He immediately said: “That’s right, then. Let’s ask the referee to go up and request a few apricot blossoms from the ladies as the prize. The polo banquet is a grand occasion — the ladies watching without any stake in things would be dull. Having them participate in the flower wager will make it far more entertaining. And we ought to arrange two additional referees as well, one from each side, to ensure fairness.”

When the news reached the upper floor, the ladies all grew lively at once. Watching polo was already great fun, and the flower wager added even more pleasure to it. The ladies were all experienced card players and habitually had their maids carry small ingots of loose silver — immediately they all placed their bets. Most backed the noble young men’s side to win; some deliberately backed the Northern March Army out of contrariness; and a few of the older, more playful ladies with daughters to marry off had their household managers call out to the floor below: “Marquis Cui, our Madam has bet on your side winning — you mustn’t let down your elders!” Laughter rippled through the gathering.

Han Yueqi loved a good jest as well, immediately having a maid produce a parcel of silver and place it on the Northern March Army’s side. Young Mistress Wang, equally quick-witted, called her own maid over and said a few words. The maid announced in a clear voice: “Young Mistress Shen places one hundred taels of silver on the Northern March Army to win.”

The ladies grew even more enthusiastic at that. The maids called out names one after another, clearly audible on the floor below. Pingjun Prince, who was amiable by nature, immediately had wine sent up: “The Prince is deeply grateful to the ladies for gracing the polo banquet with their participation. Please, ladies, accept this wine and enjoy the occasion together.”

Ye Lingbo was never one to miss an opportunity like this. She was clever about it too — she held back first, waiting until most people had placed their bets and the calling of names had grown sparse, down to only small amounts of a few taels. Only then did she send Xiao Liu’er forward.

Below, preparations were well in hand — the players were checking their equipment and Cui Jingyu was familiarizing himself with his mallet — when the maid’s crisp voice rang out from the upper floor: “The eldest Miss and Second Miss of the Ye household place ten gold taels on the Northern March Army to take the early lead and score the first goal.”

A stir went through the Northern March Army officers at once. Wei Yushan was taken aback: “It must be Ye Lingbo — she’s the only one with such a free hand with money. She even served me sea cucumber hotpot when I went to pay my new year’s call.”

Cui Jingyu acted as though he had heard nothing — his expression cool as ice, mallet raised, he took the field.

The so-called flower-picking wager worked like this: three flower-balls were hung on the bamboo pole behind each goal. Scoring a goal meant taking one ball. Whoever first cleared all three of the opponent’s flower-balls was declared the winner. The bamboo poles stood a full ten feet tall, which actually put the Northern March Army at a disadvantage — their horses were warhorses bred for endurance on campaign, not the pampered, tall thoroughbreds the capital nobles kept stabled with dedicated grooms. And warhorses, for all their other qualities, after four years of hard campaigning carried their own hidden injuries, and could no longer leap high enough for flower-picking with ease.

So it was with the men as well. Everyone assumed the Northern March Army was full of young officers, but in truth every one of them carried some wound. Even Wei Yushan — the Marshal’s only son, surrounded by officers who would have given their lives to shield him in danger — was no exception. Several fingers on his left hand still could not straighten fully, crushed by an iron mace wielded by a Northern Rong warrior. Those who had risen from common soldiers up through the ranks fared no better.

Luo Yong, agitated because Wei Shanhu was watching from the upper floor, fought Yuan Xiu in two exchanges but was foiled each time by a clever deflection that sent the ball slipping right under his horse’s belly. He muttered: “This young man moves so nimbly — it’s a waste he’s not at the frontier.”

“Hmph — official young masters like him, would they dare go to the frontier?” Wei Yushan gave chase immediately, but his horse was slow, and he was slow, and there was no catching Yuan Xiu, who crossed midfield with easy grace. The Northern March officers had never played more than a handful of polo matches between them, and only knew to charge forward in a group, leaving the back line unguarded. By the time Wei Yushan realized Yuan Xiu had broken through, it was already too late. “Where is everyone? Why did you all follow me on the charge?” Wei Yushan raged. “On the battlefield every last one of you is sharp as a monkey — how have you all turned idiots here?”

Yuan Xiu drove straight for the Northern March Army’s goal. Just as he was about to swing for a long shot, a rider appeared from the side and knocked the ball away with a light tap.

“Marquis Cui,” said Yuan Xiu, entirely unruffled, even smiling from horseback. “I have long heard of the Marquis’s polo skill. I look forward to learning from you today.”

“You flatter me,” Cui Jingyu said flatly, immediately executing a long pass that sent the ball to Wei Yushan, who had come running up. Wei Yushan, seeing that Cui Jingyu still had not crossed midfield and guessing he was probably holding his ground again in some unspoken standoff with the upper floor, did not bother trying to persuade him — he charged at Yuan Xiu’s goal alone with the ball. But without coordination, even four officers attacking together were held off by just two of Yuan Xiu’s defenders, and Old Yuan seized the ball and carried it back to midfield.

Up in the gallery, Ye Lingbo was watching with mounting frustration.

She did not complain to Qinglan, only whispered her grievances to Han Yueqi: “Han elder sister, look at Cui Jingyu — what a petty man. I bet on him scoring the first goal and he won’t even cross midfield on purpose, just to make me lose. What a fine brother-in-law I’ve landed myself.”

Han Yueqi covered her smile with her handkerchief, glanced at Qinglan sitting at the table nearby, and murmured: “Which is exactly why those two are a perfect match — both stubborn as oxen, equally contrary.”

Ye Lingbo could only sigh and look around.

“Wait — where is Shen Biwei? She’s usually the one dragging me to watch polo and archery matches when I’d rather not. Why is she nowhere to be seen today?”

Whatever was being debated on the upper floor, the polo match below was steadily tilting further and further toward Yuan Xiu’s side. With barely a single skilled player among Wei Yushan’s four, they could not break through the defense at all. Yuan Xiu’s side recognized this early on, and Old Yuan came forward to join three attackers pressing together, covering each other as they finally forced their way close to the goal. Seizing a moment when Cui Jingyu could not hold the line alone, Yuan Xiu scored. He spurred his horse toward the flower-ball pole — but the bamboo pole was struck from the side and the flower-ball swung up high. He turned to look, and there was Cui Jingyu.

Yuan Xiu knew the moment had passed. He laughed good-naturedly: “Marquis, one man against four — how can you win? You might as well concede now, and I’ll invite the Marquis to drink.”

“How do you know if you don’t try?” Cui Jingyu replied mildly.

“Surely you don’t think Wei Yushan can break through our defense in that state?” Yuan Xiu asked with a smile.

“I’m not concerned with scoring goals,” Cui Jingyu said, utterly calm. “As long as you can’t pick the flower, isn’t that enough?”

“Does the Marquis really underestimate us so?” Yuan Xiu narrowed his eyes.

Cui Jingyu did not answer. Wei Yushan came galloping up at that moment: “What is Young Master Yuan saying to Brother Cui now? You agreed yourselves to flower-picking as the wager — a goal scored without picking the flower doesn’t count.”

Yuan Xiu had only respect for genuine ability, and only spoke to Cui Jingyu — he could not even be bothered to acknowledge Wei Yushan, dismissing him with a cold laugh: “So the young Marquis Wei does know the rules of polo? I rather thought your lot didn’t know how to play.”

That single remark sent Wei Yushan’s temper exploding — but Yuan Xiu had already casually turned back toward his own half. Wei Yushan, had he not been on horseback, would probably have leapt to his feet. He shouted: “Brother Cui, are you going to let him talk like that? Come and attack with us! The brothers are ready to burst.”

Cui Jingyu said coolly: “Attack what? We can’t win.”

“Even if we can’t win, we still fight — do we just surrender?” Wei Yushan was beside himself. “I don’t care — I refuse to lose face like this, not with someone watching from up there!”

He didn’t understand polo, so he couldn’t understand. What Cui Jingyu meant was that even though they could not win, neither could the other side win against them, and given such a wide disparity in ability, grinding out a draw was already the best possible outcome. Hold until dark, when Yuan Xiu’s side were worn down and Pingjun Prince was ready to open the banquet — then they would naturally shake hands and call it even.

But Luo Yong, riding over and catching that one line, laughed his broad laugh: “Heh — so the young Marquis also has someone watching from upstairs. Which family’s young lady is it? I’ll go tell the Marquis’s wife!”

“Luo Blockhead, you dare!” Wei Yushan threatened Luo Yong, then turned his most pleading look on Cui Jingyu. Cui Jingyu, unable to hold back a smile at his pitiable expression, relented. After all, this was his own younger brother.

“I’ll score one goal. That will settle it for you.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Wei Yushan was overjoyed and immediately shouted with delight: “Then I’ll guard your flanks — Luo Blockhead, clear the path for us!”

The moment Cui Jingyu crossed midfield, Yuan Xiu’s side immediately tensed, abandoning attack and sending everyone to block him. But the Northern March Army, for all they lacked in polo skill, had coordination long drilled into their bones. Luo Yong was a deputy general, and Wei Yushan was the officer Cui Jingyu coordinated with most instinctively. The two of them took one man each, formed a wild-goose formation, and knowing their passing was imprecise kept it to short passes only — managing through sheer determination to tear open a gap in Yuan Xiu’s defense. Cui Jingyu took the lead, sent the polo ball rolling across the ground with one sweep of his mallet, and it rolled straight through the goal.

Up in the gallery, Ye Lingbo rose onto her toes at once. Han Yueqi laughed: “See, Lingbo really is a miser at heart — couldn’t bear the thought of losing that gold.”

“That’s not it at all,” Ye Lingbo said, eyes fixed unblinking on the field below.

Down on the field, the moment Cui Jingyu scored, Yuan Xiu’s entire side rushed to guard the flower-ball pole. But they had no notion of what the Supreme General was truly capable of — a man who had been granted a marquisate at twenty-four possessed skills that the refined accomplishments of capital nobles could not begin to match. The two defenders on guard, Young Master Gao and the Wei young master, found their horses destabilized by one light tap each to their saddles, and immediately gave way. Cui Jingyu bore down on the pole, raised his mallet to hook the flower-ball, and Yuan Xiu rushed in to block — then heard Cui Jingyu say calmly: “My apologies.”

Yuan Xiu understood immediately that he had been tricked.

Cui Jingyu’s mallet had not been aimed at the flower-ball at all. Polo mallets are all fitted with hooks — what he had been waiting for was Yuan Xiu to come at him. The moment he did, Cui Jingyu hooked Yuan Xiu’s mallet with his own and pulled it toward himself. Yuan Xiu, palace guard though he was, found his seat on horseback suddenly unsteady and lurched forward. Then came a push, and Yuan Xiu nearly toppled from his horse entirely.

The two men nearby scrambled over to catch him. Yuan Xiu frantically hooked his toe into the stirrup — and suspended there, head down and feet up, he saw Cui Jingyu make a half-turn on the saddle. No one had ever seen a movement so beautiful — like a kite wheeling in the wind. The imperially granted black brocade robe billowed in the air, and Cui Jingyu rose from the saddle, cleared the ten-foot distance without needing to stand the horse up on its hind legs, lightly plucked the lowest flower-ball from the pole, and settled back into the saddle like a falling leaf.

For one instant the field was utterly silent — and then a tremendous roar of cheers and acclamations broke out. The ladies in the upper gallery, though they had not seen exactly what happened, knew that Marquis Cui had picked the flower and raised their voices in admiration as well. Pingjun Prince personally poured wine and came to offer it, congratulating him: “Truly worthy of the title Marquis Dingyuan, bestowed by His Majesty himself. Marquis Cui claims the first honor — please drink this cup!”

Military men did not generally drink lightly, but Cui Jingyu accepted the cup. He was not, like Wei Yushan and the others, a man of hard-won technique — he came from a family of military distinction, with ancestors who had themselves been honored in the Lingyan Pavilion. Though the family had declined, the blood of warriors had reached its pinnacle in him. He was a born genius who had risen to distinction in his youth — otherwise Marshal Wei would never have taken him as his only disciple.

Riding, polo, archery, hunting — all the pursuits the capital’s nobles excelled at, he had mastered, and mastered brilliantly. “The gallant young men of the Five Mausoleums, east of the gold market — silver saddles on white horses, riding through the spring wind.” That old poem was no idle fancy; he had truly been, in those years in the capital, an unmatched young man.

In his life there was nothing he could not learn, and naturally nothing he could not have. At twenty-four, he had broken the northern enemy, taken tens of thousands of enemy heads, slain the left chancellor, and been granted the rank of marquis — in any dynasty, in any era, it was the kind of achievement that would be written into the histories.

His life had known no dissatisfaction. Naturally he had known no unattainable thing.

The one thing he could not attain — he looked toward it now, past the rim of his wine cup, up at the gallery above.

At the Tonghua Banquet in those years, the mountain moon had hung high. Han Yueqi, in her playful mischief, had arranged the drinking game so that it fell to him and Qinglan to take a forfeit drink. She had immediately joked: “What wonderful fortune — the Flower Gathering Banquet isn’t even over yet and we’re already drinking the matchmaker’s cup. Drink up, drink up — this cup of mine is the matchmaker’s cup, and yours — yours is the Joined Hands Cup.”

Han Yueqi’s family was from the Shanxi region, the same ancestral home as Cui Jingyu — their families had come to the capital together in an earlier generation, connected by a distant kinship, and she had used that connection to style herself as their matchmaker.

Qinglan was not from that region and did not recognize the local phrase. She did not know that “Joined Hands Cup” was the Shanxi term for the wedding night’s shared cup — the pledging cup, the cup of unity. But he knew exactly what it meant, and yet pretended not to. He watched her in the moonlight, the faint blush rising along her profile. The moon that night had been so bright — even the fine strands of hair that the mountain wind stirred across her temples had shown clear and distinct.

All of that was past now. He was no longer the twenty-year-old Cui Jingyu, and no one would call him by that name anymore. He was the youngest marquis in the capital; Marshal Wei was growing old, and for the next twenty years, the Great Zhou’s frontier would depend on him. So everyone flattered him — the Emperor’s victory banquet, first cup poured for Marshal Wei, second cup poured for him. The Grand Princess, the Rui Prince, Pingjun Prince — all offered toasts in his honor.

Only that one pledging cup, drunk at twenty — that he would never drink again.

That was the one thing in his life he could not attain.