by Jeff Wheeler
She’d vowed to herself that when she did go back someday, it would be to restore what her family had built. It was the dream that had kept her going at first, especially during that first brutal winter.
This winter was much milder than that one had been, with less snow and milder weather than she’d seen in years. Although the season should last another cycle of the moon, already icicles were dripping and then freezing in puddles overnight, making the outer courtyard a perilous place to cross.
One day, which felt much like the rest, she practiced in the training room with Zhuyi, holding her straight sword in a low stance, mimicking her trainer’s movements. When Bingmei had asked for sword training, instead of staff, Zhuyi had been assigned to be her teacher. Although Bingmei could use all the weapons in the training room, she had always been partial to swords over staves. It was in her heritage, she imagined. The souls of her murdered parents and grandfather must have been whispering to her.
Or perhaps the hunger to improve her skills with the sword extended from her connection to the Phoenix Blade, hidden in Kunmia Suun’s private chamber. Bingmei knew where it was at all times. She longed to train with it instead. But she did not trust the strange connection she felt to it, and she dared not touch it for fear of unwittingly summoning the killing fog to the quonsuun.
“Lower, Bingmei,” Zhuyi said with an exasperated sigh. “Your mind is distracted. Concentrate.”
Realizing she hadn’t made the transition to the next move, she quickly did so, matching movement to movement again. Parry, parry, duck back—spring forward, sending the sword out like a lance. Twist, low crouch, then thrust both arms out straight, one with the sword, one with two fingers extended. The form was called the dragon straight sword, and she’d been practicing it all winter long. She felt she had nearly mastered it.
They rose as one, bringing their swords up hilt first in a swiveling move, then Bingmei tucked the blade up behind her, lowering her left hand in a salute.
Zhuyi broke her stance first and came around, inspecting Bingmei’s final form, her lips pursed critically.
“Your form is good, Bingmei,” she said. “What I worry about most is your focus. These movements have to be so practiced they come by instinct. When a Qiangdao is rushing you with a dagger, you must rely on instinct. A moment’s distraction can be fatal.”
Bingmei knew this. The training yard was much different from the thrill of combat she’d experienced on their last mission. Lieren had been much more skilled than her, and he’d been taken down by the fog. A person’s fate was arbitrary. Although she hoped to live long enough to avenge her parents’ and grandfather’s murders and restore their quonsuun, she realized it may not happen. The real struggle was not only against ambition. It was against death itself.
Some fights could not be won.
“Yes, Zhuyi,” Bingmei said.
Although they’d never been close, Zhuyi was a fair and soft-spoken person. Sometimes Bingmei envied her closeness with Mieshi, but she didn’t feel she could ever achieve such a connection with either of them. Bingmei’s ability to smell emotions sometimes seemed like a curse—she knew how people felt, but most of the time she couldn’t act on that knowledge. It made it difficult to become close to others. Even if her winter sickness had not made her looks so disagreeable, her ability ensured she would never find someone to love. No one could be that honest and true.
There were others in the training yard too, new disciples who had been brought in as children, typically orphans. This was one of the rare quonsuuns mostly inhabited by women, although there were men serving as guards and some as instructors. She glimpsed Quion lurking behind one of the support posts, anxious to go fishing again and no doubt hoping she’d join him.
“Do the form again,” Zhuyi said, this time watching her closely.
Bingmei sighed. She would rather go with Quion, but learning these skills was paramount. It was by training vigorously during the winter season that they managed to survive their missions in the Dragon of Dawn.
As she ran through the familiar movements, her white braids flapped against her vest and shirt. She loved the freedom of not wearing a wig in the quonsuun. No one here gave her queer looks. Even Mieshi never let her gaze linger on the white braids.
“Faster,” Zhuyi said. “Your mind is wandering again.”
Bingmei stifled a frown of impatience and delved into herself, clearing her mind of thought as she flowed through the form. She felt herself focusing, her internal energy building. The awkwardness she’d felt the first time she practiced these forms had waned. She was much more confident in the memorized actions, which had been handed down from master to disciple for centuries. These fighting forms were a strange bridge to the obscure past. In performing them, she felt as one with those who had come before her. Her parents. Her grandfather. And other ancestors. They, too, had performed these skills in a quonsuun. As she moved, she experienced a euphoria that accompanied the precision of the movements. Time seemed to fade. It was just her, the blade, the form.
And then it was over, the moment leaking from her like water. Her arm came down in the final salute.
Zhuyi smiled at her. “Well done, Bingmei. That was the best I’ve seen you perform it. I think you’re ready to pass the test for this form. I’ll tell Kunmia.”
“Thank you,” Bingmei said, panting, her cheeks flushing from the exertion and with pride.
“You have incredible gifts,” Zhuyi said. “I’m glad you are my bond sister.” She reached out and toyed with the end of one of Bingmei’s braids. “I still remember when we found you. A child should not have to witness what you did. You spent a season in the dark . . . after losing your entire family.” Her lips pressed firmly together. “Only someone very strong could have survived that. And you did.”
Bingmei felt her flush deepen. Zhuyi was sparing with her praise, which made it all the more meaningful. “Thank you, Zhuyi,” she whispered.
“Quion has been waiting patiently,” she said with a little smile.
Indeed he had. He still watched her from behind the pillar, his eyes wide with wonder. It pleased her that he’d seen her run through the form.
Bingmei shrugged. “Our practice is more important than fishing. But he’s a good friend.”
Zhuyi nodded. “And a capable one. Who would have thought we’d have fresh fish in the winter? I’m glad he’ll be coming with us on our mission to find Fusang.”
Bingmei nodded her agreement. Quion did not like to call notice to himself, but he was an incredibly hard worker. He’d taken to repairing parts of the quonsuun after arriving, after getting Kunmia’s permission.
“Do you think we will go soon?” she asked.
Zhuyi cocked her head to one side. “The winter seems to be ending faster than last year. Yes, I think we are going soon. Back to Wangfujing first.”
Bingmei would miss the quonsuun. She gazed at the pillars, at the symbols carved into the metal edging in the stone. This was her home. Her salvation. But she was also anxious to embark on a new adventure.
Especially if they discovered a palace that had been lost for a thousand years.
The first few times she’d accompanied Quion on his ice-fishing expeditions, she’d questioned the wisdom of seeking fish in the middle of a frozen lake. The ice was slippery, and although Quion had taught her she could keep warm by wearing layers, she’d fallen again and again. But Quion knew what he was doing, and they’d pulled out half a dozen fish from beneath the ice. Marenqo had crooned with delight at the hot fish served at dinner that night. And so the experiment had become a habit.
This day, they’d brought in a trove of fish. Although her hands and feet were cold, the rest of her was plenty warm. The march back to the quonsuun through the knee-deep snow was strenuous, and she felt her lungs burning with the effort. She walked with a spear in hand, using it like a staff. The snow crunched beneath their thick boots.
“We’re nearly there,” Quion said, huffing, raising a ha
nd, and pointing. Both of them carried fish in their packs, but his was larger by far. If the weight bothered him, he didn’t complain about it. Quion never complained.
The wind had picked up and blew snow in their path. The trees were laden with it, and another bank of clouds filled the twilight sky over the jagged teeth of the mountain. The weather could change quickly, bringing a sudden blizzard. They made sure their outings did not bring them far from the quonsuun because of it.
A fresh gust of wind hit Bingmei’s face, stinging her cheeks. “It’s getting colder.”
“It’s the start of a storm,” Quion said. Just as the words left his mouth, part of the clouds lit up, and a rumble of thunder started.
The timing made them both laugh.
“Zhuyi said we might be leaving soon,” Bingmei told him as they put on a little speed. “Are you excited?”
“A little, I think,” he replied, huffing.
“Why not more? We might find Fusang. Think of it!”
“We might, or maybe we won’t,” he said. “It could be for nothing. It’s the same as fishing, Bingmei. Sometimes you don’t catch anything.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
He chuckled. “It means you have to keep trying.”
The glow from the quonsuun was just visible ahead when the first flakes of snow started to whip into her face. The clouds were coming down the mountain quickly.
She heard a grunt, a gasp of pain, then a feline growl. Because the wind had been pushing ahead of her, she hadn’t smelled the beast stalking them.
Bingmei whirled. Quion was facedown in the snow, struggling to get up, but a lean snow leopard with a swishing tail was lodged on his back, digging its claws into his pack of fish. She saw its tracks following their footsteps in the snow. Its feral eyes were intent on its prey.
“Quion!” Bingmei shouted. She sloughed off her own pack and started back to help him.
The mountain cat hissed at her, raking its claws against the pack again. Quion shouted for help, struggling to rise, but the beast was too heavy for him. He was pinned beneath it and his haul of fish.
Bingmei stomped toward it, waving out her arms to make herself look bigger, but the snow leopard wasn’t impressed. It merely hissed at her again as it sank its teeth into the cargo.
One never left the quonsuun without a weapon. She had a knife at her belt, but a knife would require her to get too close to the beast for safety. With half-frozen hands, she swung her spear around and tried to strike the leopard across the head. The animal lunged at her instead.
She tried to bring the spear around to stab it, but it struck her, a jagged claw snagging in her fur vest. It shook her fiercely, growling and snarling, and she dropped the spear. She kicked out with her legs, catching it in the middle, but its claw was still embedded in her furs. A loud ripping sound rent the air, and she felt a gouge of pain in her side. Bingmei yelled and kicked again. The claw dislodged, and the leopard backed away, hissing at her.
She reached for her fallen spear and held the point in front of her, gasping for breath. The pain in her side wasn’t bad, but the wound was probably bleeding. She smelled the creature, its wild musk making her tremble with fear. The snow leopard began circling her, snarling again. She came over to Quion, who was finally coming to his knees, snow caking his face. He brushed it away frantically.
The leopard growled again. Bingmei jabbed at it with her spear, and it pawed the tip away as if it were nothing.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“It got my leg,” he moaned.
The snow leopard lunged again. Her reflexes saved her. Just in time, she raised the spear, and the animal impaled itself on the blade. A shriek of pain sounded, and the leopard fell, then scrabbled away from her. Its spotted fur was drenched in snow, but a bright red stain appeared on its breast, its hot blood steaming. The wound didn’t look mortal, but the beast retreated, cringing with pain.
Bingmei gasped, feeling a thrill of victory.
Quion made it to his feet, but his knees were shaking. He gripped her shoulder to steady himself.
“It’s hungry,” he said, hearing the melancholy snarl as the animal cowered back.
He was right, of course. It had smelled their catch, and hunger had driven it to attack them. Quion tugged off his pack, the back of which had deep gouge marks from the leopard’s claws. Some of the fish were already oozing out.
He sighed.
“The storm is getting worse,” Bingmei said. “Can you walk?”
“I think so,” he said. He winced as he put weight on his leg. “I may need that spear as a crutch.” He looked back at the beast, which had slunk away into the trees, defeated. Then he pulled off a glove and wrestled one of the fish out of the slit pack.
“You’re feeding it?” Bingmei said in shock.
He tossed the fish toward it, then followed with two more before putting his glove back on.
“It’s too hurt to come after us,” he said. “It’ll take the easy meal. Come on.”
She helped him walk, and between her help and the use of the spear as a crutch, Quion was able to keep moving forward as the storm intensified. Before they reached the quonsuun, Marenqo approached them with torches and two servants. They’d been sent to look for them because of the howling wind. It was easy to get lost in a blizzard.
Bingmei explained their adventure as they continued toward the quonsuun, she and Marenqo supporting Quion on either side.
“A snow leopard?” Marenqo said, impressed. “They normally don’t come down the mountain so early. It is strange.” When they made it back to the quonsuun, they headed directly for the common area. Before a large fire, they stripped out of their wet layers of fur. Quion had some nasty gashes on the backs of his legs, but the servants quickly washed and wrapped them. Bingmei saw a spot of blood on her shirt and a hole where the claw had raked her. It had stopped bleeding before they arrived. Her braids were coming loose, and she was sweating sitting so close to the fire.
She and Quion exchanged a look, taking in each other’s dishevelment, then started laughing.
“You laugh? Getting attacked by a snow leopard didn’t sober you?” Marenqo said, shaking his head. “You’re both lucky to be alive. I once had to escape a pack of wolves. I still shudder when I think of it.”
“It was only one,” Bingmei said.
Marenqo said, “At least you managed to save the fish.”
Kunmia entered the room to check on them. She came to Quion first, asking about his injuries. He was quick to tell her that Bingmei had saved their lives. He was right. He would have died if she hadn’t been there. She’d tried to teach him some of the martial skills at the school, but he had no desire to be a warrior. That saddened her. She would have respected him more if he’d tried to develop his skills.
“You did well, Bingmei,” Kunmia said, giving her a weighing look. “An ensign must give their all to protect one of their own.” The smell of her approval was delicious and stronger than the scent coming from the burning wood in the hearth.
“You would have done the same,” Bingmei said.
Kunmia crouched next to her. “I see blood.”
“It’s nothing,” Bingmei said. “His wounds were worse.”
“Of course. Tomorrow, I want you to come with me in the morning if this storm ends. We are going to leave the quonsuun.”
“Are we going to Wangfujing tomorrow?” Bingmei asked excitedly.
Kunmia shook her head. “No. I’m going to teach you how to use the Phoenix Blade.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Curse of Magic
The mountain storm had dropped only a thin layer of snow, and its bluster had worn out well before nightfall. Bingmei had hardly slept that night, waiting eagerly for Kunmia to teach her about the blade she wanted so desperately. She went to the training room early, knowing sleep would not come. That was where Kunmia found her before the morning sun had breached the walls. The Phoenix Blade was already strapped to her
back in its meiwood scabbard. Knowing it was there, and that she would soon get to touch it, Bingmei demonstrated a perfect rendition of dragon straight sword. Kunmia declared she had passed it successfully. Another form had been added to her skill set.
The air smelled of grass and pine needles that morning. A scent full of wonder and hope and eagerness—her scent.
“You will be wise to dress warmly,” Kunmia said, giving her a dismissing nod. She was already dressed in deerskin bracers lined with fur, high leather boots with a fur trim, and a long cloak.
Bingmei, grinning, hurried back to her room. She changed into her favorite red shirt—for luck—before adding her leather girdle, braces, high boots, and fur-lined cloak. The meiwood cricket was stuffed into her pocket. She also strapped on a belt to use for the sword’s scabbard in case Kunmia decided to give it to her. Eager to get outside, she hurriedly tied off her pale hair into two braids and left her bedchamber, nearly colliding with Quion in her haste.
“Where are you going?” he asked her. He’d been in conversation with Marenqo the previous evening, and hadn’t heard the master’s invitation.
“Kunmia is going to train me today,” she said.
Quion looked surprised. “What for?”
“I’ve been working on dragon straight sword all winter,” she said. “She wants me to practice with the Phoenix Blade.”
Quion’s look darkened. “Why that blade?”
“Why not?” Bingmei asked back. His normal fishy smell was more pungent suddenly. Worry, concern.
He pressed his lips closed, his look darkening.
She sighed as the weight of his emotions edged away her own excitement and eagerness. He was right to question her. She’d seen the blade summon the fog, yet her feelings couldn’t be denied. The weapon called to her, and it fit her hand as if it had been made for her. “Tell me.”
