A hundred flavors melted in the small cauldron.
As soon as the weather turned cold, Ji Hong began to struggle again. He had a cold constitution, the result of childhood exposure to the cold. During warm days, Yu Jinnian’s medicinal meals helped him recover, and it was rarely noticeable. But in recent months, as he moved with the anti-rebel army, campaigning east and west, living in tents, eating cold food, worrying day and night, and having his freedom restricted so that he seldom had a chance to walk outside or bask in the sun, he spent the whole autumn hunched like a mole on his small couch, and his health seemed to regress.
But with the frontlines tense, there was not a moment’s rest. Having even a hot meal was difficult; there simply wasn’t time for nourishing soups.
Marching and fighting was nothing like living in a noble’s estate, nor even that narrow hut in Xin’an County. No matter how tightly the tent was packed, wind came in from all sides. Min Ji was still fine—versed in both civil and military arts, he’d join the soldiers in drill every morning and seemed more robust by the day. But Ji Hong, still under suspicion, could not show himself in public and could only busy himself with mental work inside the tent.
At some point, after a night chilled by autumn winds and dew, he caught a cold.
It wasn’t serious, but he was especially stoic about discomfort, so he endured it and told no one. With Yu Jinnian always busy in the wounded camp—and at times sleeping there for days during fierce fighting—it was inevitable that he neglected Ji Hong. So it wasn’t until Ji Hong started coughing that they realized he was ill.
“I always say, minor illness mustn’t be ignored, or it becomes a major problem! Since you caught a chill, you should’ve told me right away—it could’ve been chased out with a bowl of scallion and ginger soup. Now you’ve dragged it out until you’re coughing! Don’t you know lung illness is the most stubborn? You—”
Yu Jinnian piled a basket of charcoal into the brazier, lit it, then carried it outside to let the smoke settle before bringing it back in and placing it under Ji Hong’s covers. But halfway through speaking, Ji Hong made not a sound in reply, and when Yu Jinnian looked up, he saw Ji Hong half smiling, half not, watching him intently, as if nothing he’d said had gone in at all. Yu Jinnian gave him an exasperated shove: “Have a good rest, do you hear me?!”
Ji Hong cooperatively swayed a bit and coughed softly with a smile.
Outside, the northern wind rattled the tent in gusts.
Yu Jinnian sighed, knowing no matter how many times he nagged, Ji Hong wouldn’t listen right now. The map of Jiangnan hung opposite—a huge scroll, as tall as Yu Jinnian himself, half the territory of Daxia depicted upon it. Beside it hung Ji Yan’s disaster-free sword. Ji Hong sat on his little couch, staring at the map for two hours at a stretch. Yu Jinnian didn’t know what he could see in that map, just as he didn’t know how long this war would last or how many more would die.
And he wondered if Ji Yan were alive, would Daxia’s rivers and mountains be safe and peaceful?
But heroes would always arise. Without Ji Yan and Yan Chang, there was still Ji Hong, still Min Ji, still Wei He, brave on the battlefield, You Qingbai working miracles in the medical tent, and countless articulate young officials at court.
Daxia would never lack people.
Yu Jinnian tucked Ji Hong’s feet into the quilt and said earnestly, “You must get better. Only if you’re well can you see those who hurt you get what they deserve.”
Ji Hong only smiled, as if peach blossoms bloomed on Yu Jinnian’s cheeks, and said gently, “Go sleep with Su Ting tonight—don’t stay here while I’m sick.”
Without a word, Yu Jinnian burrowed under the covers: “If I’m not here, who knows if you’ll sleep or stare at the map all night?”
With the lamp out, the great map became a vast, dark maw looming at the foot of the bed. Lying with his back out, Yu Jinnian felt a cool hand gently touch his wrist beneath the covers. Ji Hong’s hand was beautiful, lean and sculpted, capable of poetry, state papers, and all the affairs of the world.
Looking at the great map, Yu Jinnian thought more than once during the night: If Ji Yan had lived, if Ji Hong’s life hadn’t been so hard, could he have grown up carefree with Min Ji, Wei He, and the noble sons of the capital—riding, shooting, donning armor and helmet, exultant in his prime?
But he had met Ji Hong too late, after all.
Did Ji Hong, too, have unspoken regrets?
That night, Yu Jinnian turned in his sleep and burrowed into Ji Hong’s arms, greedily seeking the mild warmth at his chest. Ji Hong held him with one hand, covering his own mouth with the other, afraid to wake him with his coughing. Outside stood the young eunuch, Wu Ji, head bowed, back slightly bent, as cautious as Lian Zhi, ever alert.
Every so often, a low, suppressed cough came from the tent and eventually woke Yu Jinnian. The two conversed quietly by lamplight for half an hour before sleeping again.
Wu Ji, thinking all was well, tried to doze, but when the tent flap lifted, he jumped in surprise. Ji Hong, cloaked in fur, gestured for silence, motioning to the next tent. With a map of the area near Zhongling spread on his knees, Ji Hong sat, studying intently, while Wu Ji quietly held up a lamp, listening to him cough—all night long.
The regular coughing was hypnotic; Wu Ji nodded off and woke to find Ji Hong rolling up the map, warming his clothes by the brazier, sipping hot tea to quell his cough, and returning to the big tent pretending he’d had a peaceful night. No sooner had one gone to bed than the other rose, quietly swapping out the brazier, testing Ji Hong’s temperature, sneaking a kiss on his forehead.
He told Wu Ji to keep quiet and not wake him unless the sky fell.
Wu Ji, after months tending the tent, had seen it all. These two got along too well—their life flowed with warmth; they bickered, made up, neither able to do without the other. Just trading glances left them both smiling—ordinary couples weren’t half as loving.
After a while, Wu Ji couldn’t help liking the gentle peace of this tent—far better than the cold and intrigue of the inner palace, or the endless scheming around Lian Zhi and the other eunuchs. After seeing the young lord’s pale face from a night of coughing, Wu Ji even found himself worrying in silence.
But Yu Jinnian still had to go to the wounded barracks.
With no fighting in recent days, it was a rare chance for the soldiers to recover.
The western front was all but collapsed and posed little threat. Yan Chang pressed east and captured Zhongling.
Zhongling was governed by one Song, a talented Jinshi of the Jingyou era, upright but powerless. When the rebel army arrived in the middle of the night, winter winds howling, Governor Song had no time even to put on shoes, mustered only a few thousand civilians with simple tools—pickaxes, hoes, plows—to face down a hundred thousand troops outside. There was never any hope.
Yan Chang’s Yue army encircled Zhongling like an iron barrel; no word could get out. Min Xuefei’s troops tangled on the western front, too far to relieve the city. The neighboring garrisons dared not come, though they knew Zhongling was in peril. So, with nothing but courage, Song and his few thousand men held the city: pouring hot oil and water, throwing torches—when all was gone, dumping basins of red-hot ashes. After seven days, Governor Song, having already written his will, dressed in his official robes and left home, knowing he’d not return.
But still, Zhongling fell. All defenders died, bodies stacked up at Chongtian Gate. Song, pinned to the wall by a giant crossbow, his robes drenched in blood. Citizens fled in panic, some trampled to death by the crowd.
Zhongling had once been an auxiliary capital in an earlier dynasty; the Daxia emperor had even sojourned there. Its city walls were built on the model of the capital: over twenty feet thick, the strongest gate was nearly forty. Yet now they housed Yan Chang’s troops.
Min Ji knew Yan Chang would strike at Zhongling, but didn’t expect it so soon. Not that it mattered—there was no way to reach it in time. By the time news reached Min Ji, Yan Chang was already in the palace there. The cowardly garrisons had watched Song, a mere scholar, hold the gate to the end, but never went to help. Now, they could weep thousand-word pleas for aid. Min Ji grieved for Song’s needless death, so incensed that his throat burned.
So Ji Hong pored over the Zhongling map for days—they had to reclaim Zhongling before it was lost for good.
Yu Jinnian, medical case in hand, was hauled off by Lian Zhi to take Min Xuefei’s pulse. The general was sucking on bitter huanglian for his sore throat and looked dead tired. Yu Jinnian checked his pulse—his left cun position thumped like a lute string, his eyes red, throat beyond swallowing, liver overtaxed, ready to curse at anyone. Vice general Wei He, twice already dismissed and cursed out, vented his anger by raiding bandits and finishing off their stashed dried meat in the process.
This was just great—the chief strategist and general both sick as dogs.
Yu Jinnian prescribed medicine, sent for fresh tofu from the nearest village, and boiled a pot of double-flower tofu soup with honeysuckle and wild chrysanthemum to detoxify and cool the general’s fire. He also filled a clay pot with sake, selected three herbs, and went looking for Ji Hong.
Wu Ji, relieved to see Yu Jinnian, lifted the tent flap and whispered, “It’s colder today. I just added another brazier. Young lord’s been looking at the map all day; at noon, he coughed less but hasn’t eaten much. General Wei sent over some smoked meat for him, saying the young lord’s unwell. He even dozed off and almost dropped the map into the brazier—close call!”
Yu Jinnian listened to every detail, then habitually fished out a silver reward. Wu Ji bowed in refusal, shaking his head.
Yu Jinnian, puzzled, found him strange.
The clay pot simmered on the tiny stove. Dried stemona root, sake, orange peel and perilla all boiled together—remedies for stagnant qi and cough. The charcoal burned slowly and steadily, filling the tent with the fragrant warmth of hot wine.
General Min needed to cool the fire; Young Master Ji, to scatter cold. Yu Jinnian had the dried meat chopped up, stirred in greens, and served a bowl of noodles with a poached egg on top. On campaign, hard dry cakes and salty pickles were normal fare; only after a victory did they eat meat and soup. Ji Hong having soft, fresh noodles was already a luxury.
After watching Ji Hong eat the noodles and two cups of aged perilla wine, Yu Jinnian returned the map. Zhongling, on the map, was just a tiny square, no different from all the other cities. Ji Hong pointed to a spot at the gate called Chongtian and said, “Song died here.”
At that moment, Yu Jinnian felt: until Zhongling was retaken, neither of these men would ever get well. Damn Yan Chang!
…
Min Xuefei, hoarse, mounted up and rode east. This year’s flooding gave way to a frigid winter; ancestral wisdom predicted northern gales howling, southern chill ever-present. Crossing rivers, water filled their boots, and whole days were lost in the cold. The troops passed north of Xin’an County, taking the shortest route east—the town itself left untouched.
Young master Jiang wrote from home that Xin’an was surrounded by refugees, people turned gaunt by the war. Still, the Spring Breeze Restaurant kept thriving—proving that as long as calamity wasn’t at the door, the gentry found ways to eat and amuse themselves as always.
It was said that Consort Ji had given birth to imperial twins—a boy and a girl, both healthy. The imperial palace rejoiced; Ji Hong, far away, could not meet his niece and nephew. Yu Jinnian, on hearing the news, couldn’t help thinking: if the Imperial Consort became empress, wouldn’t Ji Hong become the imperial uncle!
Yu Jinnian glanced sidelong at Ji Hong, thinking: a man with looks and talents like that will have his door trampled down by matchmakers as soon as peace returns.
They also heard Yan Chang had begun a purge in Zhongling: killing, replacing officials, awarding titles, openly ignoring all decorum, determined to make himself king. The bureaucrats rushed to pick sides, afraid to be slow and end up like that “fool” Song, hanging from the city wall.
The Yan family’s rebellion was already a slap in the emperor’s face; any bolder, and it would land on the emperor’s very forehead.
By now, Yan Chang was set: even if he never crossed the river or took the capital, he would carve a southern dynasty in Zhongling.
“Utter treason.” Even Yu Jinnian could say it.
Yan Chang had raised his banner to “save the country,” but now lost patience and became the threat himself, flagrantly defying imperial will in Zhongling. The emperor and Yan Chang, once kin, had now torn all pretense; neither side would bend.
Back when officials impeached the Ji family for arrogance, usurpation, and overstepping, everyone was loud. Now, those who wanted to ride Yan Chang’s coattails fell silent; all shrank like quails, or else wavered and waited. Today, Yan Chang was a genuine rebel, Ji Hong a prisoner but sitting calmly in the camp, Min Ji a young rising general, stacking up wins.
The emperor confronted his court: Are you not ashamed?!
…
Winter Solstice.
Family after family made dumplings, wontons, ate rice cakes and sweet glutinous balls—life went on.
The army was now stationed across the river from Zhongling at Baota Monastery, no longer in tents, no longer gnawing at dry cakes, supplied with fine flour and sheep from the abbot and local villagers. Though the abbot was generous, to kill on temple grounds was an affront to Buddha, so Wei He led a crew outside to the woods to slaughter the sheep, chanting a quick prayer before bringing them back.
Even the rank and file could enjoy stewed meat and buns, warming themselves inside and out.
Baota Monastery was said to be an auspicious spot; the founder of Daxia himself had picked it for good fortune, a haven in troubled times.
But for Yu Jinnian, good fortune was just the rabbits on the hill, fish in the river, and stray winter greens and mushrooms by the temple’s roots. Starved for the kitchen, he rolled up his sleeves and set to work: lamb-and-radish dumplings, lamb-bone soup, fresh garden vegetables, all arranged to ring a clay pot steaming on the mud stove. Then he called Ji Hong, Min Xuefei, and friends to a hotpot feast for the Solstice.
Hundreds of flavours, melded in a single kettle.
The guest courtyard was fixed up for them; monks and acolytes stayed in the rear cloisters and would not disturb. Only the closest sat together; even Lian Zhi’s rough attendants were sent away. Min Xuefei’s throat stubbornly lingered in recovery, so he avoided too much rich lamb and stuck to vegetables, soon tugging Lian Zhi into his lap, saying: “Stop fidgeting, you’re giving me a headache.”
Lian Zhi glanced nervously at Yu Jinnian and Ji Hong, then reached to massage Min Xuefei’s temples, asking softly if he still hurt, ears redder than the chillies on the plate.
Ji Hong’s cough was almost gone—now he dutifully took his aged perilla wine every day and urged Yu Jinnian to stop fussing and eat, drinking broth to warm his stomach.
Yu Jinnian watched Ji Hong sip soup, and Lian Zhi blush at Min’s teasing, and Min Xuefei opening his mouth for Lian Zhi to feed him, all as the hotpot bubbled in a wave of gentle joy. He’d just plucked a dumpling from the pot, was holding it between his teeth when Wu Ji rushed in, unusually excited.
Wu Ji called out, “Little Divine Doctor!” and “Young lord!” face glowing like he’d eaten candy.
He announced: The emperor’s pardon has arrived!
Yu Jinnian leapt up, a dumpling in his mouth—Baota Monastery was truly a lucky place!