Page 3

Hanchen’s eyes widen. “Is that—”

“For his leg,” I confirm. I lower myself until I am at eye level with Yuemo. His breathing is shallow, his dark hair damp. I can see the green-blue veins branching out over his neck like poisonous weeds, the shudder of each pulse. “I won’t lie to you: This will be extremely painful. In order for the lotus to attach itself to your shin, the wound must be opened farther before closing. But you must hold very still, or else your body may reject it and self-destruct.”

“Self-destruct,” Hanchen repeats under his breath, his fists clenching over the pillow where Yuemo lays his head. He sounds like he is choking on the words.

“Just do it,” Yuemo says to me, so quiet I have to crane my neck to hear him. “I won’t move.”

I do not hesitate. I cannot hesitate at a time like this. I guide the lotus root up until it is positioned perfectly below his knee, until plant and bone are touching. It looks absurd. Impossible. I sense their simmering doubts, see the questioning glance that passes between them, but I shut it out. I shut the entire world out, the hushed lapping of waves outside, the silver tinkling of wind chimes, the sunlight pressed like a palm against my closed eyelids, then call upon my power.

Every god’s power comes from a different source within them. For some, it is rage: They need only imagine the last time they were wronged, a gross betrayal, another god whose face they would most dearly like to punch, and their blood will fill with lightning, and their energy will blaze through them in a brilliant, violent wave. For some, it is gentler, like nostalgia. They can recall any happy memory from their childhood, the sweetness of a peeled persimmon, the delight of watching a wooden horse gallop around the celestial courtyards, the freedom of flying on the pearl-scaled back of a dragon, the embrace of their mother upon coming home. There are even those who dream of something as frivolous as love: cups of plum blossom wine set out on a table; a gentle hand brushing a stray petal from their hair; waking from a nightmare and finding instant comfort, arms to hold them, a voice to ground them.

But I am too exhausted for anger, and I have been left alone for so long that the very idea of company feels like an absurd luxury.

When I want power, what I dream of is power itself.

Cold, breathtaking, incinerating power. The only thing you can count on across the Three Realms. It is all I’ve ever wanted, ever since my parents were driven down to the Mortal Realm as punishment. They deserved it, the other gods like to remind me. My parents had always been lesser gods, mere shadows beneath the sun of the Celestial Emperor, and they had made the unforgivable mistake of trying to warn the mortals of a coming earthquake. None of the mortals had listened to them, of course; when my parents appeared in their villages, frantic and begging for them to leave, they were dismissed as drunk or possessed or simply having lost their minds. But even though they’d failed, the crime lay with the simple fact that they had tried. They had risked meddling with hundreds of thousands of mortal fates, ruining the plans already laid out by the Heavens.

When I close my eyes, I can recall the very last time I saw their faces. How their divinity had faded like the moon at dawn, how they had fallen into the vortex, their hands bound, their bodies to be swallowed and spat back out into mortal forms. How my mother’s bleak eyes had found mine in those final moments, her mouth forming the silent shape of a wish: Make us proud.

I swore that I would. I would have everything they’d been denied: recognition for my talents, reverence and respect, a proper title. I would make myself useful, even if that meant being used, no matter what I had to give up first. And I gave up decades upon decades, refusing joy when it was offered to me, declining to join in on drunken trips to the peach blossom forests so I could work on my healing techniques, swallowing my pride when I was sent away from the main palace to an isolated little cottage, where the gods could come and go as they pleased but where I’ve remained. Another punishment for the lowly daughter of exiles.

The words spin through my mind like a spell: I will remake myself. I will rise from all this. Take power by the cup and drink it. I will become the Celestial Healer, and my brilliance will be such that it will obliterate the past and blaze forth into the future.

Now, my divinity flows through my extended wrists and out through my palms in a fierce, building rush. The first burst of power is always a relief, as simple and painless as exhaling. But continuing is what makes it so difficult. It is like forcing yourself to keep breathing out even when your lungs are already empty.

My skin burns. Every muscle in my body winds tighter and tighter.

Yuemo starts screaming.

It’s a horrible, guttural sound, punctuated by gasps, which means the lotus root is either working or failing terribly. I resist the overwhelming urge to look. Doing so will only break my focus, and then I will be guaranteed to fail.

“What are you doing to him?” Hanchen’s voice comes close to my ear, sharp and terrified. “Stop. Stop it— This doesn’t look right—”

I can only ignore him and the growing ache in my wrists and the slimy, spine-tingling noises created by the plant as it changes, the susurration of flesh melding into the root’s thin, string-like fibers. I do not think I have the spare energy to speak, even if I could. This will work. It has to.

“Look at him. He’s in pain.”

The screams continue, louder, impossibly loud. Everyone has a threshold for pain, and as Yuemo’s throat gurgles with fresh blood, I realize with a bolt of unease that he has already passed it. Any longer, and I might risk fracturing his soul.

But once started, the enchantment cannot be stopped.

“Leave him,” Hanchen snaps. “You’re going to kill him if you—” He breaks off.

The room falls quiet.

I lower my arms at last, catching my breath, and open my eyes. Relief trickles down my throat, cold and sweet as nectar. The root is no longer visible. In its place is Yuemo’s healed leg, the skin new, moon white and unscathed, as though nothing had ever happened. The only evidence of the wound is the blood splattered across his plum-purple robes and the sickly shade of his complexion—but even that is changing, the color slowly returning to his cheeks.

“Thank you,” Yuemo whispers. He’s staring down at his own leg in disbelief. He lifts it a few degrees. Flexes his foot. Bends and straightens it. “I— Thank you. This is incredible.”

“It won’t be quite as strong as your original leg,” I warn him. My head is dull and fuzzy, my mouth painfully dry. I feel I could drink the sea if I wanted, or collapse onto the chair behind me and sleep for a century, but I will myself to stay on my feet. “If someone happens to strike at the same spot again, it will be an obvious weakness.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Hanchen says quickly. Within seconds, he appears to have transformed into a different person—or rather, back into his old self. Dimples flash when he smiles at me, as if we are old friends, speaking over cups of chrysanthemum tea and not pools of blood. “We owe you, truly. Now I see why they say you’re the best healer to have been born in centuries.”

That is a common mistake: I was not born a healer. I was not born anything except a small god like my parents, a mere speck among the stars, fated for irrelevance until I made myself into something better.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Hanchen continues. “Only palace gossip, but you know how gossip tends to be more accurate than what is found in the official reports . . . They say that you are being considered for the role of Celestial Healer.”

My heart skips. I try not to look too eager, try to act like I have not waited most of my life just for this. “Truly? There are so many other gods of healing to choose from, and only one role . . .”