by Jeff Wheeler
“No,” Damanhur said, his brows bristling.
“Trust me. You will not succeed without her help. Nor would she without yours. There is a reason I require you both for this mission. There is power in the balance between the sexes. Without that balance, either of you would fail alone. Please, Kunmia. Hear me out.”
Kunmia approached the chair again. One of the leopards growled.
“Tush,” the king said, jabbing it with his shoe. “Now, let me speak plainly. What Bao Damanhur told you was the truth.”
Bingmei squinted at that, and the king held up his hands placatingly.
“It just wasn’t all of it,” he conceded. “As you know, the name Wuren means ‘someone without a home.’ Without a country. Someone all on their own. That is true. But you were correct in divining he is more than just a common man. That man is Prince Rowen of Sajinau. Who—I will add—has abandoned his father’s kingdom and forsaken fealty to his father. He masquerades as Bao Damanhur’s servant, but clearly the disguise did not fool you, Bingmei. A testament to your insight.”
As he spoke, Bingmei stared at the stranger more closely. There was something regal about his bearing. There was a quiet discontent in him and, yes, the propensity for deception she’d sensed before. He approached them, eyeing Budai with a small frown.
“I know your father, Prince Rowen,” Kunmia said with a tone of disappointment. “He’s an honorable man.”
“I don’t disagree,” he replied, keeping his features guarded.
“His father chose his older brother, although they are very close in age, to become the crown prince,” said Budai. “A decision that has not settled well with His Highness.”
Damanhur snorted and turned away.
“That is all you need know of their sad story,” Budai said. “I think it becomes clearer, then, why discovering Fusang is of paramount importance for him. I admire Prince Rowen’s ambition. I, too, was a second son, although my father chose me over my elder brother. It is my wish that your two ensigns join for this mission. In my heart, I do not believe you can succeed without each other.”
“But who will lead it?” Kunmia asked.
“You, of course,” said King Budai gravely.
Damanhur turned, scowling, his brows furrowed. “I will not serve beneath someone who has not defeated me.”
“Or you will not serve beneath a woman?” Kunmia asked.
“Your sex makes little difference to me,” Damanhur said hotly. “Nor would it protect you.”
His arrogance was appalling. Bingmei had no doubt that Kunmia would win such a contest.
“That,” King Budai said with a chuckle, “was ill-advised. Be sensible, Damanhur. Surely you know her reputation.”
“I do,” he answered. “But mine is of equal consequence.”
“So if she bests you, then you agree to accompany her ensign on this mission? I want it to be clearly understood that you would owe her allegiance for the duration. You would be second.”
The man nodded firmly.
“Very well. I find those terms agreeable. Master Kunmia? Do you accept this challenge from your rival? If you are defeated, your ensign will serve under his for the duration?”
Kunmia nodded sternly.
“Excellent!” Budai exclaimed. “When will you face each other? It must be soon, before the Dragon of Night rules the sky!”
“Tomorrow,” Kunmia said, bowing her head slightly to Damanhur.
He snorted. “So be it.”
Bingmei saw the gleam in Budai’s eyes, smelled a hint of satisfaction from him. He was pleased with the outcome. Either way, he would accomplish his desire of unifying their two ensigns.
CHAPTER SIX
Two Masters
Bingmei felt the magic of the Phoenix Blade calling to her, drawing her toward it. She was attracted to it, compelled by it, hungered for it. Never had she felt this way about a weapon or an artifact. The compulsion was so strong it pulled a piece of herself out of her body. She looked down at her body, eyes closed, asleep on the decorative bed in the small state room in King Budai’s palace. Then her ghostly form walked away, down the dark corridor, pulled toward the blade. Her ghost feet made no sound.
A few small oil lamps provided enough light for her to see the detailed carvings on the wall panels. The symbols were primarily of frogs and toads. A queer eagerness thrilled inside her, a desperate longing for the sword. It led her to it—down the corridor, to the left at the fork. She could sense its force tugging at her soul. The abandoned corridors were full of small stands demonstrating the king’s vast wealth. But they were all trinkets—meaningless. There was only one item of value in the manor.
The Phoenix Blade. And in her heart she felt it belonged to her.
She finally reached the last passageway and approached the palace vault. The magic urged her toward the two sentries standing guard, and she cringed internally, fearing they would notice her. She could smell them, even in her ghost state, and they had the sour smell of boredom. She could not see herself, but she could smell herself, too, and wondered if it were a dream or a vision of some sort.
She passed through the door as easily as if she were the killing fog.
There were two men on the inside. One was King Budai’s steward, a man named Guanjia. He would get the sword appraised, valued, and find a place to store it amidst Budai’s vast wealth. A tall, thin man—as bald as his master—he had served Budai’s father for many years. His eyebrows were gray with age. Along with Guanjia was the man Bingmei had noticed earlier, the self-exiled prince. Wuren. Rowen.
The two stood over an open box, rectangular in shape, made of expensive sandalwood with a velvet lining. Within the box was the Phoenix Blade, sheathed in a beautiful meiwood scabbard. She saw tendrils of magic radiating off the hilt, invisible to the natural eye, but quite plain to her in her spirit form.
Rowen was eyeing the blade with keen fascination. The lemony scent of greed hung in the air, stronger here than it had been in the hall.
“And how much do you think Budai would pay for it?” Rowen asked softly, his hands clasped behind his back. He was calm on the exterior, but Bingmei could sense his desire for the weapon burning under the surface.
“It’s hard to say, my lord,” Guanjia replied with an evasive tone. He was a shrewd bargainer. Especially if he knew he possessed an item someone else coveted. “Can one set a price on so deadly a thing? Kunmia Suun hasn’t agreed to sell it yet. She may take it back to her quonsuun when she goes. But I know King Budai will make her a formidable offer.”
“Isn’t it safer here in Wangfujing?”
Guanjia shrugged. “I should think so. Once word gets out that she has it, there will be many outlaws striving to steal it back. It’s a danger to whoever attempts to hold it. Or use it. Another battle could be deadly.”
Bingmei did not want King Budai to have it. She felt a strange kinship with the blade, something that had budded inside her the first time she’d seen it, and bloomed when she’d touched it. She’d invoked its magic unwittingly and nearly killed herself. Yet that danger only made it more intriguing to her. With a blade like that, would she be powerful enough to kill her family’s murderer, the Qiangdao named Muxidi? The thought tantalized her.
The prince’s head turned suddenly, as if he’d heard something. He looked back at the room, searching for something.
“Are you all right?” Guanjia asked.
Bingmei felt a twisting feeling inside her. She didn’t understand what it meant, but it was uncomfortable.
“Are we alone?” the prince asked.
Guanjia turned around, gazing at the vault. There were so many decorative chests and boxes around, each one worth a small fortune. The thought of the king owning the Phoenix Blade and stowing it in such a box, another possession to be coveted but not used, made her feel enraged. Or was it the sword’s feelings she was experiencing?
“Well . . . yes, we are,” Guanjia said. “The guards are outside.” He shrugged and held up hi
s hands. “There is no one else here.”
The prince pursed his lips, nodding, but she sensed his growing discomfort. “Never mind about the sword. Tell me how much money I have left.”
“Your inheritance is dwindling quickly,” Guanjia said.
“How can that be?”
Guanjia chuckled. “You chose to stay at the palace, my lord. You knew it would not be for free. King Budai is generous, but he’s no fool. You’ve eaten from his table, sent his servants to do your business, and you’ve dined well in town, have you not? The clothes you’ve purchased. All of this adds up.”
A sharp smell, the tang of disappointment and frustration, roiled off Rowen, although his exterior remained calm. “It should have lasted much longer than this.”
“Allow Budai his games, my lord,” said Guanjia soothingly. Yet Bingmei smelled his ulterior motives. His job was to bleed the prince dry, one he had taken to with relish. “Use him as he uses you. With his sponsorship, you’re sure to find Fusang. Think of the wealth you will be entitled to! The paltry sum your father gave you as an ‘inheritance’ will be nothing compared to such a fortune. Go on this journey, and you will soon be a powerful man. More wealthy than your brother and the kings of Sajinau back a hundred years.”
The words, and the tone with which they were delivered, were intended to make Rowen covetous. The smell that followed proved they’d had the desired effect.
“I’m counting on it,” Rowen said. “Just as I’m counting on our agreement. You hear much in this court, information you don’t always pass on to Budai. When I rule in Sajinau, you will have a more powerful master who can reward your loyalty even better.” He gazed back down at the sword, staring at it hungrily. He reached out to touch it, but Guanjia quickly closed the lid.
“Patience, my lord. I’m certain your diligence will be rewarded.”
As the locks were fixed back on the box, Bingmei felt herself wrenched away from the scene. She awoke with a start, breathing fast, feeling as if she’d been holding her breath for a long time. She gasped, trying to gain air. Her skin tingled, and pinpricks of pain stabbed the ends of her fingers and toes, as if they’d fallen asleep. The drapery on the elegant bed fluttered at her sudden movement. The room was dark, but she smelled the sandalwood, the silk sheets. She shivered, heart pounding, a strange but momentous feeling rumbling through her.
Had she dreamed of the Phoenix Blade?
King Budai’s palace had a training yard that was fully enclosed. Weapons of different styles and shapes were fixed to the walls. Tall spears, hooked blades, glaives, and sai-tam. Bingmei went there to practice and found Kunmia already there, in the middle of a form. Mieshi stood watching her, arms folded, frowning. Bingmei sidled up next to her to watch Kunmia’s elegant poses interspersed with blindingly fast techniques.
“I still can’t believe that man had the audacity to challenge her,” Mieshi told Bingmei. “It’s an insult. She is more experienced than that upstart. He’s only slightly older than me, but I’ve come to learn. I wouldn’t dare challenge Kunmia Suun.”
Mieshi was always quick to take offense. She masked her feelings well, but she was highly judgmental of other people. It wasn’t an awful smell because she held herself to the same impossible standards she used for others. Her respect and honor for Kunmia was evident. She tried to be a perfect disciple, and whenever she failed, she was her own toughest critic. It drove her to do better, be better. Although Bingmei admired Mieshi, she couldn’t help but smell the disdain the woman had for her pale skin and hair. Mieshi had never said anything about it, and never would, but she didn’t need to speak the words in order for Bingmei to know her true feelings. It didn’t help that Mieshi herself was a classic beauty.
“Apparently he has a reputation in his own kingdom,” Bingmei said. “But I agree with you. He was foolish to make such a challenge.”
“She will win,” Mieshi said with conviction. “I know it.” But there was worry beneath the certainty. If Kunmia failed, it would lower her in Mieshi’s eyes.
A strong smell wafted to Bingmei’s nose, one she recognized as pride.
“If she loses, I won’t make her cut her hair,” Bao Damanhur said, approaching from around a large pillar. “I can’t abide ugly women.” He’d entered from another side of the room, perhaps hoping to catch them unawares. It might have worked if not for his tangy scent. He leaned against the pillar opposite them, arms folded, looking at Kunmia with carefully cultivated disinterest.
Mieshi’s emotions turned instantly hostile and fierce. The intensity of it made Bingmei’s eyes water.
“You have no right to challenge her,” Mieshi said, keeping her voice low, not wanting to disturb Kunmia’s routine.
“I have every right. Don’t be stupid.”
His words were barbs to her. “You are the fool here. As you soon shall see.”
“Possibly. But I was trained by the best swordsman in my land, which is a much more well-known land than these parts. I was his best student. I’m not worried.”
“You should be,” Mieshi sneered.
“What’s your name?” he asked her. Bingmei could smell that he was interested in her. Her defiance and anger appealed to him. He liked spirited women.
“Why should I tell you?”
“It’s just a name. Why be coy?”
“Why be so rude?” Mieshi shot back.
“It’s not rudeness. I’m honest. I find false humility boring. Your master has a strong reputation. The king of my land admires and respects her. But I don’t want to be admired or respected. I want to be—”
“Hated? Despised?” Mieshi said. “Those are great alternatives.”
Damanhur chuckled. “Oh, you are a rare pheasant. I’m going to enjoy plucking your feathers.”
“I am not a fowl.”
“Are you sure? Isn’t that a feather on your neck?” He reached playfully for her hair, and she snatched his wrist, squeezing it hard. Her eyes were full of venom, but she was secretly enjoying his attention. Bingmei, on the other hand, was repulsed by him.
“Do not touch me,” Mieshi warned in a low voice.
“Are you afraid you will like it?” he whispered back.
Bingmei noticed that Kunmia had finished her form and was approaching them. Some of her hair had come loose from her bun, but she was still elegant and stately.
“Are you ready to face me, Bao Damanhur?” she said.
Mieshi released his wrist, staring at him with new contempt.
A low smile tilted his mouth. “I was ready last night. Shall we call our witnesses, then?”
Kunmia bowed to him.
It did not take long to assemble those who wished to watch their duel. All of Kunmia’s ensign came, including Quion, the fisherman’s son, who gazed at the training room in wonderment. Bao Damanhur had four men in his ensign, not including Prince Rowen. His disciples all carried similar swords, and their scent bore the same signature.
King Budai and his steward arrived and took the seats at the head of the training yard. The king’s chair was not as resplendent as his seat in the throne room, but it still bore a velvet cushion. Some servants arrived carrying trays of sweet meats, wine goblets, and various dishes for the bystanders. Marenqo quickly sidled up to one of them and began sneaking morsels from the dishes.
Kunmia and Damanhur approached the king’s chair and bowed before him.
King Budai gestured for them to rise and then motioned for Guanjia to speak.
“We are gathered here to witness a competition of skill. Two masters have agreed to settle their dispute by martial contest. As it is not the goal of the ruler of Wangfujing that either should maim or harm the other, it will not be a trial of weapons but a trial of skill, of cunning, of form. The first to be rendered unconscious is the loser. Both sides have agreed that the winner will lead their combined ensigns on the agreed-upon mission. There will be no use of dianxue and no killing blows.”
Damanhur snorted at the reference to dianxue. It was
a deadly art that taught the ability to paralyze an opponent and incapacitate them with a single touch. If Kunmia Suun knew the secret of dianxue, she had not revealed it to her disciples.
Bingmei waited in anticipation for the duel to begin. So many feelings and emotions swarmed in the room, each with its own scent, creating an overwhelming stew of conflicting smells. The suspense and dread of not knowing the outcome tormented her. Part of her wanted to wait outside the training room and find out what happened later. But she had to know and did not wish to dishonor Kunmia, and so she endured the discomfort.
Damanhur and Kunmia then walked to the center of the training room and stood facing each other. They exchanged a crisp salute. Kunmia dropped into a cat stance, one arm arching above her head, the other poised in front of her. Her knees were bent, one leg in front, her foot just barely touching the floor. It was a strong defensive position.
Damanhur pursed his lips, eyeing her with a mocking tilt of his head. Then he rushed at her, showing no hesitation at all. Kunmia protected herself, her motions fast and precise. A subtle shift to her neck, and his fist sailed past her head. She counterattacked, and the two whirled and circled each other, locked in singular focus.
There was a flurry of blows, kicks, and the sound of bones striking each other. Kunmia attempted to hook his feet with low, sweeping kicks, but he knew his craft and maneuvered out of reach, blocking her kicks with his forearms. Bingmei stared breathlessly, eyes wide in wonder as she watched strike and counterstrike. She’d seen Kunmia face Qiangdao and knew how ruthless she could be. This was a contest of skill, though, not a fight to the death. Although she thought Kunmia would win, she didn’t know.
After a spinning kick by Kunmia, which struck him in the chest, Damanhur staggered back a few paces, grimacing in anger. Her kick was the first blow to have fully landed. But he was not deterred. His style was very different from hers. He kept his elbows in, his fingers like tiger claws as he raked at her face. She rarely stayed in the same place long, keeping her distance from his attacks, forcing him to chase her around the room. She caught one of his strikes and hit him beneath the arm with the sword-hand technique. His face contorted, but he slammed his elbow down on Kunmia’s arm, and it connected. This time it was Kunmia who blinked against the pain.
