“Mei!” Pheasant’s voice came from behind me, accompanied by heavy hoofbeats. I turned around, and he swung off the horse near the pit and raced toward me. “Thank heavens you are all right!”
My heart warmed. Only hours ago, I had feared I would never see him again. “You missed a good confession, Your Majesty.”
“That’s what I heard. Everyone is talking about it now. Heavens!” He drew a sharp breath when he saw my bound chest. “What happened? Look at you!” He glanced at the screaming Empress. “She did that?”
I nodded.
“Let me take you to the physicians.” He held my shoulders. “You look pale.”
“She lost some blood,” the General said beside me.
“Come. General, get her a stretcher. And call the physicians.”
“Wait.” I stopped him. “Why are you here? What about the palace? What about the Regent’s army? I heard you shot him. Did you kill him?”
He shook his head. “I shot him in the shoulder.”
I sighed. Of course, after everything that had happened, Pheasant would still spare his uncle’s life. “Tell me what happened.”
Pheasant nodded. “We had a brutal battle. The Regent was well organized. He had men attack our front gates with arrows and fire, and also had men climb over the wall. There were so many of them, Mei. It was very…disturbing. Our Gold Bird Guards did the best they could, trying to secure everywhere, but many were down, wounded. I almost thought we would lose. But then I spotted my uncle on horseback near a tent on Heavenly Street. I nocked my bow and shot him.”
I sighed in relief.
“After that, the traitors and rioters backed off, and our Gold Bird Guards seized the chance and rallied. They were fierce and loyal fighters, and we pushed back as hard as we could. The enemy never broke through the gates. They are still outside the palace, but they will know not to fight when we return to the watchtower.”
Pheasant had proven himself to be a capable leader. “So the palace is safe?”
He nodded. “The palace is safe. And now, even better, all the people in the palace know that you are innocent, that the Empress smothered our child and blamed it on you. Trust me, many guards will fight harder, and those guards who were fooled by my uncle, who knows? They might change their hearts again.”
“What about the commoners who protested outside the palace?”
Pheasant sighed. “A good number of them were injured too—what a folly to join the revolt. But soon, all of them will hear the truth.”
“Ah.” I nodded.
“My uncle still has his mercenaries, but I don’t believe they will have the resolve to attack the palace. In a matter of time we will defeat them. Now”—he touched my hand that held the blade—“you should let her go. The General will take her from here.”
“No.”
The Empress cried, “I do not need your pity, Li Zhi!”
Pheasant turned toward her.
“I do not need your pity.” She was panting, and blood was dripping down her neck. “No, no, no. Not your pity. I will not have it. I will not have your pity! What have you given me in our nine years of marriage, Li Zhi? Nothing. You never even looked at me.”
“Lady Wang,” Pheasant said, his voice solemn. “You have brought this disaster to the palace. You have ended many innocent lives and put more in danger. You will be tried and impeached. You will face the consequences.”
She laughed, shrilly. “Is that all you can say? Impeached, tried? Who cares about that? You are the worst kind, Li Zhi. You are not fit to be an emperor or a man! Do you know why? You turned me into this spiteful woman. I am the Empress of the kingdom, but a barren goat they call me in secret. My mother scolds me, my uncle resents me, and my servants laugh at me. I speak, but my words turn into the air. I have my own breath as my shadows! What did I do to deserve this? It’s all because of you! You did this to me!”
Pheasant, looking dismayed, turned his face away. “I…”
I blinked. She was telling the truth—that Pheasant had bedded her only once and that she was not barren. Could this be possible? Was I responsible for her unhappiness?
“I was happy before I wed you. I was not pretty, but I was virtuous and honorable, and people bowed to me. ‘The daughter of Wang,’ they sang praise of me. I married you, and you gave me nothing but spite!”
“I never wished to marry you,” Pheasant said quietly.
“I didn’t wish to marry you either, Li Zhi. And I will never forgive you. Never. Or you”—she turned and spat at me—“or your progeny. So kill me now.”
But this time I could not raise the blade. All these years, I had planted the tree of love with Pheasant, and we had cared for each other with determination and devotion, but our love had robbed the other women of the light they craved. It was not my intention, but sadly, it was our destiny.
“Virtue, my child, not vengeance,” Tripitaka had advised me when he came to my Oriole’s burial, and I had laughed at him. But I understood what he had meant.
I had to forgive her, for I had brought the darkness to her; I had turned her into a shadow. And Empress Wang, despite her twisted personality and her murderous heart, was not born a monster; she was made into one. Like many hapless women before her, she was simply a victim of her own fate.
I threw away my blade. “Take her away, General.”
“You will not kill me? Why? Kill me, kill me!” She was hysterical.
“No, Empress Wang. I will not decide your fate. It’s not in my hands.” I leaned closer to Pheasant and held his hand.
The General steered her away, and laughing, she stumbled out of the woods, the torches spluttering around her, smoke surging behind her.
“Look.” Pheasant pointed at the far edge, where many servants and ministers in purple and red robes appeared. They were shouting for me, their sound joyous.
“Your Majesty!”
“Luminous Lady!”
The servants and ministers came closer. Ministers Xu Jingzong and Minister Li Yifu were among them. They were Pheasant’s ministers, but they had all come to see what had happened to me.
“We came as fast as we could,” Minister Xu said, slightly out of breath. “I knew it! I knew she did it! I would have given my head to bet it was her. Of course she did it and blamed it on Luminous Lady. Luminous Lady? Are you… Thank heavens you are well!”
Minister Li, still impeccable with his manners, gave me a deep bow. “Heaven bless us! Now we know the truth! Only an evil woman like Empress Wang would kill a child and blame it on Luminous Lady.”
The other ministers nodded. “It is truly brave of you, Luminous Lady, to give yourself up and face the Empress.”
I motioned for them to stop. I did not need compliments, but I smiled to show my appreciation. “Ministers, if I am not mistaken, I believe you were all ordered to stay in the library’s forecourt?”
“The palace is safe now, Luminous Lady,” Minister Xu said, carrying the air of assurance and confidence that was vital in a minister of a high rank. “Besides, we believe there is someone else you will yearn to see.”
Hong? Had they brought me my child? I had been so worried about him.
Pheasant squeezed my shoulder. “There he is.”
The ministers stepped aside. Behind them came my four maids, and in Chunlu’s arms was my sweet son, snuggling against Chunlu. He was sound asleep.
Minister Xu explained that the moment he heard the upcoming attack of the Regent, he had directed my maids and Hong to a safe chamber, hiding them from the crowd. That was why I could not find them.
“Thank you.” I stroked my child’s head. He looked so peaceful. I wanted to kiss him and hold him in my arms. But I did not wish to wake him, and I did not have the strength to hold him.
“Now, we must take you to the physicians,” Pheasant said, offering me his hand.
I took his hand and walked beside him. I stumbled occasionally, and the ground felt as though it was floating, but I did not feel much pain.
When we reached the horse Pheasant had ridden, the servants spread out a stretcher. As I was ready to lie down, I tugged at Pheasant’s sleeve. “Look.”
He turned and followed my gaze.
Ahead of me, the sun was rising, its golden rays brightening the edge of the distant sky and throwing shining threads through the gap of the trees, and soon, the area where I stood was cloaked in a transparent, iridescent veil. Everything—the leaves, the branches, the ground—was illuminated. Everything sparkled.
And the moon was still there, still bright, placid, and shining, like an empty silver plate ready to accept gifts.
• • •
When we returned to the palace, the attack of the rebels had already weakened, and when the General led the Gold Bird Guards to strike back, the commoners fled, and the Regent’s men retreated to his ward. The crisis in front of the palace gates eased, and the next day, Pheasant ordered twenty legions of the Gold Bird Guards to surround the ward. The Regent’s mercenaries cursed and shot arrows from inside the walls, and the Gold Bird Guards, unable to break into the building, laid siege to the ward, cutting off the supply to the mercenaries. Without sufficient food, the Regent soon tasted the bitter fruit of betrayal. His mercenary army revolted and abandoned him, and the General seized the chance, broke into the Regent’s ward, and captured him.
Still, the Regent insisted on his innocence. He claimed he had no knowledge of the Empress’s murderous act, and he had been fooled by the Empress just as everyone else was. In his loud and arrogant voice, the Regent stated that he had cared for Pheasant these years and devoted his entire life to the kingdom. Everything he had done, he said, he had done out of duty for the late Emperor, as it was Emperor Taizong who had decreed him to protect the kingdom and ensure its order and safety.
But in an unexpected move that would surprise everyone, Minister Li Yifu revealed to Pheasant that the late Emperor had not written such a will. The minister confessed that on the night of Emperor Taizong’s death, he had been on his night duty in the imperial library when he saw the Regent slip into the dark hall, write the will, and press it with the dragon seal. The Regent then tucked the scroll into his sleeve and returned to the Emperor’s chamber, where he announced it was a will written by the Emperor the previous year.
Fearing the Regent would exile him like the other ministers, the minister remained silent and kept the secret to himself. But now he said the people should know the truth.
Surprised, Pheasant asked the Regent if what the minister said was true, and for the first time in his life, the Regent lowered his head, unable to reply. Pheasant was astounded. He had never suspected his uncle’s treachery, I realized, and although I had been certain the Regent had forged the will, I had not been able to prove it.
But Pheasant, the most benevolent ruler I would ever see, still did not have the heart to behead the Regent. Instead, he exiled him to a post in the remote south, providing him with a ration fit for a ninth-degree minister. Pheasant even indicated in his edict that the Regent’s sojourn in the south was subject to recall if he proved remorseful.
But the old man was too proud to accept his defeat. Soon a message came that he had hanged himself near a stable in a horse rally post before he reached Yangzhou.
• • •
I was placed under the care of physicians led by Meng Shen in the palace. While I lay in bed, Minister Xu Jingzong, keeping his promise, started the trial of Empress Wang in the Zhengshi Hall.
Many ministers, scribes, and eunuchs attended, and all the guards, even the General, who had heard the Empress’s confession, testified.
The three Ladies came to the trial and gave their accounts as well. They recounted the cruelties they had suffered under the Empress these years and stated that the Pure Lady, in her confused state, had choked on a piece of cinnabar bark and died.
When all their testimonies were heard, Minister Xu declared the Empress guilty of murder. He proposed that the Empress’s official title be stripped away and she be imprisoned for life, in the same kennel where she had kept the Pure Lady, though without the wolves.
When I heard the sentence, I remembered what the master Sun Tzu had said: “When one treats people with benevolence, justice, and righteousness, and reposes confidence in them, the army will be united in mind, and all will be happy to serve their leaders.”
The Empress had lost her army a long time ago.
Soon, Empress Wang, or rather, Lady Wang, was sent to the kennel. A few days later, some eunuchs, who resented the Empress’s harsh treatment of them these years, came to taunt her, and she threw herself at them but slipped in the mud. Her head crashed against the fence and bled. The wound became infected, and when we discovered it, she was already delirious, running a high fever. She died two months later.
Chancellor Chu Suiliang died a few months later too, ending his bold and overzealous life. That day I celebrated, hoping for a quieter and more peaceful life.
For the heir, Zhong, I did not punish him or seek the means to exile him. After all, he was only a pawn, and being so young, he could not yet fully understand the meaning of his actions. Pheasant decided to keep his heirship and allowed him to stay in the Eastern Palace. I had no objection. As long as the Empress was gone, he could not harm me. But I replaced all his tutors and retinue with people I felt more comfortable with. I would watch him, and if he turned out to be trouble, I would dethrone him.
I sought no punishment for the Regent’s two brothers-in-law either. When I was well enough, I summoned them and told them I would forgive them, and if they were indeed men of learning, they would be given another chance to serve the kingdom.
I was eternally grateful to Minister Xu Jingzong for his stalwart belief in me and his service in impeaching the Empress. I asked Pheasant to promote him to Chancellor, replacing the loud Chu Suiliang. Upon my request, Pheasant also promoted the other ministers who had helped me.
I did not forget Tripitaka either. I was thankful for his advice—“The virtue of forgiveness would bear the fruit of your trees”—and I gave his pagoda and other Buddhist temples a generous donation, which they used to create splendid murals, sculptures of Buddha, bronze vases with Buddhist themes, and many paintings and poems.
Pheasant followed my donation with a decree that all religious houses were to receive a regular fund from the imperial treasury from that day on. He further indicated that all religions, regardless of their beliefs, were free to worship in our kingdom as long as they declared they would obey him. With his encouragement, more temples were built in the city. Divisions of Buddhism, such as Zen Buddhism and Niutou Buddhism, were created and recognized. Foreign priests who declared their faith in Manichaeism and Nestorianism also flocked to Chang’an. On a summer day, when I once rode on the streets of Chang’an, I glimpsed the arched buildings of Manichaean shrines, the flying eaves of Taoist abbeys, and many saffron walls of Buddhist temples.
• • •
I recovered well under the care of my maids and the physicians. When summer came, I was able to walk and even laugh without grimacing or hurting my chest.
On a warm summer evening, when the palace celebrated the day of a feast with red lanterns, when the sweet scent of peonies and roses drifted in the Inner Court, when everyone in the palace, those with ranks and those without, stuffed their stomachs with fresh pears, apricots, and sweet, glutinous rice cakes rolled in sugar, Pheasant announced, with the presence of all my beloved ministers, that I, Luminous Lady, would become his chief wife. He proposed a formal ceremony take place to recognize my new status—the Empress of the kingdom.
There was loud applause, followed by thunderous cheers and happy shouts.
My steps steady, my heart filled with joy, I went before Pheasant’s table a
nd knelt, accepting the announcement.
Later, I went to my garden, and alone, I walked up Hope’s bridge to visit Oriole.
• • •
The surface of the stone looked clean, smooth, and shining, glowing in the sun. Near it, fresh green grass was growing. I sat down and brushed the nameless marker. My bulging stomach touched my thighs again. I was carrying another child.
But it was my Oriole whom I had gone to see. My daughter. Who came and went. But she was loved, and always would be.
I missed her. I missed her milky scent. I missed her gurgling voice. I missed her perfect black eyes like shining prunes and her plump cheeks. I missed having her snuggle right next to me as she slept, her arms stretching above her head. I wanted to listen, to remember the sound she had made, and to feel the joy of her gaze and the tightness of her grip when she held my fingers.
These were the only memories I had left of her. Her clothes had been taken away, her scent was gone, and even the image of her face, her smile, was fading in my mind.
I took out a doll I had kept in my pocket and placed it on the top of the stone. The doll had perfect black eyes and red lips, like my child, and like my child, she looked splendid, but small and delicate. Quietly, she sat there, mute, still, like a vision, like a sacrifice.
I thought of all the days my Oriole would miss: cloudy days, sunny days, the days with warm breezes, the days with chilly frost. And the seasons that would pass without her, the spring blossoms that would bloom without her, and the warm sunlight that would dance without her.
Children were birds, and mothers were trees, and no matter how far they flew, no matter how high they soared, they always craved the branches of the tree, and the nest, to rest.
The late Noble Lady’s words. If what she said was true, then I hoped my bird would know that the tree would always be there, its roots deep in the earth, its branch of love spreading, growing, waiting, in every season and every year.
And I would tell her the scent of the blossoms in spring, the song of cicadas in the summer heat, the color of autumn’s leaves, and the warmth of the sunlight during frosty days. I would tell her the shapes of the clouds, the echoes of the wind, and the reflections of the light. I would tell her everything I would see, everything I would know.
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