Page 68

“Because,” I reply without thinking, the answer taking even myself by surprise, for all its conviction and honesty, “I believe in you.”

He whips around, and the pain in his eyes is so bright and piercing I almost lurch back. Then his jaw tightens, his mouth cutting into a smile of self-mockery. His fingers are freezing when they grab hold of my wrist. “You believe in me?” He pulls me with him to the side, away from all the other people, where the willow trees drape their lance-shaped leaves around us like a black veil and where even the lantern lights cannot quite reach. Where his features look more ruthless and remote than ever, as if he and the darkness were cut from the same eternal elements. “What do you believe? That I am good, at heart? That I am kind, and deserving of kindness? That I would not hesitate to inflict pain on others? That I could play silly little games and pick flowers and tuck them gently in your hair like an infatuated mortal man?” He performs the motion, lifting his empty hand to brush the shell of my ear with some emotion that could be either desire or disdain.

A shiver courses deep through my bones.

“If so, you will be terribly disappointed,” he whispers. He draws a steady finger down my cheekbone, my chin, over the vein pulsing too hard in my throat. His every breath falls on my bare skin, grazing the thin fabric of my collar. “I cannot bring you flowers, Rujia. I can only bring death.”

Is that why it’s so difficult to move? Why I can only blink, mesmerized, up at him, even as I feel his knuckles brush my neck? Like an animal caught in flames, frozen to the spot by the terrifying, lethal beauty of the fire, incapable of doing anything except letting it consume them.

Then the little sense I have left rattles me free from his spell.

“Stop acting like that,” I snap, knocking his arm away.

“I’m not acting,” he returns coolly. “This is how I am. It’s how I was born, and it’s how I will be, until the end of the earth and the stars.”

“I don’t understand.” I shake my head, my nose stinging. “You were fine—you seemed happy back there. You could be happy. It’s not your fault that you were chosen as the Death God; you shouldn’t have to punish yourself just because of what you are or what the other gods say about you. Fate can be malleable—”

“Don’t,” he says, hoarse. “Don’t impose hope on me. It’s useless—”

“That’s not true—”

“Watch carefully before you make such extravagant claims, Rujia.” His eyes darken as he lifts the peony from my hand.

I stifle a sound of surprise.

Though his touch couldn’t be any more gentle, the instant his fingers brush the stem, the entire flower wilts as if exposed to one of the world’s deadliest poisons. The remaining petals fade and crumble like ash, carried up by the rising wind, over the trees that separate us from the glow of the market, disappearing when they reach the light. Belatedly, I remember how the Death God had hesitated when we found the heartfrost flower. I remember the long, black corridors of his palace, room upon barren room, no colors, no decorations, nothing growing from the stones. A place where everything had already died.

“That is what happens,” he says, “when anything alive has the misfortune of coming near me. Do you still believe that someone like me could lead a normal and happy life? That I could ever deserve peace?”

His tone is mild as water, quiet as smoke, as if the answer is expected, a forgone conclusion. But his voice trembles on the last word.

Peace.

I gaze through the gaps in the leaves at all the mortals moving through the night. If I were to leave to the Celestial Realm for a mere sixty days, then return to this very street, most of the men and women wandering around the stalls now would be buried already. Their lives are so fragile, so fleeting, their history marked by war and turmoil, their dynasty destined to fall as the ones before it. They will not know a peace long enough to last throughout their lifetime. It is like those common mortal sayings: The tea will always go cold once the guests have scattered; the banquet will always come to an end. But they are here tonight, and they’re smiling, dancing to the music. Perhaps there is no such thing as a peace that lasts. Perhaps there is only ever the brilliance of a given moment, the hope for something more.

“Yes,” I tell him, unwavering. “I do.”

Then I pick up the flower. Only the stem is left, but I move my hand slowly over it, and light glows from my palm. The air stirs. A bud forms at the end, and then petals, new as spring, unfurl from the center. The peony has lost all its color; it’s no longer that startling shade of crimson, but the pure white of snow. Irrevocably changed, yet still beautiful.

“See?” I hold it up to him.

His fingers quiver as he reaches for the flower, like a butcher who’s suddenly been asked to stitch up a wound. When he touches the petals again, they hold firm, luminous with my magic.

“It’s perfect for you,” I say, and with a sudden burst of inspiration, I stand on my tiptoes, mimicking him from earlier by tucking the peony behind his ear.

Shock flashes across his features.

I burst out laughing, the sound echoing all around us. “It really is perfect.” The bloom of white against the darkness of his hair and robes, like the lucent moon adorning the night sky. It makes him look more alive, drawing out the delicate shape of his profile.

For once, he appears at a total loss for words. His mouth parts, but all he gets out is, “Rujia.” There is fear in the way he says it, and gratitude, and indignation, and other, trickier emotions I don’t have the name for. His gaze seems to hold everything, as if he can see the deepest valleys and highest mountains and longest rivers reflected before him. As if he’s staring at the whole world.

“You can keep it. Come on,” I say, grabbing hold of the corner of his sleeve again and tugging him back out into the light with me. He doesn’t resist, though I can feel his eyes lingering on my face. “We’ve only explored half the market, and I’ve always wanted to try one of those sugar-coated haws . . .”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Junyi felt like he was being led to his execution.

His legs wobbled as he scrambled to follow the clerk across the examination compound. The sun seemed abnormally bright today, angled sharply so that it burned the surrounding walls white and lengthened the shadows of the examinees over the gravel. There must have been hundreds upon hundreds of candidates here, crammed into a tight, claustrophobic line that extended beyond the gates, through where all their friends and relatives were gazing on and sending well wishes. Soldiers patrolled the area, barking orders and patting down those who’d arrived with ruthless efficiency, swords hanging from their belts. Junyi had heard a rumor that anyone who was discovered cheating would be cut down on the spot, and though he knew that was unlikely to be true, if only because it was impractical—there were numerous instances of people cheating every exam, from copying down the classics in ant-sized characters on handkerchiefs to writing the answers on the inside of their undergarments—he still couldn’t help shuddering at the sight of the weapons.