“Just . . . be careful,” he said, backing away from her.
“Quion,” she said, shaking her head. “What’s worrying you?”
“I’m not worried.”
That was clearly a lie—she could smell it from him, growing stronger by the moment. She’d never told him about her ability to smell emotions. As a child, she’d thought everyone perceived the world that way, but she’d come to realize it wasn’t so. Only three people had ever learned of her ability: her parents and her grandfather. At first they’d waved it off as the fancy of an imaginative girl. Bingmei had warned everyone about the scent of a particular student at the quonsuun, but her parents and grandfather had smelled sour and disbelieving whenever she’d brought it up. They’d thought her jealous of the student’s abilities. But while he behaved admirably and performed the training with rigor, he smelled spoiled on the inside. Later, it came out that he was dishonest and had stolen from their family, and he was promptly exiled. Her parents and grandfather had respected her gift then. And they’d warned her not to tell anyone else. Such an ability was dangerous—dishonest men and women would sooner kill her than allow her to reveal their lies, and others would be eager to exploit her.
She hadn’t trusted that part of herself with anyone since. Not even Kunmia. Her looks already set her apart. No need to make the separation keener.
“Just tell me,” she said, trying not to sound exasperated.
“That blade made the killing fog come,” he blurted out.
Her brow wrinkled. “I know. We’ll be careful. I trust Kunmia. You should too.”
“I do trust her. But I’m still worried . . . about you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Bingmei said. His concern touched her. “How is your leg feeling today?” She noticed he was favoring one of them.
He pursed his lips. “A little better. I can’t walk very fast. I wish I could go with you.”
There was a protective smell coming from him. She didn’t want to remind him that it was she who had protected him from the snow leopard.
“I’ll see you when I return,” she said. He nodded and watched her go. She could feel his eyes on her back, but more than that, she smelled his worry.
Perhaps she should feel more nervous, but every other sensation was overcome by a rush of eagerness. When she arrived at the heavy door of the quonsuun, she found Kunmia waiting for her there, her breath coming out in a little mist. She cocked her head at Bingmei, who smiled in return, and the two guards at the gate grunted as they pulled it open. The fresh snow and wind had erased the tracks she and Quion had left the day before.
The sound of crunching snow came as Kunmia led her away. Kunmia smelled calm, but then, she usually did. The sun hadn’t risen over the mountain peaks yet. The snow on the trees was already starting to drip. Kunmia didn’t take her down toward the lake but up toward the craggy peaks. The hike soon became arduous, and Bingmei felt her leg muscles burn with the effort. They followed a small trail carved into the mountainside, until the trees became sparser and then nonexistent.
It took some time before they reached the peak where a small shrine had been built by the ancients. Bingmei had hiked up to it before, but it was too steep for frequent visits. Although Bingmei’s breath was loud in her own ears, Kunmia hardly seemed winded at all. Her master came to a stop at the middle of the small, snow-capped shrine and stared off into the distance. The sun was radiant, exposing a broad track of mountains, gorges, ravines, and distant glaciers. An eagle soared on the wind currents beneath them.
Bingmei stood next to Kunmia, enjoying the view. To the south, she could see the ocean that stretched to the end of the world. The shoreline was riddled with coves and caves, fjords, and ice-fed streams. She imagined some ancient warrior standing on this very spot ages ago, looking at the same view Bingmei looked at. The feeling that thought gave her made her shudder.
“Can you see the Death Wall?” Kunmia asked, turning to look at her.
Bingmei could, although she was so used to seeing it, she’d hardly noticed it. It was a long wall that had been built on a distant set of mountains. Watchtowers dotted its crumbling face, which traversed the length of the horizon. The task of building such a wall defied imagination. She’d seen it from different vantage points during her life, each section built after the same manner. No one ventured beyond the Death Wall, the great wall that followed the rough mountain slopes across all the kingdoms, even past the glaciers. Not even the ensigns would dare attempt it. Although no one knew why it had been erected, they all agreed on one thing.
No mortal could cross it and live.
“I can,” Bingmei answered, staring at it with wonder. “How long did it take them to build it?”
Kunmia smiled. “You like to ask questions there aren’t answers to. With a few hundred men, it would take a thousand years. But what if more people lived back then? We have no way of knowing.”
And yet the questions tormented her. Who had the ancients been? Why had they disappeared? And how had Bingmei’s people found this land?
“There are so many ruins,” Bingmei said. “I wish they had left us more clues. The legends we believe could be lies, for all we know. They differ from village to village.”
“They did leave us clues,” Kunmia said. She held up her staff, exposing the runes to Bingmei. “They carved animals into everything. We don’t know why they left us these symbols. There’s no way to know what they truly mean. But I think they were telling us to observe animals in the wild. To learn from them as they did. The ancients taught us that magic is harnessed out of meiwood trees. That, too, teaches us something. We do not live as long as the trees. But when a building is crafted out of them, we live longer than if we lived without shelter.”
Bingmei nodded.
“My staff, Bingmei,” Kunmia continued, rubbing her thumb over the animal runes, “has the power of the baboon. They are social creatures. They care for one another. And they are very strong. When I invoke the magic of this staff, I feel a deep sense of caring for those in my ensign. An urge to protect and defend them. It’s the staff my grandfather gave to me, choosing me out of all of his posterity to continue the traditions of his ensign. When I take an assignment to protect something, I protect it as a mother does her cubs. It is powerful magic. The most powerful, I believe. With this staff, I can also temporarily capture magic from other weapons. It’s a powerful defense.”
Bingmei knew this already, but there was a reason Kunmia repeated the information. Kunmia always had a reason for everything she did. The master frowned, looking away from her, gazing at the distant wall.
“Every time I use it,” she said in a low voice, “it becomes more difficult to resist its pull.”
Bingmei darted a glance at her, shocked by the revelation. “What does it feel like?”
Kunmia gripped the staff tightly. “I don’t know how to describe it. The staff is alive somehow. It senses things. Like there’s a partial soul captured inside the wood. Maybe it’s the soul of its original warrior. I don’t know.” She turned, giving Bingmei a hard stare. “I’ve learned this too, working for King Budai. Only someone with a strong mind can use a weapon like this or the Phoenix Blade. These artifacts wield a strong compulsion, Bingmei. Do not underestimate it. Sometimes a weapon has caused the death of its master.”
She swallowed, eagerness twisting inside her. She felt the allure of its power even then. Usually she strived for self-control, wishing to emulate Kunmia, who never acted rashly. Why didn’t the compulsion to use the sword frighten her?
She didn’t know, except that it felt right.
Kunmia sighed, then looked down. “Ever since we lost Lieren, I have felt strongly that you should be the one to wield the blade. It troubles me that my feelings on this matter are so strong.” She pursed her lips. “I strive to be balanced, wise, and just. But there is something urging me to let you use the blade. Although you’ve passed the test for the straight sword, I’m not sure you are ready for such a responsib
ility.”
The doubt in Kunmia’s voice caused a pang in Bingmei’s heart. Excitement strummed through her once again, but she was determined to keep herself humble and courteous. She bowed her head.
“When you picked it up from the grass,” Kunmia said, “all those months ago, it summoned the killing fog almost instantly. Only a weapon with very powerful magic would bring the fog so quickly. The man who wielded it was very powerful. If I hadn’t used my own rune staff to combat him, he would have vanquished me. You might all have died that night. I took the risk of summoning the fog in order to protect the rest of you. That’s why we went back for the blade. I could not allow it to fall into the hands of someone who might use it for evil.”
She looked pointedly at Bingmei. “Before we left, Prince Rowen asked to buy it from me. He craves its power, but I fear it would destroy him. I cannot leave something so valuable, and dangerous, at the quonsuun while we make our journey. No doubt someone would try to steal it. Whoever I give it to, I must be convinced they will not misuse it or succumb to its allure.” She leaned her staff against one of the pillars in the shrine, then pulled the strap over her head and brought the meiwood scabbard around.
Bingmei’s fingers tingled with an anticipation she’d felt since she’d last touched the blade. Although part of her feared her reaction, she did believe she could control the blade. That she was meant to control it.
Kunmia’s lips were still pursed in a frown. She held the sheathed blade in her palms, but not in an offering way. “I have brought the blade up here in order to test it and you. It feels wrong in my hands. I have tried testing its powers, but the blade will not reveal itself to me. Maybe it will be more open with you. Draw it, Bingmei. But be careful. I don’t know what it will do. If you become crazed or enter a trance, I will have no choice but to use my staff to disable you.”
That prospect did not sound very enjoyable, but Bingmei’s anticipation was heightened all the more by the warning. She nodded. “I will obey you, Master. If it is within my power.”
“Draw the sword.”
Her mouth dry, she reached her hand tentatively for the meiwood hilt. The engraving of the phoenix on it caught her eye as she slowly closed her hand around it. Then, gripping the scabbard with her other hand, she pulled the blade loose.
The morning sunlight gleamed on the tempered metal. It felt uncommonly light. The edge looked sharp enough to cut stone. A sense of completeness swelled inside her. She released a sigh of contentment.
“How do you feel?” Kunmia asked warily.
“Alive,” Bingmei said. It was the first word that came to mind.
“Perform dragon straight sword,” Kunmia said, reaching for her staff. She backed away.
Bingmei assumed the starting pose, gripping the sword in her left hand, pommel down, blade up behind her back. She did the salute and then started on the form. It went smoothly, the blade balanced perfectly as she performed the routine. She shortened some of the movements because of the confinement of the shrine, but they came naturally, easily—by instinct. Partway through the form, images began to flash through her mind, startling her. Rows of disciples, all learning together. Fifty or more assembled in a vast courtyard. A memory, but not hers.
She blinked, and the image was broken, shattered like glass.
As she continued the set, another memory came. Someone’s mouth on hers in a passionate kiss, utter darkness around them. She had never kissed anyone before. She blinked, the emotion and memory shattering. Her heart began to race as more fleeting images came and left, each one a memory that wasn’t hers.
“Stop,” Kunmia said.
Bingmei obeyed. She was panting, her body heat trapped within her. She was in a low crouch, the blade extended. She paused, awaiting her master’s next command. A trickle of sweat went down her cheek.
“Look,” Kunmia said.
Bingmei straightened and went to the edge of the shrine. Down the side of the mountain, she saw tendrils of fog snaking through the tree trunks and over the snow. A vast, hungry fog. It was crawling toward the mountain. Her heart quavered with fear.
“It’s coming from the direction of the Death Wall,” Kunmia said, frowning. “I watched it start to build. Sheathe the blade.”
Bingmei did. They watched, waiting anxiously, preparing to flee if need be. The fog was still a ways off.
“It’s dissipating,” Kunmia observed. “The fog is blind again. See, it seeks another way. Like it’s searching for something it cannot find. The meiwood scabbard masks its scent. Its strength fails.”
Bingmei saw that she was right. The killing fog felt alive.
“What did you feel when you held the blade?” Kunmia asked.
“I felt a connection with it,” Bingmei said, being honest. She couldn’t stand the smell of lies. “I always have. Partway through the form, I began having memories . . . that weren’t my own.”
“Interesting,” Kunmia said. “When I saw you at your most focused, that was when the fog started to come. It responded quickly. It’s clearly drawn to the blade.”
Or to me, Bingmei thought with dread. Was there something within her, some inner darkness, that attracted the magic of the blade and, through it, the fog? Seeing how quickly the fog had crept across the wall had made her curiosity shrivel inside her.
“It’s a dangerous weapon,” Kunmia said. “But it still feels like letting you use it is the right thing. For now. If I feel you are putting the ensign at risk, I will take it from you, is that clear?”
“Yes, Master,” Bingmei said, feeling grateful. If Kunmia felt it was fitting for her to wield the sword, surely she was right.
“We leave for Wangfujing in a few days. I want Quion’s wounds to heal more before we leave. I’ve asked Mieshi to take Lieren’s place at the head of the ensign. She will be our guide, the one who alerts us to danger. I would like you to train with her on this journey so that you can take that role someday. Your ability to sense danger will be important where you are going, Bingmei.”
Bingmei’s stomach squeezed with pleasure. “Do you think that the legend of Fusang is real?”
Kunmia looked troubled. She smelled of wet leaves—concern. “I’m not sure. And I don’t know what to hope for.”
CHAPTER TEN
Price of Vengeance
There was still snow in the mountains surrounding the quonsuun, but Bingmei could see that the slopes below them were green and thriving. Rivers swollen from the melting ice manifested the inexorable change in the season. The dawn came earlier and earlier each day, and the concealed bulbs of flowers were sprouting green stalks and leaves. Within a few weeks, the mountains would be thick with wildflowers.
Kunmia Suun’s ensign gathered in the main courtyard, and the servants and remaining disciples gathered to bid them farewell.
Bingmei wore her wig again, which felt tight against her head, with all the little pins and hooks securing it. Although it took a fortnight or so to walk down the mountain to Wangfujing, they would pass trappers and elk hunters seeking to restore food supplies that had dwindled during the months of endless night. So she wore a wig for the journey, because seeing a maiden with the winter sickness always caused a shock in others. While Bingmei didn’t enjoy wearing the wig, she preferred the slight discomfort to the smell of contempt.
Quion looked weighed down by his pack, which was stuffed with supplies and cooking implements. His injuries were no longer troubling him, and he could walk without limping. Bingmei had tried to see if the snow leopard had perished—its pelt would be worth something in Wangfujing—but there had been no trace of it in the snow. Marenqo chatted amiably with Mieshi and Zhuyi while Kunmia gave her final instructions to her captain, Zhongshi, who was also her nephew.
Bingmei had grown a little during the winter and felt more capable than when the seclusion had started. In part, perhaps, it was because the Phoenix Blade was strapped to her back. Although her breath came out in a mist, she wasn’t cold. The layers of fur and deerskin m
ade her comfortable. After reaching Wangfujing, they’d be traveling the waterways, especially since the fisherman who’d found the piece of carved stone knew the location of the fjord where he’d found it. No one knew how long they’d be gone. They might return with the winter.
Kunmia finally announced it was time to depart. The smell of excitement was electric in the courtyard. They were all eager to go. Zhongshi led the others in a cheer as they left the courtyard.
With a nod from Kunmia, Mieshi took the lead, and Bingmei went to join her, smiling at Quion as she left him. They continued on in silence, which, while not uncomfortable, was not altogether relaxed either.
That night, they set up camp in the shelter of the trees. Quion was expert at starting fires, and he’d gathered a nest of dry sticks and some larger branches. Although they had cured meat in their packs, he’d fished during one of their rests. Bingmei watched him clean his catch while the fire crackled and popped and lazy smoke began to drift up. His head was bent low in serious fashion, and she watched the precision of his movements. Once he was done, he assembled his pans and started to cook. Marenqo hovered nearby, his eyes wide with enthusiasm for a warm meal so soon after leaving the quonsuun.
Everyone gathered around the fire with their eating sticks and shared the hot fish. There was enough for everyone. Quion cleaned the pans afterward, scrubbing them with dirt, which she thought was odd, but they looked good at the end.
As they sat around the small fire, enjoying its warmth, Kunmia offered to tell them a story, a tradition for the first night of a mission. Quion was finished cleaning his pans and sat in the circle with the rest of them, pulling out a rope and tying it into a series of knots. He would then untie them and start anew, tying different ones. Just as she trained with her weapons or her fist forms, so Quion trained in his own skills. It was repetition that brought mastery.
“The story I share tonight is of my grandfather, the founder of the ensign,” Kunmia said. “Some of you have heard it before. I don’t tell it often, for it is painful. My grandfather was a mighty warrior. He was an expert in the saber. When he was married, his wife—my grandmother—betrayed him with another man. So my grandfather killed the man and banished my grandmother from their house. Because of that treachery, he could not abide those who were not faithful. It was a rule among his disciples that there should be no lechery. To train with him, one had to swear an oath, an oath punishable by death.”
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