The stern-faced guard instructs us to remain in this wing of the palace for the duration of the competition. No wandering about the halls and getting in the way of palace servants, no cavorting with court officials to gain insight into the preferences of the judges, no sneaking out the back gate to illicitly obtain expensive ingredients.
Within the residence, each wall is lined with art of wondrous detail. Scrolls of calligraphy hang alongside elaborate paintings of serene bamboo forests or ladies posing gracefully beside orchids. Decorative walls of shelves, housing fragile vases or wood carvings. Even the incense burners are works of art—statues of monkeys in various poses.
I touch a woodprint gingerly, marveling at the detail captured in the tiny eye of a hummingbird. Lian shakes out her blankets beside me, and the embroidered flowers that trail from one edge of the silk coverlet to the other catch my eye with their vivid colors. A lump rises in my throat when I am reminded of Shu. She loves to embroider, spending hours carefully tucking each stitch in place to form petals like these. She should be in the bed next to me, talking about everything we’ve seen and everything we’ve yet to experience.
We’re not given much time to settle before we are called to the hallway in front of our pavilion. When the mid-hour gong strikes, two servant girls lead us to the first part of the competition. After passing through another maze of hallways and courtyards, we arrive at a splendid building with black stone pillars carved with an aquatic motif. Fish leap from underwater palaces and crabs scuttle around and around in patterns dazzling to the eye. The doors are the height of two men, and they open into a large chamber. The walls are covered in wood panels, which must be expensive to maintain in the humidity of the capital.
Raised platforms to the right and left are already lined with tables and occupied by seated guests. Murmurs and whispered names rise around me, speculating on the identity of the judges who have been selected to oversee the competition. At the far end of the room there is a dais, with two men seated in that place of prominence, and an empty seat in the middle waiting for one final occupant.
“Who are those officials?” I whisper to Lian as we are jostled in the crowd. We hook our arms in order not to be separated in the crowd of competitors, who are all pushing their way forward for a better view. Our feet slide on the wood floors, polished to a gleaming shine.
“The one to the left is the Minister of Rites, Song Ling,” she says. From the little I know of the court, I’m aware that this is one of the highest-ranked men in the kingdom. The four ministers oversee the Court of Officials, who advise the emperor on the governance of Dàxī.
“The one to the right is the Esteemed Qian.” This name I recognize from one of Mother’s lessons: He was the shénnóng-shī who the dowager empress recognized when she was the regent. His silver hair and long, flowing beard make him look like one of the philosophers from the classic tales. “The princess must have called him back from the academy to attend the competition. Last I heard from my mentor, he had gone to Yěli? to study some ancient texts.”
I’d assumed that Lian, because she is from a more distant province like me, would be less attuned to the politics of the court. But it appears my new friend also has connections in the palace. Before I can ask any other questions, the heralds call for quiet, and we kneel.
Minister Song stands to speak. “Greetings to the shénnóng-tú of our great empire. You are part of our celebrations to honor the late Dowager Empress Wuyang and her legacy. The High Lady regarded the art of tea with great respect. It is present in our culture, in our ancestry. It is a gift from the gods themselves.”
The minister drones on about the virtues of tea until my legs grow numb from kneeling. Finally, we are told to rise.
“Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ying-Zhen!” the herald cries out.
The princess walks in through the side door, her posture erect, her movements composed. Her handmaiden follows at her side, hand on the hilt of her sword. I remember the words of the guard, about the assassination attempts that trail this young woman, and I shiver.
Even though the princess’s ceremonial robe must be heavy on her shoulders, she does not give any indication of straining under its weight. The robe is colored a shade of purple so dark it is almost black. As she moves, it sways behind her, and the threads shimmer and ripple, revealing mountain peaks and winding rivers in silver thread. She wears the kingdom on her back.
When she turns to face us, I can see how her skin glows like a pearl, even from a distance. Her mouth is a bright spot of red, like a flower petal. She settles into the chair between the minister and the shénnóng-shī and speaks: