A Magic Steeped in Poison, page 10
“Some shénnóng-shī have healing powers,” I add. “They look inside you to see what sickness there is, and help to draw it out. My—” I almost say mother, even though those in the capital may not yet know she is dead. “My teacher always taught me Shénnóng chooses each of us for a reason,” I mumble, knowing I need to be more careful of my words next time. I pretend to sip at my soy milk so that someone else can speak.
Mingwen nods. “They brew powerful magic. I saw it for myself once, when a cup of tea drew the age out of a person’s face. Made him look ten years younger!” She then clears her throat, as if embarrassed to be part of the conversation.
I wonder what sort of recognition my mother would have received if she had remained at the palace and practiced her art here. In our village, she was sometimes mistaken for Father’s assistant, or turned away from patients due to their preference for a “properly trained” physician. I know it always hurt her, even though she never stated it out loud.
“Why can’t you make everyone strong and young?” Qing’er blurts out with excitement. “Wouldn’t that solve all our problems? Wouldn’t Dàxī be the most powerful kingdom in all the world? We’d have soldiers who could destroy everything in their path!”
“Good question!” Lian claps him on the back. “The magic is temporary. It takes something out of the shénnóng-shī to use it. Once my teacher needed to send an urgent message across Dàxī. The messenger traveled for three days and three nights without rest, but in turn, my teacher was unable to leave his bed for almost a week. We do not have enough shénnóng-shī in the kingdom specializing in this particular type of magic to keep all our soldiers going for so long.”
“The more you ask of the magic,” I say, “the more it takes, either from the one who casts or the one who receives.”
“What else do they say about us?” Lian asks, still amused.
“That the shénnóng-shī deal in secrets,” Mingwen says, her interest outpacing her suspicion. “Many of you don’t accept payment in coin, only in truths.”
“They say you will require payment years later because of the poison you put in the tea. It may seize you in the middle of the night and kill you,” Qing’er rambles on, before looking at us with worry. “Is it true? You don’t seem like murderers.”
Lian and I can’t help ourselves. I double over, scarcely able to breathe, while Lian laughs so hard she has to wipe tears from her eyes. Qing’er looks at the spectacle of us, bewildered, while Mingwen huffs beside him.
“What sort of demons do you think we are?” I can’t help but sputter through my mirth.
Mingwen stands, scowling again. “Forget it,” she snaps.
Lian gets to her feet, too, and helps her gather our used bowls and utensils. “We’re happy to answer any of your questions. I used to believe so many rumors, but I would have never known what is true and what is a lie until I started my apprenticeship.”
Mingwen nods after considering this, slightly appeased. “I suppose you are not all bad.”
With the four of us, it takes no time at all before everything is packed away. As Mingwen secures the lid onto the top of the basket, she pauses.
“I … probably shouldn’t tell you this,” she says, glancing at the door to make sure no one else is listening, before looking back at me. “The steward knows you are the one who took the snacks to the marquis. She will be coming to find you soon.”
With that cryptic warning, she hurries outside before I have a chance to ask her any questions.
“Oh no,” Lian says to me, eyes wide as saucers. “I would make myself scarce if I were you.”
“Grandmother!” Qing’er exclaims. Before Lian and I can even move to save ourselves, Steward Yang strolls in through the opened doors.
Dressed in a dark gray robe with a black sash, not a hair out of place, Steward Yang examines the room. Although she is not a particularly tall woman, her presence is commanding. She makes me want to stand up straighter and check my collar to make sure my appearance is as it should be.
“You!” She catches sight of me and stalks over, grabbing my arm. I am rooted in place, not knowing where to turn or where to flee. Lian is no help; she looks as petrified as I am.
“Laughing, the two of you? Think it’s all a joke? Pretending to be someone else for a day?” Steward Yang’s voice starts out deceptively low, but increases in volume quickly, until her words come out as a yell. “Conspiring to make a fool out of me? Make a fool out of my departments?!”
Her nails dig into the soft skin of my arm, making me wince. “Competitors are to remain to themselves. Not cavort with court officials. Not play with costumes.
“And you!” With her other arm, Steward Yang points an accusing finger at Lian, who puts the table between us as if it would be enough to save her. “I recognize you. I remember you from when you were young. Always getting into trouble. Always underfoot. I was too soft on you, thinking you a child. I had hoped that the Esteemed Lu would have taught you manners.
“But now I discover the two of you are sneaking around my kitchens. I’m sure Minister Song would love to hear how competitors like you are pretending to be maids, traipsing around the palace, making a mockery of the competition. He would love to hear what sort of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Fear gives way to annoyance, then to anger. It brings forth the same feeling of choking helplessness I had standing before the marquis, and those red-faced, drunken fools, who can break the rules without a care. They do not have their reputations and their futures at stake in this competition. Their fortunes are aligned, their futures secure. They will go on to receive the training they need to enter the trials regardless of the outcome. And as for me … I will lose my sister like I have already lost my mother.
I snatch my arm out of her grasp and snarl at her, “Some of the other competitors are enjoying private audiences with the marquis himself. How is that fair? I know many of the kitchen staff have been to his residence, so you must have known about these transgressions. Why did you not inform the minister immediately?”
Steward Yang blanches at the mention of the marquis. “How do you know that?” she demands. “What did you see?”
I realize she must have believed I only passed the dishes to the servants of the household. She didn’t know I saw who the marquis was entertaining within his private chambers.
Lian pounces to my rescue. “Beloved Auntie Yang—” She links her arm with the older woman, laying on her charm. “We have tried to be helpful, to keep our hands from lying idle, but we failed you in our attempts. You are right; you should indeed inform the minister of all we have seen. Tell him you were the one who provided us with the wisdom and the courage to do the right thing.”
Steward Yang now looks like a rabbit in a trap, brushing Lian off and shaking her head. “No … I realize now. There is no need for that, I assure you.”
“But you taught us such an important lesson!” Lian exclaims with exaggerated sincerity. “We have no choice but to follow—”
“Oh, stop it, foolish girl!” Steward Yang snaps. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, massaging one temple with her fingers. “The longer I remain in the palace, the more it drains the life out of me.”
“Come, sit, Auntie,” Lian says, gentler now, leading her to a stool.
I catch a whiff of something when she walks past me—the distinct odor of the bark from the chénxiāng tree, and the sharp sweetness of dried tangerine peel. Medicinal smells that were often found in my father’s workshop. Peering closer, I can see the sallow tinge of her skin, and the purple shadows under her eyes. This woman is ill, and from the look of the lines pulled taut around her mouth, she is also in pain.
“Are you feeling quite all right, Grandmother?” Qing’er was hovering at the door during our argument, but he now presses closer, tucking himself under her arm.
“Yes, don’t worry about me, Qing-qing.” She sighs. “It’s only a headache that won’t go away.”
Even though she came in here accusing us of deception, I feel nothing but pity for her at this moment. Father’s teachings continue to hold fast in my heart: I cannot stand by while someone is suffering.
“Can I pour you a cup of tea?” I ask. “It might help.”
She is already turning away, muttering about other tasks to attend to, but Qing’er starts to massage her shoulders helpfully.
“You always talk about how it’s unfair that the shénnóng-shī serve the courtly folk,” he says, “but now this is our chance! We can finally see the magic for ourselves. Like the teahouses along the river, with the music and the pretty ladies!”
Color blooms on Steward Yang’s pinched face, as if she’s embarrassed by the young boy’s innocent words.
Lian encourages her with a smile. “Ning’s father is a physician. She might be able to help.”
Steward Yang looks at Lian, then at me.
“Go! Go!” Qing’er chirps. “Before she changes her mind!”
I head to the cabinet against the wall, where our ingredients are stored. The tea leaves we have in our room are a common loose-leaf variety but are still higher quality than anything we could ever purchase back in the village. And I have some remnants of the osmanthus flowers from my disastrous encounter in the first round of the competition—the tea the judges never tasted.
Displayed in the cabinet are also several tea sets. I pick one that is the color of cream with a brush of blue along the edge, but my eyes also linger on the others: cool white with a hint of green or crackled gray. Back home, my uncle is a merchant who travels the region to sell both tea and pottery from our village. In his study, there is a shelf containing various tea wares he’s collected throughout his travels, and he loves to show off his treasures. How one was bestowed by this high official or gifted by that famous ship’s captain. I was never permitted to touch them, only to admire them from a distance. But here, even the servants are permitted to use such lovely wares.
It does not take long for the water to boil in the earthen pot. The leaves steep, then I pour the tea into a cup, followed by two tiny osmanthus blooms. They float to the surface of the tea, caressed by bubbles.
Although my mother’s favorite flower was the pomelo, it only bloomed in spring for a brief time. In the summer, she preferred the osmanthus, which carries a sweet fragrance. In autumn, the scent of the flower turns, and it is harvested for wine instead. In one of Mother’s stories, the first osmanthus tree grew so tall and abundant, it once overshadowed the moon itself. The Sky Emperor, enraged, punished the negligent immortal responsible for pruning the heavenly forest. He was tethered to it forever, living out his eternal life no more than ten steps away from the great tree. On nights when the moon is cast in shadow, it is because the woodcutter has fallen asleep again.
Steward Yang picks up the cup and inhales. “It smells like peaches,” she says, surprised.
Even though Qing’er still wants to chatter away, Lian takes him away to the side of the room to show him something, understanding that I require concentration to practice my art.
My mother used her shénnóng-shī skills to coax the truth out of the soul, the problems that worried at the edges of the mind. Like the shadows of the moon, the pruning of branches from a tree. I asked it to reveal the hidden memories of the judges in the competition, and now I want to unveil the cause of the steward’s pain.
“Let the tea flow through you and bring you comfort,” I whisper. She drinks and I close my eyes. Ready to communicate, ready to receive.
A sharp pain quickly pricks the middle of my forehead, like the point of a needle. Then it snaps outward, fracturing from the center. I hiss from the sharpness of it, then the pain funnels into my mouth, causing a bitterness that spreads from my tongue to my throat.
“What’s happening?” I hear her voice, dimly, from a distance. I force myself to inhale, breathe through it. Was this what my mother felt when she opened herself up? Did she take the pain of others into herself? An image spreads in my mind, expanding like watercolor on paper.
I am both inside and outside of myself.
I can feel the firm surface of the table underneath my arm, but I am also somewhere else. Floating above us, watching the steward looking at me. I wish, once again, that Mother was here to show me, to teach me …
Did people watch her with luminous eyes, expectant and afraid?
The pain isn’t only in my head. It extends like roots, tendrils worming their way through my body—her body. Vines choke my heart, squeezing my organs, until it is difficult to breathe.
It’s the worry that is undoing her. The anxiety eating away a hollow in her belly, the thoughts keeping her up late at night.
With a gasp, my eyes snap open.
“Qing’er!” I call out, and the boy is quick to appear at my side. “Go to the storeroom and fetch a few pieces of dāngguī, and five handfuls of dried huáng qí. Try to pick the thinnest strands you can find.”
He nods and runs through the door.
Steward Yang sets down her cup. “Why? What did you see?”
Without the rest she needs, her body will only grow weaker. Dryness in the mouth, affecting the way things taste, loss of strength in her limbs, difficulty catching her breath … and eventually far graver effects.
“I think there is something you are terribly worried about…” I try to untangle the symptoms from the cause, the phantom ache in my head still ringing. “No, not something … someone. Someone close to you, as close to you as a part of your body. It’s keeping you up at night.”
“Like carving out my organs,” she whispers.
Mother used to call us her dear ones, her xīn gān băo bèi. Her heart and her organs, an irreplaceable part of her. Shu and I would laugh at her exaggerated affection, but we loved her attention.
It finally dawns on me. I should have seen it sooner. “Your daughter.”
She nods. “Chunhua was picked to be the emperor’s handmaiden. I was so proud … she’s clever. Even the emperor himself praised her once. She was happy with her position, until the illness came last winter. All the servants of the emperor’s personal residences have been shut into the inner court. No one in, no one out. I have not seen her for two seasons!” She trembles, and Lian places a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“We’ve all heard about the emperor’s illness,” Lian says. “The news has already reached the border towns.”
“Yes, you would know, wouldn’t you? The ambassador’s daughter.” Steward Yang sniffles, but her tone is now resigned. “There have been … rumors as well. Rumors that the emperor himself has been poisoned by the Shadow, that he is permanently bedridden, which is why he has not shown his face in months.”
The thought is troubling, but it would explain the lack of his presence.
“The emperor must need to eat,” I say. “Can’t you get a message to your daughter somehow through the kitchen deliveries?”
The steward shakes her head. “The inner palace has its own kitchen. When we deliver our goods, we leave them in the courtyard. The staff pick up what they need, then we return to collect the rest. I’ve tried before to supervise the delivery, but they speak through the gate and ask us to leave. The physicians say it is for our own protection, but … I fear the worst.”
Qing’er runs in with the requested ingredients in hand, disrupting the somber atmosphere. I pour the ingredients into an earthen pot that can withstand the heat of coals, just like the pot that held our breakfast earlier. I pour the hot water over the dried herbs and allow the water to settle. The medicinal musk wafts into the air, tingling my nose.
I always thought it was my father who wanted to help everyone in the village, even if it put the family at risk and attracted the attention of the governor. I never understood why. I resented our threadbare clothes, how some days Mother had to stretch a handful of rice into congee. I wondered why Mother always helped him without question. But now I can see why. If you can feel someone else’s suffering, how can you look away?
I convince myself it’s only the steam making my eyes water.
The steward suddenly grabs my hands, insistent. “I heard the shénnóng-shī can send messages across distances. That you can whisper a word into the night and it will find the target. Can you do that for me? Can you send a message to my daughter?”
I shake my head. “I wish I could. I don’t know how to send messages through walls or speak to someone in dreams. It may be something a truly powerful shénnóng-shī is able to do, but I have never learned it.”
Steward Yang pulls back, folding her arms over her chest. “Sometimes I wish I were the Shadow. Able to step through walls and hide in the darkness. I always thought the palace was a refuge from the harsh reality of life, but now I know it is a prison.”
I stir the tonic in the pot with a wooden spoon, ensuring that it remains at a simmer and not a boil. The thought of the emperor shut in his grand palace leaves me feeling unsettled, and I remember what the Esteemed Qian hinted at: Change is coming.
When the tonic is done, I strain it using one of the resting pots, then pour it into a bowl. The color of the liquid has darkened considerably, into an unappealing brown. I bring it over to the steward, setting it in front of her.
“You have to sleep,” I tell her. “Without sleep, you cannot be ready if she needs you. How can you take care of your heart if your mind is slow?”
She grumbles at the lecture but places her hands around the bowl. “Look at me, listening to a mere child. I’m getting muddled in my old age.”
“Grandmother.” Qing’er hugs her from behind, sweet as malt sugar. “You are still young.”
Steward Yang smiles at that and lowers her head to blow on the surface of the tonic.
“Wait!” I jump up and return to my room to fetch a small bundle from my dressing table. “This will make it easier to drink, if you like.”
