“Like this.” Zen drew her hand toward him until the tip of That Which Cuts Stars pointed against his chest. His smile was faint, his fingers warm and steady against hers. “No difference from a human. You aim for the demon’s core of qì—the equivalent to our hearts.” His gaze flickered, drifting over her face. “Then you pierce.”
For some reason, her heart tumbled and her breath came fast. “I’ll remember that,” Lan said.
“Try not to miss. A demon will not be inclined to give you a second chance.”
Her blade pressed against the fabric of his black páo. “I won’t miss.”
His thumb tapped involuntarily against her skin. “I imagine this will be an upgrade from your previous weapon of choice, teacups,” Zen said.
The joke came lightly, but she suddenly wondered whether he’d remembered what she yearned for the most: a way to protect herself and her loved ones. The dagger he had gifted her, though small, held a world of weight.
Lan stepped back. “Thank you.”
A slice of metal, and Zen faced her with his jiàn: a long, straight sword with a blade of dark steel. The handle was black, inscribed with what resembled red flames—the same sigil, Lan realized, that she had seen on the silk pouch Zen had carried.
“Lan, meet Nightfire,” Zen said, holding the blade straight out before him. “Your task will be to get past its defenses by the end of the moon.”
For the rest of the evening, Zen trained with her. He had her practice set moves, watching and stepping in to correct her posture where he saw fit.
“Think of the blade as an extension of your body,” he said. “Channel your qì into the tip when you pierce. Into the edges when you slash. Into the hilt when you withdraw. Thisis thereason people believe the jiàn holds parts of its practitioner’s soul: because we fight not only with technique but with our qì.”
She paused, sweat wetting her páo in spite of the cool evening breeze. “Zen, when exactly will we go to Guarded Mountain? A fortnight is long.”
“Not for at least another week,” came the answer. “Currently, the entirety of Skies’ End is abuzz with your arrival. Give the masters some time to shift their attention away. Especially Ulara and Dilaya.” A sigh. “Leaving here would be against their judgment, so I would not wish to draw any attention to our excursion.”
One more week. The thought both excited and terrified her. “Will I be good enough to fight by your side then?”
Zen gave her a half smile. “In one week? It takes cycles for practitioners to merely gain control of their qì.” Gently, his hand came to rest against the handle of her little blade, his fingers cool against hers. “When you are able to pierce my heart with this dagger,” Zen said, “you will be good enough to stand as my equal in practitioning.”
In death, a soul may leave an imprint on this world, whether on an object or on a living being. That soul will pass into the next world incomplete and never find rest.
—Chó Yún, Imperial Spirit Summoner,Classic of Death
On the sixth day at Skies’ End, Lan received a summons from the grandmaster.
She had arrived at her last class of the day by the Chamber of Waterfall Thoughts and was told by a sullen Master Nán that the grandmaster of the school had summoned her and that she was to meet him at the Peak of Heavenly Discussion.
“Why?” she attempted to ask the Master of Texts, who merely glowered at her and snapped, “Remind me again what is Principal One, Chapter Two of the Kontencian Analects?”
“If you can’t recall it then you shouldn’t be teaching,” Lan replied, and ran for her life.
The mists curled around her feet as she made her way up the worn stone steps that led to the summit of Skies’ End, where the Peak of Heavenly Discussion was located. The stone path grew narrower the higher she climbed; the mists seemed to thicken until Lan could barely see five steps ahead of her. The edge of the steps ended in what seemed like a precariousfall, shrouded by fog at the moment; a mass of gray so still and silent that it was like looking into a dead sea.
And then, on the last step, the clouds disappeared as suddenly as if she’d emerged from under the ocean.
She stood at the peak of Skies’ End. Cliffs on every side plunged sharply into the mist below, but up here, the air was clear. The sky was an endless stretch of pale gray, broken by the undulating shadows of the Yuèlù Mountains. As the sun rose, light and color seeped into the world like ink, blotting fiery reds and golds across the clouds and dotting the landscape emerald with the Last Kingdom’s famous pines.
“Beautiful, is it not?”
Lan started. Dé’zihad appeared at the top of the steps as silently as a ghost. He walked to Lan’s side and stood there, his robes and hair fluttering in the breeze, his face set in amask of utter serenity. The grandmasters in the stories she’d grown up with had all been old and wizened, perhaps somewhat resembling Master Nán’s wrinkled, white-bearded countenance—but Dé’zi’s hair was still ink black with a few streaks of gray, and he was lithe and strong. More of a father’s age than a grandfather’s age.
In his hands, he held a cup of steaming tea.
“Yes, it is,” Lan managed. She spoke less rather than more, for her insides fluttered with nervousness at being alone with the grandmaster. There was something so calming, almostfamiliar,about Dé’zi’s presence that made her want to trust him and relax. “Grandmaster,” she added, wishing to make a good impression.
“It is at this peak that the first master of the White Pines achieved his enlightenment with the gods and founded this school—hence, the Peak of Heavenly Discussion.” Dé’zigave her an enigmatic smile. “I see you are well settled into yourclasses. Master Ip’fong is adequately fond of you, Master Ulara thinks you of little talent, and Master Nán claims you have tofu for brains.”
She might have shown cheek to the other masters, but for some reason, Dé’zi’s presence evoked in her a wish to impress him. “I’m but a peasant songgirl, Grandmaster, with little education and talent. Give me some time—”
