Chapter 71:
Jiang Henian (Part 1):
Still a Child, Yet Also…
Chen Henian drifted in a hazy realm, unaware of his soul’s destination, when he heard the sound of crying, faint at first, like a kitten’s mewling, then rising in intensity, a high-pitched wail, and he realized it was him.
Not him, but his body.
He was being born.
In the first year of Jiang Wuwen’s reign, the first rain fell on the first day of the sixth month, a sign of good fortune. The sky cleared on the second, and Queen Chen gave birth to a son, the King’s firstborn, a joyous occasion.
Henian, the name bestowed upon him by the King and Queen.
Their love was legendary, a model for the kingdom, and the palace staff whispered of magpies singing in the East Palace, a sign of good fortune, a new life entering its quiet halls.
The King, though doting, rarely held his son, a brief glance after his birth, then entrusting him to the wet nurse, the infant’s appearance unremarkable, his face red and wrinkled, his hair sparse, like a small monkey.
The prince remained in the Queen’s care, the King visiting whenever he could, the infant growing, his face losing its redness, his hair thickening, his eyes, like his mother’s, resembling polished stones in clear water, a hint of Queen Chen’s beauty in his features.
But the prince, aside from his cries at birth, remained silent, like a mute. The physicians found no cause, and the King, deciding to hold a naming ceremony on the prince’s one-month birthday, summoned the High Priest, Zhao Yinyang, to preside over the ritual.
The King bowed before heaven and earth, the ritual chants echoing through the air, the infant prince placed in his arms.
Drums beat, the court officials prostrated themselves, the High Priest dancing before the King and his son, the mask’s stern features filling the infant’s vision, his eyes open, his gaze calm and unwavering. The High Priest brushed a dew-covered sprig of guanyin grass against the prince’s cheek, a single drop of dew landing on his forehead, the grass instantly withering.
Startled, the High Priest took out a mirror, chanting, holding it before the prince’s face, a wisp of black smoke emerging from the infant’s body, disappearing into the sky.
Then the prince’s brow furrowed, and a loud cry echoed through the King’s arms.
An evil spirit had possessed the prince at birth, silencing his senses, but the King’s powerful aura, the dragon’s presence, had protected him.
Zhao Yinyang, skilled in both the ancient Chinan Gu techniques and Daoist magic, was highly regarded by the King. But he never imagined he would one day kneel before the King, pleading for the prince’s life.
“Your Highness possesses a rare fate, a Tai Yin body, seen only once in a millennium. He will be vulnerable to evil spirits, to those who seek to exploit him. Only by cultivating Daoist techniques can he be protected,” he said, his voice sincere.
The King, his face darkening, remained silent for a moment. “Zhao Yinyang, have I ever treated you poorly?”
Zhao Yinyang, his voice trembling, prostrated himself. “Your Majesty’s kindness and favor are immeasurable, I am eternally grateful.”
“Yet you tell me my son must become a monk? He is the Crown Prince, the future ruler of this kingdom! Explain yourself, Zhao Yinyang!”
“Your Majesty,” Zhao Yinyang replied. “There is another way. Have the royal artisans craft a longevity lock of pure silver, to be worn at all times. I will set up a protective array in the East Palace. But His Highness cannot leave the East Palace until he turns six, and all killing within the palace must cease, to protect his delicate spirit.”
The King’s anger subsided.
“Granted.”
He decreed the East Palace sealed, the prince’s attendants dismissed, only the wet nurse and Queen Chen allowed to attend to him. Rumors spread through the palace, whispers of a frail and sickly prince, confined to his chambers, his life hanging by a thread.
Queen Chen, worried and heartbroken, grew thin and pale, and the King, enraged, had dozens of palace staff punished.
Jiang Henian, unaware of the turmoil surrounding him, grew, reaching two years of age, toddling around the East Palace, the snow falling softly outside, his small body wrapped in a fur coat, his hair braided by the wet nurse, his hands warming themselves on a small hand stove as he watched the snow fall.
“Mother,” he said, the word a constant refrain, but after that winter, he would never say it again.
Queen Chen gave birth to a daughter, then died, her passing plunging the palace into mourning, white silk draped everywhere, mirroring the snow outside.
He had attended her funeral, his small hand held by the wet nurse, kneeling before the black coffin, his father absent, only concubines and relatives present, their faces wet with tears, their voices a mournful chorus, laughter forbidden within the palace walls.
He had stood close to the coffin, seeing his mother’s lifeless face, the wet nurse holding him tightly, afraid he would be frightened.
But he wasn’t afraid, only confused, because he saw two mothers, one in the coffin, one standing before him, among the mourners.
She smiled at him, her expression gentle, as always.
He wanted to call out to her, but she shook her head, a silent warning, and he closed his mouth, his voice silenced.
He was led away, back to the East Palace, his mother’s spirit following him, her gaze fixed on him, her silence a comfort.
That night, he was awakened by strange sounds, someone crying outside his chambers. He opened the door, but there was no one there, only the wind and snow, swirling around him, like his mother’s robes, her ghostly figure appearing before him, her clothes stained with blood.
He ran into her arms, as always.
Her touch was cold as ice as she carried him back to bed, her hand gently patting his back, her silence a lullaby.
The next day, Queen Chen was buried.
He never saw her again. The wet nurse told him she had gone to a faraway place.
He was alone in the East Palace, only the wet nurse for company. Two months later, a crying baby was brought to him, smaller than himself, his sister.
The palace staff whispered that the King, displeased with the princess, had named her Wan and sent her to the East Palace, a playmate for the prince.
Jiang Henian was the Crown Prince now, his mother gone, his father’s decree making him the sole occupant of the East Palace, only Xiao Wan, the wet nurse, and, later, a tutor.
At four, a tutor was assigned to him, a distant relative from his mother’s side, Scholar Chen Ke.
The scholar visited the East Palace daily, teaching him to read and write, but he found it tedious, preferring Xiao Wan’s messy ink drawings to calligraphy practice.
Until he turned five, only three people had visited him: his father, the scholar, and the High Priest, Zhao Yinyang, who came monthly to check the protective array and, at the King’s request, to entertain the prince.
Zhao Yinyang taught him painting.
He knew the days of his visits, asking the wet nurse to prepare the brushes and ink, sending Xiao Wan for her nap.
Zhao Yinyang was the most unusual person in the palace, his attire always different, this time a pale, shimmering robe.
Jiang Henian was the master of the East Palace, the scholar and the High Priest his subjects, and Zhao Yinyang would paint whatever he requested, but his visits were shorter than usual.
His hand trembled, forcing him to pause and massage his wrist, apologizing profusely.
Jiang Henian allowed him to leave early, pointing at his shoulder. “It’s wet. Be presentable next time you visit.”
Zhao Yinyang, puzzled, checked his robe, then felt something moving beneath the fabric, pulling out a Gu worm, one he had lost recently, it having burrowed into his flesh, about to feed on his blood.
He was horrified, realizing his near-fatal mistake, his gratitude to the prince evident as he left.
Still a child, yet also a prince.
At six, Jiang Henian had read countless books. His birthday feast was postponed by a day, the day the King opened the gates of the East Palace, bestowing upon him the servants and privileges of a Crown Prince.
The East Palace was filled with treasures and scrolls, but it lacked warmth, the laughter of children, the gentle touch of a mother.
The King appeared before him in the main hall.
A stern and distant figure, not here to test his knowledge, but to remind him of his duty. “My son, you are the master of this palace, and this kingdom will one day be yours. But you must learn to rule, to be the master of all.”
That night, a feast was held in his honor, but a scandal erupted in the inner palace.
Concubine Yu, confined to the Cold Palace, was found to be pregnant with the King’s child.
With Queen Chen’s death and the Crown Prince’s frail health, the concubines had seen an opportunity, Concubine Yu the boldest, taking advantage of the King’s drunken state, impersonating the late Queen.
The King, upon learning of her deception, had been furious, banishing her to the Cold Palace. Now, news of her pregnancy reached Jiang Henian’s ears.
“Grant her death,” he had said.
But the King’s anger hadn’t abated, his intention not just to kill the concubine, but also the child she carried.
During the feast, officials pleaded with him, the royal bloodline, the future of the kingdom, at stake, a single sickly prince not enough to secure the throne.
The King, his anger simmering, turned to Jiang Henian. “My son, what do you think should be done?”
Jiang Henian stood up, bowing slightly. “Did Father intend to punish Concubine Yu because she has done wrong?”
“Yes,” the King replied.
“Concubine Yu’s pregnancy required Father’s consent,” Jiang Henian said. “If Father consented, and she has borne a royal child, she has served the kingdom well. What wrong has she committed?”
“My son,” the King rose from his throne, his voice low and dangerous. “Are you saying I am wrong?”
“Yes,” Jiang Henian replied.
His single word sent the court officials scrambling, their heads bowed, begging for forgiveness. They knew the King’s anger stemmed from Concubine Yu’s violation of his promise to the late Queen, a son’s rebuke a grave offense.
They feared the King’s wrath, the Crown Prince’s disgrace, the kingdom’s instability, yet no one dared speak.
The King stood before Jiang Henian, their eyes meeting, the prince’s gaze unflinching.
The King paused, his anger momentarily forgotten, seeing Queen Chen’s eyes in his son’s.
“I was wrong,” he said finally. “I have failed your mother.” He placed his hand on Jiang Henian’s head, a rare gesture of affection. “By the order of the King, in recognition of the Crown Prince’s plea, Concubine Yu’s life will be spared. She will remain confined to the Cold Palace, copying scriptures and praying for the Crown Prince’s health.”
The Crown Prince’s favor was secured, his position unchallenged.
From the age of six, he sat beside the King, observing court proceedings, listening to his pronouncements, answering his questions, his father’s favor a shield against all threats, even the birth of another prince to Concubine Yu, a son without his father’s love, his claim to the throne meaningless.
Now, at sixteen, he was of age to choose a consort, but his fate was unique. Zhao Yinyang had divined that only someone with a strong yang constitution was a suitable match, such a woman not found within the royal family, his marriage postponed. He had grown taller, his features maturing.
His attendants changed, but they all described him as a jade-like prince, gentle and refined, his rumored childhood illness adding to his delicate aura, earning him the nickname “Willow Prince.”
One day, the King summoned him, the topic of conversation the rumors circulating within the palace, his tone conveying his displeasure.
“Gentle and refined, an ordinary father might be pleased with such praise, but I am the King, and you are the Crown Prince,” he said coldly.
“My son, what should a king be like?”
“Like Father, commanding respect, wielding absolute power, showing no weakness,” Jiang Henian replied, his voice calm and firm, his eyes sharp and bright. “I understand.”
“What should be done with those who gossip about the Crown Prince?”
“Minor offenses, a reduction in salary, major offenses, fifty lashes and banishment from the palace,” he replied.
“By the order of the King, it shall be done,” the King said, then walked towards him, their distance no longer that of ruler and subject, but father and son. “You are sixteen now, that child in the Cold Palace has also grown, you need guards, your maternal family has trained a unit for you, do you want them?”
“Father can refuse their offer,” Jiang Henian said coldly.
“Why?”
“The most loyal dogs are trained with one’s own whip,” he replied. “Doesn’t Father want me to rely on my own strength, to cultivate my own loyal followers, not those of my mother’s clan?”
The King smiled, pleased with his answer. “Choose your own guards from the slave quarters. The newly arrived are the most suitable. You don’t practice martial arts, so you need someone to protect you.”
“I understand,” Jiang Henian nodded, leaving the hall. “Your Highness, shall I make arrangements at the slave quarters?” an attendant asked.
“No need,” he refused their assistance, not traveling in his ceremonial palanquin, only the Chief Eunuch accompanying him, an old man skilled at reading his moods, leading him quietly to the slave quarters.
The overseer, unaware of his arrival, was busy punishing the slaves.
They were young, recently purchased, their spirits still unbroken, their bodies strong.
“You are slaves here, your lives worthless, understand?” the overseer yelled, his whip cracking, his foot on a slave’s back, kicking him repeatedly.
A dozen slaves huddled on the ground, their silence a response, only the one beneath his foot, his teeth gritted, letting out a muffled groan.
“What’s happening here?” Jiang Henian’s voice echoed through the room.
The slave quarters were a place of punishment, no place for royalty, and the overseer, seeing their fine clothes, hesitated, assessing their status, then the Chief Eunuch yelled, “This is the Crown Prince! Kneel!”
The overseer, recognizing the longevity lock, his suspicions confirmed, his fear overwhelming him, dropped his whip and prostrated himself. “Your Highness, your humble servant greets you.”
His body trembled, his fate hanging by a thread, a single word from the prince enough to end his life.
Jiang Henian approached the slaves, the Chief Eunuch hovering protectively beside him. He pointed at a young man, his face bruised and bloodied. “This one.”
“Take him to the East Palace,” he commanded.
The overseer, stunned, didn’t react, and the Chief Eunuch yelled, “Thank His Highness for his grace!”
The young man, his eyes red, his forehead creased with anger, his jaw clenched, lowered his head. “This servant thanks Your Highness for his kindness.”
Jiang Henian turned and left, the stench of the slave quarters, the lingering shadows of the dead, repulsive.
“Follow His Highness!” the Chief Eunuch called out.
The young man stood up, his fists clenched, surprised by his sudden release, but what difference did it make? A slave was a slave, no matter where he served. His anger simmered, his gaze sharp as a knife, wanting to lash out.
He kept his head lowered, following Jiang Henian, who suddenly stopped, turning to look at him.
The young man, unsure of the prince’s intentions, his gaze fixed on the ground, waited.
“To harm others, one must first harm oneself,” Jiang Henian said, his voice calm, his eyes scanning the young man’s face.
“Let it go,” he said softly.
The young man paused, feeling a sharp pain in his palm, his clenched fingers loosening, a shard of porcelain falling to the ground, stained with his blood.
Jiang Henian, seeing this, turned and continued walking.
The young man, stunned by the prince’s words, his head still ringing from the Chief Eunuch’s slap, followed slowly.
Jiang Henian had seen the murderous intent in his eyes, the same look as a trapped wolf, its gaze fixed on its prey, a desperate hunger. If he had arrived a moment later, the overseer would be dead.
Two bodies, perhaps more.
He didn’t like seeing death.
