“Why are you helping me?” Zen croaked.
The Nameless Master blinked. “An understanding. You act as you see fit for the greater good. I was once the Master of Assassins for the Imperial Court and took lives for the benefit of the greater good. Yet whatisthe greater good? Who decides that? It is the one who holds power. I am powerless to stop you, yet I can provide my guidance and counsel in the hope that you find the best path forward. I would hope that, were you in any wayDé’zi’sdisciple, you would follow his lesson. That you would learn to make your choices out of love, rather than out of greed or hate.”
It felt as though the Nameless Master had taken a hot bladeand cut Zen, so strong was the impact of those words, the memory they evoked:Dé’zi, lying in a pool of blood, gazing up at Zen.I hope that your choices will be guided by love, not revenge. I hope you will remember what power can cost you.
“Wait,” he gasped, but the Nameless Master had vanished as he had come: without a stirring of wind or a single ripple of shadows. And Zen was left reeling beneath a sky of stars.
He had a long journey ahead of him to find the Crimson Phoenix and unlock the second half of theClassic of Gods and Demons.Even once he managed to do that, he would need his Demon God’s power to summon the army of Deathriders and to lead the war against the Elantians.
He could not do it all while slowly losing his mind. The shattered teapot lay down the hall, and he felt Shàn’jun’s absence keenly. The tea lay spilled on the floor, now cold.
Zen lifted his gaze to the southwest. Would there be an answer to a seemingly unanswerable question in the ageless city once ruled by fabled immortals? Would he be able to use his Demon God’s powers and retain his sanity?
And if so…could there be anafterto it all, a life in which he might spend the rest of his days in a rain-misted mountain village with Lan?
He would find out in the City of Immortals.
He opened himself to the qì of his Demon God, feeling it surge through him. A Gate Seal opened before him: a desert city beneath a bright moon, wreathed in the black flame of hisqì.
Without a backward glance, Zen stepped through.
Few records exist of the Yuè save for a scattering of tales told by Hunters, practitioners who sought the secrets of immortality by dedicating their lifetimes to the search for an opening to another realm within the City of Immortals.
—Various scholars,Studies of the Ninety-Nine Clans
The kè’zhàn was filled with the chatter of patrons, the scent of spices, and lit by a colorful profusion of brass lamps, ceiling chandeliers, and Hin lanterns. Lan slipped down the wooden stairs into the inn and chose a seat closest to the bar, between an Achaemman jeweler and an Endhiran spice trader who were haggling over the prices of lapis lazuli and cinnamon.
It was evening on their second day in Nakkar. The first night they’d spent in fear of being recognized by the Elantians, hastily stumbling into the first kè’zhàn that would open its doors in the midst of sandsong. All night long, Lan and Tai had crouched over Dilaya, Tai attempting all the healing Seals he’d learned from Shàn’jun, Lan sweet-talking the cook into whipping up a hot ginseng chicken broth, then spooning it through Dilaya’s parched lips. Thankfully, the Jorshen matriarch’s injuries were less physical, more wounds to her qì from the sand mó’s overwhelming demonic energies. By daybreak, color had returned to her cheeks. Exhausted, Lan and Tai had dropped onto a straw pallet and slept.
It was now nightfall. Earlier, the streets outside had been clogged with tarps of every color and pattern, merchants peddling silks and salts, perfumes and papers, ivory and dyes and every sort of goods imaginable. The scene had reminded Lan of Haak’gong, of its evemarket where she’d once hawked wares and visited an ailing old man who ran a rundown contraband store.
She ordered a bowl of beef broth with hand-pulled noodles. She’d left Dilaya upstairs in Tai’s care; the girl was too noticeable with her eye patch and loose left sleeve. Besides, Lan was more used to “mingling in society,” Dilaya had sniffed, and then with her signature haughty glare, she said, “Go use that sweet-talking mouth of yours for some good.”
Rumors of the sand demon attack had spread like wildfire, though how the survivors had lived to tell the tale remained a mystery. It seemed there had been rising outcries over the Elantian regime and how they had driven Hin practitioners—who once traveled the Jade Trail fighting spirits and demons and monsters—to extinction. Now the Jade Trail and all of the Last Kingdom were left completely vulnerable, and traders from neighboring kingdoms were increasingly hesitant to come and risk their lives.
“It didn’t used to be like this,” the innkeeper said. He was a young polyglot, apparently fluent in all tongues spoken in the kè’zhàn, dark-haired and tanned from days spent underthe sun. “Not back in the days when Hin practitioners walked therivers and lakes. They protected us.”
Lan glanced at the strips of gold paper stuck to the doors with rice glue. Inscriptions written in molten cinnabar cascaded down them, flickering in the lamplight. She’d seen these types of couplets before, in remote village homes, often stuck in discreet places to avoid detection: gold-leafed paper for those who could afford it, to mimic the yellow fú practitionersused, with characters written in red and enclosed in circles to mimic the Seals practitioners wrote in their blood. Of course, there was not an ounce of qì to these paper couplets, but superstitions had a way of blending in with what once had been real.
“Is this your family’s establishment?” Lan asked the innkeeper, slurping down her noodles. The spicy beef noodles were delicious enough to make her want to cry. “A cup of tea, please.”
The innkeeper brought her a glass of steaming black tea. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and roses. “My family’s been running the Fragrant Sandcloud Tavern since before the era of the First Kingdom,” he said proudly.
It was remarkable how history lived on in the common folk, who bore the changes of time with quiet resilience. If Lan sought a desert palace where the imperial family had attempted to bury their secrets, there was no better way to begin than by asking those whose families and homes had been here all along.
Lan widened her eyes and leaned forward, hands wrapped around her cup of tea. “Are the stories true, then?” she asked. “My aunt and uncle have spent their lives on the Jade Trail, but it’s my first time here in Nakkar.”
“Yah, what’s your trade?” the innkeeper asked.
Lan grinned. “I’m a performer,” she replied, and took out her ocarina. “Here, let me play you a song.” She blew into her instrument, her fingers working fast and light to slip in strands of yáng qì: comfort, joy, and trust. Faint as to not be detected, but just enough to subtly improve her listener’s mood and put him at ease.
By the time she finished, the innkeeper was smiling. “You’re really good,” he said. “Folks would pay a pretty coin to hear you perform. Got a gig yet?”
“Unfortunately, I do.” She winked. “I’m in high demand.”She slipped her ocarina back into the pouch at her belt and leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hand. “So? Is this really the City of Immortals?”
“Sure. That’s the direct Hin translation of ‘Nakkar.’ ”
“And is there truly an ancient library here that the immortals kept?”
