Does Yuan Kai train with a similar rigor? How does he get away from home long enough to find me? Father doesn’t like me to go anywhere by myself—even dressed as a man—for more than half a day.
Stop thinking. Practice isn’t over yet. Listen!
I shuffle the small, soft projectiles I hold, four in my left hand, three in my right.
The air sings—Father has released his remaining projectiles at once. I launch all seven of mine, also in a single motion.
“You got them, jiejie!” cries Murong.
I already know—I heard seven soft collisions—and can’t help a small smile. I don’t always love my training, but I love what that training enables me to do. Today, it has facilitated perfection.
I undo my blindfold to the sight of our courtyard littered with tiny grain sacks, and Murong busy gathering them into a basket.
When we lived in the South, our house on Lake Tai was set apart, its spacious grounds enclosed by high walls topped with glazed tiles. Then it didn’t matter what weapons I used or how much noise I made. But here in the North we’ve had to adjust our training methods. In theory, we still have our own home. But it’s a small courtyard dwelling packed together with other similar courtyards, the alleys in between narrower than my wingspan.
In such surroundings, the black and white playing pieces of a go game, which I trained with in the South, would be much too loud. Auntie Xia, always resourceful, made hundreds of millet-filled sacks from fabric scraps, each no bigger than the pad of my thumb.
Murong brings me his basket, brimming with tiny sacks. “Can I keep a few to play with after I finish my calligraphy practice?”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Of course.”
“Will you come and grind ink for me?”
Murong grinds better ink than I do—his always turns out the perfect consistency, whereas mine can be either too sticky or too watery. What he really wants is some company as he writes his characters.
Before I can agree, Father says, “I need to speak to your sister, Murong. Go practice by yourself.”
I have avoided looking in Father’s direction, not wanting to know that my perfect record today has again made no impression. It’s almost a relief to hear his unusually tense tone and see his drawn expression: He won’t be addressing the matter at all.
Yet my heart lurches. He is going to speak of the duel. I know it. He has been quietly making arrangements for our travels, but he hasn’t involved me, telling me only that I must devote all my time to practicing.
“I’ll be there soon,” I tell Murong.
He leaves with the basket. Dabao, Auntie Xia’s stout son, lifts Father and heads for the reception room.
Father would have cut an imposing figure in his youth. Even now, with his sharp gaze and hawklike features, he appears every bit the great swordsman. It is only in times like this, when he must rely on Dabao to move even a few steps, that his weakness is revealed.
We spoke of his paralysis once and only once. I was ten, bored and fed up with the grueling training he put me through day after day. I wanted to jump on a skiff and punt through a forest of water lilies on the great shimmering Lake Tai. I wanted to read under the shade of banana fronds on the terrace. I wanted to go with Mother to the marketplace and examine the odd and fascinating wares that had come from far, far away.
I went through the motions, waiting for practice to be over and my day to truly begin. After issuing several admonitions, each terser and more severe than the last, Father finally said, with barely leashed anger, “Do you want to become like me? Do you believe I have always been a cripple? No. I walked into the duel and never walked again afterward.
“You will not allow this to happen to you. You must be so good that you will win overwhelmingly. Because if you don’t, if you have any weakness at all, your opponent will exploit it ruthlessly. And you are already at a disadvantage because you are a girl. Do you understand?”
I stared at him, not because he’d raised his voice—he hadn’t—but because of the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“Do you understand?” he repeated, his words quiet, almost inaudible.
I nodded, more in confused obedience than anything else. But I did practice much harder the next day. And the day after. And the day after that.
And I have never let up since.
I follow the men to the reception room. It’s a narrow, cramped space—every room in this dwelling always feels narrow and cramped. At the head of the room is a raised platform. Dabao lowers Father onto the platform, behind a low table. Father manipulates himself into a cross-legged position.
“You can go back to your mother,” he tells Dabao.
Dabao’s face lights up with a wide smile—he is in his early thirties but still has the mind of a child. He bows and hurries out.
Folding my hands in front of me, I lower my face. “Father has instructions?”
A long moment passes.
“I received a letter this morning. The duel is to be postponed.”
My head snaps up. “Postponed? Surely nothing has happened to my opponent!”
Father hands me a letter. I immediately recognize the strong, sharp handwriting—at least Yuan Kai wrote himself. I glance at Father, hoping he hasn’t noticed my disproportionate distress. He looks not at me but straight ahead. I swallow once before I begin to read.
To the venerable and esteemed Master Hua,
Pray accept the sincere greetings of this member of a later generation. The good fortune of calling upon Master Hua in person has yet to be granted this humble pupil, which makes it more regrettable that in this humble pupil’s first missive to Master Hua, he must convey infelicitous news.
As Master Hua has perhaps heard, the situation near the border grows tenser by the day. Open conflict with the Rouran appears inevitable. When the fate of the realm is at stake, each man must step forth and embrace his duties. And national peril must, this humble pupil hopes Master Hua will agree, outweigh personal obligations, however ancient and all-consuming.
This humble pupil deeply regrets that in fulfilling his obligation to his country, he will not be able to participate in the contest as originally scheduled. He begs Master Hua’s generous forgiveness and hopes to prove himself at an auspicious later date.
This unworthy pupil extends his devout wishes for Master Hua’s peace and well-being and his highest regards to Hua xiong-di.
Yuan Kai
I read the letter twice. It may be courteous, composed in the elaborate language required for formal correspondence, but it is no apology. It isn’t even a negotiation. We have simply been informed that my opponent will not be there for the most important appointment of our lives.
Yes, there has been talk of trouble to the north—in the marketplace, rumors are rife. And yes, the whispers grow louder and louder that open war could erupt. But it hasn’t happened yet. Not to mention, on a battlefield with thousands of horses, hundreds of chariots, and foot soldiers beyond count, where a general’s strategy requires the movement of entire regiments, a single martial artist’s skills at close-quarters combat are completely wasted.
It makes no sense at all that Yuan Kai has reneged on the duel for the sake of some defensive effort to which he could make only a negligible contribution.
I hand the letter back to Father. “I wasn’t aware that he had the power to decide when the duel is or isn’t to be held.”