Each emperor brought great change to Shanhe. The first established the new kingdom, the second nurtured it, the third caused poverty, the fourth grew greedy and the fifth, Hong Weishan, became bloodthirsty for war. Looking at this progression, Cheng feared the new emperor. Huli had been nurtured to bring war, his father endlessly discussing it and making preparations to attack Linlong. Despite his lack of training in fighting, Huli anticipated the bloodshed. That malicious glint in his eyes scared Cheng, who could not reason with the boy like he had with his father.
The new emperor depended on no one. He saw Cheng as a foolish uncle rather than an advisor, his future wife as a toy, not an ally, and councilmen as loyal dogs instead of men with greater insight to the kingdom. Huli’s rein would bring chaos and, Cheng predicted, be short-lived. An impulsive ruler would get slain in a few years. He already acted based on his own rivalry and feelings, firing Joaolong from a minister position without recognising the consequence. He did not consider the commoners clever enough to connect the sudden poverty and Joaolong’s absence, nor acknowledge the shift in respect. This foolishness vexed Cheng. However, it wasn’t the advisor’s only problem that had arisen.
The Fox kept leaving tokens in Cheng’s chambers. The variety of sizes and wood had a hidden meaning, whether it referred to secrets or false identities remained a mystery. It boggled Cheng. Sleep failed him under their watchful, warning eyes peeking from around the room. Whenever he hid one, another appeared but he could not leave them in the open. He continuously stashed them in a hidden draw until it overflowed with tokens. Each came message-less yet Cheng could hear the Fox taunting him over his past, about his acts and especially Bai Juan’s death. These were ominous signs.
The only relief came from leaving the palace. The air smelled sweeter in Yinying Yueguang and helped Cheng forget his dire situation that circulated around Huli, Fox and Joaolong, who still blackmailed him relentlessly. People bumped into each other and frantically prepared for the upcoming celebrations. The Moon Festival was one of Shanhe’s most famous times of year that lasted for nights in the villages. Blue and white lanterns filled the streets and aromas of traditional sugar treats wafted from windows.
Cheng marvelled at it all, reminded of his many journeys across Shanhe in preparation for war; he surveyed routes and training grounds that could secretly accommodate a large army. Weishan wanted to methodically plan everything to obtain a glorious victory after centuries of no battles. He was patient with is desires. Huli was not.
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“The sooner this ends, the better,” Cheng mumbled to himself and ventured into the forest on a hidden trail.
Young, persimmon trees, planted a week after Juan’s death, formed a circle around a stone plague. The dry, thin branches stretched out like old fingers and supported the weight of the circular orange fruit, the colour adding life to the dying forest. Autumn settled in and dusted the ground full of leaves, covering the clearing for the memorial plaque. ‘My osmanthus’ had been carved into this, leaving no clarity about the true identity that had this place dedicated to them. Joaolong created this for Cheng to mourn his wife, which proved both a blessing and curse; it was yet another weakness the nobleman exploited.
From a distance, everything looked normal however, on closer inspection, Cheng realised something was amiss. It cannot be, he thought in horror. Water dripped down the plaque – part of Shanhe memorial customs – with picked persimmons sitting in a weaved basket. Someone else had visited. It must be Wang Joaolong. Only he knows about this place unless… The image of Mingzhu sprang to mind, with her glaring eyes and scowl that looked too old for a young girl. He did not believe the proclamation of her death. Anyone who met Mingzhu knew she would never die over weak reasons like heartache. The idea of her prowling the town and palace made his breathing falter. Wang Joaolong visited. Wang Joaolong visited. Wang Joaolong visited, not Bai Mingzhu.
To distract himself, Cheng began his own memorial for Juan, pretending the ceremony enacted by a stranger had not happened. Essence was lit and slowly waved around the plaque, then water, collected from a clear stream, trickled over the stone. Cheng placed his own gifts, including tea and honey cakes, beside the basket before kotowing.
“Accept these offerings and be at peace,” he whispered, a sad smile on his lips. Day by day, it became harder to remember the softness of his wife’s skin, the daintiness of her waist or the beauty which made men gawk. “I hope the spirit world is keeping you well, my love. The mortal realm is falling into chaos, as you predicted. I should have listened to you. Hong Huli is a cruel ruler. Everyone fears him but are unable to act. Yet, if he dies, Qiaolian will act far worse. A grieving, irrational mother is far more frightening than a war-hungry ruler. If only...”
The leaves rustled behind Cheng. For a moment, he swore he saw a pair of eyes glare at him through the shrubs. His heartbeat spiked. He blinked. Nothing appeared unordinary. This did not calm him. All day, he felt someone watching his movements. This person remained undetected and quiet. They were trained. It made him sweat.