The girl gave a muffled squeak in his arms. Zen stiffened. The air was suddenly asphyxiating, the scent of burnt metal smothering his throat, pressure building around his ears—
An iron whip descended upon them out of nowhere.
Out of instinct, Zen curled his body, flipping the girl beneath him.
He felt it the moment the lash struck his back, hard enough for him to see stars. Pain—excruciating pain—spread through his veins like wildfire. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
He lost his focus. The qì that had been propelling him upward scattered. The sky began to pull away from him, and the ground beneath rushed up.
Darkness closed in.
Practitioners of the Way engage in equivalent exchange, for there is no give without take. Borrowed power must be returned, and power itself requires payment.
—Dào’zi,Book of the Way (Classic of Virtues),1.4
The boy had lost consciousness.
Something—a metal whip, perhaps wielded by an Elantian magician—had lashed at him out of nowhere, breaking their trajectory and sending them spiraling.
Lan screamed at him as they fell, fists gripping his waist as the lapels of his coat flapped in her face like the wings of a broken bird. The wind shrieked in her ears, snatching away her voice and tugging at the black ribbons of the boy’s hair.
The ground rose up to meet them, hard and fast. No, not the ground—the crenellations of the wall, torchlight licking at them like the teeth and tongue of a great beast as it opened its maw. Lan saw the glint of silver and metal beneath—patrols who’d be on them within seconds.
She shouted again and, with extreme difficulty, pried back a hand and slapped the boy’s cheek.
His eyes snapped open.
Lan’s blood froze.
It felt as though she were staring into an inhuman face; soglacial was his expression that it might have belonged to one of those Elantian marble statues of gods and angels. The careful, courteous boy she’d spoken to earlier was gone.
And his eyes—they were completely, utterly black.
Something swirled in that darkness: a glint of light, faraway stars in an ink-black night. She felt his hands shift against her back, felt a rush of something inexplicable—energy? power? wind?—around them.
The air thickened like rice syrup. Something brushed against Lan’s back. As though cradled by a giant hand, Lan and the boy slowed, drifted down, and landed on the stone ramparts.
He sprawled on top of her, eyelids fluttering, head drooping. With a soft exhale, he fell unconscious again, pinning her under his weight.
Boots thundered against the ground nearby. Pressure on her arms. The world righted itself as she was jerked to her knees. Gloved hands grasped her chin so tight that it would bruise, twisted her arms behind her at an angle. She glanced up and found herself held by several Elantian wall patrols.
“What in the Hell?” The Elantian language rolled over her like a shock of cold water. “Did you see?”
“You think they jumped from somewhere? Was too dark to make out.”
If Lan hadn’t just literallyfeltthe boy leaping through the air—almost flying—from the houses below to the wall up high, she wouldn’t have believed it either. How? She thought of the way flames had seemed to pour out of his fingers. The way he’d traced that strange character in the air, and a window several paces away had shattered.
Her conversation with Old Wei earlier in the afternoon came back to her.
Whatever folk heroes and practitioners of old you believe in are dead. There are no heroes left for us in this world, Old Wei.
Is that what youtrulybelieve?
A rough thumb across her cheek. Her thoughts scattered. “Pretty thing,” one of the Elantian Angels crooned. “Shame to let her off.”
Lan struggled against their grip, reaching inside her and into her memories for a scrap of whatever miraculous power had saved her from Donnaron J. Tarley.
This time, nothing happened.
