31 Songs of the South

There were but three more days before the supposedly auspicious one, but the Prince of Jin had not returned to the capital. Although we were banned from meeting before the marriage ceremony under the belief that it would spell bad luck, the fact that he hadn't bothered to come back to prepare still stung.

After all, back home, even butchers took a ritualistic break from slaughtering pigs for three days before they wedded. These Sui nobles, for all the rituals they prided themselves on, had no manners.

It wasn't an issue of personal pride as much as it meant losing face for the kingdom of Liang. Now that I had arrived and that he couldn't get rid of me as his proper wife, could he still not accept this alliance? If he had such a stubborn personality and was unwilling to even adapt to slight hardships such as this one, how could Liang rely on him as our chance to turn the tables?

He would be in no way fit for an emperor. With that dangerous thought, I jolted back, nearly dropping the teacup I held. The prophecy was a lie, I reminded myself, glancing around and making sure that no one saw my moment of embarrassment.

The courtyard was empty today, and not even a maid was in sight. A'Huan had said that there was training for the court servants in preparation for the marriage ceremony, and she too was summoned away. For the first time since my journey, I was allowed to take a breath.

Gazing emptily into the distance, I reached for my prized poetry book during this rare moment of quiet. It worked as a panacea, and simply running my hands over it seemed to relieve the soreness from days of stiff bowing and bending over. Its cover was smoothed out from years of thumbing through, soft to the touch, almost as dainty as a flower petal.

It would be a lie to say the young girl dreaming of a man who would recite poetry to me never existed. To be swept off with a line of recorded prose from the Yuefu collection or the "Songs of Chu" in a flurry of red and green was every Southern girl's secret fantasy.

It was tradition.

I flicked over the fan the head court servant had left behind for me to practice on, its blatant blankness glaring.

In the South, if the groom knew as much as how to write, he was expected to compose a personal poem on the fan as a gift for the bride. Even if he didn't, asking an elder to transcribe still signified that the marriage was to be a union.

But I suppose the official documents detailing the union of the Sui and Liang would be more than enough. Between reminiscing over a fantasy and protecting a country, it was clear which was more important.

And what had I expected from the barbaric North? Though they were much more civilized than I imagined, they still obviously heavily weighed physical adeptness over the arts.

Even the Sui emperor himself was lackluster in composing at best. As much as I knew I would never vocalize my opinions, each time I thought of my future husband's name, I was painfully reminded of the Sui emperor's questionable artistic talents.

Thinking back to the first time I read the documents, I had to reread before scrunching my brows in disapproval. If I had been feeling risky with my head, I would have even laughed out loud. Quite simply put, the names of the Sui princes were not much better than the ones the farmers back home used: Yong, Ying, Jun, Xiu, Jie. Corresponding respectively to brave, handsome, pretty, excellent, and heroic, they seemed to be a collection of primitive admirable traits. Some even overlapped with one another, almost as if the Sui emperor had run out of words to use.

If my uncle were here, he would surely have heart failure from seeing such basic names. Names are an identity, he would always say, "Youshi, from the buddha scriptures, detailing freedom from confinement."

Yes, barbarians were barbarians after all. Although they could use Han names, they would never quite be able to appreciate the culture. To them, these characters were only pretty appendages.

"But if to win a single heart, till white hair shall not part," I near-jokingly whispered to myself, knowing that not even a figure like Brother Liu would be here to listen to it. As much as he had thought learning fancy proses was unsuitable for women, he at least knew a poem when he heard one.

"Deng~Beng~Deng~" A crisp melody broke the still air, weaving together thousands of emotions with each pluck of the lute's strings. Each chord seemed to strike harmony with one another, but at the same time, there was certain liveness to it that spelled out unspoken ambitions.

Then, it struck me. Compared to the usually glum and slow-paced songs I have heard of in the past, this one instead carried with it a sense of youthful hope. Momentarily, the walls of the Sui faded away, replaced by a scene from a lakeside bamboo cottage.

There was just a certain attraction that drew me toward the song, a promise of freedom. This wasn't a song of the Sui, one of those drum-beaten battle cries that were accompanied by the dances of prancing soldiers.

This was a Southern melody.

It beckoned to me.

Each chord stirred up the emotions in the deepest abysses of my heart, the faintest sense of familiarity I had sensed in such a foreign land.

Hearing the winding tale told by the lute, for the first time, I felt something other than fear.

Although I knew I shouldn't, I rushed out of the room, grabbing a veil but not willing to stop to put it on, irrationally scared that the tune would disappear if there was any delay.

It was so close yet so far, circling around the yard as if it was omnipresent.

I turned the corner. It was empty. I turned again. Not here either. In confusion, I looked to the pagoda.

Then I saw him.