Having leapt across the river of Tan Creek (檀溪), Liu Bei (劉備) walked step by step along a mountain path. Midway along the path, from inside a small thatched hall (草堂), the sound of a lute (琴) flowed low.

Liu Bei paused. The lute's note was clear; yet the melody broke off suddenly. From within the hall a voice flowed. "That the lute has broken off so suddenly is the sign that the air of a hero (英雄) draws near."

Liu Bei knocked at the door of the hall. An old man opened it. A white beard hung to his shoulders, and his clear eyes shone deep. The old man spoke low. "Is this not General Liu? I have waited long. Please, come in."

Liu Bei bowed his head low. "Old master. How do you know my name?" The old man smiled. "The master of a horse that leapt across the river of Tan Creek is, this morning, only one man. My name is Sima Hui (司馬徽); my style, Decao (德操); my sobriquet, Shuijing (水鏡, water mirror)."

Liu Bei folded his hands and bowed. "I have long heard the name of Master Shuijing. To meet you today at this seat is a joy greater than any." Shuijing offered him a cup of tea. The two men sat at a low seat facing each other. Shuijing spoke low. "General Liu. Today's leap at Tan Creek was not the mere work of a horse, but the leap drawn forth by Your Lordship's own bearing. Yet for that leap to continue into a longer road ahead, the aid (助力) of a single person is needed."

Liu Bei bowed his head. "Old master. Who is that person?" Shuijing smiled. "The two names Crouching Dragon (伏龍) and Young Phoenix (鳳雛). Obtain even one of these two, and you may settle all under heaven."

Liu Bei's eyes opened wide. "Old master. May I know the real names of these two?" Shuijing laughed low. "General Liu. Today I shall hand you only these two sobriquets. The real names will reveal themselves as your steps carry you toward the next seat."

Liu Bei bowed deeply. "Master Shuijing. I shall inscribe these two names deeply within my chest."

That evening, Liu Bei lodged at Shuijing's hall for the night. Late in the night, a young scholar knocked at the door and entered. He spoke briefly and low with Shuijing, then left. Liu Bei asked for the scholar's name; Shuijing answered only with a low smile.

After the scholar had gone, Shuijing sat beside his lute again and lifted a single string with one finger. The string sounded a low note. He did not resume the melody he had played when Liu Bei first arrived. Some melodies, broken by the arrival of a hero, are best not continued in the same hour. Liu Bei did not ask for the melody to be resumed. He only lifted his tea cup, drained it, and set it down quietly upon a small wooden tray. The tray had held many such cups, over many such evenings, for many such travelers. Tonight's cup was laid in a familiar place.

Deep in the night, when both men had drifted toward sleep in separate small rooms of the hall, a thin moon crossed over the ridge behind the hall and laid a line of silver across Dilu's flank where the horse stood tethered in the small courtyard. Dilu's flank took the silver without twitching. A white horse beneath a thin moon rarely stirs at such a line. The courtyard, at that late hour, held only the breath of a horse, the shape of a silver line, and a door closed upon two sleeping men.

In the small room where Liu Bei was to sleep, a thin pallet had been laid upon a wooden frame. Beside the pallet stood a low wooden stool on which Shuijing had placed a small book of verses from the early Han. The book lay open to a four-line poem that began: The road of a hero is long; the dust of his horse is thick; yet when the road bends beneath a small mountain, the dust settles, and the hero hears. Liu Bei read the four lines and closed the book upon the stool. He did not speak the lines aloud. A traveler who has read such a poem beside a pallet in a stranger's hall rarely speaks the lines aloud; he only lets them settle into the pallet with his own head.

At the edge of the courtyard, beside Dilu's tether, a small stone lantern burned a low flame against the night's damp. Shuijing's household kept the lantern lit every night through the spring; it was the sign to any late traveler that the hall stood open. Tonight's lantern would not be blown out until just before dawn.

The ninety-sixth evening of Book 4 deepened quietly upon the lute of Shuijing's hall. The three characters Sugyeong-geum (水鏡琴, the lute of Master Shuijing) were planted as a seed: a broken melody, a cup of tea, the two names Crouching Dragon and Young Phoenix, and the nameless visit of a young scholar all gathered at one seat. The leap of Day 95's Dangye-yak (檀溪躍) had, this evening, reached beneath the lute of Shuijing's hall.

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