Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

E arly the next morning, when the sky was still a sleepy shade of pink, a knock came at the door.

This was highly unusual. Many of the villagers believed the most direct and efficient form of communication was to call out at the top of their lungs when passing by; some simply wandered straight inside without warning, armed with either a favor or snippet of gossip. My pulse picked up at the possibilities. Was it an official? Was there to be another war? Had something terrible happened?

My mother reached the door before I did, her robes wrapped hastily over her white inner garments like a cloak, still rubbing the sleep from her bleary eyes. When she opened it, I stifled a gasp.

There, standing before our crumbling, decades-old house, was the same young man from yesterday. My memory had not done his beauty justice, just as remembered pain was always duller than actual pain. He had changed his robes into something of a darker, more somber shade, and his hair was tied back tighter, accentuating the fine angles of his jaw and cheekbones. He looked… different. Older. Though he had not been warm toward me upon our first meeting, his stance had still been reasonably relaxed, his manner laced with some private touch of amusement. Now, all that was scoured away. I could detect no emotion in those intelligent, pitch-black eyes, nothing to suggest at why he had come.

Yet the pang in my chest, which was always worse upon waking, eased.

"Good morning," he was saying to my mother, bowing low. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"I— No," Mother said, but I could sense her quiet alarm. "I'm sorry, but you are…?"

"Fanli," he replied, and straightened. "Political and military advisor to King Goujian of Yue."

This time, I was unable to suppress my surprise. Fanli. But of course—I should have known. All the rumors sang of him: the advisor with a mind sharper than blades and beauty finer than jade, only twenty-two years of age yet more accomplished than men twice as old. He had managed to impress the king when he was but a mere adolescent and quickly climbed his way up the ranks to become one of King Goujian's most trusted ministers. There were already folktales about him, poems praising his name. He was, in the eyes of the Yue, incorruptible. The last pure thing under Heaven. He was said to have none of a commoner's wanton wants and lowly desires; he was of the few who truly put the state before the self.

"Oh!" After a delayed beat, my mother quickly dropped into some attempt at a curtsy. So rarely did nobles venture into our village that there were no customs to look toward for reference, nothing to prepare us for this. "We are honored… Most honored to have you here…"

Fanli's eyes moved past her shoulder to me, but there was no spark of recognition there. Only a calm, calculated curiosity. I re membered then that he could not possibly recognize me; he had only seen me by the river with my veil on. But then, his arrival made even less sense. What did he want?

"Is this the girl everyone calls Xishi?" he asked.

My mother paused, and then, with a new wariness, nodded. "Yes. My daughter."

He had not looked away from me, and it was now to me alone that he spoke. "They were right," he said evenly, studying me with a quiet, burning intensity. "You really are beautiful." It did not sound like a compliment, designed to flatter and charm, but rather a confirmation of something.

I stayed silent, not yet recovered from my shock. I could not think of a fitting response anyhow. People always prefer the beauty who is oblivious, unaware of her own power, who blushes easily and is taken aback by strangers' approval, who is soft and demure and lacking in just enough confidence so as to seek it out in the opinions of men. But these are such lies. All my life, the very same people had told me time and time again how gorgeous I was. How could I not know it? That was like growing up not knowing you were tall.

"Is there something you seek here?" Mother said, stepping in between us, a protective hand resting against the crook of my elbow. She squeezed once, lightly. It was our code, her way of letting me know everything would be all right.

"I'm afraid it is a rather long story," Fanli said, breaking eye contact at last. I felt it like the snap of a thread. "Could I come in?"

I saw my mother hesitate, but of course she could not refuse him entry. He worked for the king— the king . And the king's wish was law.

"Certainly. Xishi, lead him inside," she said, moving away. "I'll go boil some tea."

The truth was, there was very little room for me to lead him anywhere. Only a few steps in, we came to a stop at the table, where he smoothed the back of his robes out, adjusted his broad sleeves, and sat gracefully on one of our low chairs. I sat across from him. The stillness between us felt solid. It threw everything else into clarity. From the other room, I could hear my mother scraping the tea leaves into the pot—she would be using the expensive tea, what we had been saving up for the Lunar Festival—and hissing something low and unintelligible at my father. The two of them emerged together later, my mother carrying the steaming clay pot on a tray, my father with a slightly dazed look on his face, as if unsure whether he was really awake.

"Thank you," Fanli said as my mother filled his teacup, the rich, dark green fragrance of the leaves sweetening the air. The cup in fact belonged to me, but we had no spares. "And as for why I'm here—I was sent directly by King Goujian to seek out a potential bride of unmatched beauty."

My pulse hammered harder. Bride. A word I had grown up hearing, yet here, with the king's advisor sitting opposite me, the golden sun rising outside our window, it seemed to acquire a new meaning.

Mother and Father exchanged a look. "For—for you?" Mother asked, frowning. "Surely there are already plenty of women who wish to marry you, why must it—"

"No, you misunderstand me," Fanli said, setting his tea down. "The bride would be for King Fuchai of the Wu Kingdom, as a tribute from the Yue. And after much searching, I believe Xishi would make the perfect candidate."

I made a small, involuntary sound: of shock, or fury, or fear, I did not know. My gut churned at the mere mention of the name. Fuchai was infamous for his love of wine and women; he was said to have frequented every single brothel in the Wu capital, and took his personal pleasures more seriously than state affairs. Yet he had crushed our armies, defeated our king. He was the enemy of my people, the cause of our suffering.

He was why the soldiers had come.

Why Susu had been killed.

"What?" I burst out. "But he's horrible."

At the sound of my voice, Fanli looked at me with a new emotion. There it was, the recognition come too late. Something like sorrow, regret, even, flickered across his features before he collected himself. All this, in seconds. I doubted an onlooker would have even noticed the change, subtle as it was.

"It is certainly not a pleasant mission," he continued, as if nothing had happened. Only his voice came out more restrained. "But you would be a bride only in name. In practice, you would be a spy—our spy. You would distract him from his duties, and influence him to our liking, all while gathering key information from within the palace. You would, in short, be the integral piece of our plan to take revenge on the Wu and conquer them for good."

A stunned silence fell over the room.

Fanli's expression was somber, his hands clasped over the teacup, the white steam trailing through the air like ghosts. He looked entirely serious.

"That's—" A laugh tore out of me, the sheer absurdity of it sinking in. "Forgive me, but that's ridiculous. I cannot marry a king. I've never married anyone before. I've never even wandered farther than the borders of my village. I do not know how to curtsy properly, or eat whatever royals eat—"

"You would receive intensive training over the course of ten weeks," he said, as if he'd been expecting this response. "I will oversee it myself, to ensure everything goes as planned. With my guidance, you will be more than ready when I escort you to the Wu palace. Believe me."

A lump rose in my throat. The room suddenly felt too small, the tea's fragrance too strong, too heady. I couldn't think.

"She's only a commoner," my mother said, shaking her head. Her voice trembled when she spoke. She seldom refused anything, let alone the request of a king; to do so was dangerously close to treason. But she did not leave my side. "This marriage—this mission—is there really nobody better suited for it?"

"The plan is to send two tributes," Fanli replied. "A concubine, and a palace lady to accompany her. I have already found another candidate from your village who I believe will be fitting for the role of the latter. But to be frank… ever since I set out in search of this bride, I have visited countless places and seen plenty of beautiful women. Those with the elegance of swans and the voices of larks. Yet compared to Xishi, they wink out into obscurity, like the stars beside the moon. It was the villagers' gossip which led me here, but now I have seen it with my own eyes, and I know it to be irrefutably true: Xishi is a beauty for the legends. Our chances of success will only be high if she is the one to go."

"And if I do succeed?" I whispered.

His gaze met mine, and for a moment, all else ceased to be. The mournful cry of the geese, the rustling of trees. Everything seemed to shrink down to just the two of us. A shiver raced through my body, as if I already knew in my core, even then, the significance of what came next. "If you do succeed, Xishi," he said quietly, "you will be the savior of our kingdom. You will forever alter the course of history."

I ran out into the yard, gasping.

Though the air was warm, the sky lightening to blue, the chill in my bones only deepened. My head swam. My knees buckled beneath me. Alone outside, I tried to envision the future Fanli had drawn for me, one of gilded halls and vermilion robes and secrecy—but my imagination could not extend much further than that. All my life, I had known only the hushed song of the river and the lotus flowers abloom over the pond near my feet.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed my head against the unyielding wall of the house. My breathing grew shallow. Yet his words did not leave me. Legend. Kingdom. History. These were new words in my vocabulary. They carried weight, solidity. I turned them over on my tongue, and they tasted sharp, like metal and blood. They were so different from what I was used to hearing: beautiful. That old blessing, that tired curse. So flimsy and temporal, so easily faded, like the plum blossoms that withered in midwinter. And then, as I considered it, a small, quiet laugh of disbelief fell from my lips.

The village aunties had always said that my beauty would be what changed my fate. I doubted anybody had thought it would mean this.

Footsteps sounded behind me.

I tensed. They were too quiet to belong to my father and too slow to belong to my mother.

"I haven't made up my mind yet," I called out.

"I know," came Fanli's mild response. He stepped out in full, the light falling on the intricate blue threads of his robes, the sharp planes of his face. "I understand that it is a lot to absorb."

"It is my whole life," I couldn't help saying. Perhaps it was unwise to say these things aloud, especially to him. But I went on. "It would change everything."

"I know," he said again, coming to a stop two feet away from me, though I wasn't sure what kept him there. Propriety? Politeness? Consideration of my feelings? Or did he simply keep his distance from everybody?

"What about my parents? If I go, who will take care of them?" Without realizing, my nails had bitten red crescents into my palms. I made a conscious effort to unfurl them, hide them behind my back. "I'm their only child." The words bruised my throat. Their only child left was more accurate, but that would hurt too much. And I did not know if I could even still consider myself someone's sister. Such a term was a string, linking one to another, implying two parts of a whole. Without Susu, the string went slack; the term had no meaning.

"That, you need not worry about. I will ensure they receive a handsome compensation, with their clothes and food provided for as long as they live. They will never have to work a day again, unless they wish to."

"Truly?" I asked, hardly daring to believe it.

But his gaze was clear, free of deceit. "I give you my word."

"I'm afraid a man's word alone is not enough. I would prefer a written document, with the king's seal, stipulating all that you have promised."

Again, I had managed to surprise him. "If you would like," he said slowly. "That can all be arranged for you. So long as you go."

I could admit: It was tempting. It was so tempting, but—

"I am not going to assure you it is an easy mission. On the contrary, it will be most demanding, not to mention dangerous. You will have to leave your family behind. You will have to adapt quickly to the ways of the royals and nobles, who are all wolves wearing sheepskin. Life in a village like yours is simple; everything happens on the surface. In the palace, everything happens in the shadows. Someone could smile at you one moment and stab you the next. And of course—" His voice grew clipped, grave. "Of course, there is the matter of the king himself."

I exhaled heavily, my skin breaking out into goose bumps. Yes , I thought. That one small matter.

"You will be sharing his bed," he stated, his expression cool and collected, as if he were discussing state affairs. Which, I supposed in a way, was what this was. Politics and power, the opposite of romance. "You will need to charm him, win his trust, until he cares about nothing in the world except you. He is not the most moral of men, and he has never shown devotion to a single person before."

"And you really think I can do it?" I asked, turning my head an inch to meet his eyes. "I have never tried to charm a man before. Not deliberately."

"I doubt you would have needed to."

"I have never even been kissed," I confessed.

Now he paused. Cleared his throat. While he had spoken so openly of seduction without a trace of emotion, it was somehow this that drew a flush of shyness from him. For the first time, I saw how close he was in age to me. Only two years older.

I smiled a little, despite myself. With a sudden boldness, I said, "And you say that you will teach me how to bewitch the king. Could you truly help me?"

His left hand curled, a slight, unthinking movement, half-hidden by the sleeve of his robes. "You are mistaken."

"About what?"

"If you agree to the mission, I won't be the one helping you. You'll be the one helping me."

I stared at him, my humor vanishing, my pulse striking faster in my veins.

"I am the one who needs you." He said it like a grave confession. "I am the one who suggested the plan to His Majesty, who is responsible for organizing this mission. Without you, I will fail."

I chewed the inside of my cheek, unsure what to make of this. Of anything. Plenty of people had made it clear how much they wanted me: my face, my beauty, my company. But nobody had ever really needed me before.

From all around us, the village began to stir: the gurgles of young children, the splash of water from the well, the whisper of dried corn, the wet slap of straw sandals over mud. For the villagers, it was only another morning, one of thousands just like this. But for me, this morning might be my last here.

As if reading my thoughts, Fanli said, "I tell you all this not to sway you in either direction. Some may prefer the comfort of lies to the sting of truths, but I wish to be completely honest with you from the beginning, even if the picture I paint is not always pretty."

"What if I were to say no?"

"I would leave," he said at once, "and never disturb you again. There will be no repercussions for your choice."

No direct repercussions , I corrected in my head, tilting my chin up to the yellow wash of sunlight. Because if the plan did not work out, the king of Wu would go on undefeated, safe in the riches of his palace, while the people of Yue suffered and grew weaker day by day, living in constant fear of another war. I took in the view of the great green elms, the ripe mulberries glistening like little red jewels from the trees, the wooden toys strewn along the cobbled path, the hoofprints pressed into the dirt. All the signs of hard-won life. All that had survived through the first battle. But would it survive the next? Or the one after?

I thought of Wuyuan, her skin stretched painfully thin over bones, the raw, pink scabs where her nails had once been. I thought of my parents inside the house, who were getting older and frailer; already my mother's eyesight had started blurring, though she would never admit it, and my father had never recovered from his fall in the forest. I thought of their faces when they ran inside and saw Susu crumpled on the floor, the harsh sob that had left my mother's body, as if something inside her had shattered.

And I thought of Susu herself from before , her sweet smile, her pockets filled with berries, her eyes filled with light.

When it came down to it, the choice was this: a kingdom, or my happiness.

And how many people under Heaven were really fortunate enough to know happiness? Happiness was a side dish, like the sweet, sticky rice cakes Mother made during the festivals, or the glutinous balls stuffed with rich sesame paste. But revenge —that was the salt of life. Necessary. Essential.

"It is a difficult decision," Fanli said from beside me. "But it is yours to make."

"Let me think about it some more," I told him, though the answer had already come to me. The answer had always been there, as if scrawled across the scripts of history. I was only deluding myself now, pushing back against time. "I will give you an answer by midnight."

"Then I will be waiting for you at the eastern gates, where the river flows. The same place we met." It was the first time he had acknowledged aloud our encounter from yesterday, and it flickered between us like a secret, a silent flame. His gaze was heavy on mine, dark and appraising. Yet the instant he turned away, I felt the sudden absence of its weight. "Find me there."

All day and night I thought about it. It was impossible to think of anything else.

My mother said very little, yet the mournful look in her eyes, how she held me longer than she ever had before, her hands soft despite their calluses, told me that perhaps she already knew the answer too. What was it that people said about mothers having a sixth sense? Sometimes she seemed to see my heart even before I did.

"I wish I could keep you safe forever," she whispered, and I heard the unspoken part of her sentence, the fresh pain of it. But I cannot. "My daughter… I do not wish to lose a child again."

A sharp, sour feeling twisted inside my chest.

"And your health," she continued, her voice steady, even as her lips trembled. "You have always been so frail. What if…"

"I am not as frail as you think," I told her, and it was true. My whole life, ever since that inexplicable pain had flared up in my heart, I had been protected and treated like a precious vase, capable of cracking at the lightest touch. But even if I could not rid myself of the pain, I could live with it. One could live with almost anything, so long as they had something to live for.

My mother placed a warm palm on the back of my head, but said nothing. She just looked at me for a long time in the quiet, as though hoping to memorize my features. Then she returned to the chores.

Fanli had left the house already. The tea was all but cold now, the leaves sunk to the bottom, the water deepening to a murky, bitter green. All the cups were still full. A waste.

Perhaps I would have spent my remaining time wandering around the house like a ghost, at turns terrifying myself with visions of King Fuchai—someone with teeth like fangs and brutal hands and a greedy, blood-soaked smile—and attempting to console myself with visions of a fallen Wu Kingdom, their flag trampled beneath the feet of our soldiers as they marched in to an unobstructed victory. Yet not long after my parents had retired to bed, a familiar voice called from outside—

"Xishi-jiejie! Xishi-jie, did he find you too?"

Zhengdan barged through the door without pausing, her robes fluttering in her wake. In her rush to get here, her black hair had started coming loose from its elaborate bun; she yanked out the wooden hairpins with an impatient hiss until it tumbled freely down her back. Two severe spots of color had risen to her cheeks, and her voice was urgent. It took me a second to understand what she had asked.

"Who? You don't mean—the advisor?"

"I knew it," she said, shaking her head. The expression on her face was a peculiar one, tragic and triumphant at once. "If he came here in search of a great beauty, of course he could not leave without meeting you."

"Wait." I sat down on the closest stool; or rather, my knees sank on their own accord, my shock pressing down on me like a physical weight. She remained standing, her hands on her hips. "You were the other girl he spoke of? Did you… You've agreed to go? As a palace lady ?"

"What better choice do I have?" She scoffed. "My mother was going to marry me off to that old man Lidan—you know, the one who is already balding, and smells like fish all the time. I would rather be a palace lady than his wife."

Not for the first time, I marveled at my friend's nature. Everyone spoke of her loveliness—particularly her brows, which were slender and arched like willow leaves, and expressed all the emotion she did not say out loud—but they overlooked the smaller, more significant things. They forgot that it was she who had scared away the group of bandits that had once tried to steal from our village, injuring one so badly with a blunt cleaver that he'd limped away whimpering; that it was also she, and she alone, who had trained the village horses, and fixed the main road, and hunted down the fox that had broken through the fences and eaten half our hens. The first time I had ever witnessed her cry was when she'd snapped the animal's neck.

"Have you already agreed to the advisor's request?" she asked, those famous, delicate brows arching.

"No. Not yet."

"Not yet," she repeated. Then, with a startling fierceness, she crouched low beside me and grabbed my hand. The pads of her fingers were thick with blisters old and new; not from cleaning and cooking, as one might have assumed, but from secretly training with a sword. "Think over it carefully, Xishi-jie. The mission is— It's dangerous—"

"Yet you're going anyway," I said. "Aren't you afraid?"

Her chin jutted forth. "Of course not."

But I knew she was lying. Just as I knew that she was too proud to admit otherwise.

It was awfully familiar to me, that dark, steely look in her eyes. One early morning, during the height of war, I had spotted her with her father outside their house. She was engulfed in his old armor, lugging his sword behind her, her teeth clenched from the effort. The scene was almost comical, the helmet so large it kept sliding down over her eyes. Her father had laughed aloud, then gently lifted the helmet from her head with both hands.

Don't go to the battlefield again , she'd begged, reaching up on her tiptoes and trying to grab it back from him. It was useless; she was only half his height. Let me fight in your stead.

This is my duty , he'd said. The heavens have something else planned for you, Zhengdan. I can feel it.

Her eyes had shone with ferocity, but in the end, she had watched him leave. Every morning after that, I'd find her standing outside, her spine rigid, her hopeful, anxious face turned to the horizon.

Two years later, in that very same spot, a grim-looking official had returned, holding only her father's blood-splattered helmet. It was the highest honor a soldier could ask for , I'd overheard the officer say. His last fight was against the general of the Wu Kingdom himself. General Ma.

Now, gazing over at her, it was as if the past had rushed back to us. Or perhaps the past had never left.

"I'm coming with you," I told her. The words rang clear in the cramped room, and I heard the conviction in my own voice. The air seemed to ripple against my skin, and the wind outside suddenly slammed against the window-paper, as if even the heavens knew of my decision. Was it the right one? I could not tell. Perhaps it did not matter. Either decision led to pain; I had merely chosen one kind over another.

Zhengdan had known me all her life. She made no further attempts to dissuade me. It would be futile, whatever she said. "If your mission is to seduce the king, then my mission will be to keep you safe." She reached for my hand once more as she spoke, her eyes blazing in the dark.

"We'll both be safe," I corrected. "We'll come out of the palace together, alive and well."

She gave me a faint smile but said nothing.

"Promise me," I urged her.

"All right, I promise," she said, laughing. It was like blowing cold air at a wound; it did not heal, but at least it soothed. I could have pretended then, with Zhengdan smiling next to me and the moonlight shining through the small holes in the window, that the world awaiting us was not so terrible. That it would only be a grand adventure, just like the ones we heard about in the stories.

But it was much harder once she had gone home, leaving me in the dim quiet.

I tiptoed into my parents' room, watching their familiar, sleeping figures, the blanket stretched just over their stomachs. My mother was hugging Susu's unwashed tunic, even though its scent had long faded, and the threads were starting to fray. She seemed to be having a nightmare. Every now and then, she would shiver and clutch at the air as if something were being taken away from her. I wanted to wake her from it, but also could not bear to. She slept too little as it was. And if she woke and saw my face, she would know right away what I was thinking.

A sharp spasm of pain tore through my chest again. I drew in a silent breath, tried to ignore it.

Now that my decision had been made, everything I had once taken for granted was repainted in shades of yellow nostalgia. Already I missed the warmth of my parents' presence, the faded straw fan laid out by their bed, the wooden comb my mother used to brush my hair back every morning, the lingering scent of smoke from the stove. Gently, I undid the jade pendant around my neck, then set it on a wooden chest. It was the single most valuable thing I owned, a gift from my parents on my first birthday. They would see it tomorrow, when I was already gone, and know what it meant.

Later, though, I would wish I had stayed longer. Woken them up, held them close. Given them the chance to say a proper goodbye. But such things only occur to you in hindsight, framed by the before and after of everything you've endured; when it is still happening, all you care about is what lies ahead.