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Two years after the death of Xinhua-jun, the Prince Consort wedded to Hanguang-wang, the officials of the court began to suggest that Hanguang-wang should remarry.
“It is Hanguang-wang's duty,” the most venerable of the officials would say, in the face of the Emperor’s reluctance to press his brother on the matter. “Huangshang has produced no heir—and that cannot be helped, for the breaking of his vows would spell disaster for the Great Yuan—but Hanguang-wang is his full brother, so he must spread leaves and branches for the imperial family on his Majesty’s behalf.”
“Zhen does not see why this upsets you so,” the Emperor replied; and though his manner was pleasant, the officials held their breaths at the note of warning in his voice. “The Lan clan does not lack for sons, and they all share my blood on my father’s side. What is more, most of the children born after my instatement have been raised here in the palace, rather than in the Cloud Recesses: so they are princes and princesses in Zhen’s eyes, though they are untitled. The nation would be well-led by any one of them.”
At this, the Vice Chancellor stepped forward and prostrated himself at the Emperor’s feet.
“That may be so, Huangshang,” he said, “but the imperial line was established by the late emperor, your honored father, not a more distant ancestor. The imperial blood flows in his descendants, but not in all those who descend from his ancestors; and so, this subject believes that our next Crown Prince would best come from Hanguang-wang’s branch—or yours, though I fear Hanguang-wang’s branch is the only choice. Huangshang’s vow of virtue in return for prosperity is too well-known to the people, and its breaking would be seen as unlucky—and any calamity arising during the reign of a son so conceived might throw the nation into turmoil.”
For a while, the Emperor did not answer. He sat at the front of the hall with his hands folded beneath his chin, gazing down into his lap: and though the court saw that he was still unwilling, they sensed that his resolve had weakened.
“Zhen will speak with Hanguang-wang,” he said at length. “But my beloved ministers know the ways of the Lan. Few of our clan precepts have changed in the last century, even after my imperial father claimed the throne; and one of our most sacred precepts forbids marriage between those without existing affection between them. It was why I sanctioned my brother’s marriage to Wei Wuxian—he swore that he would have no other, whether he was permitted to bring his beloved to his manor or not.
“I will encourage him to remarry, if that would be best for the nation. But I will not press him; and if he refuses, it is Zhen’s wish that those assembled here not speak of the matter again.”
The court took little heart in this, for the Emperor had ever been too indulgent with his brother: and Hanguang-wang, admirable though he was in all other respects, had been obstinate from the very hour of his birth, so that not even the late Emperor or the Grand Prince his brother could turn the boy’s feet from a course once he had set his heart upon it.
But to their astonishment, Hanguang-wang was not wholly opposed to the notion of remarriage. He did not agree to wed an official’s daughter, as the court had hoped: but instead, he declared that all the families of the nation would be invited to send representatives to display their prowess in the arts of war, and that the most excellent of these would be granted the honor of choosing a bride for him from among their kin.
And when he was asked what that most excellent must do to prove himself, Hanguang-wang said:
“He must surpass Wei Ying’s talents in archery or sword-play, or at least equal them. This I will not renege upon, not even if the court is forced to wait another twenty years to see a new prince born in the Hanguang-fu.”
And the court waited: though not without hope, for the late Xinhua-jun was young when he died, and there were many great generals among the clans with daughters of age for betrothal. Many of those daughters had already been enchanted by Hanguang-wang’s beauty, for he often used to walk among the common folk while Xinhua-jun yet lived; but he had hardly left the palace since, for fear that his yang son would fall prey to assassins in Hanguang-wang’s absence as Xinhua-jun had done.
The generals came to the imperial city in droves during the months that followed, armed with swords and bright dao and bows strung with silk and raw-hide. They performed countless feats of strength and daring upon the palace training grounds, each determined that one of his kinswomen would be wed to Hanguang-wang; but none of them, in all their might, could surpass the deceased Wei Wuxian.
“Convince the Second Prince to reconsider!” cried the officials of the court, foreseeing that no man’s accomplishments would appear worthwhile in the eyes of Wei Wuxian’s husband; but the Emperor refused, for he thought he had imposed upon Hanguang-wang far enough.
“Do you not remember what Zhen’s honored brother said?” he asked, now weary of the entire business. “He said that he would accept no bride unless she came at the will of a man whose talents in arms rivaled Xinhua-jun’s, not even if he waited twenty years to be married again; and you accepted his words, with Zhen as your witness. Now leave me!”
So the years wore on—five years, ten, fifteen—and in all that time, no warrior could string a bow or lift his jian in a manner that satisfied Hanguang-wang. The court’s mutterings had all but ceased, as the mutterings of old men often do before the enduring stubbornness of the young; and at last, the Emperor named a Crown Prince from among his father’s relatives. The child resembled the Emperor closely, and had been raised at his knee since the summer he was three years old—so at long last, the question of blood succession from the late Emperor’s line was put aside, and Hanguang-wang was left free to pass the rest of his life alone.
But the challenge he issued to the empire was not forgotten, and neither did he withdraw it. He never thought to do so, for the court’s demands for an heir had been satisfied by the crowning of Lan Jingyi, his nephew: and in the spring of the sixteenth year, a youth presented himself at the palace gates with a battered hunting-bow, of a kind such as the herders of the far North used to defend their goats from wolves.
“I have come to answer Hanguang-wang’s challenge,” he shouted at the top of his voice, so that all the people of the imperial city might hear him and know his purpose. “If the Second Prince is willing, this Mo Xuanyu will display his talents with the bow; and if Hanguang-wang is satisfied, I will send him a bride from my family.”
The guards laughed at him, for the hunting bow was not worth even one-hundredth of the price fetched by the army’s great war-bows. But the youth—Mo Xuanyu—insisted upon seeing Hanguang-wang; and when he was allowed inside, he went to the archery field and asked for five targets to be placed side-by-side at the far end.
“What favor do you hope to win that way, Mo-gongzi?” Hanguang-wang asked, from the balustrade above the field. “A hundred generals or more have sought to match Xinhua-jun’s skill on this training-ground; but none succeeded.”
“And no wonder, for they were not I!” Mo Xuanyu cried, laughing; and the sight of him stole the breath from Hanguang-wang’s lungs, for he alone knew what feat his beloved had accomplished with his bow long ago, when the two of them were boys studying under the tutelage of the Grand Prince.
Hanguang-wang was still known as Lan Wangji then: and he and Xinhua-jun—or Wei Ying, as he would ever remain in Hanguang-wang’s memory—had not been friends, at the very first. Lan Wangji was unusually upright and stern, for a boy of fifteen; and the mirth Wei Ying brought to all his deeds had seemed to burn him, like a frost being made to yield under fire.
But Wei Ying was determined to befriend him; and over the course of his year with the Grand Prince, he tricked Lan Wangji into contests of strength and book-learning—and won them, so that the latter would be forced to consider him as an equal in talent, if not deportment.
For his part, Lan Wangji had begun to realize that he hoped for something dearer than friendship from Wei Ying; and on one fateful morning in Lan Wangji’s fifteenth summer, six months after his mother’s death from pox, he was obliged to serve as the judge of an archery contest held for the young noblemen of the capital.
He hardly saw what took place in the field, relying upon a servant to tell him when this boy or that scored a hit; and during a recess in the competition, something flew up into the stands and landed on Lan Wangji’s lap.
He glanced down and blinked; for the thing lying on his knee was a peony blossom, white-petaled and damp with dew. And then he looked out upon the archery field, and saw that it was nearly empty: for all the contestants had gone to eat their luncheon, save for Wei Ying. He had thrown the peony—after purloining it from one of the maidens who had been sitting in the stands, no doubt—and its touch was as cool as fresh rain upon Lan Wangji’s skin, driving away some of the grief-born daze that had hovered over him since the morning of his mother’s funeral.
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying called, provoking a gasp of outrage from Lan Wangji’s servant—for he had called Lan Wangji’s ming, which no one had spoken aloud since his father granted him a courtesy name. “Watch this, Lan Zhan! Look at me!”
With that, he strode to the east end of the field and nocked five arrows to his bowstring; and each arrow struck home in one of the five targets reserved for the winners of the second-to-last round of the competition.
The field was more than five hundred chi in length, and the targets were no wider across than his palm; and yet, every one had been pierced through the heart.
“Did you see that, dianxia?” Wei Ying asked; and Lan Wangji’s own heart trembled at the delight in his voice, as if it had been one of the five straw targets struck by Wei Ying’s arrows. “I’ve been practicing that trick for you all month—but I was practicing for your eyes, Lan Zhan, and your eyes alone. What do you think?”
Lan Wangji did not answer: not in words at least. Instead, he pinned the peony to his breast and swept out of the stands, ordering his servant to declare Wei Ying the winner of the tournament as he departed.
No one ever learned what Wei Ying had done that day, save for the three who witnessed it and Lan Wangji’s Imperial Brother: and now, as the field-attendants carried the targets to their places, Mo Xuanyu clicked his tongue and said:
“These targets are not small enough. Your Highness, by your leave—I must ask that the targets be no wider than three cun across, and hung upon posts five chi in height.”
At this, Lan Wangji’s throat swelled nearly shut, so that he could hardly speak at all. He gave the order, as Mo Xuanyu requested; and two ke later, the new targets hung at eye-level on the west side of the field, with Mo Xuanyu standing opposite on the east side with his hunting-bow.
“What now, then?” he asked, with great difficulty. “Do you imagine that the soldiers who came before you could not shoot a palm-sized plate from that distance?”
“No, dianxia,” Mo Xuanyu said gently. “But I can, and I think that will be enough.”
Before Lan Wangji could say another word, Mo Xuanyu unraveled one of the bracers on his wrist and wrapped it twice around his eyes, blindfolding himself. Having done so, he called for his quiver and took a handful of arrows from it: and then he drew his bow and loosed the arrows in unison—five arrows, Lan Wangji realized, with a wild hope rising in his blood.
Mo Xuanyu raised his hand and pulled off the blindfold; and then he laughed aloud in delight, for the arrows had all struck home.
Lan Wangji rose from his seat. “I have seen enough,” he said quietly, to the attendant beside him. “Remain here, Cao Tian. I will go down to meet him.”
He descended the stairs, his hands trembling in his sleeves; and when he reached the archery field, he found Mo Xuanyu sitting against the wall with one leg thrown carelessly over the other, as Wei Ying used to sit after a morning spent shooting with his shidimen at Jiang Fengmian’s estate.
“You have my congratulations, Mo-gongzi,” Lan Wangji said: and his voice did not quiver, though in truth he was very near to weeping. “You have won the challenge; so tell me now what maiden you would have me wed.”
Mo Xuanyu looked up at him and smiled. “Do you not know?” he said softly.
No further words were spoken between them for the next shichen. Lan Wangji boarded a carriage that brought him to the Hanguang-fu in the palace’s western complex, taking Mo Xuanyu with him; and his servants thought they could guess at the relationship between them, for he led Mo Xuanyu to the doors of his bedchamber not five minutes after they arrived.
“I shall have room made for you in this chamber by tomorrow,” Lan Wangji said, looking at Mo Xuanyu from the corners of his eyes. And then, turning to the head momo of the household: “Throw out the old crib, so that another chest of drawers can be brought in, and—”
“No!”
Mo Xuanyu seized Lan Wangji’s sleeve, overcome by a fit of sudden desperation that the momo could not understand. “Not A-Yuan’s crib!” he pleaded. “You carved the rabbit patterns on the rails for Yuan’er yourself, so why—?!”
And then, turning to the maidservant: “Have the crib packed in straw and put away in a storage-chamber. Hanguang-wang prepared it as a gift for his Little Highness when he was a child; do not mishandle it!”
She nodded and took her leave, bewildered; and Mo Xuanyu, who seemed to have gleaned some deeper meaning from Lan Wangji’s order, cried out in reproof.
“Lan Zhan!” he said despairingly. “You were testing me, sweetheart.”
“Can you blame me?” Lan Wangji returned, in a thick voice. But he took Mo Xuanyu’s hand and pressed it to his heart; and Mo Xuanyu (or rather, the man who wore Mo Xuanyu’s face, gifted to him by unknown means whose truth Lan Wangji might learn in the coming days) took his other hand and squeezed it.
“No,” Wei Ying admitted, “but even so! A-Yuan’s cradle, my Lan Zhan!—how could you?”
“My heart’s beloved has returned to me in a different skin, with a different face,” Lan Wangji said, his heart aching. “Forgive me. I dreamed of this so often, in the first years. Even now, I scarcely dare believe that I am awake, and you are here.”
“Perhaps there is something else I can do to convince you,” Wei Ying said, reaching into the pouch at his belt.
When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a fresh bamboo dizi, which still bore the faint fragrance of the stalk it was carved from. Lan Wangji watched as he brought the flute to his lips—marked the round holes where his fingers fell, as they had fallen countless times in the three scant years he and Wei Ying had shared before they were parted—and knew beyond all doubt that his dearest wish had been granted, though he would never have thought it possible before the living proof looked him in the eyes.
“Shall I play for you?” Wei Ying whispered. “Please, Lan Zhan?”
But if he answered, the servants did not hear it, for he took Wei Ying in his arms and kissed him under the great magnolia whose blossoms had lined the path to their bridal-chamber in the springtime of their youth; and it was thus that the two were found by the Little Highness, Lan Sizhui, who nearly fainted away at the sight of them.
“I am still asleep,” he said wonderingly, as Lan Wangji caught him. “I must be—for I know you, gongzi, though I have not seen you before: and yet…”
“I would tell you how you know me, if you asked,” Wei Ying replied, wiping the dampness from his cheeks. “But I know you, and I have waited for more than half a life-time to see you again.”
At this, Lan Sizhui frowned, looking at Lan Wangji and Wei Ying in turn; and then he dropped the pile of scrolls he held and flung his arms about Wei Ying’s waist.
“A-Die,” he choked, and burst into tears.