Yuanyou first year, first day of the first month. Before the fifth watch drum had struck, I was already awake.
Not awakened by noise, but by something indescribable—the air was different. Footsteps on the normally deserted palace path, many footsteps, hurried and hushed, surging like tides from afar. I sat up from my sleeping place, pushed open the window. The sky was still dark, but there was firelight in the distance, pinpricks of flame moving behind the palace walls, like fireflies.
Today was Yuan Day. The Grand New Year's Audience.
I dressed, didn't go to the Inner Kitchen—no need to make porridge today. The Imperial Kitchen would prepare the first meal after the court congratulations, that was the rule. But I still went out, walking along the palace path toward the direction of the Grand Harmony Hall. I encountered several palace maids on the way, all wearing new clothes, silk flowers in their hair, walking quickly. No one spoke. The entire palace was wound tight as a bowstring, waiting for dawn.
The square before the Grand Harmony Hall was already packed with people. Not the usual scattered ministers, but a dense mass stretching from the hall entrance to the base of the red steps. Crimson, blue, and green official robes arranged by rank, bright and dim in the torchlight. Civil officials to the right, military officials to the left, standing level upon level like a stone forest planted in the earth. Everyone's ivory tablet was held before their chests, motionless. No whispering, no looking around, even their breathing was synchronized.
I stood in the distance, stopped by a guard.
"What person? No approaching ahead."
"This servant is from the Inner Kitchen. Wished to see..."
"Return. No approaching today."
I stepped back several paces, standing behind an old locust tree. From here I could see the full view of the Grand Harmony Hall—doors tightly shut, new lanterns hanging beneath the eaves, twice the usual size, traced with gold thread, swaying gently in the wind. Bronze tortoises and cranes before the hall exuded thin wisps of incense smoke, scattered by the wind into a thin layer of mist floating above the square.
The fifth watch drum sounded.
The doors of the Grand Harmony Hall slowly opened. First came the ceremonial guard—banners fluttering, yellow silk umbrellas moving like cloud layers, axes, standards, golden melons, and ceremonial weapons gleaming coldly in the torchlight. The guards marched in perfect unison, boot soles striking stone, sounding as one. Then came the musicians. Bells, chimes, mouth organs, flutes, reed pipes, and ocarinas arranged in a line beneath the hall eaves, musicians kneeling on both sides, hands suspended above their instruments.
Then came the officials' prostration. No command was shouted, yet everyone lowered simultaneously, like a wheat field blown down by wind. Crimson and blue robes prostrate on the ground, ivory tablets raised above heads, shouting "Long live Your Majesty." That sound burst from over a thousand throats simultaneously, striking the hall walls and bouncing back, rolling several circles above the square before slowly dissipating. My eardrums vibrated, my heartbeat rising and falling with that sound.
Zhao Xu walked out from within the hall.
When I saw him, for a moment I didn't recognize him. He wore the imperial ceremonial robes—black upper garment and reddish-brown lower skirt, the garment painted with sun, moon, stars, mountains, dragons, and ornamental birds in six patterns, the skirt embroidered with aquatic plants, fire, powdered grain, axe patterns, and fu symbols in four patterns. The crown hung with twelve strings of white pearls and nine tassels before and behind, each tassel hanging straight to his brow. The pearls were white jade, gleaming faintly in the firelight, like twelve fine curtains separating him from this world. The crown's top was decorated with twelve mountain-shaped ornaments, called the "Twelve Mountains," arranged one by one, each carved with animal faces—dragon, phoenix, tiger, cat, dog, sheep, pig, chicken... twelve kinds, representing all things under the Son of Heaven's governance.
He walked slowly, steps twice his usual stride. The crown tassels swayed gently with each step, pearls and jade striking together, making fine sounds like rain. The ceremonial skirt's hem dragged on the ground, embroidered patterns creased shallowly beneath his feet. He was still too small. The robe's shoulder line fell below his shoulders, sleeves rolled twice to reveal his fingers. The crown was too large, sitting on his head like carrying a piece of heaven upon it. He didn't stumble. Didn't stop.
He walked to the highest point of the red steps, turned around.
The crown's pearls and jade collided, making a burst of fine sounds. The twelve tassels obscured his face; I only saw a taut chin, and a section of neck exposed above the collar—slender, faint blue veins slightly protruding. He took a deep breath, shoulders rising, then falling. Then he straightened.
The officials prostrated. Shouting "Long live Your Majesty." The sound struck the hall walls, bounced back, struck again, surging layer upon layer like tides. A eunuch knelt at the side of the red steps, holding a jade tablet, raised high above his head. Zhao Xu reached to receive it. The moment his fingers touched the tablet, he paused. A very short pause, so brief the eunuch beside him didn't notice. But I saw it—his fingertips were trembling.
Then he grasped it. Fingers tightening, knuckles whitening. Not grasping a jade tablet, but grasping all under heaven.
The ceremonial official unrolled the imperial edict, voice resonant, reading character by character. The parallel prose sentences I couldn't fully understand, only catching scattered fragments—"New Year's Day," "Great Amnesty for All Under Heaven," "Renewal with the People." With each sentence read, the officials bowed once, shouted once. Bowed three times, shouted three times.
At the final shout, Zhao Xu's hand released the jade tablet. Not suddenly released, but fingers slowly unfolding one by one, like releasing something held for a long time. The eunuch caught the tablet; his hand hung at his side, no longer clenched.
Music sounded again. Bells, chimes, mouth organs, flutes, reed pipes, and ocarinas played together, ceremonial music, slow, solemn, ancient as if passed down from Zhou Dynasty. That melody circled above the square, layering upon itself, pressing until one dared not breathe. Wind came, the crown's pearls and jade colliding more urgently, tinkling like distant bells being shaken. His sleeves filled with wind, swelling, then collapsing.
I watched that figure on the red steps. Black garment and reddish-brown skirt, crowned and robed, standing at the highest point of all under heaven. He was still small, his frame not fully grown, the robe hanging somewhat loosely on his body, wind pressing the fabric against his waist to reveal the slender outline of youth. Yet standing there, he had acquired some of the majesty of the Son of Heaven. Officials prostrate on the ground, he standing at the highest point, behind him towering palace halls, beneath him the long red steps, before him all under heaven. In that moment, he was no longer the child watching ants in the Imperial Garden, no longer the thin youth I chased to feed. He was the emperor.
Wind came, carrying the scent of ancestral temple incense, carrying the echoes of officials' obeisance, carrying the weight of a thousand years. His robe corner lifted in the wind, then fell. The crown's pearls and jade swayed gently before his brow, light and shadow fragmenting on his face, expression unclear. But he held on. Didn't cry, didn't hide, didn't look back.
After the ceremony ended, officials withdrew from court, music gradually ceasing. People on the square dispersed like tides, leaving only a few sweeping eunuchs and me. The stone pavement had been trampled clean, the last wisp of white smoke still rising from incense burners, the air thick with mixed scents of candles and sandalwood.
When I crouched to pick up fallen withered branches, I saw several osmanthus petals on the ground. Golden, tiny, I didn't know where they had drifted from. This season, the Imperial Garden's osmanthus had long since faded. Perhaps blown by wind from elsewhere, perhaps fallen from some palace maid's sleeve. I picked one up, placed it in my palm, thin, with a faint remnant of fragrance.
The distant hall doors had closed. Zhao Xu was surrounded by eunuchs, disappearing behind the doors, ceremonial robe hem dragging on the ground, catching on the threshold, a nearby eunuch steadying him. I saw his head turn slightly, looking in my direction. Across the entire square, across banners and incense burners, across the lingering echoes of bells and drums. Too far, I couldn't see his expression. But I saw his hand move—not waving, but clenching into a fist, then releasing.
As if saying—I held on.
I clutched that osmanthus petal, facing the empty square, nodded gently.
I know.
That night, I prepared osmanthus sugar porridge. Added twice the usual osmanthus, cooked until rice grains nearly dissolved into the soup, sweet to cloying. The earthenware pot sat on the stove, steaming, osmanthus fragrance overflowing from the pot mouth, sweetening the entire Inner Kitchen.
When the young eunuch came to fetch it, he said His Majesty had eaten nothing today.
"Not eating won't do." I handed over the pot, thought, then added, "Tell him, if he could endure the Grand Audience, is he afraid of drinking a bowl of porridge?"
The young eunuch's face went pale with fright: "This... how dare this one say..."
"Say I said it."
He ran off with the pot.
Half an hour later, the pot was returned. Empty. One grain of rice stuck to the bottom, scraped completely clean. Beside the pot was a note, slightly larger than usual, characters written more carefully than usual:
"A Heng, today's porridge was too sweet. Tomorrow use less osmanthus. Shared with the ministers to taste, they all said it was good."
I smiled at the note. Shared with the ministers to taste—he still had the mind for such things. Good then.
I folded the note, tucked it beneath my pillow with the previous ones. And that osmanthus petal—the one Zhao Xu hadn't seen. I pressed it inside Grandfather's paper, with those characters. "Song Zhezong Zhao Xu, Yuanfeng eighth year third month, Shenzong died, ascended the throne, age nine."
Grandfather, he is ten now. He wore ceremonial robes, stood at the highest point of the Grand Harmony Hall, receiving officials' congratulations. His crown tassels swayed, but he didn't stumble. His hand trembled, but he grasped the jade tablet. He held on. He also said, tomorrow's porridge should have less osmanthus.
No moon outside the window. Clouds thick, covering the entire sky. But distant firecracker sounds came, one after another, drifting in from outside the palace. A new year. The reign title had changed. He was still Zhao Xu.
I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I would make him a bowl of porridge not so sweet.
[End of Chapter 13]