Twin wild geese fall to the calling horns, war drums beat as troops encamp for the night. Moonlight shines on the yellow sand flats, wind dries the pale grasslands.

The sound of wind mingled with the haunting notes of a flute, tapping softly against the window. Li Huazhang’s consciousness drifted in a sea of illusion, unable, for a moment, to tell whether he was dreaming or awake.

He had come to this place again.

It seemed to be a Buddhist prayer hall. Outside the window, withered grass stretched to the horizon under a howling northern wind — by the climate, it was Youzhou. On the incense table, a solitary spirit tablet stood alone. Something in Li Huazhang’s heart rose up in sudden revulsion, as though he was deeply unwilling to look at it.

He steadied himself and still walked forward, and saw the inscription.

“The spirit of my sister, Ming Huashang.”

The dread in Li Huazhang’s heart was confirmed, and immediately a dense, relentless ache spread through him. Huashang was dead — when?

Before his thought had even finished, the sound of footsteps came quickly from outside. Li Huazhang did not know why he had appeared in this place, but judging from how meticulously kept the prayer hall was, its master clearly cherished it deeply. He was about to think of how to explain his uninvited presence — but when he turned and saw who had come, that thought vanished at once.

Unexpected, and yet entirely within reason: the person who came was him. Or rather, the Li Huazhang of the dream.

Youzhou was bitterly cold and the sandstorms were fierce; one inevitably grew weathered living there. But the Li Huazhang in the dream looked far more worn than his years. This was not a matter of appearance, but of spirit.

He looked no older than twenty-six or twenty-seven, yet his expression was cold and hard, his gaze sunken and still — there was already something of still, ancient water about him, as though nothing in the world could stir a ripple in his emotions. Li Huazhang watched him walk to the altar, bow, and light a stick of incense before the spirit tablet.

Li Huazhang seemed to feel the other man’s emotions, and his own mood grew heavy in turn.

The dream-Li Huazhang fixed his gaze on the name inscribed on the tablet and looked at it in silence for a long while before he slowly spoke: “It is now the ninth month of the sixth year of Tianbao. I always feel both that you have been gone a very long time, and as though it was not long ago at all. Without realizing it, ten years have passed.”

Li Huazhang calculated from the year — by that reckoning, Ming Huashang had died in the first year of Shengli. His heart clenched hard. She had been only seventeen when she died.

The Li Huazhang of the dream exhaled a deep sigh and sat down on the prayer cushion, facing Ming Huashang’s tablet directly, speaking as casually as someone making everyday conversation: “At the time, I believed that keeping you at Duke Zhenguo’s residence was good for you. I never knew it was I who drew the disaster that took your life. My aunt and the Third Prince fought for years and she was finally defeated. The once-magnificent Princess Taiping’s estate is nothing but ruins now. She is dead — but you can never come back.”

“If I had let you leave Duke Zhenguo’s residence then — gone away with Su Xingzhi — or if I had revealed my true identity to the Empress Regnant myself, would everything have been different? All that concealment, and she knew everything regardless. My aunt actually believed that killing you would convince the Empress Regnant that you were the true heir of Crown Prince Zhanghuai, and thereby spare me… How utterly absurd.”

“If my father had never sent me out of the Eastern Palace, if Duke Zhenguo had never brought me into the Ming family, and I had died early alongside my father and brothers — would that have been better? At the very least, you would not have died. You would have grown up without a care alongside your elder sister. Su Yuji would not carry guilt and disappear without a trace. Duke Zhenguo’s hair would not have turned white overnight. And I — I would not have to stand here like some bitter joke, having spent everything to restore the Tang Dynasty, yet estranged from every member of the Li family.”

His voice was flat and desolate, without inflection — but Li Huazhang heard within it a pain that cut to the bone.

He had, in effect, two fathers. His adoptive father, Duke Zhenguo, had shown him profound kindness — yet he had caused the Duke’s younger daughter to die before her time, his elder daughter to carry resentment for the rest of her life, and the Duke’s hair to turn white overnight. His birth father, Crown Prince Zhanghuai, had shown him righteousness — yet his own aunt had killed the daughter of the man who saved his life, and his uncle, out of suspicion, had suppressed Duke Zhenguo’s household. Kindness on one side, righteousness on the other — he could honor neither fully.

The weight of it pressed on Li Huazhang until he could barely breathe, as though he too had lived through this agony of failing those who had given him everything, of losing the living and the beloved. He could not help wondering: if he were faced with this same situation, what would he do?

His adoptive father had shown him endless grace, and his beloved daughter had died because of him. Not to seek justice would be to betray that grace — but to seek justice, would he have to kill his own aunt?

With no home to return to and no grievance he could redress, it seemed there was nothing to do but exile oneself to Youzhou, and silently digest the pain in the endless drifting sand of the frontier, day after day.

Li Huazhang let out an involuntary sigh — and the sound of his sigh happened to fall exactly with that of the dreaming man. Li Huazhang looked up, and his gaze met the eyes of the figure on the prayer cushion. That figure seemed to be looking up at the Buddha above, yet also looking across time and space directly at Li Huazhang, and said softly: “I would give everything I have in this life to let her be safe, peaceful, and happy in the next. If I were given the chance…”

At that point, something bumped into the dream, and it shattered into scattered fragments of sand, dissolving and collapsing. Li Huazhang tore free from the dream and snapped his eyes open, and found he was not in a prayer hall, and there was no cold, silent spirit tablet before him — only her, alive and warm.

She was buried face-down against the pillow, one hand lying outside the blanket, sleeping soundly and unaware. The thing that had just broken the dream apart was her hand.

Li Huazhang let out a low sigh — this one unlike the dream; though helpless, the undercurrent was happiness. He willingly tucked her hand back under the covers.

Li Huazhang lay on his side, gazing at Ming Huashang’s peacefully sleeping face from close range, and could not help thinking back on the dream he had just had.

Was that dream real or false? Li Huazhang did not know. But he knew this: that she was still alive, and here at his side — this alone was the greatest fortune of his life.

He had long since noticed that Ming Huashang seemed to be concealing something. For a time, she had been as though she knew she was going to die, putting on an air of cheerfulness as she made arrangements for what would come after. But mercifully, heaven had been watching over her, and she had survived.

Perhaps it was not heaven watching over her, but rather that someone had made a trade — offering a lifetime of merit won in guarding the frontier in exchange for her being able to foresee the disaster before it came, and to take precautions in advance. And so this life had opened onto a different possibility. Li Huazhang, Ming Yuji, and Duke Zhenguo had all found happiness through it.

If the dream had not ended prematurely, what had the other Li Huazhang been about to say? If he were given the chance — what had he wanted to do?

Li Huazhang gently ran his fingers over Ming Huashang’s hair, smoothing out the strands that had come loose while she slept. Whatever the man in the dream had wanted to ask for — it no longer mattered. Because he had already made it happen.

And as a curious coincidence worth noting: this year was also the sixth year of Tianbao. The ninth month. Youzhou was colder than the Central Plains, and the blossoms had long since fallen — but in Luoyang, the osmanthus trees should be in full bloom right now.

Fate had finally relented and shown him mercy, granting him an ending where all was well.

On whichever day it was that Ming Huashang had sworn to wake up early, she slept in again until she woke on her own. She ate her breakfast and simultaneously redirected responsibility: “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Li Huazhang poured her a cup of butter tea and said: “It’s getting colder. There’s no urgency for your riding practice today. Wait until spring when the grass grows back, and I’ll take you to the grasslands to practice.”

Ming Huashang considered this and found it reasonable, and cheerfully postponed — or rather, sensibly rescheduled — the task once more.

After breakfast, Li Huazhang went to the military camp to drill the troops, while Ming Huashang remained at the Military Governor’s yamen, continuing to compile her book. After coming to Youzhou, she had found that the officials and clerks here varied wildly in competence; many of the constables lacked even the most basic knowledge of criminal investigation, and knew only the old method — coercing confessions out of suspects to find the culprit. Ming Huashang had long thought about writing a reference manual on criminal investigation. With Li Huazhang’s repeated encouragement, she had finally made up her mind, and was setting down everything she had learned over the years about reading people — from the ineffable, instinctual aspects of her gift to the verifiable techniques and practical experience she had accumulated.

The book had been in progress for many years. She had started writing it in her second year in Youzhou, and even now it was only about two-thirds complete. She buried herself in case files and portrait sketches, and before she noticed, the whole morning had passed. It was only when Li Huazhang came in to call her for lunch that Ming Huashang realized with a start that it was already noon.

After the midday meal, the two talked idly for a while before Li Huazhang went to the front offices to receive his subordinates and handle official business. Ming Huashang took an afternoon nap, and when she got up she would do whatever she felt like — perhaps go to the front to help Li Huazhang, perhaps continue writing the book, perhaps attend to the Xuan Xiaowei’s daily affairs, perhaps make handicrafts with the maids, or perhaps do absolutely nothing and simply sit by the window in a daze.

She was very fond of this life: leisurely, yet full.

But today, a visitor from afar shattered that tranquility.

“The Emperor is summoning you back to the capital?” Ming Huashang looked at the imperial edict in Li Huazhang’s hand with some surprise, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. “Didn’t the two of you agree years ago to each keep to your own corner of the world, at peace with one another? What made him suddenly think of you?”

Li Huazhang set the edict on the table and said: “It is the New Year Court Assembly — he has summoned the military governors from all circuits to the capital. This is well within the bounds of proper protocol.”

“Is it?” Ming Huashang took the edict doubtfully, read through it quickly, and frowned: “Every year for the New Year we’ve sent a memorial to Chang’an. Why has he specifically called for you to return to the capital this year?”

The court held a Grand Assembly on New Year’s Day — the most important day of the year, at which members of the imperial family, civil and military officials, and envoys from foreign states all went to Taiji Hall to attend. Provincial governors and military governors who could not come in person were required to write a congratulatory letter in their own hand, to be sent to Chang’an by a trusted representative, offering blessings for the Emperor’s ten thousand years and wishes for the Tang Dynasty’s peace and prosperity. This was a critical moment for displaying national strength, and the entire court took it extremely seriously. In previous years, Li Huazhang had used the importance of Youzhou’s military defense and his inability to leave his post as justification, sending a deputy to Chang’an in his stead to deliver New Year greetings. But this year, the letter from Chang’an had extended a warm personal invitation for them to return to the capital.

Li Huazhang said: “When I left, I pledged not to return to Chang’an without an imperial summons. Now that the Emperor himself has sent word calling me back, there is no reason I cannot go. Don’t worry — Youzhou commands a hundred thousand troops and sits at a position of critical importance. Chang’an would not do anything reckless.”

Ming Huashang felt somewhat reassured at that. Youzhou was the throat of the north, guarding against the Khitan and Xi tribes; if Youzhou fell, a vast swath of territory north of the Yellow River would face the threat of foreign incursion. The Emperor would have to be out of his mind to gamble his own realm. Besides, Li Huazhang had earned a deep measure of goodwill from the people over the years. Since his arrival in Youzhou, the administration of Fanyang Commandery had been cleansed, military discipline was strict, and the common people lived and worked in peace. He went on horseback to manage the troops and dismounted to govern the civilians, serving as both chief administrator and military commander, keeping himself busy enough to be invisible from morning to night — a frontier official in every sense of the word. If the Emperor truly harbored suspicion, Li Huazhang was not without means to respond.

Li Huazhang saw her expression and pinched her cheek, smiling: “Don’t worry. I may not have much of a relationship with the Emperor, but I know he is not a petty man. If he truly suspected me, he would not have allowed me to leave Chang’an in the first place. This time, he likely only wants us to attend the court assembly. Besides, it is a good chance for us to go back and see our family and old friends in Chang’an. I wonder what Duke Zhenguo’s residence looks like after all these years.”

When Ming Huashang thought about being able to go back and see her father and elder sister, she finally found some appeal in the long journey: “All right.”

However, even though Ming Huashang had spent three months preparing, when the time came to actually set out, she found it pure misery. By the time they had finally made it into Yongzhou territory, the carriage had already reduced her to a half-dead state. Chang’an’s city walls were now visible ahead. Jin Bao lowered the carriage curtain and said to Ming Huashang: “My lady, please bear with it just a little longer — we are almost there. Once we’re inside the city, you can rest properly in bed.”

Ming Huashang had been sitting in that carriage for a month and felt her back was about to break. She nodded weakly, and at that moment the caravan came to a sudden stop. Jin Bao pursed his lips and threw open the curtain with a look of displeasure: “What’s going on?”

The guard stationed at the side of the carriage did not dare to be negligent, and hurried to the front to ask. He came running back shortly and reported: “My lady, there is another caravan ahead wishing to enter the city. His Highness has instructed us to halt and let them go first.”

Jin Bao was deeply disgruntled: “Why should we? We are Prince Yong, concurrently Military Governor of Youzhou, returning to the capital on official business. Who could possibly have the nerve to walk in front of us?”

The guard dared not raise his head and said quietly: “The convoy ahead appears to be… the Military Governor of Jiannan’s party.”

The Military Governor of Jiannan… Ming Huashang started, and then the realization hit her all at once: “The Military Governor of Jiannan — isn’t that Sister Ren Yao and the others? So Sister Ren Yao and Jiang Ling have returned as well. No wonder Second Brother told us to give way.”

At the city gate, Ren Yao sat lightly on horseback in thin armor, one hand on the reins. The gate soldiers had initially been puzzled by the sight of a woman riding, but when they looked down at the documents and saw what they held, their expressions changed dramatically. They immediately said with great respect: “So this is Marquis Pingnan! We did not know the Marquis had arrived — we have been most remiss. Please, Marquis, proceed.”

Ren Yao waved mildly, signaling them not to stand on ceremony. She was about to urge her horse forward when Jiang Ling rode up quickly from behind and said in a rapid low voice: “Ren Yao, the banner on the convoy behind us seems to have the character for ‘You’ on it.”

“You?” Ren Yao blinked, not quite certain it was who she was thinking of. But then a familiar voice called out, and she knew her guess was right.

“Ren Yao! Jiang Ling!”

There were very few people these days who still dared to address Ren Yao by her given name. Her deputy showed a flicker of displeasure — but Ren Yao showed not the slightest offense. She looked back in disbelief and saw, through the snowy landscape behind them, a figure wrapped in a thick cloak, bouncing on her heels and waving at them.

She was bundled up until she was almost a perfect sphere. White rabbit fur clustered around her neck, making her look like a girl straight out of a New Year print. A tall, upright young man stood behind her, gazing quietly in their direction.

Ren Yao was so overcome with surprised joy she was speechless. It was really them — Li Huazhang and Ming Huashang!

The two parties met, and a rush of emotion welled up in all of them. The four abandoned their respective entourages and walked on ahead talking as they went. The other three were all on horseback; Ming Huashang was bundled too thick to mount, so she cheerfully returned to her carriage and leaned out the window to talk to them. The other three were excellent riders — they could adjust to accommodate her.

Ming Huashang asked Ren Yao and Jiang Ling about their years in Jiannan, growing more and more animated as they spoke, until her voice drowned out the sound of the carriage wheels entirely. As they passed through Mingde Gate, Ming Huashang seemed to feel something and looked up at the massive, solemn gate tower overhead, and unbidden she thought of how, at seventeen, she had come to Chang’an for the first time — with these same people, through this same gate.

She almost seemed to hear time roaring as it passed through their bodies. While she was still lost in that reverie, Jiang Ling noticed her silence, then lunged over to give her a fright: “Hey, what are you staring at?”

Every thread of Ming Huashang’s sentiment was cut short. She stared at Jiang Ling, at a loss: “At your head. How old are you? Could you not act your age for once?”

“I don’t act my age?” Jiang Ling puffed up his chest with perfect gravity and conviction: “In the Jiannan Circuit, I am famously handsome and accomplished in both arts and warfare. From eighty-year-old grandmothers to eight-year-old children, everyone knows the Deputy Military Governor is a man of remarkable bearing — wise, steady, and composed. One might even say the most handsome man in all of Tang.”

Ming Huashang deflated him without mercy: “Don’t claim that title for yourself. Do you still remember what happened to the last person who called herself the greatest beauty of Tang?”

Jiang Ling sputtered and found himself completely outwitted by Ming Huashang. Ren Yao glanced at Jiang Ling sideways: “And you still have the nerve to call yourself composed? When I caught up with you at the Jinjiang River in the second year of Tianbao, do you not remember what state you were in?”

Jiang Ling’s head snapped up at that: “Why are you bringing that up!”

Ming Huashang’s eyes lit up with gossip-hungry delight, and she craned her neck forward: “What happened, what happened?”

Jiang Ling hastily urged his horse to wedge himself between Ren Yao and the carriage window, trying to push her away. Ming Huashang grappled at Jiang Ling with both hands, but Jiang Ling had improved greatly over the years; she found she could not budge him at all. A flash of alarm went through Ming Huashang’s heart — could it be that she had dropped to last place in martial ability?

She couldn’t win by force. She immediately switched tactics and yelled for reinforcements at the top of her lungs: “Second Brother!”

Li Huazhang had been following at a short distance. He let out a long-suffering sigh and rode up, easily shouldering Jiang Ling out to the perimeter. No matter how Jiang Ling charged and pushed, he could not break through Li Huazhang’s blockade. Desperate, he called out: “Ren Yao, don’t say anything!”

Ren Yao paid him no mind and, with unhurried ease, continued at the carriage window, recounting Jiang Ling’s past embarrassment to Ming Huashang: “You should remember — in the second year of Tianbao, Princess Taiping was found to be involved in plotting a coup. The Emperor sent troops to capture her and had her put to death at home; her associates were exiled one after another. Marquis Jiang’an’s entire family was exiled to Lingnan, and at that time I was at a critical stage in my promotion to Military Governor. For some reason known only to himself, Jiang Ling decided that if he stayed, he would implicate me. So in the middle of the night, he took a horse from the camp stable and slipped away. When I was doing my night rounds, one of the young soldiers mentioned that someone had left, and I first assumed it was a deserter — then found out it was him. I rode out immediately to chase him down, and spotted a dark figure at the bank of the Jinjiang River, leading a horse on foot, not even riding it, just walking along — and crying.”

Ming Huashang broke out in completely merciless laughter and asked: “Was it on purpose? Did he do it on purpose, waiting for you to come after him?”

Jiang Ling’s face had gone red with mortification and he declared loudly in defense of his honor: “No! I just went out for some air. The wind at the Jinjiang was strong, and sand got in my eyes. I happened to dismount to wipe my eyes, that’s all!”

The more he explained, the louder Ming Huashang laughed. Ren Yao shrugged, made no comment on whether he had actually intended to leave, and shifted to a teasing tone: “I found he’d only gotten twenty li in half a night of running, and was nearly furious enough to be sick. When we got back I had him train with the cavalry unit for a solid month.”

Ming Huashang laughed loudly and continued to comment on and mock Jiang Ling without restraint. Jiang Ling looked utterly done with life. In the end it was Li Huazhang who could not stand to watch and asked: “Where are you two planning to stay? Have accommodations been arranged?”

Ren Yao said: “Don’t worry about us. There are official government lodges. If it comes to it, I’ll have someone tidy up the Marquis Pingnan’s residence.”

In the second year of Jinglong, during Empress Wei’s reign, Ren Yao had refused to submit to the Empress’s demands; in her fury, Empress Wei had ordered the Marquis Pingnan’s residence sealed. Ren Yao had been sent to Jianmen Pass, and from there to Yizhou, eventually becoming the Military Governor of Jiannan step by step. Though her rank had risen, she had been far from Chang’an with no one in the capital, and the Marquis Pingnan’s residence had never recovered its former glory — it was still in a state of considerable neglect.

Li Huazhang said: “It is the end of the year, and many foreign envoys are arriving in the capital. The government lodges are full of people coming and going and are not particularly safe. You’ve been away from the capital for years; the Marquis Pingnan’s residence is not something that can be put in order in a short time. Why not stay at Prince Yong’s residence for now? I’ll accompany Huashang back to stay at Duke Zhenguo’s residence.”

Ren Yao inwardly sighed — Li Huazhang was still the same Li Huazhang, thorough and thoughtful, quietly resolving what those around him needed without making a show of it. Ren Yao and Jiang Ling offered a few polite demurrals, but Li Huazhang and Ming Huashang insisted, and so Ren Yao declined no further, and clasped her hands in thanks: “Then we are in your debt.”

“There’s nothing to thank us for.” Ming Huashang smiled until her eyes curved into crescents, and said brightly: “I was just worrying — the Court Assembly is the day after tomorrow, and we can only stay a few days, with not enough time to spend with Father and Sister. As it happens, this way I can stay at Duke Zhenguo’s residence and save the travel time. I sent Sister a letter yesterday saying we’d arrive today; she’s prepared a welcome banquet for us. Come tonight — you still owe us half a jar of wine from back in Shangzhou!”

Ren Yao heard that familiar yet strange place name and felt a surge of wistfulness. Their last meeting had been there — but that was eight years ago.

At that time, the seven of them had just resolved the Junzhou incident and escorted Prince Qiao to Shangzhou, Li Huazhang’s administrative base, to rest and regroup. It had been New Year’s Eve, and they had laughed and made merry and celebrated the new year together. The next morning Ren Yao had hurried back to the capital to report and had left without saying goodbye to Ming Huashang, assuming Ming Huashang would stay in Chang’an and that Ming Huashang would come back eventually, and that the two of them would meet again soon. She had not imagined that fate would have other plans — she and Jiang Ling went to Jiannan; Ming Huashang and Li Huazhang went to Youzhou. One parting had stretched into years.

Ren Yao felt a little embarrassed and said: “This would be putting too much trouble on First Lady Ming. Why don’t we choose a day and pick a restaurant, and have a proper gathering there?”

“Why wait for another day when today is right here!” Ming Huashang insisted. “There’s no trouble in it at all. If you don’t come, my sister will be the one upset. Drink today’s wine today. Don’t wait for some other day — let’s go right now.”

Jiang Ling burst out laughing and said: “Now that’s the spirit! Ren Yao, tomorrow we have to go into the palace for our audience and the formal reporting of duties, and after that there will likely be many obligations we can’t easily decline. Today’s leisure may not come again. Why wait? Let’s go.”

Ren Yao was persuaded. The group turned their horses and headed toward Duke Zhenguo’s residence.

Inside Duke Zhenguo’s residence, Ming Yuji kept glancing outside every so often, wishing she had eyes sharp enough to see all the way to the city gate. Su Xingzhi was occupied overseeing preparations for the welcome banquet; he saw her distracted and said: “Yuji, don’t worry. Prince Yong and the Princess Consort said they’d arrive today, and once they’re in the city they’ll come straight here. There must be something holding them up on the way. Be patient.”

Ming Yuji made a dismissive sound and said coolly: “Easy for you to say. What’s holding them up, I wonder?” As she spoke, a maid came running in with joyful energy and called out: “First Lady, young master, Second Lady and Prince Yong are back!”

Ming Yuji spun around with a whoosh and immediately made for the door. Su Xingzhi saw she wasn’t even stopping to pick up her cloak and called out quickly: “Yuji, wait — it’s cold outside!”

Su Xingzhi rushed to catch up with her, draping the cloak over her shoulders, and at just that moment collided with the people coming in. As it turned out, not only had Ming Huashang and Li Huazhang returned — they had brought guests. The moment Ming Huashang saw Ming Yuji, she came running over, pulling Ren Yao along with her, and the words came tumbling out endlessly. In the end, Li Huazhang had no choice but to point out: “Huashang, it is cold by the door. Let’s go inside.”

Ming Huashang only then remembered they were still standing in the doorway. She took Ming Yuji by the left hand and Ren Yao by the right, and the three of them walked ahead, lost in animated conversation, completely oblivious to everything else. The men followed behind and seemed, by comparison, very quiet.

Jiang Ling made some attempts at getting a word in at first, but Ming Huashang’s flow of speech was simply too fast and too dense — he couldn’t find a gap, and eventually gave up. Su Xingzhi saw Jiang Ling and Li Huazhang, and did feel a great deal himself — he simply was not the sort to show it the way the women did. Ten thousand feelings distilled themselves at last into a single greeting: “It has been too long. How have things been for you all these years?”

Li Huazhang was overcome with complex emotion: “Well enough. All these years, I thank you and First Lady for taking care of Duke Zhenguo.” Su Xingzhi said: “This was my duty to fulfill. Your Highness need not thank me.”

In the third year of Tianbao, Ming Yuji and Su Xingzhi were wed. Ming Yuji was unwilling to leave Duke Zhenguo’s residence because she needed to care for her father, so Su Xingzhi moved into the Ming household, allowing her to remain in the environment she knew best. What others said about him, Su Xingzhi did not care.

At the time, Ming Huashang and Li Huazhang were in Youzhou and could not return to Chang’an for the wedding, so they had sent a generous gift to express their congratulations. With Li Huazhang away for all these years, many matters at Duke Zhenguo’s residence had been beyond his reach to handle, and all had fallen to Su Xingzhi to resolve and smooth over. Yet Su Xingzhi had not used this as an opportunity to control the family’s property or business. Every affair of the residence — whether the inner household or the outer courtyard — was managed by Ming Yuji. Only in a small number of situations where official matters required a man to appear did Su Xingzhi accompany Ming Yuji to handle them.

Li Huazhang was also aware that although Su Xingzhi lived at Duke Zhenguo’s residence, in practice his food, clothing, and daily expenses did not come from the household’s accounts — every expenditure came from his own official salary. The salaries of Tang Dynasty officials were generous, and the Censorate, as attendants to the Emperor, was paid well. He bore the name of a son-in-law who had married into his wife’s household, yet paid his own way, and could be said to have sacrificed both face and advantage. Perhaps it was as he had said — he had no intention of benefiting from the Duke’s household; he simply wanted to be with Ming Yuji.

Once conversation started flowing, Li Huazhang asked about the state of Duke Zhenguo’s residence over the years, and inevitably the talk turned to the political landscape of Chang’an. On matters of officialdom, all three men had something to say. Unlike the uninhibited physical closeness of the women’s conversation, this relaxed, not-too-near, not-too-distant register was the mode they all found comfortable.

Very soon they reached the main courtyard. Ming Huashang gathered her skirts and ran in to pay her respects to Duke Zhenguo: “Father!”

The voice arrived before the person. Duke Zhenguo heard the voice he knew better than any other, and his nose involuntarily stung: “Huashang.”

Ming Huashang threw herself to Duke Zhenguo’s side and saw that her father’s complexion was healthy and his expression calm. Only then did the anxiety she had carried throughout the journey fully release. She immediately asked: “Father, is your leg ailment still serious?”

“It is fine.” Duke Zhenguo said lightly and moved on. In truth it genuinely was fine. These years, with Ming Yuji and Su Xingzhi attending to him, and though his younger daughter and his other son were absent, the traveling merchant caravans frequently brought word from Youzhou. The reputation of the Youzhou Military Governor’s benevolence had traveled all the way back to Chang’an. Duke Zhenguo knew all his children were well, and his spirits were good. He spent his days tending to flowers and birds, living with great ease and leisure, and looked, if anything, younger than he had in previous years.

After Duke Zhenguo and Ming Huashang had finished catching up, the others came forward in turn to pay their respects. Duke Zhenguo looked at his younger daughter — married for many years now, yet her air still as fresh as a young girl’s — at Li Huazhang, upright and increasingly composed; at Ren Yao, who seemed to have undergone a complete transformation from the ground up; and at Jiang Ling, who had a wholly different feeling about him, and yet whose eyes held the same light as that naïve, lively young nobleman’s son of years past. The Duke was moved beyond words.

Their first meeting felt as though it were only yesterday. He could still recall with perfect clarity the young and tender and fearless faces of those boys and girls — and in the blink of an eye, they had all become frontier officials who could carry the weight of one side on their own, the pillars at the heart of the court.

How wonderful.

Duke Zhenguo’s eyes grew a little moist. Not wishing to dampen anyone’s mood, he forced the tears back and asked: “I remember there was still one person among your close acquaintances. Where is he?”

A brief stillness settled over the hall. Su Xingzhi said: “Father, do you mean Xie Jichuan? Chancellor Xie’s official duties are extremely demanding. He may not necessarily have the time.”

“How busy can he be.” Jiang Ling was still in his cheerful and unworried form, brimming with misplaced confidence: “I’ll send him an invitation myself. I don’t believe he’d dare to ignore me.”

“Do yourself a favor.” Ren Yao coldly shattered his confidence: “Better to have Li Huazhang invite him. Your face, he would genuinely ignore.”

Jiang Ling was deeply indignant and was about to argue the point, when Li Huazhang said: “I already sent a messenger to Xie’s residence on the road, but the gate attendant said he was in session at the Chancellery and not at home. A message may not reach him in the palace. Our invitation was sudden to begin with — if he cannot come, it is fine. We can hold a separate dinner to invite him another time.”

While they had been debating how to invite Xie Jichuan, Li Huazhang had already handled it quietly. Ming Yuji said: “In that case, all is well. Official duties must take precedence. The welcome banquet is already prepared — shall we move to the flower hall?”

Ren Yao hesitated: “Should we not wait a little longer for Xie Jichuan?”

Duke Zhenguo said: “The road from Jiannan and from Youzhou to Chang’an is not easy traveling. You’ve been on the road for so many days — the journey is exhausting, and the road was cold. You must have been hungry long since. Let the kitchen set aside a portion for Chancellor Xie. You should all sit down and have a proper meal first.”

With the Duke saying so, no one had any objection, and they quickly moved to the flower hall. Duke Zhenguo knew these children, reunited after so long, would have much to say to one another; he ate a few bites in a leisurely way and then excused himself early on the pretext of feeling drowsy. Li Huazhang saw the Duke back to his rooms, then returned and called for wine to be brought.

Because of his leg ailment, Duke Zhenguo had been “persuaded off wine” for many years. Li Huazhang was thoughtful about it: whenever the Duke was present, not a drop of wine would appear, so as not to stir up his longing.

The maids filed in carrying wine vessels, placing elegant Sogdian cups and decanters on every table. Jiang Ling had been so long in Jiannan that at the sight of these small, exquisite golden cups, he felt slightly out of his element: “We’re supposed to drink from things this small?”

Ming Huashang burst out laughing: “Honestly, I’m not quite used to it either. In Youzhou the people are hearty, and everyone drinks by the bowl. Let’s not stand on ceremony — just bring out the wine jars. Everyone drinks as much as they like, however they like.”

“All right — and fewer cups to wash that way.” Ming Yuji instructed: “Bring the wine jars.”

Shortly, a jar was set before Jiang Ling. He smelled it and finally felt right: “That’s more like it. Chang’an’s wine is always too soft and mild. Another day, let me treat you all to the Jiannan Shaochun we brought.”

Ming Huashang raised an eyebrow, genuinely puzzled: “You traveled a thousand li up to the capital, and you brought wine with you?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Jiang Ling was entirely unperturbed: “Do you not bring water when you travel?”

Oh, getting clever, are we. Ming Huashang said at once: “Go and bring that jar of fermented mare’s milk from the carriage. I want to see how much he can handle.”

Jiang Ling heard “fermented mare’s milk” — a wine made from milk, so basically like drinking water — and his confidence immediately inflated. But Ren Yao knew its strength, and hastily stopped this reckless and unknowing young man: “Don’t let him boast. He can’t hold much, and he loves to drink contests; no one in the Jiannan army will drink with him anymore. That fermented mare’s milk is from the Mongols — he’ll be done after a single sip. Don’t waste a good wine.”

The mental image was far too vivid. Ming Huashang laughed loudly; Jiang Ling fumed: “That’s slander! Says who — bring it out, I can drink it!”

Just as the flower hall was getting rowdy, a servant announced a guest. Everyone in the hall seemed to sense something and turned at once.

It was the end of yet another year. The sky, overcast all day, had finally begun releasing its snow. The newcomer was dressed in a pale blue robe; an attendant held an umbrella beside him. He climbed the steps and dusted the scattered snowflakes from his shoulders. Only when he was restored to spotless perfection did he finally seem satisfied. He looked up, swept his gaze across the hall, and raised an eyebrow faintly: “So many people here, and I’m the last one to be invited again?”

Li Huazhang had already risen to welcome him out: “How could that be? I happened to run into Ren Yao at the city gate, and Duke Zhenguo’s residence is our family home — there is no invitation needed.”

Xie Jichuan’s eyebrow shifted: “So what you’re saying is, none of you needed an invitation, and I am the only outsider?”

Li Huazhang gave up. He was impossible — even after becoming Chancellor, still this caustic. Li Huazhang said: “Your food was set aside separately and is still hot. Would you like to have a few warm dishes first before you drink?”

“What else would I do?” Xie Jichuan said. “Were you planning to feed me something cold?” Li Huazhang pressed his lips together, already regretting the invitation.

Xie Jichuan came in. Jiang Ling glanced around and grinned: “Chancellor Xie, shall we all shift seats to make room?”

Seating at a banquet carried a great deal of significance: upper seats are higher in rank, lower seats lesser; left is superior, right inferior. Xie Jichuan was now a second-rank Vice Chancellor of the Secretariat. Although both Li Huazhang and Ren Yao were senior first-rank Military Governors, by court protocol Xie Jichuan held the highest rank among those present and ought to sit at the first seat on the left — which would mean everyone else shifting down one place.

Xie Jichuan produced a handkerchief and began meticulously wiping the very last, unused table. Without raising his head, he said: “No.”

Jiang Ling inexplicably felt the full force of a deep, thorough disdain directed his way. He rubbed his nose and said: “So becoming Chancellor doesn’t change one’s character. You are still as refined and fastidious as ever. The table is clean — what exactly are you wiping?”

They had met formally in the first year of Shengli; now in the sixth year of Tianbao, eleven years had passed. In those years, five emperors had sat on the throne; Chang’an had lived through a dozen or so coups large and small; era names had changed again and again. The fates of those gathered here had been tossed about violently alongside the dynasty — many things had changed, from Luoyang to Chang’an, from obscurity to power and prominence, then sudden descent. They had drifted through the tides of official life for ten-odd years; some had gone to the northern frontier, some to the southwestern borderlands, and some had risen to the heights of the Chancellery in Chang’an. All seven of them spread to the four corners of the compass, rarely to meet again.

But some things had never changed — for instance, Jiang Ling still could not understand why Xie Jichuan insisted on all these pointless fastidious habits. And Xie Jichuan still felt that engaging with Jiang Ling was as pointless as playing music to a cow.

A cow had more culture than he did.

Xie Jichuan finally wiped the table to his satisfaction and sat down with the air of bestowing a great favor. Ming Yuji, who had long since seen everything, told the maids to bring utensils and wine vessels. Xie Jichuan looked down at the maid placing an entire jar of wine beside his table, raised an eyebrow, and asked: “This is… for drinking?”

Jiang Ling helpfully clarified: “Yes. What else would it be for?”

“Ah.” Xie Jichuan responded mildly: “I thought it was for watering horses.” After Li Huazhang, Jiang Ling now also regretted having invited Xie Jichuan.

Ming Huashang smoothed things over with a smile: “Brother Xie, there is Jiannan Shaochun, Youzhou mare’s milk wine, and Chang’an’s Xishi wine. Which would you like?”

Xie Jichuan said without hesitation: “Xishi wine.”

Jiang Ling let out a puzzled sound. Those present each drank their own chosen wine, and none could understand why the others had no taste. Jiang Ling, refusing to believe the warnings, insisted on the mare’s milk wine. Ming Huashang kindly poured him a full cup. Jiang Ling was hopeless yet loved his drink — he drained it in one go, and then proceeded to go absolutely wild around the room.

Everyone was forced to shift out of his way, and very quickly the seating arrangement dissolved into chaos. No one could tell anymore what they were even drinking.

Ming Huashang was enthusiastically urging drinks on everyone else without touching a drop herself. Before long, she was resting her chin on her hand, watching with mild and idle interest as each person demonstrated their particular mode of intoxication.

Jiang Ling had long since lost his senses. He clung to Ren Yao and wept loudly, saying he could not be both loyal and filial at once — that with Marquis Jiang’an’s entire family exiled to Lingnan, if he stayed in Jiannan he would implicate Ren Yao, and so on. The Mongol wine was indeed potent; Ren Yao had drunk a few cups herself and was somewhat affected, and said angrily: “Even if you wanted to run, you could have run faster. Am I the sort of person who fears being implicated by others? The Ren family’s rank and standing were earned through solid military merit — we take no credit from family connections, and we fear no harm from them either.”

Both of them were drunk and had forgotten that the incident of Marquis Jiang’an’s exile had long since passed, and that Ren Yao had still been appointed Military Governor while Marquis Jiang’an’s family remained in Lingnan — which made clear that the current Emperor saw things plainly and was not a suspicious or petty man, though he would not lightly let pass those who had done wrong.

As for Jiang Ling’s once-stated intention to relinquish his status as heir to the marquisate — with Marquis Jiang’an himself now in a precarious position, what heir was there to speak of? The matter of the heir had simply dragged on unresolved, and what would happen in the end depended on the Emperor’s wishes.

Jiang Ling wiped his tears and said: “When I left Yizhou back then, I was in absolute despair. I thought we were surely finished. We had found our way to each other with such difficulty, and in the end I was the one who turned traitor. But you chased after me — you didn’t blame me, and you even covered for me in front of your grandmother. Right then, I made a silent vow: unless you no longer wanted me, I would never leave your side again for as long as I lived.”

Ren Yao’s eyes reddened too, and with the courage of wine she said: “Do you truly have no regrets? Always by my side, holding back your own path. With your talents, you could have built something entirely on your own.”

“I don’t want to build anything on my own.” Jiang Ling declared, tongue thick with wine but voice ringing with mountain-moving conviction — speaking the most dependent words with the grandest of gestures: “All my life, I only ever wanted to be a good-for-nothing layabout. Before, I listened to my father’s word; from now on, I listen to yours!”

“But those people who say such things about you behind your back — does it truly not bother you?”

Jiang Ling had a title of his own, yet he had married a wife who was a Military Governor, and served as her deputy besides. What people said about him behind his back was surely none too pleasant. But Jiang Ling did not care in the slightest, and said with a languid earnestness: “What does it matter? There can be many heirs to the Marquis Jiang’an title in this world — but there will only ever be one Marquis Pingnan. You serving as the Military Governor of Jiannan is the most meaningful thing in the world.”

Jiang Ling and Ren Yao poured out their hearts to each other in the full force of wine; their voices were so large they filled half the hall. By comparison, another pair beside them was the silent version. Ming Yuji had not drunk many cups, but the wine proved stronger than she had anticipated, and her eyes were growing hazy. Su Xingzhi noticed and said a word to Ming Huashang, then quietly slipped away to the kitchen to prepare a sobering soup for her. Su Xingzhi left without a sound — but Ming Yuji seemed to have sharp ears even then, and absolutely insisted on following him. Su Xingzhi signaled the maids not to stop her. Ming Yuji trailed after him like a shadow into the kitchen, said nothing and made no noise, and simply stood by the stove watching him boil the water and prepare the soup.

They say a person’s manner while drunk reveals their character — but more precisely, when drunk, people settle into the state where they feel most at ease, which is why wine brings out both foolishness and truth. To follow behind Su Xingzhi was deeply rooted in Ming Yuji’s memory as her safest, most comfortable place to be.

Li Huazhang saw that Ming Huashang had been staring outside and asked: “What’s wrong — are you dizzy?” Ming Huashang shook her head and turned back with a sly smile: “Not at all. I haven’t drunk a single drop.”

Li Huazhang understood and was resigned: “Then you’ve been pouring drinks into everyone else. You’ve been tired since this afternoon — go rest first. I’ll see Ren Yao and Jiang Ling to their rooms.”

Ming Huashang happily unloaded her mess onto Li Huazhang and said: “Then I’ll go find Father to talk to. Come find me there once you’re done.”

“It’s so late. Father will have gone to sleep.”

“Not him.” Ming Huashang said. “And even if he has, waking him up is no big deal.”

Xie Jichuan, listening nearby, looked at the two of them with an expression that said everything without a word. Ming Huashang was truly a devoted daughter.

Li Huazhang made an attempt to protect Duke Zhenguo’s sleep, and failed, and could only resign himself to accompanying Ming Huashang to the main courtyard. When he returned, there was a hall full of drunks waiting to be dealt with.

Li Huazhang went first to help Jiang Ling up, but Jiang Ling was flailing his limbs everywhere and was extremely difficult to manage. Li Huazhang was completely unable to control him, and looked over at Xie Jichuan, his patience exhausted: “Help me.”

Xie Jichuan had his arms folded, and shook his head with refined distaste: “He reeks of alcohol. Absolutely not.”

“So you’re just going to stand there and watch?”

“What else would I do — lie down and watch?”

“I’ll lie down!” Jiang Ling, who had heard something he found agreeable for reasons unknown to anyone, suddenly yanked free of Li Huazhang’s grip and lay down on the floor with impressive agility, even placing his hands neatly on his abdomen in the manner of a well-behaved child: “Father, I’ve laid down.”

Li Huazhang: “…”

Xie Jichuan: “…”

Li Huazhang gave up: “Let me walk you out. Let him lie on the floor and sober up.”

Xie Jichuan nodded in mournful solidarity. He looked at Jiang Ling on the floor — he was about to say something, stopped himself, then tried again — and finally reminded: “The Court Assembly is the day after tomorrow. Many envoys from foreign lands and kings from tributary states will attend. This represents the court’s dignity and cannot go wrong. Tomorrow, by whatever means necessary — short of poison — you must sober these two up. Under no circumstances can you allow him to run around the Court Assembly shouting for his father.”

Li Huazhang sighed: “I understand. The wine I brought is only strong, not unclean. He just had too much. It won’t come to poisoning.”

Xie Jichuan gave a cold, short laugh: “One can only hope.”

Li Huazhang and Xie Jichuan walked out of Duke Zhenguo’s residence one after the other. A carriage was already waiting outside for Xie Jichuan. Xie Jichuan paused at the carriage step for no apparent reason, and then looked back and asked: “When you left the capital that year, you said you would return when there was peace under heaven. At the Court Assembly the day after tomorrow, you can see for yourself whether the prosperous age you hoped for looks anything like this.”

Xie Jichuan said this without waiting for Li Huazhang’s answer, and got into the carriage. When the time of New Year came, they would have their answer.

The coachman saluted Prince Yong, then climbed to his seat and drove off toward Xie’s residence. The carriage swayed and rolled out of the lane, turned a corner, and the Duke Zhenguo’s residence was no longer visible behind it. Inside the carriage, the youngest Chancellor since the dynasty’s founding suddenly said: “Stop the carriage.”

The coachman pulled to a halt in confusion: “Chancellor, what is it?”

Xie Jichuan did not answer. He lifted the curtain and stepped down: “Bring me a horse. You may return to the residence first — I will ride back myself.”

The coachman was astonished and could not imagine what had come over Chancellor Xie this evening. Xie Jichuan said nothing more. He took hold of the reins, and with a light spring, vaulted onto the horse’s back. Xie Jichuan was quietly satisfied — even with the demands of official duties, even long out of practice with riding and archery, he had not lost it entirely.

This was good. It seemed to confirm that those years of youth were not yet so far behind him.

The cold wind rushed at him head-on. Xie Jichuan gave a light command and galloped through the empty midnight streets of Chang’an. Thirty-eight great avenues ran straight and level, and the nine-tiered palace rose high above it all, as though it had always been there and always would be. Xie Jichuan felt the strong wind against his face, and in a sudden trance it was as though he had been returned to the second year of Shengli, galloping through Chang’an with Ming Huashang, Ren Yao, and Jiang Ling — and Li Huazhang, who had pulled them over and fined them.

When he received the servant’s message today, he had in truth hesitated. It had been years since they had met, and he had worried they might have grown smooth and calculating, might have become tiresome and worldly. But what he had feared most was that they would all be close as ever to one another, while toward him alone they would be distant and politely reserved.

A person cannot imagine what they have never had — just as growing up in the Xie household had left him unable to imagine that there could exist an affection that asked nothing in return, that cared nothing for one’s origins, that remained solid as gold even after long neglect. But when he had walked into Duke Zhenguo’s residence as if placing a wager — doing for the first time something he was not even half certain would succeed — he found that the hardest step had simply been the one he had to take himself.

Once he was brave enough to take it, he discovered that the genuine feeling he had cherished, longed for, and pretended not to care about — it had always been there.

The wind roared past his ears, but if you listened carefully, it sounded like the uninhibited laughter of those young people.

The young gallants of Chang’an — laughing through a cup of wine, striking men down in the city.

Time flows, and white clouds become grey dogs; faces grow old. But the spirit of youth — never fades.

The seventh year of Tianbao. New Year’s Day.

The rooster-capped herald waited at Chengtian Gate as the rising sun sent its morning rays to announce the dawn. The guard passed along a long crowing call in imitation of the rooster’s cry, as though the great palace gates of the nine heavenly tiers were opening one by one. The envoys of ten thousand nations surged up the white marble steps like a tide, to the rhythm of the drums, bowing before the Emperor of the Tang Dynasty.

Crimson robes stretched in a magnificent procession; seen from a distance, they blazed like morning clouds, rivaling the splendor of the rising sun.

Li Huazhang, as Military Governor of Youzhou, stood at the head of the column of provincial subjects. Beside him was Ren Yao, Military Governor of Jiannan, and her deputy, Jiang Ling.

Li Huazhang looked for Xie Jichuan among the assembled figures, but the crowd was dense — high-nosed, deep-eyed foreign kings and envoys in all manner of dress and headgear blocked his view. There were simply too many people to distinguish one figure.

Li Huazhang looked back and focused quietly on the rites of the Court Assembly. High above the layered crimson clouds, the young Emperor sat upon the dragon throne, accepting the obeisance of ten thousand people. The ceremony required that no one raise their eyes — Li Huazhang had not lifted his gaze, but he knew the Emperor had surely seen him.

The conversation with Emperor Ruizong years ago still echoed in his ear. He had asked to go to Youzhou in order to put the struggle over the Crown Prince to rest. Ruizong had asked when he would return. He had answered: when there is peace under heaven.

Afterward, those words must have reached the Crown Prince somehow. Once the Crown Prince took the throne, he governed with diligence and opened every channel for honest counsel. The many seeds the Empress Regnant had planted finally found soil in which to take root; talented and virtuous people rose in succession, and in just a few short years the Tang Dynasty’s national strength climbed steadily — the price of millet fell to thirteen coins a peck.

The legacy of generations of men of vision had at last bloomed and borne fruit.

And he — some years later, as Military Governor of Youzhou — had come with his wife to the capital to pay his respects at the New Year Court Assembly.

The Rites Official sang out long and clear above them. Li Huazhang, together with men of different skin tones, different faiths, and different tongues, bowed as one:

“Long live the Emperor, long live, long live, ten thousand years.”

The nine celestial gates open upon the palace halls; the robed envoys of ten thousand nations bow before the crowned Emperor.

The greatness of the Tang was not born of the Emperor’s surname being Li or Wu, nor of how exalted the blood of those in power, nor of how many officials came from the great three ministers or five noble houses. It lay in openness and embrace — in the freedom of people of every complexion and every race to walk the streets of Chang’an; in women who carried themselves with grace and beauty, confidence and ease; in Buddhist temples and wine shops everywhere, their walls dense with poetry.

It lay in the fact that even in the darkest hours, there were still people willing to give everything for their ideals.

What we have given ourselves utterly to protect is precisely this Tang Dynasty — this one.

May the spirit of the Tang never know a setting sun.

— “Twin Jades,” complete.

Author’s Note:

Ten thousand horses rush against the urgency of autumn’s frontier; along the three borders the killing air grows dim. Twin wild geese fall to the calling horns; war drums beat as troops encamp for the night. Moonlight shines on the yellow sand flats; wind dries the pale grasslands. Holding only a three-foot sword in vain — white-haired, still awaiting the Emperor’s grace. — Wang Gong, “Beyond the Frontier”

The nine celestial gates open upon the palace halls; the robed envoys of ten thousand nations bow before the crowned Emperor. — Wang Wei, “In Harmony with Minister Jia’s Early Morning Poem on the Daming Palace”