I found no rest in sleep, my mind plagued by visions of failure. Throwing the covers off, I rose to ready myself. All the candidates had been given a set of garments and a
sandalwood tablet engraved with our names. I slipped on
the apricot silk robe, tying the yellow brocade sash around my waist. Then a diaphanous coat, the shifting hues of dawn. Flowing sleeves grazed my wrists, the skirt coming down to my ankles. My fingers ran over the material, light and soft, with a subtle shimmer in its threads. I had not
worn such fine silk since my home. Lacking the skills to try anything more elaborate with my hair, I pulled it into a tail that swung across my back.
Picking up the wooden tablet, I fastened it to my waist, tracing the characters of my name carved into it:
Silver star, the constant companion to the moon. Mother, I thought, I’ll make you proud of me today. I made my way to the doors, eager to escape the stony stares from the other girls who were just rising from their beds.
“Don’t get too used to the Jade Palace. You’ll be back here soon enough,” Jiayi called out tauntingly.
I halted by the entrance, not turning around. “Thank you for your kind wishes, Jiayi,” I said, in as pleasant a tone as I could muster. “When I return, it will be to pack my things.
Do take care of Lady Meiling’s garments better, in the meantime. For your own sake, be sure to keep them away from the inkstone.”
I strode away, my back pulled straight—yet glad she
could not see my face. Despite my bold words, a part of me was certain her mean-spirited prediction would hold true.
However, since the day by the river, I was no longer
content to feign indifference nor hold my tongue against insult.
Outside the mansion, it struck me that I did not know the way to the Jade Palace. Even if I could bring myself to ask Lady Meiling, she would never aid me. I raised my head to search the skies. The Jade Palace floated on a bank of clouds above the kingdom. It would not be hard to find.
Whenever I’d ventured outside before, I’d never had the time to linger. All around were the magnificent estates of
the most powerful immortals of the realm. Some were built from rare woods with tiered roofs of glazed tiles, while others were crafted from polished stone with elegantly
upturned roofs. Trees and shrubs abounded in jeweled tones of crimson and amethyst, emerald and vermilion. The Celestial Kingdom was like a garden in eternal spring; the flowers did not wither and the leaves did not brown. Today, the ground gleamed a brilliant blue, mirroring the clear heavens above as though earth and sky were one.
The stairway of pure white marble leading to the palace disappeared among the clouds. As I walked up the steps, gripping the railing, my eyes were drawn to the intricate
phoenix carvings on its balusters. Reaching the top, I stilled at the sight. Amber columns held up a magnificent, three-
tiered roof of grass-green jade. Gold dragons perched
majestically in each corner, luminous pearls clutched within their jaws—so lifelike, I could almost feel the wind rippling
through their manes. The white stone walls were flecked with crystals which glittered like stars against a sea of
clouds. Flanking the entrance were bronze incense burners studded with precious gems, from which tendrils of sweet
smoke curled.
An enormous plaque of lapis lazuli hung over the entrance, etched in gold with the characters:
JADE PALACE OF IMMORTAL HEAVEN
As a waiting attendant gestured at me, I followed him
through the red-lacquered doors, trying not to gawk at the ceilings painted with flowers in cobalt, scarlet, and persimmon. We crossed winding corridors and large
pleasure gardens, golden pavilions and lotus-filled ponds, before emerging in a courtyard teeming with immortals. I craned my neck to read the wooden plaque painted with
the name of this place:
COURTYARD OF ETERNAL TRANQUILITY
Although today, the residence of the Crown Prince was
anything but tranquil. While the sun was not yet high, the air thrummed with immortal auras. All the other candidates had already gathered—cultivated and plucked from the
most illustrious families in the kingdom. All eager to be planted in the Crown Prince’s garden, just as I was, I
admitted to myself. Although I felt as out of place here as a weed among the orchids, just as whenever I compared
myself to my mother.
Beyond their lineage, the other candidates were
undoubtedly bright, cultured, accomplished. Powerful.
While we were all attired similarly, jade and gold gleamed from their hair, jeweled ornaments dangling from their waists. Their slippers were thickly embroidered with silk
thread, some encrusted with lustrous pearls. Many stared at me curiously and when my eyes met Lady Meiling’s, her lips puckered as though she had bitten into a sour plum.
She turned away with a forced laugh, her words drifting to me as she made no attempt to lower her voice.
“That girl over there, the one who looks like a mortal peasant. She used to be my attendant.” Lady Meiling paused, letting the gasps quieten before she continued. “The worst one I ever had, both stupid and dull.”
“How did she get selected?” a slender man asked, glancing at me.
Her nose wrinkled. “She begged Prince Liwei for the chance, and he took pity on her. He probably only allowed it because he knew she could not win.”
My fingers dug into the skirt of my robe, crumpling the delicate silk. She meant to wound me, to shake my
confidence, perhaps. Little did she know how deep her jibes went. But I would give her no satisfaction, my desire to win hardening instead. I would feel no remorse for my
supposed temerity in climbing above my station to reach for the prize. What did I care for such rules anyway? I was not brought up to revere their titles or rank, and I would
certainly not start now—not when winning would transform my life, not just gild an already bright future.
A gong was struck, its brassy tone reverberating loudly, silence trailing in its wake. Attendants hurried into the courtyard, clearing the path to the raised dais in front of the pavilion where thirteen desks were arranged. An odd number, and I guessed I was the late addition. Whispers
rustled through the crowd as the immortals sank to their knees, touching their foreheads to the ground. I followed suit hastily as the Crown Prince entered, accompanied by his mother and their attendants.
“All may rise.”
The familiar sound of his voice calmed my nerves. As I rose, I glanced eagerly at the dais. Was this the same young
man who had cleaned the dirt from my hairpin and listened to my troubles? A collar of gold gleamed at his neck,
beneath a blue brocade robe embroidered with yellow dragons. A silvery glow emanated from their jaws, as
though they were breathing mist and cloud. Flat links of white jade clasped his robe around his waist. His hair was
drawn into an immaculate topknot, encased in a gold crown set with a large oblong sapphire. How grand, he looked.
Majestic, even. And yet he was also just as I remembered, with his thoughtful expression and dark, intelligent eyes.
My gaze shifted to the brilliant vermilion robes of his mother beside him. The scarlet phoenixes on her garments stretched their graceful heads, their crests almost
entangled in the long necklace of jade beads around her throat. As my gaze drifted up to her face, my blood froze to ice.
The Celestial Empress.
The one who had threatened and terrified my mother, forcing my flight from home. Anger sparked, thawing my fear, my emotions warring within. My fingers curled into tight fists as I forced my mouth into a bland smile. How senseless of me to have missed the connection! Was my mind dulled from grief and those months of sleepless
nights? My instincts yelled at me to leave, but I could not reveal myself now. Besides, the empress did not have the
slightest inkling of my identity. More importantly, necessity outweighed my fear—I needed this opportunity to have any hope of making something of myself. Even if it brought me closer to those I dreaded. Those I despised. Slowly I
unclenched my hands, letting them hang limp by my sides.
At Prince Liwei’s nod, the chief attendant called out, “For the first two challenges, all candidates will participate.
Only the winners will move on to the third and final round. His Highness has determined that no magic is permitted;
these are tests of skill, learning, and ability, of which he
prizes most.” He paused. “The first challenge will be the art of tea brewing.”
I breathed out, feeling my tension ease. Part of me had feared being set some impossible task that I would fail
before it began. But my relief was short-lived as the candidates hurried into the pavilion in a swirl of silk and brocade. I dashed to my assigned desk, trying to calm my thumping heart. I could brew tea, I had done so countless times before—for myself, my mother. Even for Lady Meiling.
Except, what was all this on the table before me? My head began to throb at the bewildering assortment of items. Over a dozen teapots in varying sizes, of clay,
porcelain, and jade. A large tray was crammed with jars of tea leaves: black oolong curls, pearls of jasmine, and leaves of golden-brown and green. In a corner was a pile of bricks and cakes of pressed pu’er. Tiny porcelain bowls heaped
with dried flowers were lined up beside them. I picked up a few items and lifted them to my nose—earthy and heady, flowery and sweet—the aromas only confounding me further. I could barely identify a few; Longjing tea, jasmine, and wild chrysanthemum, among them.
My spirits sank as I looked around. The other candidates were sniffing the teas expertly before making their selections. A few picked more than one type, perhaps
disdaining a single blend as too humble? Those quickest were already pouring out their teas, while I had not even
made my choice. Seizing a fragrant cake of pu’er, I pried off a wedge with a silver needle and dropped it into a
porcelain teapot. I had little experience brewing this, but I heard the finest leaves were pressed into these forms and aged for years, decades even. As I waited for the water to boil, I glanced around again—only now realizing those who chose pu’er all used clay teapots, some tossing out the first steep. Struck by sudden doubt, I discarded my first choice, deciding to stick with what I knew best—my mother’s
favorite Longjing, the Dragon-Well tea. Steam hissed from the bronze kettle and quickly, I poured the boiling liquid over another tea set to warm it, to better awaken the flavor in the leaves. Without a pause, I tossed a fistful of the
bright green leaves into the teapot and filled it with hot water. Replacing the lid, I waited impatiently for it to steep. Twenty seconds. No more, as I was almost out of time.
I poured the tea into a porcelain cup, a murky brown soup. My gut twisted as I lifted the lid to inspect the dregs. Careless, I cursed myself. In my haste, I had placed the
Longjing into the same pot as the pu’er. When mixing teas,
I had been cautioned to take care with the water
temperature and the ratios to balance their flavors, whether delicate or strong. From the heavy and dull aroma emanating here, I had gotten it all wrong.
Someone cleared his throat—the chief attendant, waving me over impatiently. I was the only one who had not served my tea and now, there was no time to brew another. My hands were stiff as I carried the tray to Prince Liwei. With every step, my grand dream of distinguishing myself here
faded further into oblivion. Worse yet, what if His Highness spat out my tea? The empress would be furious, I might be ejected from the competition at once—deemed as unworthy and unfit as everyone here believed me.
As I placed the tray before Prince Liwei, his eyes warmed in recognition, flicking down to the sandalwood name tablet by my waist. Without hesitation, he lifted the cup to his
mouth and took a long sip. I was standing in front of him so only I saw the slight wrinkle across his brow, the quirk of his lips. It was gone in an instant, but my spirits plunged.
There was no way I could imagine that to be an expression of pleasure. However, to my astonishment, Prince Liwei
lifted my cup into the air.
“This one. I’ve never tasted such a unique blend before.” He nodded to an attendant who recorded my name.
The Celestial Empress leaned forward. “Liwei, are you sure? It’s such an odd color. Let me try it.”
A shiver rippled down my spine. How well I remembered her voice, melodious yet sharp.
As Prince Liwei handed her the cup, it slipped from his fingers, striking the ground with a crash. The porcelain shattered, dark liquid pooling on the stone floor, the remnants of my unfortunate concoction. A crowd of attendants rushed forward to clean up the mess, but the empress ignored them, glaring at me as though it were I who had dropped it.
When the chief attendant announced me as the winner of the first challenge, I slumped with relief, taking no offense at the shocked whispers. For, despite Prince Liwei’s words,
I doubted my tea deserved the honor. Yet somehow, I was ahead in the competition and that was what mattered.
In front of the pavilion, a painting of flowering osmanthus trees was unveiled for the second challenge. As the
audience sighed in admiration, we were asked to compose a couplet inspired by the scene. I stifled a groan. It had
been a long time since I’d held a brush, much less
composed anything. I tried to conjure up elegant words and flowery phrases, but my mind remained as blank as the
untouched paper before me. I closed my eyes, the smell of ink sharper in the dark—heavy, with a faint medicinal undertone. I could almost imagine myself back in my home, the cool air blowing through my window, rustling the thin sheets on my wooden desk.
It was years ago, when my mother had begun teaching
me to write. I remember how her sighs had echoed through my ears. While she had been patient, I was a challenging student, particularly for the subjects that did not interest me.
“Xingyin, hold the brush firmer,” she had admonished me for the tenth time. “A thumb on one side, your index and
middle fingers on the other. Straight, don’t let it slant down.”
Only after she had been satisfied, did she allow me to dip the stiff, ivory brush hairs into the glossy ink. As I swirled it harder against the inkstone, she had warned, “Not too much. Your lines will be clumsy, the ink will bleed.”
I had imagined the elegant characters I would form, but my enthusiasm soon waned after making the same
wobbling stroke again and again. “What’s the point of
learning this?” I asked impatiently. “It’s not like I’m going to become a scribe or scholar.”
She had taken the brush from me then, drawing the character in steady, precise movements: “Forever,” the word composed of the eight brushstrokes from which all characters were formed. “You’ll never grow if you only do what you’re good at,” she had said. “The most difficult things are often the most worthwhile.”
Reluctant to leave the haven of my memory, I opened my eyes slowly. The other contestants wrote with a frenzied calm, bent over in concentration. I stared at the painting, no longer thinking of what might please the judges, but how much I missed my mother until it hurt. Lifting my brush, I wrote the following lines:
.
The blossoms fall, their sweet fragrance is lost, Once warmed by the sun, now sunken in frost.
When my couplet was read aloud, there were a few nods
and appreciative murmurs. Mine was far from the best, but I was just grateful to not have disgraced myself. After the empress selected Lady Lianbao’s as the winner, I clapped
along with the audience.
As the painting was carried away, several attendants entered, bearing large trays piled with food for the
afternoon meal. I lost count of the staggering number of
dishes as the tables heaved under platters of prawns
simmered in golden butter, roasted pork, chicken braised with herbs, delicate soups, and vegetables artfully shaped into flowers. It smelled delicious yet I could only manage a few bites before my stomach churned in protest. I laid my chopsticks down, looking up to see Lady Lianbao pushing the food around her plate with as little enthusiasm. There was an incessant flow of chatter around us, but all I could think of was what would come after—the last challenge
which only we would participate in. When our eyes met, I shot her a tentative smile, which she returned after a moment’s hesitation.
After the plates and remaining food had been whisked
away, the clang of the gong rang out once more. The chief attendant announced loudly, “For the final challenge, Lady Lianbao and Attendant Xingyin will each select an
instrument to perform a song of their choice. The winner
will be chosen by Her Celestial Majesty and His Highness.”
My heart leapt. Finally, something I possessed some skill in! The desks had been cleared and a vast assortment of instruments laid out. Lady Lianbao bowed to the dais,
before selecting the qin and taking her seat. She played a beautiful melody—a classic about the leaves in the mortal world changing their color from jade to russet—her fingers plucking the strings masterfully. While I admired her
ability, my confidence dipped with each perfect note.
It was my turn. As everyone swung toward me, my palms broke out in a sweat. I wiped them against my skirt, trying to calm myself. I had only ever performed in front of my mother and Ping’er. A most amiable audience, a most
forgiving one. With wooden steps, I made my way toward the center of the pavilion. My eyes darted over the zithers and lutes, glazing over the chime-bells and drums . . . but there was no flute. I paused before the qin, the only one familiar to me here. However, it was not my best
instrument and Lady Lianbao had played it far better than I
ever could. To select it would be to choose defeat, and a lifetime in the Golden Lotus Mansion would not bring me one step closer to my dream.
Grateful that the long skirt hid my shaking legs, I bowed to the dais. “Your Celestial Majesty, Your Highness. There is no flute here. May I play my own instrument?”
The empress pursed her lips. “The rules cannot be broken.” Her tone was sharp with disapproval.
I kept my face lowered so she would not see my stifled fear and resentment. “Your Celestial Majesty, the rules only stated that I had to select an instrument to perform. It did not specify from where.”
Someone gasped. I glanced up to see the chief attendant take a hasty step away.
The empress glowered as she tossed her head back, the
jade beads around her neck clicking furiously. “You insolent girl, how dare you argue with me?”
“Honorable Mother, it’s our mistake that no flute was provided,” Prince Liwei interjected. “I don’t see why it matters if she plays her own. Are not our instruments of equal standard to any other?”
The empress leaned forward as she addressed me in a chilling tone, “Your flute will be inspected. Should we discover any enchantment upon it, you will be whipped until you cannot walk for attempting to cheat.”
“There will be no whipping today,” Prince Liwei said tightly. One of his hands was clenched in his lap.
She did not reply, gesturing toward someone behind her. “Minister Wu, conduct the inspection.”
An immortal with pale brown eyes stepped out from the crowd, the amber in his hat gleaming like drops of gold. It was him; the minister who had discovered the shift in the moon’s energy, who had alerted the empress and brought her to my home. Perhaps he was merely a vigilant courtier, but my gut clenched at the sight of him. In my shock at
seeing the empress, in the tumult of the day—I had not realized he was here, too.
I could feel the empress’s gaze upon me, everyone was
staring at me as I fumbled with the ties of my pouch. If they believed me nervous, I was glad for it—better that than the simmering fury which threatened to erupt. How dare she
accuse me of cheating? Perhaps, in her mind, someone like me would have no scruples. Perhaps, I thought viciously,
she only suspected me of what she was capable of herself.
I bowed, raising my arms to offer up my flute. An
attendant rushed to take it and passed it to Minister Wu. His expression was one of bored disinterest, a far cry from the eagerness he had shown in my mother’s troubles. Did he find today’s proceedings tiresome? Did he resent being ordered around by the empress? Nevertheless, he
performed his role admirably, inspecting my flute with meticulous care. How I hated seeing my precious
instrument—my mother’s gift—between his gloved fingers.
Finally, he turned to the empress. “There is no enchantment.”
Her displeasure was evident in her curt nod. “Proceed,” she ordered.
As the empress’s attendant returned my flute, my fingers closed tight around it. I breathed deeply, trying to loosen
the tightness in my chest, still burning with the humiliation of her accusation. Closing my eyes, I tried to shut out the
indifferent strangers around me, searching for the melody I wanted—of a bird’s desperate hunt for her stolen children, until she froze to death when winter came. One of sorrow, grief, and loss, to channel the emotions swirling through me. As a stillness swept over me, I lifted the flute, rejoicing in the familiar press of the cool jade against my lips. How I had missed this. The song began playfully, with joyous notes rippling through the air, soaring clear and pure.
Slowly, the melody morphed into jagged uncertainty and terror, before plunging into the abyss of despair.
The last note faded. With trembling hands, I lowered the flute. Ping’er had praised my playing, but would it be
deemed lacking here? I glanced up to find the empress white-faced and furious—surely, that was a good sign,
though I could not read Minister Wu’s expression. A clap rang out, joined by others, the sounds crashing together like thunder. A fierce gladness coursed through me that regardless of the outcome, I had tried my best.
Prince Liwei and the empress conferred for a long time. As the last performer of the day, I had remained in my seat before them and caught snatches of their conversation.
The empress tried her utmost to sway her son. “Lady Lianbao’s heritage is impeccable. She is well-educated, intelligent, graceful, and musical. How can you prefer a
mere attendant to her? She looks so common and that mark on her chin is a sure sign of an ill-temper.”
I clasped my hands in my lap, squeezing my fingers together.
“Honorable Mother, if we chose someone based only on their heritage, there would be no need to hold this event today.” His tone was respectful yet firm.
Silence hung in the air as they stared at each other. I saw little resemblance in their features, for which I was glad—a warmth to Prince Liwei’s face, instead of the cold, stark planes of the empress.
Finally, she sighed, an exasperated sound. “Such a trifling matter does not merit my time. I expect you to obey us in
more important concerns.” Without another word, the empress rose and left the courtyard, her attendants
hurrying after her.
When my name was announced, I did not hear the cheers and well-wishes. My heart swelled with relief, yet I still
feared this was just a dream. Across the crowd, my restless gaze sought Prince Liwei’s. Only after I saw his answering smile did I dare to hope, as the first flower springing forth after a long winter.
