“Your Highness, this is fate and destiny. My circumstances are what fortune has ordained—why should Your Highness be concerned?”
This barely audible sigh caused Zhu Nanxian’s hand gripping the reins to tighten. He could even imagine Su Jin’s expression as she spoke these words—she must be exhausted, leaning against the carriage wall with her eyes wearily closed, her brow bearing an indelible pallor of desolation.
Zhu Nanxian clearly remembered that five years ago, Su Jin was not like this.
Back then, when the northwestern garrison required additional commanding officers, he had been fond of martial arts since childhood and submitted a memorial requesting to be sent there.
At that time, Emperor Jingyuan had fallen ill with a seasonal ailment, and all matters large and small were handled by Zhu Minda, who reviewed and approved memorials on his behalf.
Zhu Nanxian’s memorial had barely reached the imperial desk before Zhu Minda threw it back, rebuking him with “nothing but reckless bravado” and ordering him to reflect behind closed doors for seven days.
The Zhu Nanxian of those days still possessed the stubbornness to charge headlong into a wall without turning back.
He silently retrieved his memorial and returned to the palace. Not only did he close his doors, but he also refused water and food. For five consecutive days he consumed not a single grain of rice, until Zhu Minda ordered the doors broken down and saw this half-dead younger brother with cracked lips grinning at him as if victorious.
Zhu Minda wanted nothing more than to kick him to death.
After all, having grown up by his side, Zhu Minda knew that the thirteenth prince responded to gentleness rather than force. He then devised another stratagem, persuading him with emotional appeals to the effect of: “It’s not that your imperial brother won’t let you go, but you are a son of the imperial house. If you have no strategy or wisdom in your breast and only know how to wield swords and spears, wouldn’t that invite ridicule?”
He then handed Zhu Nanxian a note, saying: “How about this—your imperial brother will give you an opportunity. I have a couplet here. Within three days, if you can compose ten different matching lines, proving you have some learning in that belly of yours, your imperial brother will approve your request.”
Zhu Nanxian’s mind was quite simple. In his recollection, couplets were nothing more than things like “The white sun sets behind the mountains, the Yellow River flows into the sea”—how difficult could it be to match ten lines?
It wasn’t until he opened Zhu Minda’s note that he realized he had fallen into a trap—
“One cup of clear tea, quenches quenches quenches quenches the thirst of the provincial graduate.”
Zhu Nanxian frowned in deep thought. What the hell was this thing?
At that time, Zhu Shisan had not yet established his own princely household and still lived with Zhu Minda in the Eastern Palace.
Within two days, he took the couplet seeking advice from everyone in the Office of Remonstrance, the Wenhua Pavilion, and even all the palace servants and maids throughout the Eastern Palace. He even held a blade to the neck of a junior fire-tender, but the fire-tender only knelt trembling, stammering in reply: “Your… Your Highness, this slave is illiterate…”
Zhu Nanxian knew he had fallen into Zhu Minda’s scheme. Presumably, Zhu Minda had already informed everyone not to help the thirteenth prince with his couplet.
So he sat at the entrance to the Office of Remonstrance, glumly wondering if there could still be any sanctuary found within these palace walls.
Just then, he overheard two officials from the Spring Office discussing poetry and couplets, mentioning tomorrow’s Poetry and Ritual Assembly in their conversation.
A flash of inspiration struck Zhu Nanxian, and he approached to inquire about what this Poetry and Ritual Assembly was.
It turned out this was a grand gathering held twice yearly by the Hanlin Academy, meant for scholars from various academies and civil officials to exchange learning. And at tomorrow’s Poetry and Ritual Assembly, newly appointed scholars who had just entered the Hanlin Academy three months prior would also attend.
Zhu Nanxian thought this was a heaven-sent opportunity.
In his usual dealings with the Hanlin Academy, the same few old pedants he encountered had long since learned to read Zhu Minda’s expressions. But the new scholars were different—if he could find someone who had slipped through the net to help him match the couplet, his hope of going to the northwestern garrison would be realized.
The next day, Zhu Nanxian slipped away to the Poetry and Ritual Assembly at the Hanlin Literary Garden.
Being an imperial prince, many people in the palace recognized him, so he did not mingle where literary talent flew freely and wine cups floated along winding streams in the literary garden. Instead, he circled around the bamboo grove to the rear garden.
In the rear garden was a shallow lake, and in the middle of the lake stood a pavilion.
Zhu Nanxian faintly saw a figure standing in the pavilion. That person stood with hands clasped behind their back, facing away from him, wearing plain robes with wide sleeves. As the garments billowed, the figure appeared gracefully transcendent, like an immortal banished to the mortal realm.
This person was Su Jin—Su Jin from five years ago.
Zhu Nanxian walked across the stone bridge and called out: “You are—”
Su Jin turned around.
Though born in the deep palace, Zhu Nanxian had seen his share of talented scholars and lofty gentlemen, including those of refined elegance who made one forget worldly cares upon meeting them.
But Su Jin was still utterly different.
Between her brows naturally dwelt clear frost and misty rain. As she turned, it was as if the spring breeze and bright moon were all gathered into her embrace, and myriad rays of brilliance shone from her slightly lowered eyes.
She stood thus with hands clasped in the pavilion, the boundless wind of darkest night seeming to rise because of her. Behind her, the waveless shallow lake suddenly became an ocean, with surging tides rushing forth like mountains.
Zhu Nanxian was completely stunned.
So much so that when Su Jin knelt to greet him, introducing herself as “surnamed Su, given name Jin, courtesy name Shiyu, a scholar from this year’s examinations,” he didn’t even remember to say “rise,” but instead clumsily imitated her manner and said: “Oh, I’m surnamed Zhu, given name Ai, courtesy name Nanxian, thirteenth in birth order, currently… currently serving as an imperial prince in the palace.”
Su Jin laughed softly.
The sound of laughter brought Zhu Nanxian back to his senses. He asked hesitantly: “Can you… match couplets?”
Su Jin looked somewhat surprised and raised her head to ask: “What couplet?”
Zhu Nanxian handed her the note from his breast pocket that read “One cup of clear tea, quenches quenches quenches quenches the thirst of the provincial graduate,” saying: “If you can match it, would you help this prince write a few matching lines?”
There were ready writing materials in the pavilion. Su Jin picked up the brush, pondered briefly, then asked: “How many matching lines does Your Highness require?”
Zhu Nanxian was more anxious than he had ever been, afraid of making it difficult for her, so he said: “Three or four would be fine.” But then thinking three or four wouldn’t be enough, he added: “Seven or eight would also work.” Then considering he had to submit them tomorrow and couldn’t possibly find a second person to help match couplets overnight, he finally said: “Ten—is that possible?”
Su Jin smiled again, and the line “Seven stringed melodies, delight delight delight delight the music of the Music Bureau” was already written on the paper.
Recalling the past, Zhu Nanxian remembered that year’s Su Jin was full of spirited confidence, her eyes curving with laughter, her gaze containing myriad brilliance.
Yet years later, when she walked through the clamorous streets and alleys covered in blood, surviving narrowly from the hands of the Crown Prince at the Office of Remonstrance, Zhu Nanxian had never again seen Su Jin laugh from the heart.
Not even once.
The carriage stopped at the intersection of Government Office Street. Su Jin lifted the curtain and said to Zhu Nanxian: “Your Highness, this subject will go there myself.”
So saying, she jumped down from the carriage, walked a few steps then paused, adding without turning her head: “Your Highness need not follow.”
The lights blazed brilliantly before the capital’s government office. Two high officials stood at the forefront—one was a short, rotund fellow wearing an egret insignia whom Su Jin had seen at the Ministry of Justice as Assistant Minister Lu. The other was unfamiliar, sporting a drooping mustache, of slightly higher official rank, wearing a fifth-rank white pheasant insignia.