Around the autumn harvest, many things were happening in Lin’an, the current capital of the Wu Dynasty.

After the humiliation of the Jingping era, martial arts culture in the Southern Dynasty had begun to flourish. This year’s martial arts examination was being held with great fanfare in the capital, drawing large numbers of wandering swordsmen into the city. The influx of people carrying blades and swords made public order somewhat chaotic, but the various deeds of these wandering heroes were also transformed by storytellers into all manner of captivating tales. Not long ago, a famous courtesan of the capital named Lin Susu had fallen in love with a great hero of the martial world, and an arranged duel between two rival heroes atop the city walls had caused quite a stir, becoming a much-told story.

While the martial examination was underway, the flourishing literary societies of Lin’an were not to be outdone. The academies gathered in Lin’an each held their own activities, and several large-scale patriotic literary gatherings were held within the city, causing quite a sensation. Several celebrated poems emerged, filled with noble passion, and were widely sung by the women of the pleasure quarters.

The prevailing culture of both martial and literary pursuits swept away the despondent atmosphere left over from the Northern Wu period; there was even, faintly, a sense of a golden age emerging—at least in the eyes of the literati, the spirited, upward mood of society now far surpassed the superficial revelry of a decade or so earlier. And with the start of the autumn harvest, a band of bandits near the capital, including one Wang Xigui, was captured after being surrounded by government troops, then beheaded publicly in the capital—which likewise did much to hearten the people.

Large numbers of shops, eateries, and workshops were opening everywhere, and the commercial prosperity around Lin’an had caused the city to swell at an astonishing rate; by now, its prosperity had already surpassed that of Bian Liang, which had flourished for two hundred years. In the pleasure quarters, stories of talented scholars and beautiful women emerged every day, and the anecdotes and gossip of court officials would often become the talk of the town over tea. Amid this vibrant atmosphere, one particular matter had also become, during this period, a topic of great interest and discussion for many.

Prince Consort Qu Zonghui had gotten himself into trouble.

At the end of June, this prince consort, while dallying among the flowers, had taken a fancy to a young Northern girl, and in the course of forcing himself on her, an accident occurred, and he inadvertently caused the girl’s death. His attendants and hangers-on tried to smooth the matter over, but the girl’s parents were of fierce temperament and refused to let it drop. And so the matter became a case of the extermination of an entire family, and was subsequently uncovered by the Prefect of the Capital, reaching all the way to the top.

In the capital, the investigation and reporting of various cases naturally followed its own set procedures. If the matter had been this simple alone, when it was reported upward, a little pressure from above might well have kept it from spreading further. However, given what the prince consort had done, it was truly hard to say what feelings stirred in the princess’s heart. When the report reached her, the Princess Imperial flew into a rage and had the prince consort thrown into the Heavenly Prison. Qu Zonghui’s family, who were themselves a prominent clan of the Southern lands, rushed to plead for mercy, and in the back-and-forth, the matter became public.

After that, a series of surprising pieces of news gradually came out, steering the whole affair in a direction that many had not expected.

That the prince consort had committed such a monstrous crime was, of course, detestable—but as discussion deepened, more and more people gradually came to learn of the circumstances this prince consort found himself in. The current Princess Imperial was known to be proud in temperament, and had always looked down on this prince consort. The two had been married for ten years, and the princess had never borne a child; ordinarily, it was said, even for the prince consort to see the princess’s face was extremely difficult. If this alone might be dismissed as an ordinary case of marital discord, then the rumor that the princess had never once shared a bed with the prince consort since their wedding day, and had never to this day allowed him near her, was what truly poured fuel on the fire.

A man taken in as a matrilocal son-in-law to become prince consort, looked down upon by his wife from the very day of their marriage, never once sharing her bed in ten years—it was this that had gradually driven him to self-abandonment and dissipation. And as he sank step by step into decline, the Princess’s household had shown not the slightest concern, letting him drift as he would. What he had now done was, of course, hateful—but was there not also something wrong in the Princess’s own conduct? Bit by bit, such discussions began to ferment among the people.

Though this was not yet an age where ritual propriety killed outright, the virtues expected of a wife were, after all, still a matter people cared about. As the case against Qu Zonghui neared its conclusion, there was little more to say on that front—but the Princess’s pride was, without question, something that struck people as going rather too far. Scholars and literati shook their heads over it; even the women of the pleasure quarters, speaking of the matter, felt that the Princess had truly gone too far. The thunderous manner in which the Princess had earlier had the prince consort thrown in prison could hardly now be read as impartial justice—it looked, rather, more like an opportunity seized to be rid of an encumbrance by having him killed. As a wife, to treat one’s own husband so was, indeed, quite improper.

Amid such discussions, news of a far greater scale gradually began to spread—news concerning the upheaval within Tian Hu’s forces, which, due to deliberate suppression, had not yet spread widely; and General Yue’s second great victory at Xiangyang, with reports of triumph arriving one after another, which stirred up the mood in Lin’an and, in a short time, indeed overshadowed the gossip about the prince consort…

…

The sunlight was warm, the fallen leaves golden. While most people in Lin’an had their attention drawn to the great victory in the north, what had already happened could not simply be skipped over. Within the palace, officials and elder statesmen came and went each day, and matters concerning the prince consort and the Qu family had, over this period, taken up no small part of their business. On this day, within the imperial study, a father’s sighs echoed back and forth several times.

“…It’s fortunate that Marshal Yue’s great victory at Xiangyang has offset some of this talk, but you have already been married ten years, and this matter will, in the end, not do your reputation any good… The Qu family has come back and forth so many times now—yesterday his grandfather came and knelt on the ground begging me for mercy. This is an old friendship going back to our days in Jiangning. You married him, you don’t think much of him, these years I haven’t said anything. But if he’s killed, how do we explain it? How will it look in others’ eyes? My daughter, nothing good will come of this…”

Hands clasped behind his back, Emperor Zhou Yong sighed as he earnestly tried to persuade her. Eight years upon the throne now, the Jianshuo Emperor carried a good deal of authority these days, having shed the carelessness and recklessness of his early reign—but faced with this twenty-seven-year-old daughter of his, he still found himself utterly exhausted with worry.

Across from him, Zhou Pei’s gaze was calm, showing only a faint trace of weariness. She simply listened, and only after Zhou Yong paused did she speak, quietly.

“Father, killing him upholds the dignity of the law.”

Her tone was not raised, and Zhou Yong could not help but sigh inwardly again. If he were honest, Zhou Yong had always cared far more for his son than for his daughter—there were, of course, complicated reasons for this. In the early days of his reign, Zhou Pei had been regarded by Kang Xian and Zhou Xuan as the successor, taking on the burden of the Princess Chengguo’s household. Zhou Pei was independent in character and capable in her methods; whenever Zhou Yong thought of that whole mess surrounding the Princess Chengguo’s household, and then thought of himself, he understood it was best not to interfere carelessly.

When he had been a mere prince, he himself had been no paragon of virtue, reckless and irresponsible—but perhaps his one saving grace was that he at least had some self-awareness. His daughter was formidable and had opinions of her own; he had been too lazy to see her much, and now, thinking back on it, he could not help but feel a pang of guilt. Listen to that voice—so low, so lacking in spirit. An unhappy marriage was truly a hard thing for a woman to bear.

As for the dignity of the law and all that, he privately found it a bit overwrought, and waved a hand.

“Yes, yes, yes. Let the Prefect of the Capital handle the case, let them make the judgment. As for you and me, we’re just talking. Don’t let things get too strained with the Qu family—after all, when we first rose to power, they were of help to us. I scolded them already—slammed the table and cursed them out yesterday. I told them: for Qu Zonghui’s sake, you’ve come to me, I understand, I’m not an unreasonable man, but out there people are spreading talk about Northerners and Southerners, and it’s gotten to the point of smearing the Princess’s reputation—these people, I intend to have some of them killed! Damn it! What is wrong with them!”

Zhou Yong imitated the stern manner he’d had the day before, cursing sharply, then calmed himself again. “You needn’t worry about any of this. There are people with ulterior motives behind it—I’ll see justice done for you.”

Zhou Pei looked at him. “Thank you, Father. But it’s just talk spreading privately—there’s no stopping endless gossip. There’s no need to kill anyone over it. No one should be killed for that.”

“Er…” Zhou Yong thought for a moment. “The censors love to stir up trouble—the more they stir, the louder it gets. I’ll have to make an example of some of them, or the rumors about the Princess really will spread through the whole city!”

The study fell silent for a moment. Zhou Yong glanced at Zhou Pei, then said, “As for this business of Northerners and Southerners—daughter, let your father say one more thing. Don’t push it too hard. Our roots, after all, are in the South. Even though we’re the imperial house now, we must be even-handed, but we can’t afford to offend everyone in the South either. The way the wind is blowing now, Marshal Yue’s capture of Xiangyang is one thing, but the real trouble is with Tian Hu—that Black Banner is about to come out into the open, and it unsettles me just to think of it. Daughter, even if we do eventually push north, the rear has to be stable. It won’t do otherwise.”

Having said all this, he expected his daughter to argue back—but instead Zhou Pei nodded. “Father is right. I too have been reflecting on this. These past few years, I made many mistakes.”

Over the past few years, Zhou Pei’s manner had grown ever more composed and dignified, and this made Zhou Yong uneasy—he wasn’t sure if his daughter was speaking ironically. He looked at her twice, then nodded repeatedly. “Ah, my daughter hasn’t done anything wrong—it’s just that… the circumstances are different now. Well then, I’ll take charge of the Qu Zonghui matter and let him off—”

Zhou Pei raised her head, and father and daughter looked at each other for a moment before she spoke. “Father, I don’t think that’s appropriate. If he’s let off, where does that leave that family…”

“Daughter, there’s no point talking like that.” Zhou Yong frowned. “How about this—Qu Zonghui has a long record of misdeeds. After this affair, I’ll take charge and have him divorced from you. You find someone suitable and marry him; you find someone you like, then tell me, and I’ll arrange another match for you, just like that…”

Zhou Yong rambled on, and Zhou Pei watched him quietly, not knowing how to respond. These past few years, conversations between father and daughter had always been separated by a faint, indefinable barrier. The main reason was that the two of them simply did not think on the same level. She opened her mouth. “Thank you for your kind intentions, Father, but… there’s no need…”

“It’s only right that I take charge of this for you. I was foolish back then too—I paid too little attention to you two children. At the time I thought Jun Wu would inherit the princedom and live as an idle prince in Jiangning, and you would be the same, marry and raise children, assist your husband… Who would have thought I’d end up ascending the throne? As for Qu Zonghui, you didn’t like him, and I didn’t know at the time…”

Eight years on the throne had given Zhou Yong much to think about, and speaking of it now, regarding his daughter’s unhappy marriage, he could not help but wonder if it was his own lack of attention that had let others make such a poor match for her. Father and daughter chatted on a while longer, and by the time Zhou Pei left, Zhou Yong’s head was throbbing. A daughter was a daughter—but a woman of twenty-seven with no husband yet, and such a strange temperament—truly a pitiable thing to think about…

Zhou Pei walked out, but in her heart she felt only coldness. These past days, she had in truth been utterly exhausted in spirit. In the years since the court had moved south, the Wu Dynasty’s economy, centered on Lin’an, had developed rapidly; the wealthy gentry and merchants of the South had all taken their share of the spoils from the start, while the great numbers of Northern refugees who had fled south had often ended up as household slaves or beggars. Amid this great tide, Jun Wu had tried to give the refugees a way to live, and Zhou Pei had quietly helped him behind the scenes—calling it fairness and impartiality, but in others’ eyes, it was merely helping the Northerners against the Southerners.

This backlash had come suddenly, something no one had anticipated. Over the years that Zhou Pei had managed such a vast enterprise, her temperament had grown calmer as she grew older; it could not be said that she enjoyed any reputation abroad for being gentle or virtuous—only that no one had previously spoken ill of the Princess Imperial so casually. Who would have thought that, using Qu Zonghui as a pretext, the rumors would come on so fiercely: a woman fierce and shrewish, lacking wifely virtue, twenty-seven with no children, and now on top of it all, trying to take her own husband’s life—in others’ mouths, these had all become crimes worthy of being drowned in a pig cage back in the countryside.

Whether a crime had been committed could be argued with reason; but a stain on one’s character was another matter entirely. To be condemned by a thousand pointing fingers, to wither away without a fight—however clever Zhou Pei was, she was still, at heart, a woman in her twenties. The pressure of these recent days was hard to put into words. Were it not for the last shreds of her self-control, she might already have abandoned the whole enterprise and fled somewhere no one could find her.

At times she wanted simply to endure through sheer will; at other times she found herself reflecting—that to accomplish anything, the royal house, in the end, still needed the support of the people. Now that the realm seemed, faintly, on the verge of chaos once more, had she and Jun Wu truly done something wrong? For the second time in two years, she had woken in the night in tears—the first time had been the night she heard news of Ning Yi’s death. She had thought, after that, she had no tears left.

It seemed there were still some left after all.

However deeply someone was engraved upon one’s heart, the dead were gone, and the living had to go on.

As she walked out, not yet at the palace gates, Zhou Pei saw Jun Wu approaching briskly from the other direction, travel-worn—no doubt he too had rushed back from Jiangning for this matter. Seeing his sister, the anger in the Crown Prince’s eyes eased somewhat, and he came over smiling, greeting her.

“…I heard about the Qu Zonghui affair. I’m going to go argue with Father about it… The world is about to fall into chaos, and these shortsighted people are still scheming over petty gains, now stooping so low as to smear my sister’s reputation! I won’t let them off! Right, sister, wait here for me a moment—I’ll come back out and talk with you…”

With that, he strode off with a group of attendants in tow. Zhou Pei waited a while in the nearby imperial garden, then saw Jun Wu return, still fuming. His exchange with their father had evidently produced no result—in truth, Zhou Yong already favored these two children of his greatly, but as emperor, he had to retain some measure of reason, and could hardly go so far as to openly take the North’s side against the South.

Still, though there was anger in his eyes, Jun Wu did not seem particularly discouraged. His argument with Zhou Yong had likely only been for the sake of making a statement. Having now found his sister, the two of them walked together toward the city wall, where they could speak more openly.

“…The Black Banner has been quiet for two years, and now it’s finally come out—I think they’re planning something big. A clean strike against Tian Hu… We don’t yet know how the Jin will react, but sister, do you know what Liu Yu’s reaction has been?”

Jun Wu spoke with excitement, while Zhou Pei remained calm. “The scouts say Liu Yu has gone mad again.”

“That’s right—the Black Banner, heh heh… Years ago they already drove Liu Yu half-mad. Hearing news of the Black Banner this time, he got up in the middle of the night in fright, grabbed a stick, and ran through the palace, striking out at anyone he saw. Oh, and there’s the battle outside Xiangyang too, sister, you’ve heard about it. The Black Banner’s men killed Lu Tuo…”

As they spoke, the two of them climbed up onto the palace wall.

“They brought fire-lances with them—the fire-lances are even better now.” Zhou Pei looked at him, her eyes tinged faintly with bitterness. “But… the Black Banner is still the Black Banner. Jun Wu, you shouldn’t be so pleased about this.”

“Ha.” Jun Wu gave a dry laugh, glancing at his sister, his mind clearly on something else. They walked on a stretch further, and Jun Wu made idle conversation for a while before finally coming to a stop.

“Sister,” he said, “Master is still alive.”

“…What?” Zhou Pei took two more steps before turning back around. Dressed in an ivory-white gown, her face as clear and composed as the moon, she reached up with a finger to tuck back a lock of hair by her ear—and in that instant, her clear eyes went suddenly, faintly blank.

Jun Wu repeated himself.

“Ning Liheng… Ning Liheng is still alive…” he said. “…General Yue saw him.”

The autumn wind stirred her skirts and hair, and from this high wall, looking down, one could see the world below bustling with carriages and passersby, distant sounds carried on the wind. The autumn sunlight was warm, and all across Lin’an, fallen leaves drifted through the air…