The Magnolia Sword

by Thomas, Sherry

  The princeling doesn’t help when he says that instead of attempting to teach me enough to understand answers, it might be more useful that I be able to lie convincingly about who I am, should there be hostile questions.

  Tuxi clutches at his head. I rub my temples.

  “Have some.” Kedan passes us the raisins he stole. “You two have been working too hard. Rest your brains for a bit.”

  I eat glumly, barely appreciating the sweetness of the costly delicacy in my mouth. Tuxi and the princeling both look grim. Kedan is the only one who doesn’t seem overly affected—yet—by our fruitless search for the Rouran.

  I take another raisin from him. “How are you still cheerful?”

  “I’ve spent longer than this sniffing out lost tracks.”

  He grins and I find myself smiling back, glad for his stalwart heart, and secretly relieved that I didn’t choose to keep my distance when I first learned of his Xiongnu origins.

  Which reminds me . . . “By the way, Kedan xiong, how did your family go from Xiongnu to Xianbei?”

  He shakes his head a little. “I’m not sure, exactly. Even my grandfather wasn’t sure. But it has been passed down that our clan was forced to flee to this plateau, when the first emperor of Qin struck against the Xiongnu in the Ordos region.”

  The Ordos region is enclosed by a large rectangular loop in the Yellow River, the cradle of Han Chinese civilization. I am reminded that other peoples have always been here, living in lands we Han Chinese prefer to consider exclusively our own.

  “First emperor of Qin,” I muse. “Almost seven hundred years ago.” That predates the legendary enmity between the Xiongnu and the Han Dynasty, which came after the Qin Dynasty.

  Kedan nods. “Long enough for us to become Xianbei and then migrate sou —”

  The princeling and I lift our hands at the exact same moment to signal for silence. Distantly, so distantly I can’t be sure I’m not imagining it, there rises the howl of a wolf.

  My eyes dart to the princeling. Did he hear it? Will he freeze in terror?

  But he is in complete possession of himself, his face without even a shadow of fear. And both Tuxi and Kedan are looking at me, since I’m probably the one who seems more worried.

  Another howl rises. Not close, but noticeably nearer than the first.

  After several more howls back and forth, the princeling says, “They are not wolves.”

  I blink.

  “His Highness is correct,” confirms Kedan.

  I almost ask what the howling animals are, until I realize that they must be people imitating wolves. “Who are they?”

  But even as I pose the question, I already know the answer.

  They are those who fly the wolf banner.

  We ride all night, but at a pace that is almost doddering. The princeling is adamant that we not make the kind of ruckus that can be heard from twenty li away by an attentive ear on the ground.

  At some point during the day and a half since the rain washed away the trails, we must have shot past where the Rouran scouts changed course. We are headed west-southwest now, toward the hills that ring the plateau on its southern edge.

  Every so often, we dismount and listen. On one of those occasions, I happen to be next to the princeling. As we rise to our feet, I ask, “How did you know the wolves weren’t real?”

  To me the howls sounded just like the ones I heard that night at the beacon tower. Or were those not real either?

  He hesitates. “Because I wasn’t struck by fear.”

  Not a bad method of detection, as such things go.

  “Do you think they use wolf howls because the party that is on the move doesn’t know exactly where the other one is?”

  “Could be. Or it might be a way to gauge how much distance remains between them.”

  A little after dawn, Kedan locates fresh trails. They do not belong to either of the groups of Dayuan horses that we saw before, but Kedan decrees that the trails have been made during the night, when most nomads do not travel, and we should follow them.

  We heed his advice. As the sun rises, however, the princeling leads us into the hills. We find a place to sleep and set out again shortly after noon, keeping close to the hills so we can hide should we hear riders approaching. And we do hide, twice, first from a small group, and second from what Kedan estimates to be about five hundred riders.

  “We must be getting close to the Rouran muster,” says Tuxi after the regiment of riders passes.

  “There’ll be sentries soon,” replies the princeling. “We shouldn’t use the main route anymore. Let’s make our way in the hills.”

  Our plan calls for us to penetrate a li or so south into the hills before turning sharply west. We are looking for a large valley and a major encampment. Theoretically, that shouldn’t be difficult to find. But the hills stretch on endlessly, and they split into so many spurs and ridges that I become cross-eyed from all the ascents and descents.

  The landscape is stony, the greenery sparse. Paths are few and narrow. But by midafternoon I hear what we seek, the muffled sounds of many, many pairs of feet and almost as many hooves. Kedan goes ahead to scout a safe path for us.

  “There is one thing I don’t understand,” I say to Tuxi as we wait. “Suppose—suppose that it’s true there is at least one highly placed traitor at court. Why has the traitor chosen this moment to ally with the Rouran?”

  The history of these lands is littered with rebellions great and small. But rebellions usually foment under conditions of great adversity. A tyrannical ruler isn’t sufficient cause by himself. More often than not, it has to be tyranny wedded to incompetence, with perhaps a natural disaster in the mix too, before anyone opts for an uprising as the least terrible option.

  At the moment, however, things are not so dire. The Xianbei emperor seems conscientious enough. The people of the North are growing more prosperous. Taxes are not heavy, historically speaking. Even the weather has been fairly calm of late, and the Yellow River on tolerable behavior. Not a time I would have picked, if I had the toppling of dynasties in mind.

  Tuxi glances at the princeling, who says, “There has been . . . tension at court. Internal divisions.”

  Now that’s a different matter altogether. “About what?”

  “There are those who want to implement a complete ban of Xianbei speech and customs and have everyone of Xianbei descent change their surnames to Han Chinese ones. And there are those who are opposed, naturally. Since the emperor seems receptive to the ban, I would imagine the traitor to be a member of the opposing camp.”

  My mouth opens and closes a few times before I can utter, “But why ban everything Xianbei? Did Xianbei courtiers propose such measures? And how in the world do so many people take on new surnames all at once?”

  “A list of substitutions has existed for a while,” says the princeling. “The Han Chinese surname that the imperial Tuoba clan would adopt, if the ban comes to pass, is Yuan.”

  So at least his aunt didn’t pick a random surname to make him seem fully Han Chinese.

  “And yes, Xianbei courtiers and ministers proposed these measures. As for why —” The princeling glances at Tuxi. “We are a minority dynasty, and most such dynasties haven’t lasted very long. Some would rather not have the fact that we are Xianbei held against us by the Han Chinese, who greatly outnumber us.”

  “Do you agree with that—with the banning of everything Xianbei?” I ask.

  “No. I’m not convinced that the benefits, if there are any, would outweigh the turmoil and dissension it would cause. But the last thing I would do is put the Rouran on the throne because I am displeased about a possible imperial edict that can be reversed any time the emperor changes his mind. It would be like cutting off my own head because I don’t like that a fly has landed on my hair.”

  I look at Tuxi, who mourns the lack
of a literary tradition in the Xianbei language. “And you too would be against this ban?”

  To my surprise, Tuxi grimaces. “I don’t know. I can’t make up my mind on this matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because every time a dynasty falls, it’s the people who suffer. Sometimes the suffering seems worth it—the end of the Qin Dynasty ushered in the Han Dynasty, and with it four hundred years of peace and prosperity. But it’s been more than two hundred years since the Han Dynasty collapsed, and the North is still recovering from all the ensuing chaos.

  “If the decision fell to me, and if the Xianbei becoming completely Chinese would make the people of the North accept us as their own, I would consider it. I am not so proud that I would cling to my surname if changing it would mean another fifty years of peace. And the banning of Xianbei speech is only meant for official purposes, not for private use at home.

  “Not that it’s even spoken widely among the Xianbei in ­private—we’ve been south of the Wall for many generations. Of the Xianbei in our group that set out from the capital, everyone speaks Chinese better, including me—and some might not speak any Xianbei at all.”

  This might explain why I heard only Chinese spoken in the capital.

  “But would being Han Chinese make our dynasty more long-lived?” asks the princeling, half shaking his head.

  “That’s where the difficulty lies, isn’t it?” answers Tuxi. “How do we know whether the seeds we sow today will grow into mighty oaks—or barely even germinate?”

  “I would be happy if the emperor gave half so much thought to these questions as you do, Tuxi xiong,” I say.

  “That may or may not matter in the end,” says the princeling darkly. “Because whoever is orchestrating this may not even be interested in saving Xianbei ways south of the Wall. They might just be exploiting resentments to further their own ends.”

  We sit silently for some time, then Tuxi walks to his horse to get some walnuts for us to share. When he is out of earshot, I murmur, “Your Highness has a suspicious mind.”

  “Perhaps I do,” he answers solemnly. “But I trust you, Hua xiong-di. In matters having to do with the survival of the state, I trust you completely.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Before I can react to this astonishing statement, Kedan returns. He doesn’t speak but signals us to come on foot. We secure our horses and hurry after him.

  The next valley is a ravine, for all intents and purposes. We half climb, half slip down to the bottom, then grimacing and straining, scale the rise. At last we come to a narrow gap between two enormous rocks and squeeze through the passage, Tuxi barely avoiding getting stuck. On the other side, a few outcrops shield us from view.

  Beyond lies an enormous valley, as shallow and even as its neighbor is narrow and steep. A stream leaps down from the opposite hills to flow along its western edge. Yurts by the ­hundreds have been erected at the center of the valley in concentric circles. Horses are congregated in large pens.

  New arrivals pour in from the mouth of the valley to the north, even though there must already be thousands of horses and tens of thousands of men on hand. In the fading light of the day, more yurts are being assembled and more pens built, as horses are exercised around the rim of the valley to keep them swift and fit.

  I knew to expect a large-scale muster. I have heard, as we climbed up the ravine, the din of horses and men. Still I find myself having to swallow a gasp when faced with the actual sight of our enemies, preparing for war.

  “I’m almost sure there are more horses and men in the next valley. And livestock—I’ve heard bleating that can’t otherwise be accounted for,” whispers Kedan, in case what we are seeing isn’t alarming enough.

  It’s getting late. I’m about to remind the princeling that we had better return to our horses soon—the idea of negotiating the ravine in the dark is terrifying—when he says, “Tuxi xiong, Kedan xiong, you two head back. Hua xiong-di and I will stay here and observe.”

  “Will you be able to see much at night?” asks Tuxi.

  “We’ll manage,” says the princeling.

  At the tone of his voice, my stomach drops. After Tuxi and Kedan leave, I say to the princeling, “You mean for us to go down there after dark, don’t you?”

  “If one does not enter a tiger’s lair, how can one hope to retrieve the tiger cub?” he answers, seemingly unperturbed.

  “I’ve never understood that proverb,” I grumble. “Who wants a tiger cub?”

  He laughs softly. Of course it has never been a literal saying. During the reign of Emperor Ming of Han, he sent an emissary named Ban Chao to the king of Shanshan, a small realm beyond the western terminus of the Wall. Ban Chao was at first warmly received, but the king’s attitude soon cooled considerably. Ban Chao learned that the Xiongnu also sent an emissary, and the king was now wavering between alliances.

  Ban Chao was warned that the situation had become volatile and possibly dangerous. If one does not enter into a tiger’s lair, how can one hope to retrieve the tiger cub? he famously said in reply. And that night, he and his entourage killed the Xiongnu emissary and more than a hundred of his followers.

  A period of friendly relations with some fifty different kingdoms in the region followed, and the story has always appeared to me as a fine example of shrewdness and audacity. But those Xiongnu deaths were murders, weren’t they? Committed in the name of empire and emperor, but murders nevertheless. It disturbs me now that I wasn’t remotely disturbed by that before, when I read the anecdote the first, second, or third time.

  And of course there is no record of the Xiongnu version of these events.

  I’m sure the princeling didn’t use the saying to make me think of the Han Dynasty’s dealings with the nomads. But sometimes, as I’m beginning to realize, language is history.

  “We won’t be going down for at least the time of a meal,” he says, perhaps misunderstanding my silence.

  “What exactly are we going to do down there?”

  “Learn what we can, without getting caught.”

  I swallow. “What if we do get caught?”

  He only says, “Better use this time to study the layout of the yurts and the movements of the guards.” Then, after a minute, “And maybe see if you can deduce where the rations are kept. Let’s swipe some for ourselves, if we can.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Feeling more than a little ill, I scan the slope nearest us and search for a good way down. Several huge yurts, almost three times the size of regular ones, dominate the center of the valley. Each of these palatial yurts flies a different banner. The designs incorporate not only wolves, but horses, rams, and geometric patterns.

  The encampment doesn’t appear to be tightly patrolled. Guards walk in pairs along the peripheries and the main thorough­fares, but they are not spaced closely and seem to treat their task as a leisurely bore. I suppose they have reason to be somewhat lax. The valley is hidden and difficult to find, and they probably don’t think that anyone is looking for it.

  When darkness falls, the encampment does not illuminate. There are no outdoor fires and only the five largest central yurts leak any light at the seams. The patrols do become more frequent, judging by the number of lanterns circulating the grounds. But it’s hard to tell, given the unhurried movements of those lanterns, whether the night guards are being more careful and alert or still simply going through the motions.

  Eventually my gaze returns to my companion. We have been peering out from behind a boulder almost as tall as we are, but now he sits down, a darker shadow in the night, and signals for me to join him. We drink from our waterskins and he offers me some walnut pieces.

  “Why have you picked me?” I ask him. “Wouldn’t it be better to go with someone who understands the language?”

  Part of me—maybe most of me—yearns for the safety of the other valley, wher
e Kedan and Tuxi will be spending the night. Another part of me—maybe also most of me—is thrilled that the princeling chose me over everyone else.

  “You are faster and quieter on foot. And you can fell men in the dark, at a distance, without making much noise,” he answers. “We must not be discovered. There are too many soldiers down there for anyone to fight their way out. Our safety lies in stealth, and only in stealth.”

  “Why not go by yourself, then? One person is stealthier than two.”

  “I’m afraid to go by myself.”

  I laugh softly before I realize that he isn’t joking.

  I—I’m afraid of many things, he said the other night. I didn’t believe him entirely, and I still don’t. He is so self-possessed in his demeanor, so calm and decisive—it’s easier to think that I might have been mistaken about his hands shaking than to imagine that he carries within him near-debilitating fears.

  Impulsively, I reach out and take one of his hands.

  It shakes. Just perceptibly.

  I let go. “Why are you afraid of wolves?”

  But he takes my hand again. “Have you noticed the scars on my face? A wolf cub left them.”

  My heart careens into my rib cage. The warm solidity of his fingers around mine demands all my attention, and I can only vaguely recall the scratches across his forehead and chin. “You didn’t grow up in the wilds. How were you so close to a wolf cub?”

  “My aunt had one brought in as a birthday present for me.”

  I feel the calluses on his palm. Mine must feel the same—all those years of practice, a sword in hand. “Why?”

  “I was a timid child—not at all what she expected, since my mother was fearless. She thought that I’d grow more courageous with a wolf cub for a companion. In the middle of the night, she set the cub in a basket at the foot of my bed, so I’d find it in the morning. But the cub woke up and climbed onto my bed. And I woke up to see a pair of glowing eyes right in front of me.” He snorts. “I don’t think I need to describe the scene that ensued.”