The Magnolia Sword: A Ballad of Mulan

by Sherry Thomas

  I can imagine the chaos. I place my other hand over our clasped hands. “You are obviously still alive. What happened to the wolf cub?”

  “My father gave it to a cousin. It died of old age not too long ago.”

  Now I understand his fear of wolves—and of being alone in a dark room. “Why are you afraid of going down into the encampment?”

  “I’m afraid of anything that can kill me.”

  “You must be frightened of me, then,” I say in jest.

  “Terrified. My whole life I’ve been terrified of you.”

  I almost laugh again, but I don’t. He is serious. Stunned, I let go of his hand.

  He finds my hand yet again. “When I was a child, I almost wrote you to beg you to consider a more literal version of the contest, because I was so afraid to fight you.”

  He means the “discourse on swordsmanship,” where we would demonstrate our skills rather than fight. I can only ­imagine how scandalized his aunt would have been if he’d breathed this idea to her.

  He squeezes my hand. “But since I find you terrifying, I can’t help but think you must petrify everyone else too. And believe it or not, that makes me less afraid to venture down into the Rouran encampment.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Our descent is painstakingly slow. I don’t know how the princeling keeps his fear in check. I feel both that I can’t breathe and that I’m drawing in too much air—not into my lungs, but into my stomach, making me bloated and nauseated.

  The moon has yet to rise and it’s almost pitch-dark in the encampment. We wait until four lantern-swinging patrols pass, then cross an empty expanse to the outermost circle of yurts. We listen at one, then another. They are both silent except for the snoring of their occupants. I recoil when someone speaks inside a third. The princeling listens, then signals me to keep moving.

  We pass rings and rings of yurts. My feet march in the right direction, deeper and deeper into the encampment. But my mind quakes. Stealth. Only stealth. We passed the point of being able to fight our way out many rings ago.

  We duck a set of patrols. I almost jump out of my skin when I hear a commotion farther inward—surely we’ve been discovered and Rouran warriors are coming for us. But no. The ­disturbance doesn’t seem to be the kind that comes of spotting intruders at a secret muster.

  By the time we reach the five big yurts, which are set in a circle, each with a pair of guards in front, men are still filing into the largest tent. We slip around to the back of it.

  I can hear a good twenty, thirty people inside. They move, their clothes sliding on cushions. Some drink, the unmistakable sound of liquid flowing down gullets. One coughs; one clears his throat; one cracks an uncommonly loud set of knuckles.

  Despite my two Rouran lessons, I remain utterly useless in that language. I can only hope the princeling will understand enough to make our trip worthwhile.

  A man begins to speak, greeting the dignitaries inside.

  To my astonishment, the language I hear is Chinese. To my utter stupefaction, I recognize the voice too.

  Captain Helou.

  I glance at the princeling. He is quiet, so quiet—barely even breathing.

  “My reverent obeisance to the great and venerable Yucheng Khan,” says Captain Helou.

  At that name, the princeling seems to wind even tighter. When we discussed his plan to find the meeting ground, he mentioned that the Rouran do have an acknowledged leader, a khan. Is this that khan? If so . . .

  My heart thunders.

  “My most humble greetings to the gathered heroes,” continues Captain Helou. “Your illustrious names have all reached my ears in years past—it is an honor and privilege to at last witness your splendor in person.”

  It takes a certain gift to make such banal words ring with sincerity. Captain Helou abounds with that force of personality. I don’t think any of us ever doubted that he was meant for greater things—but why is he here?

  I hear the shifting of fabrics and the sound of something striking the carpet. Is Captain Helou kowtowing to the khan?

  Someone speaks in a language I can’t understand, but does not seem to be questioning him. An interpreter? Then a man with a deep rumbling voice says something.

  “His Majesty grants you permission to address the assembled heroes,” the interpreter translates, his Chinese accented but fluent.

  “My unending gratitude to Your Majesty and all the heroes for your gracious hospitality and your forbearance in agreeing to hear my master’s explanation.”

  More fabric rustling—Captain Helou is standing up again. “The plan was for me to guide our group of scouts to the west once we’d arrived on the plateau, so they wouldn’t come anywhere near this encampment. But the fool who lit the beacon, one Bai, got himself caught. And Tuoba Kai, the princeling, was suspicious enough not to kill him on the spot, but to send him away, hoping that he’d escape and lead the princeling’s man to my master.

  “I couldn’t risk that plan succeeding. The princeling sent me to the capital to deliver a message. But first I had to kill Bai, to make sure no word got out, even though I was almost certain he was only a paid lackey and didn’t know anything important.”

  “This man Bai didn’t know about you?” asks the interpreter.

  “I’m sure he didn’t know about me,” answers Captain Helou. “I didn’t even know about him. I knew someone would be sent to light the beacon, but I didn’t know Bai was the man. Nor did I know that the beacon lighter would be traveling with me.”

  “Was that not reckless on the part of your master?”

  “A little risky, yes, but what venture on this scale isn’t risky? The plan was an elegant one. Bai hadn’t traveled so far north before, and without the team, he would have been a lone man riding toward the Wall. Much better that he was sent as part of the princeling’s own group. It should have been more convenient and caused less scrutiny.”

  “But that was not the result.”

  “All plans must be adjusted from time to time. I made sure to lay misleading trails before I killed Bai and left his body somewhere difficult to find. The princeling’s man must even now be searching for him. There is no trace to lead to me or my master.

  “So now the plan can and must proceed forward. My master asks that you will please mount an attack far from here the day after the next lighting of the beacon.”

  The interpreter confers for a longer time with his master before saying, “The beacon should have already been lit again. We do not have the grain stores necessary to muster men and let them sit.”

  “Do you wish to throw these men full-on at the defenses, then?” asks Captain Helou. “South of the Wall there has been a realm-wide muster of men. Their granaries are vast and their generals battle-tested and ready. Remember, it is precisely because you aren’t sure of victory in a long, drawn-out war that we are proceeding by guile and subterfuge.”

  He sounds so forcefully reasonable that after the interpreter finishes translating, there is a silence. This time, no one fidgets or makes any sounds.

  “What request do you make of us, then?”

  “The same,” says Captain Helou. “Do your best to make the Northern court think that the most overwhelming attacks will come near the far ends of the Wall. Then wait for the forces now stationed outside the capital to be deployed east and west.”

  “How long until that happens? We have brought seven days of rations to this muster. They could be stretched out to ten days and supplemented with hunting. But after that . . .”

  “In the next valley, you have a fair number of livestock animals. Eat them if you need to. Eat some of your horses if you must. My master will not be able to push too boldly for the ­central commandery troops to depart. So you must make the ­situation appear urgent and force the Northern court’s hand.”

  “And how do we do that?”

/>   “The beacons will be lit one after another. And each time one is lit, you mount an attack toward the extremities of the Wall.”

  “How will you light them so easily again? Surely they will have doubled, if not quadrupled, the guards on the towers.”

  “There is no need for us to take over any beacon ­tower—I wish we’d realized this sooner. The towers are ten li apart. The guards at the next tower cannot tell whether a fire is lit on the beacon itself or somewhere nearby. And by the time the matter has been investigated, it will be too late.”

  “But the signal won’t travel all the way to the ends of the Wall. How do we know when to attack?”

  “It almost doesn’t matter. News will take time to get back to the capital. They will not know whether the timing of the beacons coincides exactly with the attacks. They will only know that we distract them with fire and smoke while real clashes happen elsewhere. At some point they will stop paying attention to the beacons—and the section of the Wall near the ­capital—and rush to beleaguered forts farther away, especially if you make some real progress there.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise. This is exactly what we feared the Rouran would do.

  “When the forces of the central commandery leave the ­capital, we will send our signal for you to ride south. And Heaven willing, the Rouran heroes will take the capital and replace the current emperor with minimum fuss.”

  Several Rouran men speak at once. The rumbly voice, which must belong to Yucheng Khan, hushes them and says something.

  “It’s late,” declares the interpreter. “We will show the captain to his quarters and give him good wine, good meat, and other such rewards as we are capable of providing in this camp.”

  Captain Helou offers his profound gratitude and undying loyalty.

  When Captain Helou is escorted out, the princeling gives me a slight push. I understand: He needs to stay and listen to what the Rouran generals might discuss; at the same time, it will be helpful to know Captain Helou’s whereabouts, just in case.

  My heart thudding in my ears, my legs feeling like overcooked noodles, I trail behind Captain Helou and a quartet of accompanying guards to a tent almost a li from the one he just left. The guards take up positions outside. I watch for some time from the shadows, then retrace my steps back to the princeling’s location.

  He is nowhere to be seen.

  My mind turns blank, and a thousand blood-curdling fears unleash at once. He has been captured. They are waiting for me. I will be captured any moment now. I will not leave this encampment alive. Worse, when they discover that I am a woman—

  I rein my thoughts to a hard stop.

  I have not been caught yet. And I’ve heard no commotion to indicate that the princeling is in any trouble. I’ve been gone for a while. It’s quite possible the Rouran leaders have dispersed—in fact, I can tell they have: The yurt they were ­gathered in is now silent and dark. It would have been prudent for the princeling to move away a bit, to avoid being seen by those leaving.

  Think, Hua Mulan.

  Before he hid himself, he would have thought how best for us to find each other again, in the dark, in enemy territory. If he can see me, he would come to me. What if he can’t see me and instead wants me to go to him? How would he accomplish that?

  Of course, he knows my hearing is more sensitive than that of the typical man or woman. I check to make sure no patrols are nearby, then put my ear down to the ground. It does not take me long to discern a soft double tap that repeats on a ­regular basis.

  The sound leads me three rings of yurts to the south. And there he is, safe and sound.

  We grip each other’s hands tightly, and then we tiptoe away. I guide him near where Captain Helou is staying. We listen for a while, but there isn’t much to hear: Captain Helou, under guard, is soundly asleep.

  This part of the valley is less utilized. Captain Helou’s yurt is in the next-to-last ring. Beyond, empty space. We head toward it. I’m flabbergasted at what we’ve learned and giddily relieved that tonight’s mission is finished. No one has seen us and we are on the verge of slipping away.

  Then I hear footsteps. Light, and closing in fast.

  Only a martial artist can move with such quiet speed.

  Patrols too are converging in our direction, their footsteps loud as drumbeats. Four men to a group, with two groups about equidistant from us. There is no chance that I can hit all eight guards at once with my hidden weapons. If I try to pick them off one by one, the remaining guards will raise the alarm. And if we try to hide from the patrols, the person who walks with dangerous lightness will catch us.

  Is it Captain Helou? Are we going to meet our end here after all?

  The softer steps stop. The princeling and I exchange a look, even though I can scarcely make out his features. And we too stop and conceal ourselves behind a mound of earth that has been dug up.

  In my right hand I hold three small projectiles. In my left hand is . . . the princeling’s hand. Our hands do not shake, but my heart beats so furiously it almost drowns out the patrols’ approach.

  The two groups salute as they pass each other. And then they recede into the night, continuing their circuit around the encampment, moving farther and farther away.

  We run. The light footsteps follow. The valley tapers toward its southern end. We are not far from the slopes. If we can scramble up—

  No, our pursuer will reach us before then. Where did the Rouran get such a remarkable martial artist? Even my footfall has become heavier in my rush, but this person’s steps remain featherlight and barely audible.

  We don’t want a fight. We are not so far from the outermost ring of yurts—or the patrols—that combat wouldn’t get noticed. But what can we possibly do to be left alone?

  The princeling yanks me to a stop. The loss of momentum is so abrupt I almost fall against him. I stop myself just in time, but he bands his arms about me in an embrace.

  My mouth drops open.

  “Pretend!” he whispers in my ear.

  The touch of his lips on my skin—lightning zigzags through me.

  Vaguely I understand that he wants us to pass for a pair of randy Rouran fighters in search of a little privacy. But I only stand like a stone statue. He holds me tighter, one hand on the small of my back, the other behind my head. Is he concerned I won’t respond and he’ll need to maintain the pretense all by himself?

  I throw my arms around his neck and whisper, “Like this?”

  A tremor propels through him. When his hand comes up to my face, his touch scorches. My fingers close over his. But I don’t know whether I mean to push his hand away or press it more firmly against my cheek.

  His breaths turn ragged. Mine as well. The night pulses with the air we exhale, the darkness heavy yet strangely soft.

  “Your Highness, Hua xiong-di,” comes the whisper of another. “You don’t need to pretend anything. It’s just me.”

  The princeling and I still. He seems as stunned as I am. We break apart and turn to face the man.

  “Master Yu, why are you here?”

  The princeling’s low voice is reserved, almost cold. A gust blows, and all the heat from a moment ago disappears without a trace. I shiver: He suspects Yu of having also committed treason.

  Yu drops to one knee, his response just as soft. “I followed Captain Helou here after he killed Bai.”

  “How were you able to do so without being discovered?”

  “For most of the way, I trailed him at a distance. I might not have made it into the valley if he hadn’t stopped to wait for nightfall. He didn’t want to be seen entering.”

  The princeling does not speak. I glance from one man to the other and back again, my neck so tense I can barely move my head.

  “Your Highness assigned me to find out the identity of Bai’s true master, the traitor at court,” Yu
continues. “That task I have not yet accomplished and have every intention of completing. If Your Highness is satisfied with this interim report, I will offer wishes for your good health and the rations I took from the Rouran stores, and return to watching Captain Helou.”

  The princeling remains silent for some more time. “Master Yu, please come with us.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  We make our way warily, aware that a single misstep could alert the encampment to our presence. Still, as I place my feet with care, all my senses alert, the events of the night dart through my head like a pack of unruly children. Captain Helou. Yu. The Rouran khan. The imminent attack against the capital.

  But I also reflect on something that has significance only to me: I finally know the princeling’s name. Captain Helou called him Tuoba Kai. Yuan Kai, if the ban should come to pass. Kai means victorious—not a bad name for these circumstances.

  The moon has risen. I can see him ahead, a dark, agile shape. Kai, I say silently. Warmth rises to my cheeks. Other than Murong, Dabao, and a few young cousins on my ­mother’s side, I’ve never called any men by their given names. But how else am I to think of the man who has held my hand and embraced me? Whose hand I have held and whom I have embraced in turn?

  After such close, sustained contact, it would be impossible for him not to realize I am a woman. Since he betrayed no sign of shock, or even of surprise, he must have known for a while. I think back to our first and only night alone together, of him standing by the foot of my cot, gazing down at me. My heart races as if I’ve been running at a full sprint.

  We reach the spot where Kai and I waited earlier and squeeze through the narrow passage to the ravine, which, at its very top, has a bit of a smooth, flat ledge.

  “Master Yu, you’ve had a long journey. Please take some rest,” says Kai. “Hua xiong-di, I’d like to speak with you. Come with me.”