“Wayward, then, points to the opposite: when something falls out of balance, and out of control. Take the creation of a demon, for example: when a cesspool of yin remains unbalanced for too long. Similarly, the danger for demonic practitioners lies not in the nature of their art but in their loss of control.”
“Forgiveness, Grandmaster,” she said, “but I do not understand why the pursuit of power is Wayward.”
“Ah. There is a balance to power, too. Too much, and one is corrupted. Too little, and one is vanquished. To be willing to give everything in exchange for power…well, that is dangerous. I assume you are familiar with the tragic tale of the last high general of the Mansorian clan—commonly known now as the Nightslayer. A man with good intentions, drowning in power. In the end, he no longer controlled the Demon God he summoned; it was the Demon God who controlled him.”
Lan nodded solemnly. The grandmaster had a faraway look on his face, the light of the setting sun haloing his profile in red and gold.
“So, for one to adhere to the Way, one would need only steer clear of demons.” Lan grinned. “Doesn’t sound too hard.”
“Oh, you would be surprised,” the grandmaster replied, blinking as though he had just woken from a long dream. He squinted at the sunset. “Now I profess to you my gratitude for taking time out of your day to entertain me, but I would not wish to deny Master Nán the opportunity to critique your handwriting any longer. We will meet again, Lan.”
—
That evening, Lan made her way to the Chamber of a Hundred Healings as she had for the past week. The only reprieve she’d found from her schedule was when she met with Shàn’jun by the carp pond near the chamber. The Medicine disciple would listen with a faint smile as she recounted the day’s happenings, sometimes helping him with the herbs he tended to. After, with That Which Cuts Stars strapped to her waist, she would set off to meet Zen at their training grounds.
Tonight, however, she found the Chamber of a Hundred Healings deserted but for another young Medicine disciple watching over the vats of stewing broths. Shàn’jun, apparently, had left for the bookhouse.
The night was clear, the moon brightening the stone paths to a polished silver as Lan set out to find him. She climbed the steps, following the young disciple’s instructions, winding through Skies’ End to a section near the back of the mountain, a little way up from the other school halls. At last, turning into a copse of conifers, she found a gently sloping hill with orchids in full bloom, fluttering in the evening breeze.
In their midst rose one of the most elegant buildings Lan had seen, mist coiling gently around it so that it almost appeared to be drifting among clouds. Open terraces gazed out at plunging waterfalls on either side, while full moon–shaped windows were half covered by bamboo curtains. The building rose two stories high, gray-tiled roofs curving to the skies. Unlike the other halls, its eaves were sleek and bare, unembellished by the usual carvings of flora and fauna and gods.
School of the White Pines Bookhouse,a wooden sign above the slatted cherrywood doors announced. The doors were closed; the bell hung from the eaves, silent after the day’s classes were done.
Lan entered through the sliding doors.
While the Teahouse had boasted opulence, this hall was imbued with modest refinement. The walls were a soft eggshell color, outlined by bold rosewood pillars and eaves. Separated by openwork partitions were shelves packed with tomes, their white silk bindings shimmering. Windows were interspersed throughout the hall, moonlight spilling through the sheer gauze attached to delicate fretwork and drenching the entire hall in a pearly sheen.
Lan wondered if the young Medicine disciple had made a mistake in sending her here. The bookhouse was deserted, all disciples having returned to their living quarters to rest so they could wake with the sun. Her straw sandals were quiet as she padded down the rosewood aisles. An air of reverencepermeated the place, suffused with the musty scents of parchment and ink. The rooms to either side of the hallway were partitioned by spirit screen doors made of the same gauzy material and rosewood fretwork to allow in light and circulation yet minimize damage to the books.
The swaying gauze and the pale gray light filled the place with phantom shapes, and Lan felt almost as though she walked among ghosts. She had the strangest feeling that if she turned a corner, she would find a familiar study with a circular window framing a courtyard of snow, woodlute music flowing through the air.
One that now existed only in her memory.
Voices drifted to her through a set of sliding doors. Beyond, an open veranda overlooked a line of willow trees that dipped into a softly flowing river. A figure sat on the pinewood terrace; from the gap in the half-closed door, Lan thought she recognized Shàn’jun’s slim build. She opened her mouth to call out, but that was when she caught Shàn’jun’s words.
“…any trace of it?”
Someone was with him, and for some reason, the way her friend spoke made the conversation seem private. Intimate.
Lan bit her lip, caught between wanting to leave Shàn’jun to his privacy and wishing to linger so she could tease him about it tomorrow. Courtship at the School of White Pines was strictly frowned upon for being distracting from learning. Shàn’jun had struck her as an obedient goody-two-shoes; this new discovery was one that pleased Lan to no end.
The presumed lover spoke, voice deep and masculine. “No. No.” The speaker spoke slowly, as though it took time for him to gather his thoughts and formulate them into words. “The Nightslayer. He is dead. His soul long gone. His Demon God—the Black Tortoise—vanished.”
Lan froze, the words echoing in her head: Nightslayer. Black Tortoise.
“I have often wondered why the grandmaster is adamant about sending you on these missions. It takes you away from here for too long.” There was a gentle wistfulness to Shàn’jun’s voice. “He thinks you may remember something from your days at the Imperial Court twelve cycles ago.”
The words fisted around Lan’s chest. An image found her: Mama, dressed in a court hàn’fú, all gold-stitched silks and samites instead of the long-flowing páo she normally wore.
Lan leaned forward, her heart pounding.
“He believes,” the other man scoffed. “I do not remember. I was but a child when it fell. I have been at Skies’ End since.”
“But you must know more than any of us commoners.” There was a light, teasing edge to Shàn’jun’s tone. “Come, Tài’ge, if you tell me you learned nothing growing up in the Imperial Court, then I am afraid—”
“I learned. Ilearned.”His companion bit down on those words. “We who were descended of the clans learned discipline at the Imperial Court. Utter obedience to the emperor. To use our arts of practitioning solely in service to the emperor. To forget the atrocities they committed against our ancestors and elders…and to know the history of the clans astheywould have it written.”
Out on the veranda, a shadow shifted as Shàn’jun leaned his head against the other boy’s shoulder. “And did you catch any hints as to who in the imperial family might have made the bargain with the Crimson Phoenix while you were at court?”
