Lan had never seen such walls. They had to be at least as tall as all three stories of the Teahouse: strange and stark with their rectangular gates and the flat, cylindrical watchtower as opposed to elegantly curving Hin architecture. She could sense the overwhelming press of metal woven into the foundation, fortifying the entire place like Elantian armor. Crenellations, it seemed, were one thing Hin and Elantian architecture had in common, and even from far off, she could make out the glint of white armor against flickering torches.
Heavy iron doors opened, revealing a stretch of courtyard gardens, flowers arranged clinically along a straight path to the front entrance of the castle. In Haak’gong, the Elantians had built their outpost by spreading their influence over Hin architecture; this was the first time Lan had seen a construction of purely Elantian design. Her first impression was that it was crude and unrefined compared with the exquisite details of Hin buildings. The outpost was naught more than a great gray structure of unevenly shaped stones, some even jutting out. The windows were narrow and made of glass, the torches were powered with auric light, and two towers tapered off into pointed metal spires.
The patrols stationed around the courtyard made no movement as the guards took her down the path to the entrance. On either side of the path were flower displays behind wrought-iron fences, and as Lan turned her head to look at them, she realized she recognized them all. Chrysanthemums. Azaleas. Peonies, orchids, and camellias—all flowers native to her land. All boxed neatly behind their metal prisons.
This was what the Elantians wanted of the Hin.
The doors to the castle swallowed her. They passed stone corridors lit in candlelight from glass burner lamps, decor made of gleaming metal studding the walls.
The soldiers stopped before a set of heavy metal doors, different from the other doors of refined walnut with silver handles.
As Erascius put his pale hands on the metal door handles, Lan had a sudden, sickening premonition. Whatever it was that awaited them on the other side of those doors, she did not wish to see.
Erascius pulled open the doors. A stench of yin energies poured over Lan like a flood of river water. She clapped a hand against her heart—so strong were the sentiments of resentment, fear, and hatred that she might have drowned in them.
Behind her, she heard Zen make a choked sound.
One of the soldiers lifted a lamp to illuminate a set of steps that led them down to another stretch of tunnel. Here, the air was so thick with yin that Lan found it difficult to breathe. Death—there had been so much death here, she thought.
It took her several moments to realize why.
There was movement to either side of them as they passed by, and as the corridor became illuminated by lamplight, Lan saw what the scurrying sounds were.
The walls of the corridor were not walls but cells. And hunched within, trapped like animals, eyes hollow when theyturned to the light, were Hin. Men, women, children, sitting hunched together, arms and legs jutting like twigs. They shifted back as the soldiers’ footsteps rang out, huddling in the farthest corners.
Lan’s stomach turned. Her mind flashed a searing white—the color she’d seen before her mother’s death, before Lan killed that Elantian Angel. Something deep inside her stirred.
A blur of blue and silver in her vision; a hand shot out, wrapping around her throat and slamming her head against the wall. Burning white faded to cold black, and Lan blinked stars from her eyes to find Erascius’s winter eyes inches from her face.
“Is something wrong, little singer?” he whispered. “Will you not sing for me?”
She couldn’t breathe; her head was going light, and her arms and legs were beginning to tingle. Lan summoned all the energy she had and kicked—right between his legs.
Flesh met metal as her shins connected with his armor. Erascius’s mouth tightened; she felt a responding tightening of his fingers, crushing her throat.
“Hasn’t your mother taught you manners?” he asked. “Ah, I forget. She’s dead.”
Lan spat in his face.
Slowly, the Winter Magician drew back. Took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his face until it was clean. When he looked at her again, his eyes burned like the heart of a flame.
“You’ll be regretting that,” he said, then gestured at the soldiers and directed, “Bring them to the interrogation chamber.”
At the end of the long hallway was a chamber made wholly of metal. Inside were two steel chairs facing each other. Lan fought as the soldiers strapped her down, securing her with metal buckles; across from her, Zen was still unconscious.
Erascius leaned over Zen and, swiftly and precisely, jabbed a spot on his neck. The move reminded Lan of something she had seen the masters do: strike at certain nerves on the body that held qì to block the opponent’s flow of energy—or to revitalize it.
Zen stirred. Satisfied, Erascius held out his left arm. Metal cuffs were stacked from his wrist to his elbow, gleaming in different shades of gray, gold, and copper. With his other hand, he made a gesture as though pulling on a string.
A strand of one of the silver-colored metals began to unravel from his wrist like liquid, hardening into a dozen small, thin needles that gleamed in the lamplight. They hovered in the air over Zen’s chair.
Turning to Lan, Erascius said, “Well, let’s see what makes you sing, shall we? With every question that I ask, should you not provide a satisfactory answer, I shall insert one of those needles into his flesh.”
Lan’s mind blanked. Zen was awake now. The needle drifted, aligning itself so that its tip pointed at Zen’s palm.
Zen stopped moving. A terrible shadow crossed over his face; even from several paces away, Lan thought she saw his eyes widen so that the light of the silver needles sliced across them.
“First question.” Erascius’s voice pulled her focus back. “Who was your mother?”
