In the second year of the great drought, Xiang Xian left Buddha Palace Temple and rode south lightly and swiftly through Datong Prefecture.
The Northern Regions sprouted with weeds in spring, turned to scorched earth for a thousand li in summer, with cracked ridges; by autumn, the wild grasses lay flat, and the fields yielded no harvest. Soon, fierce winds blew, and white snow gently covered the starved dead and the land together.
The Northern Lands endured successive wars, and many commoners fled south with their families.
Along the way, Xiang Xian always encountered ragged-clothed people gathered around boiling cauldrons. He did not ask what simmered inside. When passing refugee camps, he distributed the last bits of food he carried.
Beyond that, he had no other means.
As his southward journey neared its end, he finally saw haystacks in the fields, crops with yields, and mountains tinged with green.
Deep autumn, Kaifeng.
The moment he arrived in the capital, Xiang Xian had but one thought: Finally home.
Weizhou Gate bustled with chattering merchants and families entering the city to admire the flowers. Xiang Xian sat on horseback and handed over his Waist Badge for the gate guards to inspect.
“Lord Xiang is back.”
“Yeah.” Xiang Xian said, “A trip through the north shed a layer of skin. Famine rages everywhere—it’s too hard.”
Before leaving the capital, Kaifeng sweltered under autumn heat. After several rains, autumn arrived late, blanketing the Central Plains. At Dragon Pavilion Lakeside, chrysanthemums bloomed into a sea of flowers, mostly bright yellow, dotted with pure red and orange, echoing the clusters of golden-red maple trees.
A Western merchant once said: The Great Song capital was built of gold.
The Official Family thought otherwise. The Daojun Emperor found gold and silver too vulgar, white jade too plain; only profuse flowers and serene landscapes could paint the peace of a flourishing era.
Thus, Bianjing’s colors were the most intricate in history, the entire city like a scroll from the current Heavenly Sovereign’s brush.
Black-gold flying eaves on golden-bronze bases, ink-gray bluestone on the main roads piercing the city. Longting Lake connected to four hundred eighty ponds large and small in Kaifeng, shimmering emerald. Vermilion doors on many mansions, raven-black tiles, evening maples filling the streets, interwoven with seas of pale yellow chrysanthemums, all under crisp autumn skies—a pinnacle of color.
What those above favored, those below toiled to provide. To ensure this view from Wansui Mountain, Prime Minister Cai Jing must have spared no effort.
In the city’s south, the Grand Canal had just been dug. Laborers unloaded jagged southern rocks onto the banks while officials chatted amiably at the docks, their faces flushed with success—no doubt hefty rewards awaited.
Xiang Xian skirted the docks and headed to the market, tethering his horse outside. Markets spanned ten li along the Bian River banks. Xiang Xian knew the way well, passing through a lane under the Watchtower, buying half a jin of osmanthus wine at a tavern, then visiting Sister Song’s stall.
“Lord Xiang buying chicken himself again,” the counterman beamed, coming out to greet him. “Sit inside or take it to go?”
“One golden chicken,” Xiang Xian said. “Pack it up. Just back in the capital, rushing home to rest.”
“Chop it or whole?”
“Mm.” Xiang Xian was famished. Watching the counterman take down the roast chicken hanging before him, inhaling the aroma as it was chopped, he nearly overturned his decision to eat in the shop first.
Golden chicken skin gleamed like draped gold, meat white as jade, fat overflowing… No, he had to resist. Life was a constant struggle against the seven emotions and six desires.
“Cakes? Want some?”
“Four,” Xiang Xian added. “Extra scallions.”
“Got it!”
In the meantime, Xiang Xian crossed to the opposite lane, had the shopkeeper tear off a braised sheep’s head and pack vegetable rolls, then grabbed the golden chicken and hurried to the market’s edge. He mounted swiftly and rode home to enjoy.
Under Yuwang Platform, dusk fell; the Drum Tower loomed afar. Xiang Xian slowed his horse, turning from the main road into another lane. Smoke rose from every home, lanterns blazed, laughter and music from silk strings and pipes drifted—this was where Bianjing’s wealthy resided.
At the lane’s end stood a vermilion-lacquered door flanked by two Stone Lions.
Above the door hung an official plaque, weathered yet dignified, its faded gold characters still imposing: Great Song Exorcism Division.
“Lord Xiang is back!” a Stone Lion said.
The other leaped from its pedestal, led the horse away, and it followed obediently.
Xiang Xian carried his food, pointed at the door, and ripples spread in the space before the vermilion lacquer. The door opened to a front courtyard bursting with flowers, lanterns already lit, a stream murmuring before the eastern rockery.
“Where’s A Huang?” Xiang Xian called. “A Huang! I’m back! Old Wu?!”
Xiang Xian tossed his things aside, crossed the covered walkway into the hall. The main seat held a couch for his daily use. Beside it stood a gold bird perch with a dark-red bird topped by orange-yellow downy feathers, head buried in its wings, dozing.
Xiang Xian grabbed a poker for the brazier ashes and prodded it. The bird nearly fell, then glared up at him.
A man’s voice came from behind: “Master, you’re back.”
“Mm.” Xiang Xian unfastened his Pei Sword and handed it over. The steward bowed, placed it on the sword stand in the hall.
