He had nothing to say to that.
“The boy lies.” Ulara spoke at last. She stood a little to the side, outside the ring of lamplight. Her face was cast in shadow, but Zen could make out the gleam in her eyes. Both her dao were strapped to her hips, the edge of light catching on the blade of Falcon’s Claw. “Dilaya stumbled upon them one night. They spoke of searching for an ocarina.”
“Nostalgia,” Zen said coldly. Earlier that night, on the way to the Chamber of Clarity, he’d made sure to comb through every detail of his story, examining it for holes and incongruities. He had not forgotten Dilaya’s intrusion at the bookhouse several nights ago—nor Shàn’jun’s and Tai’s involvement. He would need to seek them out later. “The girl’s mother would play the ocarina to her when she was young,” he explained. “Surely Master Ulara would have higher aspirations than to make up evidence out of childish desires?”
He could not see Ulara’s expression from here, but this time, another voice spoke up.
“An ocarina?” The flames steeped into Dé’zi’s face as he leaned forward, deepening every wrinkle and sharpening the edges of his cheekbones. He suddenly looked older. Zen met his master’s eyes and fought not to look away. The disappointment in Dé’zi’s gaze was difficult to bear.
“Yes, shi’fù,” Zen said, uncertain as to why his master had latched onto that small detail. “I told her we had other, more common instruments at the school she could play, yet no ocarina.”
Dé’zilooked at Zen for several moments longer before leaning back again. Zen caught the flicker of something worse than disappointment in his master’s expression. He seemed…troubled.
“The incense has burned to its end,” Master Gyasho said into the silence. He gestured at the brass pot that hung from an alcove on the stone wall; nothing remained of the joss sticks but three blackened stumps. “A bell has passed, and it grows late. Let us reconvene to discuss the concerning news of an Elantian invasion, and leave Zen to physical rest and spiritual reflection.”
Dé’zilooked to Ulara. “Dilaya will alert us as soon as Lan awakens?” he asked. Ulara nodded, and the grandmaster stood. “Very well. Let us reconvene in the Chamber of Waterfall Thoughts.”
As the masters slowly filed out, Dé’ziapproached where Zen knelt.
“There was no necessity for the ferule had you simply repented,” the grandmaster said quietly.
“There was,” Zen replied. “The masters would never have listened to a word I said otherwise. Their minds are already made up about me, shi’fù.”
Dé’zilooked sad. “But the ferule will not save you either, Zen. It prompts you toward neither truth nor the Way.” He raised a hand and touched it to Zen’s temple. For a moment, Zen found himself leaning into his master’s touch, the way he had as a child. “If the mind is made, physical pain will not deter it.”
Zen jerked away.
“Tell me, Zen,” the grandmaster said quietly. “Is there nothing more to the story of the ocarina?”
Zen’s lips parted. Dé’zi’s gaze was straight, clear as a blade,piercing to the very recesses of Zen’s soul. Seeing, as he had when Zen was a child, the parts no one else had, the shadows and scars hidden away from the world.
Once, he might have knelt at his master’s feet and begged for forgiveness. He might have told Dé’ziof the Demon Gods, of his plan to stop the Elantians from taking them for themselves.
Yet now, Zen realized, no matter how hard Dé’zihad tried to save him, Zen could not run from his fate—the one that had been written in the stars of a young child who’d lost everything on the frozen Northern Steppes of the Last Kingdom. His soul had been forsaken since the day he’d chosen to accept the demon’s bargain; his story could have had only one ending, one that Dé’zicould not rewrite no matter how hard he tried.
“No, shi’fù.” It was surprisingly easy for him to keep his tone even. “There isn’t.”
Dé’zidrew back. Shadows obscured his expression. “Very well, then,” he said softly, and turned away. “I will leave you to your reflection and repentance for the evening. May you somehow find clarity and the path back to the Way.”
The lamps flickered as he passed them on his way out, a slip of pale páo against the dark until the night swallowed him whole.
Zen loosed a breath, the tension flowing from his muscles. They would be sore from being bound, but that was the least of his concerns. He needed to somehow get a message to Lan so that when she woke and came for her inquiry, she would tell the same story as he had.
And the Demon Gods…he thought of Erascius’s relentless blue eyes, of the promise within. It was only a miracle that Lan had unknowingly kept the Demon Gods’ location a secret, her mother’s message Sealed away within her untilseveral weeks ago. Whoever her mother was, she had thought this through carefully.
I remember you,the magician had said.You were the boy withthe demonic binding we brought in during the First Year of Conquest.
Zen shut his eyes as he reached back into his memories. That interrogation chamber, the long table with the metal utensils, the people with the pale faces watching as they hurt him over and over again to elicit a response from his demon. He imagined Erascius’s face among them, the gleam in his winter’s eyes brighter than that of the rest.
You taught me that demons could be bound to serve.
It was Zen’s fault. It was Zen’s fault that the Elantians had made progress into their understanding of demons and demonic practitioning; it was Zen’s fault that they now suspected the existence of the School of the White Pines, of Skies’ End and the disciples and masters hidden within, a last-standing Hin relic that had survived the trials of time and conquest against all odds.
If I were you, I wouldmasterit.
If the Elantians found the Demon Gods, they would be unstoppable. Any hopes the Hin harbored of taking back their freedom would be snuffed out, a candle in a gale.
His soul was forfeit, and there was only one last thing he had to do: stop the Elantians from taking the Demon Gods.
