Chapter 193: The Whisper of the Imperial Bedchamber

The candles in Funing Palace burned all night.

Emperor Ningzong sat behind his imperial desk, a memorial spread before him; he had stared at it for half an hour but 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 northern Huai River outposts 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 troops. At the end of the memorial, Han Tuozhou wrote, “This minister bears unexpiatable guilt,” yet requested to retain his chancellorship to “rebuild the remnants 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 saw him as a capable minister; when the entire court cried, “Grand Master, your wisdom shines!” Ningzong had believed Han Tuozhou was the backbone of Great Song. But now—now the news of defeat fell like snowflakes: students stood silently on the imperial avenue holding banners; memorials from the Censorate piled high in the Political Affairs Hall; even the palace eunuchs walked three steps lighter than usual, as if fleeing 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 from the inner chamber, holding a silver ear soup. She wore a plain nightgown, her hair loosely pinned, no makeup, as if awakened by the night watch drum. But Ningzong knew she hadn’t slept—her eyes were clear, utterly awake.

“Can’t sleep,” Ningzong pushed the memorial away, rubbing his temples. “You know about the front?”

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

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

Ningzong’s face twitched. These words from the empress cut sharper than any polished phrase in the memorial.

“Wu Xi’s treason is still rumor,” he tried to defend. “Grand Master Han says—”

“Grand Master Han,” Empress Yang interrupted. She spoke the three words with a faint curl of her lips—not a smile, but the taste of something long awaited. “Your Majesty, do you remember who championed ‘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, unfit to be empress,” urging her replacement with Lady Cao. Ningzong had, unusually, stood firm. But since then, every time he saw Han Tuozhou, Empress Yang’s eyes froze over—a thin layer of ice that had never melted, only thickened.

“I’m not dredging up old grievances,” Empress Yang’s voice remained soft. “I only recall a small thing. When Your Majesty decided on the northern expedition this year, every minister praised the decision—some said the Central Plains would be reclaimed in days, others claimed Grand Master Han’s 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 out. 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 me for speaking plainly—can you issue an edict without Grand Master Han’s approval?”

Ningzong’s lips tightened. 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 state and military matters. Ningzong’s imperial 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 catastrophic defeat. Nearly half of eighty thousand troops destroyed, the Huai River defense nearly breached, Wu Xi openly defying orders—this is disaster and disgrace. In every dynasty, what fate awaits a minister who loses armies and shames the state? Not a single plea of ‘I bear unexpiatable guilt’ can erase it.”

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

“But he says he will rebuild,” Ningzong stopped, back to her. “If we remove him now, who will rebuild? Shi Miyuan? Shi Miyuan favors peace—he’ll surrender territory 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 a feather 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 Xi Xia. Now our elite are shattered on the Huai, the Jin are awakened, and that beast on the steppe has surely seen how weak we both are. Your Majesty—what if the steppe descends? Who will stand? Han Tuozhou’s demoralized remnants? Or Wu Xi, 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 favors 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 defenses, reclaim Shukou, retrain the troops—isn’t that better than following Han Tuozhou to the grave?”

Ningzong looked 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; her fingers were cold. “I am a woman, unfit to discuss state affairs. But I am your empress, mother of your princes. I fear not who will become chancellor after Han Tuozhou falls—I fear that if he remains, he will squander the last of Great Song’s resources. When the Jin come, when the steppe comes—” she paused, a tear glistening at her corner—“this empire will truly be lost in his hands.”

Ningzong stared at her tear. It shimmered in the candlelight. He could not tell if it was real or feigned—but at this moment, it 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 replied 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 appointment to the western front. If Wu Xi betrayed—no, Wu Xi already was betraying—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 desk, picking up Han Tuozhou’s memorial again. He stared at the four characters: “This minister bears unexpiatable guilt.” 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. The empire’s fate had been turned upside down.

He set the memorial down.

“Tomorrow,” his voice was so soft, as if afraid the eunuchs outside might hear, “have the Political Affairs Hall bring all the impeachment memorials. 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. She picked up a jade pendant on the table; its back bore the character “Han.” A gift from Han Tuozhou, presented to her upon her elevation. She had kept it—not out of nostalgia, but to remind herself never to forget.

She turned the pendant over, pressing it against 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.”