The spring rain fell softly through the night. Outside the paper window, the sky gradually grew lighter.

Pu Zhu slowly opened her eyes. She turned her face and, by the dim morning light seeping through the window, looked at the man lying beside her on the pillow.

He still had his eyes closed, as though deep in unbroken sleep; the morning light traced the line of his handsome, upright profile.

The previous night, after listening to everything he had described about the future, Pu Zhu’s thoughts had immediately turned to herself.

But before she could even ask, he had told her his arrangement for her.

From a rational standpoint, it was undeniably the most sensible plan.

The road ahead of him was shrouded in uncertainty. By his own account, whether he could even survive to reach his destination was an open question. If she went along at this moment, she would not only be a burden—for her own sake as well, it would be the same as following him through a life-threatening gamble.

This arrangement, even accounting for the worst possible circumstances, would at least mean her life should not be in danger.

He truly was thinking of what was best for her—Pu Zhu did not deny this.

But she had also felt, increasingly, that he had become a different person.

Before, with her, he had always been unpredictable in his moods.

He would be kind to her. When they were intimate, she could always feel his affection for her, his limitless desire for her. When they were apart, he would travel ten thousand li because he missed her, and confess his feelings with deep sincerity.

He would also scold her at times, mock her at others—and in moments of anger, say things that cut deep enough that she feared she might never be able to forget them, and might never fully recover.

That Li Xuandu was the Li Xuandu Pu Zhu had grown accustomed to.

But since their meeting in the upper commandery, since that night, he had been different.

He had changed completely.

He had not lost his temper with her once, had not said a single word that might make her unhappy or hurt her. He took care of her in every way, thoughtful and considerate at every turn.

And yet Pu Zhu felt that a wall had been erected between the two of them—an invisible wall, quietly separating him from her.

That night, she had been filled with joy when he finally took the initiative to tell her his plans for the future. She had been moved and stirred by everything he described. Though he had said only a few words, it was as if she could see before her eyes a great scroll of ambitious vision slowly beginning to unfurl.

But she was also stricken with a sense of loss—boundless loss—over the decision he had made at the end, the one he had not thought to ask her about.

In that long spring night, lodging in the home of a country farmstead, Pu Zhu did not know whether Li Xuandu beside her, his breathing steady and even, had actually fallen asleep. For her part, she could not sleep at all.

She lay awake through it all, her thoughts filled with tension, worry, excitement, and those few inexpressible pangs of loss—until the moment when morning came at last.

Li Xuandu’s eyelashes moved faintly, and he slowly opened his eyes. As though he sensed her watching him, he turned his face toward her as well, and they looked at each other for a moment.

“Time to get up.”

He said softly.

Well past the fifth watch, Li Xuandu brought her away from the farmhouse and continued on toward the capital, setting out amid the old couple’s repeated and heartfelt thanks. They traveled for another day through the remote countryside, and as darkness fell, they finally reached the capital.

All the city gates had been closed. In the areas near the gates, which would ordinarily have been bustling with people coming and going, not a single civilian could be seen—only soldiers everywhere in armor, bearing spears, the guard strict and severe. Along the tops of the city walls, men patrolled back and forth, scanning the movements in the distance.

Li Xuandu brought Pu Zhu secretly to the Western Garden.

The Director of the Western Garden—an unremarkable-looking man with a lame leg—came personally to meet Li Xuandu. He spoke with him briefly, then left in haste.

Li Xuandu saw Pu Zhu staring at the Director of the Western Garden’s retreating figure and explained: “He is Jiang Yi’s brother-in-law. In his early years he served as the palace guard commander of the Changan Palace, and later led troops in battle, rising through military achievements to the rank of Senior Second Rank Jinwu General. He was wounded in his legs during one engagement and could no longer serve in a military post; when he returned to court, the Grand Empress Dowager arranged for him to become the Director of the Western Garden here. Over these years, though he has been far from the center of power and has kept himself out of political affairs, and though the personnel of both the Northern Garrison and the Southern Bureau have gone through changes and turnover, he still has a few old acquaintances among them. Rest assured—just wait a little longer, and he will certainly be able to get word to the Penglai Palace.”

Pu Zhu was staring at the Director of the Western Garden—not because she doubted his ability to accomplish the task, but because she was thinking of her previous life.

So the person who had quietly helped Li Xuandu slip away in that previous life had been this Director of the Western Garden.

Afterward she had also speculated that it might have been the Director of the Western Garden who had secretly helped Li Xuandu escape—but then thinking of that man’s unremarkable appearance and his lame leg, she had dismissed the idea as unlikely. The Western Garden was vast and could not be strictly sealed off in every corner; there were bound to be gaps that could be exploited. Li Xuandu’s presence there at the time might simply have been a coincidence.

She had not expected that her speculation at the time was correct—she had simply been fooled again by the Director’s outward appearance.

To be able to secretly smuggle someone away in the midst of a thorough search—what kind of connections would that require? This Director of the Western Garden was no ordinary person. Even now, with the city gates under strict curfew, he would surely find a way to get word to the Penglai Palace.

Sure enough: by midnight, Lady Chen the female official arrived in a palace carriage. She asked Li Xuandu a few questions and learned he had slipped out of the imperial mausoleum in secret. She conveyed the Grand Empress Dowager’s command that he return immediately and continue doing what he was supposed to be doing, and await further orders.

Li Xuandu glanced at Pu Zhu, gave a slight nod of his head: “That is my intention as well. I thank you for the trouble, Attendant—please convey to my imperial grandmother on Xuandu’s behalf: Zhuzhu is entrusting herself to her care. Xuandu kneels in gratitude!”

Having said this, he turned and left, his silhouette swiftly disappearing into the night.

Pu Zhu followed Lady Chen into the palace carriage. Lady Chen saw her unsettled expression, took her hand and gave it a squeeze, told her not to worry too much, and then ordered the carriage back to the palace. When they reached the North Gate, the officer responsible for the gate saw it was a carriage from the Penglai Palace and did not dare ask a single question, immediately ordering the gate opened.

At the fourth watch, in the darkest and most profound stretch of the night, Pu Zhu finally stepped through the gates of the Penglai Palace and was brought before Empress Dowager Jiang.

Empress Dowager Jiang was standing alone at the window of her sleeping chamber, facing the night sky in the distance, her figure still as a pillar of stone.

Beneath that stretch of night sky lay the sweeping, connected towers and halls of the Changan Palace, directly opposite from here across the distance.

Pu Zhu stood behind her, not daring to make a sound, afraid the slightest noise might startle her. After a long while, she saw the old woman’s figure suddenly tremble slightly, then slowly begin to bend and sag downward, as though she could no longer stand. Pu Zhu hurried forward and caught her by the arm.

In the shifting lamplight, Empress Dowager Jiang’s hair was entirely white; her expression was wan and exhausted; her whole being looked older than it ever had, worn through with weariness.

Pu Zhu’s heart lurched with alarm, and she implored in a trembling voice: “Imperial Grandmother! Please go and rest!”

Empress Dowager Jiang, steadied by Pu Zhu’s support, slowly lowered herself onto the cushioned seat that Lady Chen hurried to bring forward. She let out a long breath and said: “Do you know what I was just thinking about?”

Pu Zhu knelt at her feet and shook her head.

Empress Dowager Jiang said: “I was thinking about certain things from when I was your age…”

Pu Zhu looked up at her.

“When I was your age, I was already Empress. Do you see that crabapple tree outside? I brought it from my family home and planted it here in the palace when I first came. Later, when I moved to these quarters, I thought to leave it behind—and then thought again, decided I couldn’t quite let it go, and had it moved here too. Year after year I have watched it flower, and when the blossoms fall, I know another year has gone by. A whole life lived, and it may be the only thing that will accompany me to the very end.”

Her tone was calm, but Pu Zhu seemed to feel the bleakness and desolation beneath that calm. She thought of the Five Phoenix Lamp Tower on the night of the Autumn Festival the year before—the splendor of it vivid in her memory—and contrasting that with this scene tonight, she felt the chill and loneliness of this moment twice as keenly. A deep sadness rose in her chest.

“Imperial Grandmother—how can you think like this! Besides this tree accompanying you through wind and rain, history will surely record your name in bold strokes—your tireless vigilance, your steadying of crisis, your guidance of the realm to enlightenment—you are the very embodiment of orthodoxy. Beyond the history books, there are the ministers and the common people throughout the realm who hold you in reverence and love! I once told you that when I was in He Xi, everyone revered you as the Queen Mother of the West—Imperial Grandmother, do you still remember?”

“And furthermore!”

She cast about desperately in her mind, remembered, and quickly added: “In Prince Qin’s eyes, you are the elder and the family he has respected and loved most deeply in all his life. Imperial Grandmother, you must hold yourself together—please, please do not grieve yourself this way!”

Empress Dowager Jiang did not stir. She looked down, her gaze coming to rest on Pu Zhu’s face, as though studying her carefully. After a long moment, she shook her head and sighed: “What a warm-hearted, foolish child… Are you trying to comfort me? I have always prided myself on my ability to read people, yet I underestimated you all along. I remember—on the night of last year’s Autumn Festival, when I climbed the watch tower, everyone else did not dare look directly at me, but there you were, secretly daring to peek at me from behind. Why were you looking at me? And in your eyes, what manner of person am I?”

Pu Zhu’s chest tightened with warmth. She said: “In my eyes, you are a peerless heroine among women. From Empress to Empress Dowager to Grand Empress Dowager—you have been brilliant in mind and great in achievement, accomplished deeds of enduring importance, and throughout it all you have kept the greater good in view, placed duty first, and been both compassionate and composed. You are deserving of every honor and every tribute.”

Empress Dowager Jiang laughed—at first a soft laugh, then growing into full laughter, until it seemed tears might come from it. She turned to Lady Chen, who stood at a distance: “You heard her—this little girl seems to think I am a saint…”

Her tone was full of self-mockery.

Lady Chen’s eyes reddened. Without a word, she knelt and pressed her forehead deeply to the ground.

Empress Dowager Jiang gradually stopped laughing. She turned to Pu Zhu and said: “The historians may record a line or two about me; the people may praise me with a word or two. But do you know—behind all of that—throughout my life, beyond the glory you have seen, how many things I was compelled to do in the name of ‘the realm’ and ‘the greater good’ that, even now when I think back on them, I still do not know whether they were right or wrong?”

Pu Zhu stared at her blankly.

“Little girl, I am no saint. For the sake of my responsibilities, the order I wished to maintain—I have sacrificed many people. I owe a debt to many. Huaiwei’s mother. Jiang Yi. And Yuli’er…”

“My Yuli’er—what a carefree, spirited young man he used to be, and yet he has become this. At the time, I knew full well he was innocent—and yet I failed to protect him. I am not worthy of his love and reverence…”

Her emotions seemed to slip momentarily beyond her control; the childhood name kept falling from her lips in a murmur, the corner of her eyes glistening faintly with tears, and her voice slowly grew quieter and stilled.

Pu Zhu was deeply shaken. She slowly settled onto her knees on the floor, her face turned upward, staring in a daze at this old woman before her whose face was etched with sorrow and self-reproach.

In this moment, Empress Dowager Jiang was no longer the Grand Empress Dowager she had always known—the woman who seemed to glow with boundless and luminous honor. She was simply an old woman, worn and without strength, utterly ordinary.

In the darkness of the night Empress Dowager Jiang slowly let out a breath, her thoughts drifting far away for a long while. Her emotions seemed at last to gradually come back to her. Seeing Pu Zhu still looking up at her in a daze, she said: “Has your grandmother disappointed you, child?”

Pu Zhu came back to herself and quickly shook her head.

Empress Dowager Jiang gazed at her steadily, and smiled slightly: “Zhuzhu, your grandmother offers you one piece of counsel: for those who occupy high places, there is—beyond the glory—the fetters and the responsibilities that come with it. Your grandmother has occupied high places all her life, yet has done so poorly—even failing quite badly—and it is this that has brought about the calamity of today…”

She turned her face and looked for a moment in the direction of the Changan Palace, then slowly brought her gaze back.

“Yuli’er sent you to me—did he say anything to you?”

Pu Zhu’s mind immediately went to the image of him the previous night, using his sword to trace out a map on the earthen floor. She hesitated for a moment, then at last made up her mind and said quietly: “He told me that since childhood he has had one ambition—to sever the wings of the Eastern Di people and pacify the Western Regions. His imperial brother will not tolerate his existence; now that the Crown Prince has ascended, this will be even more so. He intends to circle through the Western Sea route and make for the Western Regions—partly for his own survival, partly in answer to the calling of his heart. For a man of ambition who can fight freely for what he believes in, even a thousand deaths would leave him without regret. Only…”

She paused and cast a quiet glance at Empress Dowager Jiang.

“He told me that the day he enters the Western Regions will also be the day he has turned against the dynasty. He does not fear the name of traitor. The only thing he cannot let go of is you, Imperial Grandmother. He fears you will be disappointed in him.”

Empress Dowager Jiang slowly closed her eyes. She sat without moving, as still as if she had entered a state of meditation.

Pu Zhu finished speaking, her heart tense. She immediately shuffled back on her knees a few steps, knelt prostrate on the ground, and pressed her forehead to the floor: “Imperial Grandmother, he has been targeted for assassination again and again. At the autumn hunt it was so, and he barely survived. Just a few days ago, though he was openly dispatched to the imperial mausoleum on official business, in secret the intent was once again to take his life. If not for good fortune, he would have been dead long ago! Imperial Grandmother—it is not that he wishes to bear the name of a traitor. He has retreated and retreated again, and now there is nowhere left to retreat to. If he does not go, there is only sitting and waiting for death! I implore you, Imperial Grandmother—in recognition of his wholehearted and devoted heart, do not fault him for this. He told me last night that he will come to you in person to seek your forgiveness and prostrate himself before you in plea…”

As Pu Zhu spoke, the tears could no longer be held back and broke free from her eyes; she pressed her forehead to the floor.

“What crime has he committed, that he should need to prostrate himself before me in plea for forgiveness?”

Suddenly, a voice rang out.

“I once stripped him of what was rightfully his, in the name of dynastic law and the greater good—and I have always owed him recompense for that. Though any recompense I can offer is, by comparison, no more than a fragment of armor, not worth speaking of—still, at the very least, I will absolutely not allow him to bear yet again a name he should never have to bear!”

Pu Zhu’s heartbeat quickened. She slowly raised her head and looked at Empress Dowager Jiang, who was gazing steadily at her, every word falling with the weight of iron striking stone.

“He wishes to go—then I will let him go. Upright and honorable, with head held high before Heaven and Earth, owing nothing to his ancestors—why should he have to risk death a thousand times over and carry the name of a traitor?”

“Evil and treachery may wrap themselves in the garb of dynastic law and move freely through the world. But what is bright and upright must be suppressed, and even sacrificed—where is the justice in Heaven?”

Pu Zhu’s heart pounded so hard it seemed ready to leap from her throat. She scrambled forward on her knees again to Empress Dowager Jiang’s side, seized her hands tightly, and called out with a voice already choked with tears: “Imperial Grandmother…”

Empress Dowager Jiang sat in thought for a moment, then spoke slowly: “During the years your father traveled through the Western Regions, Emperor Mingzong had at one time conceived of a plan: if his efforts proved sufficiently fruitful, they would follow the example of the previous dynasty and establish a Protectorate in the Western Regions—to pacify the kingdoms there, bring their hearts to submission, mediate disputes among them, and resist the power of the Eastern Di—with your father as its first Protector General. At that time an official seal was cast, and a unit of soldiers was sent out through the passes to cultivate fields and man a garrison at Wulei—the site where the previous dynasty had established its Protectorate—to supply passing envoys and also to prepare for the formal establishment of the Protectorate. But fate would have none of it—or perhaps the fortunes of our Li dynasty had not yet come to fruition. Shortly afterward, your father met his end. And not long after that, the case of Crown Prince Liang broke open, and Mingzong died as well. The matter was left unresolved. As for the garrison at Wulei—I have heard that several years ago it was raided and overrun by the Eastern Di, and that unit was massacred; by now it has almost certainly long since been abandoned and fallen to ruin…”

Pu Zhu looked upward, eyes glistening with tears, and stared at her in a daze.

“Your grandmother is old now and tucked away in the deep recesses of the palace—but as long as I am not dead, when I step forward and speak, my words still carry some weight. Yuli’er wishes to go to the Western Regions and achieve great things—then I will give him that seal, the one cast back then and never once used, and let him take it with him. He may go forth through Yumen in an upright and honorable manner! Only…”

She fixed her gaze on Pu Zhu.

“This is all that your grandmother can do for the two of you. It is a Protector General in name alone—an empty title in truth. Once through the passes, the hardships of carving out a place and overcoming every obstacle—all of that will depend entirely on himself.”

Pu Zhu nodded vigorously. Tears of joy fell ceaselessly from her eyes; she wiped them away herself, pressed her face against Empress Dowager Jiang’s knee, and closed her eyes, taking in this piece of news she could not have dared to dream of even in her wildest imaginings.

Empress Dowager Jiang seemed to sigh softly, and reached out to stroke her hair with gentle affection.

The sleeping chamber was utterly still. Outside, the sky gradually grew lighter once again. A palace guard came hurrying in and said a few words quietly to Lady Chen. Lady Chen walked over and reported: “The Crown Prince and Grand Preceptor Guo Lang have come together to request an audience with the Grand Empress Dowager. The Crown Prince says he is at fault, and is kneeling outside the palace gates.”

Pu Zhu immediately opened her eyes and sat up straight.

Empress Dowager Jiang smiled faintly at Pu Zhu: “You see—he has come so quickly. He doesn’t even have the courage to come face me alone; he has to bring his Grand Preceptor with him. Poor old Guo Lang, the crafty old smooth-talker.”

She slowly rose to her feet: “Help me change my clothes. I will go and see them!”