Xi Yu placed the wild goji berries next to the tribute list.
“Someone brought New Year’s gifts today. He said he came on behalf of the entire Tata tribe.”
Que Zhi reached out and picked up the pouch of goji berries, lightly weighing it in his fingers. His gaze fell on Xi Yu, a gentle warmth hidden deep in his eyes.
He took Xi Yu’s hand, turned it palm up, and placed the pouch securely back into his palm. His voice was low, with a hint of tenderness:
“If they’re for you, keep them yourself.”
Xi Yu’s brows lifted slightly in surprise, the corners of his eyes curving up. A faint smile crossed his lips as he quietly cradled the pouch and looked at Que Zhi. “Then I’ll accept them!” (′ `)
“Mm.” Que Zhi looked at Xi Yu’s adorable expression and couldn’t help but lean in and kiss him.
The night before the Year-End Sacrifice, Xi Yu reviewed the list of attendees from each tribe one last time by lamplight.
The old cook brought over a bowl of goji berry tea and set it beside his hand.
Outside the window, scattered snow began to fall again. Little Snowball dozed in the stable among the hay, and Harbala crouched under the kitchen eaves, chewing his cud.
In the distance, the sound of camel bells hadn’t ceased—the last few caravans traveling through the night were arriving with their tribute, hooves leaving deep and shallow tracks across the white stone path outside the palace gate.
Xi Yu set his brush down on the inkstone, blew out the lamp, and stood up to walk out under the eaves. He watched the snow fall slowly in the remaining glow of the palace lanterns, settling into the groove around the stone well curb—worn smooth by years of rope friction.
He was beginning to feel this well had aged too—by the next Year-End Sacrifice, new snow would fill those grooves, and he would be the one clearing them from the well curb on snowy days.
On the day of the Year-End Sacrifice, Xi Yu was woken by the sound of ox-horn trumpets sounding from near and far.
The sky had barely lightened, and beyond the palace walls came the horns of each tribe blowing in turn—first from the hunting grounds north of the royal city, then from the direction of the winter pasture, then from the distant ridges beyond.
The low, resonant calls answered one another across the snowy plains, as if the entire grassland was breathing slowly in rhythm.
Que Zhi was already up, standing by the low couch fastening his belt.
Today was the main day of the Year-End Sacrifice, and he had changed into a robe far more formal than usual—dark blue,
with silver-thread embroidery of argali sheep motifs on the collar and cuffs, a new silver belt at his waist, and a new set of dark brown leather cords on his left bracer that Xi Yu had replaced for him the night before, wrapped over the old one above his thumb.
He finished fastening his belt and turned to find Xi Yu already awake, wrapped in the blanket with only his eyes showing, tilting his head to study him.
“You look very different today than usual.”
“How so?”
“Usually you look like you’re going to check the pastures. Today you look like you’re going to a wedding. That time you picked out a melon for me in Liangzhou, that time you carried me on your back in the snow mountains, that time you held me in the hot springs—it wasn’t like this before.”
“Those times were when you were being my Que Zhi. Today you’re being everyone’s young master.”
Xi Yu tucked the blanket up under his chin, his voice still hoarse from just waking,
but his tone was earnest, his brows and eyes curved in a smile, and he added sincerely, “But they all look good. Young Master~”
Que Zhi slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, his eyes full of gentle indulgence. He raised his hand and softly smoothed down Xi Yu’s sleep-tousled, sticking-up hair.
“Mm. Marrying you.”
His thumb paused at the corner of Xi Yu’s eye as he pressed a kiss to his cheek.
A moment later, he straightened up. “Stay lying down—no rush.”
Then, slowing his voice, he leisurely counted off for him:
“Today there will be clear-braised winter lamb, roasted lamb tail, and Central Plains-style steamed dumplings.
Batu saved you the warmest spot south of the bonfire. The old cook kneaded goji berries into the dough and steamed several tiers of flower-shaped buns.
The people from each tribe had set up camp last night—the Hulü tribe, the Tata tribe, the Kerait tribe, the Helian tribe, and several smaller northern tribes, all with their families.
Which one do you want to see first?”
Xi Yu’s eyes instantly lit up with scattered sparks of light, any trace of drowsiness gone. Without hesitation, he answered crisply:
“First, the kitchen’s steaming baskets.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he threw off the covers in one swift motion, sprang lightly off the bed, his brows bright with eager, childlike anticipation.
The Year-End Sacrifice bonfire was lit on the hunting grounds north of the royal city.
Unlike the autumn hunt, there was only one bonfire for the Year-End Sacrifice—
but it was enormous, built from whole old pine logs contributed by each tribe, stacked in a tower shape, with dense layers of dead poplar branches added on the outside.
Before dark, the flames had already risen higher than a man, and sparks were swept up into the sky by the northern grassland wind, blazing a fluttering corridor of light through the snowy veil.
Each tribe had set up felt tents around the bonfire. Children ran around the fire having snowball fights, while adults passed mare’s milk wine and air-dried meat to one another.
Batu’s mother and several elderly women sat at the tent entrance sewing felt pieces, their fingers flying as they coiled scraps of felt into various patterns and handed them to the children nearby.
Hulü Tao had brought his greyhound, a red cloth tied around its neck. It ran back and forth through the snow, occasionally shaking off a puff of powder.
According to the rules of the Year-End Sacrifice, each tribe had to present their year-end gifts before the bonfire.
The old herder from the Tata tribe stepped forward first, leading a pure white lamb. He said it was the latest-born lamb of this autumn, offered to the Khan in hopes of a thriving flock in the coming year.
The old Khan, seated on a bearskin-covered couch before the fire, received the gift and ordered his attendants to take the lamb to the kitchen to be kept separately, to graze alongside Harbala come spring.
“Harbala’s getting a new friend,” Batu whispered to Xi Yu.
The Hulü tribe presented three wolf pelts personally hunted by Hulü Xiong, saying they were for the Khan to make into a wolf-fur mattress.
This time, the old Khan finally didn’t decline. He told Hulü Xiong to take them back and have a pair of knee guards cut for each of his old hunting brothers, and keep the remaining pelt for himself.
Hulü Xiong handed the pelts to an attendant and sat down next to Xi Yu as he stepped back. “Every year he makes a fuss about refusing gifts. This year he accepted the quickest.”
Xi Yu thought for a moment. “Father probably figured if he didn’t accept, Uncle would get upset.”
“Probably. He’s been paying more attention to the hunting lodge accounts this year too—his temperament’s changed quite a bit.” Hulü Xiong nodded in agreement.
The Kerait tribe presented several jars of aged mare’s milk wine, the seals stamped with their tribal emblem.
Several smaller tribes came forward in turn, offering air-dried meat, cheese, and newly spun wool felt.
One elderly woman tremblingly held out a lambskin vest sewn by her own hands, offering it to Xi Yu.
She said it was sewn together by all the women in her tent—the stitching was rough, but the lambskin was warm, so the young lord wouldn’t feel the wind when riding in winter.
Xi Yu took the vest with both hands and bowed his head in thanks.
The old woman’s eyes reddened as she pressed a hand to her chest and withdrew.
After the gift presentations, the old Khan rose from his couch, walked to the bonfire, and intoned his blessings aloud.
He first paid homage to the Eternal Sky, then to his ancestors, then turned to the tribes and said that this year the grasslands had enjoyed favorable winds and rains, each tribe’s livestock had flourished, and next year would be even better.
His voice, carried by the bonfire’s heat, reached the edges of every felt tent across the hunting grounds.
The people of each tribe raised their bowls and answered in unison, mare’s milk wine rippling in their bowls.
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