The name of the guards at the side of the Crown Prince Chengming had been personally bestowed by the late Emperor.

Legend had it that on the evening of the Lantern Festival when the Crown Prince was born, streams of rosy clouds moved across the sky; even after sunset, a golden light still illuminated the ground. None could explain it, and an official submitted a passage from the Southern Histories, noting that in the eighth year of the Yongming reign, the same remarkable phenomenon had appeared, and the people of that time had composed an “Ode to the Golden Sky,” saying “this is none other than the Golden Sky — what men call the Radiant Light.” [1] Since this phenomenon had reappeared on the first great festival of the year, the official declared it an auspicious omen of a sagely ruler descended from Heaven.

The Emperor was greatly pleased and inscribed the name “Golden Sky Upper Palace” above the prince’s residence, while also bestowing upon his guards the name Jintian Guard — meaning the unit that guards the Golden Sky.

At three years of age, Song Ling received the title “Chengming,” and the monk Jiyun of Xiuqing Temple and the Taoist priest Ziwei of Xuanwei Monastery were invited by the late Emperor to attend the prince’s birthday banquet together. Monk Jiyun drew a divination stick and Priest Ziwei cast a divination — and they declared in unison that “Golden Sky Upper Palace” was an overly presumptuous name.

Only then did the late Emperor remove the plaque from the palace, and also changed the name of the Imperial Guards at Song Ling’s side.

In his tenth year, floods struck Jiangnan and refugees crossed westward. Song Ling saw many orphans who had lost their parents at Fang Hezhi’s place and arranged shelter and provisions for them.

Later he selected those among them who were willing, brought them into Changfeng Hall, trained alongside them for many years, and rebuilt the Jintian Guard.

At twelve years of age, he was invested as Crown Prince. His reputation grew ever more illustrious, and whenever he passed along the Bianhe Street, the common people would line the road to welcome him. The Jintian Guard followed in the Crown Prince’s train, wearing robes of narrow gold-embroidered sleeves bearing the qilin design and bearing coiled-serpent short blades at their waists — imposing and spirited.

In those days in Biandu, from the sons of noble families to the sons of commoners, every young man with aspirations for a military career regarded being enrolled in the Jintian Guard as the highest glory.

And so throughout the realm of the Great Yan, there was no one who did not know that “Jintian” was the name for that heaven-favored young man.

Song Zhiyu was fond of literary arts and had several poems exchanged with Biandu scholars that circulated widely. But Luowei had never imagined that, just as she was embroiled in an unrelenting struggle with Yu Qiushi in the inner court over the matter of collective punishment, Song Zhiyu would suddenly write a poem titled “Lament for the Jintian Guard” — a poem that would then sweep through the literary world of Great Yan like a flood.

The “Lament for the Jintian Guard” — as the name implied — was a poem of mourning written for Crown Prince Chengming.

Song Ling had maintained warm relations with all members of the imperial family. Song Zhiyu was a princess of the imperial house; that she would write a poem in his memory was entirely natural.

In the poem, she wrote of the Crown Prince’s friendship, his aspirations, and his bearing, and lamented his early death. Li Taibai had written “West of the Golden Sky is where the white sun sets” [2] — that brilliant, glorious, resplendent life had been like the sun and lightning conjured by his title: burning brilliantly for a moment before slipping into the void and vanishing.

After reading the poem, there was no one who did not feel grief and indignation for the departed Crown Prince, no one who did not feel fury toward the dark clouds and multitude of demons that had killed the sun. Some even, in a state of great intoxication, hung a white cloth at Fengle Tavern and wrote out the “Lament for the Jintian Guard” in heavy red ink, drawing enthusiastic acclaim from the scholars around them.

Even now, Luowei could not fathom whether the people’s outpouring at that time had been a genuine cry of injustice for the dead Crown Prince, or whether they had seized the opportunity to seek fame and renown — to win the adulation of a crowd rallying as one to a single voice.

On the first day after the poem appeared, the scholars of Biandu’s literary world took up their brushes and competed to compose elegies for the Crown Prince, an endless stream of verses written and passed around at every gathering and banquet, acclaimed and chanted with fervor.

On the fifth day, someone followed the example of those at Fengle Tavern and wrote in blood on the Bianhe River, crying out with ringing injustice; others tore strips of red silk and climbed the city walls, demanding the Thorn of the Tang Case be retried.

Still others distributed printed copies of the poem in the marketplace, engaged in impassioned debate, and stirred up a crowd of commoners who marched in a great throng to the Censorate.

Like a spark put to kindling, it spread beyond all control.

Luowei stood before the lacquered red balustrade of the Censorate and looked down at the clamoring crowd below. She felt that heaven and earth had become something thoroughly absurd.

Those people crying injustice aloud had not necessarily read Song Ling’s poetry, nor appreciated his political achievements; they did not necessarily understand his ideals and aspirations, nor know how he had conducted himself.

Not one of the scholars who had been his true friends and associates participated; all were silent.

The few remaining in court who had supported Luowei’s position against “indiscriminate killing,” faced with this public tide of opinion, finally fell silent as well, unable to hold out.

Yu Qiushi stood at her side, leaning against the balustrade, a slight smirk and complete indifference on his face: “Your Highness, you see — these people have no connection to His Highness whatsoever, and yet can still cry out one word of injustice for him. You knew him for ten years — why then do you stand here, on the opposite side from this old official?”

Luowei struggled to hold back the trembling at her lips and looked back at him.

The officials of the Censorate were right behind them — yet the surrounding din was so great that no one heard Yu Qiushi’s words.

After he spoke, neither of them said anything more. They stood on the balustrade with the surging passions of the crowd all around them, in the wind of Biandu’s approaching summer and its dying sun, staring fixedly at each other.

What Luowei saw made her blood run cold. Yu Qiushi, too, caught sight of her bloodshot eyes — and it was from that very moment that he began to suspect the person before him had already come to know the truths lurking beneath the surface.

Yet he had only suspicion, no evidence.

Just as Luowei at the time had only suspicion, and no evidence.

The sun moved into the west, the distant sky blazing with a vast and magnificent dying light. Under some unknown voice’s call, the crowd below the Censorate began to recite the “Lament for the Jintian Guard” in unison —

I think of the immortal who has long since mounted the yellow crane and journeyed west — west where stands the Mountain of Ten Thousand Years.

I recall the guest beneath the begonia blossoms, once glimpsed within the golden and bright courtyard.

The sword draws lightning to split open the eastern horizon; its light blazes over six provinces, and Heaven responds with peace.

But suddenly wind steeled the grieving clouds to misery, a multitude of demons raised their casket-swords to kill.

Man gone, blossoms fallen, the blue sky extinguished; wet red tears hide the day, cold even at noon.

Lament the Golden Sky!

From the deep dark of the underworld emerges the green ox spirit, calling back the soul straight up to the blue vault of Heaven.

On the road of Xianyang we saw you off on your way — one departure, vanishing into the boundless distance, a thousand years.

Those with feeling, Heaven and man alike, should grow old together — why did you urge the withering orchid to fall upon the white silk?

…

Below the balustrade, the crowd recited that line “why did you urge the withering orchid to fall upon the white silk” in unison. Someone began to sob aloud. Someone else began to wave the white garments that the Crown Prince had favored in private, as if summoning his spirit back.

Amid the varied clamor, Yu Qiushi glanced downward; at the corner of his lips was a trace of a smile.

Luowei followed his gaze and suddenly spoke: “Do you think this means you have won?”

Her voice was so faint that Yu Qiushi for a moment believed he had only imagined those words.

Luowei gazed at the dense crowd before her and, unable to hold herself back, burst into loud laughter — tipping forward and backward, her hair stirring at her temples in the breeze as she swept her sleeve and departed, leaving behind only a few words drifting in the air:

“We shall see.”

Yu Qiushi watched her retreating figure and suddenly sensed that he might have made an error.

After lending Luowei’s Sword of the Son of Heaven to place Song Lan on the throne, he had never deigned to look squarely at this girl who was not yet twenty. Later, when Song Lan pleaded with him — saying that placing a Yu family daughter on the throne directly would harm his own reputation, and that he owed Luowei a debt, and that he had certain fixations — Yu Qiushi had taken a step back and not interfered with Song Lan’s efforts to establish her as Empress.

Today, standing beneath that dying sun, he was startled to realize that Song Lan had placed her on the throne genuinely to cultivate a chess piece to stand against him.

Even if Song Lan himself did not know whether that chess piece was black or white — whether in the end it was on his side or not.

But to suppress the Yu clan’s power, he had no choice but to play this piece.

Even to this day, Luowei could recall the sensation of walking through the lines of the “Lament for the Jintian Guard.”

In eighteen years of life, she had never experienced a moment so bleak and terrifying.

The companion of her growing years had departed from this world. The younger brother she had protected with all her heart harbored thoughts she could not fathom. She was submerged in the tide of public opinion, walking alone. Every person who had once guarded her was gone; she could not find a single person to lean on.

Zhang Pingjing had seen her a few days before and had abruptly asked her a question.

He asked: did she believe that a single person’s strength could stand against the force of public opinion throughout the court and the realm?

Luowei answered without hesitation: try and see.

Zhang Pingjing then gave a bitter yet heartened smile and said he had put this question to someone else, who had given him the same answer. He had counseled that person that what is too rigid is easily broken; today he offered her the same words.

She was young and impetuous and could not take in such cautions. Looking back now — had it not been for the war reports that suddenly arrived from the northern frontier that day, she might truly have done something irreversible.

Luowei shut her eyes tightly. A vision rose unbidden before her, and she looked up and saw the golden dome of Huahua Temple in Xuzhou.

Then she caught the scent of sandalwood.

Someone said at her ear: “Your Highness, your mind has wandered.”

She opened her eyes, and in the dark and silent hall she saw the face of Ye Tingyan, very close.

He had a pair of eyes as black as Song Ling’s, and when he fixed them upon her intently, they always made her forget with ease all the masks she wore.

So Luowei reached out to embrace him and let herself bury her face against his shoulder.

She was becoming more and more addicted to this moment between illusion and reality, she thought.

Ye Tingyan was somewhat startled, but did not push her away. His fingers slid through her hair to rest on her back and gave it a light pat — a gesture of comfort: “Why do you drift away in thought so often?”

After a long while, Luowei answered, her voice muffled: “Whose fault is it but yours for always coming at night — I am thoroughly drowsy.”

Ye Tingyan drew her up to sit, settling her on his lap and rocking her gently.

Luowei’s mood gradually steadied. She recalled what had been said before, gave a small start, and then asked in a light and casual tone: “The old grievance you mentioned just now — what did you mean?”

When it came to it, her confrontation with Yu Qiushi in those years had mostly taken place within the confines of the palace. Those who had recited the poem below the Censorate — even including Song Zhiyu herself — had not necessarily known how much effort Luowei had expended to protect them.

Those who had known had died on the torture frame.

Later, through many inquiries and repeated investigations, Luowei confirmed that when Song Zhiyu wrote the “Lament for the Jintian Guard” in those years, she had been acting in collusion with Yu Qiushi.

But… how did Ye Tingyan know she harbored a concealed grudge?

Hearing this question, Ye Tingyan’s hand paused, then he said slowly: “The world knows that Counselor Gan took only three disciples in his lifetime — one was an obscure scholar from Jiangnan whose name no one knows to this day, only that his surname was Zhou; one was the late Crown Prince; and the third… was you.”

He spoke these words, and Luowei let out an “ah,” then at last belatedly recalled certain even more distant old matters.

Ye Tingyan’s tone was somewhat peculiar: “Princess Imperial Ningle at that time called three times at Counselor Gan’s residence, hoping to become his disciple. In the end, Counselor Gan accepted you instead. She was deeply resentful and on one occasion at a banquet openly mocked him for accepting you because your father and the Crown Prince had vouched for you — and you were gossiped about by many people for quite some time afterward.”

In those days she had been reluctant to associate with Song Zhiyu because she knew her to be proud of her own talents and intolerant of others. She could not say whether this was good or bad, so she had simply kept a respectful distance.

Just a passing barb — she had forgotten it entirely. To think that in others’ eyes, the falling-out between her and Song Zhiyu stemmed from this reason?

Luowei did not know whether to laugh or to sigh, but she felt a breath of relief.

She loosened her hold. She had just been about to say something when she suddenly heard footsteps coming from far away in the garden that had been perfectly still and quiet. Through the closed latticed window she glimpsed a dim yellow glow moving across the window paper.

Someone was carrying a lantern and heading this way!

Ye Tingyan had evidently heard it too and grew alert. He was about to push open the latticed window when Luowei grabbed his wrist.

Without a word of explanation she pulled him to his feet and set off at a rapid pace toward the depths of the inner hall.

The garden guards had spotted the approaching figure; the sound of conversation drew nearer.

Ye Tingyan had been about to slip sideways under her bed, but Luowei, without a word, pulled him along all the way into her cramped little inner chamber and then pressed hard against the portrait of the Buddha on the wall.

She pressed at the very top of the Buddha’s head. Under the circumstances, Ye Tingyan was still distracted enough to think: this is surely an act of profound disrespect — would the gods and buddhas, knowing this, grant their forgiveness?

Though seeing that all three schools were represented here together, she did not seem to mind the matter.

Before he could quite collect himself, he heard a faint sound from the wall of her inner chamber, and then a bookshelf slid back to reveal a pitch-black secret chamber — he had grown up in Qionghua Hall and yet had never known a secret chamber existed in this remote little annex!

Luowei shoved him inside — nearly toppling him over — but she did not concern herself with that. She immediately sealed the door and hurried back to lie down on her bed; in doing so she accidentally knocked against her wound, which had not yet fully healed, and winced, her brow creasing with pain.

The instant she lay down, a palace attendant pushed open the inner hall door. The attendant called to Attendant Li at the doorway a few times; finding her fast asleep, the attendant could not stand on ceremony and hurried inside, whispering urgently: “Your Highness — His Majesty has come.”

Luowei rubbed her eyes. Song Lan was already parting the gauze curtains at her bedside. She had not even had time to say “what is it” before Song Lan said in a low and serious tone: “Elder sister, a military report from Youzhou —”