“Not on your life. I’d be ashamed to marry him,” she said, revulsion painting her voice. Yet there would come a time when she’d have to marry someone. Her parents wouldn’t allow her to stay like this for much longer. The loathing dissipated and frustration kicked in. “Or else I could remain unmarried and bring complete shame onto my family.”
Sympathy simmered in Daocheng’s eyes. He took her hand in his. “Mulan ...”
Weary of the conversation, Mulan snatched her hand back and climbed to her feet. “Enough of this. Let’s fight.”
For the next hour, Mulan pushed aside thoughts of her father’s impending doom and her own meeting with death – although a forced marriage may not be quite as deadly as going to war, even if it felt like it – and trained with the others.
For years, they’d practised with Mulan in secret, teaching her different stances and how to use a wide range of weapons. Shortly after her eleventh birthday, her father had caught her practicing her skills with his jian, a sword only officers and nobles used. Impressed with her abilities, he’d allowed her to continue, but only if she told no one outside the family. “There are some things young ladies shouldn’t do,” he’d told her with a wink.
Daocheng’s abilities with the bow were legendary, Chuo’s double swords more so. Huyanti’s skills lay with the staff, Zong’s with the dao, and Digan’s with the guandao, a heavy blade with a spike in the back. Over time, Mulan had trained with all, but the jian, the straight double-edged blade her father possessed, remained her favourite. Something about it called to her fingers, cried to sit within her hand.
Mulan swiped her leg through the dirt and slid beneath Digan’s outstretched legs, using the cloud of dust to temporarily blind him. With swift movements, she brought her foot up and struck him in the back, swinging her body through the air and catching his head with the other. A grunt of pain ripped from his mouth, but Mulan ignored it, landing gracefully on her feet, her sword raised high, ready.
Not that she needed to. Digan laid sprawled on the ground, his chest heaving with the need for air, his guandao several feet from his body. He was done for the day.
Mulan brushed a lock of hair away from her face and grinned. She could taste the dirt in her mouth but didn’t care. “Had enough?” she laughed.
Digan refused to speak and made a dismissive motion with his hand in her direction. A beefy hand settled onto her shoulder. Mulan turned her head to see Zong’s face crease with amusement. “It’s a pity you can’t come with us when we leave. Those wriggling worms wouldn’t stand a chance.”
All trace of joy faded from her face at his words. Not only would her father be leaving, but so would all her friends. As his bannermen, their duty led them into battle under his command. This would be their first time to war. All their fathers had walked the same path that led them to the Rouran; all had been slaughtered in the same battle that almost cost her father his life.
Now it’s their turn, she thought, fighting back hot tears. She refused to let them see her cry. Not only could I lose my father, I could lose them.
Anger snaked through her veins. Why did men choose to make war against each other? Why couldn’t they just be satisfied with the land they possessed instead of sending innocent men to their graves to expand it? It wasn’t emperors who made the sacrifice – it was men like her father, like Daocheng’s, and all the others, who bled for their ruler’s greed.
“Mulan! Mulan!”
All heads turned in the voice’s direction. A ghost of a smile played over Mulan’s lips as she caught sight of her younger sister running over the fields towards them. Ten years old, with midnight coloured hair streaming behind in the breeze, her plump cheeks rosy and matching her dress, Nanyang tore over the grass and stopped in front of her sister, gasping with exertion.
Mulan placed a gentle hand on the young girl’s arm and shook her head. “What could possess you to run so fast like that? Mother will scold you for looking a mess.”
Wide brown eyes glanced upwards. “She’ll scold you before me,” she panted, raising her brows as she took in Mulan’s attire. “She wants you to come home to get ready. It’s almost time.”
Gloom descended upon Mulan’s soul, turning the sky around her dark. Her face dropped into an empty mask.
A hand touched her arm and she glanced left. “Everything will be as it should be,” Daocheng said, his voice as soft as lotus petals.
Unable to form any semblance of words, she simply walked away from the group, trailing behind her younger sister, jian still in hand. The clanging of weapons and animated shouting sounded behind her.
In only a few days these same fields would know only silence, she thought. Those that she cared about would be marching to war, possibly to their deaths. The Rouran, better known as the wriggling worms, were known for their treacherous behaviour and their butchery on the battlefield. Whispers of dark magic reached even the quietest corners of the kingdom. Even Mulan had heard enough to fear for her loved ones.
If only I was a boy, she thought as the house came into sight. Then I could take Father’s place.
The stone walls encircling the house glimmered in the afternoon sun. From the back buildings, smoke whirled on the air and the scent of pork wafted on the light breeze. Already, the servants would be preparing the evening meal. Stomach rumbling, Mulan’s mouth watered at the scent but knew there would be no eating until she returned from Yi Ligui’s. Eating was forbidden after the midday meal; the scents interrupted the spirits’ messages, apparently. Not that she could blame them; the smell of a good meal could disrupt even the most focused person, including her.
But not today.
“Mulan, are you even listening to me?”
“Huh, what?” Mulan’s thoughts snapped back to reality.
Nanyang stood facing her with her dark brows winged down and a pout on her full mouth. “I said that I wished I could go with you to the matchmaker.”
“Maybe next time.” Although the words were in jest, even to her ears she could hear the bitter half-truth to them.
Nanyang’s smile grew wider. “I think this time will be different. Just wait and see.” The smile dropped. “But you can’t see Yi Ligui with dirt on your face. She might think you’re the boy and match you with a girl.”
Laughter erupted from Mulan’s mouth and suddenly the weight on her chest lifted. Slinging an arm around Nanyang’s shoulder, they started walking once more. It didn’t take too long before they arrived at the front building where the family welcomed guests. The slender figure of her mother appeared in the doorway.
With her face set in stone as her daughters approached, Chou Bosi’s dark glittering eyes scanned them both. Silence stretched between them for a moment until she finally let loose an exasperated sigh. “What have I done to deserve such unruly daughters?” she bemoaned, rubbing a hand dramatically over her forehead.
Regret washed over the younger girl’s face and her eyes dropped to the ground. Mulan glanced towards her sister. The pink ribbon in her hair clung to the end of her braid by a thread, the gentle breeze threatening to steal it away. Grass stained the hems of her loose-fitting trousers and tunic and her skin glistened with a fine film of sweat. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
Chou Bosi indicated with her head for her to go inside. Nanyang stole a quick glance In Mulan’s way and hurried within. If there was one thing her mother hated above all else, it was sweaty young girls. Those dark eyes turned back towards her middle daughter and the corners of her mouth tightened. “Why are you covered in mud?”
Mulan shrugged and forced her face into a mask of indifference. “I’ve been training, Mother.”
The older woman crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “After everything you put your father through yesterday, you still went fighting with your friends? How could you be so inconsiderate?”
Frustration burned within Mulan’s stomach and the edge of the mask slipped. “Father gave me permission a long time ago to train. It’s the one thing I�
��m good at.”
Arms dropping to the side, Chou Bosi took a step forward. “Why do you wish to shame us like this, Mulan? How have we earned this disrespect?”
Exasperation clawed through Mulan’s chest at her mother’s words. “How do I shame you when I’m doing something I love with the people I care about? Or do you only care about what others think instead of your daughter who you profess to love?”
Chou Bosi’s face twisted into a mask of rage. Her hand flew into the air, the sunlight reflecting off the gold rings adorning her fingers.
Mulan’s heart raced. Closing her eyes, she steadied her head, preparing for the blow.
When the sting of her mother’s hand never blossomed over her cheeks, she opened her eyes. Chou Bosi lowered her arm, her dark eyes squeezed shut. The vein over her jaw pulsed. “Get in the house and wash the dirt from your face,” she said, her voice strained. “I will not have you see the matchmaker with your face red.”
“Of course not,” Mulan muttered as she strode past. “What impression would that give?”
Heart thumping in her chest and her nerves frayed, Mulan rushed through the front building and into the courtyard. Mohuai tore after the smallest of the dogs, his chubby legs pounding as quickly as they would allow, whilst the dog raced past him in a blur of black and white fur.
She hurried to the western side of the compound, where hers and her siblings sleeping quarters lay. Mulan’s sat in the middle, Nanyang’s to the north, and Feng Qing’s to the south. Mohuai, still being a baby, slept in their parent’s rooms, positioned in front of her older sister’s. When she married and moved into her husband’s house, they planned to move him into her rooms.
Needless to say, Feng Qing didn’t like the idea at all.
Mulan tore into her rooms, slamming the door shut and leaning against the thick wood, her body weary and her eyes blurring with unshed tears. She didn’t want to deal with this right now – she wanted a bath, some food, and to be left alone.
None of which she would be getting any time soon.
Pulling off her boots, she threw them into a corner, quickly followed by the rest of her clothes. Her father’s jian, however, she carefully placed at the end of her bed. Later, she’d polish the sword and the scabbard; there was no time now.
A bowl of water and washcloth sat in the top right-hand corner, the jade silk screen positioned in front of it. According to her father, it had once belonged to a Han princess before his grandfather had looted it after the Tuoba attacked Luoyang. Their emperor had taken the city for themselves whilst her grandfather took the screen for his young wife. When they’d died, Mulan kept it for herself. Her grandmother had told her to pass it down to her daughter when the time came.
Irritation flowed through her veins as she washed the dirt off with the cloth, the cold water a welcome relief on her warm skin. As much as she had loved Grandmother Chou, she hadn’t loved the constant criticisms or reminders of her duty. She would have been the first to drag her off to Yi Ligui’s and demand the matchmaker to find Mulan a husband, spirits be damned.
Why on earth did she need to find a husband right now anyway? Sure, there were girls who married at sixteen, so what? There were others who married much later. With Feng Qing’s marriage only a few days away, there was no need to arrange her own right now.
Brushing her hair and securing it with pins, Mulan blinked back angry tears. Father, Mother, Daocheng – why did everyone feel the need to shove marriage down her throat?
Sucking in a deep breath, she walked over to the wooden chests where her clothes were kept. Opening the right, she pulled out the first set she found, a silk tunic the colour of ice decorated with pink and yellow flowers, with an ankle-length skirt a deeper shade of pink. A matching sash and the silk slippers her mother had given her for her birthday completed the outfit. Despite the urge to throw them back into the chest, Mulan reluctantly dressed, picking out a hairpin with a creamy jade phoenix and sliding it into her hair.
A quick glance in the mirror and Mulan hardly recognised herself.
This isn’t me.
A jolt of despair shot through her as she took in the simple yet elegant styling of her hair and the femininity of her clothes. It didn’t matter how much silk her parents dressed her in – the warrior’s clothes and sword would always feel like a second skin than these.
Steeling herself for what was to come, Mulan left the security of her rooms behind and made her way back to the front of the house.
Outside, everyone waited along with five horses, two of the servants already seated upon them. They were necessary these days, in case her father collapsed. Feng Qing stood beside him, one hand on his elbow, the other clutching her fan. Relief swelled through her at the knowledge her sisters would not be attending the meeting. Her mother’s eyes roamed over the length of Mulan’s body, as if searching for something else to criticise her on. Without saying a word, she gave her a small nod.
Chief Zhou caught her eye and smiled. “Beautiful as ever, dear daughter,” he said, the warmth in his tone genuine. His words tugged a small smile onto her face. He reached out a hand and Mulan stepped forward. With ease, she slung her foot over her favourite horse, a grey and white mare she’d named Painted Cloud when her father brought her home.
Up front, breathing heavy and cheeks stained red, her father struggled to climb his, a chestnut coloured stallion who still wore the scars from carrying his owner into battle years earlier.
When Chief Zhou’s breathing finally stabilised, he turned to Mulan, fixing her with a pointed stare. “Do not make a scene this time,” he warned, the edge of command in his voice. “Every action has a reaction and that ultimately reflects back onto me. Do not disappoint me.”
Raising her chin and fixing an expressionless mask over her face, Mulan briefly closed her eyes. “Yes, Father,” she replied, berating herself for the tightness in his tone.
The chief shook his head and the hard lines of his face softened. “Mulan, I am not long for this world. It is my job to ensure that my family will survive without me. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t do this.”
Mask falling, a ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I understand, Father. I promise to try and not bring shame on you today.”
A huge smile brightened his face and he gripped the reins. “Then let’s ride and discover who the gods have planned for you.”
As the horses made their way down the path and her sister’s cries of good luck rang in her ears, a sense of foreboding settled within the pit of Mulan’s stomach.
Just because the gods chose someone, didn’t mean they were right.
Three
AS THE TOWN FADED BEHIND them and gave way to a familiar stretch of lush green grass, Mulan’s heart sank within her chest. In the far distance, mountains loomed, dominating the landscape whilst the sky above stretched clear of clouds.
Yi Ligui’s yurt sat at the base of the mountains around two hours ride from town. Feared and respected at the same time, she still practiced the old religion, communicating with spirits and the gods through trances. Although many Tuoba had converted from the traditional nomadic lifestyle a few generations ago, Yi Ligui remained dedicated to the old ways.
The Daoist temples in town may have been popular with their vividly coloured statues and their flower-laden alters, but the people still flocked to the shaman for medicine, births, and, more importantly, arranging marriages.
Mulan and her family continued to ride for the yurt, silence descending between them save for the beating of their horse’s hooves and tufts of grass hitting the ground behind them. There wasn’t anything new to say anyway.
Not that anything she could say right now could change her parents’ minds about the meeting. None of the other times had.
As with the other three times, Yi Ligui had been unable to determine whom Mulan should marry. She’d only been sixteen on her first visit; the wafts of incense thick in the air, mingling with scent of herbs and spices clogging her
throat. Excitement and trepidation snaked through her veins as she watched Yi Ligui fall into a trance. Who would she marry? Someone nice? Someone mean? Someone older than her father? It had happened to one of the girls in town; it could happen to her.
So when the shaman had come around, shook her head, and pronounced there would be no marriage at that time, Mulan’s initial reaction was a sense of relief. Not marrying a man three times her age with a stomach larger than a mountain could do that to a girl.
The second time the shaman had told her parents no, the relief turned to confusion. The third, worry. Was there something wrong with her? Marriage held no appeal, never did, but tradition dictated that Tuoba girls should marry and the fact that Yi Ligui hadn’t found her a match led her entire family to wonder if she ever would.
The horses came to a stop just outside the stone wall encircling the shaman’s tent and Mulan jumped down. Blue silk ribbons hanging from poles by the entranceway fluttered in the breeze. A faint acrid odour infiltrated her nostrils; the familiar scent told her someone had been tanning leather nearby. The flapping of animal hides shot through the silence and a hunched old woman clutching a crooked wooden staff stood between the gaps of the yurt as her mother hurried to her husband’s side.
“Welcome, Chief Zhou.” White hair hung in a loose braid fell over Yi Ligui’s shoulder, her body wrapped in several layers of cloth despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun. Mulan frowned at the lines in her face; they seemed thicker and deeper since the last time she’d been here. A smile cracked over her mouth as bright eyes slid over to Mulan. “Welcome back, young lady. It’s been a while.”
Dejection wrapping around her heart, she nodded. “Almost a year.”
“The spirits better have an answer for us this time,” Mulan’s father said, his tone permitting no negotiation. Yi Ligui glanced at him, her chin rising. Exertion stained his cheeks red and his eyes narrowed at the old woman. “Time is not on our side. We need to leave soon.”
“In more than one way,” Yi Ligui said, a matter-of-fact tone to her words. “Come inside and sit before you collapse in an undignified heap.”
Honour, She Obeys Page 3