“Lady Shi’ya has asked me to train you in preparation for the Third Trial.”
—
Hào’yáng is indifferent, almost cold, as he leads me toward a part of the Celestial Gardens I have never seen. I trail after him, questions burning inside me.
“Can I ask—” I begin, but he shoots me a sharp look over his shoulder.
“No,” he says, and then amends, “not here.”
We walk in silence through the gardens until the grass and mud beneath our feet turn to sand. Ahead, the flowering trees open up to an endless stretch of water that vanishes into the horizon and the Sea of Clouds.
The Mirror Lake. I imagine all the candidates past and present have gathered here, at the edge of the Temple of Dawn grounds, and gazed into the distance, at the looming mountains and lands and the promise of a life away from death and danger.
The morning sun shining on the lake casts everything in warm gold. Impossibly, cherry blossoms ranging from blush pink to moon white grow from the surface of the water. I’ve seen more of my namesake in this realm than I have in my own, and I wonder if my father named me for his time here.
I glance at Hào’yáng. “Can I ask where we’re going now?”
“Someplace we can train,” he replies, scanning the lake with a narrow gaze. “Away from here.”
“Candidates can’t leave the premises,” I remind him.
“Not by yourselves,” he replies, then lifts his fingers to his lips and gives a short whistle.
In the distance, the slightest ripple dapples the surface of the lake. Then something shoots out from it into the sky: a serpentine shape wrought of a pale gleam of scales. As it twists toward us, it transforms. The mane of seawater and mist remains, but scales shift to hair, claws lengthen to legs and hooves.
It’s a white dragonhorse. Legends say the first of these rare creatures was born of a noble mare who gave its life to bear its rider through the Golden Desert all the way to the Four Seas. Touched by the courage and loyalty of the animal, the dragons took its soul and reincarnated it into one of them, giving it the freedom to roam the skies and the earth in two forms.
The dragonhorse comes to a stop before us. As I study its intelligent brown eyes and mane that ripples like it holds oceans, a jolt of recognition courses through me.
The dragonhorse casts me an amused look and snorts.
Hào’yáng slides onto the dragonhorse’s back and holds out his hand to me.
It’s a tight squeeze to fit both of us on its back.
As the dragonhorse gallops into the waters of the lake, I end up awkwardly digging my fingers into the belt at Hào’yáng’s waist. He is warm, and he smells of sunlight and incense, reminiscent of spring. Water splashes in my face, clean and cool against the sun’s heat. Soon, we’re climbing into theskies, the ground and the temples and the water falling away from us in a thrilling, dizzying way.
The immortal realm isachinglybeautiful. The clouds, the distant mountains and lands, the blossoms and willows sweeping the waters—all of it seems to exude a radiant, golden haze, a perfection that the most talented mortal artists might dream of capturing in their art. I hold on to Hào’yáng, and I wonder whether the mortal realm might have had an ounce of the immortal realm’s beauty before it fell. I wonder if I might have traveled the kingdom with Ma, seamstresses seeking to weave our world’s wonders into thread and fabric.
Landmasses and mountains float lazily in the Sea of Clouds. Curved temple rooftops peek out from between folds of valleys, surrounded by beautiful blossoms and weaving waterways. I spot towns perched completely on lakes that drift between clouds, ending in waterfalls that spill over the edges. Larger cities of somber reds and rosewood, connected by stone walkways and arched bridges and flourishing with food stalls, flower fairs, and immortals arriving or departing by the wings of great snowy cranes. The wind carries the sound of distant laughter and music.
We alight on the shore of a lake. Its waters are turquoise in the sunlight and beautifully transparent, lapping against white sands. Gently sloping mountains rise behind us, covered in an array of hibiscus, camellias, lilacs, and violet cresses, which sway in a soft breeze.
I trail my fingers in the water, marveling at how it’s nearly warm, how the currents sparkle as if they hide threads of gold. Deeper in, the colorful scales of darting carp flash like jewels.
Hào’yáng stands in the shade of a great camphor tree that overhangs a tide pool. Wild meadowsweet carpets the sandsbeneath him, and there’s a hint of a smile to his eyes as he watches his dragonhorse graze. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look relaxed, as though he has stepped out from the weight of his duty to the Temple of Dawn.
“Those are her favorite flowers,” he says, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I didn’t realize he saw me watching him. “She’s nicknamed after them. Meadowsweet.”
Hào’yáng turns to me. The calculation and intensity of his gaze is gone, replaced by an expression bordering playfulness that I haven’t witnessed within temple grounds. He tucks his hands behind his back and tilts his head. “My mother set me to the task of training you,” he begins.
“Your mother?” I repeat.
“Lady Shi’ya is my mother.”
“I—oh.” I assumed them to be husband and wife, but now, thinking back, it makes sense. There is an air of deference to how he treats her, and he somehowfeelsyounger than her.
“I should say, my adopted mother.” Hào’yáng’s tone is light. “If you’re worried about this impacting your standing in the trials, don’t. She wouldn’t have gone through all the effort of saving you and keeping you alive just to set you up for failure.”
