After issuing the directive that “this is how every morning will be from now on,” Xiyu felt entirely justified in claiming the entire low couch for himself as he ate breakfast.
He set the bowl of melon on his lap, leaned back against the thin blanket Que Zhi had folded, held the spoon in his mouth, and mumbled vague instructions for Que Zhi to fetch his robe from the screen.
Que Zhi handed him the robe. Xiyu took it and draped it over his shoulders—didn’t put it on, just wore it like a cloak, saying he was hot.
Que Zhi said nothing, just pushed the window open halfway, took away his empty bowl, and replaced it with a fresh dish of raspberries within arm’s reach.
When Batu arrived, Xiyu had already finished breakfast and was sprawled across the low couch, flipping through a volume of Shuo territory maps and records he’d borrowed from the old Khan’s study.
He couldn’t read the characters, only looked at the pictures—and whenever he came across a drawing of a horse, he’d linger a little longer.
Que Zhi sat at the other end of the couch, reviewing official documents.
Today, Batu hadn’t come to deliver dried meat, nor to borrow a place to write a letter.
He mysteriously pulled a coarse earthenware jar from his robe, its mouth sealed with beeswax, and held it up to Xiyu with both hands.
“Cherries. There’s a wild cherry tree on the hillside behind the Helian tribe’s land. It bore fruit late this year—only turned red these past few days. My father said the first batch of cherries is the sweetest, so he told me to bring you some to try. I picked them before dawn—the leaves are still on—see?”
Xiyu picked a cherry from the jar. Sure enough, it still had a short green stem attached, and on the stem hung a leaf with slightly dried edges.
Xiyu sat up from the couch, took the cherry, and held it up to the light.
The skin was deep red, gleaming like agate in the sunlight—different from the cherries he’d seen in the cold palace.
Those were the ones the imperial kitchen had discarded, delivered to him already bruised, the flesh soft, sour with a hint of astringency.
Back then, he couldn’t bear to eat one in a single bite—he’d divide one cherry into three bites.
The first bite was sweet, the second started to turn sour, and on the third, he’d hold the pit in his mouth for a long while before spitting it out.
He popped the cherry into his mouth and chewed. The flesh was firm, the juice cloyingly sweet, without a trace of sourness.
He reached into the jar for a second one, smiled, and thanked Batu.
Then he turned and held the cherry up to Que Zhi’s lips: “Open up.”
The cherry stem tilted slightly between his fingers, the fine fuzz on its skin shimmering silver in the morning light, still dotted with droplets of water left over from when he’d handled the raspberries.
Que Zhi lowered his head and ate it from his hand.
Xiyu pulled his hand back, licked his fingertip, and said this one was sweeter—the last one had been a bit sour.
Batu crouched by the door, holding the jar, looking back and forth between them. Suddenly he asked: “Did something happen between you two last night? The first cherries are meant for the most important person—in our Helian tribe, that rule has been passed down since the ancestors’ time. I didn’t mean it that way… never mind, forget I said anything.”
“You said it. And that’s exactly what you meant.”
Xiyu slid off the couch, picked the biggest cherry from the jar, stuffed it into Batu’s mouth, and gave his shoulder a pat.
Batu chewed the cherry, his cheeks bulging, speaking indistinctly:
“I still have to herd sheep. You city folks have such complicated partnership dynamics. For us herders, a partner is just someone you travel with—no left or right side. Wait—no, I was talking about the cherries just now, not partnerships. You two got me all tangled up again.”
Que Zhi stood up, walked around the low couch, picked up the wooden comb leaning against it, and stood behind Xiyu. He folded down the collar of his green robe, exposing the nape of his neck.
While combing, he replied: “There’s still a lot you don’t understand.”
Batu watched the way Que Zhi combed his hair.
The comb teeth ran from root to tip, turning gently at the ends—the motion lighter than brushing a horse’s back, slower than sharpening a blade, as if he were combing a bolt of breathing silk.
He stared open-mouthed for a moment, then slapped his own forehead with a smack. He bent down, took the cherry jar back from Xiyu’s hand, and said he was off to the hunting grounds to deliver cherries to Uncle Helü Xiong.
He reached the door, nearly tripped over the threshold, then turned back and said earnestly: “More cherries next year. I’ll bring you two jars.”
Having said that, he truly left, his boots clacking noisily down the corridor.
Xiyu leaned back with his eyes closed, resting against Que Zhi’s waist, his voice drawn out lazy and languid by the combing: “Uncle Helü said you have a tough temper and an even tougher mouth. He said you’re the most stubborn soldier he’s ever seen.”
“No one knows where the cherry tradition started anymore—but it’s a custom of the grasslands. And now it’s already ‘next year.’ The road you’re walking isn’t a journey—it’s coming home. This road has reached its end. The grasslands ahead are all your home.”
Que Zhi’s gaze settled on him, deep and heavy, his eyes filled with seriousness and solemnity, his voice steady yet tender:
“I want to go talk to Father about us in a bit.”
He leaned down slightly, his gaze soft as it locked onto Xiyu, carrying a hint of careful inquiry, and asked softly:
“Do you agree?”
Xiyu whipped around, his lashes fluttering, his cheeks instantly flushing a thin red, his heart both flustered and warm.
He lowered his eyes, his fingers unconsciously twisting the fabric of his clothes, his voice soft and small, carrying a timid earnestness:
“I… I do.”
Que Zhi finished combing his hair, set the wooden comb on his lap, bent down to help him up from the couch, and reached out to straighten his crooked collar.
Xiyu took Que Zhi’s hand—his hand was large enough to completely envelop his own—and calmly told him to go speak with the Khan, to discuss it properly.
Que Zhi dressed him properly: “Alright.”
The old Khan was in his study, reviewing correspondence on the affairs of various tribes.
Last night, at the bonfire banquet, he’d witnessed with his own eyes his taciturn son pick up that young brother he’d brought back, right in front of everyone, and carry him off to the royal tent. He’d had a feeling this morning’s tea wouldn’t be a peaceful one.
Sure enough, no sooner had his tea been refilled for the second time than Que Zhi pushed open the door.
He wore his dark blue robe, a silver belt at his waist, and that same old wrist guard on his left arm.
He walked in, called out “Father” in his usual steady tone, then sat down on the felt couch across from him, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the old knife scar on the web of his hand.
The old Khan set down his tea bowl and waited. The silence lasted about as long as it took to say three sentences.
“I want to betroth myself to Xiyu.”
“I want to marry him.” Que Zhi spoke, his tone solemn.
The old Khan heard this, deliberately rolled his eyes left, then right, refusing to look at him directly, putting on an air of nonchalance,
drawling out his words in a leisurely, teasing tone, clearly amusing himself at his son’s expense:
“Oh, I don’t agree.”
Que Zhi looked at his father’s deliberately casual, evasive demeanor, his brows drawing together slightly, his expression turning somber, his whole bearing growing tense.
He stepped half a pace forward, his tone still solemn but now tinged with helplessness and earnestness: “Father, this is no trifling matter. My mind is made up. In this life, I will marry no one but Xiyu.”
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