Every time the new moon arrived and the morning court assembly was held, it became one of Chang’an’s unique spectacles.
Attending court was a matter of utmost importance. At such times, the strict and upright Censorate would be on full alert, staring unblinking at all the civil and military officials. If one’s attire was not proper, they would be impeached. Whispering in line with colleagues would also be impeached. And if one was late—as a capital official fortunate enough to behold the emperor’s face at court, a privilege countless provincial officials dreamed of—you dared arrive late?
The hot-tempered censors would scold the tardy person right there in the Golden Throne Hall, before all officials, the emperor, and the grand chancellor, until they were utterly humiliated.
Thus, on the first and fifteenth of every month, before dawn had even broken, the residences of court officials would already be bustling. When the morning drum sounded and the ward gates opened, the officials—dressed neatly in their robes—rushed out at once. Those who lived nearby were fortunate, but those living as far as the southern wards had quite a struggle ahead.
Some joked that on the first and fifteenth, even the ward gates seemed to open more swiftly than usual, for the ward chiefs feared delaying the officials on their way to court—otherwise, as petty figures, they could hardly bear the consequences.
Xiao Jingduo had served as an official for four years, but today was his first time attending morning court. He rose in the dark hours between the third and fourth watch, and solemnly changed into his full set of official robes. Beneath, he wore a black underlayer; over it, a dark green wide-sleeved robe, his waist bound with a silver belt, and finally a black futou upon his head. Once dressed, he cut a striking figure—imposing, full of vigor, brimming with authority.
Qiuju watched as the attendants helped Xiao Jingduo into his court attire. Seeing that the time was near, she signaled the maids to lay out breakfast in the outer room. Attending morning court in the depths of winter was no easy task, and as it was still pitch dark outside, Xiao Jingduo had little appetite. He only moved his chopsticks a few times before having the food cleared away.
Once he was properly prepared, the servants quickly lit lanterns and escorted him outside. At the marquis’s gate, a groom was already waiting with his horse. Upon seeing him, the man hurried forward with a greeting: “Good morning, young master. Your horse is ready.”
In Xuan court, whether civil or military, all officials rode horseback to court. To sit in a carriage or sedan was out of the question. Xiao Jingduo took the reins and ran his hand along the mane of his beloved horse. Just as he was about to instruct one of the attendants from Qingze Courtyard, he noticed a procession carrying lanterns escorting another man around the corner toward the gate.
Xiao Jingduo stood quietly, holding his reins in place. When the man drew near, he expressionlessly performed the bow of a junior.
Xiao Ying cast a glance at him, but not a single word of advice did he offer his son on his very first day at court. Without a word, he brushed past. His groom, already waiting, dared not say anything upon witnessing this scene, and hastily handed over the reins. With a practiced motion, Xiao Ying mounted his horse, his movements still vigorous as in his younger days, then pulled firmly on the reins and quickly disappeared into the winter mist.
The servants who witnessed this could only feel awkward. Many already knew that a few days earlier, the young master and the marquis had quarreled. Yet even after several days, the two had not reconciled. In the Xiao household, only these two men had the privilege of attending court. As father and son serving together, they should have been united. Instead, their relationship was so strained they treated each other as strangers—worse than strangers, in fact.
While others worried over the father and son’s relationship, Xiao Jingduo himself remained calm as still water. Since Xiao Ying bore the title of his father, Xiao Jingduo had no wish to give anyone grounds for gossip. He therefore let Xiao Ying leave the residence first before leading his horse out the gate.
With a swift movement, he swung himself onto his horse. The steed let out a long, resonant neigh and galloped off into the night, disappearing quickly from sight. The attendants, seeing that the young master had already gone far ahead, hurried to follow.
When Xiao Jingduo saw the distant silhouette of Chengtian Gate, he began to slow his pace. Once he drew closer, he dismounted, entrusted his beloved horse to a groom, straightened his robes and crown, and strode quickly yet with measured dignity toward the gate.
Beneath Chengtian Gate, many officials were already gathered. The cold wind howled, yet within the crowd not a single voice was heard. In the east, the sky was slowly lightening. Morning court was timed by the shadow of the sun. At that moment, an eunuch came forward, first bowing to the assembled officials, then raising his sharp voice to call: “To court!”
At once, the drums on Chengtian Gate thundered. The six ministers and chancellors, standing at the front, stepped forward first, leading the ranks behind them in solemn procession toward the Taiji Hall. With the heavy drumbeats echoing, the rising sun broke across the horizon. Within the vast Taiji Palace, two orderly lines of officials advanced in unison toward the highest hall under heaven.
Once he had taken his place in the formation—civil officials to the east, military officials to the west—Xiao Jingduo gathered his thoughts, quietly waiting for the appearance of Emperor Rong Lang and the regent princess, Princess Rong Ke.
Morning court was no trifling matter; order and placement were precise to the last detail. Though the hall was filled with officials, their ranks were arranged strictly by office. The first row was naturally the six ministers and chancellors; on the military side, the generals of the third rank stood foremost. Behind them stretched layer upon layer, with the officials’ robe colors fading from deep scarlet, to pale green, to light blue—clear hierarchies that could not be transgressed.
Xiao Jingduo held the rank of Assistant Sixth Grade. For a man of his age, it was already quite a distinguished position. Moreover, he served in the Ministry of War, a key department of the realm, which gave him an especially favorable standing. Surrounded by the sea of officials, he could see only rows of black caps before him, and many more ranks of respectful figures standing behind.
Of course, Xiao Jingduo would never turn his head to glance about—such behavior during court was a grave breach of decorum, and if reported as misconduct before the throne, there would be no chance to appeal. Keeping his face still, without shifting his gaze, he managed to take in the scene around him.
Xiao Jingduo, having entered office as a jinshi, now stood among the civil officials on the east side. Across in the western ranks, Xiao Ying stood tall among the military men. His bearing was impressive, his presence commanding, and he stood out clearly in the crowd. Most telling of all, Xiao Ying’s position was far ahead of Xiao Jingduo’s.
Xiao Jingduo cast a brief glance toward the military officials, then withdrew his gaze, fixing it firmly on the blue bricks beneath his feet. Soon, the high-pitched, drawn-out voice of a eunuch rang through the hall: “His Majesty, Her Highness the Princess Regent, arrive!”
The entire court of civil and military officials bent low, lifting their hands and pressing their foreheads firmly against their knuckles: “Your servant pays respect to Your Majesty; pays respect to Princess Qianning.”
From above came the sound of robes brushing, and a moment later, the eunuch again called: “You may rise.”
“Gracious thanks, Your Majesty.”
Together with his colleagues, Xiao Jingduo straightened. Taking advantage of the moment as he lifted his head, he caught a glimpse of the young emperor seated upright upon the high dais, the very symbol of royal authority. To the west hung a beaded curtain. Through the faintly swaying glass beads, one could vaguely discern a black-clad figure seated behind.
In Xuan dynasty custom, inherited from Qin ritual, black was the color of supreme honor. The emperor’s formal ceremonial robes were all black, to embody solemnity and majesty. Though Xiao Jingduo could not clearly see Rong Ke’s face, he imagined that the regent princess, clad in grand, austere black official attire, must cut an equally striking figure.
Once everyone had arrived, the business of court could begin. In such a setting, only the most powerful figures dared to speak. For someone like Xiao Jingduo, a newcomer just returned to the capital, there was no place to interject.
In fact, even Rong Ke herself had no room to speak.
The chancellors were discussing disaster relief:
“Last winter, heavy snow struck many regions. Numerous areas suffered, with Shuozhou hit the hardest. Now that spring planting is upon us, the matter of relief cannot be delayed. A plan must be drawn up quickly.”
Minister Yuan asked: “Lord Duan, whom do you deem suitable to oversee disaster relief?”
“Lord Yuan, you are Minister of Personnel. Such matters are not for me to decide.” Chancellor Duan replied with his usual mild smile, smoothly deflecting the responsibility.
“Lord Duan is ever the strategist—how modest of you,” Yuan chuckled, then continued, “What do you all think of Cui Yuan, the Director of Personnel?”
Cui.
Xiao Jingduo quietly lifted his head. Sure enough, behind the beaded curtain, Rong Ke straightened in her seat and spoke:
“Rebuilding after the snow is the duty of the Ministry of Works. Cui Yuan has only just been promoted to the Ministry of Personnel. Why does Lord Yuan bring him up?”
The Minister of Works, Chancellor Zhang, seeing that the matter now implicated him, hastily disclaimed:
“This old servant is weak with age, unfit to take charge of disaster relief. The choice of candidate rests entirely with His Majesty.”
Thus the issue was muddled once again. Among the Six Ministries, the Ministry of Works ranked lowest and wielded the least influence. Its minister was accustomed to self-preservation, rarely speaking up. The moment he sensed that the matter might drag him into palace factional struggles, he quickly pushed it aside, plugging his ears and feigning ignorance.
After the late emperor’s death, the throne had passed to Crown Prince Rong Lang, while Princess Qianning, Rong Ke, was appointed regent. Their mother, Empress Xia, as mother of both the new emperor and the regent princess, naturally rose in rank to Empress Dowager, now residing in the rear palace in comfort. If only Empress Xia had been the sole dowager, it might have been simpler. But as fate would have it, the imperial house of Rong seemed plagued by misfortunes among its emperors, while the women of the palace lived long lives one after another.
The Xuan dynasty had usurped the Chen dynasty’s throne and proclaimed its own empire. The founding emperor, the Duke of Xuan, was honored posthumously as Taizu. Later, Prince Qin staged a coup, killed his own elder brother, and forced his father to abdicate. Such an act was heinous, condemned in every dynasty. But since most of the empire had been conquered by Prince Qin’s campaigns, no one dared object. Instead, because of his unparalleled military merit, he was posthumously named Gaozu. Traditionally, only founding emperors could bear the title zu, yet Prince Qin, merely the second-generation ruler, was elevated as Gaozu. This alone showed how his achievements overshadowed even the stain of fratricide.
Gaozu, however, died early from accumulated battle wounds. His heir, Crown Prince Rong Mingzhe, ascended the throne. Gaozu’s mother, Lady Wu, and his empress consort, Lady Cui, were elevated to Grand Empress Dowager and Empress Dowager, respectively. But fate was cruel—Rong Mingzhe too died young, leaving the eight-year-old Rong Lang as emperor. Once again, the women of the inner palace advanced in rank. As a result, the court now housed three empresses dowager: Lady Wu, Lady Cui, and Lady Xia. The inner palace had always been rife with intrigue—now, with three dowagers at once, one could imagine the storm of chaos within.
Lady Wu, mother of Gaozu and Crown Prince Min, held the highest seniority and greatest prestige. She was raising the late Crown Prince Min’s two children. While Emperor Rong Mingzhe was alive, she dared not reach too far. But with him gone and only a child of eight upon the throne, how could Grand Empress Dowager Wu resign herself to the sidelines?
Empress Dowager Cui, Gaozu’s later consort, came from the illustrious Cui clan of Qinghe. In her early years, she had borne the legitimate Fifth Prince, Rong Mingzhi. When Rong Mingzhe ascended the throne, her son was ennobled as Prince of Zheng. With the powerful Cui clan behind her and a legitimate son within the palace, if she ever truly wished to plot for her own child’s advantage, Princess Rong Ke and her brother would find it difficult to withstand her.
Among the three empress dowagers, besides Lady Wu and Lady Cui, there was also Lady Xia. Lady Xia was the birth mother of Rong Lang and Rong Ke. Before his death, Emperor Rong Mingzhe entrusted the regency to his daughter rather than, as custom dictated, to Lady Xia. This was a clear sign that he did not trust Lady Xia or the Xia clan behind her. Because of this, Lady Xia was the weakest of the three empress dowagers in the harem. Even though the emperor and the regent princess were her own children, neither Rong Ke nor Rong Lang held much sway—let alone Lady Xia herself, a frail and scholarly empress dowager.
The forces of the inner palace and the outer court were deeply entangled, and the rivalries within the harem gradually spread into court politics. Empress Dowager Wu, with her high seniority, fully supported Prince Min’s line—Rong Mingtai, now titled Prince of Jiang’an. Empress Dowager Cui, on the other hand, harbored her own ambitions. The Cui clan ceaselessly made moves in court, seeking to expand their influence, all in hopes of one day elevating Prince Zheng, born of a Cui daughter. As for Rong Lang, although he was the legitimate emperor, his generational rank was technically lower than that of Prince Zheng and Prince Jiang’an, and by seniority he even had to address them as uncles. His only true support was his elder sister, the regent princess Rong Ke.
Even in a seemingly minor matter such as this disaster relief, the cracks between the three empress dowagers were revealed. Minister Yuan, who revered ancient rites and maintained close ties with the Cui clan, privately favored seeing a prince of noble lineage ascend the throne. Thus, he often lent the Cui family his support—not only had he promoted Cui Yuan to serve as a director in the Ministry of Personnel, but he also pushed Cui Yuan forward to oversee disaster relief. Rong Ke, however, was no fool. She would never sit by and allow the Cui clan to grow too powerful in court. Yet officials like Lord Duan and Minister Zhang, though colleagues of Yuan and equal in rank, were unwilling to involve themselves in the royal family’s internal struggles.
Many saw the situation clearly. Yuan pushed forward a Cui man for disaster relief, Rong Ke objected, the other ministers simply stroked their beards in silence, and the remaining courtiers stood by, acting as if it was none of their concern.
In the great hall, only Yuan and Rong Ke’s voices echoed:
“Your Highness is still very young. You may not have even left Chang’an before—how could you understand the suffering of the people beyond the passes? For such matters, an experienced elder statesman is needed. In my view, Cui Yuan is most suitable.”
“The records of past years clearly note the expenditures. How could a snow disaster require so much silver? Minister Yuan, are you truly thinking of the people of Shuozhou?”
Yuan chuckled. “Your Highness, it is not that I mean disrespect, but my own granddaughter is older than you. Naturally, I know such matters far better.”
Rong Ke’s hand, hidden within her sleeve, clenched tightly. Rong Lang glanced toward her in concern, but he still remembered his tutor’s strict teachings. Fearing the censors’ rebuke, he dared not move his head too much—only stealing a cautious look at his sister.
Sensing her brother’s gaze, Rong Ke paused, slowly loosened her fingers, and finally said with composure: “Then let it be as Minister Yuan suggests.”
At this, Yuan bowed his head with a smile. Not only him, but the other courtiers also showed looks of unsurprised satisfaction. To them, she was just a young girl—what could she possibly understand?
In their eyes, the so-called regent princess was merely a figurehead, placed in court for appearances’ sake. Since it was the late Emperor Wenzong’s decree, they could not openly abolish her position, but to truly let Princess Qianning lead the ministers? That was unthinkable.
Xiao Jingduo, sensing the scorn all around, grew both worried and anxious. Rong Ke had always been willful, acting on her whims without caring for others’ opinions. Perhaps because she was clever, both her grandfather and father had indulged her, fostering her pride. And indeed, she had reason to be confident: though headstrong, she had never caused any true disaster. No matter what crisis arose, she always had the ability to resolve it peacefully—that was the foundation of her so-called recklessness.
Yet now, though she sat in the imperial court itself, no one took her words seriously. If Emperor Wenzong Rong Mingzhe had still been alive, Rong Ke might have flared up on the spot. But today, in the blink of an eye, she endured the humiliation in silence.
When has she ever swallowed her pride like this? Xiao Jingduo’s heart was tangled with unease. He raised his head toward the beaded curtain, but beyond the swaying strands, he could see nothing at all.
Morning court dispersed quickly. As always, breakfast was provided, though the location had been moved into the palace. The officials proudly called it the “corridor meal.” On ordinary days, even eating in their own dining halls required observing endless rules; now that all the civil and military officials ate together in one place, the regulations were even stricter.
The food at this meal tasted of nothing. Once it was over, Xiao Jingduo followed the line of officials out. After they passed through the Taiji Gate, the censors and ministers were no longer in sight, and the court officials finally loosened up, even exchanging a few casual laughs.
“Brother Xiao, wait a moment.”
Xiao Jingduo stopped and turned to see a man in the garb of a civil official hurrying toward him. “It has been many years since we last met—do you still remember me?”
“Of course.” Xiao Jingduo returned the salute with a faint smile. “Fellow examinee Sun.”
Sun Jinshi had taken the civil service exam in the same year as Xiao Jingduo. In the ninth year of Qiyuan, they had both achieved top marks, paraded through the streets, and inscribed their names on the Yan Pagoda. How could Xiao Jingduo not recognize him?
After the formal greetings, Sun sighed with feeling. “So many years apart, and when we finally meet again, it’s in a place like this.”
Xiao Jingduo laughed. “To meet after court disperses is itself one of the pleasures of official life. Why do you say such a thing, Fellow Sun?”
Sun chuckled as well. “You’re right, Fellow Xiao. To meet again under the Son of Heaven’s feet should indeed be a joy of the mortal world. Come, let us talk as we walk.”
The two walked out together. Sun said, “I spotted you during morning court, but the rules were so strict I couldn’t greet you. Even during the corridor meal, I had no chance to speak. It wasn’t until court dispersed that I could finally catch you.”
“It’s no matter. Such restraint is simply a minister’s duty.”
“I heard long ago that you had returned from the provinces, but endless trifles kept me from arranging a meeting. In a few days, Bai Jiayi—our Brother Bai—will also be coming back. When the time comes, I’ll host a banquet for you both.”
Xiao Jingduo paused. “Bai Jiayi… has been summoned back as well?”
Sun didn’t notice the peculiarity of Xiao’s wording—how did he know Bai Jiayi had been summoned back? That was not a word to be used lightly. Oblivious, Sun went on: “Exactly. He’s been posted outside for four years, and now he’s finally returning. What a coincidence—just as you come back to the capital, he comes back too. Perfect timing for a reunion.”
“Coincidence.” Xiao Jingduo’s smile was faint, almost indifferent, and he did not pursue the subject further.
“But really, that man is too much,” Sun continued. “Returning to the capital is a great occasion—yet he hasn’t sent even a single letter ahead! Even if he was rushing on the road, he could at least have sent word. If I hadn’t run into the Bai family’s old matriarch a few days ago, I wouldn’t even have known he was returning.”
Xiao Jingduo lowered his eyes, lost in thought. Sun noticed something unusual in his expression, but assumed it was excitement, and thought no more of it. Instead, he kept speaking animatedly: “Among our cohort of examinees, you’ve advanced the fastest. We were appointed together, yet now I’m only at the rank of Proper Eighth Grade, while you’ve already risen to Assistant Director of the Sixth Grade, and in the Ministry of War no less! Assistant Director is a crucial position. A few years there, then a stint as prefect in the provinces, and when you return, you may well leap to the Fifth Grade.”
Sun’s tone brimmed with envy. Four years ago, they had stood at the same starting line. In the blink of an eye, Xiao Jingduo had risen to the Sixth Grade, far outstripping him. Sun had once thought his own appointment in the capital’s Bureau of Compilation was one of the most prestigious positions. By contrast, Xiao Jingduo had been sent off to some remote county—surely, Sun thought, their gap would only widen in his own favor. Yet he had not expected the opposite: it was Xiao Jingduo who had overtaken them all. Not only Sun himself, but across their entire cohort of graduates, no one had risen faster than Xiao Jingduo.
Xiao Jingduo replied modestly, “It was only thanks to His Majesty’s promotion.”
“His Majesty…” Sun Jinshi drew out the words, his tone clearly reluctant. At last, he shook his head and said, “It’s just our misfortune, I suppose—to have run into a woman holding the reins of power. Who knows what the future will bring under such circumstances? For now, we can only muddle along.”
This time, Xiao Jingduo did not reply. The anger he had been suppressing surged up again. Everyone treated her with such contempt—not just the ministers, but even an ordinary low-ranking civil official dared to speak so arrogantly, lamenting that under a woman’s rule, good governance was impossible.
Noticing Xiao Jingduo’s sudden coldness, Sun realized he was barely getting a response. Even after they parted ways, Sun Jinshi still couldn’t figure out what had caused it.
Had Xiao Jingduo’s temperament really become so much harder to grasp in just a few years?
After leaving Sun, Xiao Jingduo mounted his horse and rode alone down the wide avenues of Chang’an.
Unknowingly, he found himself before the gates of the Princess of Qianning’s residence.
He pulled on the reins, gazing for a long time at the plaque above the vermilion doors.
“Qianning.”
It was said those two characters had been written by Emperor Wenzong’s own hand, bestowed upon his most beloved legitimate daughter. And yet, in just a few short years, everything had changed.
Others regarded this once-glorious title as nothing but a joke now. But in Xiao Jingduo’s heart suddenly surged an impulse: he wanted to support Rong Ke, to realize peace and stability under Heaven, to fulfill the uncompleted aspirations of Emperor Wenzong.
All the more because Xiao Jingduo knew—Rong Ke had the ability to achieve it.
T/N: The futou is a significant piece of headwear in ancient China, with a history spanning over a thousand years. It was typically worn by government officials. If you watch Cdramas, you have probably seen them before, with different variations. You can find more info here as well as some images.
I’ve been gone for a while. Life spiraled out of control, and before I knew it, so much time had passed. Apologies for the delay.
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