Chapter 65 - The Treacherous Consort
The silk curtains hung low, casting heavy shadows across the bed. Though Shen Tingjiao’s mind was clouded by a lingering, drug-induced lethargy, a sharp instinct pierced through the haze—something was wrong. The woman in his arms exuded a cloying, floral fragrance, whereas Yin Zhuli never touched perfumes. Furthermore, Zhuli was a woman of the martial arts; her frame was lithe but tempered with firm, disciplined muscle. The woman currently pressed against him was soft, yielding like overripe fruit.
A jolt of alarm forced his eyes open. Though his head throbbed with a dull ache, he reached out to call for Eunuch Chen Zhong, only to find his throat parched and constricted. The woman, sensing his movement, did not pull away; instead, she began to fumble with the fastenings of his robes. As he caught her wrist, a cold, incinerating fury bloomed in his chest. *Yin Zhuli... Yin Zhuli, how dare you!*
At that very moment, Yin Zhuli was lying beneath the gnarled branches of a plum tree. The heavy snowfall had ebbed into a rhythmic pulse of fine ice crystals that danced through the air. The pale reflection of the snow leached the color from the night, turning the world into a study of silver and grey. Leaning against the rough bark, she felt a strange sense of liberation. She was a woman who rarely gave of herself, and thus, she did not understand the righteous indignation of those whose sincerity was met with betrayal. To her, this was merely a transaction of fates.
The warmth of the wine still hummed in her veins, shielding her from the biting frost. Eventually, she drifted into a shallow sleep, her crimson palace robes—intricately embroidered with gold thread in the pattern of a Hundred Birds Paying Homage to the Phoenix—slowly becoming shrouded by fallen plum blossoms and crystalline frost. In the theater of her dreams, she saw mist-covered meadows and heard the thunder of hooves splashing through fresh greenery. Amidst the dappled shadows of a forest, a voice drifted on the wind, reciting softly: *"Long is the yearning, in Chang'an... the beauty is like a flower, separated by the clouds of heaven. Above is the high azure of the dark sky; below is the surging turbulence of the green waters..."*
She startled awake as the first grey light of dawn broke over the horizon. Standing before her was Shen Tingjiao. He stood perfectly still, a statue of imperial indifference. He was clad in his bright yellow dragon robes, his long hair bound with meticulous precision. The exquisite features that usually softened in her presence were now sharpened by the regal attire, radiating a distant, chilling majesty.
Behind him, Chen Zhong’s face was a mask of lingering terror as he frantically signaled to her with his eyes. It was the oppressive stillness before a cataclysmic storm. Yin Zhuli merely offered a faint, lopsided smile. "It is already this hour. Why has Your Majesty not yet attended the morning court?"
Shen Tingjiao did not return the smile. His expression remained as carved stone, devoid of any warmth or recognizable emotion. "Demote Empress Wenxu to Shuiping Palace," he commanded, his voice level and cold. He turned slightly, revealing a figure standing in his shadow—Xue Cangshi, dressed in simple, elegant white. He took her hand, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a hint of a smile that felt as sharp as a shard of ice. "Send word to Yue Huaiben, the Minister of Rites. Select an auspicious day to invest Xue Cangshi as Consort Xian. She shall temporarily oversee the inner palace in the Empress's stead."
Yin Zhuli rubbed her nose, her expression unreadable. It seemed Xue Cangshi had played her part well, even feigning a plea for mercy for the servants of Zhaohua Palace to ensure the Emperor’s wrath remained focused solely on the Empress. Yin Zhuli stood up, her limbs stiff from the cold. Her robes were heavy, soaked through with melted snow. Now that the wine had worn off, the bone-deep chill of the winter morning began to bite.
Shuiping Palace was a "Cold Palace," a place of exile that Yin Zhuli had never visited during her time in the imperial city. Before long, Zhang Qing arrived with two guards. Yin Zhuli offered no resistance, preparing to follow them. When her maid, Qingwan, attempted to join her, Shen Tingjiao’s voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Shuiping Palace is a place of quiet reflection. The Empress has always been fond of calculating gains and losses; perhaps she can use this time to contemplate her choices." There was no overt anger in his tone, only the lofty, detached arrogance of a sovereign. With a single sentence, he had dismantled her world.
Yin Zhuli followed the guards without a word. Behind her, she heard Shen Tingjiao’s voice drop into a tender murmur as he addressed Xue Cangshi. "Where would my beloved consort like to reside? I believe Yongshou Palace would be fitting."
Xue Cangshi lowered her gaze, the picture of a tragic, delicate beauty. "Your Majesty... the Empress was demoted because of me. How could I presume to rule the inner palace? I only wish to remain in the prayer hall of Zhaohua Palace to pray for Her Majesty’s well-being."
Shen Tingjiao paused. He was a man of keen intellect; he understood the subtext immediately. She wished to occupy the Empress's own residence. A smile, as brilliant and fleeting as a spring blossom, spread across his lips. "Very well. Since you possess such a pious heart, you shall reside in Zhaohua Palace."
At these words, Chen Zhong’s face paled, and Zhang Qing dropped to his knees. "Imperial Father, the Empress has not been formally deposed. How can another..."
Shen Tingjiao glanced back, his smile elegant and soft. "You certainly seem to cherish her."
Zhang Qing fell silent, unable to utter another word.
Overnight, Zhaohua Palace gained a new master, yet the rhythm of the inner palace remained unchanged. The heart of an Emperor was the most inscrutable of things, and those who lived within these high walls had seen too many rises and falls to be surprised for long.
In contrast, the imperial court was a hive of activity. Most officials offered their congratulations, praising the Emperor for distancing himself from a "treacherous consort" and valuing feminine virtue. Even Xue Chengyi, stationed at the distant border, sent a missive. He thanked the Emperor for the grace shown to his daughter and hinted at his absolute loyalty. However, the underlying pressure was clear: though Empress Wenxu was in the Cold Palace, her title remained. To a man like Xue Chengyi, she was a lingering threat that needed to be eradicated to secure his daughter’s position.
To the outside world, the details of the night remained a mystery, but the reputation of a "treacherous consort" was easy to propagate.
The festive atmosphere of the new favorite did not reach the desolate confines of Shuiping Palace. As Yin Zhuli walked between the two guards, even she was taken aback by the sight of her new home. The palace was a ruin of crumbling masonry and overgrown weeds. It felt like a border between two worlds—the opulent, gilded life of the royals had no purchase here.
The guards shoved her inside, and Yin Zhuli stood in the courtyard, staring at the decay. Typically, the Cold Palace housed the forgotten remnants of previous dynasties, childless concubines of late emperors, and elderly servants with nowhere else to go. But here, there was no sign of life—only a stagnant silence, like autumn leaves that had given up the struggle to stay on the branch.
She stepped forward. Half of the courtyard wall had collapsed, and the remaining structures groaned under their own weight. The ground was unpaved, and as the winter snow began to thaw, her boots sank into the freezing mud. She suddenly understood why Shen Tingjiao had wanted to protect Qu Lingyu from such a fate. In a place like this, a long life was a curse; a quick death was a mercy.
She was assigned a room on the western side. It was a frigid cell with a bed infested by woodworms. There was no charcoal brazier, and her only bedding was a single, thin quilt. Many who were sent here did not survive the winter.
Once the guards were out of sight, Yin Zhuli began to scout her surroundings. The palace was nearly empty; when the founding Emperor, Shen Wanyan, had seized power, he had purged the consorts of the Northern Zhao. Great Xing had been plagued by internal and external strife ever since, and the previous Emperor, Shen Tingyao, had not been a man of leisure, so his harem was small. The few women remaining here were his leftovers.
As Yin Zhuli explored, she saw women who were mere husks of their former selves, their beauty withered by neglect. Some recognized her, their eyes burning with a hatred that suggested they would gladly tear her apart. Yin Zhuli, unfazed, eventually found a small cache of old books in one of the rooms.
The paper was yellowed and brittle with age. Without hesitation, she pulled out her fire-starter, found an old ceramic jar, and began tearing out the pages. She needed to dry her soaked clothes before the cold claimed her.
By late afternoon, her stomach began to growl. Finally, a eunuch arrived, carrying a tiered food box. The other women swarmed him, and Yin Zhuli, unwilling to jostle with them, waited until the end. When she stepped forward, she was presented with a bowl of thin gruel—a generous term for what was essentially a bowl of water with a few stray grains of rice floating in it. It was stone cold.
There had been a small dish of pickled vegetables, but since she was last, it was gone. Yin Zhuli tucked her hands into her sleeves and peered into the box. The young eunuch snapped, "What are you looking at? Eat it or starve!"
He turned to leave, but Yin Zhuli, ever adaptable, stepped forward with a grin. "Do not be angry, Eunuch." She slid a heavy jade bracelet from her wrist and pressed it into his hand. Seeing the quality of the piece, the eunuch’s expression softened. "What do you want?"
Yin Zhuli laughed. "Might I ask your honorable name?"
The eunuch snorted. "I wouldn't call it honorable. You may be in Shuiping Palace, but you are still the Empress in name. I am Zhou Xianlu."
"A fine name," Yin Zhuli nodded. "Eunuch Zhou, you see my situation. A master in distress is often lower than a servant." Zhou Xianlu, who harbored a natural resentment toward the nobility, had intended to gloat over her fall. But her sincerity touched a chord of pity—or perhaps it was the jade. "Speak quickly. I don't have all day."
Yin Zhuli patted his shoulder and flashed another bracelet. "Eunuch Zhou, you serve the imperial family for gold and silver. But tell me, in all of Great Xing, who is truly the wealthiest?"
Zhou Xianlu froze. He suddenly remembered—this woman was the head of the Yin family, the masters of the Thousand-Acre Fortune Den. His attitude shifted instantly. "Your Majesty, is there something you require of me?"
Yin Zhuli handed him the second bracelet. "I have little coin on me, but ten thousand taels is a drop in the bucket for the Yin family. We can discuss that later. For now... I am a woman who cannot live without meat. This bowl of water simply won't do."
Zhou Xianlu weighed the bracelets. They were worth a fortune. "I shall bring Your Majesty something edible immediately," he promised, scurrying away.
As he disappeared, Yin Zhuli shivered and turned back toward her room. She hadn't gone far when a voice whispered from the shadows of a broken wall. "Master Yin! Master Yin!"
She turned to see a boy, no older than fourteen, with a clean, handsome face. He was perched on top of the wall, waving at her. When she approached, he reached out and handed her two oil-paper bundles.
Yin Zhuli opened them. One contained sliced, cooked beef; the other was filled with dried fruits and honeyed preserves. Suspicious by nature, she hesitated. "I do not know you. Why give me this?"
The boy’s eyes reflected the winter snow, bright and clear. "You wouldn't remember me. But do you remember two years ago in Henan? You fought with Manager Fei over the price of grain. I saw you then!"
Yin Zhuli searched her memory but shook her head with a smile. Fei Guanshan was a scoundrel who hoarded grain during disasters to drive up prices. The Yin family’s ancestral code was strict: in years of famine, luxury goods could be marked up, but the price of daily necessities—rice, oil, salt—must remain stable. In cold winters, silk could be expensive, but cotton and charcoal must be affordable. In times of plague, rare herbs could be sold for profit, but basic medicine must be cheap. In short: squeeze the rich, but never gamble with the lives of the poor.
The Yin ancestors believed that by following these two rules, one could dominate the world of commerce. But Yin Zhuli had fought the Fei family so many times over the years that she couldn't recall that specific incident.
The boy’s smile was as warm as the sun. "My mother said that without the Yin family, many people in Great Xing would have starved. Master Yin, my mother says you are not a treacherous consort."
Yin Zhuli held the bundles of beef and sweets, her expression softening despite herself. "What is your name?"
The boy grinned, showing bright white teeth. "I am called Chao Xi."
Yin Zhuli waved the paper bundles at him. "Thank you, Chao Xi."
