The Magnolia Sword

by Sherry Thomas

  I glance at him, surprised not so much that he is speaking to me, but at the good humor evident in his words. He is seated on a small outcrop overhung by a scraggly pine tree, one booted foot on the rock, looking more relaxed than he has been at any point since he learned, upon arriving home, of his aunt’s unexpected return.

  “What about you, Your Highness? Are your skills as a traveler any better suited to the wilds?” I hear myself ask, tilting my chin toward the bow and arrows that he now carries on his back.

  “My father wanted me to retain some of the skills of his nomadic ancestors. If necessary, I can hunt and start a fire—but I’d be embarrassed to do either before Kedan xiong. And I’ve been on some minor campaigns with my father, sleeping under the stars. So at least I know what to expect on that front. I suppose Hua xiong-di has always had a roof over his head?”

  He speaks to me in the same courteous, formal tone he has always used. His entire demeanor remains unaltered, as if our tense conversation of the night before, during which I divulged my gender, never took place. Did he help me without understanding what I said? Or did my revelation make no difference because I was telling him something he already knew? Throughout our travels together, in his unobtrusive way, he has created more space for me and made it easier for me to slip aside for privacy.

  “The closest I’ve come to sleeping outside is when I opened all my windows during Southern summers,” I say.

  He smiles a little and I am warm all over. Perhaps he doesn’t care that I’m a woman, but I can’t help but be aware that he is a lithe, handsome man. “Does her ladyship not begrudge it when you go away with His Grace? Doesn’t that interfere with your training?”

  In safer times or surroundings, I would have been more hesitant to bring up his aunt. But we are headed deeper into enemy territory with every step, and I no longer care as much about staying away from fraught subjects.

  He doesn’t seem to mind. “She does begrudge it when I’m away for more than half a month. But she also knows that with my father being who he is, my life cannot be only about the duel, as hers was once upon a time.”

  His answer only further encourages me. “Your Highness, if you don’t mind my curiosity, how was your parents’ marriage arranged?”

  The question has been at the back of my head for days. How in the world did a young female martial artist from the South marry a Xianbei nobleman of the North?

  He smiles again. “The old-fashioned way, actually. My father did some sightseeing in the South while his father was envoy to the Southern court. He passed through the village where my mother’s family lived and came upon her training outside their cottage.

  “According to my aunt, he took a room in the village and came to watch my mother practice every day. After seven days of this, my aunt told him he had better either never come back or return with a proper proposal of marriage, backed by parental approval and a respectful bride price. Ten days later, my father returned with his father and trunks of gifts.”

  My eyes widen. “How did he get his father to agree?”

  “At the time he had several older brothers, so it wasn’t as important whom he married. Also, the Northern court has never frowned upon marriage between Xianbei nobles and Han Chinese. Preferably the marriages result in useful political and economic alliances, but occasionally a love match falls through the cracks.”

  “And her family—they didn’t have objections?”

  I don’t need to mention the deep-seated Southern fear of the nomadic tribes. He has been in the South. He knows.

  “They didn’t realize at first that he was Xianbei. They thought him merely Northern, a point in his favor, since the Pengs were originally from the North. When they learned his true identity, they had second thoughts, but my mother reminded everyone that they required only parental approval and a good bride price. Nothing had been said about whether he had to be Han Chinese. Eventually they relented and agreed to the marriage.” Is it my imagination or does he glance my way at the word “marriage”? My heart thuds. If, instead of a duel, we had prepared since childhood for a marital arrangement, would either of us have objected?

  “I guess your aunt doesn’t mind anymore that your father is Xianbei,” I say, “since she married him herself.”

  To my surprise a shadow crosses his face. And when he replies, he speaks slowly, as if he is choosing words with care. “My aunt would tell you that she never minded that her sister married a Xianbei man; she simply didn’t want to deal with what others would say if they learned. She has also never told anyone she knew from the South, or anyone who might be a referee at our duel, that I am half-Xianbei. She says she doesn’t want me to be disadvantaged, because all the referees will be Han Chinese. But sometimes I wonder …”

  His voice trails off. Kedan and Tuxi are back, each with an armful of branches, which Kedan quickly chops and splits. He chooses only a few pieces, wraps them in rough cloth, then sticks them inside the bundles that are secured to the backs of our saddles.

  “Let’s go,” says the princeling, rising. “We’ve a long way yet.”

  As we head out, my mind lingers on his unfinished answer. Does he wonder whether his aunt, however much she loves him and his father, still feels a reflexive shame at her personal closeness to the Xianbei, especially in front of her Han Chinese connections from the South?

  Of course, it may not be that at all. It may be exactly as her ladyship claims: that she simply does not want to disadvantage him by broadcasting before the duel—which has always been an exclusively Han Chinese event—that one of the combatants is in fact half-Xianbei.

  But her nephew has had to use a different name to write to us—a name that sounds more Han Chinese. What conclusion would he draw from all this?

  Probably the same one I did, from having been required to pass as my dead twin all these years: that there is something about me that does not measure up, that will never measure up, no matter what I achieve.

  But I’m still trying.

  Is he?

  The second half of our journey is arduous, the trail winding upward a great deal more than it slopes down.

  Near sunset we breach the last pass. I expected a long, steep descent. But the mountains we’ve climbed are barely hills on this side. Looking back, it’s as if the range serves as a giant staircase up to a plateau.

  I also thought we would be ankle deep in sand the moment we crossed the mountains. But what awaits us is more grassland. The grass is shorter than that south of the range, and more yellow than green, but come summer, no doubt it will also be a wide, verdant expanse.

  We stop near a lake ringed with tall, swaying reeds. Kedan says that we are close enough to the mountains for there to be snowmelt streams, sometimes underground, to feed a small body of water.

  He and the princeling go off to hunt in the fading dusk. Tuxi and I split one small log of firewood into kindling with Kedan’s short-handled axe. When the hunters return, they each hold a blob of mud, which they claim are a pair of already gutted waterfowl. We bury the muddy blobs in a shallow hole, fill the hole, and start our fire on the spot.

  Kedan arranges the logs so that they can hold up a small pot. I again think of tea. But as it turns out, the hunters have also brought back some tender reed stems, which go into the pot, along with bones and innards from the birds, to make a soup.

  The mud-baked waterfowl are surprisingly decent—perfectly de-feathered too—and the reed stem soup is downright excellent. I drink more of the soup than is strictly prudent, its heat a necessary antidote against the increasingly merciless night. My fingers have turned icy from doing nothing more than sticking out of my sleeves. The meat, almost too hot to touch on the birds themselves, loses all warmth the moment I tear it off the bone and move it to my mouth.

  The wind grows more teeth. I shiver in spite of my new sheepskin cape. The fire warms only my front; the rest of me is at the mercy of the oncoming night, which howls madly.

  “Wish I had some wine to wa
rm my insides,” mumbles Kedan.

  “Funny you should ask,” says the princeling. He reaches into his saddlebag, brings out a wineskin, and hands it to Kedan.

  Kedan’s eyes widen as he takes a sip. “This is grape wine, isn’t it?”

  The princeling nods. “From beyond Jiayu Pass.”

  The westernmost terminus of the Wall.

  Tuxi sighs when it’s his turn to imbibe. I half expect the wine to taste like raisins, but I should know better: Sorghum wine, for example, doesn’t taste remotely of sorghum. And this wine, nowhere near as sweet as raisins, is crisper, more nuanced, and more interesting.

  The princeling lets everyone have another sip. “They say wine elicits truth. I don’t know whether there is enough wine here for that, but I have a confession to make.”

  “Please don’t tell us that you set off the beacon last night,” says Kedan, a note of real apprehension underlying his playful words.

  “No, I was in my room writing letters.” After a pause, the princeling adds, “As Hua xiong-di can attest. He ground ink for me.”

  “Next time let me grind ink for you,” declares Tuxi in all seriousness. He turns to me. “Not to embarrass you, Hua xiong-di, but your ink-grinding technique could use some improvement. The angle at which you hold the ink stick and the—”

  Kedan taps him on the shoulder. “You think Hua xiong-di was really there grinding ink?”

  “Oh, I was most certainly grinding ink,” I counter. Kedan didn’t say much at either lunch or supper—Captain Helou’s absence weighs heavily on him. But I’m glad to see that a bit of his old mischief seems to have returned. “Tuxi xiong, tell us more about your technique. I need to learn from the best.”

  Tuxi chuckles, squirming a little. “We’ll get to that later, Hua xiong-di. Your Highness, before our rude interruption, you were saying?”

  His Highness tosses another log onto the fire. “As you know, the first large-scale Rouran attacks came nearer the two ends of the Wall. My father assigned me here in the middle because he believed his more experienced scouts were needed elsewhere—that the Rouran will come down east and west like a pincer grip. But after what Bai did, I’m beginning to wonder otherwise.”

  My stomach tightens. This must be what he refrained from saying in the morning.

  Kedan frowns. “But surely the Rouran aren’t going to attack in the center, not after Bai brought official attention to that particular stretch of the Wall.”

  “Did he?” murmurs the princeling.

  Kedan looks at Tuxi, then at me.

  “His Highness can explain this better,” I say slowly, only beginning to see what the princeling is implying, “but I’m not sure the truth of Bai’s guilt will be reported up the chain of command. Bai came with us because he had a recommendation from the royal duke’s brother. To state that connection plainly would be to implicate His Grace’s family members.

  “On the other hand, if Bai’s betrayal isn’t stated clearly in a report, the fault for the false alarm might fall on the commander of the garrison. He is caught between a brick to the face and a knife in the ribs. He doesn’t want to appear to blame His Grace, His Grace’s brother, or His Highness, but he also doesn’t want his own head to depart his neck. I’d guess that he said it was an accident and those responsible have already been dealt with—the exact same thing he would have said had Bai not been caught.”

  Kedan glances at the princeling, who nods.

  “The commander’s superiors would only know that they have some idiots manning the Wall,” I continue. “Preparations proceed apace to meet the Rouran east and west. In fact, I would be surprised if the lighting of the beacon didn’t coincide with some incursion a thousand li from here, to make the generals think that the beacon was but a diversionary tactic.”

  I hold out my hands to the fire. “Tuxi xiong said to me, the night Bai was caught, imagine if it happens again and again. Then no one would care in the least when the beacon is lit at the beginning of a real invasion. But that isn’t the only danger here. The real danger is that …”

  This time I am the one who glances at the princeling, because what I am about to say is so unthinkable I don’t want to put it into words. Our eyes meet. In the firelight, his expression is grim, but he nods again.

  I exhale. “The real danger is that we might hollow out our defenses by deploying troops east and west, leaving the center undermanned.”

  “The capital!” Kedan gasps. “The capital is only three hundred li southeast of the garrison, as the crow flies. There is a fair bit of rough terrain in between, but only three hundred li. Light cavalry can cover that in two days.”

  No one says anything.

  “Wait!” Kedan sits straighter. “You did send Captain Helou to your father, Your Highness. Which means at least one person in the capital will know the truth—two, if we count Captain Helou.”

  “But my father’s hands are tied until he finds out who is directing Bai’s movements. And depending on how wily and alert Bai is, that could prove a difficult task, even for Master Yu.” The princeling tosses another piece of wood onto the fire. “I did ask my father not to deploy his forces from the capital until he hears from me again. But should the emperor order him to take his men and march east or west, he would have no choice but to obey.”

  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.”