The young man was clad in a light crimson robe of flowing silk that made his skin look like luminous white jade. The collar was trimmed with soft cream-colored fur, gentle and cozy, while the wide sleeves draped elegantly, lending him an ethereal, otherworldly air.
A Tibetan-style carved silver belt cinched his slender waist, and the delicate silver ornaments swayed with his every slight movement, tinkling softly. The silver bell-and-bead headpiece atop his head only accentuated his strikingly beautiful features—vivid and spirited, with a touch of exotic flair that made it impossible to look away.
Que Zhi’s Adam’s apple rolled unconsciously. His deep eyes locked onto Xi Yu, his heart struck by something soft yet insistent, ripples spreading through him in a dense, tingling wave.
For a moment, he was spellbound, his eyes unable to hide their sheer awe and the surging feeling that swept over him.
At this moment, watching the young man before him—so breathtakingly beautiful—every other thought was cast aside.
All he wanted was to stand there, to look at him, unwilling to move even a step away.
“Que Zhi, this—”
Xi Yu held up the hair ornament, reaching it out to him with an unmistakable intent.
Que Zhi took it and fastened it into his hair.
Xi Yu looked down at himself, then twirled once in front of Que Zhi, his robes flaring out like a dancer’s—the hem catching, as it were, on Que Zhi’s heart:
“Does it look good?”
“Beautiful. Truly beautiful.”
Que Zhi’s eyes were filled with a tenderness so deep and a warmth so intense that it made Xi Yu’s heart tremble.
—
Que Zhi didn’t take him to the market or the horse grounds.
He said he wanted to take him somewhere.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll know when we get there.”
They left the palace gates, crossed the main street, and turned into a remote, narrow alley.
The alley was so tight they had to walk sideways to fit side by side. The light at the entrance dimmed so abruptly it felt like stepping from broad daylight straight into dusk. The storefronts were low and dilapidated, their signs crooked and faded.
Xi Yu recognized this alley—they’d passed by it on their first day in the city, and Que Zhi had glanced into it several times.
He’d assumed Que Zhi was avoiding old memories or old faces, or perhaps that he simply didn’t want to be stirred by sentiment upon returning home. But that wasn’t it at all—he hadn’t wanted to come alone. He’d wanted to bring Xi Yu with him.
At the end of the alley was a half-shut wooden door, an iron lock rusted and broken hanging loosely from its hasp.
Que Zhi pushed it open. The hinges groaned with a dry, rusty screech, sending up a small puff of dust.
Inside the courtyard were piles of discarded scrap iron and broken-down sword racks. In the corner stood a hammer with its handle snapped off, its head mottled with rust etched by rain into uneven, streaked patterns.
The air still carried the faint smell of rust and coal dust, thinned by the morning breeze, yet stubbornly clinging to every corner of this humble place.
“A smithy.”
“I used to come here often as a child. My first curved saber was forged by the master here—I sneaked out of the palace when I was seven or eight, got lost, and wandered into this alley.”
“The swordsmith was sitting at the door sharpening a blade. He worked for a long time, and I crouched beside him watching. He didn’t shoo me away. His fingers were thicker than his hammer handles. Later, I came often. He taught me how to sharpen, how to forge, how to identify iron ore. The first curved saber I ever made, he taught me how to forge it. The day I finished, he said it wasn’t pretty, but it would do.”
“What happened to him?”
“He moved away later. He must have been very old by then. I didn’t make it back in time to see him off.”
He picked up the broken-handled hammer from the ground and placed it on the rack, then bent down and retrieved half of an old, quenched blade blank. His rough fingers brushed across its rust-covered spine.
“When I was little, I used to sharpen blades in this alley. He’d give me a whetstone, and I’d sit on the doorstep working on a piece of raw iron from dawn till dusk. The sound of sharpening was sweeter than anything in the smithy.”
“Back then, I thought—I’d sharpen every one of my blades here. Only later did I learn that no one can hold onto every blade.”
“He didn’t keep you, and he didn’t keep your blades. But he kept the sound of you sharpening them. You’ve been sharpening all along—striking a fire-steel on the Gobi, letting the scabbard knock against rocks in the sandstorm. That was sharpening too.”
Xi Yu softened his eyes, his voice gentle and reassuring, his tone warm and certain.
He patted the other’s shoulder lightly and said softly, “It doesn’t matter whether he can hear it or not. You’re already his disciple.”
Que Zhi took Xi Yu’s hand in his, pressing his fingers together. With one hand, he clasped all four of Xi Yu’s fingers, and with the palm of his other hand, he cradled the back of Xi Yu’s hand—the same hand that usually gripped the edge of a scabbard so hard and so urgently, yet now held a hand that was a size smaller, washed in snowmelt and dipped in well water, with such lightness and slowness.
Gently, he pried open Xi Yu’s palm and placed his fingertips upon it, letting him trace the rust and dust of the whetstone, along with the master’s sharpening marks and the old calluses left by ten years of forging curved sabers. Then he let go.
From the far end of the alley came a few distant camel bells in the morning light.
“When I was young, you’re the first person I’ve ever told all of this to. Come on—this afternoon, I’m taking you to meet someone.”
On his hand still lingered the rough, cold feel of the whetstone, the metallic tang of rust seeping into his fingertips.
Xi Yu curled his fingers, letting that strange yet familiar rust bite into the lines of his palm, and turned to ask, “Alright. Who are we meeting?”
“Someone who often comes to find me. He’s back from the hunting grounds.”
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