Shattered Jade (Memories)

The eighth day of the twelfth month, in the twenty-second year of Jianxi. Night.

Xiao Huaijin was woken by the noise.

He had been feigning sleep in the Eastern Palace's main hall, wrapped in an old robe. These days, he rarely truly fell asleep. Since winter had begun, the nights had been bone-piercingly cold, and sleeping only made it worse: he would wake with his hands and feet stiff, and have to rub them for a long time before feeling returned. He heard a horn sound in the distance. No, it was not the Imperial Guards' horn. He had heard theirs at every New Year's grand court assembly, every sacrifice to Heaven, every presentation of captives. He had listened to that tune for eighteen years. This blast was shrill and long. It was a frontier army horn.

He sat bolt upright.

A dark red glow stained the western sky, flickering bright and dim. That was the direction of the Hall of Mental Cultivation.

His wet nurse was coughing in the next room, the sounds rapid and close together, as though she were choking on something. Xiao Huaijin did not light a lamp. He felt his way to the door in the dark and pressed his ear against it. The chains outside were still there, occasionally striking the door knocker in the wind with a dull clang. Someone was shouting far away, their voice torn into fragments by the wind; he could not make out the words. Someone was running west, boots crunching through the snow, the footsteps receding until they quickly vanished into the wind.

There should have been two guards outside the door. He listened carefully for a while, but heard no movement at all. The guards were gone. He did not know whether they had been reassigned or had fled.

Not one person came to tell him what exactly had happened at the Hall of Mental Cultivation. But he knew. The firelight, the horn, the chaos buried beneath that unnatural silence-all told him it was a palace coup!

He looked back at the Eastern Palace.

The main hall was pitch-black. The lanterns beneath the covered walkway had gone out long ago, and no one had come to replace the candles. Several marks of varying depths were carved into a pillar. Zhou Rucheng had made them with a small knife when measuring his height as a child, from the age of four to seventeen, with the year marked beside each one. The highest stopped at "Autumn, twenty-first year of Jianxi," almost reaching his eyebrows now. There was a sword mark on the wall, left by a stray slash when he was practicing at twelve. His wet nurse had been terrified, but he had been happy all day, because even the Grand Tutor had said the strength of that stroke held "a shadow of His Majesty in his youth."

A wooden box was buried beneath the parasol tree. He had buried it at seven, with his first policy essay inside-copied, actually, from a passage in the Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Governance with a few words changed. Zhou Rucheng had seen through him without exposing him, writing only four words at the end: "A text without roots." He had not understood what that meant, but had still hidden the essay in the wooden box and buried it, thinking he would dig it up to show his imperial father on the day his father praised him. Later, he had forgotten to dig it up, and the box had remained beneath the parasol tree ever since.

A half-read copy of the Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Governance still lay open on the desk in the study, left behind during Zhou Rucheng's last lesson. It happened to be open to the Tang annals, at the account of Emperor Taizong deposing Crown Prince Chengqian. Zhou Rucheng had stopped abruptly halfway through that day's lesson, closed the book, and said, "This old subject deserves death." Xiao Huaijin had not understood then. Only later, recalling what was on that page, had he understood why the Grand Tutor could not continue.

In the cabinet beside his bed, a bowl sat upside down beside a faded cloak. It was the bowl of ginger soup he had left outside the Hall of Mental Cultivation in the winter when he was fifteen; he did not know when it had been returned. The cloak was the one his imperial father had laid over him when he was four. Several threads of the embroidered five-clawed golden dragon had worn through, and the edging at the cuffs had come unstitched. He had folded it neatly and tucked it beneath his pillow.

Eighteen years. He had lived in this palace for eighteen years.

He suddenly thought, This is probably the last time I'll ever see the Eastern Palace.

Xiao Huaijin turned, walked to the main entrance, and looked up at the bar across the door. It was iron birch. When the Eastern Palace had been renovated that year, Zhou Rucheng had specifically ordered it replaced, saying iron birch was hard enough that an ordinary blade could not cut through it; using it as a door bar was a waste of its talents, and it ought to be made into weapons. Xiao Huaijin had laughed then and said, "Grand Tutor, does the Eastern Palace need something like this?" Zhou Rucheng had not smiled. He had only said, "Your Highness, perhaps it might."

Xiao Huaijin reached out, gripped both ends of the bar, and lifted. It was caught in the iron brackets, rusted fast. The door had been sealed for over half a year, and the iron brackets and wood had rusted together. It would not budge. He gritted his teeth and heaved upward. A splinter stabbed into his palm with a sharp pain, and the bar came free with a clatter. The iron birch was heavy in his hands, heavier than he had imagined, like holding a length of ice. He hefted it. The weight felt just right. Then he headed for the back door.

The main entrance had been sealed shut, with chains wrapped around it three times and a seal pasted over the lock. But the Eastern Palace had a back door used for carrying out chamber pots. It was narrow, allowing only one person through sideways, and opened onto a small alley that led straight to the back kitchen of the imperial kitchens. When sealing the Eastern Palace, the palace guards had probably thought it too small to bother with; they had not even put a seal on it. Oh, perhaps they had, and the wind had blown it off. As he squeezed out sideways, his shoulder caught against the frame, tearing a gash in his old robe and exposing the gaunt shoulder blade beneath.

Cold.

He stepped barefoot into the snow. It was deep, covering his ankles. Old abrasions on his soles split open, and blood seeped into the snow, soon covered by fresh snowfall. He had not eaten properly for many days. After only a few running steps, he was gasping so hard his chest hurt, his ribs spasming as though someone were cutting inside him with a blunt knife.

The passageways were long. From the Eastern Palace to the Hall of Mental Cultivation, he had to pass through three palace gates-first Chongwen Gate, then Rijing Gate, and finally the white marble square before the Hall of Mental Cultivation. He had walked every passageway countless times. As a child, he had run there, breaking free of his wet nurse's grasp and running all the way through Chongwen Gate and Rijing Gate to the entrance of the Hall of Mental Cultivation, where he would stand on tiptoe, clutching the threshold and peering inside, wanting to see his imperial father. Later, he had walked there to pay his respects, answer questions, and give thanks for imperial favors, head lowered as he walked down the very center of the passageway, never glancing aside for fear of being sent back.

Later still, he had been deposed, and had never walked this passageway again.

The snow was slippery. He fell once along the way, striking his knee against the paving stones so hard he could not catch his breath for a long while. His vision darkened, and he lay in the snow for several breaths before getting up. He shifted the door bar to his left hand and braced his right against the ground to stand. His bare feet were already numb with cold; stepping into the snow felt like stepping into cotton. Blood seeped from the broken skin on his knee and ran down his calf, but he felt no pain there either.

As he ran through Chongwen Gate, he saw two palace guards lying beneath the archway. They had no wounds and had probably been drugged; their chests were still rising and falling. When he ran through Rijing Gate, the archway was deserted, with several sabers abandoned on the ground. He glanced down at them but did not stop to pick one up. He did not know how to use a saber. He only knew how to use a bow. In eighteen years as crown prince, what he had practiced most thoroughly were ceremonial protocol and policy essays. All he had was this door bar. His palms had warmed the iron birch a little, and a thin film of moisture had formed on its surface.

The outline of the Hall of Mental Cultivation drew closer and closer. Firelight reflected off its glazed tiles, turning the snow upon them orange-red. The doors stood wide open, and torchlight spilled out, bathing the white marble steps before the hall in scarlet. He heard weapons clashing, one strike after another, mixed with dull thuds-the sound of bodies hitting the ground. He heard a low, familiar voice say something, but it was too far away to make out.

He tightened his grip on the door bar.

The instant he charged through the doors, he saw Xiao Lin kneeling on one knee in the center of the hall, several private soldiers fallen around him, blood streaming from a wound in his left side. Before him stood a dense mass of armored soldiers, their layered blade tips gleaming coldly in the firelight. He saw Xiao Yu standing at the front of the private soldiers, the blood on his armor not yet dry. Shen Mingzhu stood behind Xiao Yu, her scarlet cloak snapping in the wind.

Then he saw Xiao Lin's eyes.

They were eyes he had looked at for eighteen years. He had been looking at them for as long as he could remember. In eighteen years, those eyes had never looked him squarely in the face. Now they were looking at him, looking at him standing barefoot in the doorway, holding up a door bar, so thin he barely looked human, covered in blood and snow.

Xiao Huaijin suddenly wanted to laugh.

He had chased after him for eighteen years, and at last, he had received this look.

"Imperial Father-go-"

Xiao Huaijin did not turn back. He held the door bar across his body, facing three hundred armored soldiers, his entire weight resting on his frostbitten, ravaged bare feet. He did not know whether this counted as bravery. He only knew that the man behind him was his imperial father, the light he had spent his entire life striving to chase.

Xiao Yu said something, but he did not catch it. He heard only fragments-"deposed you," "locked you up," "never even asked"-and he had long known what they meant put together. Of course he knew. He knew his imperial father did not like him, knew his father suspected him and guarded against him, knew every apparent sign of care might be nothing more than his own wishful fantasy. But none of that affected his choice.

When the first blade came down, he blocked it with the door bar. The iron birch jarred the web of his hand numb, knocking the blade away and forcing him back half a step, his shoulder striking the doorframe. The second blade struck his shoulder, and he nearly lost his grip on the bar. Gritting his teeth, he switched it to his left hand and swung it back into the private soldier's face. There was not enough strength behind it; the man swayed but did not fall. The third blade struck his back, and he dropped to one knee.

As he knelt, he saw Xiao Lin's face. There were wet tracks on it. He wanted to raise a hand and touch them, but his hand no longer obeyed him. The door bar slipped from his fingers, and the iron birch rolled twice through the pool of blood before stopping beside Xiao Lin's feet.

As he fell, he heard someone calling his name.

It was "Huaijin."

He thought, So you do know how to call my name.