Were they chatting?
Jiang He’s eyes forced themselves open, only to close at last from the exhaustion of the day.
Had that great fire burned the ruler of Yong into confusion? Why had he started chatting?
“What did you say?” she mumbled softly.
Zhao Zheng’s voice came closer, as if right beside her ear.
“The person who wrote to you—do you want to marry him?”
His tone was solemn, yet probing, as though he had to get to the bottom of it.
Before the heavy tide of sleep swept over her, Wei Ji’s face surfaced in Jiang He’s mind.
A young nobleman, graceful as a dragon and phoenix, dressed in white, elegant and upright as a jade tree in the wind.
She leaned over his back, encountering snow that filled the sky, encountering cold plum blossoms in bloom, encountering light beyond the willows and flowers, facing the gradually warming east wind as they returned to their homeland.
He said, “Jiang He, go quickly. Only by leaving can you survive.”
He said, “I will carry you on my back. Unless I die, I will not put you down.”
By the bonfire, he changed the medicine on her wounds, his face full of pity and heartache.
He learned to catch fish in the ditch, and when he caught one, he brought it back in both hands, as though holding a beating heart.
To marry such a person would be to marry happiness, to marry peace, to marry abundance.
A smile appeared on Jiang He’s face.
“All right,” she murmured softly. “I’ll marry him.”
The hall finally fell quiet.
A light breeze blew in through the open lattice window, stirring the Eastern pearls that hung from the bed curtains.
The white Eastern pearls knocked softly against one another, their sound gentle and low, as if someone were answering in a tender whisper.
Zhao Zheng, who had been leaning beside Jiang He, lay back down.
It was as if a piece of his heart had been carved away. The blood pumped into it was slow to flow back, making his injured left leg hurt even more.
After gently tucking the brocade quilt around her, Zhao Zheng let his arms fall, closed his eyes, weary yet unable to sleep.
He had never experienced such a fluctuation of emotion before.
After a long while, Zhao Zheng tried to turn over.
His injured left leg rested atop his right, his body lying on its side. When he opened his eyes, he could see Jiang He’s back.
Her long hair spilled loosely, black and soft, carrying the faint mingled fragrance of soap pod and bamboo leaves. Her shoulders were a little slender, yet rounded at the edges, rising and falling gently beneath her inner robe with each breath.
Zhao Zheng closed his eyes.
Breathing in that scent, he sank deeply into sleep.
The next day, the autumn wind was fresh and cool. Pushing open the window, one could see wild geese flying south. The sky was high and vast, and the ruddy morning sun crossed the palace eaves, shining on the auspicious beast xiezhi with the horn on its forehead, making its eyes look even more spirited.
Zhao Zheng had already sat up. Seeing the wild geese and the rising sun outside the window, he softly recited a song.
“Yong-yong cry the wild geese, as dawn begins beneath the rising sun. When a gentleman brings home his bride, let it be before the ice has thawed.”
His tone was deep and unhurried, as though he were not sitting in a royal palace guarded layer upon layer, but walking through fields and paths, watching drifting clouds and flying geese, listening to the slow murmur of a stream.
Jiang He, who had propped open the lattice window, turned her head. A light of surprise shone in her eyes.
“This is a folk song from Bei. I remember the latter lines are, ‘The boatman beckons and beckons; others cross, but I do not. Others cross, but I do not; I await my friend.’ It seems Your Majesty has been to Bei.”
When palace attendants and maids were present, Jiang He called Zhao Zheng “Your Majesty” and referred to herself as “this consort.”
Bei was where King Wu of Zhou had enfeoffed Wu Geng, son of King Zhou of Yin. Now, it lay within the territory of Wei.
Having once been a hostage in Wei, it was nothing strange that he understood Wei folk songs.
He simply did not understand why Jiang He, as someone from Qi, knew Wei so well.
Zhao Zheng steadied himself with a hand on the edge of the bed, his legs hanging down. His deep, inscrutable gaze fell on Jiang He, and a hint of a smile touched the corner of his lips.
“The Queen has also been to Bei.”
This was not a question. It carried certainty, and also a tone meant to draw her into continuing.
Jiang He smiled and raised both arms, letting the palace maids attending her dress her in layer after layer of dark, splendid robes. Only when Zhao Zheng’s waiting expression was plainly turning somewhat annoyed did she reveal a trace of mischief and say, “This consort has been everywhere.”
What an outrageous boast, made without even blinking.
Zhao Zheng lifted his brows. “Come here and dress me.”
Ever since leaving his homeland at the age of six, Zhao Zheng had always dressed and bound his hair himself.
He never allowed others to touch him, just as he did not eat food made by other kitchens or drink water presented by others. For more than ten years, this had never changed.
Although Jiang He had known him for only a few months, she was already aware of this habit of his.
In front of the palace maids, she could not flare up. She merely pointed at her own arm.
The meaning was: You have hands and feet, so why make me help?
Zhao Zheng’s raised brows lowered, and his expression turned somewhat impatient. “I have suffered a serious injury. I need someone to attend me now.”
Indeed, his leg and foot were inconvenient.
After serving the Princess of Qi for so long, she had actually become this careless now.
Feeling somewhat guilty, Jiang He nodded, then looked to either side and said, “Did you hear that?”
The palace maids who had originally been attending Jiang He immediately held Zhao Zheng’s clothes and ornaments and knelt forward. Their expressions were both uneasy and excited, as though they had finally found an opportunity to curry favor with His Majesty.
Zhao Zheng had only recently married. He had a principal wife, but no consorts or concubines.
Their status was lowly; even if they could not become consorts or concubines, to receive His Majesty’s favor for even one day was something they dreamed of.
But Zhao Zheng grew angry.
He lifted his head and looked at Jiang He.
The ink-colored garments set off her brightness all the more, like night enfolding the moon, making one want to gaze, making one want to seize.
“Lady Jiang,” he said, seated without moving, his voice a few degrees colder. “Dress me.”
Calling her Lady Jiang meant he was truly angry.
Speaking of which, in his heart, she was still a servant girl who attended the royal clan.
Jiang He stepped forward, took the clothes from the trembling palace maid’s hands, and helped Zhao Zheng change.
Zhao Zheng had already risen to his feet.
He was very tall.
Jiang He was born in Qi, where women were already quite a bit taller than the women of Chu. Yet standing before Zhao Zheng, the top of Jiang He’s head only reached the level of his lips.
Perhaps because he had never been served while dressing, Zhao Zheng’s movements were somewhat stiff.
He lifted his arms too high, making it difficult to slide the sleeves on; he did not lower his head enough, making it difficult to arrange the back collar. After the clothes were on, he let his arms hang down, making it difficult to fasten the belt.
Jiang He had no choice but to grasp Zhao Zheng’s arm with one hand and pull it down to put the sleeve on; to stand on tiptoe and circle Zhao Zheng’s neck with both hands to straighten his collar; and when fastening the belt, she had to prop up Zhao Zheng’s hands with both arms before she could leave enough space to tie it.
This time, dressing him was both time-consuming and tiring. Zhao Zheng seemed to have suddenly turned into a wooden puppet that let itself be manipulated, yet was far from flexible.
And whenever a palace maid or attendant wanted to step forward to help, Zhao Zheng would look over coldly.
Without needing to speak, he forced the other party back like a bowstring drawn taut.
Only after the clothes were fully put on did Chief Palace Attendant Li Wenzhou arrive.
This was the old servant who had attended Zhao Zheng since childhood. Jiang He placed Zhao Zheng’s hand on Li Wenzhou’s arm as though handing over a hot potato.
“A’weng is here. He can attend His Majesty in putting on his boots.”
She remembered that Zhao Zheng had once called Li Wenzhou this after surviving calamity, and so she called him the same.
Li Wenzhou very clearly revealed an expression of astonishment and excitement. He bowed in salute, and Jiang He hurriedly placed Zhao Zheng’s hand firmly on his arm.
Before Li Wenzhou could say anything more, Jiang He lifted her feet and slipped away.
Behind her came Zhao Zheng’s conversation with Li Wenzhou.
“Where have you been resting at night recently?”
“Replying to Your Majesty, at Jingchen Court.”
“Is it good there?”
“This servant chose it because it is closer to Zhiyang Palace and convenient for attending Your Majesty.”
“You should move somewhere else.”
Zhao Zheng’s unpredictable voice rang out as Jiang He had already walked out of the hall.
Lord Chang’an, Zhao Jiao, had rushed straight from the hunting grounds into the palace city.
His ankle was fractured, and he was carried into Zhao Zheng’s sleeping hall on a carriage board. When they crossed the threshold, the board tilted, and Zhao Jiao’s ankle was pressed against. He let out a low, miserable cry, tears almost spilling out.
Zhao Zheng was seated opposite Jiang He and dining with her. Seeing Zhao Jiao enter, Jiang He set down her chopsticks and turned to look at him.
The door plank was placed on the ground. Zhao Jiao sat on a rush cushion, raised his sleeve to wipe his tears, and said, “Royal Brother! This younger brother has come! This younger brother heard that someone set a fire and committed violence, and my soul nearly fled in fright! Since Royal Brother is unharmed, Great Yong is truly under the protection of the gods…”
He sobbed with genuine feeling. He was still wearing the fitted riding clothes from galloping on horseback. Perhaps because he had gained some spoils while hunting, there were faint traces of dried blood on his trouser legs. The sachet at his waist had vanished to who knew where; he wore only a jade ring pendant, and even that was half shattered.
Zhao Zheng took a handkerchief from his sleeve and slowly rose.
Although the injury to his leg was serious, it did not affect his walking. Zhao Zheng went around Jiang He and over to Zhao Jiao. Enduring the pain, he crouched and took hold of Zhao Jiao’s lower leg.
Zhao Jiao’s right foot was swollen high. It had not been splinted, nor had medicine been applied.
Zhao Zheng’s hand moved down along Zhao Jiao’s calf, pressing and kneading. At first, Zhao Jiao’s forehead was covered in sweat, and soon he began to moan.
“Royal Brother, it hurts, it hurts!”
He reached out, wanting to push Zhao Zheng’s touch away, yet he did not dare.
“It’s cracked here. It needs a splint.” Zhao Zheng’s hand stopped three cun above his ankle, on his lower leg, and his voice was low.
Zhao Jiao used both hands to shield his calf, not letting Zhao Zheng move.
But Zhao Zheng’s hand continued downward, pressing on the joint that had swollen high.
“It’s dislocated here. The bone needs to be set.”
Without hint or warning, Zhao Zheng suddenly twisted with force.
There was an odd crack, and Zhao Jiao’s scream followed. His voice was sorrowful and broken, nearly flipping the roof off.
Zhao Jiao was carried by palace attendants as they rushed to the imperial physicians’ duty room.
The imperial physician put a splint on his fractured lower leg and fixed it in place. At the end, he said, “Rest for three months without exerting force, and my lord will be unharmed.”
“My ankle! My ankle!”
Zhao Jiao pointed at the foot whose bone Zhao Zheng had set, weeping with tears in his eyes.
Royal Brother was ruthless. He did not know whether he would be crippled from now on.
The imperial physician could not help laughing. “I never thought His Majesty would possess such skill in setting bones! Lord Chang’an’s ankle was originally twisted out of place, but now it is already fixed.”
Fixed?
Zhao Jiao lowered his head and looked at his own foot. Although the joint had not yet gone down in swelling, that stifling, distended feeling was receding little by little.
The imperial physician left, and for some unknown reason, there was suddenly no one in the hall.
Lord Chang’an lifted his head and saw the Empress Dowager walking toward him.
Her steps were quick, her expression urgent and uneasy. As soon as they met, she could not help asking,
“How is your foot? What did the imperial physician say?”