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The day is slow, the wind nothing more than a crawling breeze from the west. Zhuge Liang breathes it in, first inhaling through his nose, then through his mouth. What he cannot smell, he can taste, and so he knows what the hours ahead will bring. Dust in the atmosphere, like grit irritating an oyster, can build clouds. Whether or not those clouds will bring rain or more dust, Zhuge Liang cannot tell yet.
He flaps his hawk's wing fan in an occasional beat, just enough to clear his senses of the drift of pine scent from the tree beside him. The green needles tumble in even the slightest of breezes as autumn comes to a close, and they fall to join the mat of gold and brown needles beneath Zhuge Liang's feet.
Closing his eyes the better to concentrate, Zhuge Liang reaches inward for the path of contemplation and stillness, a place of solitude where everything is harmonious. He lets his mind slip its anchor and stands perfectly still, allowing the essence of himself to become one with the world around him.
It is difficult to silence the chattering of his thoughts. There is much to occupy his mind at Red Cliff. Moments of clarity are too few and far between, and he knows he seeks meditation not for the benefit of his soul but for the benefit of the allied armies. What is essentially a selfless act has become selfish merely because he seeks to be selfless.
Zhuge Liang frowns, and the frown breaks his concentration. He's aware of the world rushing back: birdsong, the stir and creak of the branches above him, the taste of dust on his tongue, the clash of arms in the encampment below, the distant shouts and rumble of carts... and closer at hand, the soft sound of footsteps and the shortened breathing of a man unused to a steep climb.
He opens his eyes and turns to see Sun Quan clambering up the rocky slope, followed by a puffing, red-faced servant who balances a distinctive cloth-wrapped shape against one shoulder. Sun Quan is looking down, his focus on where he will set his feet next, and the sunlight gleams on the sharp lines combed into his oiled hair and shines from the gold embroidery on his velvet headpiece. He is careless of the red dust gathering at his brocade hems, and when at length he looks up, his gaze is direct and unerring.
Zhuge Liang smiles. The young Duke of Wu is a contradiction, but a pleasing one. A true warrior would look into the distance at his intended destination, not at the land he had to cross in order to get there. A cautious man would keep his gaze fixed to the ground. Sun Quan does both, and his leisurely pace—his colour is slightly heightened but he is not out of breath—speaks well of his desire to spare his servant unnecessary discomfort.
They reach the outcrop. Zhuge Liang retreats a few steps from beneath the shade of the pine tree and bows. "Your Highness, this is an unexpected pleasure. If you needed to speak to me, it would have been easier to send a summons. I would have attended you at a place of your choosing."
Sun Quan waves a hand in dismissal. "What, draw down the hawk from his lofty nest? I think not, Kong Ming. The hawk obeys only his own nature, not the whims of men." He smiles a little, his gaze warm and caressing before he continues, "Besides, it was not for speech that I wanted you."
Zhuge Liang feels a moment of pleasurable shock. He lowers his gaze at the squirm of emotion inside. "What does my lord wish of me?"
Sun Quan laughs, and the sound is slightly embarrassed, as if he's suddenly aware of the double entendre and is trying to make it right. "Music, Kong Ming."
"Music?" Zhuge Liang looks at him.
"Zhou Yu told me you played the qin." Sun Quan gestures to the servant, who comes forward and sets the cloth-wrapped object down on a flat rock. "He said you have an uncommon talent."
"The Viceroy is too kind. My skills are humble and nothing compared to his."
"I will be the judge of that." Sun Quan examines another rock close to the base of the gnarled tree, dusts it free of dead pine needles, then seats himself. He nods to the servant, who withdraws a short distance down the hill, out of earshot of intimate talk but close enough to be called into service.
"Unwrap it," Sun Quan says, indicating the object.
Zhuge Liang knows what it is. Even muffled in cloth, the shape is unmistakable. He bows and comes closer, setting down his fan and kneeling on the rock to untie the silken cords. The cloth falls free, and the qin is revealed—a beautiful instrument with tuning pegs of white jade, black onyx guiding studs, and a glossed surface of red lacquer decorated with cranes and flowers in gold.
He draws breath and sighs in wonder as he leans over the qin. The twisted silk strings are loose, and he wonders whose instrument this is. He hardly dares to touch it, though seeing it makes him long to handle it and coax music from it. Glancing up to seek permission, he sees Sun Quan smile.
"I heard all the men of Shu have time for gentlemanly pursuits whilst on campaign, except for you. Poetry, calligraphy, philosophy..."
Zhuge Liang lifts the qin and sets it across his lap. "Such pursuits are portable. A man may compose poetry without paper; a man may practice his calligraphy with a stick in the dust. A philosopher may teach whenever he has the voice and an audience to attend upon him. But to play the qin, one must have an instrument and the peace of mind to play it. On campaign, I had neither of these things."
Sun Quan tilts his head, his eyes bright. "You must have a qin at home."
Zhuge Liang nods. "Indeed I do, but now it hangs upon the wall of my study, a piece to be admired and not played."
"It must be a fine instrument."
"Not as fine as this." He runs his fingers the length of the qin, admiring its shape and the craftsmanship that went into its creation. "Mine is poor in comparison."
"This was made for Zhou Yu by order of my brother." Something sharp and bitter tinges Sun Quan's voice.
Zhuge Liang looks up, more in reaction to the tone than to the words spoken. He sees distress and perhaps envy blaze in Sun Quan's eyes before the fire dims. Carefully, as if handling a skittish horse, Zhuge Liang says, "I made my own."
Sun Quan rocks back in surprise. "Truly?"
"Truly." Zhuge Liang laughs. "It took a long time. I could replicate the shape, but not the sound; when I had the sound, the resonance was wrong; when I had the resonance, the strings were too thin; when I twisted the strings correctly, I found the whole thing was flawed, and so I began again."
"The attraction of any instrument lies in its flaws," Sun Quan says. "A flawed instrument challenges the player to strive for perfection."
"And yet to strive for perfection in one's playing is a sin, not a virtue." Zhuge Liang strokes a line of sound from the qin. "Perhaps it is better to play badly on a perfect instrument than to play beautifully on a flawed instrument."
Sun Quan chuckles. "But surely it is vanity if one chooses to play badly."
"Vanity, Highness?" Raising his head, Zhuge Liang gives him a quizzical glance. "I would rather say humility."
"Not at all." There's enjoyment in Sun Quan's tone now, and he looks sleek with satisfaction. "It is vanity that keeps a man from displaying his true potential."
Zhuge Liang shifts slightly on his knees, aware of the sharp edges of the rock beneath him. Not even his four layers of cloth can protect him from the discomfort. "Indeed. How do you reach that conclusion, my lord?"
There's a pause, a gathering of thought, before Sun Quan answers. "A man who is accomplished in all things should share his gifts rather than hoard them. He should offer himself freely rather than squander his skills for payment. For a man to hold himself back from this sharing is a kind of vanity—an acknowledgement of the individual rather than the whole of the state."
It feels like a rebuke, but Zhuge Liang can't be sure. He spends some time tightening the strings, twisting the tuning pegs to draw each note to its correct pitch, matching the sound of the qin to the exact sounds he'd memorised long ago. He can tell from the give of the strings how tight they're usually drawn, and he reflects that Zhou Yu likes his qin to sing on tension. Zhuge Liang prefers an instrument to sound mellow, and so he avoids giving the jade pegs one last half-turn.
He plays a chord. "What of those men who believe they have much to offer when in reality they can give nothing at all? These are the kinds of men who become ministers and play at politics. They seek power as a way of assuaging their own vanity. If you accuse humble men of vanity, of what, then, do you accuse vain men?"
His voice has risen by the end of this speech, and his fingers are curled tight over the strings. The rough edge of one of his nails catches on the twisted silk. Zhuge Liang forces himself to relax, to flatten his hand over the body of the qin.
Sun Quan watches his confusion with equanimity. "I would accuse them of dereliction of duty."
Zhuge Liang exhales. "I cannot agree with your arguments."
"I do not expect you to agree."
Silence drifts around them. The breeze rustles the branches, releasing the scent of pine and sending down a shower of green needles. There's music in the sound, faint though it is, and Zhuge Liang plucks a note, modulates it, matching it to the breeze through the pine branches.
Sun Quan brushes at his brocades, collecting the fallen needles into the dip of his robes across his lap. "Neither of us is perfect, Kong Ming. Play beautifully or play badly—the choice is yours. Only, play for me. That is all I ask."
Zhuge Liang looks at his hand over the bridge of the qin and raises it. He flexes his fingers as he considers which tune to play, and when none seem suitable, he opts instead for improvisation, taking as his cue the scent of pine and the whisper of the wind. He plucks gentle notes, describing through music the sense of the tree, then he lets his gaze travel from the branches to the trunk, and changes the music to reflect what he sees: the pitted surface, the cracks of age and weathering, the slow crawl of insects burrowing through the wood, the rise of the sap and the fall of the needles.
The music takes him deeper, until he's describing not just this pine tree but all trees, all insects, all seasons, the cycle of life writ large on a small world, and it opens up the path he was seeking. Everything that ever was and will be lies before him, around him, and he is at one with the path; he is part of a harmony greater than could ever be expressed in simple terms upon an instrument.
Enlightenment comes, and in this expanded state of consciousness he realises Sun Quan's words on vanity were directed inwards, at himself. The realisation makes Zhuge Liang aware that he, too, had fallen into the trap of vanity, of thinking that he was the object of Sun Quan's remarks.
Neither of them is perfect, but both must do their best—in this war, in their service to their states, in their dealings with each other.
Zhuge Liang plays, slowing the tune, withdrawing from the wild notes to softer sounds, returning to the melody he first coaxed from the qin. He draws in a breath as he feels his way towards a finale, and then he tastes the rain.
He stops playing. The strings vibrate long after he takes his hands away.
Sun Quan is visibly shaken, jerked from the spell of the music. He blinks in confusion, his lips parted as if to protest, but he doesn't speak. He stares at Zhuge Liang in a silence that still resonates.
"My lord." Zhuge Liang keeps his voice low, unwilling to shatter the peace between them. "The rain is coming."
"You are certain?" Sun Quan looks around at the clear sky.
"From the west. It will be here by evening. A rain storm rich with dust and confusion." Zhuge Liang moves the qin from his knees, picks up his fan, and rises to his feet. He searches the horizon, feeling the restlessness of the air. For a moment, he'd succeeded in making order out of chaos, harmony from discord, but now Heaven imposes its will upon Earth, and the moment is over.
He bows; all thoughts of music gone, and in its place, the urge to take action. "Forgive me, my lord, but I must go. I need to be certain our food supplies are stored somewhere dry and the animals taken deep within the stables. The wind will lift thatch and batter at wooden walls, and the rain will be heavy enough to spring leaks in all but the sturdiest of roofs."
Sun Quan nods a dismissal, and Zhuge Liang bows again and sets off down the hillside. He hasn't gone far before he's called back. Puzzled, Zhuge Liang looks up to see Sun Quan standing beneath the twisted pine tree, the qin cradled in his arms.
"Why, Kong Ming," Sun Quan says, a smile in his eyes, "a gentleman does not part with his qin."
Zhuge Liang inclines his head, an answering smile tugging at his lips. "Indeed he does not, Highness, but that is not my qin."