Outside the Gate of the Qianqing Palace, Gu Zhao took a silk cloth from his bosom and handed it to Zhu Qingyu.
“Put this on.”
Although Gu Zhao had said nothing along the way, Zhu Qingyu already had a hunch when he came specifically to escort her into the palace so late at night. So she put on the silk cloth without asking further.
She guessed that Gu Zhao was taking her to the Qianqing Palace because the emperor was likely ill.
And having her wear the silk cloth suggested that the emperor had probably contracted some epidemic.
The imperial physicians must have already diagnosed him and found no remedy for the contagion, and since Gu Zhao knew she had treated the plague in Bianzhou, he was recommending her to give it a try.
But when Gu Zhao then handed her a dagger, Zhu Qingyu was truly startled and couldn’t help looking at him in surprise.
If it were merely a consultation, why would she need a weapon?
Gu Zhao met her gaze with a grave expression, took her hand, slipped it into her sleeve, and guided the dagger into her hidden pocket. He said,
“Normally, one may not bear arms before His Majesty. But these are no ordinary times. I cannot stay by your side in the Qianqing Palace at all times. If anything goes wrong, you will need to—”
He paused there.
Zhu Qingyu waited for him to finish, wondering what exactly she would need to do.
But Gu Zhao let go of her hand and asked instead,
“Zhu Qingyu, if you were to die, do you have any unfinished wishes?”
She studied his expression. He looked utterly serious, without a trace of jest.
Under the golden hall, every step was fraught with danger, and in an instant, life and death could diverge.
He truly believed that she might face a fatal risk, and he was asking her to leave her final words.
If she were to really die…
If she were to really die, at least let her parents and elder brother know where she was.
She had been away from home for four years, neither seen alive nor found dead—she didn’t know if they were still searching for her.
At least let them know her whereabouts.
Through her bones and teeth, they would find her.
Zhu Qingyu replied to Gu Zhao with equal seriousness,
“There is a mountain in Shu, with peaks encircling it like a city wall. Atop it, the clouds and mist never lift, as if it were an immortal’s abode. That mountain might be called Qingyun Mountain, or it might not be. On the front slope, there is a temple, also perpetually hidden in the mist. Sometimes the mist clears, and the temple roof glimmers golden under the sun, seen from afar like a Buddha’s radiance—it might be called Qingyun Temple, or it might not be. If you find that mountain, and at its foot there is also the ancestral graveyard of the Zhu clan, then please bury me there. Erect a stele that reads ‘The Tomb of Zhu Qingyu,’ with the epitaph: ‘She lived her life well.’ Write just that. Don’t make it too literary, or others won’t understand.”
As she spoke, Gu Zhao listened quietly. When she finished, he didn’t add much, only said,
“Good. I’ll remember. Follow me.”
Upon entering the Qianqing Palace, strict security was everywhere.
Whether it was the sword-bearing guards or the young eunuchs waiting under the eaves, all had silk cloths covering their noses and mouths, leaving only their eyes visible.
And the one leading the guards outside the bedchamber of the Qianqing Palace was actually Shen Xu.
From the attire, those on guard duty were all officers of the Imperial Brocade Guard, not a single member of the Forbidden Army in sight.
When Shen Xu saw them approach, he raised a hand to stop them.
“Frisk them.”
Shen Xu first searched Gu Zhao, then turned to Zhu Qingyu and said, “Pardon me.”
He stood very close, feeling down her shoulders and continuing his meticulous search.
When his hand reached her sleeve, Zhu Qingyu thought to herself—Gu Zhao had put the dagger in so casually, surely it would be discovered now.
Shen Xu’s fingers brushed against the dagger. He lowered his head, glanced at her, then passed over the blade and searched down to her waist, her skirts, and her boots. Finally, he straightened up and said,
“You may enter.”
Inside the hall, a strong smell of mugwort hung in the air—the earlier imperial physicians had apparently already fumigated it.
In the outer chamber lay dozens of eunuchs and maidservants, but when they entered the inner bedchamber, the lamplight was dim, and only two people were present.
A young man in a bright-yellow inner robe lay on the bed, and beside him sat an elegantly dressed noblewoman of indeterminate age.
Although she also had a silk cloth covering her nose and mouth, her face carried a haggard look, and she rested her hand against her forehead, as if either lost in thought or dozing off.
Gu Zhao spoke first.
“Your Imperial Majesty, the Dowager Empress, Lady Zhu has arrived.”
The Dowager Empress opened her eyes, sat up straight, and fixed a deep gaze on Zhu Qingyu. “I hear from Shouming that you treated the plague in Bianzhou?”
Zhu Qingyu answered, “Yes,” and was considering how to perform the proper ceremonial salute when the Dowager Empress said,
“Dispense with formalities. Come here and examine His Majesty.”
Zhu Qingyu approached, and the Dowager Empress’s eyes followed her every step.
That gaze carried the scrutiny of one in supreme power, sharp and imposing.
Even when Zhu Qingyu reached the emperor’s bedside, the Dowager Empress’s eyes remained fixed on her face like a physical weight.
An ordinary person might feel daunted under the stare of such a high authority, but Zhu Qingyu had grown up being watched—she had endured too many stares like this to be fazed, so she remained calm and focused on the emperor lying in his sickbed.
The Dowager Empress had secretly harbored doubts. That Gu Zhao would recommend such a young and extraordinarily beautiful female physician was hard to believe.
If someone else had recommended a woman of such stunning looks, the Dowager Empress wouldn’t just suspect—she would be certain that the intent was to offer a beauty rather than medical aid, and she never would have allowed such a woman near the emperor.
But Gu Zhao was her own nephew, whom she had watched grow up; he wouldn’t engage in such reckless behavior at a time like this.
Besides, the chief of the Imperial Hospital himself had already fallen ill, leaving no one else to call on.
Zhu Qingyu’s composure eased the Dowager Empress’s distrust and even sparked a sliver of hope—perhaps this woman really had treated the Bianzhou plague and could cure the emperor.
Perhaps to avoid disturbing His Majesty’s rest, the hall’s lighting was too dim for proper examination. For diagnosis, one needed to observe the patient’s complexion.
Zhu Qingyu glanced at the lamps in the hall, and before she could speak, the Dowager Empress, who had been watching her all along, said,
“Light the lamps.”
Several young eunuchs filed in and lit the various lanterns. Soon, the hall was brilliantly illuminated.
The emperor, who had been lying quietly on the bed until then, seemed disturbed by the sudden brightness. Even in his sleep, he frowned and let out a few inaudible murmurs.
The Dowager Empress hastily stood up, sat on the edge of the bed, held the emperor’s hand, and soothed him, “Rui’er, Mother is here. Don’t be afraid.”
Zhu Qingyu also stepped forward, knelt by the emperor’s bedside, took his other hand, and felt his pulse.
His hand was scalding hot. She then touched his forehead—it, too, was burning. She wondered how long the fever had persisted.
This Son of Heaven, who held the fate of all people in his hands, this world’s most powerful figure—in the face of illness, he seemed no different from any other patient of hers.
Fragile. Helpless.
Without waiting for Zhu Qingyu to ask, the Dowager Empress, acting like the family member of any sick patient, volunteered,
“His Majesty has had a fever for four days. It fluctuates—sometimes easing during the day, but at night it flares up hot again. Yet when he is conscious, he keeps complaining of cold, and he has aches everywhere. Lady Zhu, I ask you: can you cure him?”
