They crossed an extremely wide river at the border between the mountains and the riverlands.
The ferry was a flat-bottomed wooden boat. The boatman was a dark, wiry local, standing barefoot at the stern working the oar, humming a fishing song in a long, drawn-out melody.
When they reached the middle of the river, a sudden squall swept in—raindrops the size of beans hammering against the deck. The boatman quickly pulled up the oilcloth canopy to cover the luggage and livestock at the bow.
Xiyu and Que Zhi sat side by side under the oilcloth, watching the rain blur the distant mountains and the river into a sheet of gray-white.
The curtain of water at the canopy’s edge grew thicker. Xiyu pulled the hood of his heavy outer robe over Que Zhi’s head, then checked to make sure the dagger at his waist was still securely fastened.
The moisture from the river seeped in, cool against his skin.
But in the sound of the rain, Xiyu found himself remembering the sudden sandstorm on the Gobi that year, the crack of the first ice floe breaking against the bridge piers when the northern slope thawed,
and the day they’d set out on this journey—when he’d leaned on his newly carved poplar staff, the sound of the riverside water pulling his steps back to the depths of that cave.
They’d walked through sandstorms, encountered rain, traveled from the northern slope to the southern border—and yet the river was still the river, the water still flowed downstream.
Que Zhi tugged the oilcloth canopy a little further toward Xiyu, letting the raindrops fall only on his own shoulder.
After crossing the great river, they entered a land Xiyu had heard of many times but never set foot in—Dayuan.
The name had appeared countless times in the tales of the Beishuo caravans: they said it bred excellent horses, that its markets were twice the size of Liangzhou city, that the wine its people made could be traded for three camels.
The capital of Dayuan lay on a river valley plain. The city walls were built of sun-dried yellow mud bricks—not tall, but extremely thick. The city gates stood wide open, with a constant stream of caravans passing in and out.
Xiyu reined in his horse at the city gate, looking up at the banners flying from the walls—not the blue flags of Beishuo, not the red flags of Daliang,
but a dark green banner he’d never seen before, embroidered with some kind of horse-head totem, snapping loudly in the wind.
Que Zhi remarked that this was the first capital that would let them in without any travel documents.
No one here knew who they were. No one knew his name was Xiyu. No one knew Que Zhi was the young lord of Beishuo.
They were just two strangers passing through on horseback.
Dayuan’s horse market lived up to its reputation.
Half the street was lined with horse traders. The horses had been carefully selected from mountain pastures—their coats glossy, their legs long and refined, taller than the horses on the grasslands.
Xiyu spent the entire afternoon wandering through the market, chatting at length with an old horse trader missing a front tooth—
The old man had traveled the Beishuo trade routes in his youth, and managed to piece together a full conversation with Xiyu.
He pointed out which horses were built for long distances, which had fierce tempers, and which would only recognize their owner and refuse to let anyone else ride.
Later, he even examined Little Snowball’s shoes with exaggerated seriousness, commenting that the craftsmanship was from the northern grasslands—good tempering,
but the nails had worn down half an inch already and would slip on mountain paths. He advised that next time, Xiyu should have the farrier bend the nail tips a full inch and a half, so they’d wear down the nails first on rocky ground instead of cracking the hoof wall.
Xiyu committed every word to memory, even pulling out a piece of coarse paper to sketch the new horseshoe design, planning to bring it back to the royal farrier.
That night, they stayed at an inn in the city.
The inns of Dayuan were different from those in Liangzhou—the courtyard had a few pomegranate trees, their red flowers in full bloom. The guest rooms had no low couches, only wide wooden beds covered with finely woven straw mats, cool and smooth to the touch.
A bronze lamp stood in the corner. The oil burned differently from the beef tallow used in Beishuo—mixed with some kind of grass seed, it gave off a rich, pleasant fragrance when lit.
The air was still warm—utterly different from Beishuo. Pushing open the wooden window, the night wind poured in, carrying the scent of pomegranate blossoms,
along with the fragrance of cumin from a roasted lamb stall in the distance—the charred aroma mingling with fat, lingering in the street long after.
Xiyu leaned lazily by the window, gazing quietly at the scattered lights and passing figures in the distance. After a long while, he suddenly turned to look at Que Zhi, a glint of anticipation in his eyes:
“Tomorrow, let’s try Dayuan’s roasted lamb—see how it’s different from Beishuo’s.”
Que Zhi looked up at the eagerness in his eyes, his brows softening with tender warmth, and replied softly:
“I’ll take you to try them all.”
They also ventured into the mountainous border regions of Dayuan, where grapes and honey thrived. The mountain folk had carved out small terraced fields on the steep slopes, walling them with stone to grow grapevines.
Wild berries grew abundantly along the edges of the terraces, yet the sun and moon in these mountains seemed to move at half the pace of the outside world.
They stayed with a mountain family. The host was a taciturn middle-aged man, but his wife was exceedingly talkative.
She brought out stewed lamb and wild berry jam in earthenware bowls, and taught Xiyu how to brew wild berry tea using the local red clay pots.
Xiyu dug into his saddlebag and found the dried cheese curds the old cook had packed for him, offering them as a return gift.
The mountain woman tried one, her eyes lighting up as she rattled off a long stream of local dialect.
Xiyu didn’t understand a word, but he figured it must mean it was delicious.
After leaving Dayuan, they turned back eastward, returning to Beishuo before the year’s end.
When they’d set out, it was early spring with melting snow; when they returned, the grasslands had been dyed golden by late autumn, and the haystacks on the hunting grounds stood taller than a man.
Batu greeted them at the winter pasture gate, Halbala trotting at his heels—the old sheep’s bell jingling from afar long before they arrived.
On the horses’ backs were two jars of Dayuan wine, a pouch of local copper coins, newly sketched plans of the grape terraces, and several bundles of dried wild berries—
Batu and Helü Tao helped them unload, while Halbala took the chance to stick his head into the sack of dried berries.
That night, the old cook roasted an entire lamb with Dayuan spices. Helü Xiong opened the five-year-old wine.
An old herder from the Tata tribe happened to arrive with freshly dried wild goji berries, and was pulled to the table as well.
Xiyu sat at the long table, holding the wine Helü Xiong had poured for him,
watching the old cook busy himself at the stove, watching Batu and Helü Tao bicker over the last piece of roasted lamb,
watching Halbala doze off, watching Que Zhi take the fatty piece of meat from his bowl and replace it with lean.
He lowered his head and took a sip of the wine—as sweet as that first fruit wine he’d tasted years ago.
But in his heart, he knew it was a sweeter kind of sweetness now—freer, more grounded.
Xiyu understood now that every road he’d traveled had been about getting to know the world,
but the road home—that was the direction he most wanted to go. And he already had a home.
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