These three days passed in leisurely tenderness.
Xi Yu spent his days in the courtyard, earnestly learning the blade from Que Zhi—two sessions in the morning, one at dusk, practicing each movement with focused care. And beneath that diligence, he quietly harbored his anticipation, counting down the hours until the betrothal banquet three days later.
Finally, at dusk on the third day, nine bonfires blazed to life on the hunting grounds north of the royal city.
According to the court’s customs, betrothal required no worship of heaven and earth, no homage to parents, and no specific ceremonial attire.
The betrothal feast began at sunset, carrying the meaning of “the sun sets, the tent is entered, and family returns home.”
The nine bonfires symbolized eternity. Each fire was lit by an elder of high standing from the clan, and the kindling for every flame had to be taken from the Mother Fire before the Khan’s great tent—signifying “from the same source, burning together in one flame.”
Unlike a wedding, a betrothal had no union-of-tents ceremony, no exchange of tokens. Only one ritual remained: the couple sharing a bowl of wine and making their vow before the nine fires.
This vow was not the marriage contract itself, but the oath that preceded it: from this day forward, they recognized each other as promised partners. Let the grassland bear witness—they would never turn back.
Xi Yu stood in a temporary felt tent at the edge of the hunting grounds, letting Helian Yanta—the stout, brisk wife of the chieftain Helu Xiong—adjust his robes.
The clothes he wore today were new, ones he’d never worn before. Que Zhi had taken them from the cabinet this morning and laid them at the foot of the bed.
The inner layer was a moonlight-white standing-collar tunic, its collar and hem embroidered with fine gold thread in dense entwining vine-and-scroll patterns—understated yet elegant, accentuating the slender line of his neck.
The outer robe was a vivid crimson, embroidered all over with the court’s signature entwined floral and scroll motifs in shades of azure, lake-blue, and gilded threads. The stitching was fine and dense, gleaming softly in the warm firelight.
A plush fur collar wrapped around his shoulders and neck, and the cuffs were trimmed with the same white fur, as if he were bundled in soft down. It carried the warmth of grassland attire while making his skin look luminous—like the first sunrise over the desert, bright and radiant.
A red turquoise forehead ornament adorned his brow. Multiple necklaces lay layered over his chest, with a large red carnelian pendant at the center that made his features appear even clearer and more refined.
Wide silver bangles carved with Tibetan cloud patterns and incised sutras encircled his wrists.
He’d changed into a new belt—blue, sewn by Granny Yanta last night, embroidered with the argali sheep totem.
Xi Yu touched the belt and felt its weight. Not the weight of fabric, but the weight of a family counting him as one of their own.
Granny didn’t style his hair into an elaborate knot. She simply combed it smooth with a wooden comb, braided a thin plait on the right side of his head, and fastened a turquoise bead at its end.
That turquoise came from the same stone as the one on Que Zhi’s saber hilt. When the old Khan had married the Queen, he’d cut two pieces—one set into the saber he gave his son, and one kept in a casket all these years, only taken out this very morning.
Helian Yanta dipped her rough fingers in goat’s milk and lightly dabbed it on Xi Yu’s forehead. This was the simplest blessing that the elders of the Suo Kingdom bestowed upon betrothed couples—may you have milk to drink, and a home to return to.
Then she nudged him toward the tent opening, laughing. “Go on—the groom’s getting impatient.”
“He’s a groom-to-be!”
Xi Yu corrected her, his ears flushing faintly in the firelight.
Helian Yanta burst out laughing and gave him a shove.
Xi Yu stepped out of the felt tent and saw a white felt carpet laid out from the entrance of the hunting grounds all the way to the main tent.
Guests from various tribes stood on both sides. Some held up cups of wine, others scattered flower petals. A group of young women broke into a long, high-pitched wedding chant—their voices rising bright and clear, carrying far across the grassland.
Xi Yu stepped onto the felt carpet and saw Que Zhi standing at the center of the nine bonfires from afar.
He wore a long robe of deep black, trimmed with reddish-gold borders, its fabric richly embroidered with intricate scroll and cloud patterns in gold thread. Hidden among the designs were totems symbolizing royalty—the stitches heavy and dense, giving off a subdued yet opulent luster in the warm firelight.
Layered necklaces adorned his neck—strung with turquoise, lapis lazuli, red carnelian, and gilded ornaments, with a large blue turquoise pendant standing out prominently at the center. A matching turquoise forehead ornament graced his brow. His hair was half-bound, the rest falling loose, dotted with tiny gold ornaments and colorful beads.
But in his hand, he held a bundle of blue wildflowers—picked this morning by the snowy stream, their petals still beaded with evening dew.
Xi Yu walked the length of the felt carpet under the gaze of the crowd and stopped before him.
He looked at the flowers in Que Zhi’s hand, then at the old scar along his cheekbone, lit by the firelight.
“You picked them yourself. Didn’t you say you never pick blue flowers?”
“The Khan gave special permission.”
Que Zhi handed him the flowers, his gaze pausing briefly on the spot of goat’s milk on Xi Yu’s forehead, then drifting to the flush at the corner of his eye—redder even than the bonfires.
“For a betrothal, you may pick them. After this, I’ll only look.”
The old Khan stood before the main tent, wearing a clean robe today, his belt fastened neatly.
He raised a bowl of mare’s milk wine, first offering it to heaven and earth, then to the ancestors, before passing the bowl to Que Zhi.
Que Zhi lowered his head and took a sip, then handed the bowl to Xi Yu.
Xi Yu took a small sip as well. As he passed the bowl back, his fingertips brushed against Que Zhi’s palm—against that old scar he’d once painted with raspberry juice, wiped grape seeds across, and traced in secret on countless mornings.
The old Khan watched them exchange the bowl and, following the betrothal customs of the court, asked three questions.
“Que Zhi, do you willingly enter into this covenant with this person, from this day forward recognizing one another as promised partners—through pasture’s bloom and wither, through the river’s changing course—never to betray your word this day?”
“I do.” He spoke in Han Chinese, slow and clear, as if afraid Xi Yu might not understand the Suo tongue—or as if those two words needed no translation at all.
The old Khan turned to Xi Yu: “Xi Yu, do you willingly enter into this covenant with this person, from this day forward recognizing one another as promised partners—through pasture’s bloom and wither, through the river’s changing course—never to betray your word this day?”
Xi Yu looked at Que Zhi.
The bonfires blazed behind him, sparks spiraling into the night sky, as numerous as the stars he’d once counted on the Gobi that night.
He remembered the leaking tiles of the cold palace, the worn hot-water bottle Old Zhou had tucked beneath his quilt, the silhouette that had shielded him from the sandstorm, the tuneless humming outside the stone hut, and the fleeting gleam in that man’s eyes at dusk by the well, when he’d removed his hat.
“I do.”
The old Khan raised the wine bowl high and splashed the remaining mare’s milk wine onto the grass, proclaiming in a loud voice: “By the Eternal Blue Sky as witness, by the grassland as our table, by these nine bonfires as our seal—Que Zhi and Xi Yu are hereby bound as promised partners!”
Fresh wood was thrown onto all nine bonfires at once. The flames surged high, sparks flying into the night sky like golden fireflies.
The hunting grounds erupted in thunderous cheers. Young women scattered flower petals over their heads. Helu Xiong’s roasting skewer fell into the fire again; he cursed in Suo and bent to retrieve it, only to burn his fingers once more.
Batu pushed through the crowd to the front, bringing Halbala with him—the goat with a blue ribbon tied around its neck. It tilted its head at Xi Yu, let out a bleat, and came forward to nuzzle his knee.
“She still remembers you! Look, look—she’s not nibbling your hair. She’s congratulating you!”
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