Chapter 8 — Old Dreams on the Dragon Bed

On the map marking the embankments and dams of Thieu Chau, every spot that needed reinforcing, every sluice that needed opening, and even the exact water routes for the grain transport boats were neatly and clearly delineated. The bottom of the letter bore no signature, adorned only with the sketchy drawing of a blade of wild grass. At that time, the people assisting him with water management in the south were all from the Lam family. Nguyen Lang Chieu immediately ordered his men to follow the map instructions, and to his astonishment, every single detail proved unfailingly precise. That very night, he personally penned a reply:

You claim the East embankment cannot be blocked; if we do not block it, how can we secure the city?

The correspondent replied with remarkable swiftness: Block the East embankment, and the surging waters will inevitably flow backward into the heart of the city.

Open the West canal, dismantle the old wall of Nam Thuong, and channel the floodwaters around the perimeter. Whether the city remains secure does not depend on the East embankment, but rather upon Nam Thuong.

He followed the directives outlined in the letter. Three days later, the water level inside the city walls had indeed receded by half a foot. From that moment onward, the two of them frequently corresponded by letter. They discussed everything from flood control and grain transport to the tangled web of corruption within the official bureaus of Thieu Chau. She wrote with blunt candor, noting how those provincial officials constantly prattled on about the welfare of the common people, yet the soles of their boots were so pristine they could be used as mirrors. Reading her words, Nguyen Lang Chieu laughed so hard his healing wounds nearly ached. He could vividly picture her appearance: sharp-witted, brimming with vitality, and carrying an unmistakable streak of mischievous daring. In his letters, he extended several invitations, even sending messengers to subtly propose a meeting. Yet her reply was always the same: Until the floods are quelled, I have no mind for social calls. Finally, his patience exhausted, he dispatched a trusted aide to question Marquis Lam, who was accompanying him on the expedition. The Marquis had bowed respectfully, offering only the vague excuse that his stubborn daughter was simply consumed by flood-relief concerns and thus took it upon herself to dispatch the missives. Knowing that a young woman's reputation was paramount, he refrained from pressing further. Instead, he wrote one final line: Surely you ought to know, at long last, just who it is that has been helping you for the past three months? This time, the carrier pigeon took two full days to arrive. A single character was written upon the paper: Grass. He found the name delightful, carrying a faint, lingering fragrance amidst bitterness. It sought no immediate glory, yet left an indelible impression upon the mind. He had even imagined that someone with such profound vision must surely possess surpassing beauty. Her eyes must be exceptionally bright; if someone were to pierce through her guarded thoughts, she would likely grow flustered and turn her anger into blushes. He carried such romantic fancies back to the capital. On that triumphant day, surrounded by throngs of civil and military officials, the blazing sunlight cast a dazzling sheen over his formidable, majestic silhouette. As he smiled and exchanged pleasantries with the crowd, his gaze suddenly locked onto a pair of eyes resting on the balcony of a nearby tavern. The young woman was clad in pale garments, while her maid used a fan to partially shield her countenance. Yet she stubbornly pushed half of the bamboo blind aside, raising a cup of wine to toast him from afar. High-born maidens in the capital prized their reputations above all else. Unmarried ladies were terrified of the world's gossip, to the extent that they dared not gaze upon a strange man for more than a fleeting moment. He thought to himself that only his beloved grass-named maiden could possibly possess such uninhibited, carefree grace. Afterward, he sent scouts to investigate. The Lam family indeed possessed a legitimate daughter of pure lineage whose personal name shared that same character, and her beauty was breathtakingly ethereal. The Lams were a distinguished lineage of military generals, and Marquis Lam was deeply favored by the late Emperor. Such a prestigious family would hardly suffer any grievance should she marry him. Without a moment of hesitation, Nguyen Lang Chieu entered the palace to petition the former Emperor for a marriage decree. Once the match was officially settled, he had occasionally questioned her about the intricacies of the water management efforts in Thieu Chau. She answered every query with absolute flawlessness. Yet whenever she spoke of those matters, her demeanor was invariably far gentler than the fierce eloquence found in her letters, lacking much of their sharp edge. At the time, he merely assumed she was restraining herself out of deference to strict household rules, never realizing until many years later the stark truth. Certain discrepancies were never a sign that she had changed; rather, the pieces had never truly fit together from the very beginning.

Madame Lam gave birth to twins that year; one cried and laughed aloud, prompting everyone to praise their blessed fortune.

Another child was born without a single cry, and as the years passed, she never uttered a single word.

The mute girl was regarded as an ill omen, hidden away so meticulously by the Lam family that virtually no one outside knew of her existence.

Yet gradually, the family discovered that this mute child possessed terrifying intelligence; whatever books she perused, she memorized completely upon a single reading.

Outsiders believed Marquis Lam commanded troops like a divine strategist, but in truth, it was his speechless daughter standing quietly behind the scenes, plotting every strategy.

The Empress Dowager's lips turned utterly bloodless: If Your Majesty wishes to punish this humble concubine, just say the word plainly. Why bother spinning such absurd fairy tales?

Whether they are fairy tales or not, you know the truth well enough in your own heart.

Nguyen Lang Chieu’s gaze was laced with biting mockery: Those pigeon-carried letters that year which intercepted by my guards were originally destined for Marquis Lam's hands.

Who could have anticipated they would accidentally fall into mine instead?

Marquis Lam simply rode the current, pushing you forward to present you before me.

You and she share the same mother, born identical in every feature. You knew all about the flood control in Thieu Chau, and you naturally knew about the blade of grass drawn at the end of the letters.