“Well, why can’t you just spirit us to the School of the White Pines the way you transported us from Haak’gong to the Jade Forest?”
They had been walking for several hours, and Lan was exhausted. Her silk slippers were made for the polished lacquered-wood floors of the Teahouse, not for unsteady mud paths. Her páo was too long and tripped her every so often, and the practitioner’s ill-fitting cloak kept slipping from her shoulders.
“It was a Gate Seal. I didn’t ‘spirit us,’ ” Zen replied. He sounded not even remotely out of breath and showed no sign of physical exertion aside from his flushed cheeks—which made him look even more attractive, Lan noted irritably as she wiped the sweat from her forehead. “And it is exceedingly difficult to perform, even for short distances. Practitioners must be measured in the way we channel qì. Overuse may lead to accidents.”
Lan thought of the moment in the air when his eyes had been completely black—from the whites to his pupils—and wondered whether that had anything to do with it. For some reason, that moment had seemed private, so she did not ask.
“But you said there are some more talented at using qì than others? Could a stronger practitioner do it?” Needling him was the only thing keeping her from falling asleep. Besides, it was fun to watch his face tighten and his jaw clench.
He shot her a sidelong look, evidently deciding to ignore her jab. “Everyone is born with qì inside them and all around them—qì is the makeup of this world. It is the flow of water, the gusting of wind, the roar of fire, and the steadiness of earth. It is day; it is night. It is sun and moon and life and death. Somepeople have an affinity for channeling qì and weaving different strands of it into Seals. With training, they can cultivate their ability and become practitioners. Think of it as how most people can hear music but only a few can become talented musicians.”
Lan grinned. “I happen to be anexcellentmusician. What was it that you said? That I wasaglowwith qì?”
Zen closed his eyes, as though praying for patience. “Certain individuals,” he said, “are able to holdmoreqì within them to channel. This makes them more powerful. Yet this ability—we call it thecoreof a practitioner—must be cultivated over time and through training. Without cultivation, even the gifted can perform only as many tricks as a mountainside monkey. And lest you wish to end up like that, you’d best return to your meditation.”
Lan scowled. She’d anticipated that Zen would begin showing her the hand gestures to create Seals. Or at the very least, some beginner’s martial arts training for how to channel qì, as she’d read in the storybooks.
Instead, he had instructed her to close her eyes andbreathe.
“The circumstances aren’t ideal,” he’d said. “Meditation is best achieved while sitting and shedding one’s awareness of the physical world around us. However, it seems we will not have that luxury for a while.”
It was exceedingly difficult toshed one’s awareness of the physical worldwhile fleeing pursuit from a legion of soldiers. The forest floor was a maze of roots and uneven ground that threatened to trip her. Lan had tried at first, she really had—but as the sun climbed in the sky and the temperature warmed, sweat began to prick uncomfortably at her temples and beneath her clothes, and exhaustion and hunger began to sap her strength. The final straw came when she face-planted onto a mound of dirt.
“I’m not doing this,” she said, rubbing at her face with her dirtied sleeves. “What kind of a ratfart instructor asks his student to close her eyes whilerunning through a forest?”
“ ‘Ratfart instructor’?” the accused ratfart instructor repeated, his eyebrows raised.
Indignantly, Lan pushed herself to her feet. “What, never heard a village girl talk?”
The sun had begun to dip in the sky; hardly a day had passed, yet she was already tired of putting on airs for the boy. He was refined where she was rough-cut; he was a scholar and she a songgirl; he spoke in riddles that befuddled her uneducated mind.
“I suppose not,” Zen said with a sincerity that made it impossible for her to be angry at him. “Your tripping and falling indicates that you are not connected to the flow of qì. You mustfeelthe grooves of the earth, the rising root of a pine, the movement to a puddle of water.”
“Oh, I do,” Lan grumbled. “Ifeelit all on my face when I fall onto it.”
He ignored her. “Take heed. No matter how abundant your latent talent is, you will achieve nothing without training and discipline. Until you can move by feeling the qì around you, you cannot progress to the next stage.”
The next stage: Seals, Lan thought, her gaze drifting greedily to his black-gloved hands. She had never been the most inclined to hard work or studying back at the Teahouse, and the thought of enduring days of face-planting into bamboo roots was unbearable in this moment.
She pushed a dramatic sigh through her nose and clutched her belly. “I’ve tried my hardest today, O Esteemed Practitioner.”
Zen’s brows shot up. “Now I’m ‘Esteemed Practitioner’?”
“MisterEsteemed Practitioner.”
“We appear to be about the same age. I am not a ‘mister’ to you.”
“Well, you certainly act like one,” she retorted. At the irritated look he gave her, she pouted. “I’m not feeling well. I’m on my moon’s blood. Can’t we…can’t we eat and find a place for me to meditate, and learn some Seals?”
Two spots of pink appeared on Zen’s cheeks; they spread, flushing down his neck and coloring his face a shade of mortification. “I—you—moon’s—” he spluttered, taking a step back. “Yes. You rest—here—I’ll go—food—”
He turned and all but fled into the trees.
With a snort of laughter, Lan flung herself down against a stalk of bamboo. Was that all it took? She should’ve thought of it earlier. She’d heard stories of how devout disciples—whether of monasteries or religions or practitioning—were sworn to a life of chastity and pledged to leave behind all worldly possessions and desires. It would be a shame, she thought, closing her eyes and wriggling into a comfortable position, for one with a face as pretty as that boy’s.
When she woke from her nap, dusk was fading, pursued by the full dark of night. Yet something else about the air had changed, Lan thought, straightening and pulling the practitioner’s black coat tighter around her. It wasn’t the scent of the air, nor the temperature (colder, now that it was evening)…no, there was a distinct feeling all around her that she couldn’t place. Something that spread cold through her veins, stirred a responding echo somewhere in her heart.
A crack of branches and dried leaves—she started as a figure peeled from the copse of trees. Starlight draped him: tall and hard-cut, moving with the precision of a blade.
