Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Life in Tanzhou was indeed freer than life in the capital.

Across all of Great Zhao, there was no one who did not know the prophecy attached to me. But here, I was Prince Duan’s only daughter, granted the title of commandery princess at an early age. No matter how much gossip there was behind my back, no one dared bring it before me, and I was perfectly happy to pretend I knew nothing.

Father often exchanged letters with the capital and helped handle official matters here. With every letter bearing the Emperor’s private seal came a gift from my imperial grandfather. Sometimes it was some exquisite trinket; sometimes, a few books.

And so I grew up carefree until I was thirteen.

In the spring of the twenty-ninth year of Shunhe, an epidemic broke out along the border of Tanzhou.

Mother came from a family of imperial physicians and could not stand by and do nothing. Father, as an imperial prince, could not shirk his responsibility either. On a drizzling morning, they left Prince Duan’s Mansion with several cartloads of grain and medicine, ordering the servants to look after me properly and absolutely forbidding me from leaving the city.

Restless and anxious, I could only do what I could within the city walls, arranging and coordinating matters there.

I waited twenty-seven days. What came at last was news that the epidemic had subsided-along with hanging white mourning cloth and paper money fluttering through the air.

The provincial governor who escorted my parents’ ashes back was streaming with tears. He said Prince Duan and the Consort had given their lives for the common people, and begged me to restrain my grief.

I held those two wooden boxes and wept in silence. I did not even know when I fainted.

That day, I had begged Father not to go. The infected refugees had come from the border between two prefectures. It was the Second Prince who had driven them out and left them to fend for themselves, which was what caused this disaster. Once the matter was reported to the throne, my imperial grandfather would surely make a decision.

Father had stroked my head and smiled helplessly. “I will report it. But the Emperor’s response will take time, and the people cannot wait.”

Back then, unwilling to disappoint his father yet not wishing to sacrifice his daughter, he had asked to be made a prince and leave the capital when the heir was being chosen. Now, unable to bear the suffering of the people, he had thrown his own life into it as well.

My parents, who had read the books of sages all their lives, carried such a heavy weight of loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness in their hearts that they did not hesitate even when it meant giving themselves up.

That day, they had still been two living, breathing people, ordering their personal guards to stop me from following. Now, all that remained were these two small wooden boxes. Because of the epidemic, I could not even see their bodies whole.

What last words had they left for me? Had they wanted to see me in those final moments? I would never know.

When I woke again, my maternal aunt had just finished administering acupuncture. She held my hand tightly, her heart aching for me, and said the Emperor had issued an edict sent by the fastest imperial courier: the funeral for Prince Duan and the Consort would be handled by people from the palace, and once it was over, I would be brought back to the capital.

The peace Father had bought for me by giving up a lifetime of power, wealth, and rank had lasted only eight years.

In the end, I still had to return to that square patch of sky enclosed by red palace walls.