The Banished Immortal of the Cold Palace: His Majesty’s Young Master Yun Has Fallen Asleep Again - Chapter 8

When Wang Sheng followed Wang Shunde into the Yangxin Palace, the snow on the soles of his boots melted onto the polished gold bricks, leaving a trail of dark, watery prints.

The palace was stiflingly warm; the heavy scent of dragon-saliva incense blended with the smell of silver-frost charcoal, pressing down on those inside.

Wang Sheng dared not look up, fixing his gaze on the ground three feet ahead. In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of the bright yellow hem of a robe behind the imperial desk.

“Your Majesty.” Wang Shunde’s voice rang out in the vast, hollow hall, carrying its customary tone of respectful caution. “A message came from the Cold Palace. The Noble Consort is afraid she will not make it through this winter.”

There was no response.

Only the faint, rhythmic scratching of a vermilion brush writing on official documents remained, steady and unhurried; each stroke sounded like a hammer blow to the heart.

Cold sweat beaded on Wang Sheng’s forehead, and he prostrated himself even lower.

He was reminded of that day, the time he had nearly lost his life in this very spot. His heart felt even heavier.

It was unclear how much time had passed before the scratching sound finally ceased.

“Who delivered this message?” The voice came from above, flat and devoid of emotion.

Wang Shunde gestured to the side. Wang Sheng’s heart leaped into his throat, and he hurriedly knocked his head against the floor. “Replying to Your Majesty, it was this servant. I am currently on duty in the Cold Palace. It was… it was Young Master Yun who told this servant to relay the message.”

“Young Master Yun.” Yan Linyuan repeated these three words. His tone remained indifferent, yet the temperature in the hall seemed to drop by several degrees. “What did he say?”

Hearing him repeat Yun Biechen’s name, Wang Sheng’s throat felt even drier. Remembering Yun Biechen’s words, “do your best,” he carefully weighed his reply: “Young Master Yun said that Her Ladyship’s health… does not look very well. With the heavy wind and snow these past few days, the Cold Palace lacks both clothing and charcoal; it is likely difficult to endure.”

In truth, he had no idea what was wrong with the Noble Consort. Having delivered meals to her for so long, he truly could not tell.

But since Yun Biechen had told him to invite the Emperor, he had to fulfill that request.

Another silence ensued. Wang Sheng could hear his own heart beating like a war drum.

Suddenly, a very soft, cold laugh came from behind the imperial desk.

“Difficult to endure?” Yan Linyuan’s voice finally rippled, but it was as cold as tempered ice. “When she held the poisoned wine to the late Emperor’s lips back then, did she ever consider if others found it difficult to endure?”

Wang Sheng trembled all over, almost collapsing flat on the ground.

“I spared her life; that was already an act of grace.” The vermilion brush was set upon its rest with a sharp, crisp sound. “And now, an outsider must remind me whether she can survive or not?”

Despite these words, Wang Sheng keenly sensed an almost imperceptible hesitation in the Emperor’s voice.

He was not entirely sure, however.

“Your Majesty…” Wang Shunde spoke in a low voice, seemingly wanting to offer counsel.

“Shut up.”

The hall fell into a deathly silence once more. Only the rhythmic dripping of the water clock could be heard: tick, tock, tick, tock.

After a long time, Yan Linyuan suddenly stood up.

The bright yellow hem of his robe emerged from behind the desk, stopping right before Wang Sheng’s eyes. Wang Sheng saw a pair of black court boots embroidered with gold dragons, the tips stained with a bit of unmelted snow. Had His Majesty been outside just now?

“Prepare the carriage,” Yan Linyuan’s voice came from above, still cold and detached. “We are going to the Cold Palace.”

Wang Shunde was startled. “Your Majesty, the wind and snow are fierce right now. Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow.”

“I said, now.”

The palanquin moved very slowly through the snowy night.

Yan Linyuan did not sit inside; he only wore a black cloak and walked at the very front. The wind and snow lashed against his face, but he did not even blink.

Wang Sheng and Wang Shunde followed behind, surrounded by servants holding lanterns. The dim yellow light swayed across the snow, illuminating the tall, lonely back of the Emperor as he led the way.

The closer they got to the Cold Palace, the slower Yan Linyuan’s pace became.

When they reached the moon gate of the West Courtyard, he suddenly stopped.

The courtyard gate was ajar. There were no lights inside, only the reflection of the snow against the outlines of the dilapidated palace. The old, broken palace lantern had long since gone out, leaving the eaves empty.

Yan Linyuan stood before the gate, unmoving.

Snow covered his shoulders, and the fur of his cloak was frosted with a layer of ice crystals. He stood there like a statue of ice.

Wang Shunde stepped forward half a pace, whispering, “Your Majesty, let this old servant go in first…”

“Step back.”

The voice was soft, yet carried an unquestionable sense of authority.

Wang Sheng retreated outside the Cold Palace with Wang Shunde, carefully surveying the surroundings of the West Courtyard as he did so.

When he caught sight of a hem of clothing dangling from the white plum tree against the wall, his heart sank. A sense of anxiety bubbled up inside him.

But at this moment, he could only suppress his emotions and retreat further away from the palace grounds.

After everyone had withdrawn, Yan Linyuan raised his hand and pushed open the half-open, rotting wooden door.

The door hinges let out a shrill, screeching sound, which was exceptionally clear in the quiet, snowy night.

He walked inside alone.

The snow in the courtyard was deep, almost submerging his boots. Weeds and withered branches were bent under the weight of the snow, letting out faint whimpers in the wind. The palace doors stood wide open, pitch-black like a mouth waiting to devour him.

Yan Linyuan walked to the threshold and stopped.

He did not enter immediately, instead standing outside the doorway, gazing inside with deep, heavy eyes.

Only after a long while did he step inside.

The interior was colder than the outside; the air was filled with a musty, decaying scent mixed with a faint, lingering aroma of wine, the scent of Pine-Snow Brew.

By the light filtering in from the snow outside, one could see a person lying on the ground in the center of the hall.

The Noble Consort lay on her back, wearing only that old, faded palace gown. Her hair was scattered across the snow-covered floor, gray-white interwoven with the pure white of the snow.

Her eyes were open, staring at the pitch-black ceiling, her pupils already dilated.

One hand was splayed at her side, fingers slightly curled, the tips stained with mud, snow, and dried blood.

Her other hand was pressed against her chest, clutching something. Looking closely, it was a piece of withered grass, braided into the shape of a plait.

Yan Linyuan walked over and crouched beside her.

The hem of his black cloak spread out on the snow, touching the worn-out hem of the Noble Consort’s garment.

He reached out, his fingertips hovering an inch above her cheek before stopping.

He did not touch her.

He simply left them there, hovering for a very, very long time.

Snow drifted in from the leaking roof, landing on the Noble Consort’s face and on his fingertips. He did not brush it away.

Finally, he withdrew his hand and instead picked up the braid of grass from her chest.

The dried grass was brittle and would crumble with the slightest pressure. Yet, he held it very gently, his thumb rubbing over the rough stems.

“Mother,” he whispered.

The sound was so soft it was almost inaudible, disappearing instantly into the wind and snow.

He fell silent again, simply looking at her. His gaze drifted from her withered face to her frostbitten, purplish hands, to her old shoes caked in mud and snow, and finally back to her face.

To those eyes that were once bright and moving, later manic and clouded, and now, extraordinarily peaceful.

“You are finally…” He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing once, “…no longer waiting.” He raised his hand and gently closed the Noble Consort’s eyes.

He slowly stood up.

He tucked the hand holding the grass braid into his sleeve and turned to walk toward the palace entrance.

As he reached the doorway, he stopped and looked back one last time.

In the pale light of the snow, the Noble Consort’s remains lay there quietly, like a withered leaf that had finally fallen from the branch.

Yan Linyuan pulled his gaze away and stepped out of the hall.

“Wang Shunde.”

“This old servant is here.”

“Bury her…” He paused, his voice returning to its habitual cold stiffness, “…according to the rites of a Cairen. She does not need to enter the Consort Mausoleum; choose another quiet place.”

“Yes.”

“Also,” Yan Linyuan looked toward the East Courtyard, where a branch of white plum blossoms reached over the wall, swaying in the wind and snow. “Tell that Young Master Yun.”

He did not finish his sentence; he suddenly stopped.

On the plum branch, a strip of plain white silk fluttered in the wind, appearing and disappearing from view.

Yan Linyuan stared at the ribbon for a moment. He said nothing, but stepped toward the tree from which it hung.

His foot seemed to strike something. Yan Linyuan looked down.

It was two empty wine jars.