Chapter Twelve: Sudden Upheaval

Outside the Hall of Literary Glory.

Li Kong stood there, speechless, clutching the spot where he’d just been kicked, gazing at Li Shimin with a look full of wounded grievance. He simply couldn’t fathom it—did Li Shimin have nothing better to do? Coming all the way to the Hall of Literary Glory just to give him a kick?

Looking at Li Shimin, who was laughing without a care in the world, Li Kong let out a heavy sigh and said, “Your Majesty, may I return to class now?”

He had meant to remind Li Shimin of something, but seeing the situation now, perhaps it was wiser to wait; otherwise, who knows what strange twists might follow?

Li Shimin, hearing this, reined in his laughter and looked at Li Kong, his tone deepening: “Class? Sleeping in class, you mean?”

Li Kong scratched the back of his head obsequiously, wanting to explain that with Kong Yingda’s dull lecturing, anyone would nod off. But clearly, having just been kicked, he lacked the nerve; after all, Li Shimin was an emperor on horseback, his martial skills extraordinary. Even among those generals famed for leading charges, few could stand toe to toe with him. The force of that kick alone made Li Kong wonder if he’d be bedridden for days.

After a moment, Li Shimin, seeing that the lesson had sunk in, continued, “You rascal, let me ask you—do you think I’m not one to listen to reason? Is that why you always keep things from me and never speak your mind?”

Li Kong froze, hurriedly shaking his head, though suspicion gnawed at him: could Li Shimin have caught wind of what was stirring on the steppe?

It didn’t seem likely; if Li Shimin knew now, by next year he’d surely be clashing with the Turks, and regardless of the outcome, the Treaty of Weishui would never be possible.

If not the steppe, then what?

Suddenly, Li Kong’s eyes brightened, and he managed a wry smile. “Your Majesty, you’re mistaken—not that I won’t speak, but these are your own people. What difference does it make if I say anything?”

Li Shimin regarded him with an ambiguous smile. Whatever Li Kong’s motives, he wasn’t minded to pursue it further—there was no point, and besides, if Li Kong was testing him as emperor, wasn’t that rather amusing?

“Enough, let’s leave it at that. You said earlier you had something to tell me—speak now!” Li Shimin hadn’t forgotten Li Kong’s shout in class moments before.

Li Kong’s heart tightened. Just his luck to get caught out now.

If not for earlier, he could have just dropped a hint and left the rest to Li Shimin and his ministers. But now, if he withheld anything else, he was certain his standing in Li Shimin’s eyes would fall to rock bottom.

He cursed himself inwardly, then said, “This is a grave matter, and only my own conjecture. I beg Your Majesty to step aside for a private word.”

Li Shimin, seeing how serious he was, wanted to laugh, but remembering that Li Kong was a survivor of the battlefield, did not dare take it lightly. With a nod, he turned and began walking toward the Taiji Palace.

The Taiji Palace housed the Eastern Palace and the Inner Palace. In front of it stretched a triangular plot of land—the border between the Eastern Palace and Yong’an Palace (later known as the Daming Palace). This was also the royal farmlands, where green vegetables grew in neat rows. Li Kong, for his part, had no idea what any of them were.

Looking at the crops, Li Kong suddenly recalled the food he’d eaten lately and found himself missing the big radishes and cabbages of the past—taro, lettuce, mustard greens, eggplant… Oh heavens, he thought, if he thought about it any longer, he’d start to cry.

Standing by the fields, Li Shimin said, “No one is within a hundred paces. Speak freely.”

Li Kong considered, then began, “Does Your Majesty recall the battle I was caught up in at the border not long ago?”

Li Shimin’s expression darkened as he turned to him. “Go on.”

“That day, I was on patrol and came upon the Turks by chance. Afterwards, I learned that this year, winter has come early to the steppe, with several snows already fallen. That’s why that Turkic tribe invaded so suddenly—they were desperate to secure survival.”

Li Kong spoke carefully, though inwardly he wavered, for this was all conjecture. In the histories he’d studied, there was scant mention of the Turks’ situation in the early Zhenguan era; the Treaty of Weishui seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, almost illogical. The harsh steppe winter was simply his deduction.

Li Shimin frowned. “You’re saying…”

“I believe the Turks will launch a large-scale invasion—possibly by year’s end, certainly by spring. But this is only my guess; only Your Majesty can truly verify it.” With that, Li Kong cupped his hands and bowed, awaiting Li Shimin’s decision.

He had given his warning. Given his position, he couldn’t very well rush off to the steppe to fight the Turks himself. All he could do was wait and hope his words might yet shift the tide, preventing a stain upon the glorious tapestry of the Tang dynasty.

But just as Li Shimin reeled from the news and Li Kong awaited his response, a horse came galloping toward them from the distance, a tall blue pennant streaming in the wind.

Li Shimin’s face fell at the sight, for only the Celestial Strategy Office used such a banner, and this was the highest—the Blue Flame Banner, signaling a supreme military emergency.

Li Kong recognized it too; after all, he’d grown up in the Prince of Qin’s household.

A sense of foreboding gripped him.

The horse halted a hundred paces away, its armored rider leaping down and rushing toward them, holding aloft a piece of silk. He knelt less than ten paces from Li Shimin and shouted, “Your Majesty! The Turkic Khans Tuli and Jieli have led two hundred thousand troops to invade the Tang. They have crossed the Hetao Plain and are less than a hundred li from Jingyang. I beg Your Majesty for swift command!”

Damn it all!

Hearing the report, Li Kong felt as if thunder had crashed overhead. Wasn’t this supposed to happen next year? Had he studied a false history?

But one thing was sure—the Treaty of Weishui was signed at Jingyang. That meant the decisive battle was imminent, perhaps only days away.

Their only advantage was proximity—Jingyang lay less than forty li distant. With all speed, troops could be mustered there by dawn.

But could they turn the tide this time?

To think that, having traveled through time, his first step was to see history repeat itself—Li Kong felt nothing but frustration.

In that moment, Li Shimin displayed the resolve of an emperor for the ages. He commanded at once, “Send orders to Jingyang: defend to the last man. Reinforcements must arrive by tomorrow night at the latest. Summon the ministers—convene the council at once!”