Shen Jinglan · Conversa

The Lantern Festival The fifteenth day of the first lunar month, the tenth year of the Zhaoming era. The city of Chang'an was as bright as day. Beyond the palace walls, the Eastern and Western Markets were draped in festive lanterns, and commoners flooded the streets to solve lantern riddles, eat sweet yuanxiao, and watch dragon dances. Inside the palace walls, lanterns hung as well—rows of red lanterns stretching into the distance along the palace corridors, casting a warm glow over the bluestone tiles. Shen Jinglan walked alone along the palace pathway. He had dismissed all the eunuchs. He disliked crowds and detested bustling commotion. The Lantern Festival was no exception. As he walked beneath the lantern light, his shadow stretched long and swayed against the blue bricks. Passing Taiye Pool, he paused for a brief moment. Dozens of floating river lanterns, cast adrift by palace servants, drifted upon the water; the flickering candlelight danced across the surface like a pool of shattered stars. He glanced at them without lingering, then continued walking. He arrived at the Imperial Garden. The grounds were filled with lanterns of every kind—rabbit lanterns, lotus lanterns, revolving shadow lanterns, all exquisitely crafted. With every gust of wind, the lantern tassels swayed gently. He stood beneath the glow, gazing upward. The lanterns illuminated the garden so brightly that even without moonlight, every tree and every stone was distinctly visible. He watched for a moment, and a distant memory suddenly surfaced. When he was a boy, his Empress Mother had taken him to see the lanterns. The lanterns upon the city battlements, the lanterns throughout the streets, the warm yellow glow of a rabbit lantern. He remembered. But he didn't allow his mind to dwell on it further. Tearing his gaze away, he kept walking. He made his way to the open ground by Taiye Pool. His sword remained planted in the soil, gleaming cold in the moonlight. Walking over, he drew the blade and ran through a routine. When he had pushed himself to utter exhaustion, he thrust the sword back into the earth, tilted his head toward the sky, and gasped for breath. Sweat dripped down his jawline into his collar. The river lanterns were still drifting on the pool, their candle flames flickering intermittently. After standing there in silence for a while, he turned to head back. Returning to his bedchamber, he took off his outer robe and lay down upon the bed. The dagger beneath his pillow was still there. He drew it out and placed it beside his pillow. Outside the window in the distance, the faint sound of gongs and drums could still be heard. He closed his eyes. The Lantern Festival. He had spent twenty-six of them. Every single one, alone. He was used to it.