I sensed the anger and remorse in her tone. “Did you give her a name?”
This time, the answer was immediate.Chenguang. I called her Chenguang.
“Morning light,” I murmured, feeling the presence of heaven in those two words. Certainly, Chunhua had been inspired. “You gave her a joyous name.”
The spirit went silent.
I gazed up at the oak’s dark canopy. “Don’t you miss her, Chunhua? Don’t you ache to see her again?”
Grief permeated the air, blanketing my lungs.
She’s dead, dead, dead.
“But she’s not gone,” I said. “You can see her again, in another life.”
No. I won’t. I can’t.
“Why can’t you?”
Because I let her die.
And there was the painful fact buried beneath her resentment toward another: resentment toward herself.
But Liu Chunhua wasn’t a villain. She’d been a human girl with human desires and fears, vulnerable to the overwhelming pressures of others. And though her actions could’ve been different, she’d suffered more than enough.
“Your guilt ties you to this tree,” I said. “But your daughter’s spirit has no such tie. I don’t sense her on this earth. Wouldn’t you like to join her? Make up for your time apart and be the mother you wanted to be?”
When she didn’t respond, I took a step toward the oak, my staff held firmly in my hand. Then I took another step, and another. The closer I went, the more an invisible force pushed against me, like a layer of frost clinging to my skin. Though my ears detected nothing but the whistling of wind, I heard a viciousnoreverberating in my skull. Chunhua was still resisting.
But she was weaker now, jarred by the reminder of her daughter. Her light in life. Possibly her light in death.
I stood a foot away from the oak’s wide trunk. My eyes traced the lines of the aged, flaking bark. I reached for my purification talisman. At the same time, the eyeless face of Chunhua’s spirit flashed before me, just inches from my nose. I sucked in an involuntary breath.
I can’t go yet!
I gave her a stern look. “Neither can you stay.”
Before the spirit could scream, I thrust the Fu talisman through her chasmal mouth, skin tingling against the pinpricking cold, and placed it against the tree trunk. As the paper touched bark, I stamped my staff against the earth, my chants harmonizing with the ringing bells.
The spirit evaporated.
Warmth shot up my fingers, spreading across my body. It seemed to come from everywhere—the earth, the air, the tree before me whose lines suddenly appeared less jagged, less threatening.
And then the oak began to glow, illuminating the dark-red characters running down the yellow talisman. A relieved sigh brushed against my hair, so different from the angry presence from moments ago. It wasn’t quite like forgiveness, but it was freedom no longer tethered by human cares. I felt invisible fingers trace my cheek, soothing the ache.
And then the spirit of Liu Chunhua left, off to reunite with her child.
But her qi remained.
Purified, it no longer radiated a frigid, evil aura. Instead, the energy, once powered by intense hatred, manifested itself as thick white tendrils of smoke sweeping off the tree and gathering into a floating, dense mass. Just like the qi released by the jiangshi I’d encountered on the abandoned battlefield.
Quickly, I turned to Ren’s unmoving form and shook my staff again. “Rise.”
His body obeyed, unfolding into a tilted but standing position. At the movement, he let out a tortured groan, eyes still closed. Our connection pulled at my energy with just the tiniest tug, a sensation that, normally, I hardly noticed. The oncelively prince now looked like the reanimated corpses I was accustomed to, stiff and gray, awaiting my commands. A few days ago, I would’ve thought nothing of it. But in that moment, it just felt wrong.
Shaking off my unease, I bid him to approach the ethereal qi, which was about ready to dissipate back into the universe from which it’d come. “Take it,” I said.
Ren’s arms obeyed, stretching forward so that his hands could cradle the condensed qi despite the odd angle of his elbows. As soon as his skin made contact, the smoke seeped into his palms, spreading across his body. Ren inhaled sharply, as if he’d been in the throes of drowning.
