“You fed mecaterpillar?”Lan choked.
“Caterpillar fungus,” Shàn’jun corrected with a hint of pride. “It’s one of the rarest materials in Hin medicine. The caterpillars burrow into the soil of a specific climate and turn into fungus in the winter. They’re so hard to get—one of the younger disciples swears he almost froze off a finger digging them up.”
Lan gagged. “I thought this was supposed to make me feel better!”
“It is! But I never said it would taste good.” The boy looked so doleful that Lan took pity on him. She grabbed the spoon and, bracing herself, took another mouthful of the stew.
“So,” she said, wishing to turn the subject to something other than deadly Elantian spells and noxious-tasting caterpillar stews, “ ‘Shàn’jun.’ ‘Kind, Noble One’?”
He smiled and lowered his gaze in a gesture that rendered him unfairly pretty, soft black hair framing his slim face, eyes that curved with the flutter of long, dark lashes. Her eyes, however, faltered again at the cleft in his upper lip. She remembered hearing the other songgirls speak of harelippedbabies inthe villages, how they were cursed and brought bad fortune to their parents. How they were products of demonic bargains.
Now that Lan had learned of the four classifications of supernatural spirits, she knew it was all a load of horseshit.
“Grandmaster Dé’zinamed me, after he found me crying in a forest by a village one night.” Shàn’jun looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think he hoped it would change my fate—that the circumstances of how I came into this world would not hamper who I would become.”
Lan shivered. “The Elantians came to your village?”
“No.” He touched his lip. “My parents discarded me.”
It seemed like a deeper betrayal, to find out that it was Hin who had chosen to leave him for dead. With the Elantian Conquest, it had become almost instinctual to think of them as the only perpetrators of cruelty.
“Well, they must regret doing so now,” she said.
Shàn’jun smiled. “I don’t know if I can say I’ve lived up to the Grandmaster’s name for me…but I try. I’m not in the best of health, so I tend toward more scholarly activities. My friend jokes that I have read the entire bookhouse.”
“Bookhouse?” Lan asked. “There’s a bookhouse here.” She shouldn’t have been surprised—it was aschool,a real school with Hin students and masters and life and laughter.
“Of course.” Shàn’jun laughed, a sound as clear as river waters. “It’s my favorite place in the world. Once you’re situated with your classes, I’ll take you.”
Lan found herself smiling. It was so easy to slip into the carefree warmth of the safety and security the school offered. But like shadows seeping in came memories of Haak’gong, of the metal-clad Angels who had stormed the thin wooden doors of the Teahouse, the screams that had echoed in rooms once filled with song and laughter.
Of Ying, picking up a kohl pencil, her lips pursed and brows furrowed as she traced perfect lines across Lan’s eyes.
Lan drew her knees to her chest and pushed the memories away before the lump in her throat became anything else. She needed to do something—she wasn’t sure what, butsomething—and the only thing that came to mind was finding Zen, finding Guarded Mountain, and discovering whatever it was that her mother had Sealed into her.
“…help but notice the Seal on your wrist.” Shàn’jun’s voice tugged her from the whirlpool of her thoughts, jerking her back to the present.
Instinctively, she moved to cover it, but the disciple’s next words gave her pause.
“It looks like nothing I have ever seen before. Master Ulara seemed quite taken by it. She had Master Gyasho, the Master of Seals, look at it while you were asleep.” Shàn’jun shook his head. “It stumped even him. I do not think he has ever before come across a Seal he could not decipher.”
“They all could see it?” Lan blurted. It made sense: Zen had, which likely meant that the Seal was visible only to practitioners. Yet it somehow felt intrusive, as though the masters had peered into an intimate part of her. Now that she combed back through her memories, she did remember a pair of storm-gray eyes, a blood-red mouth parting in consternation.
What is this?Ulara’s voice drifted to her as though from a dream.What in the Ten Hells is this?
“Master Ulara seemed in a fuss over it,” Shàn’jun said, and added lightly, “but she’s always in a fuss. She nearly lost someone to demonic practitioning, so her paranoia isn’t unfounded.” Shàn’jun poked the bowl in her face again. “More soup?”
“I feel fine now,” Lan said hastily, pushing the bowl back toward him. “Are yousurethis stuff’s healthy for you?”
“You are in good hands,” came a voice.
Zen stood in the doorway, practitioner’s páo falling in an elegant sweep. The setting sun gilded him as he stepped over the threshold, black boots thudding across the wooden floor. He inclined his head. “Apologies for the interruption.”
Shàn’jun stood. His posture was suddenly stiff and tight, the easy smile that sparked on his face like sunlight against water dimming. He bowed. “It is no interruption. You are always welcome in the Chamber of a Hundred Healings.”
There was softness to his voice, different from any tone he had used with Lan.
“Thank you,” Zen said. His gaze drifted to Lan. “I’ve come to check on Lan.”
