Chapter Fifty-Seven: By the Yi River, She Waits

Quan Ce reclined by the window of a painted barge on the Yi River, the red lantern beside him casting a rosy glow over his cheeks, lending his features a dreamy, elegant allure.

Festivities continued until dawn, and though the hall was filled with music and dance, there were no professional singers or dancers. Wu Youji played the guzheng with deep devotion, his entire being moving with the rhythm of his nimble fingers. The melodic strains of the instrument floated through the air, his hair slightly disheveled and half-veiling his face, his concentration lending him a magnetic charm. Lady Ruilai, his wife, danced about him, her movements graceful and spirited, her face as lovely as a painting, her eyes deep and enchanting as misty waters. There was little of the common world’s vulgarity in her; instead, there was a tender, lingering affection.

Fuqu sang aloud, her red lips opening and closing as she articulated each word with care, cherishing the lyrics all the more because they were composed by the man she loved.

Quan Ce, arms folded across his chest, leaned against the window lattice, quietly admiring the splendid scene before him until his vision grew hazy.

“You are far too rude, my lord,” Lady Ruilai suddenly chided in playful reproach, “We have exerted ourselves with all our hearts, yet your spirit has wandered away. If you do not show proper appreciation, even for Fuqu’s sake, I cannot let you off easily.”

Quan Ce hurriedly offered a string of apologies and deftly changed the subject. “Uncle, your guzheng playing is truly otherworldly. It makes one forget both self and surroundings, as if lost in an immortal’s realm.”

Wu Youji laughed with pride and waved a hand. “Your praise embarrasses me, but do not think to drag me into this. If your aunt means to punish you, I am powerless to help.”

Quan Ce’s smile faded as he raised his cup in a toast. “Uncle, what brings you to Chang’an this time? If it is a private matter, do not feel compelled to answer.”

“It is not official business, there’s no harm in saying.” Wu Youji drained his cup in one swallow. “The Empress misses her daughter and has sent me to escort Her Highness Princess Taiping to the Eastern Capital. It seems the Empress plans to reside there for a time.” His voice dropped for the final words.

Quan Ce’s face did not relax; instead, a profound sadness clouded his expression.

With Empress Wu on the verge of ascending the throne, all was in a flurry of preparation. Uniting the Wu and Li families was the only way to lessen bloodshed. Once enthroned, the Wu family’s power would inevitably surge, and reprisals against the Li family were only to be expected. The Empress would first protect her only beloved daughter with every safeguard, then arrange a marriage within the Wu clan—an advantageous move, low in cost. Princess Taiping adored music, and Wu Youji happened to be skilled in this art; this journey to escort her was likely meant to endear him to the princess.

Thus, the tides of power and private sentiment intertwined to create a destined union.

But what of Lady Ruilai?

The histories and rumors of the Tang dynasty wrote of it with feverish gossip: “He killed his wife to marry another.” Just seven words, yet to Quan Ce, they dripped with blood and cruelty. Wu Youji and his wife were deeply devoted, yet now their love had become a death sentence, and soon a gentle soul would be lost forever.

He drew a long, quiet sigh, his heart heavy with desolation. What did it matter that he understood? There was nothing he could do.

“My lord, you are most unusual tonight. Has something happened?” Lady Ruilai approached, gently touching his arm, her eyes full of concern.

The sound of hooves echoed along the road by the Yi River, crisp and clear. At the forefront rode a man in white—white robe, white horse—strikingly conspicuous at dawn.

“It’s nothing,” Quan Ce said, gently grasping Lady Ruilai’s hand with a pleading look. “I have come upon a fine phrase. Would Aunt dance for me once more?”

A flush rose to Lady Ruilai’s delicate cheeks and she gave him a playful slap. “Very well, but first recite it. If the poetry is lacking, I will not dance.”

Quan Ce smiled faintly.

The guzheng began anew, Fuqu singing in falsetto, brimming with heroic spirit. The tenderness in her eyes wrapped around Quan Ce, who stood by the window, never leaving him even for a moment.

“Zhao’s guest wears a trailing Hu plume,
The Wu sword gleams with frosty light.
A silver saddle glints on a white horse,
Dashing swift as a shooting star.
Within ten steps, a man is slain,
A thousand miles, no trace remains.
When the deed is done, he brushes off his robe,
Hiding his name and form from fame.”

Lady Ruilai’s dance was bold and sweeping, her movements fierce and unrestrained, brimming with passion and turmoil.

The door creaked open; standing outside was Hou Sizhi, dressed in white.

The trio of performers, immersed in their art, did not pause. Quan Ce did not move but gestured for Hou Sizhi to enter.

Hou Sizhi entered with an easy air, sitting cross-legged before the table. After hearing a few lines, he was utterly absorbed.

When the music and dance ended, Wu Youji’s expression darkened. He had sensed something amiss with Quan Ce tonight; now it was clear he had been waiting for this uninvited guest. “Censor Hou, what brings you here?”

Hou Sizhi merely shrugged in silence and looked at Quan Ce. This was akin to a family gathering; knowing his own temperament, he would likely keep certain things unsaid.

“Uncle, I have some business to attend to with Censor Hou,” Quan Ce said with gratitude in his eyes as he glanced at Hou Sizhi. He bowed to Wu Youji and, before leaving, looked at Fuqu. “Fuqu, I entrust you to Uncle’s care.”

Wu Youji’s face was grim, silent. Lady Ruilai came forward, her voice trembling. “Do not worry, my dear. I will look after Fuqu. Go, and return soon.”

Quan Ce nodded, but as he moved to leave, his sleeve was gripped tightly. Fuqu’s fair face was filled with panic, tears brimming in her eyes as she shook her head.

Quan Ce gave her a bright smile, gently smoothed the hair at her temple, held her hand, and slowly disentangled her grip from his sleeve. He moved his lips as if to speak, but no words came. He turned and left, leaving her sobbing in his wake.

On the riverbank, black-clad officials stood in dense ranks, solemn and unmoving. Quan Ce, in his light robe and sash, stood among them.

Hou Sizhi led over a horse for him and asked, “What is the name of that poem you just recited?”

“Song of the Swordsman.”

“Swordsman? Such a title is beyond my reach,” Hou Sizhi said self-deprecatingly, producing a set of shackles. Quan Ce extended his hands without protest as the irons were locked on. “A man like you has no need for restraints, but perhaps, for now, it is better this way.”

Two black-clad officials helped him onto the horse. He and Hou Sizhi rode side by side, surrounded on all sides by black uniforms, as if in the realm of ghosts.

“Do you know whom you killed?” Hou Sizhi seemed eager to converse.

Quan Ce laughed. “I spent the night on the barge. I killed no one.”

Hou Sizhi shook his head in amusement and let the matter drop. “The man was Xu Jingzhen, younger brother of Xu Jingye of Yangzhou. Do you know where he was headed?”

Quan Ce’s face changed drastically, his body swaying so much he nearly fell from his horse, his mind unable to think.

Hou Sizhi was pleased with the reaction. “He was heading to the Turks to seek military aid against the Central Plain… His contact grew impatient, and when he didn’t arrive, rashly broke into the Langqiong embassy, where they were all seized at once.”

Quan Ce’s face turned ashen. In that moment, he thought that the members of the Li family, his own father Quan Yi included, were more detestable than Empress Wu herself.

“In truth, you covered your tracks well. There is no evidence regarding your father’s affairs; you only sent men to conduct some business. The punishment should not be too severe,” Hou Sizhi said, shaking his head with unusual candor. The officer leading the horse glanced at him in surprise; this was not the cold-hearted “White Impermanence” of reputation.

Quan Ce managed a weary smile. “Erasing evidence is merely human effort. For people like us, life and death are never in our own hands.”

Hou Sizhi’s face grew solemn, and he fell silent.

Their conversation ended abruptly.

As dawn broke over Luoyang, hundreds of black-clad officials escorted a young prisoner on horseback through the city, his body shackled for all to see.

“Isn’t that the Thousand Riders General?” someone exclaimed.

In an instant, the news swept through all of Luoyang.