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The Keeper glanced up with a pained expression. “Do not comment on another’s age. It’s not considered good manners anywhere, especially in the Mortal Realm.” His manner was stern yet not unkind, as though warning me of others who might take offense more easily.

I murmured a hasty apology. But the moment the Keeper turned away, Liwei leaned closer to whisper, “Some immortals choose to no longer preserve their youth.”

“Because we prefer to preserve our wisdom,” the Keeper snapped. “Your Highness, I urge you to set a better example for your study companion.”

I nodded somberly, ignoring Liwei’s glare—although I admittedly had a part in his rebuke. It was refreshing to hear someone, other than me, reprimanded for their conduct.

When the Keeper of Mortal Fates left, a tutor arrived to teach us about the constellations, then another, about herbology. I was struggling to sit still during the lengthy lesson, delivered by an unsmiling immortal with a pointed chin and pedantic air. As my eyes glazed over the pictures of flowers, all of which were beginning to look the same, my hand flew to my mouth to stifle a yawn.

Perhaps sensing my wandering attention, the teacher swung around. “Xingyin, what are the properties of this plant?” His tone was biting as he tapped the page in front of me with a slender bamboo cane.

I bolted upright, staring blankly at the picture of an unremarkable pale-blue flower with pointed petals. “Star-lilies,” its title read. Unfortunately, no other information was forthcoming.

“Umm,” I glanced wildly at Liwei. He widened his eyes at me, before closing them and letting his head droop to one side.

“Sleep!” I cried out, catching his meaning.

The teacher’s mouth pursed. “Correct. Though bitter, this wildflower can be a potent sleeping drug when consumed with wine.”

“Thank you,” I whispered to Liwei.

“You’re welcome.” A small smile played on his lips.

I had just put away the books from the last lesson when a grim-looking immortal strode toward us, his boots clicking against the marble floor. His lean face was unlined save for a deep crease in his brow and his dark hair was pulled into a topknot. His armor was crafted from flat pieces of shining white metal rimmed with gold, laced tightly together like scales over his shoulders and chest, reaching down to his knees. Red cloth covered his arms, gathered into thick gold cuffs around his wrists. A wide strip of black leather encircled his waist, set with a disc of yellow jade. Strapped to his side was a large silver scabbard, from which protruded an ebony hilt. The aura which rippled from him was as steady and strong as a sturdy oak of many years.

A Celestial soldier, just as those Ping’er and I had fled that night. A chill settled over me, my fingers curling on the table. “Why is he here? Is there some trouble?”

“General Jianyun is the highest ranked commander in the Celestial Army. He’s here to instruct us in warfare.”

“Your Highness.” He greeted Liwei with a bow. As his gaze slid to me, the lines across his brow deepened.

“General Jianyun, this is Xingyin,” Liwei gestured to me.

I bowed to the general, but he did not respond. Beneath his piercing glare, I fidgeted, unsettled by the memories his presence evoked.

“Are you interested in warfare?”

I stiffened at his sharp tone even as I floundered for an answer. I had given little thought to the grand schemes of kingdoms battling for dominance, for glory, power, and pride. My desires were humbler, smaller. All I wanted to learn was how to defend myself and protect those I loved.

“I don’t know yet. This is my first lesson,” I replied. As his expression darkened with disapproval, a spark of defiance kindled in me. “I am keen to learn. But a student’s interest also depends upon a teacher’s skill.”

His eyes bulged. I held my breath. Would he toss me out of the class? I would have deserved it, too, for my impertinence.

To my surprise, General Jianyun grinned instead. “Does Her Celestial Majesty approve of your companion?” he asked Liwei with mock incredulity.

“My mother does not involve herself in such matters” was all Liwei said, as he flipped his book open.

Though the general’s expression was one of disbelief, he said no more on the subject.

By noontime, my head throbbed from learning and my hand ached from writing. When we were dismissed for the afternoon meal, I was glad to escape to the kitchen. Carrying the tray laden with food, I headed toward the pavilion outside the Chamber of Reflection. A small sign hung over it, painted in broad black strokes with the characters:

柳歌亭

Willow Song Pavilion

“A beautiful name.” I laid out the steamed fish, tender snow pea leaves, and eight-treasures chicken on the marble table.

“A fitting one, too,” Liwei replied, placing a finger to his lips.