Que Zhi leaned against his camel at a distance, not walking over.
He watched Xi Yu—that one-sleeved green-robed figure standing beneath a rock taller than himself, the hem of his robe fluttering in the wind, the empty sleeve flying high.
Xi Yu tilted his face up, and sunlight happened to stream through the stone opening, spilling across his features. A patch of light fell on the thin blush at the corner of his eye, as if someone had touched a tiny fleck of gold dust there with a brush tip. The currents of air through the gorge passed through the holes in the wind-eroded rock above, producing a deep, slow, resonant hum—like some ancient instrument casually strummed by the wind.
After a long while, Xi Yu opened his eyes, withdrew his hand from the rock, and turned in a full circle.
The hem of his robe swept across the rounded stone surface, leaving a faint gray trace.
He looked back toward Que Zhi, his face silhouetted against the light so his expression was hard to read. But he raised his one-sleeved arm and waved at him. The empty sleeve billowed full in the wind, as if it had truly caught hold of something, then swirled up with the sand—like a paper kite that had finally broken free of its string.
“Que Zhi! It’s so beautiful here!”
Que Zhi nodded.
It wasn’t just the wind-eroded rocks that were beautiful, he thought.
That evening, they made camp at the base of a wind-eroded rock over two meters tall.
The rock was large enough to block the wind, with two sides forming a natural sheltered hollow. Behind the rock, Que Zhi found a clump of dried saxaul—probably washed down from upstream during the rainy season, stranded here and sun-dried for a long time. It snapped with a crisp crack when broken.
He used a fire striker to ignite some shredded grass, stacked the saxaul on top, and flames quickly leapt up, crackling loudly. The smoke from burning saxaul had a distinct scent—a dry, woody fragrance, nothing like the year-round musty smell of decaying old wood in the cold palace, nor the chilly, briny dampness that seeped into blankets on Gobi nights.
This was the scent of something wild, alive—sun-soaked and then set aflame.
Xi Yu sat beside the fire, took a deep breath, and stored the scent away in his memory.
“The fire’s especially big tonight.” Xi Yu held his hands close to the flames. Firelight danced across the backs of his hands, where the red welts from yesterday had faded completely, leaving only the faintest pale pink traces.
“Good wood.”
“Why didn’t you use this before?”
“I couldn’t find it before.”
“Then find this from now on. It smells nice.”
Que Zhi glanced at the person across the fire. There it was again—”from now on.”
He lowered his head and continued tending the fire, nudging a burned piece of saxaul deeper into the flames. His voice, muffled by the crackling fire, was a few notes lower than usual: “Got it.”
Xi Yu didn’t notice the weight of those words. He withdrew his hands, wrapped his blanket tighter, leaned back against the rock wall, and looked up at the sky.
The wind-eroded rock above him was just a massive silhouette against the night sky, blocking half the heavens—but the half that was visible was more than enough.
The Milky Way was still so wide, the stars still so many. But tonight, he looked at them with a different feeling. In the oasis, he’d thought the stars were beautiful. Tonight, he felt they had something to do with him—they had watched the storm come, watched it go, watched him curl under the blanket for three thousand heartbeats, watched him poke his head out at that moment, the corners of his eyes faintly reddened—but not from crying.
If he were still in the palace, what day would it be today?
Winter solstice must have passed. The six palaces would be busy with New Year preparations—eunuchs and maids scurrying through the snow, hauling holiday goods, pasting spring couplets, hanging lanterns.
No one in the cold palace ever pasted spring couplets. The only time he’d ever felt a hint of festivity was when Old Zhou secretly brought him a small plate of dumplings. They were cold, the oil in the filling congealed into white fat.
He ate them slowly, one dumpling in three bites, because that was his only holiday of the year.
Old Zhou was gone. The cold palace had burned. Those palaces and those people were still within those walls, continuing to operate by court rules—morning grooming, paying respects, kowtowing, scheming for favor.
And here he was—beneath a wind-hollowed rock in the Gobi, watching the stars, roasting saxaul wood, sharing the last piece of flatbread with someone he’d known less than half a month.
That someone was bent over, wiping his curved blade. Firelight cast his shadow against the wind-eroded rock. His movements were focused—from hilt to tip, inch by inch, as if honing something that needed to stay sharp forever.
“Que Zhi.”
“Hm.”
“When were you going to tell me who you really are?”
This man really was quite overbearing—he didn’t even know who he was yet. Que Zhi sighed inwardly with resignation. But he didn’t care. Since he had come here, he belonged to this place now.
The fire flickered.
Que Zhi’s wiping motion stopped. He looked up, flames dancing and dying in his amber pupils, flickering twice before settling. He lowered his head again and continued wiping the blade, though his knuckles tightened until they turned white at the pressure. His voice was calm, as if he had expected this question all along: “Who do you think I am?”
“Not from the Central Plains. Not a blacksmith. Not a caravan guard.”
Xi Yu tilted his head, looking at him, his peach-blossom eyes glistening in the firelight. “You ride like you grew up on horseback. Your fire striker has Western Regions patterns on it. The old scars on your arms are more than one. In the sandstorm, the way you shielded me—that wasn’t a blacksmith’s stance. And—”
“What?”
“The hilt of your curved blade is set with a turquoise stone. In the Central Plains, turquoise is jewelry. On your knife, it’s a mark of status. The innkeeper said you refused to leave—you weren’t short on camels at all. What were you waiting for?”
Xi Yu paused there, as if placing a piece on a chessboard, then looked up at him.
Wrapped in his blanket, leaning against that tens-of-thousands-year-old rock, Xi Yu was relaxed—hair loose over his shoulders, holding that wooden comb in his hand. It was the comb Que Zhi had given him, already polished smooth from handling, the carvings on its back identical to the Western Regions script on the dagger’s leather sheath. He spun the comb half a turn between his fingers, a sly glint in his eyes—the look of someone who had already guessed the answer but wanted to hear it spoken aloud.
Que Zhi was silent for a long time. He finished wiping the last inch of the blade, wrapped it in a cloth, and laid it across his knees. Then he looked up, across the fire, at the person before him.
He said, “Que Zhi, of the Western Regions’ Que clan. The Que clan is royal in the Western Regions. I am from the Western Regal Court.” His voice was flat, as if stating a fact unrelated to himself.
He lowered his head, opened his palm, and showed it to Xi Yu in the firelight.
The old scar running from the base of his thumb to his wrist was pale in the fire’s glow. In his palm still clung stone dust from the wind-eroded rock—coarse calluses embedded with fine grains of sand, as if the Gobi itself had made its home in his hand.
“Are you afraid?” Que Zhi closed his palm. After those four words, his voice dropped so low it seemed afraid to ask—and afraid to be heard.
Xi Yu looked at his palm, at that old scar, then shifted his gaze to the fire.
He thought: He’s not an ordinary person—I knew that from the start. But who he is doesn’t matter. Whether he’s from the Western Regal Court, a blacksmith, or a camel-driving caravan guard—he’s the man who stood windward when I was curled in a ball during the sandstorm. He’s the man sitting across the fire who poured out all the raisins he’d saved for half a month just for me. He’s the man who never once got annoyed no matter how many times I said “from now on.”
Which identity he holds doesn’t change any of that.
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