He drew closer. She had the impression that, beneath his perfumes and silks, he smelled of something bitter; of fire and things burning, smoke choking down her throat. It must be from the medicine he took for his consumption.
“I understand if you have secrets,” the prince said quietly. “We all do. But I also know that it takes much more than anordinary practitioner to beat that demon at my Gate Seal. And I hope we can learn to trust each other enough to confide in each other. I hope we can be allies, Lán’ér.”
Secrets. Lan thought of the great dragon coiled within her. Of her map and how the Crimson Phoenix’s quadrant had aligned with the stars in this part of the night sky, limning them in the color of blood.
Tai had said the imperial family held many secrets—one of which was their own Demon God. Something didn’t make sense.
“You told us your father died along with the power of the imperial household,” she said. “Did you mean the Crimson Phoenix?”
He blinked, those long lashes sweeping his cheeks. A haunted look came over his face. “Yes. Our power was decimated. That was how the Elantians won.”
But my star map,Lan thought.It tells me the Crimson Phoenix should be somewhere near here.
That and the Godslayer. If Tai was right, clues to its existence lay here, in the imperial family’s secret palace, where they hoarded all the treasures that lent them power.
She needed to win this fallen prince’s trust. Perhaps then he would offer information that would lead to what she sought.
She hadn’t garnered a reputation for a silver tongue back in Haak’gong for nothing. And perhaps, once she got to know more about this prince, she would find that their paths aligned.
Lan tipped her face up to him. Curled her lips in a smile and crinkled her eyes. “Then, Prince Hóng’yì, I hope we can become friends.”
His smile came suddenly, replacing the look of grief. “I would like that,” Hóng’yì said, then took her hands in his. She started at the touch, but there was a childlike innocence to it. His fingers were very warm, almost hot—which might explainthe feverish flush to his cheeks. “It has been lonely here, Lán’ér. I am glad you came.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that. Lan gently removed her hands from his. “Good night,” she said, “Your Highness.”
“Please, call me Hóng’yì.”
The Hin put much stock in names and titles and how those reflected one’s status in society. To use one’s truename was an indication of intimacy. For a prince, an imperial heir, to ask to be called by his truename only was unthinkable.
Lan stepped inside the rosewood doors and slid them shut, her head swirling with thoughts.
And from the celestial river arose a fearsome beast…a serpent the size of ten, with heads ninefold.Xiàng’liu:he who would bring flooding and destruction to the lands.
—Scripture of Mountains and Seas,Book Three:On Rivers
It was the nights that stretched the longest, when the yin of the world was amplified and the qì of the Black Tortoise was at its most powerful. Zen had begun to have long gaps in his memory, often coming to, when the first rays of sun appeared, in a place he didn’t recognize. That was when the Demon God withdrew to its slumber.
Today, Zen awoke by the edge of a cliff, the rot of death and decay sharp in the air. He passed a hand over his face. In the distance, beyond the heavy clouds that smothered the sky, was a watery smudge of gray. Dawn was still far off, but even the sliver of light yielded enough relief to make him want to weep.
He clenched his teeth and staggered to his feet.
He was far north of the Emaran Desert, at the western edge of the Central Plains. Another few days and the terrain might change to steppeland. The Chó clan had traditionally occupied this territory, which came with its own myths and legends in Hin lore. Zen could see why.
An unnatural fog lay thick over the land, rendering everything in shades of gray: the barren rock of the mountains that clawed toward the sky, the red pines bearing the copper countenance of dried blood. Withered leaves crackled underfoot as he continued his trek along the mountain paths. He’d passed by the Chó clan’s former stronghold once, on a mission fromDé’zi; and from the handful of tomes still existing about the Ninety-Nine Clans and the Hundred Schools of Practitioning, he knew that the School of the Peaceful Light resided near a river—the one after which the mythical River of Forgotten Death had been named.
The qì of water was strong here, yet he couldn’t tell whether that was from the mist or he was approaching a body of water. He paused, the snap of a twig beneath his boots echoing into the silence. Ahead, he could sense a weave of qì that stood out from the natural currents around him.
A Seal. A faint one, perhaps nearly gone, but still, a vital clue.
He found the gate moments later: a pái’fang with pillars of gray stone and black brick, a single arch wreathed in mist, and tiled roofs curving to the sky. On the other side of it was a cliff that plunged down to a bone-dry riverbed.
Zen studied the pái’fang. The faded gold engravings on the pillars were unlike those of the Yuè temple or the imperial Hin structures, in that the Chó engravings revolved around bodies of water: rivers and oceans, waves curling with froth. At their centers…
Lotus flowers. They appeared to grow from the waters of a river, their stems curving upward. Nested within the petals, like pearls held in one’s palm, were lotus seeds.
Hope twanged through Zen’s stomach. He touched the image.
Atop the Öshangma Light Mountain, he had entered therealm of what once had been the palace of the Yuè immortals, vanished dynasties past. Its appearance Zen could not explain. The Yuè, after all, had cultivated immortality, which preserved their cores of energy—their souls—long after their physical bodies had turned to dust in this world. The few mentions of them in tomes at the School of the White Pines bookhouse had described them as guardians of ancient truths, secrets of this world and whatever lay beyond it.
