Jia Han, dressed in a guard’s uniform, his heart still hammering, called Tian Weiér out from where she had been hiding near the rear gate. The three of them led the guard’s camel away and headed for the exit toward the Gobi.
Beneath their feet, the ground turned back to the hard dry yellow sand. Xiao Nanhui handed the camel’s reins to Jia Han, thought for a moment, and — unable to restrain the question she had long wanted to ask — let it out: “Actually, I’ve always wondered — without a guide, and alone — how did you get through the Sanmu Pass the first time?”
At this question, a peculiar light came into Jia Han’s eyes, and his voice took on a note of excitement. “Even now when I think about it, I find it a little hard to believe. That night I arrived at the Sanmu Pass in the small hours of the morning. My water pouch had been empty for several days, and I was desperately thirsty. I wanted to find an oasis somewhere to see if I could beg a little water, and that was when I ran into a wolf pack.”
Xiao Nanhui listened in silence, not at all surprised. In the Gobi, water was the most precious thing. The wolf packs at night liked to guard water sources and wait for thirsty prey to deliver themselves willingly into their jaws.
“I thought my life was over right then — and then, from somewhere, came the sound of a zither. That music soared so high and far, like a lone eagle passing over a range of peaks, like a dragon gliding over a deep abyss—”
“Wait.” Xiao Nanhui felt something increasingly wrong as she listened. “How could there be zither music in the middle of the Gobi?”
Jia Han grew more animated still. “I thought it strange as well, but what came after was even stranger. The wolf pack seemed to be struck still by that music, not daring to move. Then a black-robed hero appeared as if dropping from the sky, and in an instant of lightning speed sliced off the head of one of the wolves. The rest scattered like startled birds. They say the Sanmu Pass is like the gate of hell — and the nights are said to be especially deserted. Thinking back on it now, perhaps even the heavens were watching over the fate between Weiér and me.”
Xiao Nanhui listened with a growing unease. Something was stirring in the back of her mind, some trail of association she couldn’t quite catch hold of. “You said someone rescued you from the wolf pack — were the zither player and the hero the same person?”
“Not the same. The hero was the hero; the zither player was someone else altogether. In truth, before I saw the zither player, I had assumed all along it would be a white-haired elder. Because the kind of realm expressed in that music — even a zither master past the age of forty seldom achieves it. But when I actually saw the person, I found he was barely past twenty — truly astonishing.”
Xiao Nanhui was listening, and at these words something finally caught. Before her mind’s eye flashed the glimpse of a silhouette on the cliff at the Sanmu Pass that day — and almost on instinct she asked: “Did the person playing the zither have anything on his hands?”
Jia Han paused for a moment, then seemed to remember something and nodded. “He did have something — looked like a string of beads. Come to think of it, zither players generally don’t wear anything on their wrists, since it might interfere with their playing — but this person seemed completely unaffected. I imagine he must have worn them for so long it had become second nature. Oh, and we talked about the art of the zither, and his insights were truly remarkable—”
Whatever he said after that, Xiao Nanhui could no longer really follow.
A young man. Prayer beads on his wrist. And a black-robed fighter of extraordinary skill.
Only one thought occupied her mind: could this really be a coincidence?
But why was he everywhere she turned?!
Perhaps her expression was too tangled to hide, because Jia Han seemed to notice and blinked at her with perfectly guileless eyes. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
She could hardly explain what was wrong. She brushed it off: “Nothing — just found it unusual, and thought about it a bit.” Then, seeing that the Gobi was practically upon them, she stopped walking, considered briefly, and gave her instructions:
“The Sun clan will find out you’ve escaped sooner or later, and they will certainly send people after you. Once you’re through the Sanmu Pass, don’t head straight back to Suyan. The Gobi is dangerous, but it’s also good for hiding in. If you ration your food and water carefully, you can last about half a month. Get through that stretch, and then find a way to go directly to Tong City.”
Tian Weiér looked at Xiao Nanhui once more, seemed to wrestle with something for a moment, then said: “Why don’t — why don’t you come with us?”
Xiao Nanhui shook her head. “I still have other things to do. I can’t leave just yet.”
“But what if they find out we escaped and take it out on you?”
A warmth moved through her chest, and in her mind the image of a certain round, plump silhouette surfaced.
In truth, she had already been planning that once she saw these two safely away, she would find a nearby cave to hide in and wait for an opportunity to follow Pan Meiér when she returned to her settlement. The only thing giving her pause was the thought of Wu Xiaoliu.
She had already let Tian Weiér go. If she too slipped away and disappeared, Wu Xiaoliu would certainly suffer for it.
She smiled and said lightly: “Being a servant means always getting pushed around one way or another. I’m used to it.”
“Thank you.” Tian Weiér suddenly seized Xiao Nanhui’s hand and said quietly: “Actually, I knew from the beginning you weren’t one of our household’s people. Even though I’m the young mistress, I still know the faces of our own servants.”
Xiao Nanhui looked into the large, fawn-like eyes of the rosy-cheeked girl before her, and felt, for a moment, a little flustered.
“As for that — don’t give it another thought. I really only did what little was easy to do.”
Jia Han, following the example of men of the jianghu, clasped his hands together in a salute. “My name is Jia Han, from Wancheng in the north of the river. We owe this young heroine a tremendous debt of gratitude. Should there come a day in the future—”
Xiao Nanhui couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “Never mind the future — if you two don’t leave now, the next shift of guards will come to change posts before long, and everything will be exposed. Then none of us will be going anywhere.”
Tian Weiér gave a solemn nod. She said nothing more in the way of farewell, took Jia Han’s hand, climbed up onto the camel, and the two of them swayed off into the distance.
Xiao Nanhui watched those two awkward figures disappear into the horizon, her expression complicated.
One was the son of a wealthy merchant family; one was the young mistress of a prominent household. From birth they had lived in silks and fine food, with people to wait on their every need. And yet here they were, about to weather the yellow sand with no shelter and no attendants. To look at them, they could barely even manage a camel between them, let alone take care of themselves in such a harsh environment.
Yet the way they looked at each other was so at ease — as if so long as they were together, they would never fear any unknown hardship that might come.
Love. It makes a person lose all reason — and yet, at the same time, makes a person strong.
This kind of feeling, Xiao Nanhui had never experienced for herself.
What she felt for Xiao Zhun held three parts reverent awe, three parts gratitude, two parts painstaking care, and one part cowardice. What remained for the small sweet part — perhaps there wasn’t even one part of that.
She gazed blankly at the sky and the yellow horizon for a while, then turned and walked quickly back toward the Sun estate.