Page 2
Until now, that is.
Part
One
The Death God
is Sick of Flowers
Chapter One
The other gods only come to me when they’re dying.
Or when they believe themselves to be dying, which is often a different matter. For divine beings who can command the seas and call upon thunder, travel miles within seconds and summon weapons with only a flick of the wrist, they can be startled quite easily. It is a strange side effect of the power that runs through our veins: It distorts the senses and amplifies everything, turning the most offhand remark into a grievous insult, the slightest threat into a fatal blow.
In only the past decade, I have tended to scratches so shallow they had all but healed on their own by the time the god showed up to my cottage, weeping and whimpering; a case of purple lips that turned out to be cherry juice stains; and a mild cough that was instantly resolved with a few sips of dew.
But when the door bursts open, I can tell it is different this time. I drop the peony I’m holding and shoot to my feet, taking in the two gods outside.
“Help him,” Hanchen demands. He’s panting, shaking beneath the weight of the other god, Yuemo, whose entire body is slumped against his. At first I almost do not recognize them. Every time I’ve seen them since our schooling years together, Hanchen is always laughing loudly at his own jest, his bright eyes curved into crescents, as charming as you would expect a god of fame to be. Yuemo, meanwhile, is always silent and stony-faced, as difficult to read as the dreams he controls. Yet now, it is Hanchen who is entirely serious, the space between his brows drawn with worry, and Yuemo who sends me a feeble smile.
My gaze moves downward, and my stomach tightens. It is difficult to see clearly with his blood-matted robes in the way, but the shape of the shadows and the odd angle at which Yuemo is leaning to the side reveals enough.
The flesh on his left calf has been carved off, exposing the white glisten of bone.
“Manners,” Yuemo murmurs. “Don’t be—so rude.”
Hanchen shoots him an incredulous, half-wild look. “You cannot seriously be fixated on proper etiquette right now—”
“Hanchen.”
“Fine.” Hanchen grits his jaw and dips his head in my direction. “Please. Please, help him—”
“Come inside,” I tell them. My heart thuds against my ribs as I cross the small space to lead them in, my arm coming around Yuemo’s other side to support him. I feel him sway before I lower him slowly to the single bed in the center of the cottage, letting him recline against the curved oak frame. “Lie down first. Now let me see—and don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Yuemo croaks out.
“I was talking to Hanchen,” I clarify, glancing over at the other god. Even in the warm afternoon light, his face is pale and fragile as the cracked porcelain bowl on my nightstand, his forehead beaded with sweat. “Everything will be fine.”
I am almost impressed by how steady my voice comes out, how clear and confident, betraying none of the nerves plucking at my gut. There is no room for fear, only focus, I remind myself. An old motto from my days as a young god, a time spent sheltered in gilded classrooms, buried in scrolls and instructions, competing with the other hungry, inexperienced students to prove that I could be the best healer of them all.
Only focus.
Very carefully, I unroll Yuemo’s robes, pushing them up to the knee.
A tight breath of pain leaves his lips.
“Sorry,” I say, crouching to inspect the damage up close. Surprise runs through me, with horror on its heels. It is a clean cut, right against the bone—any deeper or faster and the entire lower leg would have been cut off. It’s too clean. Not an accident at all.
I swallow my questions for later.
“How severe is it?” Hanchen whispers. “Can you—can you heal him?”
“I will try,” I reassure them both. “Give me a moment.”
Without another word, I spring up and hurry out through the sliding back door, into the garden. It is only a small patch of earth above the sea, stretching around the balcony, but it has everything I need: ripe longevity peaches and red berries bursting with honey, stalks of fresh lemongrass and azaleas and blooms of spirit-quieting chamomile. When I breathe in, the scent of seawater and the fragrance of flowers wash away the foul blood stench. I find what I am looking for easily. The lotuses rise from the pond, standing straight in the breeze, their petals clean and wax white despite the mud they’re planted in. I plunge my whole arm into the freezing water and feel for the sturdiest root, my movements quick, steady.
The long sleeves of my robes drip water in a trail over the floor when I return, the lotus root held firm in my hand.
