“And you can sense a ghost…on my arm?” Lan asked Tai.
“Not ghost.Imprint,”the Spirit Summoner emphasized. “Souls unconsciously leave imprints in many different forms: A memory. A thought. An emotion. A footprint of sorts indicating they have walked or existed somewhere in this world. It is how we Spirit Summoners track down the paths of ghosts.Imprints are unintentional—a tangle of thoughts or a stream of consciousness left during moments of heightened emotion. Some are faint. Some are easy to catch. Some are louder. And yours…” He paused. “Yours screams.”
Lan realized her nails were digging into her wrist. She fought against a shiver as a cold wind stirred the gauze curtains, pale moonlight making the shadows dance. “What is it saying?” she whispered.
Tai held out a hand. “I would need to listen.”
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. Slowly, she held out her left wrist.
From a gray silk pouch at his waist—similar to the one Zen had, only with a different sigil—Tai drew out three sticks of incense. With a wave of his long fingers, he lit the tips. They sparked a jarring red in the silvery light of the moon, mountain, and water around them.
With his other hand, he drew a white bell from his sleeve. Carefully, he held it over her arm, then shook it.
The bell rang once—a pure, high note that seemed to ripple all around them…andwithinthem, too. Its jingle echoed in a space that did not seem to exist, an in-between. It grew cold, the light and veranda and water fading as though she were slowly disappearing from this world.
The Seal on Lan’s wrist was the only thing that brightened. Over it, a pale handprint formed. Lan recalled staring at those bloodied fingers clasped over her wrist as her mother lay dying.
In the darkness of the space in-between, a familiar voice rang out:“Gods watch over my daughter, if there is any mercy left in this world.”
It was Mama—Mama’s voice. Every nerve in Lan’s body stretched taut. Her throat tightened, and an ache built in her chest. Her vision blurred.
“I wish I had the time to tell her everything,”Sòng Méi’s voice continued weakly. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, speaking to no one but herself. And she was, Lan realized. These were words her mother had wanted to speak but couldn’t, accidentally captured in the form of an imprint, a stream of consciousness.“Of the underground rebellion her father and I led, of the true history of this kingdom. May she find it in her to forgive me someday, that I must hand her the keys to shaping the destiny of our people for her to bear alone.”
Her words grew faint, beginning to slur. The handprint over Lan’s wrist started to fade.
Lan knew what was coming—knew when this imprint had been formed.
In her mother’s final moments.
“No, Mama,” Lan choked. “No, wait—”
“Gods guide her to hear the song of the ocarina,”her mother murmured, seeming to grow lost in her own thoughts,“and follow its power to protect those who need it. To save our kingdom.”The voice swept away like wind, the handprint dissipated, the shadows and darkness unraveled, and then Lan was alone again, kneeling on the smooth pinewood of the open terrace, her cheeks warm and her body shaking. She was aware of a gentle voice in her ear, a steady arm over her shoulders, as Shàn’jun consoled her.
“That…” Even Tai looked shaken. “That was an unintentional stream of thoughts. Your mother…she must have entrusted you with something important, for this imprint of her consciousness to have remained with you.”
“And we’ll soon find out what that is,” came a sharp, familiar voice.
Lan looked up. Through the blur of her tears, she saw a tall figure striding toward them. A curved dao glinted at her side.
“Thought I’d have to try harder to find out,” Yeshin Noro Dilaya said, her vivid red lips curling. She drew her sword and pointed it at Lan’s neck. “Shall I take your life now to save you the trouble, or would you prefer to explain yourself before the Council of Masters?”
The grief in the pit of Lan’s stomach hardened.
“Bitch,” she whispered. “How much did you hear?”
Dilaya smirked. “Enough. I know you seek some instrument of power, something your mother left you. I always knew there was something off about you.”
Anger made Lan’s arms tremble—anger that Dilaya had heard her dead mother and that she had the cruelty to use that against Lan. The girl seemed to have heard only the end of the imprint’s stream of thoughts—but that was something Lan’s mother had leftherand her alone. Lan did not want Dilaya to have heardanypart of it.
A strange energy burned inside Lan. All of Master Gyasho’s lessons over the past few days had given her a stronger awareness of qì, including the qì she held inside her at her core. And in this moment, she had never wanted to hurt anyone more.
Satisfaction and curiosity lit up Dilaya’s eyes, and Lan realized that the girlwantedher to summon her qì—unbalanced qì, qì that the masters would question. Qì that Zen had warned her against using.
The turbulence of her emotions calmed. The churning qì within her fell still.
Lan focused on Yeshin Noro Dilaya with cutting clarity. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, taking care to enunciate each word, “you horse-faced bitch.”
Dilaya didn’t flinch at the insult. “Oh? Then explain to me what that voice was.”
