When Xi Yu said “anytime,” Que Zhi took it to mean “as soon as possible.”
The old Khan understood it as “immediately.” Helu Xiong understood it as “tomorrow.”
In the end, Xi Yu chose the date himself.
He said autumn was nearly over, and the ceremony should be held before the first heavy snowfall of winter closed the roads—not because he was impatient, but because he was afraid of the cold. The wedding would require standing out on the hunting grounds in the wind; any later, and his fingers would freeze into carrots.
“I’ll warm your hands for you.”
“You can’t stand on the hunting grounds in my place. One person can’t marry for two.”
Que Zhi said he’d dress warmer, then.
Xi Yu pursed his lips slightly, puffing his cheeks just a little, a touch of stubbornness in his brow. He murmured softly, “If I wear too many layers, I’ll look all puffy and bulky—it’ll make me look shorter. Standing next to you, I’ll look even shorter.”
Que Zhi looked at him, this mix of awkwardness and adorableness, and a gentle warmth spread through his eyes. He reached over and wrapped an arm around Xi Yu’s shoulder, his palm warm, his voice low and earnest:
“You’re not short. You’re just right.”
The old Khan sat on the felt couch in his study, flipping through the almanac that Helu Xiong had sent over.
The Suo people didn’t normally consult almanacs, but Helu Xiong had a Central Plains advisor on his staff—a man with fine calligraphy who also knew how to calculate auspicious dates.
The advisor had circled three dates in the almanac. The first was five days away: the ninth day of the ninth month, the Double Ninth Festival—an auspicious day for weddings. The second was twelve days away: the sixteenth of the ninth month, the night of the full moon. According to old grassland tradition, a full-moon wedding was a good omen. The third was twenty days away: the twenty-fourth of the ninth month, when the autumn harvest was complete and the pastures were resting from grazing, allowing all the tribes to send representatives.
The old Khan read the three dates aloud to Xi Yu. Xi Yu thought for a moment and said the sixteenth of the ninth month was best—a full-moon night, following the old grassland custom.
Besides, twelve days gave them enough time to prepare; any later, and the weather would be colder. Batu’s flock would need to move to winter pastures, and they might not make it.
Once the date was set, the entire royal city bustled with activity.
Helu Xiong took full charge of the preparations.
He set up a temporary command tent on the hunting grounds and divided the helpers from various tribes into five groups: one group for bonfire fuel, one for the feast of meat and wine, one for felt-tent decoration, one for the horse procession to receive the bridegroom, and one mobile unit for handling emergencies—like collapsed roasting racks, shattered wine jars, or Batu’s sheep escaping again.
Helu Xiong said this was the fourth time in his life he’d organized a royal wedding—he’d handled the old Khan’s marriage to the Queen, and Que Zhi’s hundred-day celebration. Now, at last, it was his most troublesome nephew’s turn to get married.
He carved a new command stick with his dagger and directed the tribes on the hunting grounds, assigning tents, firewood, sheep-slaughtering, and wine preparation.
The old Khan assigned Que Zhi to handle the guest list from the grasslands.
There were over a dozen tribes of all sizes—the Helian, the Tatar, the Kerey—and chieftains from each had to be invited. Some of the elder chieftains had fought alongside his father in their youth and now had difficulty moving about, so Que Zhi sent couriers ahead of time, carrying mare’s milk wine and invitations to every household.
The invitations were written in both Han and Suo script—the Han version in Xi Yu’s neat, regular script, polite yet concise; the Suo version in Que Zhi’s handwriting, characteristically clumsy. But the recipients didn’t care about the penmanship—they only needed to see that the young master had written the invitations himself to know that this marriage was no mere formality. This was the person the young master truly wanted.
Gifts began arriving at the royal city from all the tribes. One old chieftain sent an entire white wolf pelt, with a message saying it had been taken during a hunt with the old Khan back in the day—a gift for the young master’s new spouse, to keep the bed warm and dry, impervious to damp.
Xi Yu spread the white wolf pelt over the low couch and tried it—it was indeed warm.
Batu and his father traveled from the Helian tribe to help. Batu’s father was in charge of the sheep—all the mutton for the wedding feast would be provided by the Helian tribe. He’d selected the fattest from his own flock and driven them along the official road for three days.
Batu’s father reported the sheep count to Helu Xiong in halting Han Chinese, prefacing it with a long stream of greetings from the Helian tribe.
Helu Xiong, clutching his ledger, was completely lost and had to call for a translator.
Batu’s father repeated the numbers and added that the Helian tribe was celebrating a happy occasion—his pronunciation of the Suo word for “happy occasion” was off, but Helu Xiong understood and gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder.
Halbala had come too. She was now the most senior member of the flock, exempt from selection and slaughter. Batu kept her behind the kitchen tent, where her job was to graze and accept head-pats from passersby.
The old cook from the kitchen tripped over Halbala on his way past the tent, cursed in Suo as he picked himself up, then pulled half a flatbread from his pocket, crumbled it, and fed it to her.
Helu Tao was in charge of stable affairs.
He brushed Que Zhi’s black horse three times over, braided its mane into two plaits, and even gave his own piebald horse a good grooming—just in case a spare mount was needed for the procession. The piebald might not be as imposing, but it was fast.
Helu Tao discussed with the old horse-trainer which direction the black horse should enter from during the procession. After much debate, they couldn’t agree on an answer, because the old trainer said the young master would definitely lead the horse himself—the black horse didn’t need to know the way; it was merely a pack animal for the dowry. The horse that truly carried the new spouse should be the one the young master led himself.
Helu Tao protested that the black horse would be unhappy. The old trainer looked at the stubborn young man for a long moment and finally said:
“Then you go tell the young master that yourself.”
Three days before the wedding, Que Zhi grew quiet.
Not angry—nervous.
He’d led troops across deserts, over snow-capped mountains, and into enemy camps without a hint of anxiety. But now, he would wake in the middle of the night to find his hand still resting on the corner of Xi Yu’s blanket—a habitual gesture of tucking him in.
Then he’d lie back and gaze at Xi Yu’s silhouette in the darkness, thinking about how this person had traveled from the Gobi to this place—from that bamboo chair at the inn’s entrance to his own bed, from “traveling companion” to promised partner—all in the span of a little over half a year.
And it had taken him most of a lifetime just to find one person he wanted to come home to every morning with a food tray in hand.
The night before the wedding, Xi Yu tried on his newly made ceremonial robe.
The robe had been sewn by Helu Xiong’s wife and several needlewomen over ten consecutive days of work. It was made of white fabric, trimmed with silver borders, with a blue belt at the waist, and embroidered at the cuffs with the argali sheep totem.
The ram’s horns circled the entire cuff, the stitching far finer than Que Zhi’s handiwork, done in the thinnest silver thread. As Xi Yu moved, the embroidery shimmered in and out of sight among the folds of the robe.
Xi Yu put on the ceremonial robe and stood before the bronze mirror. His hair was half-bound with a silver pin, silver ornaments adorned his forehead, and the remaining strands were loosely braided into a few small plaits falling naturally on either side of his shoulders.
The look carried both the solemnity of royal wedding attire and a touch of youthful, languid charm.
He turned to Que Zhi and asked, “Do I look good?”
Que Zhi’s gaze had been fixed on him all along, his eyes filled with a soft light, unwavering. His voice was low and tender, utterly sincere, carrying no hint of pretense—only a deep, heartfelt fondness:
“Beautiful.”
He didn’t say whether the robe was beautiful or he was beautiful. He simply smoothed the hem of the robe that had trailed half an inch on the ground, let his thumb brush lightly past the spot beneath Xi Yu’s beauty mark, and said softly:
“The wind will be strong on the hunting grounds tomorrow. Wear an extra layer underneath.”
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