Lan leapt to her feet. “I feel great,” she said brightly. “In fact, I think I’m ready to leave the medicinal chamber.”
Zen cast her an appraising look, and her hopes withered. Why had she thought the stiff-backed stickler of a practitioner would help her in any way?
Confirming her suspicions, he said, “You’ll remain in the Chamber of a Hundred Healings for tonight. In your condition, you need experienced care.”
Lan shot Shàn’jun a furtive glance. She would have to scheme to avoid that accursed soup for one more night. “Fine.”
“Shàn’jun,” Zen continued steadily, “will you see to it that Lan takes classes tomorrow? Have her attend the morning meditations with you, then see the Master of Texts.”
Shàn’jun dipped his head. “Of course.”
Zen turned to address Lan. “Take a walk with me, please.”
—
There was a new caution to the way Zen moved around her that made Lan feel as though she were a barrel of firepowder that might explode at any time. Zen had led her to anatural courtyard, framed by outgrowths of rock and stone. The blood of sunset was fading, chased by a watery gray aftermath followed by ink-black night. Birdsong had been replaced by the steady chirp of cicadas through the brush. The entirety of Skies’ End was so beautiful Lan felt as though she’d sunk into a dream. A miracle. An impossibility.
She was aware of Zen watching her closely. When she turned to look at him, he quickly dipped his gaze down to herarm. “How do you feel?” he asked. “Nothing unstable or off?”
She tapped a finger of her good hand to her chin. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Alarm flared in Zen’s expression. “What?”
“I feel something inside me. A voice, whispering to me…telling me it hungers…”
Zen leaned closer. “Hungers for what?”
“…for steamed pork buns,” Lan finished.
The practitioner drew back, giving her a flat look. “You mock me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“There are some topics you must not jest about.”
“What, so I can become as fun as you?” Lan poked her tongue out.
Zen frowned. “Now that you mention it, I meant to ask: What were you thinking, channeling qì in front ofYeshin Noro Dilaya,of all people? After I specifically told younotto wield it without my guidance?”
“Because that horse-faced fox spirit was going to cut off my arm! And I didn’t do anything wrong. I just did the same thing as the night I accidentally summoned the yao.”
“It isn’t about doing anythingwrong,” Zen said. “It’s about how they view you. An orphaned songgirl with a Seal that noone can decode shows up here pursued by an Elantian Alloy and an army…once people see how you use your qì, they will ask questions.”
“What’s wrong with my qì?”
“It is…unbalanced,” Zen said at last. But he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I think there’s something in that Seal on your wrist impacting the makeup of your qì. Sometimes…well, only three times, to be exact, I sensed an overwhelming amount of yin to it.”
Yin: the energy that common folk associated with demons, darkness, and death. Dark magic.
“So? What does that mean?” she asked, and when he wouldn’t answer, she continued: “Well, it worked for me when I needed to defend myself from that Elantian pig who thought of my body as his plaything.” Zen’s expression softened, and she pushed on: “And I’d do it again. You’ve never had the need. You don’t know what it’s like, to suffer at the hands of the Elantians.”
“And if I did?” His gaze was sharp as a black blade.
They were close, so close that she felt tension drawing tight between them like a bowstring. There was something sointimate to his words, so private to the way he regarded her, eyes flaming with a mix of anger and vulnerability at once.
She held her ground. “Then you would know that the desperate have nochoiceas to the type of power they use. What does it matter whether my qì is balanced or unbalanced if the end result is the same?”
The anger swept from Zen’s face, leaving only a sorrow soprofound that, for a moment, his eyes seemed to be drowning in it, a lake beneath a starless night. He turned from her,tilting his face to the darkening sky. A lock of hair fell over his forehead. Lan had the sudden, strange urge to brush it back.
