[Water Margin] Hu Sanniang with her delicate hands - Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

Two fast horses shattered the autumn frost of the northern lands, galloping all the way north along the winding ancient road. The wind howled past their ears, sweeping up withered grass and dust, carrying a bone-chilling cold, yet also blowing away the shadows and shackles of Liangshan Marsh behind them.

The initial tension and excitement of escaping danger gradually subsided, replaced by the fatigue of the long journey and uncertainty about the road ahead. Hu Sanniang gripped the reins, her gaze habitually scanning the surroundings—barren fields, withered woods, and the distant, undulating mountain line. All of this was unfamiliar and vast to her. She was no longer the Hu Sanniang confined to a single estate or serving a single stockade; she had truly stepped into this enormous and unknown world.

Dǎlǐbō consistently rode in the lead. Her horsemanship was superb; rider and horse seemed to be one, maintaining a steady speed even on the rough ancient road. Her back was straight, and her dark riding outfit accentuated the smooth, powerful lines of her shoulders and back. She did not look back or speak, as if immersed in her own thoughts, or perhaps, giving Hu Sanniang time to process the massive change and adapt to the new environment.

It wasn’t until the sun began to set, and both riders and horses were exhausted, that Dǎlǐbō reined in her horse in a sheltered mountain hollow. Here, there was a small stream that hadn’t completely frozen over, with some cold-resistant shrubs growing along the banks.

“We rest here for one hour. Water the horses, and eat.” She dismounted with a decisive, crisp movement. Her voice was slightly hoarse from the long journey, but still carried an unquestionable resolve.

Hu Sanniang also dismounted, her legs aching from the long ride. She silently led both horses to the stream to drink, then took feed from Dǎlǐbō’s saddlebag to feed the horses. Dǎlǐbō, meanwhile, skillfully gathered dry branches and started a small bonfire behind a rock, driving away the surrounding chill.

The firelight danced, illuminating their silent faces. Hu Sanniang sat by the fire, accepting a piece of hard dried meat and a wineskin filled with fermented mare’s milk wine from Dǎlǐbō. The dried meat was salty and tough, and the mare’s milk wine was pungent. It was completely different from the refined cuisine of Liangshan, yet it possessed a kind of rugged strength, a power to sustain life.

“Where… are we going?” Hu Sanniang finally broke the silence, asking the first question since leaving Liangshan. Her voice sounded slightly weak in the open wilderness.

Dǎlǐbō was using a small knife to whittle a stick. Hearing the question, she did not stop working and answered without raising her head: “First to Xijin Prefecture.”

Xijin Prefecture! The Southern Capital of the Liao Kingdom, the heart of the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan Yun! Hu Sanniang’s heart jolted. Although she had anticipated traveling north, hearing the destination confirmed still gave her a pang of nervousness. It was a completely foreign country to her, full of unknowns and uncertainties.

“And then?” she pressed.

“And then?” Dǎlǐbō finally looked up. The firelight flickered in her light brown eyes, making her emotions hard to discern. “That depends on you.”

“On me?”

“Correct.” Dǎlǐbō stuck the sharpened stick near the fire and clapped the wood shavings from her hands. “What I gave you was a chance to leave the cage, a path to a broader world. But how you walk that path, and where you end up, is your choice. When we reach Xijin Prefecture, you can choose to live anonymously, as a wealthy commoner; you can choose to leverage your skills and seek a future under my elder brother’s command; or… if you tire of it, and want to see places farther afield—the Western Regions, the grasslands—I can arrange that for you too.”

Her words were calm, yet they once again returned the power of choice to Hu Sanniang’s hands. There was no coercion, no predetermined assignment, only a presentation of multiple possible futures.

Hu Sanniang was stunned. She had expected Dǎlǐbō to demand her loyalty to Great Liao, treating her as a recruited general, granting her office and mission. She hadn’t expected the other woman to offer such… freedom of choice.

“Why… why are you doing so much for me?” This was a question she had asked herself countless times, and now she finally couldn’t help but ask it aloud. Was it merely because she “valued talent” and “didn’t want to see a star fall”? This reason seemed insufficient to justify Dǎlǐbō taking such risks and expending so much effort.

Dǎlǐbō gazed at the flickering flames, silent for a moment. The bonfire crackled, and a few mournful wolf howls echoed in the distance.

“When I was little,” she suddenly began, her voice lower, carrying a hint of distant memory, “I raised a Gyrfalcon. I spent great effort to obtain the chick from a cliff in the far north. It was very proud, and also very fragile. I fed it myself, trained it, watching its feathers gradually grow full and its eyes sharpen.”

Hu Sanniang listened quietly, not interrupting.

“Many people said that a hawk should be locked in a golden cage, as a symbol of power and bravery. But I disagreed,” Dǎlǐbō’s gaze moved from the flames to Hu Sanniang, her eyes deep as the night sky. “A hawk’s nature is to soar through the sky, to battle the wind and rain. To lock it up, even with a golden chain, is to extinguish its spirit.”

“What happened later?” Hu Sanniang asked softly.

“Later?” Dǎlǐbō gave a complex smile. “It grew up, its wings fully matured. One morning, I untied the leather jess from its leg. It paused on my arm for a moment, then looked at me with those sharp eyes, spread its wings, and flew away, never to return.”

Her tone was flat, revealing no joy or anger, but Hu Sanniang could sense a deep emotion hidden beneath the calm.

“Some said I was foolish to let go of such a precious hunting hawk. But I never regretted it,” Dǎlǐbō continued, her gaze turning sharp and resolute again. “The moment I saw it fly into the sky, I knew that was its true form. Its spirit belonged to the storm and to freedom, not to my arm.”

She paused, her voice clear and strong: “Hu Sanniang, I see the same pride in you, the same unyielding spirit, the same… bound soul. Liangshan Marsh was that golden chain for you. All I did was to untie that chain, for you, and for the unresolved knot in my own heart from back then.”

“As for where you fly,” she concluded, her tone returning to its usual indifference, “that is your freedom. It is enough for me to know that you are finally free to soar.”

The firelight flickered on her face. Hu Sanniang looked at this heroic face, which now showed a rare moment of vulnerability, and felt a heavy impact in her heart—a mix of soreness, shock, and an inexpressible warmth quietly coursing through her.

So that was it.

It was not entirely a calculation of interests, nor purely appreciation. It was also mixed with a part of Dǎlǐbō’s own unfulfilled persistence and projection. She saw Hu Sanniang as a kind of continuation of the Gyrfalcon she had once released.

This bond, more complex than simple appreciation or utilization, was also more… weighty and genuine.

Hu Sanniang lowered her head, looking at the pungent mare’s milk wine in the wineskin, silent for a long time. The north wind swept through the hollow, making the bonfire flicker, and also blowing the wisps of hair across her forehead.

Her inner heart, at this moment, quietly opened a crack because of the tale told by the bonfire.

The road ahead was still unknown, but at least she knew the true intention of the person who had led her onto this path.

That was enough.