I dart a glance upward—the clifftop is so high, it disappears into the clouds—and wet my lips, deciding what to do.
Tell him I have no qing’gong skills and ask for help, and he’ll likely ditch me.
Don’t tell him, and Iwillfall to my death.
“I…”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”
“I’m not,” I snap, but his grin has widened. I spin away from him, and in a gust of stubbornness, I whip out Fleet and Arrow and make for the mountain in a running leap.
My blades lodge in the fissures easily enough, and my feet find purchase against two cracks in the surface. I heave myself up, searching for the next fissure to stab my blades into.
I don’t make it twenty feet before I slip.
When I land, it’s not on the ground.
I swallow a shout as I roll away from the body tucked into the long silvergrass. It was obscured by the tall bush and trees where I stood earlier, but now I clearly see it: a practitioner, his body bent and broken from a deadly fall. The furs and thick brocades of his cloak indicate a northern origin, as do his sheepskin boots. His sword lies a few paces from him, and his rucksack’s split open, its contents oddly strewn out toward a copse of trees.
I follow this strange trail toward a particularly large bush.It takes my mind a moment to discern what I’m looking at—and what’s lookingback at me.
A boy rises from the bushes. At first, I think he’s unclothed, but that isn’t possible, because his skin isgreenand scaled—and it’s shifting colors to match the foliage around him as he straightens and cocks his head at me.
His long hair is white, and his eyes gleam like jade. He grins at me, revealing too many white teeth and a forked tongue that darts between them.
Before I can do anything, he leaps for the mountain. His skin shifts to match the rock’s dun color, and in the blink of an eye, I’ve lost him between the craggy rocks and the trees.
“Yao’jing,” Yù’chén says, stepping out behind me.
“How can yao’jing get into the Kingdom of Sky?” I ask. “The trials aren’t for them.”
“The trials are for anyone mortal enough,” Yù’chén replies. “As someone said, they, too, have beating hearts. They also bleed red. Those are the two litmus tests to pass through the wards into the immortal realm.”
I think of the little white fox yao’jing I encountered yesterday as my gaze drifts back to the dead practitioner. His eyes are still open.
I step forward and swiftly shut his eyes, willing my breathing to settle as I force the memory of my father’s face back into that dark corner of my mind. When I turn around, Yù’chén is watching me. The teasing has vanished from his expression, the quarrel from mine, as though it took a dead body for us both to remember what’s at stake here. What the outcome of all this might be.
At least for me.
He flicks his gaze up at where the shapeshifter vanished. “There are more candidates here than I thought there would be. I’ll need you to keep your stingers out, little scorpion.” He begins to unwind the long silk sash that belts his waist as he approaches me.
I take a step back. “What are you doing?”
He arches a brow. “Anchoring us together.”
My lips part in a breath. “Why?”
He steps forward, tipping his head and granting me a charming smile. “To keep you close.”
My hand is already on his chest, Arrow pointed at his throat. “You should know by now that that won’t do you any favors.”
“Mm. Well, on second thought, it’s the most practical way for you to use your hands if you need to fight. I can’t very well carry you in my arms, and you can’t use your blades if you’re busy holding on to me. If we’re anchored together, side by side, we can both climb and leverage each other’s strengths should an attack come.” He holds up the end of his belt. “May I?”
When I don’t object, he reaches for my waist and draws me toward him until we are hip to hip. His hands are large and warm, more careful than I imagined as he begins to wind his sash around my abdomen. I try not to breathe as his fingers graze my ribs through the thin silk of my dress.
When he is done, he does not step away. Instead, he gives the sash a satisfied tug and holds his hands out to me, palms forward. “A warm-up on qing’gong,” he prompts.
I slide my blades back into my sleeves and splay my fingers against his. My pulse quickens at the touch, at how smoothhis skin feels against my callused palms. Dimly, I wonder at how he has no calluses of his own.
