Chapter Text
Lit clearly with late summer’s golden sun streaming through high windows, the room Wei Ying is pushed into is cleaner than he expects.
Straw lays on the floor, color bright with freshness. The surface of the long table is free of dirt or stains and the metal tools laid out in neat rows gleam from a recent polish.
The whips, floggers and chains hanging on the wall look equally well cared for.
The soldier who pushed him into the room catches sight of his eyes on them.
“We only use them if you fight.” He looks Wei Ying up and down. “Are we going to need them?”
“No,” he replies with faint humor. If he was going to fight, he would have done it months ago when he’d still been a general in Dazhi’s Jinxing Army.
But he argued with his superiors about the army’s movements and been demoted. When he didn’t stop running his mouth his superiors demoted him a few more times. A mere lieutenant has no say in the movement of troops, so he’d not been able to prevent their total defeat by their northern enemy Beicui.
The unfounded ambition of the third prince of Dazhi cost the nation dearly.
Wei Ying, still a general then, gave San’huangzi a plan that would achieve total victory, routing the army of Beicui and securing the border for generations. It would only have meant waiting for the beginning of spring, when the conditions would be right for fog.
San’huangzi decided not to wait.
In the imperial city of Jinlin, the emperor was being pressed by his ministers to appoint a crown prince. Huang’guifei was urging San’huangzi at every opportunity to find some way to show his worth and secure the title for himself.
Weak willed and greedy, San’huangzi gave in to his birth mother’s urgings and - through bribes and meritless promotions - garnered enough support to get the Jinxing Army marching north in the early summer.
When, as Wei Ying knew it would, the tide of battle turned and the ranks of Dazhi’s soldiers – led by cowards who fled first – broke under the relentless and powerful cavalry charges of Beicui, he was ready. From the abandoned commander’s tent he raised a flag of surrender and sounded the horn for the soldiers of Dazhi to lay down their arms.
He ensured the battle stopped before the casualties were too high; the best anyone could do in such a hopeless, miserable situation.
His surviving superiors did not agree.
The only reason he hadn’t been executed was because the commander of the Beicui forces arrived at their camp to formally accept their surrender and see if they had anyone worthwhile to take as war prizes.
He’s not sure the commander really thought him worthwhile, but he’d shown up just as the executioners were wrestling him down onto the block. Disallowing your defeated enemy to execute one of their own and taking them instead as a war prize certainly set the tone for the coming negotiations.
For three months the caravan of slaves traveled hard - in chains, sleeping exposed to the elements, and on short rations - arriving in Bujing’cheng, the capital of Beicui late in the summer.
Sorted at the city gate, Wei Ying was sent with the group bound for the palace.
Thinking about it makes him tired – the kind of tired where his head is so hazy he wants to lie down right where he is and go to sleep. Breathing deeply Wei Ying pushes it back, working to stay right where he was in this room in the palace of Beicui’s emperor.
He eyes the device in the center of the room, set over a sluice’s grate and with buckets of water to hand. It looks very like a birthing chair, with a place for feet to rest when one’s legs are wide spread.
Though he very much doubts proper birthing chairs have quite so many restraints.
“That’s good,” a high voice says.
Coming through the door on the other side, a man in neat working clothes covered by an unblemished leather apron enters. His hands and apron are damp, and he uses a white cloth to dry them absently, bright eyes fixed on Wei Ying’s face and figure.
“Fighting won’t stop it from happening.” The man shakes a scolding finger at him. “It only makes it take longer and increases the chance of the knife slipping.”
“Liu-gonggong.” The soldier greets him with a short bow.
Wei Ying’s eyes flick from the table with its line of tools, to the chair with its restraints, and then to the eunuch.
“If this slave may ask a question.” His tone is very polite.
“You may.” Liu-gonggong smiles, showing his white teeth.
“Am I to take it that it’s been decided I will enter the palace as a eunuch?”
“Just so,” Liu-gonggong nods approvingly. “We’ll be seeing to that today.” He gestures below Wei Ying’s waist.
“I see. Hm.” Wei Ying brushes the side of his nose. “This is a little awkward.”
--
Liu-gonggong declines to make a decision and sends a runner to go get his superior.
Lu-gonggong blinks down between Wei Ying’s spread legs and, coughing delicately, sends for an imperial physician.
The imperial physician sends Liu-gonggong, Lu-gonggong and the soldier out of the room at once.
Alone, he introduces himself as Xie Heng.
Narrating his every intent beforehand, Xie Heng conducts a thorough examination of Wei Ying’s body, asking him a great many questions about his health and sexual history.
Recovering from the indignity of being ogled by others as though he is a great spectacle, Wei Ying answers them as well as he can.
Done, Xie Heng turns away and allows Wei Ying to get off the chair and pull all his clothes back on.
“Now what?” Wei Ying asks, folding his arms over his chest.
Doing up his box, Xie Heng looks sideways at Wei Ying. “Would you like some advice, Wei-xiansheng?”
“By all means, Xie-taiyi.” Wei Ying waves a hand in invitation.
“There is no chance, with both Liu-gonggong and Lu-gonggong having seen you, of your unique body staying a secret. If you were to end up among the slaves, it would not be long before you became abused,” he begins, frankly.
Wei Ying’s eyebrows shoot up. “That does seem likely,” he agrees with a lightness not suited to the subject. Xie Heng chuckles, a little grim.
“No one can survive long being so singled out, even if you can keep yourself from being attacked more often than not. And you are from the enemy country, brought here as a war prize – there is no one here you can rely on. So, you must find someone to shelter under.”
“Xie-taiyi has a suggestion?”
“I would like to take you to Qing’qinwang-dianxia.”
It takes a moment for Wei Ying to place the title. “Your emperor’s second brother?”
Xie Heng nods. “Qing’qinwang-dianxia is known for his eccentricities – taking in a former soldier who was brought for slave labor is far from the oddest thing he will have done.” He gestures to the end of the table. There is a small box with shaving implements and a hair comb.
“Please take the opportunity to make yourself presentable. Then, I will take you to him.”
Slowly, Wei Ying paces the small room, keeping Xie Heng in the corner of his eye. He’d known as they got closer and closer to the capital that mistreatment followed by death is his likely fate. In Dazhi he had enough personal power to protect himself.
But, even then, feared and admired at once, men still looked at him with greedy eyes.
Here he is little more than an enemy soldier made into a slave. If he’d been sent to camps to do hard labor, the risk to his person would be less. But in the palace, he is already exposed.
Haze builds in his head. Wei Ying stops pacing to close his eyes and rub his forehead. Does he really think there’s a choice?
Just as Xie Heng pointed out, he has nothing to defend himself with except his wits and fists. He’ll need to be constantly vigilant to prevent any insult to his person.
And no one can go without sleep forever.
Between certain abuse and the slight chance of dignity – it isn’t a choice at all.
“Your advice is very kind,” Wei Ying says abruptly, swinging around to face the older man. “As is your offer,” he adds, wary.
Xie Heng smiles, eyes wrinkling. He folds his hands inside his sleeves and looks up at the ceiling. “It was something like fifteen years ago,” he begins in the slow tone of one recalling the distant past. “I was a doctor visiting a garrison near the city of Hulang.”
For a long moment all Wei Ying can feel is the grit of dirt under his nails, the taste of salt thick on his tongue, the scent of blood heavy in the air. He shakes himself and wipes a hand over his face, turning away again.
From a distance, through the haze, he hears Xie Heng go on. “The enemy came, overcoming all our defenses and neatly rounding us up. There, fearing for the lives of the soldiers in my care, I had the extraordinary fortune of encountering a captain of great honor among a dishonorable foe.
“This captain would not recall me – I only ever saw him in person once and he had no attention for me – but he treated myself and the soldiers in my care with scrupulous fairness while we were his prisoners.”
Xie Heng looks at Wei Ying with warmth. “In my heart, I have always held gratitude towards him. I hoped, one day, that I could pay him back. Or at least,” he laughs and spreads his hands, “to pay it forward, I suppose, since the chances of meeting that captain again are so small as to be impossible.”
With effort Wei Ying pulls himself back into the present and away from the memories of a foggy valley he hasn’t thought about in a long time.
The successful capture of the city and its salt mines earned him high merit – he’d finally won the favor of his noble benefactor. And with that favor had come the fawning of his superiors in an effort to ingratiate themselves with the man who’d taken Wei Ying in off the streets. They’d given him a meteoric promotion to position as a small general in the Jinxing Army.
That there were survivors among the enemies of that engagement is unsurprising – unlike his peers, Wei Ying was never interested in slaughtering all of Beicui before him, no matter the reprimands it brought him over the years. He never imagined he might one day come across such a survivor, and one who not only recalls him, but does so seemingly without disdain or hatred.
He studies the imperial physician, but – as Xie Heng said – Wei Ying does not recognize him. It is a great risk to trust Xie Heng. His lips twist, and he turns away again to pace. The haze pulls at his mind and he rubs his eyes, trying to stay present. Trying to think clearly.
Xie Heng addressed him as ‘Wei’, not ‘Wen’ – a long-held suspicion confirmed. Outside of Dazhi no one knows he only gained the Wen surname in adulthood.
The scribes of the Wen family recorded him as having been adopted when he’d been found as a child, but the head of that noble family did not permit Wei Ying to use the name – denying him the ability to be filial to his birth parents and forcing him to go without the protections awarded one known as a member of Duke Wen’s family.
When Wen Ruohan asked during the formal ceremony to recognize Wei Ying as a male descendant of the family if he felt resentment this treatment, Wei Ying hadn’t hesitated in giving the only response he could – he felt no resentment towards his benefactor at all.
All his helpless fury he kept tucked tightly in his heart.
There is still a chance that Xie Heng is playing a game of some kind, trying to get Wei Ying to trust him by pretending he doesn’t recognize him at all.
He rubs his eyes again. He doesn’t know Xie Heng, he doesn’t know this city and he doesn’t know the people here. He can’t begin to guess the shapes of the schemes and cruelties they use among themselves and all the ways it’s the same and different from the games played in the imperial court of Jin’huangdi.
Hasn’t he already decided? He bows deeply. “I’ll accept your help, Xie-taiyi. This slave thanks you,” he says, and picks up the comb.
--
“And so, you thought of me?” Qing’qinwang-dianxia shifts in his chair, the wood squeaking very quietly. “I’m flattered.”
Wei Ying, kneeling just behind Xie Heng with his forehead pressed to the cold flagstone of the garden pavilion, feels sharp eyes on him.
“May Qing’qinwang-dianxia not take it too seriously,” Xie Heng says. There’s a sharp crack and Wei Ying can’t stop himself from flinching. It’s only Qing’qinwang-dianxia snapping his folding fan shut.
“A’Ding.” His voice is deceptively light – it is a voice that knows how to command and expects to be obeyed.
Called by his master, one of the eunuchs at his side steps forward enough that Wei Ying thinks he can see the shadow of a shoe out of the corner of his eye.
“Here,” A’Ding says.
“Go sort the paperwork, won’t you? This – ah, what was your name?”
“This slave is called Wei Ying,” he answers quietly, giving the same name he provided three months ago when they drew up his slave contract – his birth name, recorded in no official records.
“I’ll be taking Wei Ying back with me to qingwang’fu. Make sure ownership is recorded properly on the paperwork.” There’s a slight rustle of fabric – A’Ding bowing – and then he departs.
“A’Yu,” Qing’qinwang-dianxia calls again, and Wei Ying risks a look up. The prince is turning his closed fan over and over in his fingers, leaning with his elbow on one knee. Dark eyes, gleaming, are fixed on Wei Ying.
Hastily Wei Ying looks back down again, heart thumping from having been caught.
“Here.” The response is accompanied by the slight pat-pat of feet as a second eunuch steps forward.
“I’ll leave you in charge of him. Make sure he’s ready to leave in time and see to a place for him in qingwang’fu.”
There’s a very slight pause. “If this slave may ask a question?”
“You may.”
“Should it be, ah, an outside courtyard? Or inside?”
The question makes Wei Ying twitch. What, he wants to ask, does that mean? He holds his tongue.
Qing’qinwang-dianxia opens and closes his fan with a small clack twice – Wei Ying flinches each time – before replying. “Que’yuan.”
“This slave obeys.” A’Yu steps forward and gestures very low - where Wei Ying can see - for him to follow. He gets up and bows to Qing’qinwang-dianxia as he backs away, keeping himself from giving Xie Heng one last glance.
The eunuch A’Yu leads him through a dozen corridors until they arrive at a bathing house. He is waved into the building, the tub pointed out and then, abruptly, he’s alone for the first time since he woke in his tent the day of that last, disastrous battle.
Swaying a little, he grips the edge of the tub to stay steady. The haze is pulling at his mind once more. Breathing deeply, he forces himself to focus on the tasks before him.
Undressing, he throws his clothes over the elegant privacy screen painted with a dozen kinds of blooming flowers. The water in the tub is lukewarm at best and it’s still the warmest water he’s felt on his skin in months.
Reaching for the tray of bottles, combs and scrubbing cloths, his hands shake. He tries to ignore it, but after dropping a comb in the water and spilling half a bottle of oil on the tray he gives up and stares at the ceiling, mouth twisting bitterly.
Wen Wuxian, the fearsome Ghost General of Dazhi, reduced to a shaking thing pliantly obeying the enemy who captured him. He laughs and wipes at the tears suddenly tracking down his cheeks.
He feels homesick, but he doesn’t miss the places he used to live – the expansive residence of Duke Wen, the tents and temporary buildings where he slept on march, the army camp and his own small manor purchased on a general’s salary – none of them ever held a sense of comfort.
That comfort was something he only ever found in a few people.
Once, in a small family with a generous old woman, her terribly irascible granddaughter, quietly kind grandson and precocious toddler great-grandson. Again, with a teacher both strict and compassionate enough to make space for his questions, ever willing to steer him true. And once, too, in a fierce boy with light eyes and sharp tongue that hid a soft heart.
But he lost them all a long time ago and the hurt of them is not so fresh.
Maybe it’s the idea of home that he misses. Dazhi was never home, even though he lived there all his life. But it’s familiar, and being torn from the only place he’d known is still miserable.
What was he supposed to be, if not a general in the army?
The thought brings fresh tears, but before the choking feeling in his throat can dissolve into wretched cries, he hears the pad of shoes outside the door.
Hastily splashing his face with water, he hides his tears as A’Yu enters. Through the screen he can see the shape of the tall eunuch approaching. A’Yu throws several garments over the privacy screen, then drops a pair of shoes beside it.
“Wei-zhaoren, may this slave see to your hair?” He calls.
“Zhaoren?” Wei Ying repeats dumbly, still trying to get himself under control.
Taking the question as tacit permission, A’Yu comes around the screen and makes for the tray of bottles, cloths and combs. Wei Ying tenses, but A’Yu doesn’t react at all to the mess, only sets himself to cleaning it up and getting things prepared to put word to action and see to Wei Ying’s hair.
“It is the lowest rank held by concubines among the princes,” A’Yu says, matter of fact. “In ascending order, they are zhaoren, cairen, liangren and meiren.”
“But,” Wei Ying pulls away from the comb in A’Yu’s hand to look at him. “You called me zhaoren.” It’s more statement than question.
“This slave did so,” A’Yu answers anyway, settling himself on a stool beside the tub. His expression, Wei Ying thinks, is terribly kind. “Qing’qinwang-dianxia has already decided your place in qingwang’fu. Commoners and slaves who enter the inner court of qingwang’fu start at the lowest rank. To move up, Wei-zhaoren will need to earn merit.”
“Qing’qinwang-dianxia wants me as a concubine?” he asks through numb lips.
“So Qing’qinwang-dianxia has said.”
“I’m not a woman. I know I -” he gestures at the space between his legs, where he has soft folds in the place a person might expect something different. “But I am a man. I don’t belong in an inner courtyard.”
“And I am not a woman,” A’Yu says with a faint smile gesturing to the space between his own legs. “I feel myself to be a man as well. Yet, the inner courtyard is a place I do belong.”
It doesn’t make sense – none of it does. He keeps staring at A’Yu, waiting for the world to right itself.
“Wei-zhaoren are you feeling well?” A’Yu asks sharply. Wei Ying blinks, very slowly. There is something warm running down both his cheeks. His searching fingers tell him they are tears.
With a great struggle he brings his mind out of the haze and into the present moment. He is to be a concubine of Qing’qinwang-dianxia. Hadn’t he just been lamenting who he would be if not Wen-jiangjun?
Here is the answer. He will be Wei-zhaoren.
“Yes, I’m well.” He answers, and hears the words he speaks from a very great distance. He turns himself back around and settles against the tub. “Please,” he moves a somewhat limp hand towards the tray. “Continue.”
After a moment’s pause, A’Yu picks up the comb again and begins to work it through his damp, bedraggled hair.
There are obvious questions to ask – how many concubines are allowed for each of the four ranks, and how many have been filled in Qing’qinwang-dianxia’s harem? What is Qing’qinwang-dianxia like? What things might he do to please Qing’qinwang-dianxia? How will he be taught the etiquette of his new station?
A half dozen more occur to him, but he doesn’t ask any of them.
He doesn’t want to think about trying to wriggle his way into a higher rank – he can scarcely comprehend that he has such a rank at all. In this moment, the thing he wants most in the world is for Qing’qinwang-dianxia to forget about him, letting Wei Ying remain a lowly zhaoren in whatever tiny room they give him so he can live out the rest of his miserable life in peace.
In the quiet of the bath house Wei Ying instead thinks of nothing, wiping the endless tears from his eyes, following A’Yu’s soft, deferential requests to tilt his head this way and that, closing his eyes when water is poured over his head. The firm, steady pressure of hands on his skin grounds him and he feels himself rising from the haze that clings to the edge of his mind.
Hair washed and pressed dry for styling, A’Yu carefully brings all of Wei Ying’s hair up into a simple bundle at the top of his head, pinned in place gently with a silver stick topped with a beautiful quartz stone as decoration. With his hair up and out of the way, A’Yu washes his body, clearing away the dirt ground into his skin from months of sleeping on bare ground.
Holding up a towel, A’Yu gestures for Wei Ying to come and he does, stepping out into warm fabric and being briefly embraced. He shivers and A’Yu casts a slightly worried glance at him. Wei Ying only shakes his head and starts to pat dry. Trying not to think about his nakedness, he lets A’Yu dress him in the clothes he’s brought.
Dry, clean and covered, he follows A’Yu to the threshold of the bath house where he gestures to a pair of shoes clearly meant for Wei Ying. He rolls his lips, hesitating.
“They are the proper footwear for an imperial concubine,” A’Yu says very gently, and with no small amount of sympathy. After a false start, they get the flowerpot shoes on his feet together.
Taking Wei Ying’s arm and setting a very slow pace, A’Yu guides them through the palace walkways. Wei Ying teeters on the edge of falling, struggling to find his balance on a much smaller surface area than he’s used to.
It doesn’t help that the borrowed shoes are a half size too small.
They go through many gates and down long corridors, passing all varieties of palace maids, mamas and eunuchs – all of whom seem to be at least a little familiar with A’Yu – and glance at him with a great deal of curiosity. Thankfully they cross paths with no one of rank before they arrive at an enormous gate Wei Ying thinks must be the main way in and out of the palace.
A’Yu leads them to the western-most of the three doors that are set into the dark grey stone of the massive wall. There, an elegant carriage waits, drawn by a pure white horse and attended to by a single eunuch.
“We’ve made it before Qing’qinwang-dianxia,” A’Yu says with obvious satisfaction. “May Wei-zhaoren please alight and wait in comfort.” He pauses briefly, then says, “May Wei-zhaoren be curious with only his eyes, and take off his shoes at the step.”
Wei Ying takes that to mean he shouldn’t touch anything, though he’s not sure why he needs to take off his shoes in a carriage. Very carefully he gets up the stepping stool set out for him, clutching both A’Yu’s hand and that of the other eunuch, until he’s up on the carriage and can duck through the doors.
Inside, he sees what A’Yu means.
“Who the fuck hangs a painting in a carriage?” Wei Ying asks the air, but very quietly so he can’t be overheard.
The exterior was elegant, but the interior is opulent in its comfort. The first few feet of flooring are carpeted in something flat-woven, easy to remove for cleaning. To one side there is, in fact, a spot for shoes to go. And they must go there as the rest of the flooring is obviously not intended to be tread on with dirty feet.
There is a bench along the rear wall where someone riding the carriage might normally sit. In this carriage it is covered with all the things needed for a simple tea service. Hanging above it is the painting, framed by tasteful curtains. The rest of the space – where usually more benches would be to accommodate passengers – has been given over to one massive cushion a hand’s width high, situated on the floor and decorated with an abundance of blankets and pillows.
Shoes off, Wei Ying crawls to the back of the carriage to examine the painting – a forest scene with a mountain range in the background. It is excellent work in all respects – the brush strokes, the composition, the color choice. Even the silk the work has been backed with only enhances the visual experience. And from the red stamp, it’s the work of Qing’qinwang-dianxia himself.
Qing’qinwang-dianxia, it would seem, is a deeply artistic soul. It comforts him somehow – at least he will not be made a bed-slave to a ham-handed brute. He might be made so to a nimble-handed brute, depending on his appetites, but there is something about the painting, and their short interaction of earlier, that makes him think Qing’qinwang-dianxia is a very reasonable person.
After a moment more, Wei Ying finds a place along one wall that seems less used than anywhere else and settles there, not wanting to be caught doing something he maybe shouldn’t, shoving a few cushions behind him for support.
In the warmth and softness of the carriage, the exhaustion of the day and months behind him makes itself known, and he finds himself blinking slowly.
He wakes suddenly with the world moving under him, sending him scrambling upright and looking for his sword.
“Ah. Perhaps I should have woken you first.” Qing’qinwang-dianxia says. He reclines against a massive pile of pillows opposite Wei Ying, fan across his lower face. For a moment, as the carriage continues its lurching roll forward, he can’t find the breath to speak.
“I meant to look nice when you came in,” Wei Ying’s mouth says. He slaps a hand over his offending lips, but before he can apologize for speaking out of turn, Qing’qinwang-dianxia makes a thoughtful sound.
“What did you hope it would do - you looking nice?” Those dark eyes gazing at him over the fan are deceptively lazy. Wei Ying has the impression he is being carefully studied.
He slowly pulls his hand away from his mouth. “Well – just – keep you from disliking me, I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“It seemed the thing to do,” Wei Ying says with a kind of helpless honesty, the words simply finding their way out into the open air. “Isn’t that what a concubine does? Makes themselves pleasing for their,” he flaps a hand, “husband?”
“And that’s all you want? To not be disliked by me?”
Qing’qinwang-dianxia, he thinks after a moment’s study of the dark eyes on him, is asking genuinely. He considers the question; the nap, though brief, did help his mood. His indifference to his station in life has receded, though that haze still lingers at the edges of his mind.
“I suppose a little favor wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he answers at length.
And then, possibly temporarily insane from the fatigue, goes on to say, “Not enough to make the other concubines jealous – I don’t want to be bullied. But not so little they think they can use me to vent their anger and then bully me anyway.” He holds up his hands to either side, demonstrating the two extremes, and then brings them together in the center, over his chest as if in prayer – or to beg. “Something in the middle would do very nicely.”
Dark eyes curve into crescents of amusement. “That’s what you want?”
“If it’s not too much to ask.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“This Wei Ying waits for good news.”
The fan snaps shut and Qing’qinwang-dianxia buries his face in a pillow, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Wei Ying decides this is a good thing and tries to calm his racing heart.
A pitched battle, he thinks, is less nerve wracking than this conversation. There’s a line between cute impertinence and punishable disrespect. Wei Ying has long mastered the art of finding it, and it takes more than a few words exchanged to get a proper feel for it with someone new. He’s amused now but, he knows from experience, the temperaments of the nobility are often fickle, and this mood may not last.
Getting his knees under him so he can kneel properly, Wei Ying bows down low. “May Qing’qinwang-dianxia forgive this lowly one for any offense. This Wei Ying has poor manners.” Sitting back up, he folds his hands in his lap and looks respectfully down.
“Is this what you meant by looking nice?” The fan snaps back open, this time for its proper use. The warm air of the carriage circulates a little as he waves it.
“Something like this,” Wei Ying agrees, feigning ease to cover his nerves. “I’ve never been a concubine before, so I’m mostly guessing.”
“Hm. Wangfei can do something about that, if you’d like.”
“Wang-? Oh. Your wife.”
“My wife,” Qing’qinwang-dianxia confirms. “Disappointed?”
Wei Ying blinks. “That… you have a wife?”
“Yes.”
“No?” Wei Ying looks up and finds Qing’qinwang-dianxia regarding him with a kind of mild curiosity.
“No?” Qing’qinwang-dianxia repeats.
“Yes? Forgive me. I’m not – should I be disappointed you’re married?”
“Most people are.”
“Oh. Why?”
“They want to be the main wife.”
“Ah. At the risk of sounding even more stupid – why?”
“Why do they want to be the main wife?” Qing’qinwang-dianxia folds his fan again and turns it in his fingers, a habit of some kind.
“Yes, that.”
“Doesn’t every concubine want to be a legal wife and have power?”
“No?”
“No?” A small smile slides onto Qing’qinwang-dianxia’s face.
A little crossly, Wei Ying thinks he’s glad at least one of them is enjoying themselves.
“I don’t want to be a legal wife, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Well. I’d have to greet and entertain important guests, wouldn’t I?” His lip curls in distaste. He mastered the skills as a highly ranking general with a position in court, but never came to enjoy it the way many of his peers did.
Qing’qinwang-dianxia bursts out laughing. He covers his face with his sleeve, but Wei Ying gets a good look at him before it’s hidden from view. It’s a handsome face, made to laugh.
He waits very politely for Qing’qinwang-dianxia to catch his breath.
“This Wei Ying is not disappointed Qing’qinwang-dianxia is married. I’ll do my best to peacefully join the household.”
He even means it. His life has taken such an unexpected turn. During those grueling months coming north, he half expected to be executed at the destination. Now, a concubine to this seemingly genial man, every sign points to a comfortable life – if perhaps a small and lonely one – and he isn’t keen on ruining it by causing waves.
“That’s good then,” Qing’qinwang-dianxia chuckles. Then he lies down, pulling the corner of a blanket over his eyes and, to all appearances, goes to sleep. Blinking, Wei Ying holds himself ready for a few minutes for Qing’qinwang-dianxia to say or do something else, but the pull of sleep is very strong and eventually he drifts off again.
--
They arrive at qingwang’fu with a jolt, startling Wei Ying from his sleep again. Qing’qinwang-dianxia is halfway through the door by the time Wei Ying gets his numb legs out from underneath him. He shoves his feet into the too small shoes and totters down the steps, clutching the wrist offered to him by A’Yu. Qing’qinwang-dianxia trots up the few stone stairs and enters qingwang’fu, fan open once more.
“Ah – uh,” Wei Ying, left behind, looks to A’Yu for help.
“Come,” he says. “I will take you to Que’yuan.” He gestures at the servants by the door, and they open one of the side gates. “Word was sent ahead, so it should be in readiness for you.”
He helps Wei Ying wobble up the steps and over the threshold of the side gate into qingwang’fu. Perhaps the moment should have been one of more weight. As a concubine his place is in the inner courtyard – it’s unlikely he will ever leave this residence again. His whole world will comprise of the high walls that surround the buildings within.
But the moment passes and Wei Ying is guided down the steps on the other side and along a veranda that winds between the buildings and gardens.
Within minutes he knows this prince’s residence is massive – they pass several buildings and courtyards and still continue walking. As they go along, however, he finds the sheer size of it over shadowed by the interior – every space is highly elegant and deeply restful, though he shouldn’t be surprised given the carriage of the master of this place.
In Dazhi, Wei Ying gave all his peers, mentors, and superiors headaches from his irreverence of and disregard for the gentlemanly arts. Only three people ever figured out that the only way a person could be so consistently gauche without ever quite going too far was if they knew exactly what was proper and in good taste. He has always had an eye for such things.
The dark wood speaks to the great age of the buildings – no doubt a dozen generations of princes have resided here. Yet in a manner that appears effortless, the decorations and selected furniture of rooms take full advantage of their features and bring out the best of each, working with and through the outdated way in which the layouts of the buildings fall.
The colors match and complement beautifully – warm tones added when the surroundings are too cool and cool tones added for the opposite.
In shelves set up to change the structure of a room, there are objects set to fill the spaces. They are neither too crowded nor too empty. Screens are painted skillfully, the color and theme suiting each room and each building carrying through its own overarching theme or color palette.
Every bit of the public space Wei Ying sees is exquisite. Perfectly balanced and elegant, effortlessly. It all speaks of a single person’s personal hand – for nothing else but a single architect’s vision could make for such a cohesive confluence of design.
It is Qing’qinwang-dianxia’s personal hand, Wei Ying is certain. There are echoes of the skill and taste he saw in the painting and carriage everywhere.
It is deeply restful. He’s been in mansions that were so coldly decorated it felt like he could not make a single mistake lest he suffer consequences.
Here, you could do anything and the manor will be unmoved. You could trail in dirt or break a vase or sprawl across the floor in stained robes with a jug of wine and there will be no consequences – the master of this mansion is so perfectly confident, so self-assured, that a guest need fear nothing. Every bad manner will be absorbed with equanimity and met with perfect courtesy.
Their way is much delayed by Wei Ying dawdling to look. He cannot help himself. With each room he feels he is learning something new and affirming things he already knew at the same time, as though the personality of the master is being revealed to him step by step, each new facet fitting perfectly with the previous ones.
Only once does Wei Ying have to stop entirely.
They pass a small garden, little more than a nook – beauty brought to an awkward corner made by the construction of newer buildings next to old. The placement of trees and rocks is so enticing, so satisfying and solid in its intended purpose he can’t help but look and then look some more, eyes moving around the space with admiration.
“Does Wei-zhaoren enjoy gardens?” A’Yu hazards after they’ve been standing there for some time.
“Not really,” Wei Ying says. “Does Qing’qinwang-dianxia nap here very often?”
“Ah,” A’Yu says, clearly startled. After a moment’s dithering, he says, “Qing’qinwang-dianxia is much occupied.”
He does not have time to nap in gardens, is what A’Yu means.
“Shame. He’s made himself such a perfect spot for it.”
He lets them go on then, and in time – much longer than it ought to have even with all his lingering as his toes start pinching – they come to a very small courtyard with a very small building. It must be the farthest corner of the oldest section of the residence. A sign above the main door reads – Que’yuan.
It has all the things a hall ought – room for servants to sleep, a kang bed in the main room, an arhat and seating area to one side for receiving guests, and a small area with wardrobe and dressing table.
The rooms and furniture are clean, if a bit shabby and plain. The screen that conceals the kang is unadorned silk, the wood without embellishment, and he can see the bed curtain has two tears that were repaired.
It is not the sort of place a prince would come to visit a concubine. Wei Ying doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disheartened at being sent to a cold palace before he’s even had a chance to try and curry favor with Qing’qinwang-dianxia.
A’Yu deposits Wei Ying on the arhat in reach of the arm rest to grab if he loses his balance again. “May Wei-zhaoren please rise at chenshi. A maid will be sent to help you dress and get ready to serve Wangfei tea. Dinner will be brought shortly.” He bows neatly and departs quickly.
Wei Ying listens until even his sharp ears can no longer make out the sound of his steps. He is alone again. He breathes, slowly, feeling each inhale and exhale. It’s very quiet.
Hazy, he eventually kicks off his shoes and pulls off the outer layers of his robes, throwing them over the screen, moving towards the kang bed. He takes down his hair and then does it up in a braid for sleep, leaving the hairpin on a small table set beside the bed.
Carefully not thinking about anything, he lies down and pulls the blankets up to his chin