The snow had stopped. Thin ice glazed the blue bricks of the western wing—silent underfoot, yet biting cold. Melt from the eaves dripped onto the stone steps, shattering into finer crystals.
Li Yi, Prince Guang just past ten, crouched under the veranda, poking a frozen insect in the stone crevice with a dry twig. The bug’s body was hard as iron, antennae curled tight—eerily like the ink smudge on that exam scroll: black, cold, motionless, yet enough to chill the spine.
Since returning from Baqing Temple, he hadn’t spoken unless spoken to. Not because he couldn’t—but because he dared not. Words, once spoken, couldn’t be unsaid; characters, once written, couldn’t be erased. Better to be a frozen insect—lifeless things weren’t interrogated.
Wu entered with medicine. Seeing his fingertips purple with cold, she murmured, “Ayi, come inside.”
He looked up, eyes blank as misted glass: “Father said… when bugs wake, the crows come.”
Wu’s heart eased. These past days, his speech had been perfectly childish—even his sleep-talking looped the same nursery rhyme: “Little moon, too dim to shine…” No slips. Palace Attendant Cui hadn’t summoned him again. Her son’s fever had broken; last night, he’d eaten half a bowl of congee.
She set down the medicine bowl, her glance brushing his sleeve.
Last night, on watch outside his room, she’d peered through the curtain gap and seen him curled in the corner, fingers moving swiftly across his palm—light, frantic, as if copying something. She’d held her breath, listening—but heard no sound.
A true fool only grinds his teeth at night. He doesn’t write.
She didn’t ask. Better to stir nothing. With tensions this high, why invite trouble?
She only prayed this storm would pass—so he could keep playing the fool, and she could keep living.
At the third quarter of Si hour, a eunuch arrived with fresh charcoal. His boots crunched the thin ice as he stirred the brazier, chatting idly: “Heard the new Hanlin Academician, Li Deyu—son of Chancellor Li—was sorting his late father’s old Dongdu archives. Saw an entry under the Guang Prince’s name: ‘Yuanhe 6th year: eyes dull, failed to recognize kin; mouth mute, unable to speak.’ He sighed and said, ‘If this child isn’t Heaven-abandoned, he’ll be the empire’s greatest peril.’”
Li Yi, fiddling with a scrap of kite paper, jerked at the words. The edge pricked his finger. A bead of blood welled—vermilion as cinnabar. He grinned: “Red bug! Red bug crawling on paper!”
The eunuch shook his head, muttering “Poor soul,” and left.
Once alone, Li Yi’s smile faded like frost blown away by wind.
Yuanhe sixth year—he’d just turned six, living with his mother in Jishan Ward, Luoyang. That winter, Li Jifu, then Military Governor of the Eastern Capital, had inspected imperial clansmen by imperial order. Li Yi remembered him standing in the courtyard, gaze sharp as a blade.
Now Li Deyu believed that record—and assumed he’d always be a useless idiot.
But he knew he wasn’t useless. What he didn’t know was that he was already prey—and hunters were closing in, one by one.
At noon, the old monk from Baqing Temple visited, snow still clinging to his kasaya. He handed over a new kite—fresh bamboo frame, repainted paper. “His Highness the Zhang Prince saw your kite was torn. He ordered this humble monk to mend it and return it.”
On the kite, the ink-crow spread its wings, feathers bold as splashed ink. Beneath its claws, a new line of tiny script:
“Is the snow before the tomb warm enough?”
Li Yi took it, beaming foolishly: “Crows carry Father! Warm! Warm!”
The monk bowed, eyes lowered. “Your filial devotion moves heaven. The late emperor surely sees and rejoices.” He turned and walked away.
As soon as he was gone, Li Yi tore the kite to pieces and tossed it into the brazier. Flames licked upward; the crow turned to ash. The little script twisted in the fire, then vanished—like a silent warning.
Jingling lay eighty li away—where Emperor Xianzong rested. Last year, Li Yi had accompanied the ancestral rites. Snow reached his knees. Prince Zhang, Li Cou, had walked beside him the whole way, brushing snow from his shoulders, saying gently: “Don’t be afraid, Thirteenth Son. Father watches from above.”
Now Prince Zhang asked, “Is the snow before the tomb warm?”—testing whether he remembered that day. If he answered “I remember,” he proved he was sane. If he said “I don’t know,” he confirmed he was truly witless.
Either reply would trap him.
Late that night, abdominal pain returned—knives twisting in his gut. Curled on the pallet, drenched in cold sweat, he finally whispered: “Will Li Deyu investigate me?”
A voice brushed past, swift and low: “He once memorialized: ‘Many imperial princes are fraudulently enrolled. They should be purged.’”
Li Yi closed his eyes. His finger traced a single character on the bed mat—not zhen, not his name, but: hide. He had to bury himself deeper. No dream-speech. No tears.
After a long silence, he asked softly: “Can Prince Zhang be trusted?”
Li Ke’s reply came urgent: “Years from now, he’ll be falsely accused of rebellion—and forced to die.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Then—silence. No matter how he called, nothing answered.
Since returning from Baqing Temple on the third, Li Yi had kept summoning that voice. At first from fear, then testing, then dependence. He’d asked: Who are you? Why help me? Will I die? Rarely did it reply.
Seven days of this taught him the rules: —it claimed to foresee the future; —it spoke only twice a day; —or only when his life hung in the balance.
Otherwise, no matter how he pleaded, consciousness echoed back only emptiness. Like Chang’an’s spring nights—seeming mild, yet cold to the bone.
Li Yi buried his face in his arms. He understood now: Prince Zhang wasn’t concerned for him. He was looking for a fool to take the blame—a pawn whose death drew no questions, whose madness raised no suspicion.
On the morning of the eleventh, Palace Attendant Cui carried the spring clothing register toward the Eunuch Bureau. At the corridor bend, she froze at a sharp shout.
An inner-chamber chief was yanking a young eunuch’s ear: “…Zhao Yan’s been dead seven days, and we still can’t trace his rented room or sworn kin! When Her Majesty asks, do you want to keep your head? A commoner wouldn’t dare tamper with a prince’s exam—unless someone ordered him!”
The boy trembled like a sieve. “…Only found he often went to Baqing Temple…”
“Baqing Temple?! That’s where the Empress Dowager worships! You idiot!”
Cui stood rooted, the register nearly crushed in her grip.
—Prince Guang. —Someone behind the scenes.
She’d seen Zhao Yan at Baqing Temple just days ago—he’d reported the “crow omen” and filed notice with the duty eunuchs. At the time, she felt safe.
But if the Eunuch Bureau had searched this long and found nothing… what did that mean?
It meant the person behind Zhao Yan could erase trails right under their noses. And if they wanted to divert suspicion—they’d point straight at Prince Guang.
She remembered half a moon ago, ordering Wu to add medicine to the porridge—to make the prince “more convincingly mad.” She’d promised: If he’s thoroughly foolish, no one will question it. Your son lives.
But now—if the Empress Dowager suspected someone was manipulating imperial blood… Cui herself would be first to die. To control a prince was treason.
At You hour, Cui summoned Wu.
The side hall held no brazier—cold as an ice cellar. Cui cradled a hand-warmer, but her eyes were colder than frost.
“Zhao Yan’s been dead seven days. They’re still hunting who sent him.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “This morning, the Eunuch Bureau said—if they trace it to the Guang Prince, you and I are accomplices.”
Wu’s face drained of color. Her nails dug into her palms, but she didn’t flinch.
“Your son coughed blood this morning. The physicians say it’s consumption.” Cui pushed a cup of cold tea across the table. “If the Guang Prince is truly witless, I’ll save your boy. If he’s pretending…” She paused, gaze needle-sharp. “Then you and I must be very careful.”
“Starting tonight, you sleep in his outer chamber. If he reads, recites classics, or whispers to anyone in the dark—you report it to me at once.”
She locked eyes with Wu, syllable by syllable: “Real fools don’t talk in their sleep.”
At Xu hour, Li Yi sat alone by the window.
Snow began again—fine as salt grains. It landed in his palm and melted instantly, leaving a damp spot like a tear.
He stared at it, suddenly remembering the day of Father’s burial. Snow just like this. He hadn’t cried—they called him “heartless fool.” Now, if he wept, they’d say, “Ah—the act slips.”
Outside, Wu swept snow with a bamboo broom, the bristles scraping softly against stone. “Is Your Highness cold?” she asked quietly.
Li Yi turned. For one fleeting instant, his eyes were clear—then clouded again. “Granny said… spring snow isn’t cold. People’s hearts are.”
Wu’s pulse jumped. That didn’t sound like a fool’s words. She bent lower, sweeping harder, gripping the broom tighter.
Far off, Prince Zhang’s carriage rolled past the palace wall. The curtain lifted slightly—as if glancing back at the western wing. Hooves trod the snow without sound, yet each step pressed like a weight upon the chest.
Spring in Chang’an was never warm. The snow melted. The ice thawed. But the cold in people’s hearts—had only just begun.
Translator’s Note on Historical and Cultural Terms: Chapter Five Additions
Time and Setting
- Chen hour (~7–9 a.m.) / Si hour (~9–11 a.m.) / You hour (~5–7 p.m.): The Tang day was divided into twelve double-hours, each named after an earthly branch. Official activity—lessons, audiences, deliveries—followed this rhythm. Chen marked the start of court business; Si was mid-morning administrative time; You signaled the close of official duties. The timing of events (e.g., charcoal delivery at Si, summons at You) subtly underscores surveillance: even mundane routines occur under watchful eyes.
Bureaucratic Surveillance and Archival Power
- “Yuanhe sixth year: eyes dull, failed to recognize kin…”: Imperial clansmen were subject to periodic evaluations recorded in the Zongzhengsi (Court of the Imperial Clan) archives. A diagnosis of cognitive impairment—especially if entered during a high-profile inspection by a senior official like Li Jifu—became permanent bureaucratic fact. Li Deyu’s access to this record shows how archival notation could freeze a prince’s identity for life, regardless of actual capacity. The phrase “Heaven-abandoned or empire’s peril” reflects a real Tang elite anxiety: the mad prince as either divine punishment or latent threat.
Social Hierarchy and Spatial Control
- Sleeping in the outer chamber (外间): In palace quarters, the “outer room” separated servants from their charges. For Wu—a wet nurse—to be ordered back into the outer chamber of the Guang Prince’s suite is both a demotion and a trap. It revokes her informal privacy while placing her under implicit surveillance: her loyalty is now measured by her willingness to betray the boy she raised. This mirrors Tang palace practice where caregivers were routinely used as informants—and punished if their wards “recovered.”
Medical and Moral Ambiguity
- Consumption (肺痨, fèiláo): Tuberculosis was untreatable and highly stigmatized. By linking Wu’s son’s illness to her compliance (“If he’s truly witless, I’ll save your boy”), Cui weaponizes disease as leverage. In Confucian ethics, a mother’s duty to her child outweighed all other loyalties—making this threat devastatingly effective. The cold tea offered during the conversation is not hospitality but ritual humiliation: hot tea would imply respect; cold tea signals conditional mercy.
Symbolic Communication and Political Testing
- “Is the snow before the tomb warm enough?”: Tombs of emperors (here, Jingling, burial place of Xianzong) were sites of intense political memory. To inquire about the temperature of snow there is not meteorological—it’s a veiled probe about emotional continuity. Does the prince still grieve? Does he remember his father’s death? Prince Zhang’s question forces Li Yi into a performative bind: filial remembrance proves sanity; indifference proves idiocy. Either way, the response reveals something usable.
Institutional Erasure and Hidden Hands
- “Can’t trace his rented room or sworn kin”: In Tang Chang’an, even low-level clerks like Zhao Yan left paper trails—lease contracts, registry entries for god-kin (干亲). The fact that these vanish implies intervention by someone with access to the Eunuch Bureau’s internal records or metropolitan prefecture files. Such erasure wasn’t just concealment; it was a display of power: the ability to make a person’s entire social footprint disappear signaled proximity to the throne itself.
Seasonal Metaphor and Emotional Climate
- “Spring snow isn’t cold. People’s hearts are.”: While echoing Chapter Four’s “Spring in Chang’an was never warm,” this line sharpens the metaphor. Spring snow melts quickly—it’s transient, natural. Human cruelty, however, is deliberate and enduring. The inversion (“snow isn’t cold”) destabilizes expectation, mirroring Li Yi’s precarious act: even his “mad” utterances now carry dangerous lucidity. That Wu recognizes this suggests the performance is fraying—and the cost of maintaining it grows hourly.