Chapter Twenty-Two: The Ancestral Temple

If one were to gaze from the Hall of Lingyan along the Vermilion Bird Sacred Way, passing through Chengtian Street and crossing the Court of Justice, rows of official residences would be seen lining both sides of the Sacred Way. The Six Ministries, the Secretariat, the Censorate, the Academy, Heavenly Strategy, Divine Strategy… And finally, the vast plum grove adjoining the imperial palace.

This grove of plum blossoms was utterly distinct from any place in the Eastern Capital. There were no towering walls, none of the bustle found within the city, only serenity and quietude.

Yet from amidst the grove, two high corners of a gate tower emerged, revealing that this place was certainly not open to ordinary folk.

It was hard to imagine such a secluded palace so close to the imperial residence. Following a winding path inward, one would eventually arrive before a resplendent golden palace, where Li Junxian’s carriage halted.

“We’ve arrived,” said the Grand Guardian, stopping and gazing at the palace deep within the plum grove.

Li Fu and his companions immediately saw the grand palace nestled within the grove. There was no signboard above its gate, only a massive stone stele standing a dozen paces from the entrance, but not a single word was inscribed upon it—just like the silent stele before the Holy Empress’s tomb.

This was the Ancestral Temple of Great Tang.

Within it lived the Wine Steward of Great Tang, and it was here that the ancestral tablets of the imperial family were enshrined.

Some said he was the younger brother of the founding emperor; others claimed the Wine Steward was the last prince of the fallen Sui dynasty; yet another rumor held he was the Prince of Qi who survived the bloody coup at the Gate of the Black Turtle.

Rumors abounded, but no one knew the Wine Steward’s true identity, nor how long he had lived. Yet one truth every scholar of Tang recognized: though the Wine Steward cared nothing for the affairs of state, whenever the throne was contested, a single word from him outweighed ten thousand soldiers. Whenever blood flowed in the Eastern Capital, the Wine Steward would appear before the Taiji Hall, amidst the carnage.

From the Holy Empress, to the Central Emperor, and now—he had saved the princes of Li Tang no fewer than four times. From black hair to silver, the once imposing figure slowly stooped with age.

...

Li Fu and his companions stood at the foot of the temple’s blue stone steps. The gates were tightly shut, their faded rings mottled with green, untended for ages—perhaps none dared replace them.

“Let’s go,” said the Grand Guardian, stepping forward and glancing at the three youths from the street, hand upon the door ring.

“Grand Guardian, are we truly to enter?” Yang Zixu looked at the slightly opened door, feeling suddenly hesitant. Jiang Moyuan felt the same.

“The Wine Steward wishes to see you three. Go in,” the Grand Guardian replied with a faint smile. Their anxious faces reminded him of his own first time before the temple—uncertain, even lost.

“Let’s go.” Jiang Moyuan took a deep breath, grasped Yang Zixu’s hand, and stepped across the threshold.

---

The midday sun was bright, though not as restless as in summer. Yet within the temple, not a single ray penetrated; only rows of candles shed faint, dim light.

An elderly man, clad in plain robes, began gently polishing the heavy offering table with a cloth held in his withered hand. His presence seemed to merge with the hall itself, ethereal as a dream.

He slowly wiped the table, his movements unhurried, as if he’d been doing so for many years. At length, he released the cloth, trembling as he lit three sticks of incense, then stepped forward to place them in the censer upon the offering table.

The Grand Guardian and the three youths watched silently, uttering not a word.

Then the old man turned, his gaze falling upon the three young visitors. He smiled mildly. “Vigorous and full of promise, how nice. It’s been so long since young people visited this temple.”

Li Fu and his friends did not reply, but knelt earnestly before him, offering a respectful salute.

“Sit, there’s no need for such ceremony,” the Wine Steward said, settling himself upon a nearby cushion, hands folded in his sleeves.

The three youths glanced at him, then at the Grand Guardian, hesitated briefly, and took their seats upon the three neatly arranged cushions opposite.

“What is that?” the Wine Steward’s eyes fell upon the small jar in Li Fu’s hands.

“Wine Steward, this is a gift from my teacher... Wine,” Li Fu replied, cautiously presenting the jar. When leaving for the Eastern Capital, his teacher had given him two jars of wine; Li Fu thought both were for his own use, but yesterday’s letter revealed one was meant for the Wine Steward.

“That little drunkard insisted on leaving the capital. Now it’s been fifteen years without news, leaving me without a drop to drink. After all this time, he finally sends a jar. Write him and tell him I’m quite displeased,” the Wine Steward said with a gentle chuckle.

At that moment, he seemed like an ordinary elder, grumbling affectionately to his favorite juniors.

“You call him ‘teacher’?” the Wine Steward’s gaze lingered on Li Fu’s face.

“Yes, teacher,” Li Fu answered truthfully.

“Do you know his name?” the Wine Steward asked quietly.

“I do not, sir,” Li Fu admitted. His teacher had never revealed his name, even after Li Fu learned he was the Grand Tutor, he’d never asked.

“That child, what’s the harm in sharing a name?” the Wine Steward shook his head, displeased.

---

“Remember this: he is your teacher, the first in both lists at the Lantern Festival Examination two hundred years ago. One of the Three Dukes of Tang, founder of Shanglin Park, and known as Li Bai, the Hermit of the Lotus.”

A faint smile traced the Wine Steward’s lips, as memories of the white-robed poet from two centuries past rose in his mind.

“Li Bai—untainted by mud, pure and blooming.”

“Age brings a yearning for company. Today, I called you here to chat, to ease my solitude. But I wonder, are you three willing to endure an old man’s ramblings?” The Wine Steward closed his eyes, speaking softly.

The three hesitated, but dared not refuse. To hear the Wine Steward’s teachings was a lifelong dream for countless scholars and nobles of Tang.

“Wine Steward, will you instruct us?” Yang Zixu ventured, emboldened by hope—whose heart would not leap at such an opportunity?

“You’re Yang Bingtian’s grandson, aren’t you? That sly little fellow has grown up,” the Wine Steward said, opening his eyes slightly to observe Yang Zixu with satisfaction.

“Yes, he is my grandfather,” Yang Zixu replied.

Had anyone else spoken so familiarly, Yang Zixu might have taken offense; but before the Wine Steward, he shed all bravado, not daring to jest.

“Good, you have the makings of a general, worthy of your grandfather’s reputation. Still, best stay away from the pleasure quarters—though youth is carefree, once you enter the army, your duty must be to the nation.” The Wine Steward nodded at Yang Zixu.

A flush crept across Yang Zixu’s cheeks; he hadn’t imagined his escapades were so widely known, even reaching the Wine Steward in the temple.

“I heard at the recent northern campaign, you slew three enemy generals. At Giant Spirit Pass, you raised Tang’s banner high. Soon, the Ministry of War will issue your commendation, but do not grow proud. The future of Heavenly Strategy rests with you young ones.” The Wine Steward turned to Jiang Moyuan, speaking earnestly.

“I will remember your words, sir,” Jiang Moyuan replied, shaken. His deeds in the northern war were indeed notable, yet not enough to merit such honor. The Wine Steward’s words made it clear—a commission was coming, by his will.

“Age brings chatter. If you three don’t mind, perhaps I’ll tell you a story.”

The Wine Steward fell silent, sighed, and began, his voice calm.

Before the three could respond, he slowly began to recount…