The person Que Zhi said they were meeting in the afternoon—Xi Yu had assumed it would be some senior official, or perhaps the head of the horse grounds, or someone like Batu who’d joined them along the way.
Xi Yu followed behind Que Zhi through the palace corridors, mentally rehearsing how to greet this person—whether to bow in the Central Plains manner or press his hand to his chest in the Shuo custom. But as they rounded the end of the corridor, a tall, white-haired elder emerged, flanked by two attendants. Before he’d even reached them, he bellowed out—
Not in the Shuo tongue, but in Han Chinese, with perfect pronunciation, though he drew out the final syllables like a song.
“You little brat! Back for days and only now you come see me? Your father’s away, so you think you can ignore this old bones of mine, is that it?”
Before Xi Yu could react, the elder had already strode up to Que Zhi and smacked him on the back of the head with a palm the size of a winnowing fan.
The sound was so loud that dust sifted down from the corridor pillars. The elder’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms tanned to a deep brown and thick with muscle—his callused thumb and forefinger just like Que Zhi’s. Despite the blow, Que Zhi didn’t budge an inch.
He raised his hand to rub the back of his head and sighed. “Uncle Helian. I only arrived in the city the evening before last.”
“Arrived the day before yesterday and only coming today? You used to show up at my place for drinks on your very first day back. What happened this time—oh.”
The elder’s gaze traveled past Que Zhi’s shoulder and landed on Xi Yu.
His small eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, traced from Xi Yu’s silver hairpin to the tear-shaped mole beneath his eye, then to those peach-blossom eyes, and finally settled on the perfectly fitted brocade robe Xi Yu wore. He turned his head to look at Que Zhi, then back again.
Xi Yu was about to make a bow when the elder suddenly burst into laughter—so loud that a gray cat crouching under the eaves shot up onto the roof beam.
“No wonder! No wonder you weren’t in a hurry to come drink with me this time—you brought back such a pretty brother. Does your father know?”
“His parting instructions were ‘treat them as a guest,’” Que Zhi replied evenly. “He didn’t specify what kind of guest. You figure it out yourself.”
“I understand.” Que Zhi’s reply was earnest.
He introduced him: “Uncle, this is Xi Yu.”
The elder looked at Xi Yu again, this time letting his gaze linger a little longer, not with the same carefree appraisal as before, but with a certain thoughtful weight.
He nodded, saying nothing more.
This “uncle,” whose full name was Helian Xiong, was neither some idle old herder from a minor tribe nor the head of the horse grounds.
He was the chieftain of the Helian tribe. In his youth, he had fought alongside the old Khan. Later, he brought his people to pledge allegiance to the Shuo Kingdom and was granted the title of Left Wise King, governing the pastures and herding households west of the royal city.
Now advanced in years, he no longer fought. He spent his days in the hunting grounds, saying that talking to horses was more interesting than talking to people.
An hour later, Xi Yu was already sitting on a bearskin-covered couch in Helian Xiong’s hunting camp, a warm bowl of mare’s milk wine pressed into his hands.
The hunting grounds lay north of the royal city, backed by a grove of white birch. The felt tents were even more imposing than the royal summer encampment, and the inside was hung with all sorts of hunting trophies.
Only a meal’s time had passed since Que Zhi got smacked on the head, and now the old Khan himself had ridden back from the depths of the hunting grounds.
He was not the imposing, awe-inspiring steppe overlord Xi Yu had imagined.
He was of modest height, with a slight paunch, riding a gray horse. The hem of his hunting robe had been snagged by a branch, and two freshly caught hares hung from the back of his saddle.
He swung off his horse, tossed his bow and arrows to an attendant, took the wineskin Helian Xiong handed him, took a swig, and then walked over to Xi Yu.
“So you’re Xi Yu? The scholar from Daliang?”
Xi Yu stood and bowed in the Central Plains manner, hands clasped. “This humble commoner Xi Yu greets the Khan.”
The old Khan waved his hand, saying the Shuo Kingdom didn’t have so many formalities. His son had mentioned Xi Yu twice in his letters—once when they entered Liangzhou, and again when they were nearing the royal city.
The last letter said he was bringing someone back, and his name was Xi Yu. Then he pointed at the wine bowl in front of Xi Yu and said, “Drink.”
Xi Yu lifted the bowl and took a sip, the alcohol burning his throat and making him squint.
Que Zhi replaced it with a bowl of clear water, his movements as natural as swapping a saddle blanket on a camel, and placed the water bowl within easy reach.
This gesture did not escape Helian Xiong’s notice—he raised an eyebrow and glanced at the old Khan.
The old Khan pretended to be intensely focused on the wild rabbit roasting over the fire, meticulously sprinkling salt onto its leg, though his peripheral vision was secretly stealing glances at the two of them as well.
The meat sizzled and dripped fat over the campfire. Helian Xiong carried his wine bowl over and sat down beside Xi Yu.
After a few bowls of mare’s milk wine, the Left Wise King’s floodgates burst wide open, and he began regaling Xi Yu with stories of Que Zhi’s childhood.
Helian Xiong said the boy had never been much of a talker. While other kids rode horses and practiced archery, Que Zhi was sharpening blades. While they wrestled and brawled, he’d crouch in the water. When asked what he was doing, he’d say he was practicing holding his breath.
Only later did they learn he was observing the underwater currents, afraid that if he ever led troops across a river, people might drown.
At fourteen, he’d slipped alone to the border, gone undercover into enemy territory, and with nothing but a sickle, turned a small squad of soldiers to his side. When his father found out, he split a saddle in half on the spot—then immediately ordered a new fine bow to be made and sent to his son overnight.
Helian Xiong lowered his voice and leaned closer to Xi Yu: He’d brought people back before—prisoners, rebel generals he wanted to recruit, and once even a lost caravan leader he’d rescued.
But every single one of them stayed one night in the royal city and left the next day. Later, when they met again on the battlefield, Que Zhi wouldn’t even greet them.
You’re the first one he’s ever brought back.
Xi Yu held his wine bowl steady, expression unreadable, and asked whether any of those brought back had been a Jiangnan scholar who couldn’t hold his liquor.
Helian Xiong said no—everyone he brought back could drink. You’re the first one he swapped with plain water.
Xi Yu looked up and met Helian Xiong’s small, wine-glazed eyes, raised his water bowl, and clinked it against the other’s: “Then I suppose I’m setting a precedent.”
At dusk, the men headed out to the grassy slopes for one last round of hunting.
Xi Yu and Que Zhi walked side by side along the edge of the meadow.
The setting sun painted the entire grassland in hues of gold and crimson, while the distant snow-capped mountains glowed with a faint pink light in the evening afterglow.
“What did Uncle tell you?”
“That you practiced holding your breath as a child. That at fourteen you slipped into enemy territory with a sickle and turned a squad of soldiers, and your father was so furious he split a saddle. That you’ve brought other people back to the royal city before.”
“He said you’ve never brought anyone back like me.”
Xi Yu sat back on the grass, tilting his head up to look at the expressionless face silhouetted against the sunset glow.
“The first one who can’t drink. The first one who needed a hand getting onto a horse. The first one who bought you a bracer in Liangzhou. The first one who dared to make you sharpen a blade in front of your master. Why did you bring me back?”
Que Zhi sat down beside him and looked back. The setting sun in his gray-blue pupils had narrowed to a single burning sliver of gold foil. Before he spoke, the distant campfire cast its glow across his profile. A long silence passed.
For the first time, Que Zhi didn’t state a fact—he asked a question in return. “What do you think?”
Xi Yu leaned back, bracing himself on his hands behind him, and replied indirectly: “I think—you needed someone who can’t drink, to remind you that mare’s milk wine isn’t water, and not to half-ass your bandages. Someone to sit beside you polishing a dagger while you sharpen your blade. Someone to wait for you when you come back from the hunting grounds. You don’t need to crouch at the bottom of a river watching currents anymore—from now on, when you cross a river, there’ll be someone on the bank pointing out which stones are steady. You don’t need a long list of reasons to bring someone home.”
Que Zhi didn’t ask further. He didn’t need confirmation.
Behind them, the brilliant afterglow was sinking behind the distant mountain ridges. The muffled thud of hooves on hay was carried away by the wind.
Que Zhi’s gaze fixed deeply on Xi Yu, his eyes brimming with undisguisable tenderness. His voice was low and affectionate, every word spoken with striking earnestness:
“You’re right. But you left out one thing—I brought you back because you are you.”
Xi Yu’s ears flushed slightly pink, his eyelashes trembling as he lifted his gaze to meet Que Zhi’s profound eyes. His voice was soft and gentle:
“Simply because I am who I am…?”
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