The Moon in the Palace (The Empress of Bright Moon Duology)(3)
My chin knocking against the carriage’s window frame, I watched my home fade into the distance. I had drunk Wenshui’s water, walked on Wenshui’s muddy road, and grown up in Wenshui’s air. Now I had to leave.
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Father used to say that Chang’an was the most glorious place under Heaven, and many people flocked to the Emperor’s city like moths attracted to light. Everyone—merchant, poet, mercenary, and prostitute alike—went there to realize dreams of fortune and decadence. It was also the destination of the Silk Route, where merchants from as far as Persia, Kucha, Kashgar, and Samarkand brought rare perfumes and hard-to-find luxuries for trade.
But when we approached the city wall near the Jinguang Gate, the scenery before me reflected none of Father’s description. The gray ramparts, looking like the jagged teeth of a demon, sprawled endlessly in the distance. Around me, many merchants, their faces netted with wrinkles and their lips parched with thirst, faltered on the road in fatigue, and the leaves of persimmon groves near a lake shriveled, looking on the verge of dying.
Once we entered the right gateway, the view of the city surprised me. White stone bridges arched in the shape of half-moons, stands of green willows edged deep ditches, vermillion-colored canoes and indigo-hued dragon boats floated on placid canals, and the enormous walled buildings—the residential wards, Mother told me—stood next to one another like fortresses.
I shielded my eyes to block the bright sunlight reflected from the canal. I did not wish to blink, unwilling to miss anything. The streets were as wide as the sky, and maples, elms, oaks, and junipers were spaced out neatly at the sides. Everything seemed organized and orderly; even the horses stopped nickering, as if awed by a silent code of obedience.
Two streets ran parallel to my left. On the far side, people ambled to exit the city, while the middle lane was unoccupied. Soon, a group of horsemen in hats and boots trotted along that street. At first I thought they were the Emperor’s guards, but when they drew closer, I realized they were noblemen. They were better dressed than anyone in my hometown, their hats thick with stripes of fur, their silk sleeves dropping low to their boots. In Wenshui, everyone greeted me on the street, but these people passed us as if we did not exist.
“Where is the palace?” I asked Mother.
“Look over there. See that red wall? That’s the palace wall,” Mother said, her arms around my sisters. Big Sister was sleeping, but Little Sister, who was born with a weak heart, moaned deliriously. She had fallen sick during the journey.
I stroked her shoulder to soothe her, and when she calmed down, I moved closer to the window. The vermilion gates, studded with bronze balls, were tall and wide, but I was not impressed. They looked similar to our own front gates, but as the carriage moved along, I realized how enormous the palace entrance really was, and it did not have just one, but three entrances—left, middle, and right. The middle one, reserved only for the Emperor and the late Empress—I remembered what Father had told me—was the grandest. It had one arched bridge in the front; two prancing stone kylins, the mythical unicorns; and two watchtowers standing on the top of the wall like pavilions floating in the air.
Father had said that the palace contained 9,999 rooms, an auspicious number to suggest the longevity of the kingdom. Each room was covered with marble, and each pillar was carved with dragons and inlaid with jade and ruby. Day and night, the chambers were filled with the sound of lutes and zithers, and the palace women often sauntered about in rainbow-colored gauze robes adorned with perfumed girdles.
And Emperor Taizong, for whom all the melodies were sung, for whom all the buildings were built…I wondered if he had received Father’s petitions. Would he summon me? If he wanted, he could find me easily, since the city kept strict records of who entered the ward and who lived with their kin.
We finally arrived at Qing’s house, a small building of packed mud with a thatched roof. The moment he saw us, he asked for Mother’s coin pouch and our jewelry. That, I knew, was the only reason he was allowing us to stay.
That night, we shared a bamboo mat in a small room with Qing’s two concubines and eight children. I hardly slept. Before dawn, a tattoo of drumbeats rose, the opening signal of the neighboring Western Market. I dressed and left Qing’s house quietly. I wanted to see the palace. I would not be able to enter, but perhaps by some luck I would see Emperor Taizong, and with Father’s contribution to Emperor Gaozu and the dynasty, surely Emperor Taizong would grant my wish and return our house to us.
Outside Qing’s ward, the noise from the market echoed through the thick morning fog like thunder. I paused, shocked to see so many people around me. Vendors chased customers with flaccid quail, rabbits, and pit vipers flapping against their shoulders. Merchants dug their feet into the packed earth and pushed carts laden with bolts of silk. The fortune-tellers paced around, bamboo cards in hands and clouds of coppery dirt at their heels.
I pushed through the crowd and arrived at the Heavenly Street that extended all the way to the palace’s front gates. An army of palace guards stood there, checking a throng of ministers holding emblems of a fish: the palace’s admission token. Only those bearing the token were permitted to enter the palace. There was no sign of the Emperor.
Disappointed, I turned around and walked back to Qing’s house.
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Living in Chang’an, I heard rumors about the palace all the time. People said the Emperor would summon fifteen maidens, the Selects, to serve him in the Inner Court that year, and the priority would be given to the high-ranking nobles’ daughters. My father, a governor, had been of high rank.