Empress, his Imperial Mother. The following day he went to the Imperial Academy, where he offered sacrifices to the Sage, Confucius.

Officials also arranged a poetry gathering in his honor, extending grand invitations to men of letters from all directions and selecting refined wordsmiths from among the finest. At the gathering, the Prince of Huai drew upon a line by the Tang dynasty poet Zhang Hu: “What need has talent of noble birth — in lowly station, worthiness is no hindrance.” This gave him the unmistakable air of a man who humbled himself before the worthy and hungered for talent, tinged with a faint scholarly elegance. Before long, the prince’s reputation for discerning talent, honoring the worthy, and cherishing the gifted spread widely through the wine houses and teahouses of the capital.

At morning court, while all civil and military officials were present, the Right Vice Minister of Revenue came forward to report that the Prince of Huai, having learned of the successive years of poor harvests in the north, was willing to offer two hundred thousand bushels of grain that had accumulated in his territory over several years to the court, to relieve the grain shortage afflicting the northern people.

The Emperor praised the Prince of Huai for his filial piety and broad-mindedness.

Whereupon a succession of officials stepped forward to declare that to have such a prince was a blessing for the Emperor, and a blessing for Da Qing.

Even more officials offered outright praise for the Prince of Huai, saying he was not unworthy of being a prince born of the Empress, and that he carried much of His Majesty’s manner from his younger years.

Working in concert from within and without, the Empress and the Prince of Huai — on the strength of preparations made long in advance — managed, within just a few days, to establish the Prince’s reputation firmly.

……

It was no wonder the Prince of Huai was so impatient, his ambition to seize the throne laid bare for all to see. The truth was simply that time was too short.

The Myriad Longevity Festival was only half a month away, and once it passed, the Prince of Huai would have to leave the capital. He had to accomplish his aims before his departure — otherwise, he feared he would have to wait until the Empress fell gravely ill before he had cause to enter the capital again.

He had but this one opportunity. Once the man was gone, the tea would grow cold.

The Crown Prince was under house arrest. His own support was surging. If the Prince of Huai could now secure the allegiance of the classicist officials and a few old-established scholarly families, and have those officials submit memorials calling for a change of heir — applying pressure on the Emperor — the matter would be seven or eight parts accomplished.

At a time such as this, even if the Yang estate trampled his calling cards into the dirt, the Prince of Huai had no choice but to swallow his anger and keep a smile on his face.

……

That night, a meteor streaked through the predawn sky, and a heavenly stone fell in the eastern outskirts of the capital, crushing a great hole into the farmland.

The matter was reported to the court, and officials could not help but think of the account in the Annals of the First Emperor of Qin, which recorded that when Mars lingered near the Heart constellation during the Qin dynasty, the first omen had been “a falling star descending upon the eastern commandery.”

The First Emperor died, and the realm was sundered.

During the night, officials secretly observed the celestial phenomena — and sure enough, they found that Mars had already moved to the eastern sky, drawing steadily nearer to the Heart constellation.

The reason Pei Shaohuai had been cast into the imperial prison thus became clear to all: being fated to harm the Son of Heaven, and the presence of Mars at the Heart constellation, were the greatest offenses of all.

……

The south wind blows fierce in the fifth month. Blossoms fall, strewing the courtyard.

In the small four-sided courtyard, Pei Shaohuai raised his head and gazed, lost in thought, at the eaves above. Wu Jianqing assumed his teacher was studying the sky, pondering the matter of the star formations, and said, “Teacher need not worry. This student has run the calculations many times — although Mars is presently moving toward the Heart constellation, it will turn before reaching it and make its way back westward. At that time, Mercury and Jupiter will rise from the southern sky, and together they will form the celestial phenomenon known as the Conjunction of the Five Planets.”

Yan Chengzhao, the Chief Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, had come by a short while earlier and informed Pei Shaohuai of the Prince of Huai’s recent activities. Wu Jianqing had been sitting nearby and had listened.

“By what Commander Yan has said,” Wu Jianqing continued, “it seems there will be no need to wait until the Five Planets Conjunction — His Majesty will release Teacher before then.” What he had in mind was this: since the purpose all along was to lay a scheme to draw out the one pulling strings from the shadows, and now that the Prince of Huai and his faction had come to light, Teacher would naturally no longer need to play out this ruse of enduring punishment.

“I was not worrying over the celestial phenomenon,” Pei Shaohuai turned around with a smile. “Cooped up in this courtyard, I was simply finding something to amuse myself with and stave off restlessness.” He pointed to a corner of the eaves, saying, “Look at what that is.”

Wu Jianqing followed his teacher’s gesture and looked — and there, among the rafters, was a nest of woven grass, warmly built, with a row of fledgling swallows perched along its edge, each now and then tilting their heads or ruffling their wings — unbearably endearing.

Listening more carefully to the wind, he found the wind carried the sounds of swallows within it. Only then did Wu Jianqing notice that on another stretch of rafters above, two adult swallows were beating their wings, hovering on the edge of flight, as though urging the fledglings to leave the nest and take to the air.

So the teacher had been idly watching the swallows teach their young to fly.

No wonder the teacher had been imprisoned for so long, yet his state of mind remained so tranquil. Undisturbed as still water. Commanding the situation from his place of calm.

On the subject of his release, Pei Shaohuai said, “Settle your expectations — release is still some time away.”

“Why?”

“When the snipe and the clam grapple, it is the fisherman who profits,” Pei Shaohuai said. “A ripple has stirred on the river, but the fisherman’s boat is still on its way.”

He continued to guide Wu Jianqing: “The Prince of Huai desires the throne — not a realm in chaos. He has no reason to risk fabricating the lie of ‘Mars at the Heart constellation.'”

Regardless of whether the bid for succession succeeded or failed, if the lie were exposed, the crown of “hoping for the Emperor’s early death” — an act of disloyalty and impiety — would be placed upon the Prince of Huai’s head.

Therefore, fabricating the “Mars at the Heart constellation” could not have been the handiwork of the Prince of Huai or the Empress.

“The student understands now,” Wu Jianqing said. “The Eastern Palace and the Prince of Huai are the snipe and the clam, while the true fisherman is someone else entirely — and it is this hidden fisherman behind the scenes that His Majesty and Teacher are waiting for.” He added, “Thank you, Teacher, for your guidance.” He had not imagined the scheme to run so deep and so intricate. On his own, he did not know how long it would have taken him to seek justice for his grandfather.

Wu Jianqing felt a twinge of discouragement.

“Look,” said Pei Shaohuai, patting Wu Jianqing on the shoulder, and pointing again toward the swallow’s nest — the fledglings were now, under the guidance of their parents, spreading their wings to try to fly. Each one trembled its wings, crowding and jostling on the tiny nest’s edge, interfering with one another — endearing enough to draw a smile.

Pei Shaohuai said, “Flowers must fall from the branch. Fledglings must leave the nest. These are things that simply must be done.”

Finally, one fledgling could not keep its footing and tumbled from the nest. In a flurry of spreading wings, it caught itself mid-air and, following its parents, departed that small courtyard.

Wu Jianqing nodded, and like his teacher, raised his head to gaze, lost in thought, at the rafters above.

……

At the Xu Residence.

Amid the cries of fledgling swallows in the rafters, another fifth month came to pass in the mortal world.

The weather had begun to warm, yet in the corner of Master Duan’s room, two braziers still remained, tended to with great care by the Xu household — they did not dare remove the braziers all at once, yet feared the heat might prove stifling for the master.

Master Duan reclined on his couch, listening to the chirping and chattering from the rafters outside the room, and asked Old Adu, “Are the fledgling swallows in the rafters about to leave the nest and try their wings?”

“Let me go and see.”

Old Adu went out to look and returned, saying, “Master Duan, it is indeed so — the fledgling swallows are about to leave the nest.”

A faraway look crossed Master Duan’s face. “Nest built in the third month, nest left in the fifth month — the old swallows leading the young ones to fly…” He said. “Lying bedridden for so long, I never managed to see the swallows build their nest in spring, and already it is the time of the old swallows leading their young.”

He quietly made up his mind, and asked, “Is Senior Grand Secretary Xu out today?”

Old Adu immediately understood the old master’s intention and was about to offer some words of dissuasion, when he heard Master Duan continue, “Adu, help this old wreck of mine outside for a walk. Let me see what the world looks like.”

“Master, Grand Secretary Xu said…”

“Adu, are even you unwilling to help me now?” Master Duan asked, his voice trembling, his eyes full of pleading.

That unyielding spirit, that upright bearing that had defined the master all his life — when had it ever looked this way? Old Adu’s heart was moved.

Master Duan added, “To lie inside this room, day after day without knowing — my heart is ill at ease!”

The room fell silent. After a long while, Old Adu said, “I will go and press Duan’s clothes for him, and then bring the sedan chair.” He had agreed to Master Duan’s request.

The sedan chair referred to here was a wheeled chair.

Each time the master went out, he had to be neat and proper from head to toe — first the hair dressed, then the robes set in order. But this time, Master Duan said, “Never mind.”

“Just wrap a fur coat over me. Carry me on your back, and we’ll go straight out through the back gate.” Master Duan no longer cared about his hair being undressed or appearing frail and ailing before others. He only wanted to go out and learn what had befallen his Boyuan. “Don’t let them find out — they’ll stop us.”

……

Master Duan was slight and thin, and being carried on one’s back felt no heavier than carrying a bamboo frame.

They passed through the bustling market streets, where they heard Cloud-Between lyrics drifting out from deep alleys and upper floors — those songs of formless mist and cloud-wreathed towers, their essence no different from the usual languid and enervating sounds, whatever finery dressed them in.

“Much like the poor who seek advancement — the more talent is lacking, the more one is driven to seek shortcuts, to prove a so-called talent that is not there.” Master Duan clung to Old Adu’s shoulder, regarding the Cloud-Between lyrics with contempt.

At last, in a corner of a teahouse, Master Duan caught sight of a torn and damaged scrap of paper. He had Old Adu pick it up and bring it to him.

On the scrap, dirtied with mud stains and torn at the edges, Master Duan finally read the words his student had spoken — the account of what had happened at court. In an instant everything was clear, everything at peace — as though he had seen before him the solitary figure of Boyuan standing firm against all who opposed him in the great hall.

“The ship is about to sink…” Master Duan called out in stricken anguish, his clouded eyes brimming with tears.

The patrons of the teahouse all turned to look at this old man still wrapped in winter clothes in early summer, marveling at how a person so frail as to seem on the verge of collapse could cry out with a voice that shook the heavens.

“Adu, let us go.”

“Where to?”

“To the Imperial Academy — to the place where men of learning gather.”

Old Adu walked briskly, with Master Duan bent upon his back, one withered hand holding up that torn and tattered scrap of paper toward the sunlight overhead.

“Faster. Faster still.”

Old Adu’s quick walk became a jog. An old manservant seemed to return to the strength of his younger years, the wind rushing past master and servant both, the paper in hand rustling with a whisper.

At last they arrived before the Imperial Academy. On the left was the academy; on the right, the Temple of Confucius.

Looking at Old Adu, gasping and out of breath, Master Duan said, “Set me down on the ground. Right here, before the gates of the Temple of Confucius.”

“Master, the ground is dirty.”

“Nothing is dirtier than the human heart — what is there to fear in a dirty ground?”

Old Adu spread his outer garment upon the ground, and Master Duan slumped down upon it, facing the Temple of Confucius, and began to read aloud the words on the paper, one by one. Scholars from the teahouse followed him over. Students from the inns heard and came running. Students from within the Imperial Academy heard the sound and walked out.

Ring after ring of people gathered, surrounding Master Duan.

Many recognized this old man — he who had produced two court laureates, four placing in the top three in the imperial examinations, and six others who had earned their degrees; he who had caused the students of the Imperial Academy to petition again and again that “the lectures be given once more”; he was the teacher of the laureate now in prison.

“Had heaven not given birth to Confucius, the ages would stretch on in endless night — the sage is gone, yet even now we have ‘the merchant girl, knowing nothing of a ruined realm, still sings songs of lamentation across the river.’ How sorrowful! A building full of scholars, heedless of the matters of state and the people’s livelihood, their every brushstroke full of mountain mists and pure idleness, adorning a false peace — can one truly blame the merchant girl for her singing when this is what the scholars have become?”

Master Duan’s voice rang out in question after question.

“What is a man of learning? One who wears the title of a degree and devotes himself entirely to currying favor with the powerful and coveting rank and status — that is not a man of learning. One who holds himself aloft, fancying the man of learning to be above all others, drifting like empty cloud — that too is not a man of learning. ‘To establish the heart of heaven and earth, to ordain a destiny for the living and the people, to carry forward the learning of those sages now lost, to open an era of peace for ten thousand generations’ — only thus is one truly a man of learning.”

“That a worthy man is cast into the imperial prison while mediocre men ascend high towers and sing verses — has the way of the world changed, or has the human heart changed? Is it leisured elegance, or is it the clambering for power and patronage?” Every word cut directly at the one who had set the Cloud-Between lyrics fashion in motion from behind.

Master Duan’s words held not only grief, but a pride that proclaimed a life well lived. Though slumped upon the ground, he seemed to stand a hundred feet tall. He said, “That Pei Shaohuai is a true man of learning. He is the finest student Duan Zhishu has ever taught. He does not fear death, and neither do I. Whoever wishes to kill him — kill me alongside him!”

All who had gathered there were those in whom some original heart still lived, and upon hearing this, they were shaken to the core. Why had they studied? Why had they sought their degrees? Not only to save themselves — but to save others.

Xu Yangui realized the master was no longer in his room and went out in anxious search. He heard the news and found Master Duan outside the Imperial Academy.

He knelt properly behind the master, waiting for him to finish all that he had to say — and despite his worry for the master’s health, he could not bring himself to interrupt. Only when the master finished speaking, already weak and swaying as though about to collapse, did Xu Yanggui hurry forward and take hold of him.

He lifted Master Duan into his arms, bound the master to his back with his own outer garment, and said, his eyes reddened, his voice choked, “Master, the student will take you home — home to wait together for Younger Uncle to return… He will come back.” His gaze was resolute.

“From this day forward, the student will keep watch over the master,” Xu Yangui said. “I am the master’s youngest student. With the others not here, let me stand in for them and keep watch at the master’s side, and wait with the master for all of them to return together.”

“Be at ease,” Master Duan said, his voice faint as he caught his breath. “I cannot die — I still have to wait for Boyuan to come home.”

The scholars parted to make way.

Watching Xu Yangui carry Master Duan away step by step, his white hair scattered loose like dry grass, tangled in the wind, someone in the crowd said, “Master Duan has produced not merely a laureate — but a scholar of virtue and an outstanding person.”

One may not scale the heights of the mountain; one can only bow in reverence at the fragrance drifting down.

Once one had taken the lead, all the gathered scholars turned together toward the retreating figure of Master Duan and bowed in deep reverence — and remained so for a long while.

……

The matter did not end with Master Duan’s departure. Within the span of two short days, dozens of memorials arrived before the Emperor, written in tears and spoken in righteous candor — on two counts: first, that Pei Boyuan was without guilt; second, that the Prince of Huai’s motive in recruiting advisors was impure — using Cloud-Between lyrics as a facade while all that truly was sung of was the seizing of power and the gaining of influence through corrupt means.

The Emperor summoned the Prince of Huai to the imperial study, had him kneel upon the floor of the hall for an entire day, and only when passing him on the way to the evening meal, said in passing, “I have not yet reached the time of dying. I will not tolerate your stirring the wind and fanning the waves right under my nose.”