Chapter Nine: The Price

Across several streets, there stood a vast structure at the heart of the city, second only in height to the temples and pagodas, with archways and columns echoing the styles of India and Persia. The walls were adorned with colorful murals depicting tales of the gods, and hand-woven wool carpets lent warmth to the interior. In a heavy copper basin, dry pinewood crackled, the roaring flames providing not only heat but also illumination.

Xi Dongzan had changed back into his robe. He wore neither crown nor turban, only his hair arranged into two knots, one on each side of his ears. Though not yet thirty, his face was already covered with a dense beard, and a sheen of sweat gathered on his shiny forehead, which he waved away when a maid attempted to wipe it.

“It’s been nearly two days, and you still haven’t found anything useful?”

His voice was low, yet the two men kneeling outside the fire basin bowed even lower, as if terrified of catching his gaze.

These two were local officials, remnants from the previous administration—one overseeing civil affairs, the other taxes. Until replacements arrived, they served as his subordinates.

The Tibetan system resembled the later Jurchen’s Mongol-Mouke, and Bolü, as a newly conquered region, had a “East Dai”—a district governed by a thousand households, both military and civil. Xi Dongzan was the recently appointed Bolü East Ben, having been here less than two days.

Above the Dai was the Ru; across all Tibet, there were only five Ru. If he wished to command the strength of ten thousand or more, he needed something convincing—war merit.

Of course, for now, glory was distant. His immediate task was to uncover the truth behind the incident on the road.

The search revealed that the killers not only took lives but seized all spoils—arms, horses, supplies, even armor and clothing. Who would do such a thing? Was it the resentful Bolü locals, seeking to make a statement? It certainly seemed so.

At this, he cast a sidelong glance at the demure Bolü maiden standing nearby—rumored to be from a noble local family. The two men on the floor, hearing nothing for a while, stealthily exchanged a glance.

“East Ben, every checkpoint outside the city has inspected all comers these past two days. We found no suspicious persons. We believe they may have already escaped,” one man whispered.

“‘May have’?” Xi Dongzan turned, his tone mocking.

“Perhaps we should search every house in the city?” the man suggested, trying to please him, but received only disdain in return.

A pack of useless fools—if they’d been capable, it would have been done long ago. Xi Dongzan couldn’t even muster the energy to curse them, merely motioning for them to withdraw.

This room was vast. Thirty years ago, it had been the palace of the Bolü king; now, it served as the Tibetan official residence. Once the others left, only he and the Bolü maiden remained. She waited uneasily for her fate, yet after a long silence, nothing happened.

Xi Dongzan stared at the flickering flames, their light coloring his face crimson. He did not know how much time had passed before a pair of hands pressed gently on his shoulders. So engrossed was he, he hadn’t noticed anyone approach.

Soon enough, he relaxed, closing his eyes and letting those hands softly knead his shoulders.

“You’re here?”

After a while, he seized those hands and drew a voluptuous figure into his embrace.

“Your eyes are filled with melancholy, your heart with confusion. Tell me, what troubles my warrior so deeply, that not even his Yangcuo can dispel it?”

Xi Dongzan gazed at the woman in his arms, captivated by her songlike voice, and laughed softly. She responded with a smile, though faint lines creased her flawless brow.

Though clad in Tibetan attire, she was nothing like the women of the plateau, whose skin was dark with a reddish hue. She was as pale as snow atop a glacier, her skin tender as a girl’s thanks to careful maintenance, and her mature charm far surpassed anything a young maiden could offer.

“Beautiful Yangcuo, you are like the sun rising over the snowy mountains, the clear spring in the heavenly lake. As long as I am with you, no trouble can find its way into Dongzan’s heart.”

His hands roamed her body, stoking the fire within. Paying no heed to the presence of others, they tore at each other and tumbled onto the thick carpet.

…

After a long while, their contrasting bodies grew still. Xi Dongzan smacked his lips in satisfaction, making the woman laugh behind her hand and reigniting his passion. As he moved to continue, her hand stopped him.

“Dongzan, your Yangcuo is growing old.”

“No, you are still as enchanting as ever,” he replied, pausing but his eyes still burning with desire.

As ever? The woman sighed, picked up the clothing from the floor, draped it over him, and dressed herself.

“If not for Her Highness’s child not yet grown, I would have followed her long ago.”

Her words extinguished the last embers of Xi Dongzan’s desire, his gaze turning cold.

“Zanmeng dislikes Tibet, as do her maids. Thirty years, and still she longs for Chang’an, to return to your Tang lands.”

At the mention of Chang’an, the woman’s hand paused, a dark shadow flickering in her eyes before she recovered.

“You’re right, Her Highness dislikes Tibet. She constantly wishes to return to Tang, to her family. Why? Thirty years and how many times was she favored? Do you not know how she died? The Zanpu did not care for her, nor for the child she bore. What was she to you? Bargaining chip with Tang. Only when you were at a disadvantage did you remember her. What meaning is there in such a life?”

Xi Dongzan was speechless. He straightened the woman’s body, looked into her eyes, and spoke deliberately.

“Rest assured, Zanmeng’s child will become Zanpu of Tibet.”

“But, because he carries Tang blood, the current Zanpu does not favor him.”

Xi Dongzan drew her into his arms, stroking her smooth hair, his gaze lingering on the mural as his voice seemed to come from a distant place, not his own mouth.

“He does not need the Zanpu’s affection—only the gods’ blessing.” A flicker of confusion passed through her eyes as he continued, “A prince with Tang blood should be the most noble master of this land.”

She nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck, whispering in his ear, “If that day ever comes, Yangcuo is willing to pay any price.”

“I don’t know if this counts as a price.” Xi Dongzan drew a breath and told her, “Danangqi and his men are all dead.”

“What?” She cried out, incredulous. “Who? Was it Tang?”

Xi Dongzan released her, recounting the search results and his own conjectures, all the while watching her expression closely. He saw genuine shock, not feigned.

“How could this be? No wonder…” she murmured.

“Yangcuo, I need an answer.”

“I’ll go find out.”

Swiftly dressing, she donned traditional Tibetan attire, her graceful figure captivating him so much he could not bear to look away even for a moment.

Only when her silhouette disappeared through the door did Xi Dongzan shift his gaze to the corner, where the Bolü maiden cowered.

“You heard everything?”

“Noble… Noble sir, I heard nothing at all.” The girl lay on the ground, trembling like a tiny boat in a storm.

Clad in nothing but a robe, Xi Dongzan strode over, grabbed her hair, and pulled her bloodless, pale face before him. Her lovely eyes brimmed with terror, shining with tears that threatened to spill.

“So you can speak our language. Then you heard everything.” Xi Dongzan showed regret, ignoring her protests.

“Do you know, if a woman dies without ever being touched by a man, the gods may punish her in the next life by turning her into a beast.”

“You wouldn’t want to be a beast, would you?”