The Regent coughed. “Nephew—”
Pheasant shouted, “General!”
A great wind swept from behind me. “Your Majesty!” The General appeared, his hand on the hilt of his saber. It had been almost four years since I last saw him. He looked savage, half of his face covered with a patch of purple birthmark, and I almost drew a breath of fear. But he would support Pheasant, and he would remind the Regent and the other ministers who was the true emperor. I was glad Pheasant had succeeded in recalling him.
“Take him, and get him out of my sight,” Pheasant ordered.
The General lunged forward and twisted the Chancellor’s arms behind his back.
“Regent!” the Chancellor shouted, and the Regent looked as though someone had struck his cheek. His thin lips pursed tight, and his freckle-covered face was mapped with anger and shock. He could countermand Pheasant’s order, of course, but to openly confront the General would be too risky for him.
The other ministers’ mouths fell open as the General began to drag the Chancellor away from Pheasant. Obviously, they had never thought Pheasant would dare to remove a high-ranking minister because of a mere concubine.
“Wait, Your Majesty,” I said, turning to Pheasant. “May I beseech you to reconsider? I would rather no one lose his position on my behalf.”
“You would speak for him, Luminous Lady?” Pheasant raised his eyebrows.
I nodded. “I beseech you, Your Majesty. Please give the Chancellor another chance.”
Pheasant turned to the old man. “Chancellor, do you hear this? Luminous Lady is a much better person than you. You do not deserve her kindness. If you apologize to her, your insolence will be forgiven.”
The Chancellor twisted his head away. The man was not only idiotic, but also ungrateful.
“There is no need for apology,” I said quickly.
“No apology?”
“I insist, Your Majesty.” The ministers looked at me with interest. I hoped they would remember how Pheasant protected me and how I forgave the Chancellor.
“Well then. I shall honor the will of Luminous Lady. Now, go, all of you. I believe you all have more important matters to attend to, rather than stand here, pointing your fingers at others.”
“I shall gladly take my leave, Nephew,” the Regent said. His face was inscrutable, like a molded clay statue. Then he turned to me. “I bid you a good day,” he said, and then to my surprise, he bowed slightly. “Luminous Lady.”
He had acknowledged me! Why? Was it because I requested that Pheasant forgive the Chancellor? Or was it because he saw Pheasant had the support of the General? It did not matter. In any case, I should be happy. Smiling, I dipped my head as well. “I wish you more splendid days to come, esteemed Regent.”
The Chancellor’s face turned purple, but the Regent shook his head and gestured to him to follow. They both turned and walked away. The Empress’s uncle lowered his head and departed too, his followers trailing after him. The lower-ranking ministers glanced at me, bowed, and asked Pheasant’s permission to leave as well.
“It’s good to see you again, General.” I bowed to him after all the ministers were gone and we were the only ones left in the vast yard.
He stood stiffly, his purple birthmark looking like a black eye patch sitting askew on his face. His exile did not seem to have changed him. He was nearing forty now, still large, bulky, masculine, and cold. But he looked good in the maroon cape, the shining bronze breastplate, and the red hat. Did he know it was my suggestion that gave him a second chance in the court, a second life with his family?
“Luminous Lady.” He gave me a curt nod.
“I am most grateful for your help,” I said.
“I shall be right here, Your Majesty, if you need me.” The General turned and walked toward the carriage that would take Pheasant to the Inner Court.
“Why did you not tell me you were coming here?” Pheasant, frowning, asked me.
“I was wrong. I should have told you,” I said. “But did you hear what the Regent said? He recognized me. Now those old men will not renounce me.”
“I know. I heard that.” Pheasant nodded, looking happier. “You dropped this.” He picked up a hairpin from the ground and put it in my wig. “Here…let me see. Now this looks better. Did I tell you how exquisite you look with this wig? Yes. Most exquisite, Luminous Lady.”
“I am most delighted to keep my title”—I smiled—“and my wig.”
He laughed, walking toward the carriage. “Indeed, Luminous Lady, you shall have everything you wish. No one will stand in your way. Come, let’s enjoy some imperial entertainments.”
I followed him, passing the Gold Bird Guards who stood in the yard like pillars. They still did not turn their heads, but their eyes were following me. I smiled. I had a feeling I was going to see them more often from that day on. As Luminous Lady, I could come to the Outer Palace as often as I wished. “What kind of entertainments?”
“Ah. There are so many. Horse dancing is my favorite, and, of course, Pitching-a-Pot game and floats. Prepare to be amused. Perhaps I shall honor you with a carnival, a weeklong carnival.”
A carnival was always a good indulgence, where people could forget their troubles and have some amusement. When Emperor Taizong lived, he had often ordered carnivals on a whim. Sometimes those carnivals lasted three days, sometimes two weeks. “I do not believe I would object to that, Your Majesty.”
I was ready to climb into the carriage when something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.
On the other side of the hall, a carriage had arrived, and from it stepped the huge frame of the Empress in her voluminous golden dress. The Secretary, followed by a group of ministers, went to greet her. They surrounded her, gathering their heads together. The ends of their black hats jutted out behind their backs, and their heads rose and fell as they nodded, like a flock of crows plotting their next meal.
Were they discussing my son? Or me? I paused at the carriage. But I did not worry, for I was officially Luminous Lady, and they could do nothing about it.
AD 653
The Fourth Year of Emperor Gaozong’s Reign of Eternal Glory
SUMMER
12
I had been reborn. No longer was I referred to as Emperor Taizong’s maid or concubine. Everywhere I went, people bowed to me, calling me “Luminous Lady,” recognizing me as a rising, high-ranking Lady, the mother of the Emperor’s son, the woman who almost compelled the Emperor to demote the Chancellor. All of them—the servants, the ministers, and the scribes—lowered their eyes and bowed to me deeply as I passed by.
More luxuries were showered on me: bolts of fine silk, golden jewelry, exotic fragrances, and more wigs—I collected eight of them, each with sleek, long hair that draped to my ankles.
On hot days, I received large cooling fans made of pure white swan feathers, chilled watermelons stored in ice buckets, coveted golden peaches from Samarkand, and rare lychees—unique fruit with transparent, jellylike flesh that grew only in the warm south. I handed them out to my maids, sharing my reward, for they were my people, and I would take care of them and share my good fortune with them.
Pheasant decided to make improvements to my garden. He ordered a new hall with ten rooms to be built near my bedchamber, each room graced with golden screens, latticed windows made of fragrant sandalwood, and long, wide corridors. The garden was also expanded, and an enormous pond was to be constructed and filled with many exotic fish and blue lotus. Near the pond, a small replica mountain that bore the peaks and valleys of Tai Mountain, one of the Five Great Mountains in our kingdom, was built. And after the astrologers’ careful inspections and consultations, a pavilion with a blue roof and a winding bridge that twisted and turned nine times were also added. With all the five features present—the pond, mountain, pavilion, bridge, and corridors—the garden was in perfect harmony wi
th the standards of beauty and feng shui.
I did not need to move to the Quarters of the Pure Lotus, the residences for the Four Ladies, Pheasant said. He moved into the garden instead, and we lived there together like husband and wife.
Pheasant soon made a formal announcement that he would no longer summon any of his concubines or the high-ranking Ladies to his chamber, utterly discarding the bedding protocol. He would have only me, Most Adored and his Luminous Lady, as his companion.
The news shocked the whole palace. The ministers, who had heard of Pheasant’s disinterest in the bedding protocol but had not considered it seriously, were astounded. “What about the Confucian cardinal rule of producing as many male progeny as possible?” they protested. “It is against the tradition and unheard of for an emperor to choose only a single bedmate.”
“And one must not forget, Your Majesty,” the Chancellor shouted, “the greatest ruler, your father, ever the most dutiful son of Emperor Gaozu, fathered ten sons and twenty-one daughters!”
Pheasant, so far, had only three sons—one by me, one by the Pure Lady, and one by Rain—and two daughters. With a calm look, Pheasant held up his hand to silence the Chancellor. “Do not forget this either, Chancellor: I am not my father.”
The Empress was enraged, Apricot told me, and she blamed me for her inability to conceive. But as it turned out, no one believed what she said, and people began to treat her differently. When she passed by the halls in the Outer Palace, the ministers either looked at her askance or whispered behind her back, and some ministers even voiced criticisms of her other family members who served in the court; one minister even quarreled with her uncle, the Secretary.
The Empress vented her anger on her maids, punishing them and beating them, I heard. After that, she would pace in her bedchamber, gritting her teeth and cursing me.
But I did not care, and every night in our garden, I lay under the brilliant moon with Pheasant, bathed in its silver light. “I shall give you whatever you wish for,” he whispered, his fingers tracing my naked skin. “Whatever you wish for, it will be yours.”
His voice was most intoxicating. “Even the moon?” I asked.
He kissed my neck. A sweet sensation rose within me, and I leaned over, kissing him back.
“Yes, even the moon.” He stroked my breasts, my stomach, and my lower abdomen. Gently, he bit me, tempting me, rousing me, urging me to want him and desire more. “For you, Luminous Lady, my sweet face, the mother of my child… One day, all your dreams will come true.”
My heart swelled, my skin kindled with pleasure, and my body ached with an intensity I had never imagined before. Every touch of his hand, every echo of his words, was a memory of the past but also a reminder of the future—I was safe, I was protected, and my life in the palace too was protected.
Yes, I would dream again, and now, I would have my first dream.
I would see my mother.
• • •
Mother arrived at the palace on a breezy, pleasant summer day.
Wearing my best red gown and splendid wig, I waited in my garden, holding Lion, who was six months old, in my lap. I tried to remain calm, for it had been almost nine years since I had last seen her, but when her gray stole appeared at the garden’s entrance, and when I saw her familiar features, her stooped back, her face marred by frost and wind, I could no longer sit. I gave Lion to Apricot and ran to her.
“Mother!” I gripped her arm. I was so happy I wanted to cry. “It’s so wonderful to see you.”
She gazed at me, her face the most enthralling picture I had ever seen. “My child, look at you. Look how beautiful you have become. So beautiful, so graceful. I never thought this would happen.”
“I know, I know.” I nodded, happiness swelling in my heart. She wore a stole patched with pieces of black and gray cloth and a pair of cloth shoes that looked thin and worn. She was shorter, skinnier, and smaller—a result of the simple life in a temple, I knew, but her eyes were clear, and her movements were agile. I was so relieved. As long as my mother was in good health, I could always see her.
“Is this my grandson?” She leaned over and took Lion from Apricot’s arms. Happiness blossomed on her face, and her adoration radiated like a summer sun. “Look at him. Heavens! He is so small. He is so precious!”
She could not keep her hands from him. She cradled him in her arms, her fingers sweeping his hair, stroking his cheeks, caressing his toes. Lion did not pull away or cry as he often did with strangers, as though he felt her affection. When she tickled him, he even grinned a little. It might have been the first time I saw him smile.
Later, Mother and I sat near the pond, drinking chrysanthemum tea. I sat close to her, feeling the warmth of her arms, basking in her smile. When I was a child, I loved moments like this—leaning against her, feeling the affection in her soft voice and gentle touch. As a child, I had depended on it, thrived on it, and never gave a second thought to it. Now sitting next to her, I could feel her love continue to spring and nourish me like an eternal fountain, but there was something more in it. Because I was a mother myself, I felt more acutely the depth of the fountain and the strength in every droplet of love, and that gave me a new appreciation and a sense of gratefulness.
I went behind her and massaged her shoulders. She groaned in pleasure, and I could tell her backache had worsened over the years. Once upon a time, touching her and feeling her skin had given me strength and resolution. It still did, but it also offered me satisfaction and happiness. I told Mother she must come here and visit me again, and if she wished, she did not need to remain in the temple. I could purchase a house for her in the city, so she could live in comfort and good care.
I told her I could also recover our family house in Wenshui and our family’s treasure, if she would like, and she could live there—but I would prefer for her to stay in Chang’an with me, rather than alone in our faraway family home.
She nodded. “All in due time.”
“This is the time,” I reminded her.
“I have been living in the monastery for so many years. I am accustomed to the simple life there. You must not worry about me.”
I stood in front of her. “You do not wish for me to take care of you?”
She smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening. “Of course I do. But it is not that simple. You are a high-ranking Lady, but it does not mean you can do whatever you wish.”
I did not know what to say. Mother was still worried about me. She was a cousin of a late empress and understood that a title would not keep me safe from the shadowy menace in the palace. She was also concerned my caring for her would be used against me, even though the Empress herself had showered numerous bestowals on her own family. The Empress was being criticized at the moment, but she could still find an excuse to harm me.
But I could not just let Mother live in poverty while I had all the indulgences. I traced the stitches on Mother’s patched stole and the frayed edges of the sleeves. Perhaps there was another way I could take care of her. “I could request that the Emperor provide a donation to the monastery. Perhaps the abbess will accept that?”
“Donation?”
When I had visited the monastery years ago, the building was on the verge of collapsing. It must have been in a dire situation now. “Yes, for maintenance. Would you like to carry this message to her, Mother?”
“I shall be glad to do so.”
I squeezed her hand in relief.
Mother held my face in her hands. Her eyes twinkling, she gazed at me. “I am happy for you, my child. I never dared to dream of this day. I wish I could tell you how happy I am.”
“I know, Mother. I know.” I embraced her.
“Your father would be so proud of you.”
Father. Yes. He would have been. I was Luminous Lady. No one in my ancestral line had ever honored the Wu family so. And I was his daughter
. I was part of him; I was his vision. Now that I had risen, he would rise with me. He must have felt that, the joy of the honor and the glow of my happiness. With my rank, I could pay proper tribute to him on his death anniversary. I could give extravagant gifts in his name and ask the monks to sing prayers for him to please his soul. But was it possible, truly possible, that I could bring him the ultimate honor—that I would become a legend?
I sighed.
Mother patted my hand. “Will you promise me something, my child?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Be careful.”
That was how much she loved me—always thinking of my safety. I hugged her. “I will, Mother.”
We talked more and played with my son for the entire afternoon. When it was time for her to leave, I hugged her, wishing I did not have to let her go again.
The day after Mother left, I took out a portion of my allowances and sent them to Mother’s monastery. I hoped the abbess would use the sum for maintenance and to improve the nuns’ living conditions.
The abbess sent me a message to thank me for the donation and indicated that necessary repairs had been made on the monastery to accommodate the many women who had been abused and abandoned by their families and had gone to seek shelter there. What was more, the abbess said, many farmers, driven homeless by a recent sandstorm, had begged food from the temple as well. Knowing it was my donation that fed their stomachs and their children’s, they were grateful for my help and prayed for me, the Luminous Lady in the palace.
I was happy to hear that my donation had helped the disadvantaged women and the poor. And I knew that in Chang’an, while there were dozens of Taoist abbeys, there were only a handful of Buddhist temples and monasteries, scattered around the far corners near the city walls. Because Buddhists did not receive any support from the court, the monks and nuns relied on their own hands and handouts from their penurious patrons. But I knew it was Buddhist temples, not Taoist abbeys, that provided relief to the poor who were struck by misfortune; for the Taoists, lofty in their thoughts, considered themselves to be superior and accused the poor of thievery and of being disease carriers. It became clear to me that Buddhist temples and monasteries had become boats to people on the verge of drowning, especially women, young and old.
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