The Magnolia Sword: A Ballad of Mulan

by Sherry Thomas

  “Sleep well, then, Hua xiong-di,” says Captain Helou. “Your headache will be gone by morning.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” I salute again. “Da-ren, Captain, please take care.”

  I remain in place until they walk off.

  Back at the princeling’s courtyard, Xiao Yi rushes out. When he sees that it’s only me, he remains just as courteous, lighting the lamps in the east-facing suite, assuring me everything is in readiness for my rest, and begging me to please let him know if I need anything else.

  When I’m finally alone, I slump down and clutch at my head.

  My solitude does not last long: The princeling’s footsteps come into the courtyard. He knocks on my door. When I do not reply, he walks in. I continue to sit with my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands.

  “Captain Helou told me you might not be feeling well,” he says quietly.

  And Captain Helou is correct!

  I wish now that I’d become roaring drunk at the banquet. I wish the princeling’s aunt had not returned from her mountain retreat to see her nephew. I wish—

  “Is it all true, what your aunt said?”

  I hear him sit down across the room. “When I was in the South, I called on the referees who oversaw the duel between your father and my mother.”

  Auntie Xia told me there is always a crowd of spectators at every duel. Most simply get wind of it and show up, drawn by the intrigue and excitement of a fierce contest. But a few are invited as observers and referees.

  “The version of events my aunt had always related to me had been told to her by a referee named Master Zhuang. He said that when my mother went to take Heart Sea, the reward for her victory, your father, whom everyone believed to be already incapacitated, fired two bronze lilies at her in gross violation of the rules. But by the time of my sojourn in the South, Master Zhuang was already dead.

  “The second of the three referees was still alive, but reluctant to say anything. But the third one, a Master Lu, said that he did not believe Master Zhuang had it entirely correct. Master Lu had been seated exactly opposite my mother as she approached your father, and he feared that instead of merely taking his sword, she meant to kill him. He was convinced that your father used hidden weapons out of self-preservation, not treachery.”

  I wish he hadn’t told me this. Without corroborating evidence, I could still hope to deny everything. But now, even if this Master Lu’s account clears Father of murderous intent, it still confirms his killing of the princeling’s mother.

  “Why did you visit the referees?” I manage after a while.

  “For most of my life I believed my aunt to be an eyewitness at the duel. From time to time, the details of her story changed. I would ask her why that was so, and she would always tell me that I was the one who remembered wrong. And then one day, when I was fourteen, I learned that she hadn’t been there at all. That she had been at home, deliriously ill.”

  Did that shock him as much as what I learned today shocked—and still shocks—me?

  “Did you . . . did you tell your aunt what Master Lu said?”

  “No.” He is quiet for some time. “Master Lu told me that he spoke to her shortly after she recovered from her illness. If she chose not to believe him then, my repeating his version of events wouldn’t make any difference.”

  I breathe hard, my head still in my hands. I’m unsure whether the sensation coursing through me is relief—or fright for what I might yet learn.

  “I’m sorry for what happened this evening. I thought you wanted to leave the muster, and I thought my aunt was far from home.”

  I shake my head. I actively campaigned to get out of the encampment—he’s blameless in that. As for what I learned today, I could not have been spared forever. At our actual duel, with his aunt and my father both in attendance, my blissful ignorance would have gone up in flames.

  “Anyway,” he carries on after a while, “I’ve come to ask whether you plan to continue with us. Captain Helou, Kedan, Bai, and I will head out in the morning. Master Yu will accompany us.”

  I vaguely recall meeting Yu, the majordomo.

  “To the lands beyond the Wall?” That was what Bai and Kedan were discussing at dinner, wasn’t it?

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To scout the movements of the Rouran.”

  I look up at last, expecting to see him seated formally—knees on the mat, legs folded under, back perfectly straight. But he has one knee on the mat before him, the other raised to the side, his hand on that knee. I’ve forgotten that he is in not just his own home, but his own rooms.

  “No, I mean, why is your father sending you on a dangerous mission?”

  “We are in a time of war.”

  “I know that. Why hasn’t he pulled some strings for you? Shouldn’t you be looking after the ledgers at the central granary, or another safe place?”

  He frowns, a sharp crease between his brows. “I’m a trained fighter. How can my father deploy thousands of other people’s sons while hiding me in the back of the central granary?”

  The South is filled with officials who would do just that. I look at my hands.

  “I see,” he murmurs. “You thought that I would be stowed somewhere away from danger. And that if you were assigned to me, you would also be safe.”

  I sigh over my great error, but do not feel remotely ashamed that I have no desire to risk my life in this war. “What if I don’t continue with you?”

  “You can stay here and see if my father has other tasks for you. If you don’t want to stay here, then someone must escort you back to the encampment.”

  I grimace. I absolutely do not want to remain at the ducal residence—not with his aunt in the same compound. And I have just as little desire to return to the encampment and its sanitation trenches. There I would not be able to keep my secret for long. And when I am discovered . . .

  I’d like to think that my deception would be looked upon kindly—after all, honoring one’s father is all that is good and proper. But I dare not trust in that hope. Worse, after I am ­punished, the sub-prefect’s men will still clap a heavy fine on my family, then drag Dabao off to fill my slot.

  “Now that I think about it, I can see a third alternative,” says the princeling slowly. “We will stop at a border garrison before we go into Rouran territory. If you pretend to fall sick or something of the sort, I can cite our haste and leave you behind.”

  A garrison won’t have thousands upon thousands of men, but it could very well house hundreds. I might not fare any better there than I would at the encampment. And wasn’t I trying to avoid going anywhere near the border in the first place?

  The urge comes over me to throw myself to the ground and beg for a pass home. Surely his father can manage it—an act of mercy toward one lowly, utterly insignificant conscript. But how can I demand such a favor of the royal duke when he is sending his own son into danger? When my father was responsible for the death of his wife?

  I drop my face back into my hands. “I guess I can try my luck at the border garrison.”

  The princeling sighs. “I’ll let you rest, then. It’ll be an early start.”

  I hear him rise and walk toward the door. “Wait!”

  He stops. “Yes?”

  A few heartbeats pass before I can ask my question. “Why don’t you want to kill my father—or me—to avenge your mother?”

  “I have seen your father and I do not wish to inflict any more suffering on him. As for you . . .” He exhales. “I’ve said it before: We did not choose this rivalry; we were born into it, that’s all. Had we met under different circumstances, we could have been friends.”

  All at once I’m perilously close to tears.

  The door shuts behind him. I wrap my arms around my knees, as if I could make a fortress of myself, as if that would make me feel le
ss lost, or the room not so echoingly empty.

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning I shudder awake from a dream in which I am forcibly evicted from the ducal residence, not by the princeling or even his aunt, but by the royal duke himself, tossing me bodily out of the front doors.

  After I stop shaking and get up, I learn from Xiao Yi that the princeling will take his leave of his family in private. I’m glad that I won’t see his aunt again, yet I can’t help wondering whether her ladyship is as enraged this morning—and as disconsolate—as she was the night before.

  Whether that has been her state of being for almost the entire time I’ve been alive.

  The men of the company and I gather in the first courtyard of the residence. My stomach drops when I spy the royal duke and his son approaching together. Surely, His Grace will have learned by now whose daughter I am.

  I brace myself for the worst. Still, I almost flinch when His Grace’s gaze settles on me. But there is no bitterness in his eyes, only contemplation and . . . sympathy.

  My shame burns all the more for my confusion.

  The royal duke salutes us and bids us a safe journey. The princeling, again in dark, simple garments, kneels before him in farewell. As he rises, he glances at me. I look away, not wanting to meet his eyes.

  It occurs to me that I don’t even know his name anymore—his surname cannot possibly be Yuan, for one thing, because that is a Han Chinese name and he is Xianbei. And since a lowly conscript like me is never allowed to address someone of his station by name, I also have no excuse to ask anyone about it.

  We mount and set out in two columns: the princeling and Captain Helou in front, Kedan and me in the middle, Yu and Bai at the rear. The city is waking up. Smoke rises from chimneys; young wives sweep outside their front doors; enticing aromas billow out of bing shops and noodle places, luring in their first customers of the day.

  The city gate opens as we draw near. The city walls are the height of six men, their crenellated top wide enough for eight guards to march abreast. But here at the gate the walls widen even further to accommodate a set of three impressive guard towers on top.

  “Do you ever wonder, Hua xiong-di,” says Kedan, the Xiongnu descendant, “whether there are places in the world where cities do not have walls? Where peace has reigned for so long that when the walls crumble, people do not bother to build them again?”

  What kind of question is that? “I have not seen much of the world,” I tell him, hoping to end the conversation.

  He glances at me. Last night I took him to be around ­twenty-seven. Now, with the sky turning a fish-belly white, I see that although he is weather-browned, he is much younger than I supposed—at most twenty-one or twenty-two, with an impish face and dimples when he grins.

  He looks wistful. “Me neither—or at least I think the world must be far larger and greater than what I’ve seen so far. But have you ever imagined such a durable peace, such easy times?”

  I shake my head. Despite my preoccupation, I feel a twinge of regret for not having shared his lofty imagination.

  We are just through the gate when a young man of about Kedan’s age, sitting by the side of the road, leaps up and waves his arms. “There you are!”

  The princeling signals us to halt. He dismounts and greets the man affectionately. “Tuxi xiong, we thought we’d have to go without you!”

  I note the surname, a Xianbei one.

  “I arrived after the gate closed last night,” says the man. “Thank Heaven for enterprising folks who keep inns for stragglers like me. I thought if I could get up early enough, I’d catch you on your way out.”

  “And you were right.” The princeling turns around. “Let’s acquaint you with everyone.”

  Tuxi is a big man, taller than the princeling and Captain Helou by a hand-width, and robust—almost chubby—in build, with a round face, thoughtful eyes, and surprisingly light, graceful movements. His horse is of a commensurate size, a handsome black beast with neat white socks.

  The princeling tells us that Tuxi is the son of an aide to his father, and sets him to ride between Kedan and me. After a while I realize why: Tuxi, despite his air of general friendliness, is actually rather shy. But Kedan is warm and outgoing, and soon puts Tuxi at ease.

  I listen to them getting to know each other with half an ear. From time to time Captain Helou also turns around and briefly joins the conversation. The rest of the men—and I—are quiet.

  We do not ride as fast as we did on our way to the capital, as we begin our climb through the mountains not long after leaving the city behind. The roads I have been traveling on since I left home were all built during the Han Dynasty. They are wide and smooth, engineered to last. Even cutting through the mountains, two riders can proceed comfortably side by side; and where there are steps, they have been made as shallow and even as the shape of the ground allows.

  For our midday meal, we eat at a pavilion that overhangs a sharp ridge and boasts a commanding view. A statue of a sitting Buddha shares that view with us.

  In the South, Father regularly sent me, dressed as a man, to climb a mountain not far from our home. On the flank of the peak sat a small Buddhist monastery, led by an abbot who maintained a correspondence with Father—my trips there were as much to deliver Father’s letters as to test my stamina. In the beginning I was wary that the abbot might preach to me. He never did. And here in the North, I have missed his kindly eyes and quiet demeanor far more than I thought I would.

  As the rest of the company concentrate on their food, Yu makes his way to everyone, offering delicacies. I note his perfect carriage and efficient motion. It’s ridiculous to bring a majordomo where there won’t be a large household to manage, but maybe not as ridiculous if that majordomo is also a skilled martial artist.

  Yu stops by me. “Her ladyship is from the South, and she enjoys buns made with lotus seed paste. I understand Hua xiong-di is also from the South. Would Hua xiong-di care to have one?”

  I probably shouldn’t take anything prepared with her ladyship in mind. But lotus seed paste is hard to come by in the North, and who knows when—or if—I’ll ever have the chance to taste it again? I accept the pastry and thank Yu with a profusion of words.

  He doesn’t leave my side immediately, but bites into a dried apricot. Together we contemplate the pitched green and orange roofs of the capital, now in the distance. After a while, I can’t help but ask, “Is Master Yu, by some chance, experienced in warfare?”

  He shakes his head. “I am just here to serve His Highness.”

  Someone less important than he can look after the princeling. But since he doesn’t seem interested in talking about himself, I shift the subject.

  “Her ladyship must have been sad to see His Highness leave.”

  “Undoubtedly. But she would not have burdened His Highness with tears. She is no ordinary woman, and her husband is a soldier.”

  So she is married to the royal duke—I wondered last night when I saw that she sat next to him at the banquet. I exhale. I have heard horror stories about broken matches and the women who never get another chance.

  “The royal duke’s younger children—they are hers, then?” Children who are both siblings and cousins sometimes happen in grander households, where the master’s concubines might be sisters.

  “No, His Grace married again after the death of His Highness’s mother—a strategic alliance arranged by the court. That lady gave birth to His Grace’s younger children. She passed away four years ago. Her ladyship married His Grace only last spring.”

  “Has she been in the North long?”

  “Oh, yes. She has been a member of the household since His Highness’s mother died. She raised him as her own.”

  “And he—he reveres her as his own mother too, I imagine?”

  “Very much so. He is devoted to her.”

  Kedan
calls out something. Yu excuses himself and rushes over. I eat the lotus seed paste bun, lightly sweet and delicious, and wallow in a rush of memories. Fishing with Murong on a terrace, one such pastry in hand; Auntie Xia setting down a plate of them before me, complaining that Father worked me too hard; me busy eating one while Mother combed my hair, her fingers gentle and sure, the jade bangles on her wrists clinking softly.

  But these memories can never again be as sweet and pure as they once were.

  While I soaked up the care and affection Mother lavished upon me, a boy grew up motherless because of Father’s poisoned bronze lilies. And the woman he abandoned to marry my mother spent the rest of her youth as a poor relation in the royal duke’s household, raising her nephew. That she is now married to the duke does not negate those years, which must have been lonely and difficult.

  Worse, I can’t help but wonder now why exactly Father decided to break the match that his father had arranged. The idealistic answer is love for my mother—a love so grand and passionate that it could not be denied. But I no longer know whether my father has ever been that kind of man.

  One time I asked Auntie Xia how it was possible that Father was paralyzed in the duel. I couldn’t imagine anyone getting the better of him. Auntie Xia sniffed and said that the Pengs were so poor that all they had were their swords, and the only thing they ever did was training at swordsmanship.

  Was there an element of snobbery in Father’s repudiation of the princeling’s aunt? And did he not want to be married to a woman who was a greater sword master than he?

  I wish I could spread wings and fly south to ask him all these questions.

  And I wonder whether I would ever receive any answers, even if I managed to safely return home.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  When we leave, I pass the Buddha statue again. Someone has laid a tiny blossom, the first I’ve seen this year, in its upturned palm. I pick up the pale pink flower and hold it under my nose. It gives no fragrance but that of the freshness of growing things. I put it back and walk on.