I held the sword that had once been stained with her blood, its blade reflecting the frost at my temples. The teacup on my desk emptied and filled, filled and emptied again. The eunuch, misinterpreting my wishes, kept brewing her favorite Biluochun tea, unaware that the aroma now only left a metallic, rust-like taste in my throat.
That year, she wore faded, coarse cloth garments and squatted at the city gate, gnawing on a steamed bun. As I walked past her, clutching half a hard, stale mantou, she suddenly grabbed my sleeve. Her dark eyes reflected the daylight. "Brother, look at the Liuli tiles on this city wall," she said. "One day, we will trample them beneath our feet." It was then I learned that a woman could possess such a bright gaze, like quenched steel cutting through the mist before my eyes.
Her surname was Shen, and her given name was Qinghe. Her father had been an old general framed by treacherous officials. When her entire family was sentenced to execution, her wet nurse carried her out of the Capital on her back, and she scraped by in the streets for three years. I followed her, learning how to cheat in gambling dens without getting caught, how to use a dagger to slit open a wealthy young master's purse, and how to pass messages right under the noses of the city guards. Once, cornered by pursuers in a dead end, she shoved me into an abandoned stove and drew the men away in the opposite direction. Through the cracks in the bricks, I caught a glimpse of the silver hairpin in her hair swaying in the moonlight, looking precisely like the candlelight later in Jinluan Hall.
On the day we raised our army in rebellion, she gathered her long hair and donned the armor left behind by her father. The armor was far too large, so she wrapped cloth strips around her waist three times over, yet she still looked magnificent and imposing as she sat on horseback. "A-Yan," she said, turning to look at me as the morning light brushed her brow. "When you ascend the throne, I will be your sharpest blade." Filled entirely with the grand ambition of achieving great merit and establishing a career, I failed to understand the sigh hidden in her words.
The days of fighting to conquer the realm were bitter ones, but she never uttered a single word of complaint. When provisions ran low, she broke her own mantou in half, stuffing one half into my hands while giving the rest to the wounded soldiers. When our city was besieged, she wore her armor and guarded the ramparts for three days and three nights, her eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, yet she still smiled and joked with me. I always told her that once things settled down, I would build her the most magnificent manor and dress her in the finest cloud brocade, but every time she merely shook her head. "Wherever A-Yan is, there is Qinghe."
On the day of the grand enthronement ceremony, she stood behind me dressed in plain white. Civil and military officials whispered among themselves, saying it was improper for an unidentified woman to stand beside the new emperor. As I watched her being blocked outside the hall by the officials of the Rites, I suddenly remembered the girl eating a steamed bun at the city gate all those years ago, and the blood she had shed and the injuries she had suffered for my sake. Yet when the Empress Dowager asked what title I intended to bestow upon her, I heard myself say, as if possessed, "She is merely my strategist; no title is required."
She seemed entirely unconcerned by this, continuing to come to the Imperial Study every day in male attire to discuss state affairs. We analyzed military intelligence and reviewed memorials just as we had in the past, except that occasionally, when I looked up at her, I would catch a dazed look in her eyes as she gazed out the window. Once, when she was drunk, she tugged at my sleeve and said, "A-Yan, do you remember the first time we stole silver from a corrupt official and bought two sugar figurines? You said that when you became emperor, you would make sure every child in the world could have a sugar figurine." I smiled and said of course I remembered, failing to notice the glint of tears in her eyes.
The upheaval came too swiftly. That day, as I was reviewing memorials, the censor suddenly dropped to his knees and presented a confidential letter. It claimed that the Shen family was secretly recruiting soldiers and horses with the intent to rebel. My hands trembled as I gripped the paper, the image of Qinghe wearing her armor flashing before my eyes, and I remembered how her father had been framed in the exact same manner. Yet when the guards hauled her into the hall, I did not dare meet her eyes. "A-Yan," she said calmly, "do you truly believe I would betray you?" I heard my voice sound as though it had been hauled from an ice cellar: "The evidence is conclusive; We have no choice but to believe it."
On the day her entire clan was executed, heavy rain poured from the skies. I stood atop the city gate tower, watching her being escorted to the execution grounds. Her hair was loose, draped over her shoulders, yet her back remained straight. The moment the executioner raised his blade, she suddenly looked up at me, her gaze devoid of resentment and filled only with disappointment. That single glance reminded me of many years ago, when we sheltered from the rain in a ruined temple, and she draped her only dry garment over my shoulders, shivering from the cold yet still smiling at me.
Blood splashed against the bluestone pavement like a blooming red flower. I suddenly remembered her saying she wanted to fill her courtyard with peach blossoms. Yet what had I given her? A cold, lifeless palace, an ambiguous status, and the charge of treason for her entire family.
After her death, I could never sleep peacefully. My dreams were haunted entirely by her shadow—sometimes she was the young girl in coarse cloth, sometimes the female general marching into battle, and other times she transformed back into the woman in white standing in the Imperial Study. I had her chambers sealed up and preserved exactly as they were; the chessboard on her table remained frozen at our very final match, the black piece she held just one step away from victory. I often sat there, speaking into the empty air, "Qinghe, how should this move be played?" But no one ever answered me again.
Only later did I discover that the confidential letter had been forged, and that the censor had accepted bribes from an enemy state to deliberately drive a wedge between us. I killed that treacherous official, but it could not buy back Qinghe's life. I ordered the imperial palace to be filled with peach blossoms, but whenever the flowers bloomed, I would think of her standing at the city gate and the words she had spoken.
Now, as I sit here in Jinluan Hall, looking at the civil and military officials kneeling below, my heart feels utterly desolate. This peak of power is, after all, far too lonely. Qinghe, you were right—these Liuli tiles beneath our feet are nothing more than a sheet of ice.
I ordered brush and ink to be brought, and wrote her name upon a sheet of Xuan paper. Shen Qinghe, my strategist, my comrade-in-arms, the person I should least have failed. If there is an afterlife, I would rather be an ordinary man, accompanying you in the marketplace to drink tea and watch plays, taking in the bustle of the mortal world—that would be infinitely better than this endless regret.
The wind rose outside the window, setting the bronze bells at the eaves to ringing. I touched the jade pendant at my waist, the one she had given me, inscribed with the four characters: "Life and death, side by side." Now I finally understand that the most precious thing in this world has never been the imperial throne, but the person willing to go mad with you, charge ahead with you, and walk by your side until the very end. Yet I threw her away with my own hands, never to find her again.
Setting down my brush, I gazed out at the sky beyond the hall, as if once more seeing her ride toward me on horseback with a smile. Qinghe, wait for me; very soon, I will come to keep you company. This time, I will never let you be alone again.