We both turned at the force of his qi; Liu Winter had joined us in the in-between realm.Impossible.How could a human without a spirit seal find his way here? And yet I recalled seeing Winter in my dreams, though I hadn’t known it at the time. He’d always possessed a remarkable spirit affinity; even Sima Yi had known it. He out of all of us was certainly destined to become a summoner of a Cardinal Spirit. Even so, he’d refused the offer, because he’d loved his life as it was.
“Use me,” said Winter. “I know the cost, and still, I choose to pay it.”
There was no time to argue. I extended my hand, and he took it with grim trepidation. He understood the cost would be great.
I thought I did too. But in truth, perhaps none of us fully understood the price we were about to pay. If we had known, would we still have done what we did?
The three of us stood in a circle beneath the flickering light, as if peering up from the bottom of the ocean. Winter’s qi, untarnished by lixia, was like a flowing river to our stagnating bodies of water. Together we connected our elements, our spirits merging as one, and our combined qi blossomed into a force so immense, it rivaled that of a Cardinal Spirit.
Forty-One
Ma—perhaps this is not goodbye, and yet I feel a strange certainty that this journey will be my last. I do not wish to leave you alone, but I cannot go on in a world where my brothers’ murderer lives. Know that my death will not be in vain. Whether it takes a hundred years or a thousand, I will find you in every lifetime. And in another life, when we meet again, I hope to be the one to care for you—as you have cared for me.
—Duan Lily in a private correspondence to Duan Yajing, 924
A twelve-year-old Winter stood before anaudience of Anlai nobles, who studied him like a pinned butterfly beneath glass. With an awkward, nervous bow, he went to his instrument, a seven-string guqin. Then, with a deep breath, he began to play.
The melody that emanated from his instrument was so lovely it brought the audience to its knees. Although this was a social occasion, no one dared speak as music flowed from Winter’s dexterous hands, eloquent and exquisite and entirely bewitching. Listening to his song felt like being cast under a spell, one even the magician himself was lost in. For when Winter played his guqin, only then was he truly happy.
“Why do you toil for hours at your useless instrument?” demanded his father. “Your tutors tell me you are ludicrous with a sword. How they laugh at me—a warlord with a musician for a son! What happens if we go to war?”
“I have no interest in war,” said Winter.
“Will you stay at home like a girl, then? Play your little music while your brothers go off to fight for their country?”
“There are other ways to fight,” said Winter.
“Do you really think you can entrance your enemies with your music?” Liu Zhuo laughed. “Let me show you—this is what they’ll do.”
With little ceremony, he stepped on Winter’s prized guqin, an heirloom made from the finest zimu trees of Mount Fuxi. Beneath his father’s boot, the instrument splintered in half, its strings clanging together in protest.
Years later. The Three Kingdoms War raged on, but Winter spent most of his time in his tent, reading poetry and composing songs. He missed his guqin, but it would have been impractical to transport.
“Why won’t you look at me?” he asked Lieutenant Tong Peilun, late one night as the rest of the camp slumbered on.
“Your Highness,” he said, staring at his boots, “it isn’t proper.”
“Is it because I’m a prince?” he asked. “I’ve seen you meet my brother’s eyes.”
Peilun swallowed, his cheeks flushing beneath Winter’s regard. “It’s because you make me nervous,” he admitted.
Winter tilted his head at him, baring the long line of his neck. “And why do I make you nervous?”
His anxiety gave way to frustration. “I can’t do my job properly around you,” he said angrily.
“I don’t need you to do your job, then.” Winter rose from his chair, and Peilun’s gaze drifted to him like a fly to honey. “I have other jobs for you, Peilun.”
The sound of his name was like a release. Peilun strode across the tent, closing the distance between them. Winter extinguished the lamp, but even in the dark, they found each other.
“You must learn to wield the sword!” Peilun snapped, wiping sweat from his brow. Their practice blades lay discarded on the mat after another failed bout. “What if I’m not there to protect you one day? What then?”
“Will that day come?” asked Winter, raising a brow.
“I don’t know,” Peilun replied, exasperated, “but I for one am not willing to risk losing you. Take this seriously,please!”
The prince sighed. “I told you when we first met,” he said calmly, “I have no taste for violence.”
“Then why did you agree to receive instruction?” Peilun growled, his patience wearing thin.
