I look up.
Yán’lù’s face is twisted in a sneer, his eyes narrowed as they follow me through the shifting crowd. I didn’t catch sight of him back at the Hall of Radiant Sun, and he wouldn’t have dared to try anything there under the eyes of the immortals…but now, in these gardens, there are too many ways he could kill me and make it look like an accident.
I look away from him, determined not to let him cow me. I sense his gaze trailing me; his cronies, too, have stopped talking and watch me hungrily. I slide my blades into my palms as, out of the corners of my eyes, I see Yán’lù turn and break away from the group, making straight for me—
“Hi!”
A girl cuts into my path. It takes me a moment to place the face, the wide-set eyes and delicate lips now curved in a wide,toothy grin, the two buns atop her head. Something in her amber gaze clicks into place.
It’s the fox spirit halfling. I remember her eyes watching me from behind the tree on the mountain, her silent warning as one of Yán’lù’s cronies attacked me.
“I’m Lì’líng,” she says brightly.
I almost recoil, all my preconceptions of yao’jing filtering through my mind—but above it all, I recall the announcer’s voice, mingling now with Yù’chén’s:By measure of your mortal blood and mortal hearts.
Whether or not she is a halfling, the immortals’ wards admitted her into this realm and into these trials.
“Àn’ying,” I mumble. It’s been a while since I’ve exchanged niceties not at blade point.
“I know! We all saw your entrance earlier.” Her eyes warm, and there’s a knowing glint to them as she adds, “Thanks for looking out for me. You must be hungry!”
I catch Yán’lù watching me through the crowd as Lì’líng pulls me in the opposite direction. I half listen to her chatting, but my muscles are tensed, my fingers brushing the hilts of the blades concealed in my sleeves.
Lì’líng keeps up a steady, nearly pleasant stream of conversation that is less a conversation than her exclamations over the delicacies on the platters we pass by: “…honeyed dates, osmanthus rice cakes…and ooh! Lotus-wrapped glutinous rice withchicken!” She pauses and waves at the two people standing beneath a great magnolia tree. “Look! I brought us a new friend.”
“Was thisfriendforced to listen to you talk about glutinous rice balls?” asks the tall girl. Her arms are folded, and she’s dressed in an all-black hàn’fú in thick brocade, amaterial commonly used in the north. Her skin is as pale as death, and there are deep shadows beneath her eyes, as though she hasn’t slept. She looks supremely bored.
“It’s not glutinous rice balls, Tán’mù, it’slotus-wrappedglutinous rice,” sniffs Lì’líng. “How can you aspire to be a rice connoisseur without being able to distinguish between these?”
Tán’mù gives her a flat look. “Idon’taspire to be a rice connoisseur—”
“Same difference,” says their other companion. “All edible.” He tosses a lotus-wrapped glutinous rice up in the air and opens his mouth wider than humanly possible—then swallows it whole, leaves and all. His tongue darts out, unnervingly long, as he licks the juices from his chin. There is something so familiar about his jewel-green eyes framed by arched brows and the shock of white hair that spills to his shoulders.
“You!” I exclaim. The last time I saw him, he was green and covered in scales, climbing the cliffs at Heavens’ Gates. Now he looks mostly human but for his white hair and green eyes. It’s the shapeshifter yao’jing.
He shoots me a grin with too many rows of white teeth before unclamping them to shove a whole peach inside.
“That’s Fán’xuan,” Lì’líng chirps. “He’s like our deranged little brother.”
“You’re the deranged one,” Fán’xuan bites back over his chewing, “if you think red beans are the best stuffing for glutinous rice.”
Lì’líng fires up. “Red beansandsalted egg yolk, you fish-brained turtle—”
They get into it then, Fán’xuan arguing for pork-and-mushroom stuffing.
I realize I’m staring and quickly look away. Tán’mù, however, watches me like a hawk. The look on her face is less than friendly. “Where’s your lover?” she asks.
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Yù’chén. “He’s not my lover.”
She shrugs and turns her attention to a platter of shredded pheasant wrapped in milk skin. Her left wrist flashes, and I catch the number fifteen on it. A two-pronged spear is strapped to her back. I wonder if she’s one of the candidates who received training at a mortal practitioning school before coming here. I know those still exist, and some have managed to escape the Kingdom of Night’s invasion—for now.
“I’m only asking because he’s Number Two,” she says as she chews. “The higher numbers are usually targeted first.”
I wonder if my Number Forty-Four has a silver lining after all. “Who’s Number One?” I ask.
“She’s over there,” Lì’líng chimes in, appearing to have won the argument with Fán’xuan. She flicks her gaze to a table toward the center of the terrace, where a tall, sturdily built girl is holding court. She is muscular, her rich yellow shift complementing her tanned skin and suggesting Western Province origins. I’ve heard that in the Golden Desert, where the sun blazes bright and mó are least likely to wander, mortal practitioning schools thrive between the sand dunes, training powerful practitioners who patrol the desert to guard against the Kingdom of Night. “Her name is Xiù’chun.”
“I saw her get through the First Trial,” Fán’xuan offers between bites of braised chicken. “It looked like a game to her.” His golden bracelet flashes, and I take note of his ranking: twenty-four. Interesting, since he clearly scaled thatmountain before Yù’chén and me, but I get the feeling he somehow doesn’t care.
