Shao laid lazily on the back of his sedan, watching the landscape zipping by while his mind floated into space. The sound of horse footfalls and the sight of hundreds of guards hardly made him feel safe. In fact, quite the opposite.
Shao didn't have to second guess what else the Emperor wished him to see him for. It must be something to do with the throne; he was sure of it. Maybe, the Emperor would strip him of his title, privilege, and wealth―worst, exile him and make it an excuse to name Zetian, his daughter, as an Empress in front of the council. But considering the kind of creditable deceit he was playing by faking her sister's death and bringing the country to the heat of war, he thought those punishments were nothing but well-deserved.
He wondered what his mother would think if she were still alive.
"You spoil that boy, Shin-Ye," his father had always admonished his mother for being too soft-hearted to him. But his mother never listened. Spoiling him was one of the very few things she dared to do against her husband's will.
"She was a hard-headed woman…. borderline unswerving," said a few older maids in the court. "But admirable in many ways."
He couldn't believe a word they said. Being opinionated and audacious was undoubtedly a far cry from his submissive, obedient mother. Perhaps her marriage to his father had softened her bone and taught her the value of complacency? Who knew?
"I will never let you wed our daughter to that wicked man, Wei Zhang!" He caught his parents one night in a fierce argument. It was then he realized his mother still had some semblance of opinion and defiance, how short-lived they were.
"You think this is what I want?" Wei Zhang raged. "I envision a lot of good things for our daughter, Shin-Ye. I wish her to find a suitable match, a man who could give her all the happiness, riches, and power. Marrying the Great Khan is never one of them! But how could I, as a Prince, watch this country heading to her demise because of this?"
Although Shao understood his father didn't make this arrangement just for his own benefit, he still couldn't agree with him single-sidedly sacrificing his sister, even for the greater good of many.
"Promise me that you will take good care of your sister, Shao Wei," was one of the very last words his mother breathed. It was one moment that had defined him―to stand for what he thought was right.
Just like Mulan.
Shao realized it's been a while since he was infatuated with Fa Mulan.
It had been increasingly evident for the past few weeks, but he was too wrapped up in his own worry over his absurd dealing with his uncle to spare it much reflection.
During his days in the palace, he regarded women as a complete waste of time, as fragile, useless little things who cared only for make-up, jewelry, getting married...and girly things like that. If he ever saw a need for a woman, it was, well... procreation and pleasing man in bed. But he won't say it aloud. Mulan would probably have him decapitated, she would have.
Mulan had broken all the stereotypes of girls he had in mind. She had shown that women were more than just subtle grace and seductive charms, that women were more than objects to be relished by men.
Throughout the months, she had broken the boundary of what had been acceptable for women to do. She had shown that women could be a creature of strength and substance, of bravery and heroism.
There were days he caught himself sighing as the morning sun glinted off her neatly bunned hair, her eyes gleaming in the wan golden light of early morning as she ran through her Tai Chi routine.
But before long, he immediately realized why lusting after her is a terrible idea. One, she was married. Two, she would castrate him. Three, Shang would castrate him, kill him, and do horrible things to his corpse.
He shuddered at the thought, lustful conscience successfully obliterated.
Why did the first girl he had been genuinely interested in for years also have to be someone he didn't think he could have much of a chance with?
The sun rose slowly casting a soft golden hue filtering through the misty air of the forest. Altansanrai rubbed her eyes, listening to the quiet chirping of birds humming their welcome to a brand new day.
"Morning, Princess," a familiar voice called. A towering figure approached from the opposite side where she was.
Here we go again, Altan berated. She knew someone had been tailing her since she left the Hun's encampment. At first, she was trying to shake the meddler off until one of the nights this stranger killed a pack of hungry wolves that nearly devoured her as their dinner. She was secretly hoping her hero in shining armor was Hayabusa, Sukh, or Batu―one of these older warriors would be helpful in her journey ahead. Alas, he was...
"Morning, Princess," he said a pitch louder.
Altan chose not to return the greeting. But the guy wasn't at all offended. In fact, she could hear his silent chuckle. She turned her back against him.
"Do you have any food?" he asked politely. Seeing his question fall on deaf ears, he continued. "I haven't seen you eat since last night. Aren't you hungry?"
Altan was slightly taken aback but still chose to ignore him.
Timur was the youngest among the Huns' inner circle warriors. He was an orphan who was taken under her father's wing, the same way Shan-Yu was adopted by her grandfather. It was a great tactic practiced by the clan to raise a warrior and groom them to be loyal and entirely devoted to the throne.
In time, Timur turned out to be another of Khan's best investments. He was sharp, cunning, and agile. When he was sixteen, he was already a head taller than his peers, making his image far more menacing for his opponent. He fought like a wild territorial beast, unleashing his raw, unbridled power on his prey. In the battle, he would slay most enemies second to Shan-Yu. Everyone could see he was a promising and efficient fighter, which was why he rose to the rank without the need for apprenticeship, unlike any other fighter. In fact, he received direct tutelage from the Great Khan himself.
From this angle, it was actually a perfect coincidence to have him as her travel companion. However, his skill and intellect were often blamed as the catalyst for his arrogant attitude. She had seen how much irritating he was to his seniors. She wondered whether she would grow insane first enduring his relentless hubristic behavior before she even arrived in Chang'an.
"So you have no more food?" he repeated when her answer didn't come as quickly.
"What do you think? Do you think I look like a girl who keeps food?" she snapped at him. Three days of massive snowstorm meant her journey had taken longer than she had planned. And the thick blanket of snow combined with the steeply declining temperature made hunting her dinner more like a chore.
Timur shrugged, eyeing the bag on her waist. "You looked like a girl who might have some honey bread on her."
"Are you calling me fat?" she asked him, scandalized.
"No," Timur replied, and a mischievous grin graced his face. "I'm calling you sweet."
She crossed her arm, glaring at him. "Don't make me dislike you even more."
His golden pupil twinkled. "Don't judge the book by its cover. After all, we hardly know each other."
Timur was already fourteen when she was born. He spent his days hunting and training in the wilderness. She'd rarely seen him. She shuddered when the dark look in his golden eyes reminded her a lot of Shan-Yu. And she didn't want to be reminded there were hundreds of horrible things a lone man did to a woman in a vast, unknown wilderness.
Altan gritted her teeth but knew quite well aggravating him was perhaps not a good idea. "Whatever," she huffed without any tone of fondness and picked up her pack, and began walking away.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked somewhat smugly.
"Of course not!"
"Relax…," he slurred, retaining that teasing smile "You are Shan-Yu's future bride. What would happen to me if I mess around with you? Huh? I'm not that stupid."
She growled and stomped away as quickly as possible away from him.
Timur trod to match her speed. "In all seriousness, I think we need to go to the nearest village where we can buy some food rather than trying to hunt some elusive rabbit." He pointed towards the direction where the open plain led to a footpath. "The snow is too thick and we…―"
"I'm not sure who you think you are barking orders at me," she interjected, purposely turning in a different direction.
"Listen to me," he grabbed her hand with enough force to make her look at him. "You may not want me here. I get it. But you can't be alone either. You are going to go deep into the enemy's territory. It's dangerous out there for a Huns warrior, let alone a Hun Princess."
She broke free of his grip, standing defiantly. "Are you saying I am weak?"
He returned her dire stare. "You can call yourself whatever you want. What I'm saying is, you can do with a little help from your fellow countrymen. Four eyes are better than two."
"Well, two brains clearly worse than one."
He frowned, looking at the scroll in her hand and chose to change the subject. "Who wrote that map anyway? You seem to trust it so much."
She walked away again instead of answering him.
"Oh sweet ancestor, are they Chinese?" A naked surprise on his face. "Since when are we hiring Chinese men as our intel? Is your father aware of this? Have you consulted Sukh or Batu?" he ranted from behind her. "What if this is a trap? How… how can you be this… gullible?"
"Thank you for the enlightenment. This mission is definitely off to a good start," she declared, continuing to stomp away from him. "I'm done with you."
"Wait… look, I'm sorry," he said, chasing her. "But must you do this alone? Let's think of a safer option, maybe like hiring…a hitman or something?" This time he sounded genuinely concerned.
"No," she retorted stubbornly.
"Seriously?" he said, both with admiration and disbelief.
She spun around, facing him. "If you want to go, you should go back now. The road back to Mongolia is that way," she jabbed her finger to the far right.
"You honestly think you have a gut….. to kill?"
That stopped her on her track, he turned to him, determined to end this obnoxious conversation. "Let me remind you that I've been in a war before."
"That's different," he said, persisting and walking alongside her again. "Killing armed soldiers in the heat of battle. They know you are coming for them… and so do you." He eyed her seriously. "But, killing someone in his bedroom is something else. It's making you… a murderer."
Altan tried not to look affected by Timur's astute remarks. It was such a strong, harsh statement, but it was true. For the first time in her life, she would intentionally end someone's life. She tried to appease herself and find justification by thinking how many lives would be saved by killing this man, that she did it out of a pressing situation―to protect her people, for the glory of her country―yet, she still felt terrible. No matter how she tried to undertone or dilute its meaning, in reality, it still involved taking someone's precious life―she refused to call it another word regardless of how noble her intention was.
She took a deep breath, willed herself for whatever was ahead. There was no turning back. "If that makes me a murderer, so be it."
It was late when Shang finally made it to the First Batallion encampment on his way back home. It had been a few months since the last time he saw his father, yet it felt like years. A lot had happened.
"Welcome Captain Li, I believe your father is expecting you," greeted Lieutenant Ming as he directed Shang's attention towards one of the makeshift tents. "Let me take you there."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Shang returned the salute.
"You looked well," he said, glancing toward Shang as they walked side by side. "How's training the recruit?"
"Interesting," Shang said, couldn't find a positive enough word to describe the experience.
"I heard about that ambush by the Huns. Glad you are fine."
"Oh, that's our usual job hazard is it not?" Shang said, returning the sentiment. "How's the situation in the frontline?" Shang enquired.
"We are ordered to be on high alert. There were twelve attacks on nearby villages so far. They burnt them to the ground." Lieutenant Ming shook his head. "But thankfully our soldiers were able to claim them back not long after. But the damage had been done, the souls that were lost... it's awful. I hope the Emperor will put this to an end sooner than later."
"We are hopeful, aren't we all?" Shang saluted as he excused himself into the tent.
"Father," he greeted as he let himself in. His father was sitting on the mat next to his makeshift bed, surrounded by multitudes of scrolls and maps. Volumes of war stratagems were left splaying half-opened.
"Shang!" Li Jiang lowered the scroll he was reading. "Nice to see you, Son," he began, inviting Shang to sit on the mat next to him. "Tea?" He raised his cup.
"Thank you, Father. I just have plenty on the previous pit stop. I may end up running into an overdose if I have one more."
His father chuckled silently. "More for me then."
Shang blinked, slightly surprised at the unlikelihood of hearing his father crack a joke. But the change was definitely welcomed.
"I heard the Emperor had issued a writ," Shang told him.
"Ah, yes." He rummaged through the pile of scrolls and handed over a formal-looking conscript. "Arrived this morning. He believed we couldn't tolerate this insult anymore," he told him, highlighting the fact that the Huns had been actively performing the ambush. "We have to retaliate."
"So," Shang rolled back the script after scanning. "You are going… tomorrow?"
"Yes, before sunup."
Like many wars before, Shang knew the outset. He wouldn't see his father for months before the situation was finally resolved. "Send my regards to your mother, will you?"
"Of course," he said, nothing out of the usual. "Oh...Prince Shao Wei sent his greetings to you. Also, he told me specifically to inform my immediate family to be vigilant and scrupulous of any oddities."
His father smiled. "Has he been on the Emperor's bad side again, hasn't he? Even dragging you into the hole this time."
Shang rubbed his forehead, returning the smile. "It's just a precaution."
"He can be thoughtless. Inconsiderate. Vain. Childish. Unreliable. Arrogant...―" his father added with a hint of humor.
This time Shang retaliated back. "Father, you flatter him." And they allowed themselves to laugh at Shao's expense, perhaps just this once.
"Father," Shang addressed this time with seriousness. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Son."
"You are a good soldier. What if the person you've vowed to serve with your life suddenly...turns…. Bad."
His father cocked his head. "You mean, someone like…"
"The Emperor."
Shang could see his father's Adam's apple jerk like he didn't anticipate what he said. "Isn't power and ambition could blind any man to the real world around him?"
His father let a slow breath. And like many other judicious men, he considered his answer carefully before saying anything. "If you asked those Huns, they probably saw our Emperor as a predatory throne raider, looking for a way to beat their Khan out for power." He regarded Shang with his dark, wizened eyes. "But again, in any war, there are heroes on both sides. There are no good guys and bad guys, there's just people―people with different wishes and wants."
Shang was silently listening. His father had always been wise. Despite their minimum verbal communication, he had led and directed him in the most selfless and mature way. He had taught him to be trustworthy and humble and put the needs of others before himself.
"Are you saying we need to consider both sides of the story?"
"That would be the most ideal." He poured himself another cup of tea. "But in most cases... such clarification can be often impossible. We are Chinese after-all, our mind and loyalty are biased to certain unconscious preconception that has been ingrained in our blood. It's inescapable."
Shang rubbed his chin. "What do you suggest we should do?"
"Keep on doing what you think is right," Li Jiang said almost immediately. "Not that I'm endorsing the idea we should lay our loyalty and service blindly. History showed that riches and promises of limitless power had blinded so many good men and turned them into something they should not. And when you think that happened, you must decide where you stand. It won't be easy, Son. But again... it's never easy to do what's right." Again, his opinion showed a great deal of his inner strength.
"So, it's okay to change our mind?" It was hard not to sound hopeful. It may sound downright ridiculous, but his father's seal of approval was the most crucial element in his life.
His father nodded, a small, curious frown forming. "Why you ask anyway?"
Shang blinked, his brain scrambling for a logical reply. "No, it's just... it's just a strange dream I had. Maybe drinking too much Oolong did funny things to my head."
Thankfully his father seemed to be satisfied with his answer.
"Li Shang," Li Jiang said again, brows creased. "I owe the Son of Heaven a great deal, and I've vowed to protect him with my life...But he doesn't own my integrity."
Shang stared at him, noticing a strange edge in his advice. It almost sounded like... his father was confessing something.
"I understand, Father." Shang decided he would have to wait for another day to ask him. He had another pressing matter to do on his list, secretarial paperwork, a few bureaucratic errands, and so on. His father's schedule won't be much different. Shang stood and dusted his trousers off before bidding his father farewell.
"Oh yes, I want you to have this Shang." He put it simply as he handed a small parchment into Shang's grasp. The hint of 'last will' was almost suiting to the occasion, but Shang swiftly tossed the thoughts aside. His father had safely returned from war many times over, how could this be any different?
"Thank you, Father. May your mission be successful," Shang regarded him with a final bow.
His father patted his shoulder and Shang could hear a prideful smile behind his voice. "Son, promise me one thing. Whatever happens, you will stay who you are―not a perfect soldier―but a good man."
After nearly three weeks of intense medication and attentive nurturing, Mulan's wound healed speedily. After the Huns' ambush, it was decided that all soldiers were allowed to take two weeks off before returning to the battlefront.
Taking the back alley into the village to avoid a crowd, Mulan studied herself on the reflective surface of the pond, noting the obvious bags under tired eyes, darker facial complexion and the modest muscle which began to form in exchange for her curve.
It had been several hours since she'd last worn regular, non-protective attire.
Though Mulan had quite a toned figure before the training, she'd never had this kind of body, never needed this kind of strength or agility. And she was very much aware her meticulous mother-in-law would never understand the benefit of such quality at the cost of her feminine allure.
Mushu had given his unsolicited fashion opinion and Mulan had opted for a soft rose ruqun (Mushu told her red was far too aggressive), plain and simple, with a swath of delicate, floaty organza on the waist. When she slipped into her dress, she was grateful for the sash. The ruqun sat awkwardly on her shoulders―just a little too tight in some places, too loose in others.
Though she enjoyed the protective nature and the snugness of her father's battle armor or the convenience of the army's pragmatic fashion, she had missed the pleasure of dressing up properly.
The change was nice, refreshing in a way that she rarely experienced these days. But Mulan decided not to wear a qipao or anything with a generous opening that would easily reveal the numerous scars she earned during the training. Thankfully, the cold December weather disguised his ever-present need to shield her skin from the world under a cloak.
Mushu immediately pointed out that in order to secure a convincing womanly disguise, she had to erase all war-related physical attributes, so off they went to a beauty parlor, hoping for a complete renovation.
Mulan had been under the illusion that she was, if not a passable higher than average, at least tolerable to look at. This myth was quickly dispelled by the first (and last) beauty parlor she went into―who had the nerve to admonish her for her dulled hair and her overly tanned skin.
"This, Darling, may be a bit hard to be rectified," one of the older women said.
"It...it is?" Mulan panicked. Not a stitch of makeup on her face and she hadn't even seen a shower since yesterday morning.
"But fret not, nothing a little makeup couldn't do."
After a long ranting over her split ends and dryness under her eyes, they set to work on the apparently dubious prospect of transforming her into something presentable. This, as it turned out, required a gratuitous amount of hair-pulling and eye-poking as well as a sort of chemical debriding of her face.
At the last second, she'd opted out of wearing her usual chest binding and applied a generous amount of face paint to conceal her dark complexion. However, she really couldn't decide what to do with her hair, which was visibly shorter than before.
"How's this look?" she asked the Dragon. She had tried to pin her hair to the side, securing it with the plum blossom clip that belonged to her late mother.
Mushu tapped his chin, looking thoughtful. "Like a nest of spiders with very short legs."
"Ok," she said, somewhat expecting Mushu's unhelpful reply. "That's good enough."
After a further twenty minutes of hard work adding little details like a dab of perfume, mascara, and earrings, she looked like a decent married woman who cared about nothing but the pleasure of her domestic life.
"Wait, wait, wait," Mushu slipped and rummaged through her small but overpacked sack.
"Here!" He beamed at Mulan, brandishing a pot of lip paint. "We can't just.."
"Mushu," Mulan snapped, annoyed.
"Baby girl," Mushu answered, equal vexation shining through in his voice. "I just want you to look your best―your mother-in-law is at home! She didn't want to see t…―"
"Fine," Mulan grumbled but did as she was asked. She knew Mushu had a point. No one should know the life she had led for these couple of months.
"Baby Girl, don't forget your other sword," Mushu reminded her when they were about to leave the establishment. Mulan blushed when the owner of the parlor raised her brows questioningly looking at this strange young lady who was ten shades darker than other women, came dragging an armor, and carried way too much weaponry. Was she a weapon dealer or something?
'I'm sure Shang won't miss his sword," Mulan said as they rode on Khan to drop him off with Ling (because it would be endless questioning if both Mulan and Ping were seen with the same horse).
Mushu shook his head, "You seem to fail to notice that Shang likes to express his affection to people with gifts instead of words."
True, Shang was a creature of few words and seemed to prefer action to explicit admission. In recent months, he had bestowed her books and poems because he knew she wouldn't be able to appreciate other forms of more lavish tribute. While she liked jade rings or ivory hair-comb, accepting such intricately curated gifts would only content her for a little while. For her, things didn't have to be expensive to be nice and enjoyable.
"It's just it feels odd that someone would give you a sword as a present," Mushu said, eyeing her from his side. "He seems to know you a lot better now."
"Maybe," she said, trying not to think too much of what that implied.
To avoid unwanted attention, they prowled through the back alley instead of through the town. Through the secluded aisles, she noticed a few promiscuous women flashing their taunting smiles and voluptuous bosom toward the passerby without any reservation or discretion. And It was barely noon. Had the authority never set a rule that stated what time of the day this kind of shameful establishment began to operate?
Mulan gave a little gasp when she realized a bunch of men from her village she recognized were there, sneaking serendipitously through the gaudy door. She drew her face back into the hood to obscure her face in the shadow. It helped her to feel comfortably anonymous as they meandered through the street of brothels.
"You… you know them?" Mushu said, evaluating the vindictive look that glazed her eyes.
"Just some," Mulan said. It came out a lot more spiteful than she intended to be. It all made sense. Her village was too small to have brothels and this place must've been the closest and most accessible.
"Don't judge them just yet―they are just men after all. Infidelity or not, they'll all come here eventually. All the thousands of years of my day serving your ancestor, I've learned that it's hardly a question of faithfulness or purity. This is about men and their basic needs," she heard Mushu's verbose remark. "They can not help it!"
"Yes, I get it," Mulan replied without meaning a word she said. Nevertheless, she could not help but wonder if anyone she knew had ever set foot in those musky rooms. Had Chien-Po? Had Ling?
Had Shang?
Ever since knowing Shang more intimately as a friend, there was a growing spark of curiosity about what kind of life her mysterious husband led before they met. He might be a good, straight-arrow kind of man now, but had he always been this way? She recounted Shao told her of "his first" experience in bed. And somewhere in her mind agreed that Shang wasn't as near a novice as herself.
But there was no way Shang would ever share any salient story of his past. At home, he had never told her about his working life, his friends, his passion….trivial things, let alone tell her he had visited one of these places. If he did, it would explain why he was so good and confident in bed. She pictured him sneaking down this darkened street, destined for some slattern. Her stomach churned. But in spite of that, she peered closer.
The first thing that hit her was an asphyxiating smell of cheap cologne. The room was small, dimly lit with a few candles. A four-poster bed was set in the middle of the room. All its curtains were drawn, but the gossamer material was enough to reveal the silhouette of whoever was inside. Scattered rose petals on the shimmery gold bed sheet added a final touch in exuding a raw sense of intimacy.
A faint outline of a reclining figure was visible behind the gauzy drapes. While on the bed, she could clearly see a silhouette of a woman, with ample bosom, a tiny waist, stretching her leg languorously across the sheets. She made a movement like she was getting out of her robes, even taking off her chest binding, before beckoning the enraptured man with the lazy gesture of her hand. The man, who happened to be with imprinting stature like Shang, seemed reluctant. But it only took him a gentle tug on his hand, which she placed on her chest. Then, everything seemed to propel faster right after. He leaped on top of her ravenously and the woman feigned a pleasurable moan. Mulan could feel a spike go through her heart in alarming precision.
"Hey," Mushu's voice halted her. "What are you doing?"
"Ugh, nothing?" She said, quickly moving back to the trodden path they were on.
Mushu scoffed sarcastically, shaking his head. "I know what you are thinking, Girl. In fact, I know what every wife is thinking. Let me tell you this," he said firmly. "Ignorance is bliss. Why burden yourself with the knowledge that you can do nothing about? Huh?"
Mushu was right. It's not like she could stop him from going there. It was sort of expected that soldiers would come to these places to relieve their sexual drive in the absence of their wives. And the woman? She made her living off her body and used her beauty as a weapon. She didn't need to envy that. But it was also part of human nature to seek the truth, even when it would rip their heart to shreds.
They turned a few corners and after a few miles outside the town, Mulan saw General Li's magnificent country house made it into view. Although Mulan had never thought she would ever call this house a home, she realized that despite everything and to a certain extent...she was. This house, which had been a stranger until almost months ago, had become more of a home to her than she could have thought. It was a beautiful house, she had to admit.
She had become friendly with the staff, especially Mei Lan, who kept telling her small anecdotes about Shang's childhood. Mei Lan was an old woman with a vibrant personality and infectious laughter. She was a true gem. How on earth she was insufferably loyal to a strict, steely person like Shang and Yue was a mystery to her.
She ducked through the archway of the garden, which felt warped and mutated after all these months of spending her life under the open sky. Spaces that she felt big, imposing, and lonely, were now felt small and cramped in direct comparison to the communal sleeping tent and the training courtyard.
"Good thing Shang needs to visit his father for a couple of days before returning home, otherwise how are we going to explain his wife is missing and returns looking like she had been doing intensive tanning treatment," Mushu commented nonchalantly.
"I can say that I've been working in the rice field."
"Except that your father nor your father-in-law has rice field."
"...Or for my neighbors'."
"...Which also have no field."
Mulan sighed berating Mushu's non-supportive response. "Ok, so what is your suggestion?"
"Maybe you've been to the beach."
"Mushu, for the record, the closest beach to us is a two weeks journey away. Besides, it won't explain the scars."
"Aha! Just say you've been involved with a mafia scion who then conned you into joining their operation. You can't say no because otherwise, you'll lose your head."
Mulan grimaced at that. "I think I stick with farming excuses."
"Hmm…" Mushu ignored her last rebuttal and paced around her like a strict teacher. "You need to do serious body treatment there, Girl," he pointed out. "For your husband's sake."
"Uh-huh," Mulan said easily.
"You don't want him snacking on those forbidden places, right? Imagine, in a couple of days he is coming home, missing his comfy bed and his wife and this is your chance to blow his socks off!" Mushu gushed.
"Mushu, let me assure you, first: blowing anyone's socks or undergarment in that respect is nowhere on my agenda, second: I doubt an emotionally crippled man like Shang will show his missed anyone!"
"Emotionally what?...Geez, Girl..." Mushu laughed, shaking his head, surprised at her spontaneity and bluntness. "Sometimes I wonder, what did he do in his previous life to deserve a sarcastic, sharp tongue spouse like you, huh?"
"It was an accurate assessment," Mulan defended.
"Fine. So now, what are you going to wear?"
Mulan smiled, loving how Mushu could go from one topic to another with no hint of transition.
"I don't know yet," she said honestly. "He won't be home until a couple of days, Mushu. I don't have to figure it out now."
"Don't wear dresses with high slits, it gives too much sleep-with-me-vibe. It would make you look desperate and easy. We don't want that. We want Shang to beg for you."
Mulan rolled her eyes. "Mushu, I have no intention to make Shang beg for anything!"
But the Dragon babbled on. "And please, for the love of the ancestors, don't wear anything with bling."
"Why is that? Does the reflective surface suggest vanity?"
"No, they are just….ugly."
She laughed, "Don't worry Mushu, I only wear things that are practical and serviceable."
"Yeah, I guess you are right," he said distantly. "There is no way your emotionally crippled husband notices any change of your looks, skin tone, attire, or whatever except… if you came home with no head," he said with emphasis.
They both laughed at their terrible joke.
Despite her disagreement with Timur's idea, Altan was grateful Timur had made a unanimous decision and they ended up stopping in the nearby village where there was warm food and a comfortable place to rest.
"You seem to know this area well," Timur remarked when she immediately picked a cave next to a large clearing, on the outskirts of the village.
"Yes, I came here once when I was younger during the winter solstice. The star was so magnificent that I promise myself I will come again to see it." She pointed towards the hill. "That is the best spot. My father and I camped there the last time."
They inspected the cave, making sure there was no ferocious wild animal nesting or hibernating inside. Once they did, Timur cracked his aching joints, and laid dry leaves on the floor of the cave to make a nice comfortable place to sleep before returning to the map. They were about three days away from Forbidden City, and there was no room for error―the timing was absolutely crucial.
"I still can't believe this. Is it really that easy to get into the Forbidden City?" came Timur's voice from the far end of the cave as he read the guard's rota and their break-in plan for the umpteenth time.
"Shao said he had made this plan idiot-proof," she blurted.
Timur raised his brow and muttered, "And we are just the idiots to prove it. Great!" And swept his hand in theatrical motion. "What we are about to experience is the future of espionage!"
She rolled her eyes at Timur's hereditary cynicism towards all things Shao Wei. "He meant that this plan is made to be simple to carry out."
"You should've hired a hitman," he reiterated what he said yesterday.
"I told you many times―that's not happening!" she snapped, but this time without venom. "Now, are you going to help me or not?"
"Fine….fine…." He held his hand up. "But you need to let me into the Forbidden City first. I'll let you know when it is safe to get in."
"You still don't believe the map is accurate?"
Timur chuckled lightly. "Have you not heard what Sukh, Batu, Hayabusa talked about behind Shan-Yu's back?"
Altan pressed her lips. He knew what Timur meant very well. Although the Huns warriors had worked coherently as a unified unit for a few long decades, there was clearly some sentiment and opinion that best be kept personal. And there was always a secret that was best left untold.
"Never believed in anyone, Princess. Let alone a Chinese man."
"I feel sorry for you," she retorted sardonically. "Not all Chinese are bad people. Shao Wei is a good man. One day if he led the Chinese, he promised to leave us alone. He would never hurt…―"
"Oh no!" Timur feigned a surprise. "Don't tell me you have fallen head over heels with this scoundrel?"
She clenched her jaw, glaring at him. He laughed when her silence admission confirmed his suspicion. "I just know how careless and gullible a woman can be," Timur added unhelpfully. "Especially when they are…. In love."
"I'm not in love!"
His grin widened. "Have you told him how you feel?"
She glared at him and replied in a frigid voice. "That's none of your business."
"Has he promised you that someday you and he will rise in power and live happily ever after? How original," he said sarcastically. "You know there is no place for a Hun woman on a Chinese throne. I am sure he knows that" he babbled on. "He is just making use of you."
"You don't understand. We've been friends for so long!"
"A friend?" he called, shaking his head. "A friend who manipulates your feelings for his own benefit? That's cruel. Now tell me, when is Prince Shao Wei going to kill Shan-Yu or the Khan in return?" He smirked seeing she couldn't come up with a spontaneous answer. "Just as I suspected. That dirty scumbag."
"No! Shao is not…―"
"What if he claimed the Mongol throne and took it not for you… but for himself?" he cut her.
Her hand locked in fist. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to punch those lies out of his mouth. "Stop it! He isn't..―"
"What if he likes someone else? Perhaps his own countrymen, someone more like-minded to him and more agreeable to the taste of his citizens?"
At that moment Altan turned to glass. Timur may as well slide a dagger to her heart. What made it hurt the most was because it was true. What if Shao only saw her as a friend and nothing more?
"Can't you see? Your loyalty to him is terribly misplaced!"
She bristled as if trying to avert those metaphorical daggers from ripping her heart to pieces. "Don't you dare!"
"Misplaced," he continued unrepentantly, "but honorable. I hope he is as honored by your loyalty as he should be. I would if you were that loyal to me." Instantaneously her anger turned to sob.
"I…" Her heart, which until that moment was full of fury and hope, fizzled down to her stomach like a feather in a rainstorm. She suddenly felt really tired, as if all of her energy had been drained.
"Fine," she said, wiping her tears with her sleeve ungracefully. "I am a weak-minded woman who is easily used by someone else. Happy now?"
He shook his head, looking incredulous but mostly… disappointed. "This is not who you are..."
"That's because you don't know me!" she seethed, clearly frustrated. And she thought he was going to roar back at her with another sharp, outrageous rebuttal, but he didn't. Instead, he crouched in front of her and spoke to her in such gentleness she had never thought he was capable of.
"I'm going to tell you what you are not," he told her firmly. "Weak. You are not weak. You are our Princess. Our leader. You are capable and you are smart. And you can bring us, the Huns, to rise above the Chinese and out of this war. But this is not the way. I don't want you'll die a wasteful death."
"And then what? I already signed my destiny to be the bride of Shan-Yu. And then I've given him my throne! I will watch him rule over me and my people. Do you think that is the kind of life I am looking forward to?" she spat.
"And whose fault is that?" Timur was equally incensed. "You colluded with that Chinese Prince. You gave your throne in exchange for his stupid life! You sealed your own fate!" Annoyance colored his voice. "And now you think you've done your country good by doing this?"
"Of course!" she cried, equally desperate and appalled by her countryman's lack of understanding. "Why do you think I've been rebelling against my father and establishing a guerrilla movement?"
Because you are by nature, stubborn, he wanted to say but thought it was better to keep his opinion to himself. However, Altan could well read his silent thoughts.
"I despise my father… I hate Shan-Yu… but I am much rather seeing my country led by him than that Chinese Emperor Xiongnu! But do you honestly think we would ever win the war fair and square? No! We are only a race while they have built themselves an empire. We are busy hunting and surviving while they are busy conquering and expanding. We stand a little chance against them. So let me be! Let me be in love even with that scoundrel. Let me trust him. Let me believe in this hope… this dream….just this once! Even if this means death!"
Timur sat there in silence, the look of realization and shock colored his face before it all transformed into anger and grief. Yes, the Huns had small victories here and there, but the Mongols could never hope to challenge Chinese expansive empire's strength and manpower, not after decades of their constant domination over neighboring kingdoms. If they were to win, it would have to be won by sneaking a blade into their enemy's Achilles heels, and this crooked Chinese Prince had offered them the chance.
He suddenly straightened up, a new determination shone up his face. "Here, let me carry that for you," he said, taking his own pack and offering to take hers too.
She tilted her head. "Wait, I thought we were staying here for the night?"
"Change of plan," he put it simply and turned around towards the cave mouth.
"Are you…? We'll camp… elsewhere?"
He only signaled her to follow him.
"We will see the stars, up on that hill."
One very last time.
The next day, both Hun warriors headed toward Xi'an. On the way, they rescued a man, a peach farmer, from being mugged by a group of bandits. The farmer had nothing to offer as a form of gratitude but insisted on sharing his transport. They arrived in the city half a day early as a result.
In Xi'an, the winter solstice celebration was on the way albeit wasn't as grand and lavish as a year earlier. Mr. Lu, the peach farmer, urged them to join him. "We will dance, eat, drink and be merry!" he enticed. "Isn't that the best way to welcome strangers?"
Altan seemed to hesitate but Timur, after days of sleeping rough, couldn't pass the chance for free alcohol and food.
Within minutes, a few ladies and men ushered them and promised to loan suitable celebratory garments. He hadn't seen her since.
He was right to feel worried. But the overwhelming amount of rice wine distracted him, and the Chinese men really were quite interested in him.
The whisper stilled the hall before he knew the source. Turning from his new friends and acquaintances to follow the sweep of admiring eyes, he saw the figure of the Princess hurrying up the wooden stairs with a bunch of other maidens.
His heart jumped momentarily closing his throat. Gone was the grief-stricken girl, the drawn, stoic feature of a woman bound to make her way through a torturous life. In her place stood a vivacious girl dressed in a shimmering ruqun that belonged to the fairytale of a foreign country, the maturity of life sparkling in her eyes alone. The hair that had threaded itself vividly through his imagination was drawn back but uncovered, allowing a small, raven tail to kiss her shoulder.
She ascended the steps and saw him, and without breaking her stride, moved towards him as if he was the only one in the room. "I'm sorry about the long wait, the ladies insisted my hair be braided," she said through her smile.
The candidness of her explanation pushed his heart back to where it belonged and he collected his thoughts. "That's quite okay, I've been entertained by crowds of new acquaintances." He directed her attention and introduced a few men to his table, lifting their rice wine cups.
Her smile broke again. "I'm glad of that."
Too tired to start another argument, Altan let a few women select local attire suitable for the occasion. She was posing as a traveling Turks merchant with Timur as her bodyguard. It was quite a convincing resume, and to her begrudging admittance, Timur did look the part, look quite fittingly regal and dangerous donning his silk Chinese robe.
Altan recalled she had joined a handful of Chinese festivals on the arm of her father when she was little. They were nothing fun, filled with silent dinners dictated by social decorum and boring discussion about politics. Back then, Shao Wei had become her constant source of entertainment and her only hope to endure the unbearable boredom.
Watching Timur, whose commands in Chinese was exemplary but hardly a native's speech ran a verbal ring around the uneducated civilians was as funny as their brass assumption that the only people who existed outside China were cannibalistic barbarians.
She had to smother her laugh with her hand when one of the guys Timur was drinking with had heard the Mongols drink horse urine to stay warm in winter and that the Turks wore their turban to bed.
A bang of cymbals and the rendition of Chinese orchestras summoned the guest to the courtyard, and suddenly Timur looked at her directly and extended his hand. "Princess," he said in their native tongue, presumably so no one else wouldn't understand. "May I?"
The ease she felt vanished in a flash of heat. But he tugged her hand before she couldn't object. In a flash, they took the back row of a series of line dancers, there was no turning back.
"I must tell you, Timur," she forced the words off a too-dry tongue, brain desperately trying to catch up with whatever formation they should do next. "I haven't done this for… sometime. And seeing as the evening has gone so well, let's not end up in a heap, shall we?" she couldn't prevent her voice from climbing with her nervousness.
"I've never danced with a Princess too, Your Honour." He cut his gaze toward her and paid her a smile. "This will be fun," and he spontaneously extended his hand.
Her small hand settled in his, and she, even unknowingly to herself, took the opportunity to map the hand that had begun to enter her fantasies. She had never touched him before. He had stood so close to her that his breath brushed her face, that the heat of his body flushed her own, and her skin ached for every inches that separated them.
"Only one problem," he said when the music paused. Wariness touched her eyes, she had no idea what kind of blunder she had done. He swept his glance from her head to toe, took not only her ensemble but the woman wearing it, and there was no mistaking his admiration as he continued, "We are not supposed to invite any unsolicited attention... and now you are the center of it."
"Oh," she squeaked, nearly losing all of her composure when she realized how many eyes were trained on her. "I didn't… that wasn't my intention," she said, willing the hummingbird that had replaced her heart to slow down.
"It's okay," he returned to her as the music ensued. "You deserve it."
The Huns were people who lived in harmony with nature, Altan believed, which was why―despite the frigid, cold early wintry wind―she had opted to rent an old, empty stable for the night.
She warmed their tea while Timur sat across the fire, watching the moon ascend up to the sky from the small window on the lapidated roof.
"I like this Chinese robe. It is far softer than our usual deel," he remarked as he took out layers of his robe. "And that ruqun with phoenix embroidery, you totally killed it! Did you notice a few young men eyeing you keenly?"
She smiled. Tonight was the turning point of their friendship. It was no wonder that Chinese people love to dance, it worked like a magical social lubricant of some sort.
"I didn't know you paid that much attention to those Chinese men, I thought you said you hate them."
Timur snorted, laying on his side, warming his body by the fire. "I said I don't trust them. Here, get a change into something comfortable." He pushed a bag full of clothing.
She rummaged through an indiscriminate pile of clothing he'd obtained for them both. She held up a robe, ten times her size, that would be too big even for Shan-Yu.
"I suppose this is for you," she tossed the garment towards Timur who was lounging in front of the fire. She held up another robe. It was tiny and pink with a large ribbon as its sash. "And this… for your toe."
He cackled at her sarcasm. "I told you―you should shop for clothes while I shop for food."
Altan continued to dig through the pile. "Wait, what the hell is this?" She held up a red, gauze, silken nightdress.
Timur looked at it and smiled slowly. "No idea. You should try it on."
She crumpled it into a ball and threw it at his face. "Don't be disgusting."
He laughed louder. "I'm kidding! I have no idea it was there."
"Right you are," she snorted, taking another piece of garment.
"I swear!" he insisted, holding up his hands, the nightdress draped over his head. "I didn't!"
"You seriously just bought a pile of clothing without looking through them?"
"I want to get going," he defended. "I am not going to ponder over every little thing like Asanthi at the fruit market."
"Oh dear lord, she is terrible about fruit."
"Hmpphh…" he nodded, the fringe of the nightdress swayed above his forehead. "I wonder how Sukh could even offer to go to the market with her. He must love her so much."
She smirked. And he stared at her, blatantly admiring her in a way that made her toes tingle.
"What?" she said cautiously.
"You're smiling," he remarked.
"So?"
"So? It's nice to see you are smiling. You should wear it more. Looks good on you," he said smoothly. She tore her gaze to the side, forcing his words to get out of her head. But his open stare made her feel uncomfortable.
"You really looked like your mother," he added, still giving her an intent look. "She was nice on the eyes too."
Yesterday, she would immediately jump at his blatant flirt and obliterated it with a condescending rebuttal. But after that dance, she only found that she wasn't able to formulate any coherent thoughts, let alone a sharp comeback. She could only bite her lips, forcing her body to behave and tactically attempted to change the subject. "I wonder what she'd seen in my father."
From the corner of her eyes, she could see Timur tilting his head. "Princess, your father isn't a bad man."
"He has seven wives."
"Having seven wives doesn't make someone a bad person," he returned, looking scandalized at her unfair accusation of his kind.
She scoffed, pretending to be appalled. "That's rich coming from you."
"Ouch, Lady. That is hurtful!" He responded with a fake melancholy, and then scooted closer. "I don't think your father wants to admit this," he whispered. "But the Khan wasn't one who was blessed with fabled….virility."
"Oh!" She felt as if she was struck by a lightning bolt. That would make a lot of sense why her father took so many wives and so far only one child. "No. I suppose he isn't," she admitted, suddenly feeling rather ashamed of judging her father negatively far too quickly.
"Even then, you are lucky you were born in Mongolia," he commented.
"Am I?"
He rubbed his thick neck. "Have you seen how Chinese women behave? They were useless little things, pottering around the house, dusting, drawing baths for their husbands, and making babies. They are practically helpless dolls under their husband's thumbs. Even my dead mother would've protested from her grave!"
"I can't say my father treated me any better," she debated, but with no note of enmity. "He trained me until my knuckles bruised, my palm bled and my knee covered in cuts."
Timur sighed pensively, letting the memory replay in his head. "He is a hard man to please. Boy, I hate to be told to stand under that freezing waterfall if I wake up just a minute late."
"He told me to stand there for an hour after I punched someone at school…" she shared.
He gasped. "No, you didn't…! Now, spill!"
She flinched. "I'm… I'm not very proud of that," she hesitated.
"I didn't ask you whether you were proud of it, I ask you why you did it!" Timur was still prim for an answer.
"My father was always big on keeping me staying in touch with our subject," she began. "When I was seven, he sent me to a school in the village so I can interact with commoners and play with children my age. There was this little boy in my class named Chuluun. He was short, stubby, and a bit slow. He was my friend."
"One day I turned the corner to go back inside after recess, and this older girl, a head taller than me, " she said, old anger flickering from the recollection," she was holding his face on the ground with her foot. I thought she was suffocating him. So I punched her on the jaw."
"Congratulation, the gossip from the tabloid just made it to the front-page headline!" Timur looked incredulous. "She did have it coming!"
Altan shook her head. "I should've handled it without violence. I could've just pushed her off him. But I chose to hurt her. She had to wear a jaw bandage for a year. It never healed right, her jaw still a little bit crooked."
He laughed. "Good. Now it matches her soul."
"She was just playing," she tried to reason with him.
"How old was she then? Ten? Just playing, my foot! Sounds like you had a future serial killer on your hands."
Altan pressed her lips together. "I have never seen her do anything like that before."
"I bet she never did it again. You were absolutely justified!"
"Father told me I should've told the teacher."
"While that little boy smothered to death? Bad call, Your Honor," he tutted. "If I were there I would've argued your case. No, scrap that. I will tell you to punch her twice!" he smirked. "I will pay to see that. Cute little Princess dislocated her senior's jaw!"
She was trying so hard not to smile, "I was a mean little girl. Bite your finger off," she told him. "Was he hard on you?"
"Your father? Who am I kidding, I think 'sadist' might have been his middle name! He always had something planned for me from day till night. He was constantly on my shoulder… tell me to train harder and punish me if I failed. It was exhausting. War was like a relief―a break from all that." He let a small chuckle at the memory and let his honest nostalgia colored his tone when he added, "But I am always thankful to him. He accepted me when I was a nobody. He gave a home, a family….and a purpose." And he regarded her with his eyes. "I am forever indebted."
"Oh," was the word she could only utter. Her vision of her father as a heartless, distant being, no longer capable of love would have been easier to deflect should she have known all this.
Perhaps, he wasn't that bad after all.
The reunion with her mother-in-law, to Mulan's pleasant surprise, went on uneventfully. She was immediately dismissed to rest and prepared to see Shang whenever he would arrive in a few days.
Their marital bedroom was still the exact same way when they left. A few scrolls stacked neatly by the bedside, a pair of matching sleeping robes, and Shang's comforting woodsy scent that was fading into the smell of the room.
She threw herself, indulging in the feel of soft, cold silk against her skin. It felt like heaven― well, it should be, especially if she remembered the hard, itchy bed inside that cramped tent that was filled with unpleasant men's odor mixed with sweat and alcohol. Not to mention the spaciousness, she could roll… flip… stretch her arms without worrying she would smack someone or end up in inappropriate entanglement with the male residence adjacent to her. Just like she did with Shang.
Shang. The name breathed a strange air and her heart clenched when she realized his spot on their bed was now a cold empty space. The bed suddenly felt lonely and too big without him. She dared say she preferred the hard, thin mattress they shared this past week in Shang's tent. Mulan sniggered at her pathetic thoughts. How could she even arrive at that conclusion? And since when her life was all circling around him?
But however pathetic, she could only silently admit to herself that deep down in her heart: she wanted him.
Not the Hot Captain Li, or Li Shang, the impossibly handsome, occasionally shirtless, broody, and often authoritarian man she met that first day at Wuzhong Camp.
Just Shang, the surprisingly insecure man who was trying his best to be better, to be a dutiful son to the father he loved, a loyal soldier, and to be an aspirational leader to his recruits. The man who was laughably bad at social skills, and owned very limited communicative vocabulary like the worst kind of masculine cliche. A man who was unbelievably strict and authoritarian in his manner but owned a heart as soft as a feather.
And she was wholeheartedly, unreservedly, stupidly in love with him.
"Rise and shine! Come on, wake up girl, you have a prince charming to greet today!" Mushu energetically jumped all over the bed.
"What… what time is it?" she asked with a loud yawn.
Mushu ignored her question, instead, ran into her closet, and began ransacking its content.
"So, shall we pick a decent homecoming dress that won't display too much flesh, not too tight around your waist―remember, your healing wound," Mushu said from inside the wardrobe. "Yet is seductive enough to make Shang's static mask shatter and his vision goes fuzzy...and then he will beg for…"
"Let's not go there, Mushu," Mulan said quickly, grabbing her robes, tying her hair up, and joining him on the hunt. "There is not going to be any midnight agenda."
"Ugh, you are no fun. I wonder if your mother-in-law knew about this, what will she say," the Dragon did the best feminine voice impersonation, "Oh, Mulan, it's a woman's duty to bear a son. A golden opportunity is seldom presented and easily lost. What, you are going to wait until the war ended? Procrastination is the thief of time. "
"Mushu, can you do more things and less talking?" she said from the depth of her closet. "I need some help here."
"Ah, that one!" Mushu stared pointedly at one qipao with a gold dragon embroidery on the front. It was a part of her wedding gift from her mother-in-law that Mulan never dared to wear. The material was silky satin that clung tightly around her curve. The neck was high with a small keyhole on the chest that gave a slight tease of cleavage, enough to drive a man to the edge.
"Wear that, Shang will flip," Mushu encouraged, smirking mischievously.
"Mushu, I told you I'm not going to flip anyone!" Mulan shook her head, both amused and annoyed. "He had been on a long journey. He'll be exhausted!"
"Whatever! And I'm expecting a full report later on," he added. "Providing if you failed to parade your hot captain to your bed for the first night, I will accept one in the morning," he chuckled to himself. "I can't wait to see him fall apart tomorrow."
She hung the dress, taking the opportunity to peruse it. "I don't think I will proactively seduce him. I think this dress has already gone far enough."
"Then who are you going to seduce? Your perky friend, Ling? That arrogant Prince of Wei?" he quipped sardonically. "Mulan, you need all the chance to give the Fa and Li an heir before anyone else is found dead on the battlefield. Soon enough there'll be only me left!"
Mulan mused at that. Although Mushu had a gift of hyperbole, twisting reality to win an argument, his last statement created a maelstrom in her chest remembering even right now, her children would only have one set of grandmothers. Had she really wasted time all this while?
"But what about…―"
"The scar?" Mushu quipped. "Haven't you heard this proverb: Alcohol covers a load of sin?" And a bottle of expensive-looking sorghum wine transpired out of nowhere.
"Okay fine, you win," she capitulated albeit begrudgingly.
"That's the spirit! Oh yes, don't forget to wear that red lace underwear, red will exponentially improve your luck!"
And that evening, as expected, Shang made an appearance. He looked very much like how she remembered him, tall, dark and handsome.
Except he wasn't alone. A child was with him. A child that he had claimed as his own.
Xiongnu was busy transcribing a letter to his brother when one of his Admirals rushed into his quarter.
"Your Majesty," the man saluted. "I believe you have heard the news about Healer Tao's death?"
"Yes," Xiongnu rose from behind his desk. Tao was the previous palace healer, the predecessor of Di-Tan. He had served since his own father was a young man and he was merely a toddler. "I heard he was desperately ill months before."
"That's right, and his widow has returned a few of the articles that she thought to be the palace's possession. They were mainly scrolls of prescription and herbal encyclopedias. But while taking more detailed inventory, the librarian had found these..." Admiral Zhi bowed again as he presented him with a stack of old-looking scrolls.
"I take the liberty to inspect it. It was sort of….a journal," he added.
Under the palace formal protocol, every healer must have diaries recording the summary of their monthly event. They tended to be longwinded, repetitive, and quite technical to read thus no one paid too much attention to them. "I see. Anything out of the ordinary?"
"If I remembered rightly, years ago, the late Consort Shin-Ye made a case over one of your concubines who was supposed to be executed?"
Xiongnu let out a slow breath, reliving the memory.
He loved Shin-Ye. He knew nothing could ever change that, even after her marriage to his brother, Wei Zhang.
He loved her ferocity. He loved the way she indiscriminately dispensed her very unconventional opinion to his court. But there was where the problem lay. China wasn't ready for her radical emancipation.
Curse Xiaotong. Curse the day her father had sent her and the cruelty of a parent that would deliberately send a young woman so very much in love with another man into his household. Xiaotong had been…. pleasant. But he had so many wives to sate his carnal fantasies. And his heart laid…. elsewhere. If he knew her predicament, he would never let Guofei send his daughters in exchange for the financial rescue that he had pledged.
"That's right," he said with heaviness.
He could've saved the poor girl. But the law had discovered his young concubine's betrayal before he had, and Shin-Ye's insistence whenever she thought best had cost the young woman her life as the council demanded.
"Shin-Ye, I do not wish for you to talk to anyone, to me or anyone else about this!" He had barked at her twice that morning. It killed him to treat her like that, but he was determined to close his heart.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. But…―"
"It is unfair?" he cut her harshly. Yes, the eunuch in charge found the young Xia was merely writing a letter to her lover, nothing else. But if she allowed this, what other scandalous thing would she do next? "She broke the law!"
"...By loving someone!" Shin-Ye wasn't backing down, but it ached him to hear a broken edge on her voice, a slight tremble. "Xiaotong was being truthful to herself." Unlike us, she implied.
"I am the Emperor, and the Emperor said no!"
"You ask me to always tell you what I think!" she rallied. "She didn't even cost you your heart. Now you are penalizing her with her life?"
"You think I am executing her for pleasure?" he spat. "Who do you think I am? A heartless man? I am planning to intervene."
"After they tortured her?" she snapped back.
"Yes! But you," his voice dripped with contempt. "A woman―has made it seem the Emperor is at your command. You make me appear weak!" he bellowed. "Who do you think you are?"
There was enough suspicion about Shin-Ye's influence in his court. People were already raising their brows at the way she, the palace's private tutor to his daughters, influenced his judgment. And he couldn't afford the royal council scrutinizing her background only to discover the Emperor had allowed a foreign fugitive into his household. But whose fault was it? Was it not he who had allowed his brother to hide a political outcast―a Hun woman no less―and kept it silent from the world?
She was afraid to be standing in his presence, but it didn't stop her tongue. "Your Majesty, you are the Emperor. If you wish to have the power to change your people, you must first live by your principle!"
Grief met fury. He shoved the vases near his throne, sending the object clattering to the marble floor. "Are you challenging my authority? This is not the time to change how things are done!"
Shin-Ye froze, momentarily speechless, but the disappointment cascaded in her teary eyes was clear.
"How many more people must die so you might...save face?" she said brokenly but managed to master her tears. Gone was the nobleman she once knew and loved. Stood in front of her instead was a callous tyrant.
"And Ms. Xiaotong was supposed to be executed," Admiral Zhi's voice brought him back from his bitter recollection. "Until the night someone broke her out of our custody."
The public records said she died not long after, not that it mattered to him, but the culprit who liberated the condemned concubine out of the palace jail had remained a mystery.
"I can be sure it wasn't Shin-Ye's doing," he said quietly. That heated argument was their very last private conversation. The following day, she tendered her resignation as the girls' tutor and all classes were ceased immediately. Looking back, he could've at least made amendments...or sent her gifts to honor her departure. But as an Emperor, he was too preoccupied with nursing his wounded pride than to care about a woman he could never have. It was not until he received news of his brother's engagement that the unforgiving anger that sent him to acting like a brutal dictator vanished into thin air.
"I think we just found out exactly who that person was." Admiral Zhi's voice interrupted his past heartache, returning him to the present one. He read out a few short excerpts from the last page of the journal.
Xiongnu couldn't believe his ears.
"Are you sure, Admiral?"
"That's what I gather, Your Majesty," and he politely unraveled the scroll to the very page.
Xiongnu read the line on the journal to the point he was nearly ripping the old parchment apart. "It was Tao?" he said, wishing to find a different answer.
Truthfully it wasn't the missing concubine that grieved him. At that moment in time, he was enraged and furious at the insolvency of whoever dared to steal his possession. His concubines were part of his wealth, an extension of his status and things that mark his power, nothing more. But Tao was something else. He was likened to a family.
And all the unexplainable events preceding that event were tumbling in his memory. Tao's sudden resignation from his post, his family's sudden move outside Chang'an, and Tao's odd decision to cut all ties with the royal family, even with Di Tan, his sole healer-apprentice who was at that time living in the student barrack behind the Palace.
He was angry and feeling betrayed, but mostly destroyed knowing someone he trusted was capable of doing something so… so… despicable.
There was a rapid, extensive search party running through the ground and into every corner of the country right after the suspected breakout. Many had conjectured someone with insider knowledge had done so considering how sleek and untraceable it was. But since Ms. Xiaotong was merely a woman with no nobility background, the fruitless attempt was soon ceased and the mystery of her disappearance was left unanswered and forgotten with time.
But why did he risk so much for a king's concubine?
"...but he is dead now," he told Admiral Zhi resignedly, knowing Tao had decidedly taken this secret to his grave. "There is no way we can ever find the truth."
"Your Highness, " Admiral Zhi said a little hesitantly, "I'm afraid there is… more story to this."
Xiongnu huffed. The nerve in his head pulsated, brewing a massive headache. "What is it?"
"Tao wasn't alone in colluding to hide Ms. Xiaotong from your sight. There is… another man involved. The man who was arranged by Tao to take off with Ms. Xiaotong that night," the Admiral said, unraveled the journal again to a different section.
"Who is it?" Xiongnu rasped, his heart pounding against his ribcage. Admiral Zhi pointed his attention to the parchment as if he wanted the Emperor to see the scribe on the parchment for himself.
On the scroll was a small snippet of a thank you note towards Tao's heroic presentation, signed by his missing concubine and a man's name, presumably Xiaotong's elusive lover.
….General Li Jiang.