Jinghe Year Sixteen, first month, Guilin.
Winter in Guilin was steeped in dampness.
A thousand miles of northern earth lay sealed beneath accumulated snow.
Yet Guilin's skies answered only with a river of mist and rain.
The rain was fine as silk, neither pouring nor sudden. It drifted through the air from the banks of the Li River, locking a thousand peaks within the blue heavens.
The emerald of the mountains, the blue-green of the water, the white of the mist.
The three colors completed one another-a painting unfinished, its ink still wet, unfurled at the edge of heaven and earth.
Such mountains and rivers grew quieter with every measure of beauty, more distant with every measure of quiet...
On the seventh day of the first month, beside a postal station on the official road in Guilin.
The first month had only just begun, and rain still fell thickly over the Li River.
Then hooves pounded through the rain, their sound like racing thunder, coming from the south.
Sweat steamed from the horse's body, foam hung from its mouth, and the black-clad rider was soaked through, yet had no time to attend to it.
He tumbled straight out of the saddle, dropped the reins to the ground, and shouted:
"A fresh horse! A fresh horse!"
The postal stations answered to the Central Secretariat and were established throughout the realm to keep the roads connected and transmit urgent commands.
Every dispatch token was carved from wood in the shape of a fish. Messengers wore them at their waists and were supplied with horses upon entering a station.
The stationmaster came out to meet him. Seeing his urgent-dispatch attire, he hurriedly asked, "Honored messenger, is it military intelligence?"
"This is a summons ordering a man to the Capital. It