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In the aftermath of the Gilded Banquet, everyone kept telling Lang Qianqiu to rest. As if he could rest, with his parents dead, with the images that came to him whenever he closed his eyes: bodies sprawled this way and that, turning his head to see the contorted faces and staring eyes of people he knew, the floor covered with pools of fresh blood already drying to rusty-red. At night, he paced up and down, unable to sleep; during the day, he struggled to keep his eyes open or to concentrate on the papers they placed before him.
It hurt dully every time he heard “Your Majesty” and had to answer to it. Mostly it was endless questions about the royal funeral, and the details seemed to vanish from his mind as soon as spoken. “Do what you like,” he repeated endlessly. The only aspect of the funeral he cared about was that his parents’ murderer could not be allowed to live under the same sky. But when he said that, the newly-appointed Minister of Rites suggested that he go and rest.
There were many things involved in the running of the kingdom that Lang Qianqiu did not understand, but he eventually realized that a lot of the problems were because so many people who were supposed to be in charge of things were dead at the Gilded Banquet. Most of the people who were supposed to know where things were or how things worked or who to ask about what, were suddenly gone. He wished his father was here to help him solve the problems that were giving him headaches. He wished he could ask for a clearer explanation from the State Precep—
When the documents blurred before his eyes, Lang Qianqiu went back to his own chambers and practiced sword exercises in the courtyard, trying not to hear remembered instructions and corrections in the State Preceptor’s familiar voice.
As if the catastrophe of the Gilded Banquet were not enough, Lang Qianqiu soon received word that Prince An Le had been taken ill. He hurried to An Le’s side, with cold dread sitting in his stomach. When Lang Qianqiu entered the room, An Le was lying back in his bed, his eyes closed and his face pale.
“An Le,” he said softly.
An Le at once tried to sit up, but the effort was too much and he fell back, wincing in pain. “Your High—Your Majesty—” His voice was a hoarse rasp.
“No need to rise,” Lang Qianqiu said quickly. Unlike him, An Le looked as if he could use the exhortation to rest. Lang Qianqiu sat beside the bed and took An Le’s hand as carefully as he could. He hadn’t planned what to say, so he opened his mouth and said fiercely, “I know it wasn’t your fault.”
An Le’s face twisted for a moment. He must truly be in great pain. He must be mourning too, for the king and queen who had been so kind to him.
“You have to get better,” Lang Qianqiu said desperately. “Everything’s a mess right now. You can talk to the Xianle people, and the Yong’an nobles know you too. You have to help me rebuild and carry out my father’s wishes.”
“Your Majesty,” An Le started. “This An Le—” He broke off, with a fit of deep coughing. The sound in his chest was unsettling.
“Don’t try to talk right now, An Le.” Lang Qianqiu gripped An Le’s hand more tightly. “You must know there are rumors that—that the Gilded Banquet Massacre was committed by the Xianle people. But I have seen no evidence for that. I saw the State Preceptor kill my father with my own eyes. Before his death, he said he acted alone.
“If the Xianle people are innocent of this crime, I promise I will protect them. We will become one people in this kingdom, Yong’an and Xianle alike, the way my father wanted—” His voice wavered and he needed a moment to restore his composure. “Take care of yourself and get well.”
He had to rush out of the room then, to prevent himself from bursting into tears and crying on An Le’s shoulder in a way that would be altogether unkingly.