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Xun Yang kicked a rock into a tree and scowled, then turned back into the kitchen tent and expended his anger on the potatoes.
It was all wrong. Why didn’t anyone else seem to see that it was all wrong?
They were all falling over themselves to welcome General Kunlun, to show him the camp, to vie for his attention, and there were rumors that the Black-Cloaked Envoy had smiled at him.
Yes, so General Kunlun had saved a disastrous reconnaissance-turned-melee with his mysterious appearance and even more mysterious weapon, and that was fine. And the Black-Cloaked Envoy was generous with his praise, because he was just in all things. That was fine. But the Black-Cloaked Envoy had saved hundreds of troops, liberated prisoners, rescued starving villagers, performed one amazing feat after another, so why was everyone suddenly talking about the new General all the damn time?
There was no getting away from him. Not from the rumors, not from the tall tales, and not from the man himself, who kept strolling through the camp like he belonged there, or worse: like he owned the place. He kept showing up at different cookfires, chatting with the troops, laughing with them, tossing his long braids back and eating with his fingers as if he were one of them.
And all this while the Black-Cloaked Envoy kept his customary vigil on the cliffs, alone, unaware of how the General was making himself at home.
Xun Yang had tried three times only the past week to bring his supper up to him, and been rebuffed every time. “The troops fought hard today,” the Envoy would say, his tone gentle, but with steel underneath it. “Please give my rations to the vanguard.” It was true that resources were scarce, but Xun Yang had tried to make the food look appealing, to toast the rice cakes over scented juniper wood and add a little—a very little—soy sauce, and now he was supposed to just…hand them over to the common soldiers? He had used an entire scallion for the filling!
Then the Black-Cloaked Envoy disappeared for weeks with one of the scouting parties, and General Kunlun just invited himself along. It wasn’t like anyone else could give orders to a General, and apparently the Black-Cloaked Envoy hadn’t done so yet. Hadn’t told the man to keep his wide smiles to himself and moderate his laughter. He was going to get them all killed; the man didn’t know the meaning of quiet.
But then the scouting party returned, alive and well, and jubilant. Apparently the rebels had been trying to build an outpost to spy on the camp, hiding the tower they were building beneath a cloak of foliage. And instead of destroying it, which was only sensible, the General had advised them all to return quietly to camp and work on a new tactic, one of misdirection. “If they want to spy on us, let them,” he had said, according to the scouts. “We can make them look in one direction, let them expend their troops and energy on paper soldiers, while we move the other way.” Apparently the Black-Cloaked Envoy had been so impressed that he’d requested an extra ration for the General, and now Xun Yang was supposed to make it for him, because no one else had his hand with chili oil.
It was infuriating. And it was so, so tempting to ruin his own work, to add something unsavory, or even better, poisonous, but Xun Yang would not stoop so low. Instead he decided to chop the onion extra fine, shave the dried fish into beautiful curls, and make the ration worthy of the Envoy himself. That every sharp slice of his knife was infused with hatred rather than loyal worship was his secret alone.
And then, when he brought the bowl out of the cooking tent, he was informed that the General had gone up the path to the cliffs.
He carried the bowl all the way up there in his own two hands, warming it with a little touch of flame now and then—his power had never amounted to much, but it was good for cooking—and once he finally arrived at the top of the cliffs, panting and trying to look like it was just fine that the General had made him come all this way, he saw them.
The two of them.
They were sitting close together, much closer than Xun Yang had ever seen anyone sit next to the Envoy before, and they were laughing. Or, well, the General was laughing, filling the air with the ebullient sound of it, but the Envoy was definitely smiling. So the rumors hadn’t been wrong about that.
His smile was as beautiful as Xun Yang had always known it would be. He had dreamed of it, often. He had thought of somehow cooking a dish so perfect that the Envoy would smile at him—
“Xun Yang,” the Envoy said, startling him. “Thank you for bringing the General’s supper.” He was still smiling just a little, and his midnight eyes looked fond, but Xun Yang knew that look was not meant for him, and it did not bring him pleasure.
He stammered something, bowed, stepped as close as he dared, stretched out his hands to give the bowl to the Envoy, then remembered just in time. He held the bowl out to the General instead, bowing even lower so he wouldn’t have to face the man.
But the General took the bowl from him and said, “Xun Yang? I’ve heard your name—you’re the one who makes those rice cakes, right? They’re amazing,” and then Xun Yang had no choice but to look at him. He tried, he tried so hard to look respectful, but to be complimented on his skills by this man was like ashes in his mouth.
“General,” he said, bowing too low again, retreating, and now the Envoy was frowning at him, and everything was terrible. And just as he went back down the long, winding, dusty, rocky, awful path, he heard the General say in a coaxing, far too familiar tone of voice, “You’ll share the supper with me, right? You can’t expect me to just sit here and eat in front of you!” The Envoy’s reply was too quiet to overhear, but it didn’t sound like a refusal.
It went on like that, for days, for weeks, and Xun Yang wanted to die every time he brought that one bowl all the way up to the cliffs. But he never stopped trying to make the food the best they had, with their meager supplies, and he put extras in, as much as he dared—a handful of just-caught river shrimp, a fresh green onion sliced fine, cracked wheat roasted over the fire—at least the Envoy would perhaps eat some of it, if the General didn’t scoff the lot.
Every day the men went on their various missions, bringing back whatever they found for Xun Yang to make a meal out of—sometimes mushrooms, sometimes wild rice, sometimes plants that looked like they might be edible—and Xun Yang whirled from one pot to the next and sweated and stirred and climbed to the cliffs every night and did his best, his very best, but the Envoy never smiled at him the way he smiled at the General.
Eventually the pain began to fade, not much but enough to make it bearable, like a bad burn that was slowly scabbing over, and then Xun Yang overheard a rumor that made him drop his only good ladle.
The Envoy had invited the General into his tent.
The next day, the rumor became a certainty. General Kunlun stepped out of the Envoy’s tent and into the sunlit morning, smiling, his braids tied back far too carefully and his long hair smoothed and oiled into gleaming curling locks, and the news ran round the camp like wildfire.
For the first time in his history with the army, Xun Yang pleaded illness, and did not enter the kitchen tent that day.
Or the next day.
On the third day, there was an unfamiliar noise outside his tent, sentries calling out salutes, and then the Envoy—the Envoy himself—stepped inside. He bent down over Xun Yang where he lay on the heap of sacking that served him as a bed, and he looked at him with concern. This close, Xun Yang could see every one of the Envoy’s ink-stroke eyelashes, and the delicate curl of his mouth that belied the determined set of his chin.
“I heard that you were struck with illness,” the Envoy said softly. “But the healers have not seen you. What is wrong?”
It took a moment for Xun Yang to catch his breath. The Envoy had come for him. Was showing concern for him. The embers in his heart flared up anew, a bonfire. And then he realized that he would now have to lie to the Envoy, because he could hardly speak the truth. “I—my stomach,” he stammered. “I tested a new dish, and it did not agree with me. There is no need for me to trouble the healers, my Lord; in another day, I will be well.”
“You are sure? You have not been given unusual mushrooms, or anything of that kind?”
“I am sure, my Lord,” said Xun Yang. The last thing he needed was for the Envoy to reprimand his soldiers for accidentally poisoning the cook.
The Envoy nodded at him, courteous as always. “Then I can only wish you a swift road to good health.” As he turned to leave, he paused, and his mask dipped down in a way that was almost—hesitant. “General Kunlun has missed your special touch with the rations. We will both look forward to your return.”
Xun Yang resumed his duties after that, and tried to avoid even looking at the Envoy’s tent. At least his duties did not entail bringing him breakfast.
Some weeks later, he brought supper to the cliffs and found the General there, alone. He nearly dropped the bowl, but managed to do a creditable job of handing it over, then tried to retreat, but the man stopped him. Called his name. Damn him.
Xun Yang stared at him, knowing it was rude to look a superior in the eye, but unable to help himself. “How may I assist you?”
“You look like you want to assist me straight down the cliffside,” said General Kunlun, in a friendly tone of voice. “You always do.”
Xun Yang came very close to panicking. It was not officially allowed, but he knew that the soldiers sometimes dueled each other, to settle arguments over money or lovers or food. He had no skills with a sword, no power except a candleworth of fire, and the General had a weapon that could drop men dead where they stood. “I—Sir—”
“Yeah, no, I get it,” said the General. “Trust me, I know. You’re just looking out for the Envoy, right? Wondering what the hell he sees in me?”
For all his friendly manner and his casual words, the General’s gaze skewered him. He had been able to lie to the Envoy, barely, but if he tried to lie to this man—
“Yes,” Xun Yang confessed, cringing, waiting for the weapon to strike him with skyfire. When nothing happened, he dared to look up.
The General was grinning at him. “Good! I’m glad someone’s looking out for him. He needs it. And look—” He paused, and the grin seemed to wipe itself off his face. “I may have to leave here, suddenly. Not by my choice.”
Xun Yang blinked. “Sir?” This sounded like a secret, an important secret, and he was the cook, not a spy or a soldier. What on earth was happening?
“Yeah, don’t spread the news around, but I thought you would understand. The Envoy won’t—when I leave—” The General looked away from him, out over the camp, then up into the starry night. His eyes were gleaming with unshed moisture when he finally looked back at Xun Yang. “The Envoy is going to need your care. Can you make sure that he eats? That he takes rest?”
Xun Yang swallowed, hard. “I am under his command, my—Sir. If he orders me away, I must obey.”
General Kunlun gave him a thoughtful look. “And that’s a drag sometimes, isn’t it? Since you want to take care of him?”
Xun Yang tried to find the anger, the disdain at this man’s obvious attempts to win him over, but instead all he found was an unwelcome warmth in the pit of his stomach. It was the first time someone else had understood—
“I do,” he whispered. “I want that very much. But if he won’t let me—”
General Kunlun nodded. “We both want that. So if—when I’m gone—if he tries to refuse your food, your help, then tell him ‘General Kunlun asked me to swear that I would take care of you’. He won’t be able to deny you, then.”
It was outrageous. It was underhanded, just like the man’s battle tactics. It was barefaced manipulation—and it would work. And if General Kunlun’s words were true—if he were going to leave—then Xun Yang could give him what he asked. Could afford to be generous.
Xun Yang dropped into a bow. A real one, a proper one. A respectful one. And when he came up, he said, “I do so swear.”
The General’s returning smile was brighter than the moon.