Batu said, once they crossed the ridge ahead, they would be able to see the royal court.
Xi Yu sat astride his camel, squinting at that ridge. The late summer sun was still quite strong—he pressed the brim of his hat lower and realized that Batu’s “ridge” was nothing like what he had imagined. Not the jagged stone mountains of the Gobi, nor the lush green hills of the Central Plains—but a long, gentle slope covered in pasture grass, stretching from their feet all the way to the horizon. Its crest was smooth and rounded, holding the very edge of the blue sky.
The grassy slope was covered in nameless wildflowers—white, yellow, purple—undulating in the wind.
Batu’s flock had already scrambled up the slope ahead. Where their hooves touched, gray grasshoppers sprang up, fluttering from between the blades before vanishing into the taller growth.
“How much longer?” Xi Yu asked.
“Half a day,” Que Zhi answered.
His gaze at that ridge was different from the way he looked at the Gobi, at snow-capped mountains, at the walls of Liangzhou—not scrutinizing, not weighing, but something quieter than silence itself.
They climbed the slope. Batu led the way, his flock scattered into a patch of white, like a handful of cotton fluff tossed across the grass. Khalbala, as always, strode at the front of the flock, occasionally turning back to bleat, urging the stragglers along.
As he herded, Batu belted out a Shuo pastoral song—his voice carrying a melody that twisted and turned, the same tune Que Zhi had hummed that night in the stone hut. Batu’s voice was high and bright, carrying far across the slope. In the distance, it seemed another herder answered back in harmony.
“Do you sing it too?” Xi Yu asked.
“Yes.” Que Zhi paused. “Not as loud as him.” He didn’t sing—he just walked.
Xi Yu watched that straight, silent figure ahead to his right, and remembered that snowy night in the stone hut, that tuneless humming. Back then, he never imagined that one day he’d be standing on a gentle grassland slope, half a day’s journey from the royal court, listening to another herder sing the same long melody in a bright, clear voice.
And the man who refused to sing along with Batu still walked silently ahead of him, blocking the wind that swept down from the ridge.
“Que Zhi, you’ve been especially quiet today. Even quieter than usual—normally it’s fifteen characters, today it’s only five. We’re almost there. Aren’t you happy?”
“Happy. Happy doesn’t always have to be said.”
“Then how do you show it? Keep it bottled up inside? Or tighten the camel saddle an extra two times?”
He pointed at the reins that Que Zhi had unconsciously tightened and loosened, over and over.
The wind blew strands of hair across Xi Yu’s eyes. Que Zhi reached over and brushed them aside: “Happy can be watched. Watching can also be happy.”
Xi Yu gave a small nod and didn’t press further.
He remembered a line from that geography book in the cold palace: “The Shuo royal court is situated in the heart of the steppe, moving with water and grass, with no city walls.”
Back then, he had scratched a line under it with his fingernail and thought: What does a place without walls look like? Now he knew.
In a place without walls, grass could grow anywhere, sheep could wander anywhere, and people could stop anywhere. No one needed to be locked in, and no one needed to climb over walls. And the man walking ahead of him had grown up on this very land without walls.
“Batu,” he suddenly called ahead, “is your home far from the royal court?”
“Far! A whole day’s sheep trail. My father says caravans have been gathering near the court lately, so sheep sell for a good price—that’s why we came this way.”
“Will you stay with us when we get to the royal court?”
“Of course! I still need to make you that flour paste—the less-salt kind.”
Batu turned around, looking at the continuous snow peaks emerging beyond the ridge. He made a lookout gesture, raising his staff to his eyes to block the sun: “Almost, almost—once we’re past the ridge, you’ll see the royal court. See for yourselves.”
—
The last few steps, Xi Yu took on his own.
His boots trod on the grassy slope, stepping over alfalfa and needle grass, over new growth that had sprung up after the sheep had grazed it down.
The wind swept over the ridge, carrying the coolness of snowy peaks and the green rawness of grass blades.
Xi Yu stood at the crest and looked back—the sheep trail they’d come from had already been swallowed by the grass. The waterskin tied to the camel saddle swayed with the animal’s movements. Batu’s flock scattered at his feet like white specks.
Que Zhi stood halfway up the slope, his hand loosening from the camel’s reins.
Xi Yu turned back and looked ahead.
The grassland spread out beneath him, stretching far, far away—all the way to the feet of those snow-capped mountains at the edge of the sky. In the middle of that vast green expanse, he saw felt tents—not just a few, but dozens, over a hundred.
White felt tents dotted the landscape like mushrooms sprouting after rain, scattered on both sides of a river bend. The largest one stood at the very center, several times bigger than the others, with a blue banner flying from its top.
A stream flowed down from the foot of the snowy mountains, curving around the river bend where the camp was pitched. On both banks grazed herds of sheep, cattle, and horses.
Xi Yu saw herders riding between the tents, women milking sheep at the tent entrances, children chasing each other by the stream. No city walls.
Just as the book had said—no walls.
Xi Yu stood at the ridge, catching a faint floral scent in the wind—the same fragrance as the blue flowers he’d smelled by the stream.
That scent drifted from the direction of the royal court, mingled with the breath of green grass and running water.
Que Zhi stood behind him, shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the same grassland, the same royal court.
He was silent for a long time, then spoke, his voice lower than usual, as if afraid to wake something: “In the past, when I left the royal court and came back, seeing these tents, I only thought—I’ve arrived. This time, it’s different.”
His words stopped at his lips, unfinished. His gaze slowly shifted from the distant royal court and landed gently on Xi Yu.
The evening wind whipped the youth’s hair into disarray—strands clinging to his smooth forehead, his long lashes lowered, and on the very tip of one lash, a tiny seed of grass clung, swaying softly.
He stood there quietly watching, his gaze fixed on that slender lash, on the wind-tangled ends of his hair. His look was deep and tender, carrying an unconscious lingering affection, as if even the wind had slowed half a beat, wordlessly weaving the unspoken intimacy between them.
Que Zhi raised his hand to Xi Yu’s face, his fingertip brushing ever so gently, ever so slowly, to pick that tiny grass seed from the tip of his lash.
The touch across his lashes was cool and light as a passing breeze.
Xi Yu’s whole body went still, his breath suddenly soft.
His lashes trembled involuntarily, a faint flush creeping to the corners of his eyes.
He dared not look up at the other man, only kept his eyes lowered, his ears quietly burning, not even remembering to brush the disheveled hair from his face.
A tingling ripple spread through his heart—it was just the most ordinary little gesture, yet it left him flustered and dazed, caught between shyness and confusion.
The man, after picking off the seed, withdrew his hand as if nothing had happened and walked ahead with unhurried steps, as though that intimate closeness had been nothing more than a casual motion.
“Batu, didn’t you say the Helian tribe has acquaintances around here? Do you know that guy who—” He wanted to say Que Zhi, but caught himself—it didn’t feel right to have Batu say his name. But the words were already half out, so he had to smoothly tack on the rest of his sentence from the ridge:
“Do you know where they sell raisins around here? The ones I bought earlier are almost gone. I need to get another two bags once we reach the royal court—to snack on along the way.”
From the river bend below, the faint sound of voices and horse hooves drifted up—someone on horseback was gazing in their direction.
Batu, confused, shouted back from below the slope: “The raisin sellers aren’t my family’s acquaintances—I only know shepherds! Walk a few more steps forward, and Brother Que Zhi is going home—ask him to buy them yourself!”
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