Chapter 193: The Empress

The candles in Funing Palace burned all night.

Emperor Ningzong sat behind the Shanghe Yuan, a memorial to the throne spread before him; he had stared at it for half an hour but had absorbed not a single word. It was Han Tuozhou's latest military report—more accurately, a death notice: the eastern front had collapsed beyond recovery, all outposts north of the Huaihe lost; Xue Shusi had retreated to Xiangyang, Tangzhou fallen; Wu Xi on the western front acted as if independent, ignoring all eight imperial orders to mobilize a single soldier. At the end of the memorial, Han Tuozhou wrote, "This minister bears guilt beyond pardon," yet requested to retain his chancellorship to "rebuild the ruins and gradually restore the realm."

Ningzong closed the memorial, opened it again, closed it again. He repeated this motion four or five times.

The Emperor was barely thirty, on the throne six years, yet every minute he sat in that chair felt as if he were sitting for someone else. When Han Tuozhou installed him, Ningzong had seen him as a benefactor; when Han Tuozhou advocated northern expedition, he had seen him as a capable minister; when the entire court shouted, "Grand Master is wise," Ningzong had seen Han Tuozhou as the backbone of Great Song. But now—now the news of defeat fell like snowflakes, the Imperial University students stood silently on the Imperial Avenue holding banners, the Censorate's impeachment memorials piled high in the Political Affairs Hall, even the palace eunuchs walking with lighter steps, as if avoiding an impending disaster.

He suddenly felt cold. It was July, Lin'an sweltering like a steamer, yet a chill crept up his spine.

"Your Majesty hasn't slept?"

The voice came from behind, soft as a feather landing on water. Ningzong turned; Empress Yang stepped out of the inner chamber, holding a silver ear soup. She wore a plain nightgown, her hair loosely pinned at the nape, no makeup, as if awakened by the night watch drum. But Ningzong knew she hadn't slept—her eyes were clear, utterly free of drowsiness.

"Can't sleep," Ningzong pushed the memorial away, rubbing his temples. "You know about the front?"

Empress Yang placed the soup on the Shanghe Yuan, glancing casually at the memorial. She could read—a rarity in the harem. When Han Tuozhou opposed her becoming Empress, one reason was, "A woman who reads brings trouble." She not only read, but indeed caused trouble—only Han Tuozhou had underestimated how much.

"The palace is full of rumors," she sat beside him, her tone calm as idle chatter. "They say corpses in the Huaihe float as thick as duckweed. They say Wu Xi on the west is preparing to rebel. They say the Jin have retaken Sizhou and thrown our banners off the walls."

Ningzong's face twitched. These words from the Empress's lips were a hundred times sharper than the polished phrasing in the memorial.

"Wu Xi's case is still rumor," he tried to defend. "Grand Master Han said—"

"Grand Master Han," Empress Yang interrupted. She spoke the three words with a faint curve to her lips—not a smile, but the taste of something long awaited. "Your Majesty, do you remember who strongly advocated 'a woman who reads brings trouble' when I nearly was deposed?"

Ningzong fell silent. He remembered. Three years ago. Han Tuozhou, with several censors, petitioned in the Empress Dowager's name, claiming Yang Shi was "cunning, literate, and unfit for the harem," urging her replacement with Lady Cao. Ningzong had, unusually, stood firm. But ever since, every time he saw Han Tuozhou, Empress Yang's eyes would frost over—that ice had never melted in three years, only grown thicker.

"I'm not dredging up old grievances," Empress Yang's voice remained soft. "I only recall a small matter. When Your Majesty decided on the northern expedition this year, every official praised the Grand Master—some said the Central Plains would be reclaimed in days, others claimed his merit surpassed heaven. But did Your Majesty ever wonder—why did no one dare say 'no'?"

Ningzong opened his mouth.

"There were," Empress Yang answered for him. "Xin Qiji spoke up. Deng Youlong hesitated. But their voices were drowned—by Grand Master Han's. He has controlled the court for six years: the censors are his, the Privy Council is his, the Political Affairs Hall is his. Even Your Majesty—forgive my boldness—can you issue an edict without Grand Master Han's approval?"

Ningzong's lips tightened. It was a question he had never dared to ponder. He knew the answer: he could not. Han Tuozhou, as Grand Master and Director of Military Affairs, oversaw all military and state matters. Ningzong's jade seal had stamped countless edicts—but each time, only on Han Tuozhou's drafted texts, like a stamp, not a scepter.

"He lost," Empress Yang's voice dropped, low enough only for them to hear. "Your Majesty, he suffered a crushing defeat. Nearly half of eighty thousand troops destroyed, the Huaihe line nearly breached, Wu Xi openly defying orders—this is disaster and disgrace. In every dynasty, what fate awaits a minister who loses armies and disgraces the state? Not a single line of 'this minister bears guilt beyond pardon' can erase it."

Ningzong rose and began pacing the hall. His steps were quick, fragmented, betraying inner turmoil. Empress Yang did not urge him—she sat quietly, watching.

"But he says he will rebuild the ruins," Ningzong stopped, back to her. "If we remove him now, who will rebuild? Shi Miyuan? Shi Miyuan favors peace—he'll cede land if the Jin come."

Empress Yang rose, stepping behind the Emperor. She did not touch him, only stood half a step back, letting her presence press against his spine.

"Your Majesty, have you considered another matter?" Her voice changed—not soft feathers now, but a needle slowly piercing. "Grand Master Han launched the northern expedition this year because he believed the Jin were weak. But why were the Jin weak? Because a monster to the north devoured the Western Xia. Now our elite are shattered by the Huaihe, the Jin are awakened, and that beast on the steppe has surely seen how little strength remains in both our states. Your Majesty—what if the steppe descends south? Who will stop them? Han Tuozhou's demoralized remnants? Or Wu Xi on the western front, ready to secede at any moment?"

Ningzong froze. Each word from Empress Yang struck his chest like a hammer, heavier with each blow.

"Shi Miyuan does favor peace," Empress Yang stepped before him, lifting her gaze to meet his eyes. "But what of it? In this situation, peace is fortune. If we can buy ten years of respite with tribute, rebuild the Huai-Yang defenses, reclaim Shukou, and retrain our troops—isn't that better than following Han Tuozhou to the grave?"

Ningzong stared at her. Her eyes glowed in the candlelight—two flames, suppressed for three years, finally ready to burn.

"Your Majesty," Empress Yang took his hands; hers were cold. "I am a woman—I should not meddle in state affairs. But I am your Empress, mother to your Imperial Princes. I fear not who will become Chancellor after Han Tuozhou falls—I fear that if we keep him in that seat, he will squander the last of Great Song's heritage. When the Jin come, when the steppe comes—" she paused, a tear glistening at her corner—"this Jiangshan will truly be lost in his hands."

Ningzong stared at her tear—the single drop refracting tiny lights in the candle glow. He could not tell if it was real or feigned, but the question no longer mattered. What mattered was the reflection in her pupils: a weary, indecisive Emperor, crushed by pressure, nearly deformed.

"How many memorials have been submitted to impeach him?" Ningzong asked, voice quiet.

"Twenty-three," Empress Yang answered swiftly. "Signed by censors and ministers. And—" she paused—"I hear Shi Miyuan holds evidence related to Wu Xi. He has not yet revealed it."

Ningzong closed his eyes. Related to Wu Xi. Four words explained everything. Wu Xi was Han Tuozhou's own appointee to the western front. If Wu Xi betrayed—no, Wu Xi already had betrayed—then Han Tuozhou's crime was no longer merely "provoking border conflict" or "poor appointment," but "nurturing a tiger to its own ruin."

"Do you think," Ningzong opened his eyes, voice hoarse, "Grand Master Han knows about Wu Xi?"

Empress Yang did not answer. Her silence was answer enough.

Ningzong slowly returned to the Shanghe Yuan, picking up Han Tuozhou's memorial again. He stared at the four characters: "This minister bears guilt beyond pardon." Suddenly, the handwriting seemed cruel. Six months ago, the same hand had written: "The imperial army will reclaim the Central Plains in days." Six months. Two memorials. One victory, one defeat. Turned Great Song's fate upside down.

He set the memorial down.

"Tomorrow," his voice was so quiet, as if afraid the eunuchs outside might hear, "have the Political Affairs Hall bring all the impeachment memorials to me. I will read them myself."

Empress Yang bowed. Her steps were light as she withdrew, the hem of her nightgown brushing the tiles with a faint rustle. She entered the inner chamber; the curtain fell behind her, blocking the Emperor's view.

The moment the curtain dropped, her tear dried.

She sat before the dressing table, removing her hairpin. In the bronze mirror, her face showed no trace of tears, no sorrow—only a cold, long-suppressed satisfaction released. She picked up a jade pendant on the table; its back bore the character "Han." A gift from Han Tuozhou, given to her upon her elevation as Empress. She had kept it—not out of nostalgia, but to remind herself never to forget.

She flipped the pendant over, pressing it down on the table. Jade met wood with a sharp, clear crack—like something shattered.

"Grand Master," she whispered to the mirror, her lips finally curling into a true smile, "it's your turn."