Chapter 12
Zhao Rongzhang spread a hand toward the little mute.
Only after moving back to Lingxiao Hall and seeing the familiar trinkets left behind did Zhao Rongzhang feel a delayed sense of disorientation. Her mother had died in difficult childbirth, her father had passed away on the imperial bed, yet she remained the princess who loved running barefoot on the cedarwood floors. There was no longer her father chasing after her, nor her mother beside her laughing with bright red lips parted. When she looked back, all she could see was the dark palace path, where the night wind wandered back and forth between the high walls on all sides.
“Lingxiao” were two extremely solemn characters, subtly aligning with the imagery of the Ziwei Emperor Star, and should never have been used to name a consort’s bedchamber. But coincidentally, Consort Ling’s flower name was Lingxiao. The late emperor had adored her, adored her to the extreme, insisting on using this name. Even with court officials kneeling across the floor, they could not stop him.
Zhao Jue was extremely petty-minded. After their father’s death, he immediately ordered the plaque inscribed with the three characters “Lingxiao Hall” to be taken down and had all of his mother’s belongings moved out and burned. The current Lingxiao Hall was empty and crude. Zhao Rongzhang had her own belongings brought in to refill the space.
Dinner was served, the dishes ordinary. After finishing her meal, Zhao Rongzhang had Ming Luo lead everyone out.
The rug beneath them was haphazardly laid out. Guan Xuan had just knelt down when he was pushed over, his belt roughly pulled open by the princess. It was too sudden, so for a moment his body reflexively wanted to resist, his hand reaching out only to be commanded by her: “Lift the hem of your robe.”
The furious princess, while taking him out to use below, coldly watched him struggle to lift his robe. Guan Xuan’s entire body tensed, intense humiliation and shame making his body fiercely resistant. His fingers gripped the fabric tightly, lifting it only to his ribs before he could go no further. He did not want to look at the princess, turning his head aside, his gaze scattering into the depths of the bed corner. The mask he still wore lightly knocked against the floor with a faint sound.
Zhao Rongzhang raised an eyebrow. Now he seemed more human.
“Lift.”
The physical stimulation continuously dominated his consciousness, and Guan Xuan couldn’t control the frequent blinking of his eyes. He thought of many things, so many that he wanted to vomit. The swelling heat made him wonder if he had a high fever. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and he desperately needed something elusive, something unattainable. This thing was rooted deep in his memory, yet he couldn’t clearly recall what it was.
He kept lifting, finally reaching a point that satisfied the princess. His body was toyed with by her cool hands as he gripped the hem of his robe, offering it up.
After the princess had vented her fury, she sat panting on top of him. Sensory perception was once again brought to an extreme level, yet Guan Xuan’s consciousness was completely detached. Suddenly, he turned his face forward, his eyes looking at the princess.
Zhao Rongzhang had been thinking of other things—of Renshou Palace, of Zhao Jue, of the burned-down Princess’s Mansion, of her mother’s death and her father’s sickly, emaciated appearance before his passing. A fire burned in her heart, fueling her rage. She had played with her little weapon to vent her anger, but even after venting, that fire still blazed fiercely. Frowning, she lowered her eyes, intending to continue, but as she looked down, she met the eyes of her little weapon.
The little weapon had fine beads of sweat on his temples, the upper part of his face not covered by the mask showing a tempting flush of blood-red pink. Contradicting this appearance of desire were his eyes—clear, clean, with a coldness like stones at the bottom of a pond. Zhao Rongzhang met his gaze, doubting if she had seen correctly, but in their prolonged stare, these eyes still gave her a sense of the coldness of an inanimate object.
Zhao Rongzhang laughed. “Are you unwilling?”
What did he know about willingness or unwillingness? He was her possession, so what did it matter whether he was willing or not? It only mattered whether she was pleased or not.
The cat showed no reaction. Zhao Rongzhang suspected he had gone deaf as well. He had always been gentle and obedient, but now he truly resembled a cat devoid of human understanding, displaying the unique indifference of a mere animal.
The late emperor had once gifted a Persian cat, a tribute from a foreign land, to her mother for rearing. Her mother had no idea how to care for such a creature and nearly let it die. At that time, Zhao Rongzhang was still young. Enchanted by the cat’s heterochromatic eyes and long fur, she insisted on holding it tightly in her arms. Unwilling, it would hide and run everywhere, only to be caught or lured out by her palace maids and forced back into her embrace.
It would yowl loudly or growl lowly, swishing its tail against her. Zhao Rongzhang would stubbornly grab its tail to stop it from thrashing. The cat would either glare at her or turn its head, trying to escape, never once giving her a friendly look. Perhaps due to her rough handling, which showed no understanding of feline nature, the cat fell ill and died within two years. In its final days, it refused food for three days. Even when she ordered someone to pry open its mouth and force meat inside, it refused to eat.
Zhao Rongzhang thought of that beautiful cat with heterochromatic eyes again. The way it had looked at her from the shadows before falling ill was similar to the gaze he now directed at her.
Zhao Rongzhang grew irritable. Was he angry?
He was angry? Zhao Rongzhang then realized she had a peculiar habit of thought. She believed it was normal for real cats, dogs, or animals to have emotions and get angry. But when he displayed similar emotional expressions, she found it strange, unusual, and even inappropriate.
She also thought he was being unreasonable. In the first few nights she had slept with him, he hadn’t been this irritating. Though he would cry, his demeanor had particularly aroused her interest. What had happened to him these past two days?
She ground her hips, trying to force warmth into his eyes. Just as she was doing this, the voices of palace attendants outside the hall rose in layers, announcing, “The emperor has arrived.”
Zhao Rongzhang ignored it, continuing to stare intently into his eyes, even more provocatively. Only when Ming Luo reached the doorway and knocked several times as a reminder did Zhao Rongzhang feel compelled to respond: “Figure something out!”
She could sense the youth beneath her was on the verge of losing consciousness, yet his gaze remained unchanged, and he hadn’t even cried. Anger stirred the heat toxin within her, but under its influence, she remained relatively unaffected. Outside, voices continued to murmur, their words unclear. Soon, the youth could no longer cling to the hem of his clothes, his entire body flushed an unnatural shade of pink. She tightened her knees, and a rush of scalding, pine-like musk surged into her core, the sensation intense.
Only at this moment did she see his eyes lose focus, becoming dazed, though he still stared directly at her. Once again, Zhao Rongzhang felt a rare pang of pity for him. She also found him endearing. If she hadn’t thought him beautiful and adorable, she would never have chosen him. Otherwise, at the slightest displeasure, she would have replaced him long ago. At the very least, she could always find ways to have tools or toys made to serve as substitutes—she had never been dependent on his physical presence alone. What did he have to be angry about? That so-called punishment from the other night was nothing more than making him lie on the floor.
Zhao Rongzhang could have continued, but she wasn’t sure if she should. The conversation outside had escalated into an argument, and there was a risk of someone barging in at any moment. The release was excessive, filling her nostrils with a strong, cold musk. She wondered inexplicably whether the hunting dogs raised by the Imperial Guards could smell it.
She already felt pity for him, and in truth, could not continue any further. Zhao Rongzhang was a willful person, yet there were moments when even she could not persist in her willfulness. Frowning, she shifted her knees, preparing to rise, but her fingers suddenly felt cold. Zhao Rongzhang looked at those slender, bamboo-like fingers. Beneath her palm was his scorching chest, yet these fingers were icy cold.
She lifted her gaze and saw him struggling to focus his eyes. The lower half of his face was still covered by a fanged mask, revealing nothing, yet Zhao Rongzhang sensed he had something to say. She tilted her head and leaned her ear closer.
Guan Xuan saw the Princess drawing near, her soft, downy cheek and a pale ear coming into view. The scene was utterly absurd, and Guan Xuan began to laugh. He laughed uncontrollably, the faint focus in his pupils scattering once more under the force of his own mirth.
His body trembled with laughter. Zhao Rongzhang quickly reacted, turning her head to look at him.
Guan Xuan often struggled to distinguish between life and death, especially when there was no sunlight. Life and death were the same; crying and laughing were the same. Both crying and laughing were ways of dissolving pain, and each day of living was a step toward dying.
He had never felt grateful for his own survival, but he had been grateful that the person he lived for was a gentle soul. He had crawled out of the rain to reach her side, and she, satisfied, had bestowed a name upon him. So, he had to survive until that moment because the heavens and earth intended to give him a name.
Guan Xuan clutched at his chest, his laughter subsiding slightly. He wanted to use gestures to express what he wished to say, but he could not convey it. The communication between them had always been superficial; anything deeper was beyond his ability to express and beyond her ability to comprehend.
Outside, it was particularly noisy, but a brief silence fell. Ming Luo must have drawn her sword on someone again—she had a fiery temper. Zhao Rongzhang felt a strange mood wash over her and extended a hand toward the little mute.
The little mute looked into her eyes, his cool fingertips landing on her palm like a drop of damp rain. He traced the character for “sickness” as the radical, then added the character “甬” below it. His eyes held an undying smile as he silently mouthed the word “pain” to her.
The Emperor insisted that the Princess come out to pay her respects. Ming Luo blocked the way, explaining repeatedly, but the old eunuch from the Dongchang, the Dongchang Changgong, began speaking crudely. He moved to push the door open but was frightened back several steps by Ming Luo’s drawn sword.
The more they concealed things, the more determined the Emperor became to send people inside to search. It wasn’t necessarily about finding anything, but it was an excellent way to humiliate her. He ordered Ming Luo to be seized, but at that moment, the door opened from within.
Princess Yingrong stood leaning against the doorframe, draped in her robe, her complexion rosy and her eyes languid. She cast a faint, sidelong glance at Zhao Jue. “Imperial Brother refuses to give me medicine. Day and night, I am tormented by the heat toxin, unable to sleep peacefully, and my appearance is unfit to be seen. If Imperial Brother insists on entering, is it to witness how wretched and debauched I have become? Ming Luo protects me for the sake of Great Zhou’s reputation. Otherwise, if such a princess were sent into the royal tent of another, and with just a few words from her, she could provoke the king’s towering rage—who in the future could bear the consequences?”
The young girl always wore an air of nonchalance, yet her demeanor was strikingly similar to that vicious, madwoman, reminding Zhao Jue of nauseating and terrifying memories from the past. He was the Emperor now; he could not possibly still fear her. But their father’s favor toward her and her mother had been immeasurable. As Ren Ping had said, no one knew how much unseen influence and how many choices the late Emperor had left her.
He was no longer obsessed with catching her claws and fangs; catching one or two was useless, and it would be simpler to make her die. The ideal outcome would be for her to perish under the rough hands of the Turks; failing that, she should at least be buried and suffocated in the sandstorms along the journey to the marriage alliance.
Just the thought alone excited him.
But the search must still go on. This place had once forbidden anyone from setting foot easily. He had knelt before the palace gate, begging his father to forgive a minor mistake, kneeling until he nearly fainted, yet his father never emerged, and he never managed to enter. Now, he insisted on sending people in—so what?
He ordered the eunuchs to push Ming Luo aside, bypass Zhao Rongzhang, and proceed with the search.
Ming Luo glanced at the Princess, who rested her chin on her hand, watching them enter.
The eunuchs rummaged through the rooms, and though they discovered a few anomalies, they were too trivial to report. The most indescribable was the suspicious scent lingering in the air, but a scent could not be taken out for discussion.
They reported everything to the emperor one by one. Finally, a young eunuch suggested that the Imperial Guards’ hounds could be brought in to sniff around.
Zhao Rongzhang smiled indifferently and said, “Fine. You can bring them to sniff me first.”