Chapter Text
No one was surprised that wild little Minmin TeMu’Er got her潜(qian, latent possibility) marks the day she turned five..
潜 (Qian) marks are gifts from the gods and not everyone gets them, though they are common enough. For most gifted with them, they appear in childhood.
There are two types of these marks : One for 意 (Yi, meaning/purpose) on the right sole of foot, one for 情 (Qing, love) on the left sole.
情 (Qing) marks are tricky. They could be a part of your Beloved’s name, the first words your Beloved said to you, or a characteristic of your Beloved. There are even rare instances where the mark is a date, the day you will meet your Beloved, or the day your Beloved is born…. or will die. For indeed there was no guarantee that you would be together with your Beloved in life. There was also no certainty that you were your Beloved’s Beloved.
意 (Yi) marks are just as complex.
In men, it is said to be about careers, it could tell them if they had potential as warriors or scholars, it could be a few words about their possible pinnacle accomplishment in life, or it could simply be what they may love doing.
Philosophers have debated for a long time why women also had 意 (Yi) marks. Many believe that 意 (Yi) marks on women either reflect their hopes for an accomplished son, or give them a further hint of what their future husband might be like.
A minority speculates that the 意 (Yi) mark is the same for men and women - only that women nearly never fulfilled theirs.
The Mongolians are of that minority. The commonly held opinion was that women in the soft Han lands might be fated to have dainty bound feet, but Mongolian women need to be able to shoot eagles while astride horses.
What did surprise everyone about Minmin’s 潜 (Qian) marks was that they came out in Han Chinese script- marks nearly always appear in the script of the individual’s native language.
It took a day to find a trustworthy Han-reading slave to translate for them, and when they did their consternation turned to puzzlement.
Her right foot’s 意 (Yi) mark reads “武林至敏, 汉蒙之和” (Wulin Zhi Min, Han Meng Zhi He)
“Intellect of the wulin world; Unity for the Han and Mongols”
The mark on her left foot comprised of a single word “无” (Wu)
Absence.
Minmin’s father, Khan Ruyang, head of a vast army under the Great Khan of the Yuan Dynasty, is renowned for his battle prowess. He is also widely known to be extraordinarily indulgent of his youngest child and only daughter, letting her run wild with her older brothers.
Little Minmin, much advanced for her years and steeped in stories filled with conquest and xenophobia, delightedly tells him.
“Ah Ma, the gods have chosen me to conquer the weak Hans!”
She shows off the mark on her right sole proudly.
“I am going to be a scholar and a warrior, I am going to bring the soft Ming dynasty to its knees, and offer many slaves to the great Yuan Empire!”
Khan laughs at the grandiose words coming from the mouth of his most beloved child, who is, at this point, still shorter than some of the larger goats around camp.
“Brave girl Minmin! But what about your 情 (Qing) mark?”
Minmin shows it to her father then throws herself at him in a huge hug, “This means I’m destined to love only you father, no Beloved for me!”
Her brothers roll their eyes at how good five-year old Minmin is at manipulating their father. She gets away with things that would earn any of the others a stiff hiding. They fail to notice that none of them are any better at not spoiling Minmin.
The delighted Khan Ruyang doesn’t see any reason to deny his pride and joy all sorts of increasingly odd requests. A tutor in Han Chinese language and calligraphy, military history and strategy and, once, a disfigured, mute Han martial arts tutor.
At the age of 10, Minmin confers the Han name of Zhaomin on herself.
****
The day her instructor of Han martial history teaches her the poem about the Dragon Sabre she laughs with excitement.
武林至尊, 宝刀屠龙
号令天下, 莫敢不从
倚天不出, 谁与争锋
Master of Wulin, the precious Dragon Sabre
Commanding the World, No one dares disobey
Without the Heaven Sword, None can challenge its place
Of course! With the Dragon Sabre she would control the world. And as for the threatening Heaven Sword, she decides airily, she’ll take that too to ensure there would be none to challenge her!
Now she just has to grow up more quickly.
****
When she hears of the enigmatic Wudang boy who single-handedly saved the Ming Sect from the Righteous Sects on Guang Ming Ding she is intrigued.
One more hero to add to her collection in her aim to win over the Hans to the Mongol cause (her early desire to make them all slaves cured by learning from her tutors and martial arts masters that Hans are people too.)
For someone so clever, it was a dreadful oversight that she didn’t go back to question her childhood assumption about her 情 (Qing) mark when she heard his name- Wuji.
****
The trap doors overhead slam shut with a resounding bang.
Wuji grabs at Zhaomin’s hand.
“Let me out of here!”
“Or what?”
“Or I…. I’ll kill you!”
Zhaomin’s smile doesn’t falter. “Then you’ll be trapped here forever.”
“Besides…” She steps right up to him, pressing her arm against his chest and whispers suggestively “… I thought Han customs didn’t allow for contact between men and women who don’t know each other?”
Wuji’s eyes widen, he flushes crimson, drops Zhaomin’s hand as if it scalded him, and awkwardly retreats two paces, as her delighted laughter echoes in the chamber.
“You’re shameless!”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
****
Wuji is frantic.
Zhaomin manages to make lounging on the floor of a trap seem elegant.
Every time she catches Wuji looking her way in between scouring the little room for hints of escape she winks at him. He has taken to avoiding her gaze, which only makes her smile grow more smug.
She, at least, seems to be having a good time.
****
He hesitates a moment before taking off her sock, it is humiliating, having your mark exposed to a stranger. Marks are private, even amongst friends.
Wuji takes off her right sock and is stunned to see her 意 (Yi) mark. So similar to his own… but he is also distracted. In all his 20 years, he has never seen a foot so lovely or a face so beautifully flushed, and he is, momentarily, unable to move or breathe.
Zhaomin’s jaws are clenched but she refuses to drop her façade.
“You only have to ask Zhang Jiaozhu- I might be willing to take off more than just a sock!”
This jolts Wuji’s out of his freeze and he shakily lets out a breath that he didn’t notice he’d been holding. With his hand trembling slightly but his voice steady, he apologizes for what he is about to do.
****
Even after she surrenders, Zhaomin refuses to back down from glaring at Wuji as he turns his back to her, as if in belated modesty, so she can put her shoe back on.
He mutters a heart-felt apology as he leaps away.
In retrospect, he cannot see how he could have done differently. She was the one who poisoned his grandfather and his Ming Sect brothers unprovoked!
Still Wuji can’t help feeling deeply embarrassed every time the matter comes to mind. And for some reason the matter is often on his mind.
He plays with the gold-and-pearl hairpin with the missing pearl in his hand absent-mindedly. When Xiao Zhao exclaims at its beauty, he equally absent-mindedly gives it away to her.
A small voice in his head tells him that it wasn’t what he did that bothers him. He had good reason. No, it is the strange electric feeling that courses through him each time he remembers the feel of her foot in his hand that is making him squirm and feel inexplicably guilty.
****
“Well you saw my mark, you should show me yours!”
Wuji and Zhaomin haven’t much to do but talk in the long weeks it takes to get to Snake Island.
Zhaomin, Wuji discovers, knows a lot about a lot: From Mongolian heritage to Han politics, from music to navigation.
Zhaomin is insatiably curious. She wants to know everything about how QianKunDaNuoYi varies from 9-Yang and what makes Wudang swordplay unique. Her ferocious appetite for knowledge unlocks something in Wuji. He surprises himself by being quite talkative.
She also insists he helps her with her stances. There’s no space to fight, but they go through slow, practice kata. Wuji sometimes holds the sword and walks through the stance with her to guide her motions. She doesn’t take much correcting. Having been trained by the best martial masters from childhood, good balance, an instinctive sense for sword stances and a memory like a sponge all play to her advantage. Under his breathe Wuji mutters that if she learnt 9-yang, putting his QuanKunDaNuoYi aside, she would be superior at swordplay to him.
In the dance of slow, beautiful swordplay that sometimes takes both their breath away, in the whisper conversations in the dim ship hold, they forget for days that they are enemies.
Wuji blushes now at the reminder of the marks and what he did, “I only saw one of them…”
“Then show me one of yours…”
“That’s not very proper…”
“Unlike what you did to me?”
Wuji can’t refute that one.
Awkwardly, “Which one?”
“Your 情 (Qing) one of course, I want to see if “Zhirou meimei” is carved on your sole!”
“She… I… of course… Zhirou meimei’s name isn’t …”
“How sweetly that name rolls off your tongue!”
Wuji gives up and silently takes off his left shoe.
On his sole, in beautiful calligraphy, were two words “牺牲” (Xi Shen)
Sacrifice.
Zhaomin tries to ignore the clawing feeling in her gut as she assesses each of the women on that scale. Outwardly, she keeps up the flippant tone, “I guess it makes sense, you’re so hard to love, it’s a sacrifice being your Beloved!”
Wuji starts to protest, which mysteriously ends in a chopstick fight that manages to include swordplay from a half dozen sects.
There’s something sensual about the slide of chopstick against chopstick, and if Zhaomin let’s her fingers brush his, then takes advantage of his surprise to rap his knuckles, or head, Wuji doesn’t protest… much.
There is a lot of giggling involved.
Finally Zhaomin extends her reach too far (a common issue in chopstick fighting when your opponent has superior height) and trips. Wuji laughs in delight, and effortless, deftly, catches her.
That’s the moment, face to face, in the arms of a goofily grinning Wuji, flushed with laughter that it hits her, far, far too late, what her own love mark means.
****
“Your… lip is bloody.”
“That’s because Zhang Jiaozhu hit it when he moved his arm away.”
“You bit me! What was I supposed to do?”
“Stay still and take it like a man!”
“What? That’s…. I… well, at least now I’ve wised up to you, you wouldn’t find me so easily fooled again.”
Zhaomin gives him one of her arch smiles even as she finished binding up his arm, “Have you really?”
He doesn’t like the tone in her voice. Nor the look of that smile.
He jumps up, rips the bandage off his arm and smells it.
Poison!
“Why?” Wuji cannot suppress the surge of annoyance- although whether at her for deceiving him, or at himself for being duped again he cannot say.
Then he stops. Zhaomin looks uncharacteristically awkward.
“I was too soft-hearted”
“What?” Absently Wuji notes that he says this word far too often with Zhaomin, and wonders if he’ll ever stop being surprised by her.
“I need you to scar but I couldn’t bring myself to bite you hard enough, so I applied a little rotting poison on your wounds. Nothing long-lasting, it’ll just give you a deep, firm scar.”
She reaches out to help Wuji wash the poison off, and he pulls back at first, but relents slowly at her long look.
“One little bite from you has made Yinli remember you all these years. This is to ensure you will never forget me Wuji. Not ever. I wouldn’t allow it. You hear me?”
Zhaomin turns away at the end, surprised by her own vehemence.
It hangs in the air between them.
Wuji’s head is spinning with images. Zhaomin brow-beating him, Zhaomin laughing and teasing him. Zhaomin flirting with and challenging him. Zhaomin teaching and learning from him. Zhaomin threatening and rescuing him.
He swallows in confusion.
Very slowly, as if afraid to startle her, Wuji pulls her around to face him.
He wipes her still bloody lip with his sleeve.
Then, piercingly, without pretense, he says the only thing he is certain about, “You didn’t need to do that. I couldn’t forget you if I tried Minmin. Not ever.”
****
In the moment before she plunges the sword into her own belly to get at the Persian Emissary behind her, she has a moment of self-awareness.
Her first thought was: I am going to fail my 意 (Yi) mark.
Then a second ironic voice in her head asks her if she’s happy now that finally ‘sacrifice’ also applies to her, and in the most traditional sense of the word.
A bubble of blood and laughter emerges from her mouth even as she and Persian Emissary together collapse in her effective but suicidal attack. No one will ever know what she found so funny about the moment.
****
By the time the Persians leave, Zhaomin has come to accept that Wuji’s love life is complicated. (And also that suicide moves are stupid, stupid, stupid and hurt like hell!)
His cursed 情 (Qing) mark is no help.
Xiao Zhao sacrificed herself to the Persians in order to save Wuji. Yinli had come to Snake Island and got into trouble with Granny Golden Flower for Wuji. Zhirou had been punished by the Ermei Sect over and over for Wuji.
“Sacrifice” fits all of them.
Many years later, Zhaomin would wish that she had asked to see Wuji’s意 (Yi) mark instead. Perhaps then she would have realized, from the start, what it all meant.
****
Zhirou curses the day she got her 意 (Yi) mark
“九阴” (9-Ying)
Mijue was beyond delighted when Zhang Sanfeng brought a child with that mark to her. She immediately declared (without sharing why) that Zhirou was her ordained successor, destined to bring glory back to Ermei, to the chagrin and jealousy of her Ermei sisters.
It made for an isolating childhood, although her Shifu lavished her with every care and Zhirou strove day and night not to let her obsessive hopes down.
Now, dull-eyed with sleep-deprivation (her Shifu’s voice haunts her when she closes her eyes at night) and heavy with dread, nonetheless Zhirou knows that she’ll do whatever is needed to fulfill her duty, her destiny, her Shifu’s final wish.
****
When Zhaomin is forced by Zhiruo to pull Yinli’s corpse to the beach she accidentally pulls off her left shoe.
“在眼前”(zai yan qian)
“Before your very eyes.”
Zhaomin trembles a little in sorrow. Another sacrifice.
That night, adrift on the little raft, tossed by the cold, merciless sea, she gives in to the pain, the illness, and the horrible worry clawing at her stomach and pressing on her chest. She thinks of the unsuspecting Wuji still stranded on the island.
I will not go quietly. I will not die. I will not give up.
I will not let her. I will not let Wuji down. And I will not ever try stupid, suicidal moves that hurt like hell ever again either. Will not, will not, will not.
The words are her mantra in the torturous months that follow as she struggles on her way back to the capital.
****
“Wuji child, I remember like it was yesterday the day your marks appeared- I though, even then, that your 情 (Qing) mark was an echo of your parents’ situation.”
“They sacrificed everything for each other and me, Godfather, I know.”
“Then do you see the parallels here with you and Zhirou?”
“I… “
“She was captured by Golden flower granny, poisoned by that crafty Mongolian demoness, and is now stranded, maybe for life, on this little island, all for you.”
“I know God-father… and … and when we were children and I was dying… she took care of me.”
“And now she needs you to help heal her, but you’re right that only by marrying her would that be appropriate. You should propose to her right-away!”
“God-father! Her Shifu just died, it’s not proper …”
“Good point. I’ll do it for you!”
At the betrothal ceremony, Wuji gets to ceremonially and privately see Zhirou’s情 (Qing) mark and is immediately touched.
“我好冷”
“Wo hao leng”
I’m cold.
It is the first thing Wuji ever said to Zhirou.
Zhirou weeps to see his.
He will never know how true that is.
He kisses her and promises her a more formal betrothal when they return to the mainland.
Neither offers a reason why they do not show the other person their 意 (Yi) mark.
****
A crestfallen Wuji walks slowly back to the Ming Sect delegation.
Zhaomin rolls her eyes.
“What?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“What? I just went over to greet Zhiruo… she has sacrificed so much for me…”
And there it was: The shot of pain whenever she hears Wuji say “sacrifice” in the same sentence as “Zhirou”. She has noticed how Wuji still looks at Zhirou.
“You called her Madam Song.”
“It’s polite, she’s married to…”
“She married him to annoy you! You’re NOT supposed to acknowledge it gracefully!”
“No?”
“No, you idiot, you’re supposed to be crazy jealous that your beloved ex-fiancé married someone else mere months after your almost-wedding!”
“But… she’s married!” She noted he didn’t protest the ‘beloved’ designation.
“To someone who was a traitor to his sect, an outcast who killed your 7th Uncle. It’s meant to be a slap in your face.”
“Zh… that’s a terrible thing to say!”
Wuji turns to watch the stricken visage of Song Qing Shu.
“Could she really have married him to spite me?”
Zhaomin rolls her eyes and allows herself a moment to appreciate how beautifully naïve her Wuji was.
But she doesn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for Zhirou. Zhirou’s latest move is silly. All show and no point, and if she suffers a little for it, Zhaomin is not above thinking it is just desserts for all she’s done.
****
“Left Emissary Yang”
“Princess Zhao”
“Thank you for coming out- you must be surprised to be asked to come here and alone while we are surrounded by my father’s Mongolian forces.”
Zhaomin goes straight to the point.
“Were you not afraid for one of my traps?” Zhaomin’s smile attempts to be mischievous but her heart is not in it.
Yangxiao bows chilly, “I can only hope that Zhang Jiaozhu’s belief in you is not entirely unfounded.”
“But you think it mostly is.”
Silence.
“And that I’m destroying his cause.”
Yangxiao is the picture of polite neutrality.
Zhaomin idly thinks that she and Yangxiao would have made a great team to support Wuji if things had been different.
They are alike she and him. Politically savvy, commanding the respect of their subordinates, loyal to the death, but unafraid to disagree when Wuji gets pig-headed about things.
“Let me not waste your time Yang Left Emissary. I asked you here because I agree with you.”
A skeptically arched eyebrow is all the response she gets. A bitter smile tweaks at the edge of her lips but she waits.
She looks at the beautiful mountains around her. Han lands are truly amazing- so lush, filled with craggy cliffs and rushing rivers, verdant forests and dizzying clouds. Most of all these are lands that teem with life, with crop and plants, and animals and people. So many people.
Not at all like the Mongol heaven of beautifully, clear, dry sand in a flat plane as far as the eye could see, where you could ride a horse for days in any direction, scorch in the heat of the blinding sun in the day, freeze under the dazzling stars at nights in your yurt and never come across a living being.
Her eyes smart, and she has to close them, as she is momentarily hit by homesickness.
Yangxiao caves in.
“Princess, are you telling me that you’re willing to leave Zhang… leave Wuji?”
“Yes”
“But you have conditions for me.”
“Clever Left Emissary, I see I haven’t picked the wrong person to speak with.”
“What could I, or even Ming sect, possibly offer you that Wuji cannot offer a hundred times over?”
She doesn’t respond directly.
“Ah, the loyal, but realistic Left Emissary… tell me first: Why are you all so loyal to Wuji?”
Yangxiao eyes her a moment.
“I do not doubt you know the answer to that. Wuji is a great and truly righteous person yet hates conflict and would give anything to have peace. He’ll never misuse his power, and cares deeply about the people he knows, the people who follow him. He is a little naïve, but that just makes him all the more charismatic and inspires a mix of awe and protectiveness of everyone who has met him.”
“Ah, but that isn’t enough is it? He must inspire people he has never met! To be the Han Emperor the Han people must love him, trust him!”
Yangxiao starts at the word “Emperor” and his eyes narrow.
“What are you playing at? Isn’t it enough for you that you win Wuji? Do you dream you will be the Han Empress? That would NEVER happen, the people would revolt! You Mongolians have ravaged the land… “
Zhaomin holds up her hand and Yangxiao stops.
“I know Left Emissary.”
“He would make a wonderful Emperor. And not just for the Hans. He would be someone the Mongolian empire can negotiate with because he’s not driven by hate even though he has every reason to be.”
“He could be an invaluable ally, IF trust can be built somehow from the wreck of decades of horror. IF the Mongolian diplomat and him have a basis of trust and understanding, enough to build lasting peace. IF the Mongolian diplomat is me and the Emperor of Han is him.”
Yangxiao’s shock is palpable but he holds his silence.
“So what do you think Left Emissary? Peace in our time?”
“Why?”
“Why do I do this or why I am telling you?”
“Both”
“Perhaps” she hedges, “I want to be politically powerful. Left Emissary, surely you would believe that of me?”
“As to why I tell you? I need your help, specifically your help, and I believe a little honesty will grease our … collaboration.”
Yangxiao’s eyes narrow again at “collaboration” but his voice is bland.
“Why would I trust you enough to help you? Saying pretty things is cheap.”
Zhaomin starts to take off her right shoe.
Yangxiao’s sword hand twitches at her movement but he holds still as he watches her warily.
She shows her 意 (Yi) mark to Yangxiao, although her face is very pale as she does so. It is as if she just stripped naked in front of him.
This was NOT what Yangxiao expected coming out to make the rendezvous with Zhaomin. At best he expected an offer of alliance with the Mongolians, at worse, another attempt at trickery to trap them.
Yangxiao takes a long, long moment to process this.
He has never believed that Zhaomin could be an ally before.
Then he bows and offers a token of his apology.
“Do you know how I knew, the moment I met her, that Buhui was my daughter?”
A wind pulls at Zhaomin’s and his clothes but both are too caught up in the conversation to feel the cold.
“Because of her name. Because I have had the word “Hui” – regret- written on my left sole since I was a child.”
As it turns out, Zhaomin is still capable of surprise. And sympathy.
She bows her head in a universal gesture of “touché” or perhaps “I understand” or even “I accept your apology.”
In defiance of the cold and humiliation, she keeps her foot bare, to reinforce her voluntary vulnerability. Another wind whips them, sitting on the bare rock surface in an elevated hill above their camp. The setting sun is starting to give way to evening chill.
Yangxiao pulls off his cloak in one smooth motion, and drapes it over Zhaomin.
Zhaomin smiles tiredly.
“I used to think I was destined to unite Meng and Han through conquest. But these months in Central Kingdom have taught me that conquering through force will destroy this land, and, to be honest, will destroy Mongolia as well with the sheer resources needed. We need to be united in peace. And a stop to the bloodshed is the first step.”
“The Han rebel-Emperor is too self-serving and weak.”
She holds onto the cloak with one hand and waves at the lands around them, golden in the setting sun.
“The only reason the massive difference in population hasn’t overwhelmed us Mengs is that the rebels are a mess of factions, lack a single leader, lack trust in each other. Everyone knows this. You do, I do, the Han’s do, the entire Mongolian leadership does.”
“What we need to do is offer something to save face and I think I can manage a truce, and from there…” She shrugs, “… who knows? Perhaps the start of an era of peace.”
“But first the Han rebels must be represented by a single voice. We will not negotiate with petty tribal chiefs or mountain warlocks. We are united under the Great Khan and only negotiate with who we feel are equal.”
“Wuji could be that person, Left Emissary. Make him strong. Gather all the rebels. Do what you must. But before another 10 years pass make Wuji Emperor of a united Han!”
Her eyes burn his.
Yangxiao draws a long breath at the vision. Not so different from his. He has always been ambitious for Wuji. But, but this is different. He had envisioned them driving the Mongols out with swords and blood, but this? This could change everything.
“Will you do that? Can I trust you Left Emissary?”
“What about you? How can you be so certain that you will be the person they send to negotiate? If it’s someone who will turn traitor to the cause, sabotage the Hans… we may simply be setting ourselves up for a more bloody war.”
Zhaomin smiles and chides- “My Left Emissary of so little faith.”
Yangxiao watches the confidence shine from this bare-footed 20 year old girl sitting on the rock. She is barely older than his own Buhui. Yet she has a vision to lift the weight of the world and set it on her own shoulders, on Wuji’s shoulders and she’s sitting there asking for his help.
Wulin Zhi Min indeed.
“I believe you. If you show good faith in what you do, I promise you everything in my power to bring your vision to pass.”
“How can I help?”
She tells him.
And Yangxiao, Left Emissary of the Glorious Ming Sect, who has seen and done more in his life than most people would in 10 lifetimes, discovers that he too is still capable of surprise. And sympathy.
****
“Let’s go for a walk!”
“Minmin, we’re facing a big battle tomorrow!”
“That’s why I want to go for a walk- I’m bored!”
“Min…”
“Shhhh…”
She puts her finger to his lips. So warm, so sweet.
“Shhh… let’s not waste today. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Why can we not enjoy one afternoon away from everyone in these hills?”
He relents.
The sun is glorious. They walk till her legs ache, till the golden light flares and then fades. They walk and talk and laugh as if nothing is amiss in the world. Zhaomin tells Wuji about the beautiful Mongolian dessert beneath endless starlit skies. Wuji marvels at Zhaomin’s ability to toss her cares to the wind.
They talk about all the far off lands they will see together, all the music they will hear together, all the wonders of being alive and young and with the whole world before them they will experience together. They also stay silent for long moments and bask in the fullness of a now that both know is tenuous.
“Minmin, you do know that no matter what, I would never let anything happen to you? Not tomorrow or the day after or all the tomorrows after that. Not ever.”
Twined fingers tighten in determination. Zhaomin looks wide-eyed at Wuji.
Eyes shining with torrents of unsaid words, she pulls herself up to Wuji and holds him with all her might.
“Wuji gege I am not scared. I… do you sometimes feel, at the moment when you’re the happiest, a sudden twinge of sadness at how fleeting the moments are?”
“I’ll protect you from that too.” Wuji affirms with impossible confidence and a smile that burns itself into Zhaomin’s memory.
She kisses him.
It is a close thing, but she does not cry.
****
“Dearest Wuji,
By the time you read this I will be gone. It is for the best and in fact, by the time you read this, the Mongolian army will be gone and will not return to seek revenge. This I promise you.
Do you remember, when I asked you to do me three tasks, I also promised you I would never ask you to do anything against your conscience or your honor?
If I stay, I would be forcing you to turn away from Ming Sect, from uniting Wulin, from your destiny. .
If I stay, I would be a traitor to my country, my tribe, and my family. I would repay their love, their nurture with grief and betrayal. I would abandon them and all the hopes I have held with them.
That would be against both our honor and consciences. So I will not ask that of you for my final favor.
Instead, I ask you this: Stay here and be well. In this life, look not for me because I wait not for you.
You promised me you would do the tasks to the extremes of your power, and I ask you to fulfill that promise to me now, and always, as I fulfill mine to you.
Stay and be happy my love.
Know that I too will be well. I too will be following my destiny. Do not let my well being ache your heart.
Time is short, and what I have to say about our time together could fill books and years- but it is with profound gratitude for those moments of us, those gifts of immeasurable worth, that I finish us here.
Your Minmei
PS Don’t blame Yang Left Emissary, he helped me because he knew he couldn’t have stopped me.”
****
On the day of the expected battle, anticlimactically, the Ming Sect and the Righteous Sects wake up to find that the Mongolian troops had vacated the area overnight. All that was left were their hastily abandoned camps and still-smoking fires.
Zhang Jiaozhu is not seen for a few days after that, although all want to thank him for this victory (everyone is convinced he did something in the night that frightened the Mongolian forces away.)
Only a few of the inner circle at Ming sect knew Princess Zhaomin was there in the first place so most didn’t notice her disappearance, although occasionally someone would wonder what happened to the woman who created a scandal by whisking Zhang Jiaozhu away at his wedding.
Over the years, occasional news of her trickle in from Mongolia, some little more than rumor and all difficult to verify.
She went back home.
She was tried as a traitor and she, as well as her family, were nearly killed by their political enemies.
She escaped (the stories of how were one more outlandish than the other but everyone agreed it was a minor miracle that she managed to pull off.)
She is re-instated as a Princess of the Realm.
She married the ill-favored, revolutionary-minded second son of the Great Khan.
Her husband is made Khan-to-be (their equivalent of Crown Prince) after years of bloody in-fighting, some say mostly thanks to his capable, well-connected wife.
Nearly no one is stupid (or brave) enough to even mention her in Zhang Jiaozhu’s presence much less share rumors.
Unexpectedly it is ZhouDian (now the head of Intelligence in the Han Court) who, without fanfare or comment, carelessly leaves little missiles with news of Zhaomin he comes across where Wuji may regularly find them.
If Wuji reads them, if he is grateful for this silent sympathy, he gives no indication to anyone that he finds news of the Lady TeMu’Er of particular interest.
****
“The Consort of the Crown-Prince of Meng, Lady TeMu’Er!”
She sweeps in, in full Mongolian regalia.
It has been ten long years since Lady TeMu’Er has set food on Han lands.
The court falls silent in something that hovers between fear and admiration as everyone watches the legendary Lady TeMu’Er approach the Dragon throne.
Nearly no one except the old guard from the Ming Sect remembers now that Lady TeMu’Er used to be known as Zhaomin. Of those, most have been given posts in far-off, usually martial posts, and only Yangxiao has stayed in the capital to serve as Prime Minister.
So it is that only Yangxiao, of everyone in the room, knows to watch both her and the Emperor closely.
He is impressed by what he has heard of Lady TeMu’Er’s accomplishments over the years and it shows in her. Gone was the sly girl, and in her place an elegant, regal, woman. Renowned for her skill with sword and pen, for being a political power in her own right to the point that when the Great Khan selected her, of everyone, on this critical, delicate negotiation, even her opponents knew that they couldn’t fight the choice.
She speaks Han fluently; she lived some years in her youth in Han lands. She is familiar with Han martial arts and commands respect (and no little fear) amongst both the Meng and Han for being fair but unrelenting in her justice and ruthless in executing both.
But there is an uphill battle yet; many are those in both courts that are convinced there is no chance, after decades of war, blood and mistrust that this could be anything but a ploy, a lull, a prelude to more war and more blood.
Yangxiao looks sideways at the Emperor to gauge his response and is proud to note that he doesn’t give any sign of recognizing her. Wuji has had to grow to be a different man in the last decade.
Lady TeMu’Er executes a graceful and entirely correct bow in the Han tradition, and then puts her hand over her heart in the Mongolian way to acknowledge the Emperor.
Their gazes meet.
Only Yangxiao is observant and close enough to hear a soft exhale from the Emperor.
As if he finally let go of a breath he has been holding for a very, very long time.
To everyone else in the hall they barely glance at each other and then the Lady drops her gaze politely and the Emperor is attentively listening while the Meng announcer reads out the long list of lavish gifts from the Khan as betrothal gifts.
Furs and horses and cows from their lands, and precious gems from the deep cold North, rare scripture texts from the far West. The gifts were very carefully hand-picked by Lady TeMu’Er to honor the Han Emperor, but not be obsequious, to show Mongolia’s continued wealth and power but without being aggressive.
If all goes well, her brother-in-law (the youngest of the Great Khan’s sons) will soon marry one of the Emperor’s Princesses.
It would be a symbol of unity between the Mongolians and the Hans. The culmination of many years and cycles of truce, negotiations, failures, skirmishes and truces again. Years in which the Khan-to-be and Lady TeMu’Er poured their very vocal, forceful and resource-backed support to the cause of negotiations and peace.
The conversation between Lady TeMu’Er and the Emperor is a series of transmitted messages. Speaking directly to the Emperor is not an honor that can be bestowed on barbarian Mongolians, even if she, like some odd monkey, was trained to speak pretty Han Chinese.
“How was the trip?”
“How is the Empress?”
“How is little Princess Minjun?”
“How is the Khan?”
“Fine.”
“Well.”
“So kind of you to ask.”
Still, the Eunuchs are very impressed by how fluent Lady TeMu’Er is in Han Chinese. Her nearly accent-less tones and her polite forms are as good as if she had been brought up to move in Imperial circles in the Capital.
The delegation will stay two weeks- time enough to be feasted by succeeding levels of officials, for the generals to invite the Mongolians to spar under pretense of friendship but really to test their prowess, for negotiations both overt and covert to take place. The Emperor may be supreme but it is a large court and factions matter if this peace is to be truly upheld.
Minister Yang, as the Emperor’s representative at these meetings nudges, hints, cajoles, threatens, orchestrates behind the scenes to make this work. All to uphold a pact between a girl and a Left Emissary years ago,
The Lady TeMu’Er is no less busy; she speaks veiled threats and promises, bows and bangs tables, drinks with and toasts her hosts at feasts and keeps her delegation out of trouble.
Once, memorably, in a mortal challenge, she defeats an up-and-coming pugilist with his own brand of Han martial arts to make a (respectful) point.
(An odd rumor went around after that that the Emperor himself threw a cold fit over this. What is certain is that Minister Yang personally informs the over-eager pugilist that his political career is over, as is that of anyone else who mortally challenges the Yuan delegation.)
By the end of the two intensive weeks, there is, if not an outright success, a tentative Imperial engagement.
Before they go, in a surprise move of great honor, the Emperor grants them a farewell feast that He Himself attends. (After that the whispers that this is a façade and that the Emperor will never let his beloved Princess be married off to barbaric Mongolia fade a little.)
In the middle of the ceremony he says something to his head Eunuch and hands him a box, which gets passed eventually onto Lady TeMu’Er.
“For Lady TeMu’Er, largesse from the Emperor, for her weighty services to Han.”
The Lady takes the familiar gold box and mutters careful but heart-felt thanks.
“This gift of immeasurable worth is received with profound gratitude.”
She puts it away without opening it. She doesn’t need to look to know what is inside, nor that there is a fine scar across the box where it had once been sliced into two.
Later that night when her steward comes to give her an accounting of the gifts they are to bring back, he finds her holding an unremarkable hairpin. The golden box is open in front of her and her dinner from hours ago is untouched by the side.
On closer examination, it is an odd gift. The hairpin itself is pretty enough; it is gold, adorned with pearls, expensive enough, but any Han lady of reasonable means could afford it. Not at all like the works of gold filigree art made by the top Han artisans employed by the Han court made these days.
To add to the dismal impression, it is old. The design is dated, and it shows signs of wear and tear, as it if someone has handled it daily for years.
And the oddest thing about it is that where the largest pearl is clearly meant to be, there is nothing.
Her steward has worked for years for Lady TeMu’Er and is more like family than a servant, and he snorts in disgust.
“Is that what the Emperor bestowed? This is an insult! Does he mean to signal his disapproval of the match? But I heard he personally pushed for it against the wishes of his generals….!”
Lady TeMu’Er raises her hand to stop him. Her other hand curls protectively around the precious pin.
Her steward shrugs at her clear order, and gets on with the business at hand.
After he is done, Zhaomin returns to her contemplation of the hairpin.
The missing pearl has been carefully replaced in the box. She had opened the pearl hours ago and found in there a little piece of paper on which was written painstakingly in an achingly familiar handwriting, four words:
领会牺牲 Linghui Xishen (Experientially understanding of sacrifice)
Tears came to Zhaomin at last.
Epilogue:
Years before Consort TeMu’Er’s return to Han lands, Yangxiao, in a moment of calculated indiscretion, reveals to the then Han General Zhang Wuji what Zhaomin told him before she left.
It is a turning point for the General. It was what made him accept the post of Emperor that was offered to him rather than, as was his inclination, to retire as a physician.
****
Ten years after Lady TeMu’Er’s betrothal visit to the Han lands, after the Imperial wedding, after the death of the Khan-to-be, after the peace treaty, after years, during which people started to forget about the old feuds and Han-Meng grudges, Lady TeMu’Er hears news: The Emperor has died of sudden illness, and is being succeeded by his popular, if young, Crown Prince with Minister Yang as reagent.
Lady TeMu’Er’s outpouring of grief at the funeral was considered to be a fine show of diplomatic courtesy although people who knew her personally were shocked. They have never seen her cry in public.
Afterward Minister Yang approaches her and cryptically says “I had to make sure first.” And hands her a note.
“Forgive me this grievous deception- Yangxiao insisted it was the only way I could shed my old life and also see if you would welcome this note.
I look back at all the promises I made in my life and none have made me more proud than my promises to you Minmin.
The years were long, silent, and hard, and it was my belief in you, in our common dream, knowledge that you were safe and well, and our promises that sustained me. But I am done with this life now, and although you may not have waited for me, I have, and continue to, wait for you.
Come to me Minmin.
Your Wuji.”
***
It is 20 years after she first sees Wuji’s情 (Qing) mark, when Zhaomin finally sees his意 (Yi) mark.
“武林至尊, 汉蒙之和”
“Wulin zhi zun, Han Meng zhi he.”
Master of the Wulin world; Unity for the Hans and Mongols
It is a revelation for her. She never knew before that情 (Qing) and意 (Yi), or two people like her and Wuji, could be two sides of a single, enduring gift.