"Your letters were much warmer than this welcome. I'm hurt, Little Mo." Shiyao's velvet voice drifted out of the yurt.
"You read too much into them." Junmo's voice had shed its silk, leaving only cold steel.
Mengzhang edged closer to the entrance. The flaps were lowered; he couldn't see what was happening inside. Junmo had led the copper-haired man into his yurt for a private conversation. So Mengzhang waited outside, chewing idly at a blade of grass as he attempted to eavesdrop. He couldn't help it. Shiyao had a face that could rival Tian'ping's top courtesan.
Shiyao laughed. "You're angry. Why? Because I entertained your precious refugees without your permission? They should be grateful. Not everyone gets to hear Ariq'khan's top musician play."
"You know that was not merely a song. Don't tempt these folks."
"All I did was give them a brief respite from their troubles." Shiyao's voice dipped, the rest of his words lost in a musical murmur.
Mengzhang's face was almost touching the entrance flaps. He shuffled instinctively closer, so close, the fabric tickled his ears. Shifting his head slightly, he adjusted his position to peek through the tiny gap where the fabric flaps divided.
Shiyao's was whispering into Junmo's ears, amber eyes downcast.
"No." Junmo's voice was resolute. He took a step back.
"I helped you keep the boy here. And made sure the rations kept being sent. You didn't need to ask twice. This is how you thank me?" Shiyao mocked.
"I am grateful." Junmo sighed. "Mengzhang was a chess piece that didn't need to be sacrificed. Not when you've already lined the path to Ba'ye's demise."
"Now you're accusing me of deviousness. When I was just fulfilling my assignment. My hands are bound, Junmo. My master made a deal with the capital. Mount Lingyun does not tolerate failure. Unlike your noble Kuang Sect."
"There are other paths."
"Like what? Leave Mount Lingyun? Join Kuang?" Shiyao laughed. "We've both known that was impossible the day my sect picked me off the streets of Tian'ping and left you behind." Bitterness curdled Shiyao's voice. He drew nearer to Junmo, eyes flashing. They were so close, their noses were almost touching. "This face is my boon and my bane. I can never leave Mount Lingyun without being found." A smile curled his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. "Besides, I'm good at what I do. I might as well return and claim the position I deserve."
"What you do doesn't need to involve playing with the lives of innocents. We should protect them. Shield them from being sacrificial pawns in the game of power."
"Is that what you're doing now? Forsaking your sect and your kingdom to be what? A half-qualified physician for these half-breed innocents?" Shiyao hissed.
"All men are equal," Junmo said. "No race is better than the other. Liaotians and Ba'yens, these are just names. Cut us, we bleed the same. You're of two bloods too, Shiyao. You should know that fact as well as I do."
"You say that, but how many can you save without power? You need power to win wars. To protect the ones you love," Shiyao said. "Don't believe me? Why don't we ask General Liao?" He turned amber eyes to the entrance, gazing directly through the gap where Mengzhang was peeking.
"Come in," Junmo said. Gentleness once again coated the iron in his voice.
Mengzhang shuffled into the yurt, stopping awkwardly a few paces in. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to-"
"Oh, you definitely meant to, General Liao." Shiyao rolled his eyes.
"How do you know me?" Mengzhang directed his question at the slender musician.
"Why don't you ask your friend here?" Shiyao tilted his head at Junmo. "I barely get two letters from him a year, and then he suddenly sends three missives in quick succession, imploring me to delay your retrieval to Ariq'khan's main camp."
No wonder. He had wondered why the Ba'yens dared to keep a hostage so loosely tethered.
"Who are you?" Mengzhang glared at Shiyao. "How can you have such power? Why would you help me?"
"Who? I'm just a musician in the Ba'yen court," Shiyao smiled. "But I know people in power. I can make them listen."
His music. That face.
"That doesn't explain why you acceded to Junmo's request."
"Why? Did you want to be sent to Ariq'khan? They don't treat their hostages half as well over there." Shiyao's eyes narrowed in amusement. "Or did you think you would be able to get close enough to assassinate the Ba'yen leader? Win yourself a war that way?"
"Why not? Killing Ariq'khan rips the head off the Ba'yen power structure. His heir is in our hands. His court will fall apart. The war will end."
"And if you die in the process?"
"It's still worth a try."
Shiyao threw a smug glance at Junmo before turning to address Mengzhang. "I'm afraid I've saved you the trouble then. Though it would have been fun to watch you try."
"What do you mean?"
"There's going to be an assassination attempt on Ariq'khan today. The Secondary Chieftains are revolting. It took me a while to lay the threads, but everything is finally in place," Shiyao said. He could have been talking about the weather.
"You're talking about civil war." Junmo's face paled.
"Mmm... Infighting. Best way to keep an enemy busy." Shiyao shrugged. "Apart from Ariq'khan and Nurbolat, no one else has the ability to unite the Ba'ye tribes. His other sons can't hold this empire."
"The violence will spill outwards. The civilians-" A horn's blare swept the air, cutting Junmo's words mid-sentence. Its long wail thinned, dipping into silence before rising again, followed swiftly by another horn in the distance, carrying the news of the Ariq'khan's demise into all corners of his empire.
"Speak of the devil." Shiyao laughed. "Time to head home, General Liao. Before all hell breaks loose in Ba'ye." He waved as he swivelled to face the entrance, striding swiftly towards the doorway. There he stopped, turning to regard Junmo. "I guess you're staying?" His amber eyes were unusually bright.
Junmo nodded. "For now," he said. A golden tide surfaced within his brown eyes, then dimmed, sinking slowly until it disappeared.
Shiyao gave a wry laugh, then turned and left them. It was almost evening. Light dulled within the yurt, throwing half its interior in sullen shadow. The sound of horns blanketed the air, punctuated by the occasional shout of frightened refugees heading back into their tents.
"Is Ariq'khan really dead?" Mengzhang asked.
Junmo nodded. "Shiyao has never failed an assignment." He regarded Mengzhang. "What will you do now?"
Mengzhang paused. This liberation was too sudden. "Go home, I guess." He tightened his right fist, wondering if his freshly healed wrist would be able to wield a weapon. "I wish I had a sabre. You reckon I can steal one off the Ba'yen guard?"
Junmo was riffling through a medical supplies box from a low cabinet. He extracted a roll of bandage, then wrapped Junmo's right hand securely in a half-splint, leaving the fingers free. "This will provide support if you need to fight. Though I hope you choose not to."
"...Thanks..." Mengzhang said, curling his fingers.
Junmo headed to another shelf, whipping away its cloth cover to reveal a darkwood guqin lacquered with russet patches. He removed the guqin, placing the seven-stringed zither carefully on the ground. Reaching once more into the depths of the shelf, he retrieved a longsword sheathed in a slate-grey scabbard. Its handguard was shaped like a dragon's head, adorned with two corals beads where the eyes should be. "Take this," he said, handing the sword to Mengzhang.
"What about you?" Mengzhang asked. The sword was lighter than his sabre. He went through a few stances, relishing the feel of a weapon in his hand.
"I don't need it now," Junmo said.
"Will you be returning to the Liao Kingdom? I'll return it to you." Mengzhang cast a glance at the guqin on the ground. "That's a beautiful instrument. I didn't know you played."
Junmo smiled. He picked up the guqin, giving it a light caress before stowing it carefully away again. "You play too. I felt the calluses on your fingers." His eyes fell upon Mengzhang's hand gripping the longsword. "You've gotten your peace now. Perhaps you'll have time to play again."
"Perhaps," Mengzhang said. "I've always thought I would give my life to war. But now..."
"You stand at the edge of a path. They told you not to leave it, not at any cost." Junmo's voice was very quiet, his eyes distant, as if he was reciting lines from a long lost memory. He walked towards Mengzhang. "You've followed it thus far, and now you step off it. This is where the real journey begins."*
"The real journey..." The image of a crossroad surfaced in Mengzhang's mind, split into paths he had long forsaken. He saw a path where music made peace, a path where swords were not used for bloodshed. Paths he had severed at age fifteen when he embarked upon the path of war. Were there other options?
"Find your own path, Mengzhang." Junmo patted him fondly on the shoulder. "And if you ever pass Mount Yinyue, please head to Kuang Sect there and help me return this sword to my master. Tell him that I haven't found the answer yet. That I'll return when I figure it out."
"The answer?"
"I'm seeking my path too." Junmo flashed a wan smile, then steered him gently out the door. "Safe travels." The entrance flaps fluttered close, shuttering him from the rest of the world.
"Thank you!" Mengzhang yelled. The horns had stopped mourning. Dusk settled upon the compound, crimson rays bleeding into straw-yellow ground. The guards following him had disappeared. A lone horse stood at the corner of the compound; it was already saddled. Two Ba'yen riders lay crumpled beside it. He wondered if Shiyao had disposed of them on his way out.
Mount Yinyue. Kuang Sect, he thought as he mounted his steed. But first, home.
Mengzhang urged his horse into a canter, heading into the fast falling night.
—End —
*This was originally an entry for a short-story contest. The entry prompt is bolded.
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Author's Note:
Thank you for reading till the end!
Please refer to the Glossary if you would like to understand the naming traditions and meanings behind the key characters' names.
Pipa 【琵琶】: A traditional Chinese Lute with four strings. It has a pear-shaped wooden body and frets that range from 12 to 31. It is played by plucking at the strings. (refer to video below to get an idea of how it sounds)
Guqin 【古琴】: A plucked seven-stringed Chinese zither. It has a mellow tone, somewhat similar to that of a cello. Traditionally favoured by Chinese scholars and literati and is often referred to as the 'instrument of the sages'. (refer to video below to get an idea of how it sounds)