Lan glanced around at the empty mountain. If she couldn’t risk going to the refectory, at least she could take a quick bath and have a drink.
The wooden floorboards gave way to slick stone as she approached the pool. Lan kicked off her sandals, flung her robes over her head, and jumped in with the grace of a sinking rock.
The water was so cold that she almost let out a curse (which would breach Code of Conduct rule number fifty-seven). She emerged gasping and sputtering, pawing the hair from her eyes and blinking the water from her lashes. Teeth chattering, she quickly scrubbed her arms, composing a neat little ditty as she did so.
“Rat fart, dog soul, pig-brained fool
Is how I’d describe Nán shi’fù.
Horse arse, turtle egg, blown cow stick,
The Master of Texts has a tiny—”
“What the—”
Lan spun at the voice, her hands darting to cover her breasts. Standing on the back terrace of the Chamber of Waterfall Thoughts, frozen in equal parts disbelief and outrage, was none other than Zen. The sound of the waterfall had masked his footsteps.
It was almost comical how wide his eyes and mouth stretched, the tips of his ears flaming red—whether from fury or embarrassment, Lan couldn’t tell. Pointing a shaking finger at her and covering his eyes with his other hand, he spluttered, “You—that’s—sacred—out—out!”
Lan scrambled, her feet slipping on the wet rocks as she pulled her robes over her head. She made it to the wooden patio, dripping water, wet splotches already blooming on her pale robes.
Zen turned to her, one hand lingering over his eyes. Between the cracks of his fingers, he squinted at her, then, seeing that she was properly covered, straightened. He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, as though praying to his ancestors for patience.
“That,” he said, “is the Spring of Crystal Cold.”
No wonder it was freezing,Lan thought, but she dipped her head and said, “Sorry.”
“It is a sacred spring that is said to flow from the tears of the moon, representing the heart of yin energies on this mountain. For thousands of cycles, masters and worshippers have held their prayers by its waters, hoping to unlock the balance in their energies…and you have justbathedin it.”
Lan was mortified by an urge to laugh, so she thought the most appropriate course of action was to remain silent.
Zen brushed a hand over his face and sighed into it. His flush was fading. Finally, he cleared his throat and turned tofully face her. “Master Nán informed me of your tardiness and insolence.”
“I wasn’t!” Lan said, then paused. “Well, Iwastardy, but I wasn’t insolent.”
Zen cast her a skeptical look. “ ‘A student is not meant to question his master,’ ” he said. “Classic of Society—otherwise known asKontencian Analects—Chapter Two, Principle One.”
“But what if his master is wrong?” she argued.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he looked at her with an expression so weary, she could practically hearWhat am I to do with you?echoing in his mind.
Then Zen drew himself straighter and cleared his throat. “I have an idea. Why don’t you learn the classics before questioning them?” He held up a bamboo basket. “Come, I’m here to help—and I brought steamed buns.”
—
The buns were delicious. Lan wished everything in this world could bring her a joy as simple as that of eating steamed buns. Granted, these were vegetable buns, not pork (“ ‘There shall be no lives taken within the Boundary Seal of Skies’ End,’ Code of Conduct rule number seventeen,” Zen reminded her), but to her empty stomach, anything was a relief.
“The Four Classics,” Zen said, and his voice echoed in the empty hall. Gauze curtains stirred in the gentle evening wind; moonlight drifted through them to silver the floor. Zen had lit the lotus lamps swinging from the eaves of the roof, cocooning him and Lan in a warm glow. “Did Master Nán at least go through the basics of each with you?”
Lan shook her head. She hadn’t cared to digest the contents—she’d merely flipped open one of them and begun copying the characters as quickly as she could.
“Well.” Zen knelt with perfect posture and reached for the tomes. He held the books up one by one, with great care. Each was bound by silk stitching in plain, thick paper and inscribed with stern black characters too complicated for Lan to read. “First: theClassic of Virtues,otherwise known asBook of the Way.Second: theClassic of Society,otherwise known as theKontencian Analects.Third: theClassic of War.Fourth: theClassic of Death.Each is a foundational pillar from which the Hundred Schools of Practitioning have sprung; each contains historical records and interpretations that the people of the Last Kingdom have followed for thousands of cycles.”
He picked up one of Lan’s pages, and she suddenly felt a rush of shame at her unruly scrawls, at the places where she’d gotten frustrated or lazy and the characters had become barely legible.
Zen set the page down. “It isn’t physically possible to copy all four tomes tonight,” he said. “I will speak to Master Nán. For now, let us do our best. I see you began with theClassic of Society—this won’t make sense until you’ve gone through the first classic, the Book of the Way.” He picked up a brush and dipped it in ink, raising it over a clean scroll of parchment. “Go on. I’ll write with you.”
Zen’s calligraphy was perfect, effortless, each sweep of his brush bearing the precision of a scalpel and the grace of art. Lan felt her cheeks heating as she did her best—but her education had stopped at the age of six, and until this afternoon, it had been twelve cycles since she’d picked up a brush.
