Chapter 103: Collision

Within the three inner courts of the Tang Dynasty palace, the Taiji Palace was always renowned as the principal “Inner Court” of the legitimate dynasty. However, since the emperor favored residing in the “Southern Inner Court,” he would only visit Taiji Palace on rare occasions, such as major festivals, sacrificial ceremonies, or when receiving tribute captives, as its courtyard was far more spacious.

Traditionally, a cluster of buildings to the east of Taiji Palace held a very special status. This complex once served as the residence of Emperor Taizong, Li Shimin, and Emperor Gaozong, Li Zhi, before they ascended the throne. Its origins even traced back to Emperor Yang Guang of the previous Sui Dynasty.

This was the “Eastern Palace,” exclusively designated for the crown prince’s residence, upbringing, and administrative duties.

Of course, before these three illustrious emperors, other notable figures had also resided there: the deposed Crown Prince Yang Yong of the former Sui, Li Jiancheng during the Wude era, Li Chengqian of the Zhenguan reign, as well as Li Hong, Li Xian, and Li Xian of the Gaozong era, including the current emperor’s father, Li Dan.

Perhaps for Li Longji, the time his father spent in the Eastern Palace was not a pleasant memory. Thus, after inheriting this perilous position himself, he broke from tradition and refused to live there, opting instead for a residence in Xingqing Ward. Upon ascending the throne, he expanded it further, transforming it into Xingqing Palace.

Naturally, this meant that his own crown prince would also be relocated. Not only did this change the residence, but the system itself was overhauled, significantly curtailing the crown prince’s staff and authority.

Previously, the crown prince wielded a full complement of government offices, rivaling those of the court itself. Even the military under his command was vast, comprising the Left and Right Guards, the Left and Right Commanders of the Imperial Escort, the Left and Right Patrol Units, the Left and Right Gatekeepers, and the Left and Right Inner Commanders—expanding from the original “Six Commands” to “Ten Commands.”

How could such a crown prince not provoke the ruler’s jealousy?

In the eleventh year of the Tianbao era, during the fifth month, for Crown Prince Li Heng, who had never taken up residence in the Eastern Palace, the situation reached its nadir before a glimmer of hope emerged.

His elder brother, the legally most threatening eldest son Li Cong, had passed away.

Since the current emperor’s only empress bore no children, and after her deposition in the twelfth year of the Kaiyuan reign no new empress had been appointed, the emperor’s thirty sons no longer had distinctions between legitimate and concubine-born. By seniority, Li Heng ranked third, with two elder brothers ahead of him. At the time, the emperor’s second son Li Ying’s mother, Consort Zhao, was in favor, and since the eldest son had been injured during a hunting expedition, Li Heng became the primary candidate for crown prince.

This position he held for a full twenty-three years.

History shows that being a crown prince who outlives many is perilous indeed. Like the Crown Prince Wei of the Former Han, suspicion from the sovereign and self-doubt could drive a man mad.

Moreover, in the Tang Dynasty, the fate of the first crown prince was seldom fortunate. Li Ying, for example, suffered disgrace, demotion, and ultimately death.

Li Heng’s feelings toward his elder brother, who was five years his senior, were complicated. As princes, none wished to remain stagnant, yet none ranked significantly beneath the other. Why should one reign and the other serve? But the bloody storms within the palace rendered this path thorny and perilous.

When the crown prince’s mantle unexpectedly fell upon him, he no longer remembered if there had been any joy, for what followed was the same relentless torment endured by his brother—fifteen years of it.

“Rites concluded, rise!”

A sharp palace attendant’s voice roused him from his trance. Before him fluttered countless white banners. Li Cong, recently deceased and posthumously honored as Crown Prince Jingde, lay peacefully in his coffin. He was interred with full crown prince honors beside the Wei River, in the legendary site once garrisoned by Zhou Yafu.

Xiliuyuan.

On his face was a measured sorrow—not overly proud, nor insincere. Acting on behalf of heaven, the officials paid their respects, embodying a somber dignity. The crown prince, as lead mourner, appeared humble, benevolent, even somewhat self-effacing to the assembled ministers.

Though just over forty, his back was slightly stooped—a habit born of years under immense pressure, forging his spirit both tough and keen. In a brief moment, he noticed something unusual.

Among the attending ministers, the all-powerful chancellor was absent.

Unexpectedly, this brought Li Heng a measure of relief. For fifteen years, the name Li Linfu had hung like a dark cloud overhead. Even without sharing the same space, Li Heng felt as if the very air had cleared.

This was highly unusual. Everyone knew the chancellor held sway over all court affairs and would never miss such an opportunity. So why, on this mild May day by the Wei River, when the city was alive with people enjoying outings, was he absent?

“Rumor has it, Chancellor Li is ill. In the past seven days, the imperial physicians have been summoned twice. High Official Gao has personally visited his residence, and the emperor has sent medicine without pause. Some say he is close to being bedridden.”

A voice whispered in Li Heng’s ear: Cheng Yuanzhen, a palace attendant who had long served in the court and had been assigned to the crown prince’s household before Li Heng’s elevation.

Li Heng’s face retained its sorrowful expression. Such news was unsurprising—the old man was nearly seventy. Yet each time the court thought him down for good, disappointment followed when he returned to strike lethal blows in the halls of power.

After the last official saluted and departed, only Li Heng’s trusted aides remained. He maintained the same expression—acting a role he had played for decades. Even a façade can become reality, subtly influencing the mind.

Gazing upon the newly carved stone horses and men, an authentic mourning welled within him. His brother’s life had been free of disaster and hardship, enjoying nearly the longest era of peace in Tang history, without burden or pressure.

What of himself? His path seemed endless. How much farther must he walk?

“Let us go.” He prepared to depart with his attendants and guards, but an unexpected group blocked their path. The right Yulin Guard’s captain tensed, ready to draw weapons.

For these newcomers were all foreigners—Tibetans!

Everyone knew the two nations were at war. At such a time, even emissaries could not move about freely. Who could guess their intentions? If any disturbance arose in the capital, frightening the crown prince behind them, how many heads would roll?

Fortunately, the Tibetan party numbered only some twenty horsemen, while Tang cavalry exceeded a thousand. Yet no one dared be careless, for these were not seasoned border troops.

“Boldly obstructing the crown prince’s carriage! Dismount at once!” The captain’s hand rested on his sword hilt as cavalry formed a protective line, tension mounting.

“Do not attack—we are Tibetan envoys!”

Their leader approached, slowing his horse and raising both hands to show he bore no weapons. Following his lead, the others mirrored the gesture, pressing forward on foot yet undeterred by the Tang formation.

“Go see.” Li Heng ordered. Cheng Yuanzhen nodded and passed through the ranks to the captain’s side.

“What’s the matter?”

“They claim to be Tibetan envoys,” the captain said, eyes locked warily on their leader.

“We indeed are Tibetan emissaries, bearing a royal letter as proof. We reside at your relay station,” the Tibetan leader dismounted and bowed to Cheng Yuanzhen, who wore the palace attendant’s attire.

Cheng glanced at the purported royal letter. Though it bore the Ministry of Rites’ seal, it lacked higher-level endorsements—such as from the chancellors—indicating they had yet to receive formal court audiences, let alone an imperial audience.

Their intentions, therefore, were intriguing indeed.