Xi Yu picked up one of the poached eggs and placed it into Que Zhi’s bowl. “The egg’s too big—help me eat half.”
Que Zhi took the slices of braised mutton from his own bowl and put them back into Xi Yu’s. “The meat is lean. You eat more.”
Hulü Xiong saw this from the side, looked down at his own egg, then at Batu’s egg, and picked up Batu’s egg to drop it into Batu’s bowl.
Batu was flattered and quickly thanked Uncle Ah Xiong.
Hulü Xiong kept a plain expression, pretending not to care as he took a sip of broth, casually making up an excuse: “It’s not for you—just have you eat it for me. My fat content is too high.”
The old cook wiped his hands on his apron behind the cutting board and turned around, pretending to adjust the fire—though the stove was burning just fine. He just didn’t want anyone to see him smiling.
The noodles were finished. In the end, the last poached egg was passed back to Xi Yu by Que Zhi. Xi Yu took two bites, and Que Zhi finished the rest.
Hulü Xiong opened the jar of mare’s milk wine and poured a bowl for each person.
He stood and said to Xi Yu: “Back in the day, when I was fighting alongside your father on the grasslands, I probably never imagined I’d live to see the day I’d celebrate a birthday for some kid from the Central Plains.
But I’m glad. You haven’t been in the royal court long, yet you’ve turned an ordinary tenth that no one remembered into a day people gather for. This bowl is to you.”
Then he tipped his head back and drained it.
Hulü Tao followed suit and drained his. Batu did too, coughing from the burn—
“This is stronger than the brew my father makes.”
Hulü Xiong said that’s because your father doesn’t know how to brew—that line was in Shuo language.
By evening, the group came out of the kitchen and went their separate ways. Before leaving, each one said: Happy birthday.
Xi Yu smiled and saw them off.
Hulü Xiong rode back to the hunting grounds. Hulü Tao went to the horse grounds to add night fodder for the horses.
Batu drove his sheep back to the winter pasture. As he left, he said he’d come again next year, bringing his mother’s newly made dried cheese curds.
Harbala nuzzled Xi Yu’s boot one last time before leaving.
Xi Yu and Que Zhi walked side by side back to the courtyard.
The sky had gone completely dark. The branches of the old poplar swayed gently in the night breeze. Little Snowball was curled up in the corner of the stable, fast asleep, hooves resting on the hay, breathing evenly.
He opened the pouch Batu had sewn, poured out a few petals of dried wild chrysanthemum into his palm, smelled them, and tucked them back in.
He untied the leather cord from Hulü Xiong’s wine jar and wrapped it around his wrist, right next to the pouch’s drawstring.
He held the pouch up to the lantern light for a while, then softly said this was the birthday with the most people he’d ever had.
Before, there was only Old Zhou. After Old Zhou left, there was no one at all.
He used to think a birthday was just a bowl of noodles and an egg. Today he found it could also be a table full of people, a pouch of crooked stitches, a sheep that refused to leave his side, and several people all vying to make him eat more eggs.
This was good.
He turned his head to look at Que Zhi. “You were the one who told Batu about my birthday.”
Que Zhi gave a soft “mm” and said: “He remembered on the evening of the seventh. On the morning of the eighth, I had someone take word to the winter pasture—just one line: the tenth, his birthday.”
“I didn’t know Batu would sew a pouch, didn’t know Hulü Tao would give a horse, and didn’t know your uncle would bring wine. I just thought people should know.”
“You like this kind of bustle.”
Xi Yu didn’t argue.
He just stood under the eaves for a long while, took Que Zhi’s hand and held it in his own, gently rubbing his thumb over Que Zhi’s thumb-web. After a long pause, he said:
“Let’s do this every year from now on. No more people than this—just them: Batu, Hulü Tao, Uncle Xiong, the old cook, Father, and you. No fewer, either.”
………
After the birthday, life settled down like a layer of snow—quiet and thick—and before they knew it, the end of the eleventh month was approaching.
Winter on the grasslands had entered its deepest phase. Snowstorm after snowstorm came; sometimes, after waking up overnight, the stone well curb in the courtyard was completely buried and invisible.
Only the bare branches of the old poplar stuck out from the snowdrifts, like ink strokes drawn across a white felt blanket.
Xi Yu found himself growing more and more accustomed to winter in the royal court.
He wore a thick new robe made before winter set in, the collar trimmed with a ring of grey fur, the cuffs fitted just right—tailored by the seamstress based on the pattern of his old clothes.
Que Zhi’s dark grey winter robe hung beside his on the rack, the two side by side—same color, same fur collar. Every morning, after Xi Yu put on his own robe, he would take Que Zhi’s down from the rack and place it by the low couch, ready for him to put on after washing his face.
Little Snowball’s hooves had fully grown in. Every evening, Xi Yu would go to the horse grounds and lead him out for a lap.
The little horse already recognized Xi Yu’s footsteps. From afar, hearing the crunch-crunch of boots on snow, he’d poke his head out of the stable, ears perking forward, and let out a snort by way of greeting.
Hulü Tao said this horse was smarter than the black horse—the black horse recognized its master by force, but Little Snowball recognized its master by the sound of footsteps.
Xi Yu thought it was because he brought carrots every day. The black horse ate carrots too, but after finishing them, it didn’t remember who gave them.
“The black horse recognizes you as its master,” Hulü Tao said, leaning against the stable fence, watching Little Snowball lower his head and take half a carrot from Xi Yu’s palm.
“It doesn’t recognize anyone else because no one else is its master. Try not bringing carrots for Little Snowball—he’ll still recognize you.”
The next day, Xi Yu really didn’t bring any carrots.
Little Snowball still poked his head out of the stable, ears perked, and let out a snort—exactly the same as the previous three days.
He told Hulü Tao about this discovery.
Hulü Tao said: “See? I told you!”
Then he added: “This little foal recognized you faster than he did me. It took us brothers the better part of a year to bond, and you’ve only known this horse a few days!”
Xi Yu didn’t correct his wording, just hummed in acknowledgement and continued brushing Little Snowball’s mane.
Que Zhi had been busy with winter stockpile affairs lately.
Every deep winter, each tribe had to report their numbers for winter fodder, dried dung, and preserved meat. The Khan had put him and Hulü Xiong in charge of tallying everything.
Every morning, he’d head to the study to handle matters and wouldn’t return until after noon.
His robe would be dusted with fine frost crystals on the shoulders and hem, and dotted with bits of dried hay, carrying the chill of the outdoors.
Xi Yu looked at the frost and dust on him, reached out, and gently brushed away the bits of hay, asking softly: “Is the forage stockpile at the camp sufficient this year?”
Que Zhi let him straighten his robes, his fingertips lightly resting on Xi Yu’s wrist, his voice steady and calm: “Sufficient. No need to worry.”
He paused, then added: “The irrigation canal on the north slope will be built in early spring. I’ve already set the start date with Uncle—everything is arranged.”
Then he paused again. “Batu’s father reported an extra two carts of dried dung, saying they were for the royal court’s winter use.
But the extra amount reported actually happens to be just enough to sustain the winter pasture for an extra half-month—he’s finding a roundabout way to help those few newly relocated herder families in the tribe, without saying it outright.”
Xi Yu had looked over the account books with Que Zhi in the study twice.
While listening to Que Zhi recite items one by one, he noticed that one newly attached tribe had reported double the number of lambs compared to last year, yet had also reported a shortfall on the fodder list—their livestock had doubled, but they still didn’t dare ask for more fodder outright.
Que Zhi explained: “It’s an unwritten rule at the royal court: newly attached tribes don’t dare ask for more fodder in their first year, for fear of seeming restless.”
Xi Yu was silent for a moment. “People on the grasslands are also afraid to speak up—it’s not much different from not daring to ask for an extra bowl of hot soup in the cold palace.”
He suggested that before spring came, they could set aside some fodder from the royal court’s reserves and send it to them in advance—not as charity, but as support.
“Alright.”
Que Zhi wrote down what he said and submitted it to the old Khan. The old Khan approved it with a single concise character, muttering to himself that this child would be able to help him review official documents in the future.
Leave a Reply