“I’ll stay next door.”
He didn’t speak right away. He stood before the low couch, surveying the sparsely furnished room—the low couch, the wooden table, the two teacups. It was his own room, and he had given it up for him.
He lowered his head and untied his bundle, shaking out the blue robe with only one sleeve and draping it over the arm of the low couch. His fingers traced the crooked stitches Que Zhi had sewn, moving slowly, as if registering an account only he could read.
Then he looked up, his peach-blossom eyes regaining their usual bright, unapologetic sparkle, and said that the room’s orientation wasn’t as good as the one at the inn—though it was slightly more luxurious.
Just slightly.
Que Zhi stood at the door without entering. He set the bronze lamp on the table, the flame flickering twice in his eyes.
Then he responded: “Mm.”
“Although this is called a royal palace, our ancestors always lived on the grasslands, so when the palace was first built, it was made for comfort above all else.”
“If anything comes up, just tell me.”
The room fell quiet.
From the courtyard came the rustle of poplar leaves in the wind, and the distant clink of a bronze plate striking a stone pillar as a servant added oil to a lantern.
Xi Yu sat down at the table and placed his wooden comb beside the bronze lamp.
The shadows of poplar leaves outside the window filtered through the paper panes, falling on the tabletop and swaying gently—like the shadows of camels on the Gobi.
This was not the Gobi. Not an oasis. Not a wind-hollowed stone hut on a snowy mountain. Not the earthen-walled inn in Liangzhou.
This was Que Zhi’s home—where he was born, grew up, left, and returned.
Que Zhi had brought him home and given him his room. From the cold palace to the Royal City, from the Great Liang to Northern Shuo—this journey had taken him months.
He thought he had come to travel. But standing in the center of this room with two teacups, he suddenly wasn’t sure anymore—unsure whether he could still bear to leave.
He lifted a teacup and turned it before the lamp. Its celadon glaze swirled with the shadows of poplar leaves, like the opening move of a chess game.
—
Xi Yu’s first night in the Royal City passed in deep sleep. No wind, no camel bells, no gurgling of camels chewing their cud, no out-of-tune Western Region songs from the caravan hands next door.
Only the occasional rustle of poplar leaves in the courtyard, then silence.
When he woke, sunlight was already filtering through the latticework of the carved wooden door, painting a row of fine light spots on the bluestone floor.
Xi Yu stared at those light spots for a while, confirming that he was not in the cold palace, not on the Gobi, not in the Liangzhou inn—but in the courtyard where Que Zhi had grown up, under Que Zhi’s blanket, on Que Zhi’s pillow, occupying the entire low couch by himself.
He turned over, ready to laze a little longer, when a very light knock came at the door.
“Up.”
Xi Yu pulled the blanket up over half his face, rolled around on the bed twice, and mumbled that he wasn’t up yet. ((￣o￣) . z Z)
The door was pushed open. Que Zhi entered with a food tray and set it on the small table beside the low couch. Then he bent down, picked up the boots Xi Yu had thrown on the floor the night before, and placed them side by side in the easiest spot for him to step into.
On the tray were a bowl of hot sheep’s milk, two freshly baked flatbreads, a small dish of honey, and a few dried apricots. The milk was freshly milked, the flatbreads still steaming, the honey gleaming with a thin sheen on the coarse pottery dish.
The apricots were the Liangzhou kind—the ones Xi Yu had lingered over at the market yesterday but hadn’t bought.
Xi Yu pulled the blanket off his face and looked at the dish of dried apricots, remembering how Que Zhi had asked him at the market: “Want some?”
He’d said “Not really” and walked away. Not really wanting them wasn’t the same as not wanting them at all.
He’d thought Que Zhi hadn’t noticed—but this man, who even remembered when he woke in the night, how could he have missed those two extra steps he’d taken by the apricot stall?
He popped a dried apricot into his mouth, chewed—sweet with a hint of tart—and mumbled that it was pretty good. He kicked the blanket off completely, stepped barefoot onto the stone edge of the low couch, and reached for the flatbread.
Before his fingertips could reach the honey jar, Que Zhi pushed it to a more convenient position.
“What are we doing today?” Xi Yu asked between bites.
“First, the stables. Then I’ll show you around the Royal City. You wanted to see the market—and we promised Batu yesterday.”
Que Zhi adjusted the bowl of sheep’s milk on the tray so that its handle faced outward—as if merely repositioning it—then straightened up and glanced at the side chamber next door, the one his mother had once occupied. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you somewhere. Not the market. Today, let’s get you familiar with the Royal City first.”
—
The stables in the morning lay on the west side of the palace complex. Calling it a stable was an understatement—it was actually an enclosed expanse of open grassland, where dozens of fine horses grazed, their coats glossy and their limbs strong.
Que Zhi’s mount was a black stallion, its mane left long and untied, falling over half its eyes. The horse had a fierce temper.
Xi Yu stood outside the fence, watching Que Zhi approach the black stallion. It snorted and pawed the ground twice. Que Zhi extended his hand for the horse to smell, patted its neck, then turned and asked if Xi Yu wanted to get on.
Xi Yu pushed open the fence gate and walked in, his boots treading on horse dung and crushed grass clippings scattered across the turf.
He didn’t know how to ride. No one had ever taught him in the cold palace.
Que Zhi said: “Get on. I’ll lead—slowly.”
He helped Xi Yu onto the saddle, his movements identical to the first time he’d lifted him onto a camel—palm up, tiger’s mouth bracing his sole, hoisting him steadily onto the saddle.
The black stallion snorted. Xi Yu steadied himself in the stirrups, looked down at Que Zhi, adjusted the reins in his hands, wrapped them twice around his wrist, then loosened them again.
Finally, he said: “Your family’s horses are too tall. I’ll want a shorter one next time—white. I’ll learn from the beginning.”
Que Zhi led the horse forward at a slow walk.
Xi Yu looked down: “Do you want to get on too?”
Que Zhi shook his head and said no, but his fingers curled in just a fraction.
In the distance, several young guards practicing mounted archery turned their heads to look.
Que Zhi appearing at the stables leading a horse was something that had happened every month for the past decade and more. But this time, seated on the horse was a youth in a Central Plains blue robe—and the guards put down their bows one by one, craning their necks to get a better look, causing two arrows to slip from their quivers.
One of the youngest guards rubbed his eyes and tapped his companion, asking who the young master was leading.
Another guard squinted for a moment and said he didn’t know—probably a guest. The south gate guards had said the young master had brought back a Central Plains man from Liangzhou; this must be him. The most formidable person the young master had ever brought back before was a captive who recited poetry—but this one was different.
A third, older guard picked up the fallen arrows and slid them back into his quiver. His gaze settled on the pair—the young master holding the reins with one hand and supporting the man’s knee with the other, his thumb resting a half-finger lower than it had when helping him onto a camel.
The older guard sat on his horse, watching the young master lead the horse into the distance. Slowly, he tightened his reins and murmured: “Not like before.”
“He never used to let anyone ride his black stallion.” His voice was very low; those nearby didn’t catch it, and he didn’t repeat himself.
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