Zheng Yuejia descended from the carriage, the East Glory Gate already before his eyes.
The Great Ming Imperial City’s rule was that from the outer four gates, everyone except the Emperor and his consorts had to walk.
The Eastern Bureau guards stepped forward to support Zheng Yuejia’s arms. Just this simple movement caused all the blood in his body to rush toward his flayed wounds.
“Slower, please.”
He couldn’t help but plead.
Deng Ying turned back to look at Qin Wende, whose face immediately showed apologetic concern.
“Slower, it’s fine.”
“Yes, Superintendent.”
The group walked slowly along the quiet palace path.
Seasonal flowers hid behind the layered palace walls, their petals surging like waves in the wind, sounding like distant thunder.
Zheng Yuejia asked Deng Ying: “Weren’t you taking me to the Inner Eastern Bureau? Why are we heading toward the Huiji Gate?”
“First to the Imperial Dispensary.”
Zheng Yuejia didn’t respond immediately, stumbling along behind Deng Ying. After a while, he sighed.
“Is this necessary?”
He raised his head, “It’s not as if I’ll receive visitors’ respects or sacrifices later, having intact skin is useless. Just going like this, I feel it doesn’t matter.”
Deng Ying looked up at the Huiji Gate. A few more steps, past the Huiji Gate, would be the Hall of Literary Glory.
Today was Zhang Cong’s day to lecture. Though not as grand as the spring lectures of the Imperial Academy, because it was a new topic chosen by the Grand Secretariat, several Editors from the Hanlin Academy and the Director of the Imperial College were present.
“Deng Ying.”
“Yes.”
“What are they lecturing about inside?”
This place was, besides the Directorate of Ceremonial and the Hall of Mental Cultivation, the most familiar to Zheng Yuejia.
He had long served Emperor Zhenning with brush and ink, also attending the twice-yearly Imperial Academy lectures. Although Emperor Zhenning grew weary of lectures, after Yi Lang began his studies, Zheng Yuejia still served with books at every spring and autumn lecture. In the past, even hearing just a few scattered words, he could tell what the lecturer was teaching.
Now his torture wounds hurt too much, his ears constantly buzzing, unable to hear a single clear word.
Hearing his question, Deng Ying stopped, and closed his eyes to listen for a moment, “‘Zhenguan Zhengyao’ (Essentials of Government from the Zhenguan Period).”
“Oh…”
Zheng Yuejia gave a short laugh, “The last few days of the spring lectures, I wasn’t there – who did the Directorate of Ceremonial send to serve with books in the Hall of Literary Glory?”
Deng Ying replied: “Hu Xiang.”
“Him…”
Zheng Yuejia laughed and coughed, looking at his footsteps: “Hope he doesn’t dirty the ground beneath His Highness’s feet.”
“Secretary Zheng, mind your words.”
“It’s fine.”
Zheng Yuejia shook his head with a smile, “From that distance, he can’t hear. I’m very happy today, seeing His Highness still receiving lectures in the Hall of Literary Glory, I know… those people didn’t succeed after all.”
After speaking, he lowered his head to look at his shadow before him, never raising it again.
On the terrace of the Hall of Literary Glory, Consort Ning stood alone behind the white jade railings.
Not far away, Zheng Yuejia was being supported through the Huiji Gate, heading toward the Imperial Dispensary to the south.
Or perhaps “walking” isn’t the right word – severely wounded and barely able to move, he was almost being dragged along.
His clothes had been changed but were now completely soaked with blood.
Consort Ning couldn’t imagine what tortures Zheng Yuejia had endured for her sake during those days in the prison, she wanted to ask, wanted to properly remember this tender debt of gratitude, but he couldn’t hear.
They hadn’t spoken many words in their lifetime, almost all of them in their youth.
She was a noble lady, and he was always too proper in his conduct – even when sitting together, their words never crossed the boundaries of human desire. After she entered the palace, though they often saw each other, besides ceremonial greetings, they never spoke other words.
As years passed, people each weaved the brocade of their hearts.
She couldn’t tell Zheng Yuejia that she still studied books and calligraphy, didn’t neglect needlework and cooking, remained gentle in temperament, rich in inner cultivation, and refined even better than in her youth.
Ten years of watching each other, ten years of silence.
At this moment, she could only watch that person who refused to raise his head again, continuing to fall into endless silence…
Seeing the figure behind the jade railings at the Hall of Literary Glory, Deng Ying turned back to Zheng Yuejia: “Every year at the spring and autumn lectures, you served with books for His Majesty and His Highness in the Hall of Literary Glory. Don’t you want to look at this place one more time?”
Zheng Yuejia shook his head: “I’m not like you, I never helped build the imperial city, and I have no attachment to these halls – not looking won’t leave me with regrets.”
After speaking, he sighed again, “Deng Ying, the true regret in my heart is greater than heaven, and the longer I live, the harder it becomes to make up for it. Let it be…”
He coughed up a bloody phlegm, his body shaking in the guards’ hands.
“Has His Majesty said how to deal with me?”
Deng Ying shook his head, “No clear edict yet.”