Volume One: Flames at the Border Chapter Fifty-Five: The Profound Grace of a Beauty

He Yu swiftly searched his memory: “Murong Chong, son of Emperor Murong Jun of Former Yan, younger brother of Emperor Murong Hong of Western Yan, later proclaimed himself emperor as well, known in history as Emperor Wei of Western Yan. He was said to be exceedingly handsome, valiant, and skilled in battle.”

“Murong Chong’s elder sister, Princess Qinghe, was famed for her unparalleled beauty—historical accounts describe her as ‘possessing extraordinary looks.’ When Fu Jian conquered Former Yan, he brought both siblings into his harem and favored them greatly. At the time, Princess Qinghe was fourteen, Murong Chong twelve. The pair monopolized the emperor’s affection, so much so that a popular song in Chang’an went: ‘A female and a male, together they soar into the Purple Palace.’ Another song said: ‘Phoenix, phoenix, perches at Epang.’”

“Murong Chong’s childhood name was Phoenix. Fu Jian believed that the phoenix would not rest except in a parasol tree, nor eat anything but bamboo seeds, so he planted parasol trees and tens of thousands of bamboos throughout Epang Palace.”

“After Fu Jian’s crushing defeat at Fei River, the world was thrown into chaos. Murong Chong seized the chance to rebel, leading his army to the gates of Chang’an. Fu Jian, confident in his prior kindness to Murong Chong, sent him a brocade robe, hoping Murong Chong would remember their mutual affection and spare him. Murong Chong, however, replied: ‘My heart now lies with the world; how could I be swayed by the trifling gift of a robe?’ Fu Jian was so furious he nearly spat blood, shouting, ‘I regret not heeding the words of Wang Jinglue and Lord Yangping, to let these barbarians grow so brazen!’”

“After the fall of Chang’an, Murong Chong ordered a wholesale massacre; all were slain on sight, save for the young and beautiful women left as spoils of war. For a time, Chang’an became a living hell.”

Chinese historians rarely describe appearances in detail. Just how handsome was Murong Chong? He Yu was terribly curious and asked, “Lady Murong, have you ever seen Murong Chong? Is he truly more beautiful than a woman?”

Murong Shanshan had not expected He Yu to ask this. In her mind, He Yu, though young, was mature beyond his years and uninterested in such frivolous matters. For a moment, she was stunned, then replied, “I saw my eighth brother once when I was five or six. He was stunningly handsome—surpassing any maiden in beauty.”

He Yu shook his head in disbelief. “That depends on the comparison. Against ordinary women, Murong Chong is surely more attractive. But if compared to you, Lady, I cannot believe any man could surpass your beauty.”

Murong Shanshan’s tears still clung to her cheeks like rain on pear blossoms, yet upon hearing this, she could not help but smile. “You have a way with words, He Yu. I only saw my eighth brother once, when I was very young, and my memory is hazy. But there was one person who truly outshone me in beauty.”

It is rare for any woman to readily admit inferiority, especially in matters of appearance. Men tend to overestimate their talents, women their looks—a universal truth. For someone as beautiful as Murong Shanshan to so assertively claim another surpassed her was astonishing to He Yu. If a man praises another’s talent, the latter must indeed be talented; likewise, if a woman admits another’s beauty, that woman must be beyond compare.

Who could be more beautiful than Murong Shanshan? Suddenly, inspiration struck He Yu. “Could it be Princess Qinghe, Murong Chong’s elder sister?” By his calculations, if Murong Chong had survived, he would be thirty-seven this year, and Princess Qinghe, two years his senior, would be thirty-nine. In ancient times, women aged quickly; nearly forty, could she still be so beautiful?

Murong Shanshan smiled faintly. “As expected, you are perceptive, He Yu. You guessed correctly. It is indeed my sixth sister, Princess Qinghe—Murong Qingcheng. After Fu Jian’s death, she returned to Zhongshan and became a nun at Baiyun Convent. If you ever visit Zhongshan, you will see for yourself.”

He Yu suddenly recalled, “When I met Tuoba Yan at the horse market, I was struck by her beauty. Yet Tuoba Yan said she was not the most beautiful; her mother was even more so. Tuoba Yan’s mother, Lady Helan, was famed as the greatest beauty of the Helan Xianbei tribe, once called ‘the moonlight of the grasslands.’ The Helan tribe was renowned for its beautiful women, and for her to stand out among them, her looks must have been extraordinary. If that’s the case, then who was more beautiful—Lady Helan or Murong Qingcheng?”

Seeing He Yu fall silent, Murong Shanshan thought he did not believe her and said, “In truth, being too beautiful is not necessarily a blessing. Both Murong Chong and Murong Qingcheng prove this; neither met a good end.”

Though only sixteen, her words were tinged with genuine sorrow. He Yu comforted her, “Life and death are fate, wealth and honor ordained by heaven. You, Lady, are kindhearted and will surely be blessed.”

Sharing the quilt, the two whispered into the night, growing more at ease with each other as dawn approached. Their late-night conversation had dissolved much of their initial awkwardness, making their interactions more natural.

Murong Shanshan, fearing her two maids might rise early and discover something amiss, found an excuse to have them bring in toiletries and breakfast, and sternly ordered them to wait outside the tent, not to enter unless called.

The two maids were puzzled. “What’s gotten into the princess? Up at midnight for the medicine chest, now secluding herself during the day. What is she up to?” Still, with no need to attend her directly, they were happy to be free and amused themselves outside the tent.

With the maids gone, Murong Shanshan donned a robe, got out of bed, and brought warm water and towels to help He Yu wash up. He Yu, unable to stand, had to sit on the bed and let her tend to him as she wished.

Coming from the modern era, He Yu had little regard for strict hierarchies, and Murong Shanshan’s obvious affection, along with their similar ages and easy conversation, quickly brought them closer, as if they were old friends reuniting after years apart. Before long, their words and manner grew relaxed and natural.

After washing, He Yu sighed, “Lady Murong, you are born to nobility, yet here you are tending to such chores for me. I am deeply unworthy.”

Murong Shanshan smiled, “I am happy to serve you, He Yu—it is no burden.” All her life she had been pampered, always waited upon, never waiting on anyone herself. She spent ages mixing the water, spilling much of it, but that only moved He Yu more.

Examining her closely, He Yu thought she resembled Deng’er in temperament, but surpassed her in beauty, though she lacked comparable practical skills. Moved, he thought, “What have I done to deserve the favor of so many outstanding women—Deng’er, Chen Qingyun, Murong Shanshan? If only I could find a way to do right by all, and betray neither fate nor love.”

His imagination ran wild, then a wave of guilt struck him. “Deng’er’s body is scarcely cold and already my heart is straying. Am I truly so fickle, so inconstant? Yet Lady Murong risked everything to save me—how could I turn away?”

“In the days to come, I will inevitably be at odds with the Murong clan. With Lady Murong caught in between, what is to be done?”

These tangled thoughts left him torn and troubled.

When He Yu finished washing, Murong Shanshan washed as well, then sat at the bed, facing the mirror to do her hair and makeup. A woman adorns herself for her beloved; with her sweetheart nearby, Murong Shanshan was unwilling to be careless. She carefully shaped her brows and powdered her face, every gesture meticulous. Already beautiful by nature, her devoted grooming made her radiance fill the room. At length, her makeup complete, she turned shyly and asked, “He Yu, is my appearance today worthy of your gaze?” Though a Xianbei maiden, less prone to bashfulness than Han women, she could not help but blush when she spoke.

Deng’er had once gone bare-faced, but as her family’s fortunes improved, she too began to wear light makeup, though never as skillfully as Murong Shanshan.

He Yu, somewhat flustered, dared not meet her gaze, mumbling, “Lady, your beauty is like a delicate flower reflected in water, the full moon shining through sparse woods—beyond words.” Such loveliness as Murong Shanshan’s today could hardly be captured in speech. Scraping his mind for words, he offered these flowery phrases—vague, yet fitting.

Murong Shanshan burst into laughter, her ornaments trembling, beauty radiating from every pore, clearly delighted.

With her makeup done, they had breakfast together.

Though still in the midst of the army, the meal was refined: tea, pastries, meat, fresh fruit, and even sweet, tangy cheese. He Yu knew that cheese was a rare delicacy at this time—a true luxury.

He vaguely recalled reading that during the Western Jin, the great scholar Lu Ji once visited the famous Wang Ji during a meal. Wang Ji pointed to the sheep’s cheese on the table and asked, “Does Jiangdong have anything to match this?” Lu Ji, quick-witted, caught the nuance and replied, “We have water shield soup from a thousand miles away, and it needs no salt or soy to be delicious.”

After the Western Jin conquered Wu and unified the land, the northern aristocracy often looked down on their southern counterparts. Beneath the light banter between Lu Ji and Wang Ji over food, there was an undercurrent of rivalry.

After a long, tumultuous night, He Yu was famished and ate heartily, while Murong Shanshan, with her modest appetite, barely touched her food. Eating like a starving wolf before such beauty was hardly elegant, but He Yu was shameless enough not to care, and when he couldn’t help but burp, he quickly excused himself, “I haven’t eaten my fill in days—please forgive my poor manners, Lady.”

Covering her mouth, Murong Shanshan laughed so hard she nearly doubled over, teasing, “No matter; watching you eat, He Yu, has given me quite the appetite myself.”

After breakfast, the table was cleared. Soon, someone came to report that Prince Murong Kai of Taiyuan had passed away the previous night, and that the army would now be led by King Zhao, Murong Lin. With the situation urgent, Murong Lin asked whether Murong Shanshan would lead the escort for Murong Kai’s coffin back to the capital at Zhongshan for burial.

Murong Shanshan, already pondering how to get He Yu out of the camp the next day, saw her chance and promptly agreed.

With the great battle at hand, her father Murong De had written several times, urging her to leave the danger soon and return to the princely manor at Zhongshan.

She had learned of Murong Kai’s death from He Yu the night before, but upon hearing the confirmed news this morning, she could not help but weep.

He Yu consoled her, “Lady Murong, the dead cannot return. You must take care of yourself.”

He added, “War is perilous and unpredictable. Your campaign against Wei is fraught with uncertainty. The Prince of Taiyuan’s death before battle may not be a misfortune.”

He knew well that, unless history had changed, if Later Yan attacked Northern Wei, it would open Pandora’s box—a cataclysm would follow, spelling the end for the Murong Xianbei’s prosperous days, and a never-ending nightmare would ensue.

Tears shimmered in Murong Shanshan’s beautiful eyes. She nodded, “Second Brother led troops while sick—it was a great hardship. In a way, his passing is a release.”

Suddenly, she thought, “Second Brother nearly died at He Yu’s hands. Had that happened, how could I have faced myself?”

And then, “When He Yu leaves tomorrow, he will become an enemy of the Murong clan, yet I have saved the life of our enemy. Does this not make me a traitor to my ancestors and tribe?”

Grief overwhelmed her, and she could not hold back her tears.