“The Drought Fiend is a corpse immortal who ascended long ago, like the Queen Mother of the West,” Xiao Kun explained. “Her name is Nüba, the world’s first undying being. I thought you knew?”
Common folklore depicted the Drought Fiend as a massive monster with disheveled hair crawling the earth, withering all vegetation in its path and bringing three years of drought.
Xiang Xian tossed the official document back and said, “What to do! Oh heavens!”
When they left for the Western Regions, the Demon Shaking Bell had rung nearly to pieces, proving Demon Race infiltrators lurked under their noses in Kaifeng. Crucially, the birds meant to report to the Western Regions had been shot down by Gao Qiu’s slingshot. Thinking it over, if doom truly came, it was Heavenly Mandate. Gao Qiu’s survival was Great Song’s fated curse.
“Think differently,” Xiao Kun said. “Even if the falcon’s message arrived promptly, could we have rushed back?”
Xiang Xian had to admit he was right. Perhaps the Demon Race had timed it perfectly, luring the tiger from the mountain. Once they left the Western Regions, Gaochang Uyghur would fall to the Ba Army, Mr. Liu would rally troops to smash through Yumen Pass, and by now they ravaged Western Xia.
“Since there’s no room to change it,” Xiao Kun said, “don’t overthink. I just wonder what King Mu aimed for by infiltrating Kaifeng this time.”
“Grain.” Xiang Xian thought and replied. “The Demon Race feeds on Baleful Qi, and its birth would grant them unprecedented power.”
In times of famine with corpses littering the fields, they knew well: the five hundred thousand outside the city were prime rations for the Demon King. Refugees dying in hunger and cold, rife with resentment and pain, would release massive Baleful Qi. If riots and looting erupted, followed by Song Army blockades and shootings, the Baleful Qi would spiral uncontrollably.
“The priority is resettling the clansmen.” Xiao Kun said.
“Fires rage everywhere,” Xiang Xian said. “War, famine—since the Maritime Alliance, Baleful Qi production has accelerated.”
Xiang Xian recalled his youth: though Shenzhou had impoverished areas, people scraped by. Traveling with Shen Kuo as a boy, most regions remained stable. It all accelerated from Zhao Ji’s alliance with Jin to destroy Liao—like a carriage barreling downhill, changes chaining toward the future Shuhu foretold, unstoppable.
“Let’s leave it for now.” Xiao Kun said. “Tomorrow, see Zhao Huan and persuade him to find suitable homes for the clansmen. But where to send these five hundred thousand? Chang’an? Luoyang?”
They had seen along the way: many places in Great Song teetered on collapse, bellies empty.
“That’s not our worry,” Xiang Xian said. “Specialize in one’s trade—why else have prime ministers? If Zhao Huan approves, Cai Jing must find spots. Otherwise, exile the left and right ministers to Hainan and put us in charge.”
“Fine.” Xiao Kun finally accepted.
Xiang Xian pondered, then stood. Xiao Kun asked, “What for?”
“Write a memorial.” Xiang Xian answered. “Old Wu’s asleep; won’t disturb him.”
Xiao Kun fetched brush and ink. Xiang Xian said, “Your turn to serve me for once.”
Xiang Xian expected a quip, but Xiao Kun simply replied, “Mm.”
“As it should be.” Xiao Kun knelt by the table, grinding ink for Xiang Xian. After all, this was to save his clansmen.
Xiang Xian knew Xiao Kun’s deepest concerns: his homeland, the Young Master, duties weighing so heavily his brows never fully relaxed even in sleep.
Even without Xiao Kun, Xiang Xian wouldn’t ignore it, but with him, it felt like his own affair.
Xiao Kun watched Xiang Xian write. Street watchmen’s clappers marked the third watch; all was silent, spring breeze still chill.
“Your small regular script is beautiful.” Xiao Kun added.
Without thinking, Xiang Xian dashed off the memorial and said, “Not bad for a Tanhua Lang.”
Xiao Kun smiled, gazing at Xiang Xian’s profile. Emotions welled up—he was stunning, heroic yet handsome. Learning of the displaced Liao people, he stepped up without hesitation. For this, Xiao Kun felt all his efforts on the journey worthwhile.
The night passed; Xiao Kun didn’t know when he fell asleep. At mid-morning sun, Chaosheng’s voice woke him, still slumped over the table.
“Eaten breakfast?” Chaosheng’s joys largely centered on food. He turned to Mu Qingshan. “What do you want today? I’ll ask Big Brother for money; Old Wu can buy it.”
“Last night’s flatbread was fine.” Mu Qingshan stood in the courtyard, chatting with Chaosheng.
Chaosheng said, “Kaifeng has too many treats. Let’s hit the morning market!”
Wu Yingzong signaled from the yard for quiet. “Don’t wake Lord Xiao; he and Master stayed up late.”
Xiao Kun sat up, Xiang Xian’s outer robe draped over him. “Where’s Xiang Xian?”
Wu Yingzong hurried in, bowed, and said, “Master said not to wake you. He bathed earlier and went to Wansui Mountain Imperial Palace with Kang Wang Zhao Gou.”
“Why not wake me?” Xiao Kun felt bewildered.
Wu Yingzong couldn’t answer and stood with hands down. Xiao Kun stretched, went to the back yard to bathe.
“Take Bai Ju Er too.” Mu Qingshan said.
As Chaosheng and Mu Qingshan headed out, Mu Qingshan remembered him. Hulü Guang practiced punches in white robes in the yard, cultivating breath as Yuzhou had taught.
“You go too,” Xiao Kun called from behind the screen while bathing, to Wu Yingzong outside. “No need to wait.”
“Yes.” Wu Yingzong took the three to shop in Kaifeng.
Xiao Kun envied his carefree companions, unburdened even if the sky fell—always he and Xiang Xian fretted. Why had Xiang Xian gone alone?
He suddenly understood: the five hundred thousand refugees outside were Khitan People, and so was he.
Presenting a memorial to the Song Crown Prince was begging. Given Song-Liao’s alliances and wars, officials would mock coldly.
Thin-skinned as he was, Xiang Xian had shielded his face, sparing him humiliation in court.
This realization stirred complex feelings in Xiao Kun. After bathing, he sat in the hall.
Wu Yingzong had set breakfast before leaving: steamed egg-milk custard, buns, dumplings in a food box. While mortals in Hanzhong gnawed bark, Kaifeng’s fare remained exquisite.
Thinking of his clansmen, Xiao Kun couldn’t eat much. He skimmed some, found silver, and before the mirror had an idea. He donned his Liao Kingdom Exorcism Department Envoy attire: dark blue martial robes with white iron light armor over the heart. Leaving Yuwang Platform, he headed to the North Gate to survey.
