The Magnolia Sword: A Ballad of Mulan

by Sherry Thomas

  The wineskin is back in my hands, but I only hold it. “You advised His Grace to stay put until he hears from you again, Your Highness. What is it that you hope to find out in the meanwhile?”

  He looks at the fire. “The Rouran don’t have a centralized power structure. But they do have a khan who is recognized by all the allied clans as their leader. Periodically the clans gather to negotiate trade, arrange marriages, discuss important ­matters—and reaffirm the legitimacy of the khan. It’s long been rumored that one of the locations used for the gatherings is not too far east of here. And —”

  And if I were mounting an invasion and needed to hold a muster, that’s where I would gather my troops!

  It takes me a moment to realize I have not just thought that but spoken it aloud. “Forgive my interruption, Your Highness.”

  “You said what I was going to, Hua xiong-di.” He holds his hands out to the fire. “Our task beyond the Wall is dangerous, but fairly straightforward. The most difficult mission belongs to Master Yu. I hope he can discover the identity of Bai’s true master—in time.”

  “I can’t help but think that the man is highly placed: He seemed to know where and how to strike to cause maximum disturbance,” says Tuxi.

  “That is also my thinking—and my fear.” The princeling looks at each of us in turn. “But there is nothing we can do about that from here. Let’s focus on finding the Rouran meeting ground and leave the unmasking of traitors to our allies in the capital.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  We divide the night into four watches. The princeling assigns the first watch to Tuxi, the second to Kedan, the third to himself, and the last to me.

  Lying in my bedroll, it immediately becomes clear that I am not going to enjoy my first night outdoors. The ground is unrelentingly hard. The cold penetrates all my defenses. The fire burns down to smoke and ember, a tepid mirage. I wrap myself as tightly and thoroughly as possible in my sheepskin cape. But I can’t get any warmer, as if I, like the fire, have also run out of fuel.

  Just sleep, I tell myself. You are covered enough. And the sooner you sleep, the sooner your watch—and morning—will come.

  But the more I want the oblivion of slumber, the more elusive it becomes. I shiver. My muscles become so stiff I might never unfurl from my current curled-up position. My toes ache, a dull, blue pain. I try to recall all the summers of my life, the sun shining bright on Lake Tai, the green foliage heavy in the breezeless heat, the long afternoons of soft perspiration and warm lethargy.

  But summer does not exist anymore. Even memories of summer have been erased by the bitter rawness of these Rouran lands. There is only the wind, the cold, and the distant howling of wolves.

  I jerk awake.

  Was I asleep? How long has it been? And why are my eyes suddenly wide open, my blood pulsing with alarm?

  The fire has gone out completely. The grassland is dark except for the faint glimmer of starlight. The smell in the air is deep, musty, animal.

  Our horses snort nervously. There comes the soft tap of claws on hard earth. A black shape advances. No, several.

  My heart jams in my larynx: The wolf in the lead is almost upon the princeling. He is sitting up, scooting backward, his sword in hand, still sheathed. The wind dies and the night echoes with his rapid breaths.

  His panicked breaths.

  Why not unsheathe his sword? Why isn’t he getting up to fight?

  My hand searches along the edge of my bedroll. Earlier I moved several small rocks to make a smoother spot for myself. My fingers close over one.

  The rock sails through the air and hits the lead wolf between the eyes. It yelps, shudders, and stumbles a few steps back. Before it can growl, I hit it with another rock. The wolf turns and runs. Its packmates hesitate. I strike the next nearest wolf under its ear. It yowls and takes off too. The rest of the wolves follow suit.

  “What’s going on?” asks Kedan sleepily, up on one elbow. “Is everything all right?”

  “Nothing is the matter,” says the princeling, his voice surprisingly steady. “Go back to sleep.”

  Kedan mumbles something and lies down. I listen. When his breaths become deep and regular again, I get up and go to the princeling.

  “Are you hurt?” I whisper, sinking to one knee.

  He shakes his head.

  I reach out and grip the scabbard of his sword. It trembles—from the trembling of his hand.

  Did my hands shake during the bandit attack? I can’t remember—most of the episode has been blurred by shame and self-recrimination. Only certain details remain. Kedan jumping in front of me. The princeling shouting for me to fight. The princeling charging toward the bandits, a pair of bamboo spears in hand.

  I hold the scabbard steady. “The wolves are gone.”

  He doesn’t say anything. I wonder if I’m dreaming. He should have been able to take on any number of wolves and emerge victorious. Tuxi called him the calmest and bravest man he has ever met. But there is no denying that he is still shaking. Less than before, but the tremors have not completely subsided.

  “Are you afraid of wolves?” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.

  “I—I’m afraid of many things.”

  I stare at him. Murong is afraid of many things—but he is still a child. Dabao is afraid of many things too, but he is, in essence, also a child. The young man before me has fought me three times and led us past a horde of bandits whole and unharmed.

  “Are you also afraid of the dark?” That would explain why he came down to sleep with us in the barracks.

  “No, but I’m afraid of being in a dark room by myself.”

  He has an entire courtyard to himself at home. How did he manage there?

  “Sleep,” I tell him—the same thing I would have told Murong if he crawled into my bed in the middle of a thunderstorm. “It’s time for my watch anyway.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep now. You sleep. I’ll take your watch.”

  But what if the wolves return? I can’t believe I’m doubting the princeling’s valor. But he would probably take the same precaution with me if bandits were roaming about. “We can both keep watch.”

  He hesitates. “Bring your bedroll here. We can sit back­­-­to-back.”

  I do not hesitate nearly as long before I pick up my bedroll and join him. We wear our capes backward so that they form a tent. Underneath, we are separated by enough fabric and hide to make a real tent. Still, it is his back against mine, and I can sense the contours of his body and detect his smallest movements.

  My heart beats faster as his warmth begins to seep into me. The muscles of my back and shoulders, made rigid by the cold, unclench one by one.

  “So, how did you sleep all these years, in a courtyard by yourself?” I ask, more because I don’t want him to hear the thudding of my heart than anything else.

  “When I was younger I had a nursemaid in the next room. Later, an attendant. And if I’m alone for some reason, I keep a lamp burning.” He sighs. “I guess you are not afraid of the dark.”

  “No.”

  “Or wolves.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think you fear bandits either—it was just jitters,” he murmurs. “Is there anything you are afraid of?”

  Yes. I’m afraid of never escaping the long shadow of my twin’s death—of never existing except as his inferior replacement.

  “Your aunt,” I tell him. “I’m deathly afraid of your aunt.”

  We both laugh at that. I love not only hearing the sound of his laughter, but also feeling those small convulsions of mirth against his back.

  And speaking of his aunt, I suddenly remember something. “When I asked you why you don’t wish to kill my father to avenge your mother, you said you have seen my father. When? Does your aunt know?”

  “I toured the Lake Tai reg
ion during my sojourn in the South, before I met with any of the referees. My goal was to speak to your father. And no, my aunt doesn’t know. I made a point of not asking for her permission.”

  “But you never did pay my father a visit. Or—did you?”

  I met with the princeling three times and never said anything to Father. Father could very well have met him and never said anything to me.

  “I hired a pleasure craft. It glided by your house. Your father sat on the terrace, drinking tea and reading a book. It was such an idyllic scene—and I became as angry as I’d ever been in my life. My aunt was right: He was an unrepentant killer.

  “Just then, a large manservant came and lifted him bodily to take him inside. The sight shook me—I’d had no idea he was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to think. Had it happened at my mother’s hand? Did my aunt know? And did I see something he wouldn’t have wanted me to see?”

  “Most likely. He is very proud, my father. And his paralysis has been difficult for him,” I say, in reply to his last question. “Was that what changed your mind, knowing that he too has suffered? Was that what made you no longer want to kill him?”

  “What?” His surprise sounds a little woolly, as if he is sleepy. “No, I never wanted to kill your father.”

  “Really? But your aunt . . .”

  If the duel didn’t have rules against reprisals, there’s no telling what her ladyship would have done.

  “My aunt isn’t the only one who raised me.” His speech is becoming slower and less precise. “She isn’t even the only one who raised me with cause to hate your father. But my father taught me that the first thing a general does after he ends a rebellion is to make sure that agricultural production goes back to normal. He does not burn the fields or punish the civilians. He does not make things worse.

  “What would I have done, by killing your father, except make things worse for his family? And what would I have done, by wanting to kill him, except make things worse for me?”

  I think of the royal duke looking at me with sympathy, just before our company left the ducal residence. At the time I couldn’t understand it—couldn’t even see not hating me on sight as a possibility for him. But like his son, he does not despise me. And he was sorry that my illusions were shattered, that the old enmity has once again created so much pain.

  “Your father is wise,” I say, with more envy than I intended.

  “My aunt thinks he might be too soft. She thinks I’m definitely too soft.”

  His last few words are barely audible.

  Sitting back-to-back does not seem to have the same invigorating effect on him as it does on me. I listen to his quiet, even breaths and look up at a magnificently starry sky, such as I haven’t seen since my last summer in the South.

  “Wait,” I wonder aloud. “When you were gliding around on Lake Tai in that hired pleasure boat, did you see me too?”

  He does not answer. After some time, his head drops onto my shoulder.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Kedan is smug: He was the first one up in the morning, so he saw the princeling leaning against me.

  “I’m never wrong about special affection,” he declares for my ears alone, with much satisfaction.

  “There were wolves at night, my brother,” I correct him. “His Highness’s and my watches overlapped. It was too cold to sit apart, so we sat together.”

  The news of wolves sobers him a bit, but only a bit. “Nothing forges special affection like facing down wolves together.”

  I shake my head and get on with my preparations for the day’s ride. But when Kedan isn’t looking, I glance toward the princeling, standing by his horse, checking the contents of his saddlebag. That much contact between us—under normal circumstances, a formal proposal of marriage had better be on its way. But by now it’s clear that where we are concerned, there are no normal circumstances.

  And I still haven’t seen any unmistakable indication that he even knows I am a woman.

  He looks up. Our eyes meet. Heat ricochets through me, but I do not look away. Neither does he, until Tuxi calls to him for something.

  At noon we stop to rest our horses.

  Thus far Rouran country has been thinly populated. We passed two bands of nomads, each about fifteen to twenty in number, traveling with their livestock, horses, and all their belongings. We also passed a few huddles of yurts—felt-and-fur-covered tents that can be easily taken apart and put together again—where other such small bands took up temporary residence.

  Tuxi, our linguist, spoke to some of them but didn’t recoup any useful information. Admittedly he didn’t ask any direct or probing questions, as we don’t want word to get out that a group of travelers is suspiciously interested in the Rouran meeting ground.

  “Shall we spar a little?” I propose to Tuxi and Kedan, before taking a sip from my waterskin. “We’ll be able to see anyone coming from several li away.”

  The narrow, hilly terrain we traversed the day before wasn’t suitable for training exercises. But today is all gentle rolling surfaces, and I don’t want to just sit while our horses graze.

  The two men look at each other. Kedan puts on an exag­geratedly pained expression. “Only if you promise to have mercy on us.”

  “I’ll take your place, Kedan xiong,” says the princeling. “Then Hua xiong-di won’t have to worry about having mercy.”

  I almost choke on the water I’m drinking.

  Since morning I’ve been stealing surreptitious looks at him. He doesn’t seem any different: calm, graceful, yet with an inner ferocity that belies his unassuming demeanor. Nobody would believe me if I told them how terrified he was in the night.

  This is a man afraid of wolves and being alone in dark rooms—can I make him afraid of me?

  “You can take my place too, Your Highness,” says Tuxi. “I’ll just be in your way.”

  Unhurriedly, the princeling unsheathes Sky Blade. “Shall we, Hua xiong-di?”

  I take Heart Sea off my back and toss the scabbard aside. Both Tuxi and Kedan suck in a breath as they realize that we are holding highly unusual yet practically identical swords. Looking at the princeling now, I see no trace of the trembling boy, but only the inexorable rival who has always loomed large in both my imagination and my reality. What does he see when he looks at me? The conscript who needed to be rescued from bandits? Or the equal who will never cede him the duel?

  Our swords clash, an impact that jolts my arm. But I welcome the discomfort because I’m not paralyzed by fear. We break apart, clash, and break apart again. I aim directly at his throat. He parries and kicks toward my solar plexus. I duck under the sweeping kick and thrust my sword where he is most vulnerable. He leaps sideways, pivots around, and slashes at my shoulder.

  My mind is blank again, but it is a rewarding blank. No thoughts, only seeing. Sometimes I can predict what he will do, and I get there just a fraction of a moment earlier and take the upper hand. Other times he is too wily and canny, and I find myself under-rotated or overbalanced. Then I have to fight like a tiger not to face sudden defeat.

  The grassland clangs with the metallic crash-and-scrape of our priceless blades jarring together again and again. Dimly it occurs to me that I want more of this sparring. Not strictly to win, but because it is exhilarating.

  And beautiful.

  Almost as soon as the thought happens, we leap apart and start circling each other. Now I see what the predawn darkness of our previous meetings obscured: the singular purpose in his eyes, a will to win that makes me quake somewhere in the depths of my heart.

  I glare at him. No one is going to rob me of my courage again—not bandits, not Rouran soldiers, and especially not a boy scared of wolves and sleeping by himself.

  I leap toward him. He meets me halfway. Again our swords clash.

  “Stop!” cries Kedan. “Listen!”

 
The princeling and I break apart, both breathing hard. But I hear it now: horses in the distance, closing in fast.

  The princeling sheathes Sky Blade. “Tuxi xiong and I will wrestle. Hua xiong-di, you get busy.”

  We discussed this the night before. As much as possible, we will pretend to be a group of revelers, headed to a wedding at the foot of the Greater Khingan Range, far to the east. Tuxi will speak for us. Kedan and the princeling are his friends. I, who don’t know any of the tongues used beyond the Wall, am their mute servant.

  I run to the horses and pretend to look after them. When the incoming riders stop a short distance from our group, Tuxi and the princeling are braced together. Kedan has plenty of opinions on the prowess of the wrestlers—or at least that’s what I assume he’s offering, since I can’t understand a word he’s saying.

  They don’t drop the act until after the riders have had a good look at this trio of carefree, frolicking youths. Tuxi lets go of the princeling and hails the riders in an open, friendly manner. The riders are nowhere as amiable. None dismount; their leader asks Tuxi question after question.

  Tuxi gestures at Kedan and the princeling, then at me. I stand with my mouth half-open in what I hope is a credible performance of bumpkin-ish naïveté. Tuxi then points to the east in an exaggerated fashion, indicating how far we still have to travel.

  The lead rider isn’t satisfied. His next question has Tuxi clearly affronted. But the other riders close in and Tuxi smiles in supplication. He shouts something at me. After a moment of staring inaction, I jump to do his bidding, making sure to almost trip in the process.

  I rummage through two different saddlebags before coming up with the item Tuxi wants—also agreed on the night before. Running to him, I make my strides heavy and clumsy, and put in another near-fall for good measure.

  Tuxi clucks his tongue at me and shakes his head, but takes what I’ve brought and shows it to the riders. Salt, a solid rock, a most presentable wedding gift for friends in remote reaches.

  A few more exchanges back and forth. The lead rider’s tone becomes friendlier. Tuxi waves over Kedan, who uses his small axe to chip off a palm-size chunk of salt. This handsome gift is wrapped in a piece of cloth and offered to the lead rider, who has the courtesy to come off his horse to receive it. Kedan gives him a friendly slap on the chest as he hands over the salt.