After that night, I never thought about leaving again.
Not that I didn't want to. But—I figured it out. I really had nowhere to go. No food, no water, no horse, couldn't speak Tangut, didn't know the way. Didn't even have a thick coat. He was right, every point was right.
But I didn't bring up that night again. Neither did he.
We had class as usual. He wrote "Xia", I taught "Lie". He wrote it again and again, each time better than the last. Tuoba Lie's "Lie" had many strokes, by the tenth time his wrist ached, he shook his hand, continued writing.
"You yesterday," he said suddenly, "dropped something."
I looked up at him.
He took something out from his chest, placed it on the low table.
Turquoise earring. Mine. The pair that fell by the fence last night.
"You picked it up?" I asked.
"Wolf Guards picked it up," he said. "They pick up everything."
He pushed the earring over. Stone slid a distance on the table, stopped beside my finger. Morning light leaked through tent seams, shone on the stone, refracting fine points of light.
I picked it up. Stone still cold, but warmer than last night. Maybe because he kept it in his chest. My fingers touching the stone, fingertips rising with warmth, yet with a slight tremor—this pair of earrings fell on the escape path last night, now returned to my hand.
"Thank you," I said.
He didn't answer. Lowered his head, continued writing "Lie".
I looked at those characters he wrote. A row of "Lie", from the top crooked ones, to the bottom barely recognizable ones. His fingers stained with charcoal ash, that scar on his web had healed, only a faint pink line left.
"The scar on your hand," I said, "faded."
He looked down. "Mm."
"Still hurt?"
"Doesn't hurt."
He looked up at me. That look—not sharp, not probing. His gaze stayed on my face for a while, then moved to my fingers—I was unconsciously rubbing those earrings. His vision paused there, then withdrew, fell back on the board.
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach me to write your name."
"Wrote it already."
"Three characters together. Connected."
"Okay."
Tent quiet for a while. Wind blew the curtain, bringing a trace of coolness. Someone singing in distance, tune very long, like the river on the grassland. Charcoal ash fell from the board, silent.
I swallowed a mouthful of dry saliva, gaze stopping on his lowered brows and eyes.
"I have a condition," I said.
His brush stopped.
Charcoal suspended above the board, only an inch from the paper. He didn't let it fall, didn't lift it.
"What condition?"
"I can stay. But I have conditions."
He looked up. That expression—not angry, not wary. Charcoal slipped from between his fingers, rolled half a circle on the board, stopped beside a half-written "Lie". He was waiting.
"I don't want to be a slave," I said.
Tent very quiet. Quiet enough to hear charcoal ash falling from the board. Quiet enough to hear footsteps of someone walking outside.
"You are not a slave," he said.
"I am. Everyone here treats me as one. Your father treats me as one, Ah Gu-da treats me as one, Tuoba Lie—" I paused, "Tuoba Lie treats me as that kind of woman. Not slave, but close enough."
His fingers tightened. Not the hand holding charcoal, but the left hand—the empty one. Five fingers slowly closing, clenching into a fist. Knuckles white, veins rising from the back of his hand.
"You are not," he said.
"Then tell them."
He looked at me.
"Tell them I am not a slave. I am your teacher. I am a free person. I stay here because I chose to stay. Not because I am a trophy, not because I was captured, not because I have nowhere to go."
His lips moved. No sound. Fist clenched tighter.
"Do you agree?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately. He lowered his head, looking at those "Lie" characters on the board. Looked for a long time. Long enough that I thought he wouldn't answer. Wind poured through curtain seams, blowing the stray hairs on his forehead. His eyelash shadows fell on his cheekbones, trembling slightly.
Then he looked up.
"Good."
One word. Very light. Like leaking from between teeth. But his clenched fist loosened. Fingers unfolding one by one, like putting down something very heavy.
"You are not a slave," he said. "You are my teacher."
He looked at me.
"You stay here, because you chose to stay."
He picked up the charcoal, held it in his hand. Didn't write. Just held it.
"Before I let you go—"
He paused. Gaze fell on those earrings in my hand, then moved away.
"Don't die."
This sentence he said before. When we first met. Then it was a command. Now—it was still a command, but different. His voice lighter than that day, slower than that day. Like saying something he wasn't quite sure of himself.
My chest tightened. Not pain, but—I couldn't say. Like something tightening there, then loosening.
"Okay," I said.
He looked at me. That look—not sharp, not probing, not empty. His gaze moved from my face to my hand, then back. I was still rubbing those earrings, unconsciously, fingers had stopped, but stone still against palm.
He suddenly turned his head away.
"That condition of yours," he said, "done?"
"Done."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing else."
He lowered his head again, picked up charcoal, wrote a character on the board. Not "Xia", not "Lie". It was "Jiang".
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach me to write this."
"Okay."
"And 'Jin'."
"Okay."
"And 'Yue'."
"Okay."
His brush tip landed on the board, wrote a "Jiang". Left side crooked, right side small. He frowned, looked for a while, scribbled over that character, wrote again.
Tent curtain thrown open.
Wind poured in fiercely, charcoal ash flew up from the table.
"Heard you defied your father's command yesterday—"
Voice arrived before the person. Tuoba Lie half his body probing in, face wearing that big, teeth-baring smile. His boots stained with mud, clothes with wine stains, hair blown messy by wind.
Then he saw the earrings on the low table. Saw the turquoise I was holding. Saw me.
His smile paused for a moment.
Then grew bigger.
"—to save your girlfriend?"
My mind went blank for a second.
Girlfriend. This word spun in my head, round and round. Not that I didn't understand Tangut. I understood. He said—girlfriend. Not "Han woman", not "teacher", not "that person".
My fingers froze on the earrings. Stone edges digging into palm, slight pain.
Girlfriend.
Tent quiet as a grave.
Li Yuanhao's charcoal stopped on the board, scratching a long black line. He didn't look up. But his fingers—his fingers gripping the charcoal, gripping until knuckles white, charcoal making slight creaking sounds in his hand, like about to break.
"Get out," he said.
Voice very flat. Flat like a knife in its sheath. But that knife ready to unsheathe at any moment.
Tuoba Lie didn't go out. He walked in, boots stepping on sand, every step making sound. He walked to the low table, bent down to look at me. That distance too close, close enough for me to smell the alcohol on him—middle of the day, he was drunk. His eyes held no malice, but something more troublesome—curiosity.
"You are his girlfriend?" he asked me.
"No," I said. Voice steadier than I expected.
"Then why did he—"
"Get out," Li Yuanhao said.
This time not flat. Deep, like stone smashing on ground. Charcoal broke into two pieces in his hand. One piece fell on ground, one still held between his fingers. His knuckles white as bone.
Tuoba Lie straightened up, looking at Li Yuanhao. His smile faded a bit, but didn't disappear. His gaze moved from Li Yuanhao's face to his hand, then from his hand to the broken charcoal.
"You yesterday for her, opposed your father," he said. "Whole camp knows."
"Get out."
"You wouldn't be like this before," Tuoba Lie said, voice lower, "You wouldn't for anyone—"
"I said get out."
Li Yuanhao stood up. Movement very fast, so fast Tuoba Lie stepped back. Not fear, but instinct. Like a person's instinct before a blade. Li Yuanhao's hand still holding that half piece of charcoal, black charcoal ash on his fingertips, like burned marks.
Air in tent changed. Like that quiet before a storm, stuffy, pressing. I heard my heartbeat, heard Tuoba Lie's boots grinding sand, heard Li Yuanhao's breathing—very slow, very deep, like suppressing something.
Tuoba Lie looked at him. Looked for three seconds.
Then he raised both hands, palms outward.
"Fine, I'm going out."
He turned to walk out. Reaching the curtain edge, he stopped. His back to us, shoulders slightly hunched, not as loose as usual.
"But you changed," he didn't look back, "You wouldn't say 'no' to your father for a person before."
Curtain fell. Tent quiet again.
I stood in place, didn't move. He stood in place, didn't move either. That half piece of charcoal still held in his hand, charcoal ash falling from his fingertips, landing on the low table, landing on those characters he wrote.
"He didn't mean that," I said.
He didn't answer.
"That 'girlfriend' he said, not the meaning you think."
He still didn't answer.
"He just—" I paused, "He doesn't know how to call it. He doesn't know you are my teacher, he doesn't know—"
"I know," he cut me off.
He turned around, looking at me. That half piece of charcoal fell from his hand, landed on the fur, no sound.
"What he said," he said, "I understand."
Tent very quiet. Quiet enough to hear my heartbeat. His hand hanging by his side, fingertips still with charcoal ash black. His lips pressed very tight, chin exerting force. He was enduring something.
"You are not my girlfriend," he said.
"I know."
"You are my teacher."
"I know."
"You stay here, because you chose to stay."
He looked at me. Gaze from my face to my hand. I still clutching those earrings, palm pressed by stone edges with shallow red marks.
"That condition of yours," he said, "I agreed."
"I know."
"You are not a slave."
His voice faded on the last character. Like after saying this sentence, really put down something.
I looked down at the earrings in my hand. Turquoise glowing dark green in morning light, like a hidden pond deep in the grassland.
"I know," I said.
He lowered his head, looking at that half-written "Jiang" character on the board. Charcoal ash fell on it, blurring half the strokes.
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach me to write your name."
"Okay."
"Three characters. Connected."
"Okay."
He sat down. Picked up that half piece of charcoal, rubbed it on the fur, landed on the board again. Wrote a "Jiang". Left side not crooked, right side not small.
His ears turned red. Not that stubborn red, but real, from ear tip to ear lobe red. Red like the evening glow yesterday.
I watched him write.
Second time. "Jiang", better than first. Third time. Fourth. Fifth.
Each time better than the last.
I didn't speak again. I sat opposite him, watching him write. Earrings in hand warmed by my body heat, stone edges no longer digging into hand.
Outside the tent, wind stopped. Sunlight leaked through tent top seams, fell between us, fell on the board, fell on those characters he wrote.
His ears still red.
But he didn't stop.
Outside the tent, the youth stood in sunlight.
He stood at the camp east side, watching a figure in distance. Tuoba Lie walked very fast, like knowing someone was watching. He stopped, turned around.
Two people across half the camp, locking eyes.
Tuoba Lie didn't smile. His expression not that casual, nothing-matters look. Something more serious, heavier. He stood there, like a tree blown by wind, branches and leaves all tightened.
"You changed," he said. Across half the camp, voice not loud, but each character clear.
Youth didn't answer. Wind passed between him and Tuoba Lie, carrying grass and soil smell.
Tuoba Lie looked at him. Looked for a long time. Long enough for someone to shout in distance, long enough for a horse to run between them, hooves kicking up dust scattering in sunlight.
Then he smiled. Not teasing smile, but another. That eye wrinkle deeper than usual, mouth corner curving up smaller arc than usual.
"It's good," he said.
He turned around, walked away. This time walked very slow, boots stepping on sand, every step leaving a deep print.
Youth stood in place, watching his back getting smaller, farther, finally disappearing behind tents. That string of footprints on sand still there, from this camp end to that end.
Wind blew from grassland, cold.
He touched his chest. There was a piece of paper, and a board. And—those earrings. This morning he put them in his chest, just gave them back to her. That place in his chest felt empty. He couldn't say what feeling that was.
He only knew, that condition she said—she not slave. She his teacher. She stays here, because she chose to stay.
He agreed.
He didn't know why, agreeing to this, harder than agreeing to anything.
Not hard in "agreeing".
But hard in—
He feared she would choose to leave.
He turned around, walked toward the tent. Walked very fast. Boots stepping on sand, making fine sounds. Sunlight shone on his back, shadow dragged long.
He didn't know where that place was.
He only knew—
Tomorrow, she will teach him to write her name.
Three characters. Connected.
He must write it better looking.
End of Chapter 10