“This is the Chamber of a Hundred Healings,” the boy—Shàn’jun—continued. “I’m not sure if you know…but you are at the School of the White Pines.”
Her head cleared. Lan studied her surroundings again with a sharper eye. The chamber was dim, lit only by the glow of paper lamps. Sunlight spilled softly through the open doorway. She had the distinct feeling that she’d been unconscious for at least several hours.
Her hand went to her side. Someone had changed her out of her torn páo from the Teahouse into a clean set of robes, too large for her frame but comfortable. Bandages wound neatly around her midriff.
The arrow. The Elantians—
“Zen,” Lan blurted. “Where is Zen?”
“He is with our grandmaster” was all the disciple said as he bent to scoop up the acupuncture needles. “Forgiveness, if I startled you. These needles serve to balance out the qì in your body. In your case, you have an excess of yin stemming from your left arm; I tipped the needles in yáng to draw it out.” He held one up; the metal seemed to have darkened slightly. “Our traditional Hin medicine might not be as effective against Elantian metalwork, but it will at least help.”
Lan examined her left arm again. The veins remained a dark gray, the flesh around them mottled with purple and green, as though the metal within was beginning to rust. The infected patch had spread as far as her elbow; over it, Zen’s Seal was beginning to fade. Her scar, however, shone pale, a circle unmarred by the Winter Magician’s metalwork.
Scar. Seal.
Guarded Mountain.
She needed to get to Guarded Mountain.
She flicked an assessing glance at the disciple of Medicine. “Can you fix my arm?” she asked.
“Traditional Hin medicine is a slow process, and your arm requires immediate attention. Fortunately, there is a master well-versed in the language of metals here at the School of the White Pines who should be able to help. With our combined efforts, you will be back to normal in no time.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “You must be starving—it is past the hour of the sheep. Let me bring you something to eat.”
Hour of the sheep.Lan hadn’t heard Hin timekeepingexpressions since she was a child—most of Haak’gong had converted to the Elantian clocks, chiming hourly. A Hin bell was roughly equal to two Elantian hours, each slot assigned an animal of the twelve zodiac signs based on ridiculous reasoning that Lan had found a headache to memorize as a child. The hour of the sheep began the first bell after noon.
This place—with its traditional Hin infrastructure, clothing, and customs—felt like the past preserved in a bottle. Something that had impossibly, miraculously survived the passing of time and the mark of Elantian hands.
She followed the Medicine disciple past the folding screen, but he’d already disappeared into the back room. From within came clattering sounds and wafts of something pungent.
Footsteps sounded from across the chamber: sharp, loud, and almost militaristic in their might. The next moment, the light from the open doorway dimmed as a tall figure strode in.
The newcomer was dressed in a páo with plated battle armor padding shoulders, chest, and thighs. Her thick black hair was parted down the middle and coiled into two tight buns behind her head. Her face, long and angular, broke with the bold red slash of a mouth. One eye was covered by a black patch; the remaining eye was the gray of swordmetal and storms. It narrowed as they swept the chamber and came to a stop on Lan.
“So you’re the one causing all the stir,” she said. In spite of her height, she appeared to be a girl perhaps around Lan’s age. The way she spoke reeked of condescension.
Lan resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Seems quite peaceful around here,” she said.
The other girl’s jaw tightened. She pointed. “I’m here to examine the Elantian metalwork.”
Lan tipped her head. “You mean my arm?”
“The metalworkinyour arm.”
“Normally, I’d agree,” Lan said, “but your dogfart attitude changed my mind. Come back when you’ve fixed it.”
For a moment, the other girl was stunned into silence. She recovered quickly, her features twisting into righteous anger. “Who raised you, you mannerless dog whelp?” she snapped. “That metalwork in your arm must be destroyed. I can sense its corrosive stench from here, even under that Seal Zen attempted to hide it with.”
“Where is Zen?” Lan demanded.
The girl’s lips curled. “You have the audacity to speak his name? After all, it wasyouwho forced him to nearly go Wayward—” She cut herself off.
Wayward.It was Lan’s first time hearing the word, but somehow, she thought of Haak’gong, of when Zen’s eyes had gone all black and his face cold, as though something had taken control of his body. That had been right before he’d used his Gate Seal to transport them to the Jade Forest.
He’d used it again to get them to the school—a much farther distance.
“Dilaya shi’jie?” Shàn’jun had emerged from the kitchens, his tone pleasant as he referred to her with the honorific title indicating that she was a senior disciple. He held a steaming porcelain bowl he’d been in the process of stirring and blowing on to cool it down. His eyes flicked between the girls, then crinkled. “Have you been introduced yet? If not, allow me to do the honors. Miss Lan, this is Yeshin Noro Dilaya, disciple of Swords. Dilaya shi’jie, this is—”
“I need no introduction to an Elantian whore with a single-character name,” Dilaya snarled.
