—
Lan excelled at Seals, taught by the monk Gyasho in the Chamber of Waterfall Thoughts. The master wore a silk blindfold over his eyes, which Lan had heard other disciples say were white as snow: a mark of clan descent. It was rumoredthat whichever clan he’d belonged to had the custom of training with blindfolds from an early age to elevate their awareness to the world of qì.
While the other disciples practiced their Seals in the pavilion outside, Gyasho drew Lan into the chamber, which was more of an open-air hallway than a chamber. Translucent gauze veils fluttered between stone pillars, a cool breeze threading through them that stirred Lan’s hair and the master’s golden robes. The lotus lamps spaced across smooth stone floors flickered gently; behind them, from the end of the hallway, came the susurration of a waterfall. Gyasho had Lan practice distinguishing between different strands of qì. Lan was a quick study, for she had learned the concepts with Zen during their journey. There was qì in absolutely everything: water, air, light, stone, soil, grass, skin, blood, and even, Gyasho said, the metaphysical: emotions, thoughts, and the soul.
By the end of the hour, once the incense used to keep time had burned to its end, Lan was attempting to summon the different types of qì.
“Very good,” the master said encouragingly when she saluted him to the next ring of bells. “Remember to think of each combination of qì as a musical note. You cannot make music without knowing all the notes like each one of your fingers.” He gave her an enigmatic smile. “I look forward to meeting you for our next session.”
When she recounted Master Gyasho’s words to Chue, who met her outside the chamber after class, the disciple appeared excited. “Maybe he’ll take you as a disciple to his art,” Chue suggested.
“A disciple to his art?” Lan asked.
“Every disciple typically chooses an art of practitioning tospecialize in, just like how mine is Archery. And when you’re good enough, you’re initiated as a xiá—a practitioner. That’swhat Zen and Dilaya are. Only practitioners have the chance to learn the Final Art and become a master of their school.”
“And what is the Final Art?”
“It’s a secret technique to practitioning that differentiates each school.” Chue’s eyes grew dreamy. “Here, I’ve heard, the grandmaster comes and selects you, and he takes you to the Chamber of Forgotten Practices.”
“Where’s that?” Lan asked. “And whatisthis school’s Final Art?”
“Well, nobody knows! If they did, we’d all be learning it and graduating to become masters. Even Zen and Dilaya haven’t been selected yet.” Chue winked. “I think you have a good chance with Seals. Master Gyasho’s nice, but he’s notthatcomplimentary.”
Lan thought of what Zen had said about her qì—that she wasaglowwith it—and said nothing.
Her good spirits, however, took a turn during her final class of the day: Texts. The Master of Texts, a difficult old man named Master Nán, looked horrified to find out that Lan had not memorized the eighty-eight rules of the school’s Code of Conduct by heart. He sent her running up and down the mountain steps balancing a rock on her head while reading the list of Codes, telling her to return only when she could recite all the rules by heart.
But Lan had not grown up in a Teahouse for nothing. She’d racked up the most punishments from Madam Meng and had spent her solitary hours reciting poems or texts she’d learned as a child out of sheer boredom. When she returned to the Chamber of Waterfall Thoughts in the late afternoon and rattled off the eighty-eight rules without pause or hesitation, the master’s displeasure only seemed to deepen.
“Then recite the first chapter of the Book of the Way,” the Master of Texts demanded peevishly.
Lan bit back a string of colorful insults. In her sweetest voice, she said, “Shi’fù, I’m new here, and I haven’t had time—”
“Insolence!” the master barked. “ ‘It is not the place of the student to question the master!’ How can you call yourself a student of this school if you do not know even the first Kontencian Analect regarding the relationship between student and master?” He pointed at a heaping pile of tomes by his seat. “You’ll take the Four Classics and copy them as many times as it takes for them to get through that slippery skull of yours. You’ll not leave this hall until you have copied them all, word for word.”
Lan stared at the stack. “There must be thousands of pages in those!”
“And still you waste your breath pointing out the obvious,” Master Nán said nastily.
Stomach growling and fresh practitioner’s robes already stained with sweat and dust from her morning’s punishment, Lan sat in a back corner of the Chamber of Waterfall Thoughts to begin. Each classic was thicker than her wrist span, not to mention that the pages were made of xuan paper, an especially thin type of rice paper efficient at absorbing ink.
This would take her forever.
Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the brush pot, upon which leaned a half-ground inkstick and a slender horsetail brush. A lump rose in her throat.
The last time she had held one had been in Mama’s study.
Lan shook her head and grasped the brush firmly, banishing the memories. She had four thousand-page tomes to copy.
The sun continued to sink; when it hung just above the horizon, the supper bell tolled throughout Skies’ End. Lan shifted her aching shoulders, clamping a hand over her stomach as it emitted another loud growl in protest. Beyond the jaggedpines, she could make out the darting white of practitioners’ robes as the other disciples headed for the refectory.
If she just snuck out now…grabbed a bite to eat…Master Nán would be none the wiser…
He could also sentence her tomorepunishment. She was sure of it. Massaging her sore wrists, Lan scowled and leaned back, wriggling as she stretched. The sweat on her skin had dried to salt, crusting her practitioner’s robes and making them uncomfortably hard and prickly. And she was so, so thirsty…
A new sound filtered into her awareness: the sound of rushing water.
Lan stood and made her way to the back terrace. The hall was situated before a sharp incline in the mountain. From the ledges above plunged a waterfall, tumbling down before being swallowed by a pool. Mists plumed over the crystal-clear water, which sparkled in the late evening sun.
