What did he live for?
The answer was what tethered him to this world. He thought of his mother and father on the great plains of their homeland, waving at him under a brilliant blue sky. His young cousins rushing home from a day of herding to playfully fight over cold sweetened mare’s milk one of their uncles made for them. He thought of the memory the Black Tortoise had shown him of his great-grandfather Xan Tolürigin, the greatest general and demonic practitioner of the Mansorian clan, kneeling before the Hin emperor. Begging for the lives of his clan to be spared.
He lived to right the wrongs of the past. He lived to bring the clans back to the Last Kingdom, to remake it as it should have been. He lived as the legacy of the great Mansorian clan, and he would give his life to see it rise again.
The flow of his thoughts shifted, and he was once again in a rain-filled mountain village, holding a girl with a scent of lilies in his arms. All the moments they’d gazed out the wooden fretwork windows at a land of lush pines and coiling mist and dreamt of a future here. Not one of grandeur, not one of power, but one of peace. One in which they could sit beneath the lambent light of a lantern surrounded by tomes and children and grow old together.
He swallowed against the ache building in his chest. Before him, the apparition’s eyes seemed to flicker, as though it had witnessed every memory and every thought that had gone through Zen’s mind.
“And what would you do for a chance at that life?”it asked.
“Anything.” His voice scraped. “Everything.”
“The Seeds of Clarity demand a price. They will ask for a sacrifice from your soul.”
He had already given away his soul for a chance at his goals. Nothing frightened him anymore.
“Name your price,” he said.
The apparition’s gaze flickered. It bowed its head.“You may choose a seed.”
Between them, the lotus swayed gently. The seeds continued to glow, as smooth and perfect as pearls, golden like the sun poured its light into them. When Zen stretched his hand forward, the petals seemed to yawn open beneath his fingers.
He hesitated, just for a breath, before he reached to the heart of the lotus and plucked out one of the golden seeds.
An icy wind surged through the realm as though it were letting out a breath. The stillness shattered; overhead, clouds twisted and distorted. There was movement in the river as the ghosts shifted, swirling with the currents and watching him with their sightless eyes. They gave the light of the lotus seed a wide berth, shying away from where its glow illuminated the murky depths of the river.
Except for one.
A ghost drifted forward, caught in the golden pulse of the seed’s light. As it drew close, its features crystallized: this was the ghost—the soul—of a man. He bore kindly features, wore the coarse-clothduàn’daand conical bamboodou’lìof the working class. The woven basket of grain on his back indicated he was a farmer; the lines on his face told of a hard life. He reached for the seed, which flared like a heartbeat. Zen felt a rush of qì between it and the ghost.
The seed’s light grew to a blaze. The ghost’s outline weakened, as though all the qì constituting it and enabling it to existin this form were funneling into the seed. With a final sigh, the ghost of the man vanished.
The silence broke as, with a great roar, the river surged. Zen had only enough time to gasp a breath before the gray, unending sky arced over him and the waters pulled him under.
The world tilted, and he landed on the dust beneath the Ghost Gates.
Zen rolled over and retched, his body convulsing horribly as it fought to eject water and take air into his lungs again. Except, he realized, there was no water. His clothes were only a little damp from the thick fog and his sweat, but other than that, he was dry. When he looked over the cliff’s edge, there was only a parched valley. No river, no water.
An illusion,he thought, only something had come back with him here, into this physical world. It dug into his palm. Zen uncurled his fingers.
The seed glimmered against his skin, sickeningly gold.
Zen dropped it as though it burned. He understood now. He understood the immortal’s warning, understood the river guardian’s riddles.The Seeds of Clarity demand a price.
These were not seeds.
They weresouls.They were the souls of the spirits still trapped in that river, awaiting their release.
Zen began to shake violently.
What is it you live for, Xan Temurezen?
To right the wrongs: his family, his clan, unjustly and brutally wiped from this land. Reclaiming this kingdom and making it as it should have been. And a chance for a life with Lan.
And what would you do for a chance at that life?
The world blurred. Those shadows at the edges of his vision had returned; he could feel the looming form of the Black Tortoise, watching him. Could sense its qì mingling with hisown, its awareness clinging to him, at all times—something he could no longer shake.
