“Brother Yanshan… what happened to your face?”
Song Qingqing started in alarm as Gu Yanshan entered, a vivid palm‑print stamped clear upon his cheek. Her great, limpid eyes filled instantly with tears.
Gu Yanshan shook his head and took her hand in his. Song Qingqing bowed her head, blushing deep rose but did not pull her hand away.
The next moment, however, as Gu Yanshan poured out the whole tale, her smile froze upon her face.
“Qingqing… my father has spoken, and will hear no other. I… I have failed you.” He could not give her the rank of principal wife nor the grand, honorable betrothal gifts that should have been theirs.
Song Qingqing shook her head gently. “It does not matter, Brother Yanshan. I know my uncle dislikes me. He thinks I am not worthy of you… How I envy the lady chosen for you. To be granted to you by imperial decree what honor, what standing she holds.”
Her words struck a spark. Gu Yanshan started, eyes blazing with sudden resolve. “Qingqing who says you may not have an imperial decree of your own? I shall petition the Emperor! I shall ask him to bestow one, naming you my noble concubine. Then, though this Lady Zhou crosses my threshold, she shall never dare mistreat you!”
A flash of bright joy flared deep in Song Qingqing’s gaze. She looked up at him, eyes glistening with gratitude and then feigned hesitation. “Brother Yanshan… you are too good to me. Your heart is all I ever truly needed. But if my uncle learned you traded your battlefield merit for such a decree… he would be furious beyond measure.”
Gu Yanshan laughed, proud and unyielding. “My merit was bought with blood and life itself! Shall I need his leave to lay an imperial honor at the feet of the woman I love? Did he not, without asking me, choose and betroth a wife I never sought?”
At the Prefect’s Manor
Zhou Ze read the dispatch brought in by his scouts and his face blanched white with rage. He breathed slow and deep, striving for calm, yet in the end could not withhold the letter from his father.
“Outrageous! The boy Gu Yanshan he dares push us too far!”
Lord Zhou gripped the letter, half‑mad with fury. He longed to march upon the capital with blade in hand and strike the insolent youth dead. A daughter left in widowhood would be a thousand times better fate than marriage to such a man.
“Does Gu Wu not rule his own son? How could he suffer him to enter the palace and come away with that decree? Trading war‑won merit for an imperial writ of concubinage! What will all under Heaven think of my Du’er?”
Lord Zhou paced the study in a frenzy, sight dimming with every turn.
Zhou Ze gave a cold, bitter laugh. “You have not heard the half of it, Father. At first Gu Yanshan sought even to have Song Qingqing enter the house on the very same day as Du’er. Surely even the Emperor thought it too scandalous to bear and refused.”
Lord Zhou groaned. “Gu Yanshan has earned merit; the Emperor must reward him. Treasure, rank, lands all might have been given. Instead the Emperor saves his coffers and my Du’er bears the burden.”
When Zhou Du learned what had passed, she showed no sign of distress. She only found the whole affair faintly, dryly amusing. “They are exactly the hero and heroine in those storybooks, are they not? And I am the wicked interloper standing in their way.” She laughed softly, genuinely tickled by the thought.
Her mother wept to see her smile so hollowly. “Du’er… your heart is breaking. Do not bear it so bravely weep, child. Weep here, where you are safe.”
Zhou Du blinked, perplexed. Why would none of them believe her when she said she truly did not care?
She sighed, and smoothed her expression into calm composure. “Mother remember this: I enter that house as its Principal Wife and Matriarch. Why should I envy or contend with a concubine? However high Song Qingqing may stand, she shall never rise above me. I shall simply live my life, within my own doors, and trouble myself with none of it.”
Lady Zhou fell silent, humbled. It seemed her daughter saw farther and clearer than she did, even now.
“No! Then I shall double your dowry! If they dare mistreat you smother them under gold and silver until they learn to bow to you!”
Why reward them with riches? Zhou Du thought to herself, but held her tongue.
“Mother, the dowry is already more than generous. If you add further still, I fear when Brother marries, there will be nothing left for his betrothal gifts.” Zhou Du spoke in gentle earnest.
The Zhou house was a clan centuries old. Even doubling what had already been prepared would scarce strain their vaults. Yet the late Empress’s dowry had numbered but one hundred and eighty‑eight chests. As a subject’s daughter, Zhou Du could not in propriety exceed the imperial standard. One hundred and twenty chests were therefore settled upon each filled with the rarest, costliest treasures, not a single item mere ornament. In true worth, her dowry surpassed even the Empress’s: a procession of wealth stretching miles, fit for a princess.
Lady Zhou tapped her forehead fondly. “Smooth‑tongued child you know exactly how to coax a smile from your old mother.”
As they laughed together, a maid entered. “Mistress, Young Lady General Wen and Lady Wen have arrived.”
Lady Zhou took Zhou Du’s hand who stood frozen, breath caught and drew her forward. “Come. Let us go and greet them. Your Uncle and Aunt Wen love you dearly, and have been wild with worry.”
“Du’er has grown more beautiful than ever!” Lady Wen stepped forward, clasping Zhou Du’s hands and gazing upon her with eyes that drank in every line of her face.
Zhou Du’s eyes swam with sudden, luminous tears. “Aunt Wen…”
“Dear child… we have come to add our own offering to your dowry,” Lady Wen said gently, smiling through misty eyes.
General Wen motioned forward his attendant, who unrolled and read aloud a scroll of gifts so long and rich it would have sufficed as a princely betrothal in its own right.
Zhou Du stepped back, dismayed. “Aunt this is too much. I cannot possibly accept…”
Lady Wen pressed her hand tenderly, her voice trembling. “Before A‑Zhao marched away… he left word. If he returned alive, these were to be his betrothal gifts to you. If he did not… then they should be given to you, to grace your dowry and stand in his place beside you.”
“Du’er… I have always loved you as my own daughter. It was not to be our A‑Zhao was not so blessed. Yet I beg you: take these things. Let them stand as proof of the love he bore you. Do not cast his heart aside… I beg you.”
Think of it as though he had wed you. Would you not keep what is yours?
Zhou Du had thought her tears long since spent. Yet at their kindness, their grief, their quiet love her throat tightened, and tears spilled over after all, hot and sudden.
“Do not weep, my sweet child. Your Uncle and I have one more request one we must ask of you, and of your father and mother.”
Lady Zhou, smiling through her own tears, waved them on. “Our families have stood as one for generations. Speak freely what need have we of ceremony?”
General and Lady Wen exchanged a glance. “We have always longed for a daughter. You are bright, and beautiful, and dear to us. If we may not claim you as our son’s bride… might we claim you as our own beloved goddaughter?”
Lady Zhou laughed aloud. “So that is it! All this circling and soft words you have come to steal my daughter away!”
“And if I have?” Lady Wen retorted, feigning haughty defiance. “Shall I be suffered to carry her off?”
“Carry her off and welcome!” Lady Zhou cried. “That my Du’er should have two more who love her as their own what greater joy could I ask?”
That very evening, the Zhou household prepared a great feast. Amid joy and solemn ceremony, Zhou Du bowed before General and Lady Wen, and swore herself their goddaughter.
Half a thousand miles away, in the Imperial Palace of the Kingdom of Qiyang
“Aaah !”
A man writhed upon the floor, clutching his head in agony, body curled tight as a bow. Great beads of sweat poured down his brow. His tunic hung torn open, revealing a physique of breathtaking strength and grace skin bronzed and glistening, a statue come to life. Yet no one in that chamber had eyes for such beauty now.
“A‑Zhao… what is it? The pain again? Please please do not hurt yourself!” A lady of surpassing beauty rushed toward him, heart breaking to see him suffer. She longed to gather him into her arms.
“Princess, stand back! He strikes blindly in his madness you shall be harmed!” Her handmaidens barred her way.
“Stand aside all of you!” The Princess flung them off. “A‑Zhao is mine! I saved him! He would never harm me! If he perishes then I shall not live either!”
She fell to her knees beside him, and drew his head gently to her breast, whispering soft words of comfort. Slowly his convulsions eased. He lay still, eyes closed, murmuring something faint and broken.
“A‑Zhao? What do you say?” She leaned close, straining to catch the words. Only one name drifted through: A‑Du.
To another, the syllables might mean nothing. But the Princess knew. He was beginning to remember.
Jealousy, sharp and bitter, rose within her breast. She had given him life, shelter, and every care for months on end. Could such devotion could she ever weigh equal to the Lady Zhou Du, who lived only in the memory of a man far away?
It must be so, she told herself. For she was not of this world. She had crossed from another realm, and knew every turn of the tale. In the logic of this story, did she not hold precedence over every character written upon its pages? Zhou Du was but ink upon paper a shadow. She, the Princess, was flesh and blood, and she would not be cast aside.