Lan spoke to him softly, keeping her gaze on his face as, at last, the Black Tortoise’s form faded into night. She kept talking even as the energies around them stilled, as the light dimmed in Zen’s eyes and the cold crept into her arms, until the mountaintop was empty and the earth silent but for the hush of snow falling.
Age of Ten Thousand Flowers, Cycle 13
Where the Rivers Flow and the Skies End
The snow camellias had bloomed and spring had arrived at the School of the White Pines. Up and down the zigzagging mountain, disciples in white páos ducked beneath sprigs of plum blossoms whose petals dusted the stone steps of Skies’ End with pale blushes of pink. Sunlight spilled like honey upon winding creeks, and a warm breeze threaded through the gentle wisps of mist coiled through the pines.
“You little turtle-egged ratfart—get back here!”
Sòng Lián strode through the doors of the Chamber of Waterfall Thoughts, nearly giving heart attacks to the meditating disciples. The Master of Seals, seated at the very far end of the hall, gave no indication she had noticed anything. She sat as still as stone in her meditation, not even the ends of her white silk blindfold fluttering.
“Elanruya,” Lan said, hands on her hips. “Where is he? I swear he came this way—” She faltered as the other woman put a finger to her lips. “Ah.” Lan glanced around the hall of startled disciples staring at her. She put her hands togetherand, clearing her throat, switched to a tone more suitable for a master of the school. “Forgiveness for disturbing the peace of your meditation, disciples.”
She heard a few giggles and winked at several of the young girls as she backed out of the chamber. She wore her hair in two long braids now, just as people in her late husband’s clan had worn it. Creases lined her eyes where she often crinkled them in laughter, and the planes of her face had hardened with age. Her gaze, though, held a spark of that same mischief and playfulness—which her son had inherited.
Nearby, bushes rustled. A small shape streaked out of them, making for the steps that led uphill.
“Xan Tsomurejin,” Lan called, hurrying after him. “I’m warning you!”
She glimpsed him again as he ran over the wooden bridge toward the Chamber of a Hundred Healings. In the pond, carp scattered beneath his shadow. At the other end, two figures crouched over the water, speaking in hushed voices.
“Tài’shu!” Tsomurejin called as the taller of the two men looked up. “Uncle Tài! Hide me!”
Chó Tài said nothing, but it spoke volumes that he let the boy duck behind his wide purple páo without a word. He turned to the entrance almost defensively, his gold-rimmed eyes flashing as he raised his eyebrows at Lan. By his side, the other man straightened, too. A smile broke over his face as he took in the scene.
“Jin’ér,” Shàn’jun said, leaning behind Chó Tài to grin at the child. “What have you done now?”
At twelve cycles of age, Tsomurejin was beginning to grow with the speed of a bamboo shoot. He possessed strong black brows and high cheekbones that rendered him the spitting image of his father and garnered him praise from the aunties in the capital city. Even Clan Councilwoman Yeshin NoroDilaya begrudgingly showed him affection in her own way, gifting him a Jorshen Steel sword when he became old enough to take classes in the Art of Swords.
Tsomurejin’s spirited playfulness, though, he had inherited from his mother. He had her quick smile and sharp tongue and was capable of being charming even as he planned mischief.
“Shàn’jun’shu,” he laughed. “Mama likes you most—won’t you beg her to spare me?”
“That little rabbit-whelped heathen stole my ocarina,” Lan said, striding onto the bridge. “I need it—I’m teaching a class on the Art of Song at the People’s Capital, and we were meant to leave a half bell ago. Yeshin Noro Dilaya will wring my neck if I’m late again.”
“You shouldn’t call me a rabbit-whelped heathen, Mama,” Tsomurejin said slyly. “You said that was disrespectful to Bàba.”
Lan frowned at him. “Your father would call you the same thing. Chó Tài, give him to me. I’m going to teach him how I was disciplined when I was a child.”
Chó Tài scratched his beard and then reached behind him and awkwardly nudged the boy. “You,” he said. “You go.”
Tsomurejin caught hold of Shàn’jun’s sleeve. The Master of Medicine patted the boy affectionately on his head. “Come, now, Jin’ér,” he said gently. “Hand the ocarina to Mama. You have an important journey ahead of you.”
Tsomurejin pressed his lips together. “Can’t you come with me, shu’shu?”
“Shàn’jun’shu must stay to teach,” the Master of Medicine said gently. “There are so many other disciples here. We mustn’t be unfair to them, right? Besides, there is much for you to learn on this journey—about the history of our land. It wasn’t always like this, you know. Besides, didn’t Dilaya promise to raise you as a disciple of Swords?”
“Pah—shedreams!” Lan exclaimed indignantly. “Jin’ér will take after me in the Art of Song.”
Still, the reminder touched her. Where Lan had thought Yeshin Noro Dilaya might spurn the heir of the Mansorian clan, the Jorshen Steel clan matriarch had treated Xan Tsomurejin with nothing but stern kindness and, arguably, some gruff fondness. The clan councilwoman had even taken steps to rectify the records of history, honoring Xan Temurezen’s lead in helping defeat the Elantians thirteen cycles ago—and his sacrifice thereafter.
The Mansorian clan name was a noble one to bear in thisage.
“All right.” Tsomurejin stepped out from behind Shàn’jun and went over to Lan. He dipped his head and proffered the ocarina from within the sleeves of his páo. “Forgiveness, Mama. Here is your ocarina.”
Lan took the instrument from him and slipped it into the silk storage pouch at her hip. “Forgiven, little ratfart devil,” she said, pinching his nose. She lifted a hand at her friends. “See you in a moon. Don’t miss me too much.”
“We won’t,” Chó Tài groused. “Wewon’t.”
