Western Wing, Sixteen Princes’ Compound.
Dawn had not yet broken; the charcoal brazier glowed faintly, nearly spent. Li Yi sat upright on his pallet, eyes fixed vacantly on the window, lips unconsciously humming:
“Little moon, too dim to shine…
Call the crow to summon Father…”
The lingering poison in his body had weakened over recent days, but his frail frame recovered slowly. Last night’s cramps had kept him tossing until midnight, and with today’s monthly examination looming, he’d simply given up on sleep.
His fingers traced the cracks along the bed’s edge—fine, jagged lines—and he sighed inwardly. He hoped this trial would pass without incident. No missteps. No surprises.
Yet every time he recalled Zhao Yan’s shadowed eyes, his confidence wavered.
“Ayi! Still asleep?” Wu’s voice came from beyond the door, cutting through his thoughts.
She entered with a bowl of hot porridge, her steps so light they seemed afraid to disturb the air. “Eat while it’s warm… gives you strength.”
Li Yi looked up, grinned foolishly, drool dripping onto his robe. “Sweet! Mother’s the best!”
Wu’s eyes reddened. She set down the bowl quickly and turned to leave—but paused at the threshold, voice dropping to a whisper: “Today… say little. Write poorly. Be dumber. Only then will you be safe.”
She knew about the exam. And she knew better than anyone: clever children didn’t live long in this palace.
And if he slipped today—if his act cracked—Palace Attendant Cui would suspect her of leaking secrets. And then…
Li Yi lowered his head to drink. The scalding gruel burned his throat, and he wondered why Wu seemed so frantic this morning. He knew she’d stood outside his door all night—not for him, but for herself. If he accused anyone of poisoning, Cui would trace it back to her. Only if he remained truly witless might she survive.
He swallowed the burning porridge without complaint.
At least she hadn’t poisoned him again.
Perhaps… a sliver of mercy still lingered?
By late Mao hour, he wrapped his thin blue robe tightly and stepped out. The wind cut like glass; his legs trembled with each step, as if walking on shattered ice. Passing the wellhead, he deliberately staggered, clutching the stone rim and dry-heaving twice—just enough to draw snickers from the eunuchs sweeping snow.
“The Guang Prince can’t even walk straight—still going to sit for the exam?”
He grinned, letting saliva trail down his chin, eyes glazed as if clouded by mist.
But inside his sleeve, his palm bore four fresh crescents of blood.
“The Guang Prince has arrived,” announced the supervising eunuch.
The other princes turned. One covered his mouth, laughing softly: “Is the fool here to take the test? Or just to draw more crows?”
Li Yi beamed, drool spotting his newly tailored qing-lan robe. He walked slowly, as if treading on cotton—but beneath the haze, his mind was clear. He’d already rehearsed the opening chapter of the Classic of Filial Piety three times in silence.
Tang law was clear: all imperial sons, wise or simple, must begin formal study by age ten.
He had to be foolish—just foolish enough to live. But not so foolish that the Court of Imperial Clan would strike his name from the rolls.
Inside the Eastern Lecture Hall, charcoal braziers burned bright, yet failed to dispel the stale reek of ink, paper, and sweat. Desks were arranged by birth order; his seat sat farthest back, near the drafty window. Cold air seeped into his collar. He hunched his shoulders and sneezed—a loud, wet sound that drew glances.
At Chenzheng hour, Hanlin Academician Cui Gong took his place as chief examiner. Zhao Yan stood beside the side table, dressed in fresh robes, his smile gentle as spring water.
His gaze swept the room—then settled on Li Yi. Though his expression remained mild, his eyes stayed dark, almost grotesque in their intensity.
“Today’s topic,” Cui Gong intoned, voice resonant as an ancient bell, “is ‘On the Distinction Between Legitimate and Collateral Lines.’ Submit your essays before Shen hour. No deviations permitted.”
Li Yi’s heart sank.
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Legitimate as the sun, collateral as the moon—the prompt itself was a blade. To write “collateral lines must humble themselves” was self-abasement; to claim “even the moon may shine” was treasonous presumption.
He lifted his brush. His hand shook like a dead leaf in the wind.
On the page, crooked characters crawled forth:
“Your servant has heard: the legitimate is as the sun, the collateral as the moon. The moon dares not rival the sun’s radiance—it only gazes upward in reverence…”
Ugly script. Humble sentiment. Perfect for a simpleton.
After one line, Li Yi seemed to “realize” his mistake and smeared the page with clumsy corrections.
Outside, Wu hid behind the old scholar tree, nails digging into bark until her fingers bled—unfelt. She watched Li Yi’s trembling hand, Zhao Yan’s frequent glances, Cui Gong’s furrowed brow.
That morning, she’d tested him with scalding porridge—reassured, yet still terrified.
She wanted to burst in, scoop up that child, and whisper: Don’t write! Just faint!
But she couldn’t. She was a slave. Even her breath required permission.
And she dared not pray—if he collapsed, the imperial physicians would examine him, detect residual poison, and unravel her crime.
Then her son’s life would truly be forfeit.
Li Yi wrote with agonizing slowness, like a child holding a brush for the first time. After each stroke, he paused—as if counting how many breaths it took for the ink to dry.
Nearby, other princes’ companions whispered and smirked: “This fool should be home nursing, not scribbling.”
But Zhao Yan watched, eyes sharp, smile gone.
Now came the character chun—brush tip hovering above the paper.
Li Yi froze.
Chun—the late emperor’s personal name. By ritual taboo, the final stroke must be omitted as an act of reverence. But if he omitted it, he’d prove he knew the rule—which meant he wasn’t mad at all. Yesterday, Zhao Yan had instructed him: “Stretch the final stroke long, like a dragon’s tail trailing through clouds.” That was the respectful form—not the avoidant one.
Write it complete? Violate naming taboo—reprimand at best, punishment at worst.
Omit the stroke? Expose himself as sane—death sentence.
Stretch it? Both violation and exposure.
Sweat slid from his temple, landing on the page, blooming into a gray cloud.
He waited. Then, with a sudden jerk of the wrist, began to write.
At the same instant, he grinned broadly—drool splashing down with a soft plop right onto the half-formed chun.
His hand jolted. The brush veered—leaving the final stroke neither whole nor broken, but gnawed-looking, like a dragon’s tail chewed by worms. Damaged, yet ambiguous: natural decay or deliberate sabotage?
“The moon dares not…”
He continued, hand trembling more violently with each word, script growing sloppier, slower.
Only he knew: that drop of saliva had fallen exactly where he’d planned.
That stroke was a gamble with his life.
At early Shen hour, he set down his brush. Pushing the essay to the edge of the desk, he wiped his brow with his sleeve.
The effort had drained him—mind and body alike. Whether from exhaustion or fear, his forehead gleamed with fine beads of sweat.
Zhao Yan approached with a practiced smile. “Finished, Thirteenth Son? Let me tidy it for you.”
He picked up the paper. With his thumb, he rubbed lightly over the blank margin at the bottom—where no character had been written.
Li Yi’s pupils contracted.
Zhao Yan held no brush. His sleeve hadn’t moved. Yet slowly, like insects crawling, dark marks seeped into the paper, forming words:
“…thinking of this, I cannot sleep through the night.”
Saliva activated invisible ink—a trick common among street-corner litigants.
In the split second before Zhao Yan could slip the essay into the blackwood case, a voice tore through Li Yi’s skull like rending silk:
“Grab it back! He’s added the word ‘I’—‘zhen’! That’s imperial self-reference! Treason! Grab it—now!”
Li Yi wanted to lunge. To scream. To tear the paper to shreds.
But he was a fool. If he acted sane now, he’d seal his own doom.
So he grinned wider, drool glistening, and let Zhao Yan slide the essay into the case.
Outside, Wu closed her eyes. Tears fell.
She knew: what that box sealed wasn’t just an exam paper—it was her son’s fate.
And Li Yi, sitting in the draft, heard the click of the lid closing like the sound of his own coffin being shut.
Indeed—in these familiar brushes and inks he’d known since childhood, the deadliest blades were hidden.
Translator’s Note on Historical and Cultural Terms (Chapter 3 Additions)
Time and Examination Protocol
- Monthly examination for imperial sons: Held on the third day of each lunar month, these assessments were mandated by Tang statute for all princes aged ten and above, regardless of mental capacity. Performance—or perceived incapacity—directly affected stipends, titles, and surveillance levels.
- Mao hour (~5–7 a.m.) and
** Chenzheng hour ** (~8:30–9 a.m.): Subdivisions of the traditional double-hour system, marking key transitions in the palace daily cycle—dawn preparation and formal instruction.
Titles and Institutions
- Hanlin Academician (翰林學士, Hànlín Xuéshì): A high-ranking scholar-official serving in the Hanlin Academy, often tasked with drafting edicts, advising the emperor, and overseeing elite education. Their presence as examiner signaled the political weight of the session.
- Court of Imperial Clan (宗正寺, Zōngzhèng Sì): The bureau responsible for maintaining the imperial genealogy. Princes deemed “too simple” risked being struck from the rolls—effectively erased from dynastic legitimacy and support.
Ritual Taboo and Writing Practice
- Naming taboo (避諱, bìhuì): Upon an emperor’s death, his personal name became ritually inviolable. In writing, one must either omit a stroke, substitute a character, or leave a blank. Violation was sacrilege; knowing the rule implied sanity—dangerous for someone feigning madness.
- The late Emperor Xianzong’s personal name was Li Chun (李純). Thus, the character chun (純) required avoidance. Zhao Yan’s instruction to “stretch the final stroke” was a trap: it mimicked reverence but actually violated proper taboo practice, testing whether Li Yi would expose his literacy.
- Invisible ink activated by saliva: A known forensic trick in Tang legal culture. Plaintiffs sometimes used starch- or alum-based inks that appeared only when moistened—often by breath or spit—to insert hidden accusations. Its use here constitutes forged evidence of treason.
Language and Treason
- “Zhen” (朕): The exclusive first-person pronoun reserved for the emperor (“I, the Son of Heaven”). If Li Yi’s essay were found to contain this word—even if secretly added—it would constitute lèse-majesté, punishable by death. The horror lies not in what he wrote, but in what could be made to appear as his words.
Social and Psychological Nuance
- Qing-lan robe (青襴袍): The standard dark-blue hempen robe worn by low-ranking scholars and junior princes during study. Its “newly tailored” state hints at minimal court allowance—just enough to maintain appearances, not dignity.
- “Legitimate as the sun, collateral as the moon”: A Confucian metaphor reinforcing primogeniture. Legitimate sons (born of the empress or principal consort) were “solar”—central, radiant, rightful heirs. Collateral sons (like Li Yi, born of a concubine or servant) were “lunar”—derivative, subordinate, never to eclipse the sun. The exam prompt weaponizes this hierarchy.