Any trace of rebelliousness had drained from Dilaya’s gaze. She stood and walked to her mother’s side like a scolded dog. “É’niáng,” she said respectfully. “Mother.”
Yeshin Noro Ulara raised her hand and struck her daughter squarely across the face.
The crack reverberated through the space of the chamber. Zen looked to Dé’zi. The grandmaster’s face betrayed no expression. The Classic of Customs had parsed Hin society into five different relationships: ruler and subject, master and student, husband and wife, elder and younger, and parent and child. Interfering with any of the relationships was taboo.
In the ensuing silence, Yeshin Noro Ulara dusted off her palm. “Perhaps this will teach you to remember your place,” she said. “The ways of this school are not for you to bend, and the instructions of the grandmaster are not for you to disobey.”
Dilaya clutched her cheek, face turned away. She said nothing.
“Master Ulara.” Dé’zispoke calmly. “I assure you that no harm was done. Dilaya merely acted out of her loyalty to the school. Now, let us all take a seat and have a civil discussion. Tea, anyone? Shàn’jun, might I trouble you to bring up a pot of your finest pu’er?”
As the Medicine disciple bowed out, Dé’zitook a seat on the floor. Zen followed suit; he was aware of Lan sinking to her knees by his side.
“First, on the subject of reported Elantian forces approaching our location,” Dé’zibegan, “our Boundary Seal masks all practitioning and qì-related activity, keeping this school hidden after thousands of cycles. Vigilance is necessary, yet an abundance of it becomes paranoia and will detract from our course.”
“Grandmaster.” It was Ulara who spoke. “I suggest we strike preemptively. Be rid of those imbeciles before they have a chance of approaching this school.”
“Fighting fire with fire will only cause more harm, Ulara. You know this. Do not let your anger impair your judgment. Let us, instead, fight fire with water—by adjusting to the situation and being best prepared for when the opportune time comes. Currently, we are severely outmatched in both manpower and strategy. Patience is key. A battle is not won without knowing oneself and one’s opponent.”
“My people—what was left of us—diedat the hands of the Elantians,” Ulara said, and it was the first time Zen heard a tremor of emotion in the woman’s voice. “Forgive me if I have lesspatience.”
Zen looked away. Once a long time ago, he had argued the same points with his master.
Dé’zilooked unperturbed by Ulara’s outburst. “Your clanfamously wrote theClassic of War:‘He who rushes into battle unprepared is already accepting a loss.’ I am prepared to follow the guidance of your ancestors, Master Ulara.”
Ulara pressed her lips together, and Zen marveled at his master’s tact. By invoking the words of Ulara’s ancestors, Dé’ziwas humbling himself by paying respect to her name and, at the same time, reminding her that the reasoning behind his choice was rooted in the wisdom of her clan and her elders.
Shàn’jun reentered the chamber with a tray of tea, breaking the silence. Dé’zitook the first cup; everyone followed suit except Ulara. Suddenly pointing in Zen’s direction, she said, “Then what ofher?”
By Zen’s side, Lan made a small move, as though to grasp the sleeve covering her left wrist.
Dé’zi’s face broke into a crinkled smile. “Ah, our new friend. Lan, is it?”
Zen sent a prayer to his ancestors that the girl’s next words would not break the taboos of the school and get her expelled before she even started. But all that she said, voice high and clear as bells, was “Yes.”
Dé’ziheld out a hand. “Might I see that arm of yours, which I believe has been the source of all this commotion?”
“All right,” Lan said, scooting forward. She gingerly held out her left wrist to the grandmaster.
Dé’zigently placed a finger over the inside of her forearm and closed his eyes. He hummed and nodded, and several times, his eyebrows twitched. Zen had always found it both endearing and embarrassing how the most powerful practitioner in the Last Kingdom had many of the habits of an aged uncle.
At last, Dé’zileaned back. “Would you mind so terribly,” he said to Lan, “if I had Master Ulara take a look?”
Something in his tone tightened a thread of caution insideZen. As Lan murmured her consent, Yeshin Noro Ulara crossed over in two brisk strides. Roughly, she grabbed Lan’s arm and pressed two fingers to it. Moments passed; Zen watched emotions flit across the Master of Swords’ face like clouds across asky.
Her eyes narrowed and she let go, stepping back to look at the grandmaster. They exchanged something in a glance—an agreement of sorts.
“What is it?” Lan asked.
“There is a tracking spell in that metalwork in your arm,” Dé’zisaid gently. “Fear not, for its effects have been temporarily negated by the Boundary Seal—but should you step foot outside Skies’ End, I believe whoever put that spell in you will be able to track you.”
Everything clicked into place. The Elantians deep in the pine forest—thatwas how they had found her.
“We must be rid of the metalwork immediately,” Ulara supplied, folding her arms. She spoke only to Dé’zi. “Given how much the spell has progressed, extracting the metalwork could come at the cost of the girl’s life.”
The words hit Zen like a physical blow, knocking the wind from him.Her life.He thought of Lan, rain-soaked with a torn páo, kneeling before him and bleeding tears. It felt as though he had just snatched her from the jaws of death at Elantian hands; now she faced death once again.
I did everything I could.
