While the embrace beneath the Fengyi Pavilion drifted slowly on, at the imperial audience in the Chang’an palace, Dong Zhuo noticed the attendant’s seat behind him standing empty. Yesterday and today that seat should have held Fengxian, a step back with his halberd. Today, only empty air rested on the stone of that seat.

Dong Zhuo’s face darkened. Without asking Emperor Xian’s leave, he rose. The wheels of his carriage raised great dust on the western road of Chang’an. Before the gate of the residence, a single horse stood tethered — Fengxian’s saddle. “Gatekeeper. Where is the Marquis of Wen (溫侯)?” “He has gone to the rear hall.”

Dong Zhuo’s eyes sharpened. He waved off his attendants and walked to the rear hall. He flung open the door. The hall was empty. He summoned one attendant. “Diaochan?” “She is looking at flowers in the rear garden.”

Dong Zhuo’s hand gripped and released the hilt of his sword at his waist. He walked with heavy steps toward the side gate of the rear garden. Through the flowering branches he saw the small roof of the Fengyi Pavilion. Beside the curved railing below the roof, a halberd stood aslant; and beside that halberd, two people leaned close together. Fengxian. And Diaochan.

“Fengxian.” Dong Zhuo’s single cry struck loud against the tiles of the curved roof. That cry pushed the air of the rear garden back.

Lü Bu turned his head. The instant he saw Dong Zhuo’s face, his body sprang up. He pushed Diaochan aside and turned to flee.

Dong Zhuo stepped up to the railing in a single stride. His hand snatched Lü Bu’s halberd. That halberd, for the first time on this day, was raised within Dong Zhuo’s own hand. A blade with no master had crossed, in the moment its master’s hand was empty, into another hand.

“That one.” Dong Zhuo ran after Lü Bu with the halberd lifted. Dong Zhuo’s body was great and heavy; Lü Bu’s step was swift. After a few paces along the stone path of the Fengyi Pavilion, the distance between them had already stretched. Dong Zhuo cast the halberd forward. The halberd split the air and flew. Lü Bu glanced back, raised his right hand quickly, and struck the shaft aside. The halberd fell upon the stone path with a clang.

Dong Zhuo rushed up and picked the halberd again. He dashed forward a second time, yet Lü Bu’s body had already vanished beyond the side gate of the rear garden. Dong Zhuo’s great body could not, this evening, run the distance. He drew a breath and walked again toward the side gate. Rage poured heavily from his shoulders with each step.

The moment he crossed the threshold of the side gate, an oncoming chest met Dong Zhuo’s head-on for the first time this evening. The two bodies tilted large under each other’s weight. The one who had come up stepped back. Yet Dong Zhuo’s great body fell backward. He landed upon the stone path with a thud. The halberd in his hand fell upon the path a second time today.

The one who had struck him bent down, startled, and held out a hand. “My Lord. Forgive this one collision.” Dong Zhuo’s face of rage quieted. It was his son-in-law Li Ru (李儒). Dong Zhuo took Li Ru’s hand and rose; he returned to the rear hall.

Li Ru received a cup and offered a low line. “My Lord. Let me offer an old story. In the Chunqiu era, King Zhuang of Chu (楚莊王) held a banquet; when a wind blew out a candle, a subject took hold of the queen’s robe. The queen seized that subject’s cap-strings; yet King Zhuang ordered all subjects to cut their cap-strings, and so he covered the subject’s shame. Later, in battle against Qin (秦), that subject saved the King’s life. This is called the meeting of cut cap-strings (絕纓之會). My Lord, retract today’s cast of the halberd; return Diaochan to Lü Bu, and Lü Bu will repay you with his life. The grain of a halberd cast in anger cannot be taken back; yet the grain of a woman returned in wisdom can be passed forward into years of loyalty.”

Dong Zhuo kept silent a long while. Then he shook his head. “Li Ru. This one woman cannot be returned. Without her, one night at this residence is as long as a year.” Li Ru drew a deep sigh. Inside that sigh, a grain of disappointment was hidden. That disappointment would, in the months to come, sit quietly beside every counsel Li Ru gave; for he had read tonight a truth many counselors never read in time about their masters — that some masters cannot be saved even by their own counselors.

The fourth evening of Book 2 deepened quietly before the side gate of the residence’s rear garden. The three characters Cheokgeugno (擲戟怒, the rage of the thrown halberd) were planted as a seed: the path of a single blade that had crossed from the master’s hand into another’s. The single step of Day 33’s Bonguibo had extended, this evening, into the path of a thrown halberd.

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