It is said:

　　The affairs of men are never of equal kind; when matters enter the world they become common dust.

　　Common dust and worldly affairs reflect each other — the world’s business of dust destroys men.

　　After leaving the Temple of the Mysterious Origin (Xuan Yuan Imperial Temple), the Imperial Preceptor (Guoshi) and the young Daoist disciple went on to Twin-Peak Mountain (Shuangfengshan). When master and pupil arrived, they found auspicious light falling over the two summits; from every direction the place appeared a rare, pure peak, its ridges rising one after another in crystalline chastity. As the verse runs:

　　On the immortal summit the ridge meets the blue vault; primordial energy streams through heaven and earth.

　　A place of clear emptiness and subtle grace — the great and solemn air of awakened Buddhahood.

　　In the purple cloud and rosy light there stood a monastery: vermilion panels, ornamented with jewels. The incense rose to the Milky Way; a pure radiance filled the skies. Living water ran in front, waves folding toward heaven; behind, sheer cliffs rose like coiling dragons meeting the ground.

　　The two walked nearer and faintly heard the sound of sutras — a tone more lofty than the ordinary world. It was Master Hongren (弘忍), who had come to teach in search of Dharma heirs. He had set his assembly a test: each disciple must compose a gatha to show the depth of his insight.

　　Hongren spoke first. “Lately I have not healed from the wounds left by the Nine-Tailed Fox; soon I shall pass away and wish to entrust my robe and transmission to one among you. Each of you compose a verse so that I may discern your understanding.” The disciples looked sorrowful; Hongren admonished, “Monastics, abandon worldly thoughts; compose now a gatha and let me instruct you.” The assembly answered.

　　Shenxiu (神秀) offered his verse:

　　The body is the bodhi tree, the mind a bright mirror-stand;

　　Diligently polish it hour by hour — let no dust cling.

　　Hongren stroked his beard and smiled: “Well said — a bright mirror, removed from dust, you see the Buddha.” He then turned to Huineng (惠能): “Huineng, what is your verse?” Huineng answered:

　　Bodhi has no tree; the bright mirror has no stand.

　　Originally there is not a single thing — where could dust alight?

　　Hongren nodded many times, sensing that Huineng’s realization surpassed Shenxiu’s. As he prepared to speak, his attention was drawn by visitors approaching: two Daoists, one tall and one short, led by a monk and a small attendant. “Look,” Hongren told the assembly, “the world’s dust has brought guests.” The disciples rose to greet them and discovered the visitors were indeed the Imperial Preceptor and the young Daoist.

　　After formal salutations, Hongren instructed some pupils to receive and house the young Daoist while he led the Preceptor into the main chamber. The Preceptor took the air and fetched — by his supernatural art — a square sandalwood box inlaid with purple lacquer and passed it to Hongren. Hongren asked what was inside; the Preceptor answered: “It contains the Tui-Bei-Tu.” Hongren was startled: “What do you mean?” The Preceptor explained: “Since the Nine-Tailed Fox affair, the Sovereign’s desire to obtain the Tui-Bei-Tu has grown urgent. He has sent men openly and in secret; a few days ago he even came in person to the monastery. If this book remains in my hands it will be dangerous to protect. I therefore entrust it to your temple. It bears my name, but it shall be yours — let those who pry and dig in broad daylight or midnight find it hard to reach.” Hongren sighed: “A thing meant as guidance for a flourishing age becomes men’s object of greed — lamentable indeed.”

　　The Preceptor said, “Fate will run when fate runs. For now I ask your monastery to take custody.” Hongren laughed and accepted the charge. Having placed the Tui-Bei-Tu under Hongren’s care, the Preceptor and the young Daoist departed.

　　That night, Hongren summoned Huineng and expounded the Diamond Sutra. When he reached the line, “one should produce a mind that does not abide anywhere,” Huineng had sudden awakening. Hongren rejoiced: “So it is — I now pass the robe to you. After my parinirvana, I hope you will carry the lineage.” Huineng vowed to follow his teacher’s charge.

　　Hongren gave the sandalwood box into Huineng’s hands. On the lid was a talismanic script; Huineng asked, “Master, what is this?” Hongren answered: “It is the book men seek, the Tui-Bei-Tu.” Huineng asked in amazement, “Was it not in the Preceptor’s keeping?” Hongren: “True. But as times shift and the heavens turn, to guard against calamity the Preceptor entrusted it to our monastery. You, my disciple, must keep it forever.” Huineng accepted and, under cover of night, took the book and set out south — the Tui-Bei-Tu thus vanished into the world. Shenxiu, Faru and the other major disciples dispersed to teach in distant places.

　　Years flowed on to the fourth month. The Empress, who for many years had assisted Gaozong in state matters and had borne heavy toil, made a visit to Xiangshan Monastery — the Fragrant Mountain Monastery — which sits on the eastern hill above Longmen, adjacent to the famous grottoes. Tradition said it had been founded when the Empress of Later Wei received Buddhist scriptures in the first year of Xiping (516). Over time the place had fallen into quiet neglect.

　　When the abbey learned that the Empress was coming, the abbot and monks went to greet her; the temple’s community numbered only a few dozen, small compared with those great houses of springing incense, and the place gave a melancholy air. After the rites the Empress entered the great hall and spoke to the abbot: “Since I have helped the Sovereign, I have labored for the people; neither my merits nor my sleepless toil can be known save by the Bodhisattva who appears in my dreams. I am clear about that image; I wish to have an image of the Bodhisattva carved here.” The abbot replied: “Your Majesty’s concern for the people will be remembered by the Bodhisattva. We monks will do our utmost to carve the likeness you describe.”

　　The Empress then ordered two or three wooden chests brought forward and opened them — they contained vast sums. “Carving is arduous work,” she said. “These are funds I have saved from my cosmetics budget — twenty thousand strings of cash. Offer them; my heart is sincere.” She then gave them a painting of the Bodhisattva as she had seen her in dreams. The abbot unrolled it and, seeing the face, found it uncannily like the Empress’s own.

　　The abbot inwardly wondered: was this an attempt to establish seigniorial authority — to make the state and the sacred mirror one in the Empress’s image? He decided that whether the Empress’s motive was worldly or devout, the gift would restore the monastery’s fortunes. “We shall not fail your expectation,” he said.

　　The abbot conferred with his fellow monk Fangzhang: if the Empress’s donation would revive their temple — which once rivaled the Twin Peaks’ establishment but had faded — then who could refuse? Fangzhang lamented that they, men of retreat, were being drawn into worldly affairs; the abbot answered that the monastery must survive. They accepted the funds and set the repair and a new carving of the Lokesvara/Buddha to begin — even to carve a colossal Buddha at Longmen.

　　The Minister of Justice Pei Xingjian (Pei Xingjian, 裴行檢) visited Xiangshan not long after and was struck by the transformed site: tiles shone, pigments gleamed, a golden image had been set on white-jade steps. He read the works and felt the place had been restored. “What chance,” he said, “that a new Empress’s face appears as the image at Longmen?” When shown the statue at the grottoes he saw at once a likeness to the Empress and was surprised: “What is the meaning of this?” He felt it breached ritual propriety.

　　Pei presented his counsel before the throne: “Sire, the Empress has had her image carved as the Lokesvara at Longmen. Such a conflation of private likeness and divine icon is a mingling of court and cult that upends order. I advise Her Majesty desist.” The counsel reached the Empress. Angry, she removed Pei from his post as head of the Court of Justice.

　　Months later the Great Buddha was completed; Gaozong and the Empress inspected Xiangshan, and among the joyful throng Pei masked his disquiet with decorum.

　　Princess Lingyue, observing Pei’s troubled face, contrived to meet him near the temple with Shangguan Wan’er. Pei bowed low: “Your Highness, this is Dali Minister Pei Xingjian.” Lingyue waved away ceremony and asked why he looked uneasy. Pei smiled sadly and said such cares were beyond a child — but Lingyue replied that though small she would grow and one day understand; in that spirit she thanked him for his counsel and promised to return to the subject when older. Pei laughed and blessed her discretion, and the child left reassured.

　　Not long after, Pei could not bear the measure of the case and, feeling he had failed in his duty, requested retirement. The Sovereign and Empress accepted his plea. Zhang Wenguan (Zhang Wenguan, 張文瓘) — who had long been a seasoned minister — thought Pei’s dismissal unjust and, upon their return to Chang’an, pressed Gaozong to restore Pei. The Empress, furious at the advocacy for Pei and angry at any counsel that sought to circumscribe her actions, retorted that she had already shown clemency and that she would not be constrained. To Zhang’s insistence she replied by ordering him demoted to Pei’s old post in the Court of Justice, in effect silencing him while keeping him close. Gaozong allowed the arrangement but warned Zhang not to speak rashly again.

　　Zhang accepted the office and set himself to work. At the Dali Court there lay a backlog of four hundred unresolved cases. Zhang isolated himself in the office for ten days straight, living at the court and eating there, until he had heard and judged every case. His rulings were scrupulously even; the people came to compare him to the famed chancellor Dai Zhou of the Zhenguan era.

　　Princess Lingyue, puzzled by the friction and sensing injustice, pressed the Empress: “Mother, I do not understand why Pei and Zhang must suffer in this way.” The Empress answered gently: “Child, sometimes a thing that seems unfair in the small view is chosen for the greater interest. The matter of the Xiangshan image is not only about faces; had we let the monks perish in neglect, the country would lose a field of spiritual support. If Buddhism were crushed and only Daoism favored, balance would be lost.” Lingyue suggested an alternate solution — to reward rather than imprint — but the Empress explained that the world contains actions that must be done without public argument; some measures can be taken only quietly, for the sake of state welfare. Lingyue sighed at the complexity but said she would learn to help her father and mother and her brother Li Hong; the Empress smiled and held her fondly.

　　Thus the palace at Shangyang once more rang with mirth, even as the subtle currents of power and devotion moved underneath the rites and carvings.