“Take it back to His Majesty — this old servant could not accept it…”
The sound of shattering glass and cracking porcelain rang out, followed by the frail and desolate voice of an aged woman from within the inner chamber, accompanied by the startled cries of maidservants.
Several maidservants stumbled out in disarray, turned — and saw a woman step quietly out from behind a screen in the hall, wearing palace attire and a tall hairdo, her brow and eyes gentle.
“A’Yue Auntie.” The maidservants bowed quickly, and the one at the head of the group said with trembling anxiety, “The Madame of the State of Zhao smashed the red sage tincture gifted by His Majesty, refuses to take her medicine, and all of us are at our wits’ end.”
A’Yue Auntie said nothing, but a sigh — barely audible — seemed to pass her lips.
She took the medicine bowl and tray from the maidservant’s hands and said with weary calm, “I will attend to the Madame of the State of Zhao. You are all dismissed.”
The maidservants let out a collective breath of relief, just turning to withdraw — when the palace gate monitor announced, “Her Highness, Princess Chengtai, has arrived—”
Everyone hurriedly knelt on the ground. A rustling sound of jade pendants and silk robes swept in as a palace-clad woman entered with quick, urgent steps, her sleeves billowing behind her, leaving her retinue of attendants far behind.
“How is the Madame of the State of Zhao?” Princess Chengtai asked urgently, the moment she saw them.
The candlelight in the hall fell upon her cheeks, flushed from running, and lit her elegant brow, thin lips, and bright, vivid eyes — not as breathtakingly beautiful as Princess Yanxi, but possessing a luminous spirit and an uncommon grace of her own.
A’Yue Auntie glanced toward the inner chamber and shook her head with a sorrowful expression.
Princess Chengtai bit her lip, straining hard to hold back the tears welling in her eyes.
A’Yue Auntie waved the others to withdraw and pressed gently on the princess’s shoulder, sighing softly. “One’s lifespan is determined by Heaven. Auntie Xu has lived a life full of honor. She may be said to have reached a ripe, peaceful old age. Your Highness need not grieve too deeply — take care of yourself, and that is what will set her heart at ease.”
Princess Chengtai closed her eyes and choked out, “Mother Empress left us early. Father Emperor’s health has grown worse every year. And now even Auntie Xu is about to leave us… Auntie, I am truly frightened…”
A’Yue Auntie slowly stroked the princess’s hair, momentarily too grief-stricken to speak.
“Your Highness — please try to persuade Auntie Xu to take her medicine. She may still listen to you.” A’Yue Auntie held back her tears and managed a smile for the princess. “When people grow old, they grow more stubborn. I’m afraid I can no longer get through to her.”
Princess Chengtai nodded in silence, took the tray, and walked slowly into the inner chamber.
Watching her slender retreating figure, A’Yue Auntie felt a wave of dazed disorientation wash over her. She stepped out of the outer hall and leaned against the railing of the corridor, lost in thought.
Without knowing it, the years had passed… The girl who had just come of age when she first arrived was now well past twenty. By the count of years, the princess was twenty-five this year.
Twenty-five — Empress Jingyi, at that age, had already been the mother of the realm, having helped the Emperor ascend to the imperial throne with all under heaven in his grasp.
And as for her own twenty-five? Now, even thirty-five had come and gone… Those years of blooming youth had slipped away within these deep palace walls.
“A’Yue Auntie.”
Princess Chengtai had somehow arrived behind her, silent as a breath, her eyes still bearing traces of tears.
A’Yue Auntie quickly dipped in a half-bow. “Has Auntie Xu taken her medicine?”
“She has. She’s just fallen asleep.” Princess Chengtai said despondently, her head bowed. The two of them stood facing each other for a moment without words.
After a long while, Princess Chengtai said quietly, “Auntie Xu still bears a grudge against Father Emperor.”
A’Yue Auntie said nothing.
“After all these years, she still holds it against him. She always blames Father Emperor for wearing Mother Empress out to her death.” Princess Chengtai suddenly covered her face with her hands.
A’Yue Auntie turned her head away, barely suppressing the ache in her heart.
After Empress Jingyi passed away, Madam Xu had harbored a deep resentment toward the Emperor. Had it not been for the burdens of imperial power, the Empress would not have spent every last ounce of her life’s strength and passed away in the prime of her years. The Emperor then issued an edict to seal the Hall of Hanzhuang, forbidding anyone to enter, and took the seven-year-old Crown Prince and Princess away from Madam Xu’s care. He granted Madam Xu a titled rank, enfeoffed as Madame of the State of Zhao. Even so, Madam Xu remained unforgiving and would not hesitate to speak coldly and mockingly to the Emperor. There was no one else in the entire realm who would dare be so disrespectful to the Emperor.
And she alone — no matter how disrespectful she was — was always treated by the Emperor with patience and generosity. He even allowed her to live out her remaining years in comfort in the palace.
Princess Chengtai choked out, “Auntie Xu won’t forgive him. Even Che’er doesn’t understand — none of them understand Father Emperor’s difficulties…”
“The loss of the late Empress left Auntie Xu heartbroken beyond measure. She has no family of her own, has been alone all her life, and long regarded the late Empress as her own flesh and blood.” A’Yue Auntie said with a bitter tightness. “She is only fiercely protective, and cannot bear to see the late Empress suffer.”
“Mother Empress herself was willing!” Princess Chengtai said, the words escaping her before she could stop them.
A’Yue Auntie stared at the princess’s brow and eyes in a daze. Though she bore no resemblance to the peerlessly beautiful late Empress, there was something in her manner that felt dimly and vaguely familiar. Right — she recalled now, the late Empress had always carried that same look of absolute, unwavering resolve.
Having watched the princess grow from eleven years old until now, she suddenly could not decide whether to feel relief or heartbreak.
“Yes, willing — in this world there is always one person who will give themselves willingly for another…” A’Yue Auntie could hold back no longer and raised her eyes to look at her steadily. “Your Highness, it has already been ten years.”
Princess Chengtai startled.
A’Yue Auntie said slowly, “The Marquis of Chang’an has also willingly waited for you for ten years.”
The expression on Princess Chengtai’s face gradually shifted, and a deep, dense grief welled up in the depths of her eyes.
The Marquis of Chang’an, the Great General of the Western Expedition — but more than all these distinguished titles, what she could only bear to remember was his name from those early days. Brother Xiaohe.
That young man in white with his silver spear, coming toward her through the blood and fire, reaching out his hands to her.
That warm, smiling young man, accompanying her in the imperial garden as they flew paper kites.
That silent, compassionate young man, sharing in her grief day after day after Mother Empress’s great funeral.
But from some point on, everything had changed.
“Everything that once was has changed. It is no longer the same…” Princess Chengtai smiled with a quiet sadness.
“He has not changed.” A’Yue Auntie looked at her steadily, striking the mark in a single word.
Indeed — he had not changed. The only one who had changed was she alone.
“A woman does not have too many decades to spend in vain.” A’Yue Auntie lowered her eyes, her voice drifting as though carried by the wind, full of a lost and endless sorrow.
“Ten years…” Princess Chengtai seemed to fall into a daze.
Originally, Mother Empress had already drafted the imperial edict — only waiting for the coming-of-age ceremony to pass, and she would have arranged the betrothal of Qinzhi and Brother Xiaohe. But she had petitioned to leave the palace and take up residence at Cian Temple as a lay practitioner for three years, to pray for blessings for the late Empress and to offer prayers for her birth parents. That was the first time she had refused marriage. From then on, the name of Princess Chengtai’s exemplary filial piety spread throughout the realm. Father Emperor was deeply moved. Brother Xiaohe also respected her wishes. Only Mother Empress had been quite angry, and had not spoken to her for three full days, and in the end had not been able to out-stubborn her stubbornness. On the day she left the palace for Cian Temple, Mother Empress had said only one thing: “Qinzhi — if you cannot see clearly into your own heart, leaving the palace will not help you escape it.”
That one line had made her break out in a cold sweat on the spot, and it made her unable to face Mother Empress for three full years.
She had thought that no one could see through her secret, that no one knew the real reason she had refused the match… It seemed Mother Empress’s eyes had long since seen through everything.
Three years later, she still had not been able to escape the demons in her heart — yet she had run out of excuses and had no more places to retreat.
She had thought she had resigned herself, had accepted her fate — when suddenly, in a single night, the bell of mourning shook all six palaces.
Mother Empress’s passing changed everything. Many people’s courses in life turned from that moment onto a different path.
The national mourning. The mother’s mourning. Three years of mourning observance.
Once again she had slipped away from the heaven-given chance, slipped away from Brother Xiaohe, who had been waiting for her without a word.
From then on, Xiaohe had not sought to marry anyone. He had remained alone until this day. In the intervening years, the Emperor had more than once shown intention to arrange a marriage, and she had deflected every occasion with an excuse.
“On the day the Marquis of Chang’an set out for the western expedition, His Majesty again proposed a betrothal, and Your Highness refused it.” A’Yue Auntie sighed at length. “Two chances already missed… Your Highness — forgive this servant for speaking too freely — human life is full of uncertainty. Cherish what can be cherished.”
Princess Chengtai lowered her gaze in despondency, and was silent for a long, long moment.
Half a year ago, foreign enemies in the western frontier had been colluding in secret with the northern Turks, repeatedly encroaching on the border.
Father Emperor was furious. He bitterly regretted that in years past he had not exterminated the last of the Turks, and wished to lead his forces personally to pacify the western frontier. Yet over these past two years, Father Emperor had devoted himself utterly to governance and affairs of state, and moreover his age had grown, and old wounds from past campaigns had been flaring up with increasing frequency. The assembled ministers repeatedly urged and dissuaded him against taking personal command. Father Emperor, mindful that the Crown Prince was still young — not yet fifteen — and did not feel confident enough to leave him to oversee state affairs, turned the matter over carefully, and in the end agreed to Brother Xiaohe’s petition to go to war, appointing him Great General of the Western Expedition and sending him out with two hundred thousand troops to subdue the foreign enemies.
On the day of departure, Brother Xiaohe entered the palace to bid farewell and came to the Palace of Jinghuan to see her.
Breaking from his usual reserve, he did not address her as “Your Highness” — he called her by her name: “Qinzhi — Xie Xiaohe may not be the greatest hero in the world, but he has the blood and the spirit of a man. On this expedition to the western frontier, I will drive my horse across the mountains and rivers — if I do not achieve an enduring and glorious accomplishment, I will not come back to see you.”
He said: no matter how long it took, he would always wait for her to be willing.
He also said: “Qinzhi, you have your own hero in your heart. Xie Xiaohe is no ordinary man either.”
“Your Highness—”
A’Yue Auntie shook her shoulder gently. Seeing her face gone pale, her lips pressed tightly together, silent for a long while, A’Yue Auntie could not help feeling a deep, concerned ache.
Princess Chengtai came back to herself, with a desolate smile. “It is nothing… The night has grown cool. I’ll go check whether Che’er has put on more layers for his evening reading.”
A’Yue Auntie wanted to say more, but stayed silent. She watched that solitary, retreating figure and could only heave a long sigh.
Where there is feeling, there is suffering. She pitied her — but who was there to pity herself?
A line of clear tears slid down A’Yue Auntie’s already frost-touched cheek.
In the second month, the Madame of the State of Zhao passed away in the Hall of Liquan.
The fourth month, late spring — and the anniversary of Empress Jingyi’s passing was drawing near.
Every year at this time, within a full month in the palace, no music was heard and no colored garments were worn.
In the third month, the western expedition had achieved a great victory. The Marquis of Chang’an had pacified the border and established the dynasty’s might throughout all the frontier regions, and was soon to return to the capital with his troops.
His Highness the Crown Prince had toured on behalf of the Emperor, personally visiting various regions to inspect the Changqiu Offices and select worthy talents. He had won the praises of people throughout the realm — the common folk all said that His Highness, only fourteen years of age, would surely inherit the sageness of the current Emperor and inaugurate another great and glorious age.
Next month at the beginning, Princess Yanxi would be returning to the capital from Ningshuo.
These past few days, the Emperor had been in excellent spirits, bestowing rewards upon his ministers on multiple occasions, and a rare atmosphere of warmth and joy had spread through the palace.
In the Palace of Jinghuan, Princess Chengtai was listening to the reports of the various supervisors and monitors of the inner palace bureaus, with A’Yue Auntie standing attendant at her side. Watching the princess inquire into matter after matter without missing a thing, managing the inner palace affairs with ever-greater ease and composure, A’Yue Auntie could not help feeling pleased. She was, after all, personally raised and taught by Empress Jingyi — and in recent years, the inner palace affairs had gradually come under Princess Chengtai’s sole management, large matters and small handled in orderly fashion, which had been no small relief to the Emperor as well.
Of the two sisters, Princess Yanxi had been spoiled to excess by the Emperor, spending her days at play, entirely unaware of what her responsibilities were.
An imperial princess, gallivanting about with Prince Jiangxia in the remote deserts, gone for half a year at a stretch, reportedly so contented in the frontier that she had no desire to return, spending every day chasing hawks, galloping horses, and drawing bows to shoot at eagles — A’Yue Auntie didn’t know what to make of it. Every time she thought of the lively, headstrong little princess, she got a headache.
She could not fathom what the Emperor was thinking. Of three children, he was extraordinarily strict with the Crown Prince, impossibly indulgent with Princess Yanxi, and only with Princess Chengtai — the eldest, and not his own flesh — did he show the gentle authority of a father toward a daughter.
When the inner palace monitors had finished their reports one by one and withdrawn from the hall, Princess Chengtai at last set aside her formal manner and stuck out her tongue at A’Yue Auntie with a playful grin, mischievous as a little girl. “Honestly, those people and their speeches — always so lengthy and roundabout.”
A’Yue Auntie smiled and offered a cup of ginseng tea, and could not resist beginning to fret aloud. “When Princess Yanxi returns to the capital this time, we simply cannot go on letting His Majesty coddle her like this. A girl of fourteen — in no time she’ll be of coming-of-age. Going on like this with no restraint… Your Highness really must put a word in to His Majesty!”
Princess Chengtai laughed freely. “A’Yue Auntie sounds more and more like an old Confucian scholar! I for one think Xiaoxiao is just fine the way she is — unconstrained and free, with a world of her own. What better bearing could an imperial princess have?”
“That may be so, but Princess Yanxi will have to marry one day. His Majesty can’t keep spoiling her forever…” A’Yue Auntie frowned.
Princess Chengtai smiled faintly, then lowered her gaze, and said softly, “A’Yue Auntie — in the imperial family, being at ease and free of worry is itself a luxury. I understand Father Emperor’s heart. He hopes Xiaoxiao can be an exception among the children of the imperial house, free from the burdens of the palace. I hope the same.”
The sudden surge of sorrow that welled up in her made A’Yue Auntie’s eyes go red in an instant.
She understood well enough — how much of the indulgence the Emperor lavished on Princess Yanxi was born out of guilt toward his departed wife?
Everything the late Empress had yearned for in her lifetime yet never had — he would give all of it to their daughter.
“The Yong Mausoleum has been completed. Father Emperor visited it the day before yesterday and was very satisfied.” Princess Chengtai said quietly, turning her head to gaze up at the sky above the palace walls, seeming to look past A’Yue Auntie’s tears.
A’Yue Auntie sighed. “His Majesty has been frugal all his life, never taking on large construction projects — yet the Yong Mausoleum alone has taken seven years to build.”
Mother Empress had already been laid to rest in the innermost sleeping chamber at the deepest part of the underground palace. The outer palace halls and the entire imperial mausoleum had taken seven years to build.
Seven years… Princess Chengtai smiled with a distant sorrow. It was the home they had promised each other, to be together for all eternity — what was seven years to that?
— She wondered what the underground palace of the Yong Mausoleum looked like in all its splendor and magnificence.
No one but Father Emperor, the supervising officials, and the craftsmen had ever been permitted to set foot within the mausoleum.
On the twentieth day of the fourth month, the wind came sharp, the rain unrelenting and gray.
Inside and outside the palace walls, wind and rain blanketed everything. In each palace hall, pure white lanterns were hung early. The flowing drapes in the pavilions and halls had already been changed to blue gauze and plain white.
In each of the ten years past, on this day, it had been exactly so.
After nightfall, Princess Chengtai arrived at the Hall of Hanzhuang in plain robes.
The hall was without lanterns lit, the only light the deep, flickering of candles.
Attendants stood far away, waiting under the eaves of the corridor outside. No one was on duty inside the hall.
The Hall of Hanzhuang was a forbidden place of the six palaces. No one other than the Emperor was permitted to enter.
Princess Chengtai frowned and asked an inner attendant, “I am told His Majesty has not taken his medicine today?”
The inner attendant shook his head in consternation. “His Majesty commanded that unless summoned, no one is to disturb him, and we servants have not dared to bring the medicine in.”
“That medicine cannot be skipped for even a single day.” Princess Chengtai said with an anxious, worried expression, gazing into the hall for a long moment, still uneasy, unsure whether to enter or not.
This Hall of Hanzhuang was opened only once a year. Father Emperor did not come here on ordinary days, nor did he often give outward expression to his longing. On the rare occasions Mother Empress was mentioned, he showed neither joy nor grief. Yet among all the days of the year, on the anniversary of Mother Empress’s passing, he would invariably spend the night here alone and could not be disturbed.
Early this morning — he had attended court, deliberated on affairs, summoned the Crown Prince to discuss state policy, reviewed official memorials until deep in the night… She had watched him all along, and had seen Father Emperor remain as composed as always, diligently attending to affairs, no joy or sorrow showing on his face. Aside from wearing dark robes and a plain cap, there had been nothing different about him from any ordinary day. She had not seen any particular grief. She had thought that after seven years, it must have faded…
Princess Chengtai sighed at length. “Have the imperial physician bring the medicine.”
Having said this, she did not wait for the inner attendant’s announcement, but walked directly through the hall’s doors.
The inner attendant stared at her retreating back, perspiration wetting his palms, wanting to call out for the princess to stop — but not daring to open his mouth.
Princess Chengtai stepped through that familiar, long-unvisited door, and for a brief instant she hesitated.
The front hall, the columns, the drapes, the screens… It was as though time had suddenly reversed, and yesterday reappeared before her eyes.
The scent of udumbara incense that she knew so well drifted throughout the hall, curling and lingering, seeming to be right beside her and yet impossible to follow back to its source.
Nothing had changed. Even the sheet of music notation on the qin table that had not yet been completed was still in its place, as though the ink had not yet dried.
Not a trace of dust lay on the qin strings, as though someone had played them just a moment before.
For a brief instant she had the illusion — as though Mother Empress were still here, just behind that screen, by the decorated window, lying at ease against the brocade couch, reading a book. When she or Xiaoxiao came running in laughing and joyful, Mother Empress would look up with a soft smile, take out a silk cloth, and gently wipe away the tiny beads of sweat from running.
Mother Empress would speak gently with the children, listening to them quarrel and make up with each other. When she grew tired of speaking, she would always give a soft little cough.
And every time she did, Father Emperor would chase them away, forbidding them to tire Mother Empress out any further.
In a daze, a low, quiet cough actually seemed to drift from behind the screen.
“Mother Empress!” She almost cried out in shock — then caught herself and realized it was Father Emperor’s voice. He was the one coughing.
She moved quickly forward, and when she reached the screen, stopped abruptly, no longer daring to go around it.
Would Father Emperor be angry, that she had just walked in like this… Princess Chengtai was suddenly at a loss for what to do, like a child who had done something wrong.
“You are here.”
Father Emperor’s low, smiling voice came from behind the screen, carrying a faint, deep warmth.
She startled. Her face instantly blazed as though on fire, and her heart leaped.
“Still hiding — do you think I cannot see you? Come out here!” Father Emperor’s voice left her almost unable to believe her ears — where was the cool and stern sovereign of ordinary days? In the hazy warmth of that smile, there was a deep and lingering tenderness that made her heart feel like a startled fawn, running wild.
Princess Chengtai lowered her head and stepped out from behind the screen, eyes shyly downcast, not daring to look up.
A long moment passed. There was no sound.
She looked up in confusion — and saw, from behind the lowered embroidered curtains of the phoenix couch, the coverlet pushed askew, wine spilled out across the surface. Father Emperor in dark robes, his hair unpinned, reclined half-awake behind the curtains.
“Father Emperor?” She tried calling out in a trembling voice.
No response came — but she heard him laugh softly, low and wandering, and begin to murmur fragments of a song.
“Green, oh green, the robe — green the garment, yellow the lining. The grief of my heart — how shall it ever cease…”
She stood transfixed. She had never heard Father Emperor sing before — she had not known his voice could be so deep and lingering, so heartbreaking to hear.
— The Green Robe — this song of mourning for a lost wife.
She could bear to hear no more. She sank to her knees before the couch, her knees striking the floor. “Father Emperor — I beg you to take care of your health.”
The murmuring behind the curtains stopped. She saw Father Emperor half-raise himself and look over toward her. His clear and noble face still carried the marks of grief. In the depths of his eyes, the faint glimmer of tears — and silver strands scattered through his frosted hair at the temples. In the candlelight, he wore a look of something nearly like dissolute sorrow.
“How did it come to be you?” He saw her, and his arched brows immediately drew together.
She too was startled, not knowing how to answer.
Father Emperor suddenly gave a low, dazed laugh and lay back down, murmuring to himself, “Strange — how do I come to dream of Qinzhi… A’Wu, are you up to tricks again?”
He gave a soft, low laugh, and turned to lie facing away from her. “If you will not come into my dreams, I will find my own way to see you.”
Princess Chengtai knelt motionless where she was, the color draining from her face.
“Father Emperor…” Her lips parted slightly, and suddenly she could hold back no longer — tears slid silently down her face.
So — he had merely mistaken her for that person. Even in his dreams, he had not wished to see her at all.
Seven years of keeping him company. She had been at his side, accompanying him, revering him as sovereign, attending him as a father, sharing in his solitude and sorrow…
In childhood, she had only known awe and reverence, looking up at him like a towering and awe-inspiring divine figure.
As she grew into adulthood, she watched him walk the road with Mother Empress, hand in hand, their devotion so deep, and only then did she come to know that such depth of feeling truly existed in this world.
The four short years of happiness had passed like a flash. Mother Empress was gone, and that throne on high was left with him alone — a solitary shadow reaching toward the sky, holding all of heaven and earth in his hands, yet unable to hold back the one person who mattered most. Ten years of life and death, Heaven and humankind forever separated… Day by day, year by year, she grew from a young girl of budding years to a woman in the bloom of her finest season. He moved from a man of heroic bearing to one with temples touched by frost.
He was her sovereign. Her father. Her father emperor in name. He had adopted her and raised her, given her glory and parental affection, personally caring for her and her younger siblings — not letting them lack for one moment of love because of Mother Empress’s early death. He kept the consort position empty for all time, accepting no one into the six palaces. No woman of the world ever caught his eye again.
When Mother Empress was alive, she too had shown the small tenderness of a little girl, taking pleasure in being with her parents. After Mother Empress was gone, she had grown into the eldest sister — someone who had to step forward and fill the void Mother Empress had left behind, protecting her younger siblings, and staying by his side.
Father Emperor, Che’er, Xiaoxiao — they had all become the most important people in her life.
She did not know from when, but she had found she could not bring herself to leave them. Not even Brother Xiaohe could take their place.
Others did not understand — why she would insist on staying in the palace, missing her chance at marriage, spending the years of her youth, until in the blink of an eye she was twenty-five.
Some said Princess Chengtai was too proud of her own nobility and would not stoop to marry even a man as outstanding as the Marquis of Chang’an. Some said Princess Chengtai’s filial piety was unparalleled, that she willingly remained in the palace all her life to repay the grace of her parents’ upbringing… Yes — she was truly willing! Willing to give up marriage for life, only to be by his side forever, to keep him company along this long and solitary emperor’s road.
“Father Emperor — you are not dreaming. I am Qinzhi!” She choked and lunged to the edge of the couch, heedless of all else, seizing Father Emperor’s hand in both her own.
“How dare you!” Xiao Qi jolted fully awake, sat up, and shook his arm to push her away.
She tumbled to the floor and looked up at him with grief in her eyes.
“Qinzhi?” Xiao Qi frowned, still hazy with drink, the anger and shock in his eyes fading, giving way to exhaustion. “Who let you in here?”
Princess Chengtai smiled with quiet sorrow. “Does Father Emperor truly not wish to see me?”
He pressed his temples, closed his eyes for a moment. “We are in pain… Go and withdraw.”
“Qinzhi knows her wrong!” At last she gathered her courage and let out the words she had buried deep in her heart, her voice trembling. “Father Emperor’s grief — Qinzhi feels it as her own. To see you like this… it pains me.”
Xiao Qi raised an eyebrow, looking at her in silence. He rose and pulled on his outer robe.
It was an old robe, washed until it had gone pale. She recognized it — on it were golden dragon embroideries that Mother Empress had sewn by hand. The brilliant golden threads had faded somewhat.
“You should know what day today is.” Xiao Qi’s voice was quiet, carrying exhaustion and a cold distance. “On ordinary days you are the most sensible one. Today, of all days, to be so heedless of what is appropriate — can anyone enter these sleeping quarters of Ours and the Empress at will?”
She bit her lips and stubbornly held back her tears. “Qinzhi entered the sleeping quarters without permission only to remind Father Emperor to take his medicine. The imperial physicians say the medicine must not be skipped.”
Xiao Qi looked at her in silence. The warmth returned slightly to his gaze.
“This filial devotion pleases Us greatly.” He kept his stern expression. “This time We will not punish you, but do not violate this rule again. Someone come—”
The palace guards outside did not dare enter, and called out from beyond the door in respectful answer.
“Give the inner attendants on duty twenty strokes of the paddle.” Xiao Qi said coldly.
The palace guards answered as one, and before even the sound of pleading for mercy could be heard, the men were dragged away.
Princess Chengtai knelt on the floor, her hands and feet gone cold, her whole body trembling faintly.
“Withdraw now.” Xiao Qi waved his hand, his expression all weariness and indifference.
Princess Chengtai slowly rose and stepped back toward the screen, but then turned and stood still.
“Father Emperor — I heard you singing the Green Robe.” She held a faint smile at the corner of her lips, her gaze hazy and distant. “Qinzhi would like to hear it once more.”
Xiao Qi startled, and frowned as he looked at her. Then he gave a quiet, melancholy smile.
“That was not meant for your ears.” His expression fell into desolation, and he raised his eyes to look at his eldest daughter before him, who was behaving so oddly, feeling a trace of surprised puzzlement. “Qinzhi — do you have something to say to Us?”
Princess Chengtai smiled, her eyes bright with a glimmer of moisture, carrying a touch of little-girl coquettishness. “Father Emperor — tell me first, what does the Green Robe mean?”
Xiao Qi looked at her long and deeply. In the candlelight, this look of playful, pouting coaxing, with a hint of a pout — it stirred something in his heart that had been sealed away for a long time.
Once, his A’Wu had also been like this, coquettish and sweetly willful, and she would coax him and say — Xiao Qi, tell me one more story and I’ll go to sleep!
At that time she had also been only just twenty, even younger than Qinzhi was today.
She had only ever let her girlish tenderness show before him — she always loved to cling to him and ask for stories, loved to hear about his campaigns on horseback, about the secret amusing things from his boyhood… She said she wanted to know more about him.
He turned his face to the side, unable to look any longer at that pair of eyes, unable to revisit those memories of the past.
“The Green Robe is a song of a man’s longing for his departed wife.” He spoke slowly, his hand tracing the embroidery on the old robe, and smiled faintly.
“Green, oh green, the robe — green the garment, yellow the lining. The grief of my heart — how shall it ever cease! Green, oh green, the robe — green the garment, yellow the skirt. The grief of my heart — how shall it ever be stilled!
Green the silk thread — the thread she spun herself. I think of this woman of old, so that I make no mistakes! The fine linen, the coarse linen — how the cold wind cuts through. I think of this woman of old — truly she understood my heart!”
His voice was low and slightly hoarse — each sound, each word, as though cutting at the heart.
“Father Emperor can never forget Mother Empress, and will never be able to see anyone else — is that not so?” Princess Chengtai held a faint smile at her lips and asked quietly.
But Xiao Qi did not answer. After a long daze, he murmured to himself, “Qinzhi — look. Within the Hall of Hanzhuang, all is as it was… She is still here. She has never left.”
Yes — even though Mother Empress was gone, her shadow had remained forever in these palace halls, in Father Emperor’s heart, everywhere and always.
Princess Chengtai bowed silently to Xiao Qi. “May Father Emperor take utmost care of himself, and please do remember to take your medicine.”
“We know.” Xiao Qi gave a slight nod.
“There is one matter your daughter wishes to ask Father Emperor’s permission for.” She said this, and knelt in a formal, dignified bow.
Xiao Qi smiled. “Why so solemn about it?”
Princess Chengtai said, word by word, “Your daughter wishes to marry the Marquis of Chang’an. May Father Emperor grant the betrothal.”
On the twenty-ninth day of the fourth month, the imperial edict was issued: Princess Chengtai was to be wed to the Marquis of Chang’an, and when the troops returned in triumph, the wedding would take place at once.
This happy news sent a stir through the inner palace and the capital.
The imperial house had not seen a wedding in many years.
Everyone marveled at this heaven-made match, and praised Princess Chengtai’s exceptional filial virtue.
Father Emperor was most pleased — yet the happiest person of all was probably A’Yue Auntie and Che’er.
Che’er said: Imperial Elder Sister has finally gotten herself married. No more one to nag us from now on.
A’Yue Auntie actually shed tears. “Princess Chengtai has found her true match. The late Empress’s spirit in heaven will surely bestow its blessing upon you.”
The western frontier was settled. The Marquis of Chang’an began his return to the capital.
On the third day of the fifth month — a clear day, the sky without a cloud.
A three-hundred-li emergency military report was rushed into the palace at speed.
In the imperial study, Princess Chengtai — still hazy from drinking — was urgently summoned inside.
Her cloud-dark hair slightly loose, her silk robe still bearing wine stains, Princess Chengtai stepped bewilderedly into the hall.
Xiao Qi stood by the window, his hair frost-white, his upright figure seeming, in this moment, somehow rigid and stiff.
He turned slowly and looked steadily at Princess Chengtai.
“What has Father Emperor summoned your daughter for?” She smiled with a languid indifference — after the betrothal was granted, she had not indulged in any more coquettish behavior in Father Emperor’s presence.
Xiao Qi reached out and drew her slender shoulders toward him, without a word pulling her into his embrace.
In that instant, the awe-inspiring founding Emperor was only a father — heartbroken and at a loss.
Princess Chengtai stiffened, letting Father Emperor hold her, forgetting what she should say, forgetting what she should do…
He — for the first time — was embracing her.
Since the day he had adopted her as his daughter, more than ten years had passed — and today was the first time he had embraced her.
Even though he was a loving father, this was already more than enough.
Princess Chengtai trembled and closed her eyes, for a moment forgetting everything — wanting only for Father Emperor to hold her like this forever.
“Qinzhi — We have wronged you.” Father Emperor’s voice was ridden with grief. “Xiaohe — cannot come back.”
She was still drifting in a haze of half-drunk confusion and had not understood Father Emperor’s words. She asked, blankly, “Where is Brother Xiaohe going?”
Xiao Qi looked deep into her eyes, and spoke word by word: “Wrapped in the skin of his horse, his bones buried in the green mountains.”
A ringing sound seemed to fill her ears. She stared at Father Emperor in a daze, listening to the eight words he spoke.
Suddenly the world tilted and spun.
The white-clad young man’s figure swept before her eyes — his warm smile sweeping across her sight…
He had said — on this expedition to the western frontier, I will drive my horse across the mountains and rivers, and if I do not achieve an enduring and glorious accomplishment, I will not come back to see you.
Brother Xiaohe — you deceived me.
In the end — I have missed you too.
—The Great General of the Western Expedition, Xie Xiaohe, fought alone behind enemy lines in the decisive battle at Jicheng, slew the enemy’s chief commander, and secured the victory. He was gravely wounded in nine places and made for the capital, but his injuries worsened on the road, and three days ago he died suddenly in the Western Peace Commandery.
The court was shaken. All officials expressed their mourning.
On the day the Marquis of Chang’an’s coffin entered the capital, the Emperor personally led the Crown Prince out beyond the city gates to receive it, weeping bitterly with his hand upon the coffin, pouring out wine in the open country as an offering to the fallen hero’s spirit.
Princess Chengtai, as the one left behind, wore mourning and accompanied the coffin in procession into the city.
The Yong Mausoleum.
Without ceremonial escorts or honor guards, a single imperial carriage came gliding through the morning mist.
Princess Chengtai in plain robes and dark garments stepped slowly down from the carriage, her black hair gathered into a low, hanging chignon, pinned with a single jade clasp, not a single pearl or gem on her from head to toe.
“Is this the Yong Mausoleum?” She tilted her head back and gazed quietly at the magnificent imperial mausoleum before her, her brow and eyes utterly detached.
The young serving girl behind her exclaimed in awe, “What a magnificent mausoleum it is!”
The imperial mausoleum was carved into the mountain itself, with the ridgeline as its body, spanning several tens of miles in circumference. Before the eye lay a vast expanse of pine and cypress, dense and lush, and beyond it, the open wilderness stretching for a thousand miles, vast and boundless.
The sacred path leading to the mausoleum was several yards across, running straight to the great hall above the underground palace. On either side of the sacred path stood enormous carved stone spirit-beasts — to the east the Tianlü, to the west the Qilin. The Tianlü bore a fierce, wide-eyed expression, head held high and chest broad, wings of scale-feathers unfurling in curling cloud-like patterns. The Qilin stood to the west, facing the Tianlü — signifying that the Emperor received his mandate from Heaven, with Heaven’s majesty supreme above all.
Imperial heavenly might, overawing all four directions — only a place like this was worthy of being the eternal resting place of the dynasty’s founding Emperor and Empress.
Here, Mother Empress lay at eternal rest. Here lay a legendary woman of a thousand years.
Gazing up at the magnificent imperial mausoleum, Princess Chengtai smiled with a sense of profound wonder, and at last felt a quietness settle into her heart.
Not yet wed, and already a widow — who had loved whom, who had kept vigil for whom… and still there was no escaping the twists of fate.
The palace everywhere was full of things that cut at her heart — it was no longer her home.
She was weary. There was no place in this world that could offer her any refuge.
When she was sad, when she was lonely, Mother Empress had always been there — someone who always understood her.
Perhaps by coming to the imperial mausoleum, to keep Mother Empress company, she might find some small measure of peace.
Father Emperor had granted her petition to attend upon the late Empress at the imperial mausoleum, and made an exception to permit her entry into the underground palace.
She had imagined many times what Mother Empress’s underground palace must look like — what magnificent splendor of gold and jade it must contain, what dazzling radiance.
Yet when she truly stepped through the sealed doors deep below the ground, and the eighty-one eternal lamps lit one by one, she could not believe what her eyes beheld.
In the center of the main hall of the underground palace, there was no magnificent chamber such as she had imagined.
Only a graceful and delicate house, with a flower garden, a winding path, and a small bridge before the door — the arrangement of a common folk’s courtyard.
Emerald jade carved into slender bamboo. Carnelian set as peonies. The dewdrops tumbling among the silk grass and silk-threaded leaves — those were thousands of pearls.
Nature’s own craft, carved by the work of spirits — embroidered flowers in brilliant bloom here, just as the Empress Jingyi who slumbered within them, her beauty forever unchanging, the flowers forever without withering. Let ten thousand ages pass, let the clouds and winds change — until that day when he came, a hundred years hence, and they would go hand in hand together.
Here, there was no more strife, no more solitude, no more parting. Only an eternity and a stillness that belonged to them alone.
Appendix:
Green, oh green, the robe — green the garment, yellow the lining. The grief of my heart — how shall it ever cease! Green, oh green, the robe — green the garment, yellow the skirt. The grief of my heart — how shall it ever be stilled! Green the silk thread — the thread she spun herself. I think of this woman of old, so that I make no mistakes! The fine linen, the coarse linen — how the cold wind cuts through. I think of this woman of old — truly she understood my heart!
Ancient person: a person of the past, referring to one’s departed wife.
Translation: The green garment of his wife’s making is taken up and examined — the memory of his wife’s living presence can never be forgotten, and the grief can never cease. Looking carefully at every stitch and thread in the garment, each one is a stitch of his wife’s deep love. His wife’s former words of counsel kept him from making mistakes. When he thinks of these things, his grief cannot stop. When the cold arrives, he still wears the clothing of summer — when his wife was living, the changing of clothes with each season was her concern. After his wife’s death, he has not yet formed the habit of caring for himself. The desolate autumn wind sweeps in, stirring the endless grief of having lost a virtuous wife. Only his wife had truly understood his heart — something no other person in the world could ever replace. The longing and sorrow for his wife will go on without end.