In the cold palace, there had been only a bed frame, an old cotton quilt, and himself.
Later, on the Gobi, there was nothing either—the merchant caravan stayed one night and left; the relay station stayed one night and left. Back then, he’d thought “home” was just a place name. You stopped wherever you went, and once you stopped, you moved on.
It wasn’t until he’d lived in the royal court this long—waking every morning to the same window lattice, the same stone well, the same scent of kitchen smoke—that he realized home wasn’t a place.
It was someone pushing open the door each morning with a food tray, setting it down in the same spot, with boots lined up at the same angle every day.
“It’s Brother Que Zhi.” This time, Batu didn’t add any extra commentary—just stated it plainly.
“Mm. It’s him.”
Xi Yu didn’t deflect or change the subject this time. He plucked a poplar leaf from above his head and placed it in Batu’s hand, his tone calm and certain.
That evening, Que Zhi went as usual to report to the old Khan on matters of pasture boundaries and winter hay storage.
After hearing out the official business, the old Khan flipped through the winter fodder allocation sheets that Helu Xiong had submitted, and mentioned that Helu Xiong had recommended his son Helu Tao come to the royal court for a few years of training.
He added that since the two of them didn’t wish to leave for now, they should let Xi Yu stay comfortably, make a few more friends, and treat the court as his own home.
Having said that, the old Khan lowered his head and continued scanning the sheets. “Have them deliver the northern fodder before the snow falls, or the roads will be blocked.”
Que Zhi stood at the doorway but didn’t withdraw immediately.
He looked at his father’s profile as he bent over the documents, hesitated for a moment, then looked up and said, “Thank you, Father.”
The old Khan’s brush paused on the paper. He didn’t raise his head, only said: “Thank me for what? You never said that word to me growing up—and she’s only been with you a few months, and you’ve already learned to say thanks.”
For the first time, Que Zhi found himself at a loss for words in front of his father. He stepped back half a pace, awkwardly, managed an “Mm,” and turned to leave.
The old Khan set down his brush and gazed out at the old poplar in the courtyard. A few yellow leaves loosened by the evening breeze drifted down, settling gently on the edge of the stone well.
He muttered to himself: Helu Xiong was right—that boy really does know how to live with someone.
A few days later, Helu Tao arrived at the royal court to handle some autumn-hunt paperwork for the Helian tribe.
He hadn’t come to spar with Que Zhi—he’d come to borrow a blade. He’d heard that the young master’s curved saber could cut through iron like mud, and he wanted to borrow it for the archery-and-riding competition at the hunt, where the wager was three yellow antelopes.
The two of them tested the blade in the courtyard. Que Zhi handed him the saber, then casually offered his old bow as well.
Helu Tao drew the bowstring a few times. “The bow’s too light.”
Que Zhi replied, “It’s not that the bow’s light—it’s that your arm strength is past the point of accuracy. This is about finesse. Come back and I’ll restring it for you.”
Helu Tao thought it over, found it reasonable, and left with the bow and blade. As he departed, he remarked to the steward beside him: “The young master’s got more warmth in him now than when we were kids.
Back then, if you asked to borrow his blade, he’d only say one thing—’Go make your own.’”
Helu Tao mimicked Que Zhi’s tone, and the steward burst out laughing.
The autumn hunt drew near.
When Helu Xiong sent word, Xi Yu was sprawled on a low couch, flipping through a Suo-language storybook.
The book told the tale of a herder and a hunter—a simple plot: the herder lost his sheep, the hunter helped him search, and somewhere along the way, they found each other.
Xi Yu read the final line, closed the book, and declared, “This storybook has one flaw—they don’t even hold hands from start to finish. How is that being together?”
“Suo storybooks don’t write about holding hands,” Que Zhi said.
“Then what do they write about?”
“They write about herding sheep together, hunting together, wintering together. To the Suo people, if you can make it through winter together, that’s being together.”
Before Xi Yu could offer his opinion on that definition, Helu Xiong’s signature booming voice came from outside the door, rattling dust from the window lattice.
“Brat! The autumn hunt is starting! Your father said you’re leading the party this year, and here you are, holed up inside reading storybooks with someone—Xi Yu, you come too! Don’t mope around the yard all day. Do you still have those old clothes of yours? Wear them—old clothes are most comfortable out on the hunt!”
Que Zhi pulled an old hunting jacket of his own from the cabinet and handed it to him.
It was short-cut, dark gray, with leather trim at the cuffs and a ring of gray wolf fur at the collar—one he’d worn in his youth. He shook it out and draped it over Xi Yu’s shoulders, stepped back half a pace to look, and said it was a bit short, but enough to block the wind.
Xi Yu put the jacket on, looked down at the wolf-fur collar, then up at Que Zhi. “Your clothes from when you were a kid? If I take these, what will you use to block the wind?”
“I’m not afraid of the cold. You are, aren’t you?”
Que Zhi had already turned to pick up his curved saber and bow, tightened his bracers, and glanced back to take Xi Yu’s hand as they walked.
Xi Yu turned that line—”I’m not afraid of the cold”—over in his mind and realized that this man’s way of speaking love was exactly like a Suo storybook: he never said “I like you” directly.
He only said, “Let’s winter together,” “I’m not afraid of the cold,” and “Wear mine.”
Xi Yu gathered the wolf-fur collar closer and breathed in the lingering scent of pine resin and old leather, then quickened his pace to catch up.
The autumn hunting grounds lay north of the royal city, larger than the site of the bonfire feast, with grassy slopes stretching all the way to the foot of the snow-capped mountains.
Hunters from various tribes had already gathered beneath the slopes—some on horseback, some leading hounds, others adjusting their bows.
Helu Tao was there too, riding his piebald horse. He waved at Que Zhi from afar, his voice clear and bright: “Young master! We’re competing in archery today. If I win, you lend me that saddle of yours for a month!”
Helu Tao was tall and straight-shouldered, with the lean, agile frame forged by years of riding and archery on the grassland. His posture was relaxed and easy, his presence unhurried yet assured. His features were deep-set and handsome, with clear, bright light-brown eyes that met others’ gazes openly. His brow lines were sharp but not severe, carrying instead a gentle warmth of youthful clarity.
He rode up close and gave Xi Yu a sheepish nod—after borrowing the blade last time, he’d come to return the bow and happened to walk in on Que Zhi combing Xi Yu’s hair while chatting idly. He’d been so stunned he stood there gaping.
When he got home, he told his father that the person beside the young master could talk anyone’s ear off better than a military advisor. His father had laughed at him for ages.
The rules of the autumn hunt were simple: split into groups, enter the hunting grounds, and return to the slopes with your catch before sunset. Whoever brought back the most game took the top prize.
Que Zhi led his group in from the west side of the grounds. Xi Yu rode behind him on Que Zhi’s black horse, with Que Zhi holding the reins for a while to guide him.
Today, Xi Yu wasn’t as nervous as he’d been at the stables—perhaps because Que Zhi had given him his boyhood hunting jacket, or perhaps because the black horse had come to know him, turning its head every few steps to snort as if to say, “See? I’m doing fine.”
Leave a Reply