The Magnolia Sword: A Ballad of Mulan Read online

  The commander looks relieved—the princeling hasn’t been attacked in his camp, and he will be rid of a troublesome conscript. “It is difficult to let go of such talent, but let go I must, for the greater good. My congratulations to Your Highness on gaining a worthy hero in your service.”

  I, of course, am obliged to sink to one knee to reiterate my eternal gratitude.

  When I rise, the princeling glances at me, a strange gleam in his eyes. “Well, Hua xiong-di, shall we be on our way?”

  Even with the commander’s blessing, it isn’t an instantaneous process to release me from the regular army. My name must be formally struck off the encampment rolls and assigned to the princeling’s command. A better horse also has to be found for me: The princeling and Captain Helou have a hundred li to cover before the end of the day.

  At last we are on our way. Captain Helou grins at me over his shoulder. “We ride fast, Hua xiong-di. Don’t get left behind.”

  “What if I need to stop?” I hurriedly ask.

  The princeling gives me a look. “Then you had better catch up fast. You have no pass on the imperial road, other than as my subordinate.”

  Swine. I hope patience will not be too difficult a virtue to acquire.

  I half bow in his direction. “This humble conscript understands, Your Highness.”

  Despite Captain Helou’s warning, we do not travel at breakneck speeds. Still, I find it challenging. Unlike walking a horse, for which I need only to keep my seat, riding at a crisp trot requires me to rise up and settle down in rhythm to the horse’s movement to avoid either jostling myself or hurting my steed’s back. But thanks to my training, I have the stamina and muscular strength to keep up with my new superiors.

  Occasionally we slow to a walk to rest the horses, and Captain Helou tosses me something to eat. The first time I catch a turnover stuffed with garlic chives and a sprinkling of scrambled eggs; the second time, much to my surprise and delight, candied lotus seeds, which I haven’t tasted since I left the South.

  The princeling has been silent since that warning to me to keep up. Captain Helou, taking a cue from him, has also refrained from speech, except to alert me to the condition of the road.

  Evening is falling. In the North, twilight lingers. We push forward in the long gloaming, the air a blue-gray haze into which the road ahead disappears. Captain Helou’s bright scarlet cape streams behind him. The princeling’s black cape, by contrast, is barely visible in the deepening dusk, but my eyes are drawn to it.

  Again a sense of familiarity assails me. Three times I have watched Yuan Kai ride away in a similar darkness. Of course I never saw him very well under those conditions, but from here, it would be all too easy to mistake the princeling for my opponent: the same lean, tight build, the same easy, secure seat, the same shadowlike cloak, melding into the night.

  Minus, of course, a sword carried on his person.

  It occurs to me that if the princeling were my opponent, then what he did this afternoon, while still calibrated to within an inch of actual mortal danger, would not be considered excessive, since he would know of my skill at capturing projectiles. However, Yuan Kai’s family, as far as I know, is strictly Han Chinese. In fact, three generations ago, the Pengs left the war-torn North and resettled in the South—Yuan Kai speaks with a slight Southern accent. The princeling is clearly a Northerner—and Xianbei. So it’s ludicrous that I’m even pondering the possibility.

  We stop for the night in a bustling town and seek lodging at a large inn. At first the doorman refuses us entry, saying it is already dark and he is forbidden to admit guests at so late an hour. The princeling calmly displays an elaborate-­looking pass. After that, the door opens immediately. The proprietor himself comes bowing and scraping, and shows us to our rooms.

  But there are only two rooms left, one large and well-­appointed, one much smaller but still rather nice.

  “I’ll take this one,” says Captain Helou of the smaller room. “You can be His Highness’s servant tonight, Hua xiong-di.”

  I blink. What does that mean?

  The princeling says to Captain Helou, “You are not obliged to dine with us tonight, Captain, if you have plans.”

  Captain Helou grins broadly. “Many thanks, Your Highness.”

  His Highness addresses the proprietor next. “Innkeeper, a cot for this young xiong-di in my room.”

  In his room? I’ve never slept anywhere near a man to whom I am not closely related.

  “Yes, Your Highness. I’ll have one brought in right away,” answers the innkeeper.

  In the meanwhile, he pours water for the princeling and me to wash our hands and then escorts us downstairs and across a courtyard to a warm, crowded dining room, where a private area has been fenced off for the princeling with a pair of silk screens. After the princeling sits down, I remain standing to the side, unsure how a servant should act in such a situation.

  He glances up. “You’re going to eat like that, Hua xiong-di?”

  “Captain Helou said I’m to serve you tonight, Your Highness.”

  “Have I ordered you to do so?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Then sit down. I don’t like people hovering around me.”

  I sit on one of the mats that have been arranged around the low table—they are so new, they’ve probably been brought out for the very first time in honor of the princeling’s esteemed posterior. The waiter, who has also been hovering, makes his approach and places small plates of marinated bamboo shoots and sliced salted duck eggs on the table. “We have some very fine sorghum wines, Your Highness, and some rice wines from the South. Which one should I serve Your Highness first?”

  “We are on official business. No wines.”

  “Ah, of course. Your Highness’s dedication is admirable. We have a ten-dish set, but for you, the cook can also prepare a special twelve-dish set, with —”

  “We are only two people. A four-dish set will be more than good enough. Unless”—the princeling turns to me—“Hua xiong-di needs more?”

  How can I possibly ask for more items than a royal duke’s son? “No, Your Highness.”

  The waiter is disappointed, but he puts on his best smile. “We’ll have everything out in no time.”

  He is back in a blink of an eye, with a pot of infusion. “These herbs are grown and picked by the innkeeper’s wife herself. The drink will aid your digestion, Your Highness, and promote your general well-being.”

  He pours for us and leaves. The princeling takes a sip from his cup, then picks up a morsel from each small dish. He is the person of the highest stature at the table. Now that he has eaten, I can start. I’m hungry and everything looks delicious—but I hesitate.

  He sets down his chopsticks. “The food does not please Hua xiong-di?”

  “The food is highly enticing. It is merely that this lowly conscript has never sat at a table with as grand a personage as Your Highness, and doesn’t know what to do.”

  I might as well play the part of the bumpkin. To the princeling, I probably am.

  “Is that so?” he murmurs. “I would have thought Hua xiong-di is still angry with me.”

  I glance sharply at him, unsure how to reply. He’s right that I am still wary of him—I have not forgotten that awful pulse of fear when I heard his three arrows speeding toward me. But he is the Northern emperor’s kin, and I am a refugee from the South. And he could very well be the kind of person who enjoys being blunt himself but becomes angry when others speak half as freely.

  But he does not appear to be baiting me. In fact, even though his expression is carefully neutral, something in his gaze makes me think he might be a bit—worried?

  “How can I possibly harbor any ire toward Your Highness, when you do me the honor of believing that I can withstand the simultaneous assault of three deadly arrows?” I hear myself say.

 
His eyes widen slightly. “Did Hua xiong-di not realize that the arrows I used were blunt-tipped?”

  What? “There are blunt-tipped arrows?”

  “Commander Dugu has a great many conscripts to train. When hundreds of beginners practice archery at once, blunt-tipped arrows are far safer than battlefield ones.”

  I think back. At no point did I ever look at the three arrows I sliced in half. I simply assumed them to be the normal, deadly kind.

  “I see,” I murmur, caught between relief and embarrassment. Not knowing what else to do, I eat a piece of marinated bamboo shoot, then a slice of salted duck egg.

  “And how does Hua xiong-di find the North?” asks the princeling.

  My Southern accent has become much less pronounced since my arrival, but there is still enough to give away my origins. w consider my words. “Has Your Highness ever been to the South?”

  “One of my uncles served as envoy to the court of the ­Southern emperor. I accompanied him and stayed for some months.”

  “What did Your Highness think of the South?”

  His lips curve slightly, as if he is amused that I’ve turned the conversation around to him. I notice that he has a faint scar on his chin—and a longer and equally faded one on his forehead.

  I immediately think of Yuan Kai. But even at the time I wasn’t sure whether what I saw was a scar or a trick of the inadequate light. Do I have anything concrete to tie him to my opponent—or am I indulging in wishful thinking because he is handsome, and I wouldn’t mind if Yuan Kai looked exactly like him?

  “The South is as beautiful as I was led to believe, a lingering, poetic beauty,” he replies. “The people of the South are not as haughty as I was led to believe—I found them thoughtful and friendly.”

  He pauses diplomatically.

  Still distracted, a moment passes before I remember to prompt him. “But?”

  “But there is such an undercurrent of fear at court. And even away from court, the people are afraid.”

  I expected a comment on Southern food or dialects, not this unsparing observation on the political atmosphere. Reflexively, I lean away from him, my eyes searching the dining room for anyone who might have heard us. But all I see are the silk panels that shield us from view, painted with court ladies frolicking under blossoming apricot branches. Beyond the screens, the dining room is noisy with travelers enjoying their evening meal, striking up conversations and exchanging information.

  I take a deep breath. We are in the North now, where ­opinions on the South do not lead to unwelcome attention. And the son of a Northern royal duke can never be subject to the kind of consequences that forced my family’s flight from our beloved home.

  “You are still afraid,” says the princeling.

  An echo of my old fear.

  After Mother died, when I was thirteen, Father took a much greater interest in politics. I didn’t care for his new friends, who visited all day and discussed current events, court intrigues, and other matters of state. At first, it was because I overheard things I’d rather not have known about my beautiful South—the ­instability, the dynastic upheaval, the widespread rot that came of corruption and incompetence from the top down.

  Then I realized that Father and his friends didn’t want to only debate matters, but to act.

  I begged him to stop associating with those loud-talking men. All it would take was for one of them to be less than discreet—or a spy for the Southern court . . . He listened, then told me I need not concern myself with his friends, in that soft yet resolute manner that let me know I was not to raise the subject again.

  But someone did talk to the wrong person, and an edict came down to arrest all the coconspirators. We escaped with little more than what we could carry. And here we are in the North, exiles and refugees.

  The waiter bustles in with our dinner. Despite the princeling’s explicit request, I count six dishes and a soup, plus an assortment of nuts and dried fruits. He makes no comment. The waiter looks a little concerned as he leaves.

  “The innkeeper would have been embarrassed to serve only four dishes to a royal duke’s son,” I say. Any subject that isn’t the South.

  The princeling picks up a piece of turnip from a bowl of mutton stew. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

  We eat for a minute in silence before I remember my manners and hasten to declare, “This lowly conscript overflows with gratitude at Your Highness’s beneficence. Tonight’s bountiful meal is a kindness never to be forgotten.”

  “Hua xiong-di is much too generous in his praise,” answers the princeling. “I should not have darkened his palate with such coarse food and insipid tea. All the same, please forgive the inadequacy of this rough repast and deign to partake of it.”

  I blink. Given his frankness thus far, I did not expect him to spout this elaborate politesse. I did not even consider that he might be capable of it. But he is—and he makes all that formal drivel sound as ridiculous as I’ve always believed it to be.

  I laugh a little, unable to help myself.

  “Hua xiong-di still hasn’t answered my question,” he reminds me, after a few sips of his soup. “What do you think of the North?”

  Am I not allowed to eat in peace? “Your Highness, I haven’t been in the North very long.”

  “Does Hua xiong-di always wait years before forming an opinion?”

  I could lie. But given how much I’ve tried to evade the question, any compliments at this point would ring false. “I have not yet become accustomed to the Northern climate—and it is a much harsher climate.”

  “So . . . the South is lost to you but you don’t think you will ever feel at home in the North.”

  My chopsticks freeze halfway to a dish of braised carp.

  He has articulated my feelings exactly. Except I have never been able to describe that chaotic mix of homesickness and alienation in my heart, not even to myself.

  Somehow I detach a sliver of carp and put it in my mouth, tasting nothing. I approximate the sound of a lighthearted snort. “It’s nothing so dire, Your Highness. I’m already pretty settled here in the North.”

  He does not reply.

  I try to fill the silence with chatter. “In fact, I’m even getting used to the taste of Northern cooking. This carp is good—and I used to think I didn’t like carp at all.”

  The princeling still doesn’t say anything. Am I to broil in this awkwardness all by myself? “Captain Helou is going to kick himself for missing this meal. What plans does he have in this town?”

  A hint of amusement animates the princeling’s features. “Are you sure you don’t know his plans for the evening?”

  “I met him only today and he has said nothing of his plans to me.”

  The princeling smiles very, very briefly. And he is very, very spectacular when he smiles.

  For a moment, I forget that I’m an exile who can never go home. I only want him to smile again.

  He does when he says, “Captain Helou likes women.”

  So do most men. I fail to see how that is of any significance.

  Then my face burns: Captain Helou isn’t dining with us because he has gone to a pleasure house. “So . . . he knows where to find them?”

  “We’ve been on the road together for months, and he never seems to have trouble.”

  “I see,” I manage.

  The princeling’s eyes gleam. He looks at me in a way that makes something in me jolt. “I hope I have not kept Hua xiong-di here when he too would have preferred other plans.”

  “Ah . . . not while I’m on official business.”

  He laughs softly. “Good thinking.”

  I put a piece of savory walnut into my mouth, hoping that we’re done with the subject. But it’s also me who asks, barely a breath later, “Your Highness, you don’t go with Captain Helou?”

  “N
o.” An unequivocal answer.

  Why not? You don’t like women? During the Han Dynasty, gentlemen’s preference for one another was such that their wives’ complaints made it into written records. I don’t know if things have remained the same in the North—it isn’t a question that has ever occurred to me before. “You . . . don’t wish to anger your wife?”

  “I am not married.”

  At his age, even if he isn’t formally married yet, a match has probably already been arranged. “Then what could be the reason?”

  “I don’t like women smiling at me because they are paid to do so. Also, my master would have my hide if I frequented such places.”

  I laugh a little. “Now I can’t tell whether Your Highness is noble or just afraid.”

  He does not clarify that for me, but asks, “What about you, Hua xiong-di? Why do you refrain?”

  What can I say? “I am famously henpecked at home. My wife will beat me with her rolling pin if I so much as look at another woman.”

  The princeling raises a brow. “Really?”

  “I should be so lucky.” I sigh. “I would like a hot-tempered wife, but here in the North there is no one to matchmake for me.”

  “Contribute to the defeat of the Rouran, and I’ll have my father vouch for you to the prettiest, fieriest girls in the North.”

  I am both entertained by the idea—and a little disturbed. On the surface the princeling has made no more than a wry remark, but I sense a stirring of glee beneath his seeming detachment. Not to mention, he and I are going to defeat the Rouran by sitting out this war. Right?

  I take a sip of my soup. “I guess all that remains for me to do is to be the great hero of this age, and my whole life will fall into place.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  After some time, our talk turns to the war, and I learn that the Rouran attacks came as a surprise to the court.

  The reunification of the North was achieved little more than a generation ago, after centuries of squabbling among warlords and self-styled sovereigns, and the peace since has been much cherished. Even the Rouran, in recent years, seemed content to keep to their territory outside the Wall.