No matter how many times I try to run, my path always turns back to her.
My mother lounges on a seat on the dais, one I recognize as that of Dòng’bin, the highest-ranking member of the Eight Immortals. Behind her is a hulking shadow the size of a small hill. I sense it stirring as I draw closer. Two eye slits crack open, blood red.
Drifting on enchanted vines are golden cups of wine; the mó wasted no time in raiding the immortals’ cellars for their finest peach blossom liquors and honey meads.
I snag a cup and toss its contents down my throat.
Sansiran notices me. Our realm’s finest blood garnets glitter on her pale neck and in her black hair as she turns to face me. Her eyes burn with a crimson glow, her magic rampant and stirred by the heat of battle.
She ought to be resplendent in her gown—a red so dark it looks nearly black—but the sight of it raises bile in my throat.
A few of her generals have returned, and even several of the Higher Ones, but most are still away—spread throughout the immortal realm, waging battles against an immortal army that has proven exceedingly difficult to defeat. The skies are their home domain, and they have drawn our forces thin.
Sansiran’s court officials stop their conversation and turn to look at me as I pass. Several are accompanied by lower-level mó as servants, escorts, prey, or all three. Among them is Niefuzan and his harem. He smiles at me, baring sharp teeth. Some of his group still have my blood on their chins.
I look away sharply. The sound of my steps gives way to silence as I stop before the dais.
My mother’s eyes glitter.
Sansiran has very little use for me, other than the fact that I am the key to the mortal throne. Interacting with her is like lying down in a pit of vipers.
I’m trying to guess at the reason she wants me here today as I sink to one knee and bow my head in my customary greeting. A matter related to the mortal realm, perhaps, or for a few sentences of mockery before she relegates me to the back of her court to listen to her strategy sessions.
I try not to think of the third possibility.
“Oh,” my mother purrs, a smile baring her sharp teeth as she watches me through her long lashes. “How filial and loyal my son appears in front of me.”
I remain kneeling, my every nerve tensed. Listening between the lines for the moment she reveals her intent today.
“I wonder,” Sansiran continues, “how he behavesbehind myback?”
And there it is.
I lift my head to meet her gaze. I’m well practiced by now in keeping my face pleasant, dissociating any of my true emotions from the masks I wear. “Whether I am in front of you or behind your back does not change how I behave, Empress.” The lie slides smoothly from my tongue.
Sansiran’s smile widens. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Never does. “Just an hour ago, I received a report,” she says idly. “News, from the mortal realm.”
I keep silent. This, I’ve found, is the best response to any of my mother’s goading.
Holding my gaze, my mother stretches out a hand in an elegant twirl. I glimpse a dark, pearl-like object between her fingers. As the entire hall watches, it begins to dissolve, shifting to smoke and shadows.
In those shadows, a scene forms. Sunlight, golden and bright, crisp as morning. A forest of pines in the background. A singsong voice drifts into the hall, as real as if its owner is here with us. But I know what this is: a memory captured in demonic magic, like the feathers my shadowcrane can send me, or the spike Yán’lù used.
The memory crystallizes, focusing on a figure in a clearing—and the world falls away as I catch sight of her face.
Àn’ying.
It’s her, it’s truly her. She’s holding two crescent blades, her jaw tight and her eyes bright with caution and fury as she gazes at a mó. Through the memory, she might have been looking at us. At me.
I drink in the sight of her, taking in every detail. She’s wearing a black gauze dress in this memory, but her hair is bound in exactly the same way as the day we met.
My heart slams against my rib cage.Safe, it beats out.She’s safe. She’s safe. She’s safe.
Behind her, the rivers shift, and a figure rises in the midst of the currents.
I can’t make out his face, but I know it’s him. Hào’yáng, the man I once knew as captain of the guard at the Temple of Dawn…and Àn’ying told me is the heir to the Kingdom of Rivers.
My half brother.
