In the third spring after their wedding, Xiyu and Que Zhi set out on a true journey.
Not a trip to Liangzhou market, nor a patrol along the winter pasture—
but southward, westward, to see the lands beyond the grasslands,
those names they’d only ever known from maps and caravan gossip.
The old khan gave his blessing. Helü Xiong would keep an eye on the tribes at the royal court.
Batu pounded his chest, vowing that the sheep and Halbala were in good hands.
Helü Tao took over all the matters of the horse grounds.
The old cook packed them a full saddlebag of dried provisions and pickled vegetables, and secretly tucked in two jars of wild honey, saying to mix it with water on the road so they wouldn’t get heaty.
They crossed the southern grasslands of Beishuo, following an ancient caravan route that had been traveled for centuries, over the Congling mountains.
The snow at the mountain pass never melted all year round, and the horses’ hooves rang crisp against the frozen gravel.
After crossing the pass, the landscape transformed in an instant—no longer grassland, no longer Gobi, but a land Xiyu had never seen before.
The mountains were green, the waters clear, and villages dotted the valleys with flat roofs made of sun-dried mud, looking from afar like building blocks stacked along gentle slopes.
The air was humid and warm, utterly unlike the dry, crisp wind of Beishuo. Everywhere drifted the scent of unfamiliar flowers and the toasted aroma of baked flatbreads.
Women in brightly colored long skirts drew water from wells, their hems trailing across the stone-paved paths. Children ran after the camel caravan, shouting words Xiyu couldn’t understand.
He reined in his horse and stared for a long while, until Que Zhi rode up beside him.
Xiyu murmured, “So there really are places like this in the world”—stranger than Daliang, softer than Liangzhou, like stepping into another world entirely.
Que Zhi said nothing, only stood side by side with him on the hillside, gazing together at this unfamiliar land.
The merchants here didn’t take silver bits—only copper coins.
They exchanged a full pouch of local copper coins at the border market.
Xiyu crouched at the money-changer’s door, his brows lowered, carefully lining up the coins one by one, counting them meticulously before slowly gathering them into the small pouch at his waist.
After he finished, he squeezed the bulging pouch, looked up with a sly, lively glint in his eyes, and teased playfully:
“This money is way heavier than silver bits—tuck it in your sleeve and you could use it as a hidden weapon.”
Que Zhi looked down at him—just moments ago crouched on the ground, counting copper coins with serious, no-nonsense focus—and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his eyes brimming with indulgent tenderness.
He walked slowly to Xiyu’s side, glanced at the bulging pouch, reached out and gently ruffled his hair,
his voice low and warm, carrying a trace of amusement: “Always full of clever tricks.”
That night, they checked into an inn built of gray mud. In the courtyard stood a broad-leaved tree they’d never seen before, its leaves as large as palm fans.
The innkeeper was a short, stout man wrapped in a turban, beaming with warmth as he brought out two bowls of mutton pilaf spiced with cardamom—the grains long and glossy, the mutton stewed so tender it fell off the bone with a light pinch.
He also brought a dish of pickled olives. Xiyu tried one and winced at the sourness, his face scrunching up—but he couldn’t help reaching for another.
Que Zhi, seeing this, reached over, took the tea bowl beside him, carefully skimmed off the spice dregs floating on top, and gently pushed it back in front of him, his tone carrying a soft, helpless fondness:
“It’s so sour—don’t eat any more.”
Xiyu, cheeks puffed out, still savoring the tart taste, argued earnestly: “It’s not that it’s unpleasantly sour—I’ve just never had it before. If I’ve never tasted something, I have to try it at least once to be satisfied.”
They followed a broad river upstream.
Every few dozen li along the riverbank, they’d come across a Buddhist temple—white domes and golden spires glinting in the sunlight.
Bronze bells hung from the temple eaves; when the wind passed, the whole monastery rang with a soft, melodic chime.
Xiyu entered one of these temples for the first time in the afternoon. The courtyard was very quiet, with only a few barefoot monks squatting under the corridor, boiling water in copper kettles. The scent of tea was light and clear.
Incense burned in the censer—an unfamiliar spice to him—its blue smoke curling upward, mingling with the sunlight spilling over the eaves.
An elderly monk, seeing them resting under the corridor, pressed his palms together in greeting and brought over two cups of hot tea. The cups were coarse pottery, the tea golden in color, and remarkably pure on the palate—completely different from the buttered tea of Beishuo.
The old monk looked at the two of them sitting side by side under the corridor, then pointed at Que Zhi and then at Xiyu, and said in halting Chinese:
“Together.”
Xiyu nodded.
The old monk smiled, said something more, then retreated behind the pillar to continue brewing his tea.
Xiyu sat for a long time with his teacup in hand, watching the monks come and go through the temple,
watching the wisp of smoke beneath the corridor that was about to dissipate but hadn’t quite yet. He finally said softly:
“The way the monks chant here—it’s different from how we worship the Eternal Sky back home. But sitting quietly and chanting is nice too.”
Que Zhi turned his head toward him, his voice gentle and low: “Do you want to listen?”
Xiyu shook his head lightly, his brows soft and compliant, and said in a quiet tone: “I wouldn’t understand it anyway. Just sitting here makes me feel at peace.”
Farther west, they entered a region of rolling hills.
The slopes were terraced with grapevines, stretching for dozens of li—the leaves a verdant green, the fruit just beginning to form, no larger than mung beans, hanging thickly from the vines.
Tucked away in the valleys were numerous small winemaking towns, the air carrying a faint, sweet-sour fragrance of fermenting grains.
They stayed in one of these towns for four days. The innkeeper was a winemaker with thick gray-white mustaches, boisterous and talkative, and his Chinese was far more fluent than the previous innkeeper’s.
He gave them a tour from the pressing room to the cellar, and generously brought out three or four different vintages of new wine for them to taste.
Xiyu tried a sip of the three-year-old sweet white, then a sip of the five-year-old aged reserve,
compared them carefully, and declared that the three-year-old was too sweet, while the five-year-old was just right—softer than the highland barley wine Uncle Helü brewed.
Que Zhi took a light sip, his expression calm and composed, and said flatly: “About the same.”
Xiyu’s eyes immediately went wide, his cheeks puffing slightly as he looked at him with utter disagreement, his tone carrying a mix of stubbornness and playful earnestness:
“No way! They’re totally different!”
A pause, and he added in a disgruntled mutter: “It’s definitely because your alcohol tolerance is way too high!”
That evening, he stood on the inn’s terrace, still holding the half-finished cup of five-year-old aged wine—
The wine he’d been swirling since the afternoon. As the last wisp of grape sweetness was carried into his throat by the evening breeze,
Xiyu turned to Que Zhi and said: “This tastes a lot like the fruit wine we drink at the year-end sacrifice in Beishuo—just slower, quieter.”
Que Zhi looked down at the person beside him, his eyes steeped in tender warmth, and suggested softly: “Then let’s take a jar back.”
Xiyu immediately shook his head lightly, his fingertips tugging gently at Que Zhi’s sleeve,
a light smile on his cheeks, his eyes bright and thoughtful:
“Let’s take two jars. One for the old cook to use in his dishes, and one for Uncle Helian—let him taste the difference between the grapes from the south and the barley from the north.”
Que Zhi gazed at him—so earnest, so warm and considerate—and his eyes grew even deeper with affection. His voice low and husky, he agreed: “Alright. Whatever you say.”
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