A Magic Steeped in Poison, page 12
“No…” He sighs. “Hello, Ruyi.”
The handmaiden inclines her head in acknowledgment, but her hand still remains on her sword.
“I am simply not worthy.” He bows and sits down in front of the princess.
“My guards say it was like you flew down from the skies to protect me from the assassins’ arrows.” With one hand drawing her sleeve back, the princess places a scoop of tea leaves into a pot. The hot water swells and spills over onto the marble tray. “They were ready to cut you down if you were a threat,” she says lightly, as if she was speaking of someone else.
“My loyalty is to the emperor!” he protests. “I owe him my life, cousin.”
My stomach constricts for him. She wants him to break.
With a tilt of the wrist, she pours the water. The light catches the stream in a beautiful arc, filling two cups. She nudges one of the cups in his direction.
He does not move.
“You will not drink?” she asks, an edge to her voice. A deadly question.
“I will not drink before you, Highness.” He inclines his head, keeping his voice cool.
I am impressed by his restraint, by the way he allows nothing to show, even though I can feel the turmoil inside him. Something I am incapable of hiding myself.
The surface of the cup shimmers before him. No magic, but a different sort of weapon.
“You speak of loyalty to my father.” She smiles, but it’s more like a baring of teeth. “Do you think I would give you poison?”
“Before I drink, I ask that you hear my own request.” He bows his head. “And then, my life will be in your hands.”
“How dare you—” Ruyi steps forward, outraged, but the princess waves her back.
“You use words like ‘duty’ and ‘loyalty,’” the princess says, each word intended to wound. “And yet you forget where you come from.”
“I remember my place,” he concedes. “I only wish to speak with my uncle.”
“Anything you wish to say to my father, you can say to me. Cousin.” The last word uttered as a distasteful reminder of his family’s lineage.
“I only wish to ask him to reconsider our exile.” He keeps speaking, undeterred by her warning. “And to reassure him of our loyalty. These are dangerous times. With the unrest at the borders, the bandits, the threat of the northern clans … He can rely on us, for we are family—”
“Family.” The princess runs her finger over the edge of her cup. “My own family will not drink something poured by my hand.”
With one swift movement, he lifts the cup to his lips and drains it, then salutes her. He sets it down on the stone with a forceful clatter, betraying his impatience.
“Is that enough?” he asks. “Now will you allow me to speak with him?”
She leaps across the table, a flash of steel in her hand. The point of a dagger presses against his throat, but he does not flinch. He sits with his hands resting on the table. Waiting.
“I will remind you that you were banished, told never to return to Jia under threat of death.” The knifepoint trails downward, to rest over his heart, where the red seal sits, branding him as traitor.
“It is a matter of life and death, Princess,” he says, sitting utterly still.
“Whose life?” the princess asks. “And whose death?”
Kang’s hand jerks away from mine, the vision dissipating into nothing. The magic releases us from its grasp, loosening the connection between my mind and his. I did not merely listen to their conversation—I’d felt every motion, as if I were inside his body.
He does not mean her any harm. It is his own life that is in danger.
We are back in the twilight of the courtyard, on either side of the stone table. There is anguish in his expression, and I can still feel the pull of his desperation, his need to achieve the task he set out to accomplish. He fights for his people—his mother’s people, the woman who took him in as her own.
“Do you believe me now?” he asks.
I nod. I don’t trust my voice.
“Lǜzhou is not a place where shénnóng-shī care to visit,” he goes on to say. “But perhaps one day you will join me there, and you can teach us about your art. It’s a beautiful place, even with its reputation.”
His offer startles me; I remember the revulsion that caused him to pull away when he found out what I was capable of in Azalea House.
“It’s not…” He blinks. “It’s not for the reason you believe…”
He does not finish his thought, for the simple act of remembering draws it back again. The ghostly strains of a flute, floating in the air. The remnants of the Golden Key, shimmering once again into being, forces our connection back together, sharply, until we both gasp at the force of it.
He tries to fall back, to sever the memory, but it’s too late.
We return to the garden.
The dagger pointed at his heart. His words that follow: “I wonder what the people of Jia will think of a regent who is hiding the death of an emperor. I wonder if they will accept a princess who sits on a throne of lies.”
The princess sinks back in her seat, face devoid of color.
The emperor is dead. I gasp at the revelation.
The mist quickly parts as he closes the distance between us. His hands grab my shoulders.
“Listen, this is important,” he hisses. I can feel his whole body trembling. “Did you put something in the tea? Did you put in more Golden Key?”
I start to shake my head. “No…” And then I stop, because that would be a lie, and he would be able to sense it. The Silver Needle points both ways. “I don’t know. It wasn’t the Silver Needle. I think it was from … before. Something the Golden Key left behind.”
“It’s dangerous,” he says. “You have to forget what you heard. I didn’t understand, I underestimated your power—”
The wind picks up, whistling around us. We are caught in the dizzying space between memory and present.
“They will kill you.” He’s so close. His expression wild. Afraid. “I do not believe the shénnóng-shī are capable of resurrection.”
“You believe it to be true?” I whisper, not wanting to believe the palace able to contain such a large secret.
His hands drop away from me. The connection quivers between us, like the plucked string of a zither. “I have been in the capital for a few weeks,” he says, turning away so I can only see the side of his face. “Watching to see what comes in and out of the palace. The last reports said the emperor appeared gravely ill, but now … I’m not sure what Zhen is doing. Waiting to see who will reveal themselves as a potential threat? Who will offer an alliance?”
Kang paces in front of me, all composure lost. “They will kill you, do you understand? They will not hesitate.”
I hear the sound of thunder in the distance, even though the sky was clear before we entered this dreamscape. The intensity of his emotions having conjured the wind, whipping our hair across our faces. Lifting, spinning us up until our feet are dangling above the ghostly forms of our bodies. My stomach revolts at the sudden movement. I have to hold us both together, before our souls are severed and we are unable to find our way back to our physical forms.
“Kang!” I call out, fighting against the wind to maintain my grip on his shoulder. Reaching up, I dig my fingers into his neck, at the pressure point there. His eyes burn into mine. “My name, you wanted to know my name, right? It’s Ning. Zhang Ning.”
“Zhang Ning,” he repeats softly.
With a rush, we return into our bodies, a dizzying fall. I sag against the stone table for support, uncertain if my legs can hold me up any longer. Across from me, Kang pants as if he’s run a great distance.
“I’m just a girl from Sù,” I say to him. “Who will believe me, even if I try to tell them?”
A peculiar expression crosses his face. “Ning,” he sighs, and a shiver runs through me. “You … you have power. More than you know. More power than those foolish nobles in their grand residences, protected from the hardships of the world. You know what it’s like out there, living each day wondering if you will survive the next. You have hungered.”
He says this with an edge to his voice, reminding me he could have been a prince, if his father had succeeded in taking over the throne. He would be the one residing in the inner palace instead, dressed in silk. In Mother’s stories, princes never had a happy ending. They were exchanged for skinned cats, stolen away in the dark of night. They were killed in their beds while another power ascended.
It is dangerous, to be a prince.
“When she comes into power, her advisers will suggest she rid herself of her opponents. I left without my father’s knowledge, hoping she could at least spare the lives of my mother’s people.” He looks into the distance. “I hoped I could offer myself as … a hostage? An assurance? That the people of Lǜzhou will swear fealty as long as she does not do us harm. Lǜzhou has suffered enough because of my family.”
“What will you do then, if she does not agree?” I ask.
His jaw clenches. “We hope she will be different, or else we will fight to defend what is ours. She—”
“Don’t,” I warn. “The effects of Silver Needle are still active. Don’t say anything you don’t want to tell me.”
Kang hesitates, then nods. “I hope she will walk a peaceful path.”
He is a well-trained swordsman, and if the people of the Emerald Isles are the same … He speaks of rebellion.
An empire on the precipice of change. Alliances shifting at the whims of those in power. Just like the Ascended Emperor cut a swath through the provinces to secure the throne, just like his sons fought for control. One rules, one is banished.
Anything is possible now that the emperor is dead.
We all have people we care about, those we would give our lives for. It puts us in danger, or makes us dangerous. In a way, I resent the village I come from. I resent the ties that bind me there, because the people there remember my mother returning to the village, unwed and pregnant. They know my awkward ways, my ineptitude for social niceties, my many mistakes. But they are also a part of me. The dirt under my nails, the blood in my veins. I belong with those tea trees, the rice fields, the clay of the riverbanks, the fire in the kilns.
I am selfish, and I know now that I will no longer apologize for it. Let the world burn, if Shu can live.
The gong sounds. The Hour of the Thief.
“I have to go,” Kang says, yet he makes no effort to move.
“You should,” I say, yearning for him to stay.
“I’ll see you again.” It sounds like a promise. He bows, a courtly gesture wasted on someone like me. Yet I can feel the phantom pull of the thread still humming between us.
I can feel it long after he disappears into the night. Long after it feels like he was never there at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We gather to meet the judges at midday, the sun beating high above our heads as we cross the grand courtyard. Without the crowds, without the soldiers, I feel like a tiny ant crawling across the large space. Minister Song greets us at the top of the marble steps, Marquis Kuang standing beside him. I take care to keep myself at the back of the group, to hide my face so he does not suddenly recall that I am the maid responsible for the commotion in his residence two days before.
The roof of the covered balcony shields us from the sun, and we can look over the Courtyard of Promising Future to the rooftops of the palace and then the city beyond. The view is spectacular, too much to take in all at once. A black pagoda stands in the distance, the watchful tower looking over the city’s red-tiled rooftops.
“You stand before the Hall of Eternal Light.” Minister Song’s voice brings us back to the challenge at hand. “This is where the next round will be held. The competition will no longer be open to the public.”
This is not a surprise, but the competitors still murmur at each other before the minister holds up one hand to silence us.
“Still, it is a great honor to be received in this hall. It was built for the Ascended Emperor, to both honor and humble him. From this vantage point, he will remember his purpose: to protect the people of Dàxī, and to remember that even the sun can be shot down from the sky.”
I remember the legend of the archer who once rose to the greatest heights. He shot down nine of the arrogant sons of the Sky Emperor when the earth was on fire beneath them.
Just like the archers who attempted to kill the princess. But no one dares say that aloud.
Minister Song gestures to the man beside him. “Marquis Kuang?”
The nobleman steps forward, spreading his arms with a jovial grin. “I present to you a simple enough task.” A servant comes forward and bows, holding a tray on which five cups are balanced. “You will have five cups to choose from. One cup is safe. The other four cups contain poison.” He waves and the servant backs away.
“Poison!” he declares again, delighted at this challenge. But I know the truth: This competition is rigged in his favor, ensuring that his preferred competitors will have his assistance and the guidance of the Esteemed Qian. Two old men playing at courtly games, confident they will still be in power when a new dawn rises over Dàxī.
Does he know the emperor is dead? Do they all know?
“What sort of poison will you face?” he continues theatrically. “Will it be one that will rack your body with unspeakable pain? Make you bleed from every orifice? Cause you to fall asleep … forever?”
The other shénnóng-tú fret at this, but no one seems particularly afraid. It’s the most basic training of a shénnóng-tú, the discernment of common poisons. They’re expected to be able to identify them by scent, taste, and appearance. But I know that today’s challenge will involve the use of the Silver Needle; it cannot merely be a simple test of skill.
“I have arranged for the assistance of the finest entertainers in Jia.” His smile is slippery as an eel. A bell rings, and five figures walk in from the side of the hall. Five beautiful women, dressed in white skirts and white bodices, their sashes containing the faintest hint of color, their shoulders wrapped in wisps of shimmering gauze. They tuck their hands beside their hips, gracefully arch their wrists, and curtsy in unison to the marquis, ethereal in their beauty. Like they have stepped directly from a painting depicting the star goddesses of the celestial palace.
I’m sure my own mouth is open in awe, as are many of my fellow competitors’.
The marquis claps, round cheeks flushed. “Some of the greatest beauties of Jia, from Azalea, Peony, Lotus, Orchid, and Chrysanthemum—five of the oldest teahouses in the capital. They are apprentices like you, seeking to make a name for themselves.”
The competitors whisper among themselves; some of the men look as if they wished they could swallow the young women whole.
“These ladies are trained in the intricacies of the tea ceremony,” the marquis continues. “You will prepare a cup for them to drink, and they will prepare you five cups in turn. You will be permitted to select only one cup out of the five, and that is the one you will drink from.”
“How is that fair?” one of my fellow shénnóng-tú protests. “How are we supposed to discern the poison?”
“That is an excellent question.” The marquis smirks. “The emperor requires a shénnóng-shī who will be able to assist him in court, who will be able to assess danger from delegates and tributes by reading a room.”
“This is not a challenge at all.” Another young man speaks, stepping forward from the group with a bow. With fierce brows and a sharp nose, he is striking in appearance, his shaved head indicating he may have been dedicated to a monastery of one of the gods. “Beg pardon, Honored One. It is simple enough to determine whether a person is lying without the use of tea.” I suspect he may be from Yún province due to his heavy accent.
“In the venerable competition on Wŭlín Mountain, do you demonstrate your skills only by fighting to the death?” the marquis snaps, his displeasure clear. He does not like to be questioned. “Last year the finale of that competition was a Tower Rite. The competitors ascended a bamboo tower and sparred with their bare hands, without any weapons, in order to determine who would be the victor.
“Green Snake and Frozen Snow…” He names two of the most revered martial arts warriors who have come out of Wŭlín Academy. “Their weapons are spear and sword, but Green Snake won the competition against Frozen Snow without her spear, in direct hand-to-hand combat. It was a test of their balance, intelligence, and endurance, not only a test of brute strength.”
Marquis Kuang’s expression turns cold. “It is not a matter of who is able to use tea like a trained dog. We are not looking for those who can pour tea with the greatest flourish. We are looking for someone who is capable of fitting in with the court, providing sound counsel. And I have not mentioned the last and final rule of this competition.”
We all wait expectantly. Standing beside him, the entertainers offer bland, pretty smiles, unaffected by this demonstration of temper from a powerful man.
“You will be given enough tea leaves for a single cup, enough for you to tell truth from lie … without a word being uttered.”
Confused mutters sweep through the gathered shénnóng-tú. The competitor from Yún bows deeply in acquiescence to the difficulty of the challenge, and retreats back into the line. Now we understand this is a true test of our skill: a single cup of tea to read the mind of a stranger, to operate in silence, with only the magic to speak for us.
“Any other questions?” the marquis asks mockingly, his slippery smile returning.
We all cast our eyes to the ground. No one else dares to say anything.
“Good,” he says. “I will see you back in the Hall of Eternal Light when the next gong rings.” With a sweep of his sleeve, he exits the balcony, the entertainers following behind him.
