Chapter 8

Since the founding of the Northern Song dynasty, princesses had never held much status. This seemed linked to the actions of Emperor Taizu. He seized the realm through schemes and cunning from widows and orphans, rather than openly establishing the dynasty with a sword as a commoner. Thus, he had to pay the price for those intrigues and methods.

Emperor Taizu was a man of great skill, adept at wielding both kindness and severity. He used his might to compel those loyal to Emperor Zhou Shizong to bow to him, but also employed benevolence to appease and win them over. Not only the influential and powerful ministers, but even the old comrades who had cloaked him in the imperial yellow robe, all needed to be won over with gifts from his own pocket.

He offered many things: noble titles, lands, the peasants who tilled those lands, and, of course, arranged marriages for generations. And so, he also offered princesses as part of this exchange. But what was wrong with that? The scholar-officials did not even dare to voice doubts. They sincerely believed that those pampered princesses had little use beyond this.

Therefore, when discussing grand schemes like “how to eliminate political rivals,” one of the loftiest goals after years of hard study, suddenly dragging in a girl barely twelve or thirteen years old lowered the tone considerably. It was like a dull-feathered hawk suddenly appearing among a flock of brilliantly colored pheasants.

Someone immediately voiced skepticism: “Seeking counsel from a child—wouldn’t that be laughable?”

“You are all learned men; she is but a young girl with braided hair. It is not laughable—it is absurd!”

“But I heard this matter of praising the reader originated from her...”

“If she is used by Prince Yun to slander Ji Meng, what then?”

“Our sovereign is enlightened; how could he believe the words of a child?”

“She is a celestial child appointed by the Taoist priests! The sovereign has already begun conferring titles upon her these days!”

The high-level, elegant secret meeting suddenly buzzed with low murmurs. The sovereign, of course, was far from enlightened. The countless absurd deeds he had committed over decades were beyond recounting. Rumor even had it there was a secret passage in the palace leading to the Li family! And if the Li family harbored any intentions, might they not stealthily orchestrate another terrifying night like Emperor Renzong’s?

A soft cough broke through, pulling the officials from their endless grumbling.

“If she were a prince,” said Yuwen Shizhong, at the eye of the storm, “would you still treat her with such disdain?”

Naturally not. But what meaning did that hypothetical have? Princes and princesses were fundamentally different beings. Even those princes lower in the hierarchy harbored a secret hope, independent of their mother’s status, reputation, or whether the emperor favored them. Simply by being a prince, they were born with an unquestionable right to inherit the throne bathed in eternal radiance.

Though precedence existed, the will of heaven was inscrutable. Did Emperor Yingzong, after his multiple returns to the palace, ever imagine he would be the one laughing last?

No matter how carefully they masked it, how much they immersed themselves in landscapes and calligraphy, deep down they never forgot this truth—how could a princess compare? What could she possibly offer to prevent the ministers’ scorn?

“What insight could she possess? What use is questioning her?” some remained unconvinced.

Yuwen Shizhong’s voice was faint: “She could advise the sovereign not to rashly bestow rewards upon Zhang Jue; when the sovereign remained unmoved, she urged that if Zhang Jue was rewarded, there must be no future reneging or wrongdoing.”

Such patriotism was no ordinary child’s matter.

Silence fell, and some were persuaded, sighing sincerely.

“Alas, she is a princess. Fortunately, she is a princess.”

“Then,” the sighing man whispered when no one else spoke, “how should we present the pros and cons to the imperial daughter?”

Though the attending civil officials lacked the shamelessness of eunuchs, their sensitivity to nuance was no less. Suddenly, someone glanced over: “Is Lord Yanli anxious?”

Lord Yanli was a dark-faced man from Yan and Zhao. Hearing this, he truly grew anxious. “Since I have gained Lord Yuwen’s favor and the crown prince’s courtesy, I shall exert every effort!”

Some exchanged sly glances.

Among the pale-skinned officials, he seemed to wear a sign on his forehead saying, “I’m the new student—come pick on me.” Although this transfer student bore the cluster of honors awarded by the principal—he was a scholar of the Yankan Hall, superintendent of the Shangqing Palace, and a first-rank Grand Master of Light Prosperity—everyone still regarded him as an outsider.

No wonder, for this Grand Master of Light Prosperity, formerly named Ma Zhi and now Zhao Liangsi, had defected from the Liao dynasty. His stance was naturally suspect. Even if he brokered marriage alliances and arranged maritime pacts between Song and Jin, he remained suspected of harboring rebellion in his heart, thus earning few smiles.

So, the host Yuwen Cui Zhong raised a hand, interrupting the civilized bullying to bring the discussion back on track:

“Send for Cao Ershiwulang, what say you?”

Yuwen Shizhong pondered briefly, then shook his head gently.

“Though young, Cao Ershiwulang is a male, and given his frequent palace entries, it is ultimately inappropriate,” he said. “Better to invite a madam into the palace...”

“Which madam?”

“It is most improper for the imperial daughter to speak with an outsider in the absence of her maidservants.”

Inside the bedchamber, she lay with eyes closed, silent.

Outside, a soft drizzle seemed to fall, seeping through the window and carrying dampness into the dimly lit room. It flowed gently along the walls and beams, finally settling upon her bed curtains.

Invisible, decaying hands slightly parted the folds of the curtains, setting the delicate ornaments to faint jingling, soon drowned beneath low admonishments.

The lady-in-waiting continued speaking—words unsaid by day spoken behind closed doors at night.

She said the imperial daughter was young and had not grown up in the palace, lacking proper discipline, thus requiring the stricter guidance of the ladies-in-waiting.

Otherwise? The imperial daughter did not ask this question, but the lady-in-waiting seemed to perceive her thoughts—such seasoned attendants had seen many innocent young girls before—and she countered with a question to herself, then smoothly continued:

Otherwise, the imperial daughter would lose the affection of her father and brothers, a matter of utmost gravity!

The princess turned over, as if she had heard, or perhaps had not.

The night watch attendant persisted: If she did not heed their advice and lost her family’s love, she would have no fine trousseau, no good marriage—though she was the imperial daughter. Were there not many princesses despised by their husbands and in-laws? Did she not know how tragic their fates were?

As the attendant spoke these truths she nearly believed with all her heart, the princess suddenly sat up within the curtains.

Her eyes gleamed coldly in the flickering light, striking terror into the attendant’s heart.

“I have no money,” the princess said abruptly.

The attendant hesitated, unsure of the meaning, but the princess continued swiftly.

“Though the Princess Consort of Yun has sent some gifts, I do not intend to reward you. So if you tell others about me to earn a little more salary and grain, I will not blame you.”

Realizing the dreadful implications of this untaught girl’s words, the attendant quietly regretted her unnecessary kindness. Yet the princess’s reprimand was not finished:

“But if you serve in the palace and cannot even be ‘loyal,’ do not try to fool me with such reasoning.”

With a thud, the attendant knelt.

Though she knelt, not entirely—at least her tongue did not kneel.

“The imperial daughter is still young. Our first duty in caring for her is to report her daily affairs…”

She feared the princess might argue, but the princess suddenly turned and fell back down.

“I was only teasing the lady-in-waiting,” the girl’s soft voice carried childish innocence. “Why do you kneel?”

After that, she fell silent. Outside, the rain grew louder.

The attendant peeked cautiously and saw the princess truly asleep.

Uneasy but relieved, she thought: after all, she was still a child. As long as she could frighten the princess, carefully teaching her these words, when the sovereign inquired in a few days, if the princess answered fluently, the attendant’s own old age was secured.

The rain ceased.

It was the first day of the seventh month. Though midday remained scorching, a faint chill had crept in during mornings and evenings, especially this rain-washed dawn, where a biting wind swept down from the northern lands into the cramped courtyard.

Typically, on such important days, palace princesses would visit the Grand Empress. But the previous empress had died two years prior—rumored to have been cursed to death by Cui Shuren, according to the sovereign.

Though there was no grand empress, Consort Qiao was present—around forty years old, experienced, and having borne the sovereign seven sons. She also managed much of the palace’s internal affairs, making her the most likely candidate for the next empress in everyone’s eyes.

All went to visit Consort Qiao, and Zhao Luming, not wanting to be out of place, rose early, finished his morning ablutions, and set out.

On the road, he met the Crown Princess by chance.

She was an exceptionally striking noblewoman—one who, among the beautiful palace consorts, maids, and princesses, stood out like a crane among chickens.

Zhao Luming thought that if he had such a face, he would be very proud, always looking down his chin at others.

But Crown Princess Zhu took his hand warmly and praised him.

“Oh! You’ve grown taller again. Your brother told me you have great insight.”

She suddenly brightened. “Really?”

The Crown Princess glanced around; a maid covered her mouth to laugh softly, and the princess laughed too.

“I’m not lying,” she said.

“I thought Sister-in-law would consider me just a child, not to be rashly meddling in state affairs,” Zhao Luming smiled.

The Crown Princess’s eyes flickered, hesitant to speak, but eventually reached out to straighten the young girl’s collar.

“The Zhao family’s descendants,” she murmured, “should be like you.”