A Red String on a Snow Leopard - Chapter 1

The first time I saw that snow leopard was on the snowy road back from the Northern Border to the capital.

The wind was savage that day. Our relay convoy was trapped below Qingyan Mountain; the horses refused to move, and the people were freezing until their lips turned purple.

Before my father died, he had served as an army physician. He left me a medicine chest and a stack of IOUs.

I was going to the capital to deliver the last batch of frostbite salve to the Ministry of War storehouse, and while I was there, collect the medicine money they had owed for three years.

So I could not die.

At the very least, I could not die eight hundred li from the capital.

The soldiers escorting the convoy said there were wild beasts on the mountain and told us not to wander before nightfall.

I had no intention of wandering.

But toward evening, a young medicine boy in our party went missing.

He was only twelve, clutching the little box that held my ginseng slices, and when he cried, he sounded like a leaking kettle.

When I went looking for him, I found a trail of blood in the snow.

It was not human blood.

The smell was heavy, mixed with something cold and clean, like pine needles crushed under snow.

I followed the blood around to the lee slope.

The medicine boy was crouched behind a rock, so frightened he had forgotten how to cry.

Across from him lay a snow leopard.

It was more beautiful than any beast I had ever seen, and more wretched too.

An arrow was lodged in its hind leg, half the fletching snapped off. Two hooked wounds scored its shoulder.

The boy trembled. “Sister Jiang, is it going to eat me?”

The snow leopard lifted its eyes to him.

The boy shut his mouth at once.

I set down my medicine chest and walked over slowly.

“If it really wanted to eat you, you would already be in its belly.”

That made the boy even more terrified.

I looked at the snow leopard.

“You understand me, don’t you?”

It did not move.

But its eyes narrowed slightly.

I had saved many patients who refused to cooperate.

Border soldiers, mountain folk, escort guards, refugees; anyone in enough pain could bite.

So a snow leopard that knew how to glare was hardly the worst I had dealt with.

I sent the medicine boy back to the convoy, then took a small porcelain vial of mafeisan from my medicine chest.

The snow leopard stared at the vial in my hand and gave a low rumble in its throat.

I said, “Afraid of bitterness?”

It showed a little fang.

I set the vial down on the snow.

“Fine. You don’t have to drink it. But when I pull the arrow, don’t move.”

It kept staring.

I crouched, unfastened my cloak, and padded it beneath its injured leg.

The arrowhead was barbed. Pulling it out would take a piece of flesh with it.

I glanced at the pattern carved on the shaft.

A Northern Border military crossbow.

Not something a hunter could use.

My hand paused.

The snow leopard suddenly raised its head and pressed its nose near my sleeve.

It sniffed.

I frowned. “Don’t sniff me.”

It acted as if it had not heard.

Its nose brushed all the way to my wrist, cold enough that I nearly dropped my needle.

I pressed a hand to its head.

“Move again and I really will stew you.”

It stilled.

After a moment, it laid its chin back down on the cloak.

It did not look like submission.

It looked as if it had reluctantly granted permission.