by F. C. Yee
He seemed to pick up on her swell of self-hatred. “Kyoshi, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you never meant for this to happen.”
“Rangi doesn’t.” Saying it out loud made her feel ungrateful for his forgiveness. She could count on Yun’s easygoing nature and inability to hold a grudge. But if Rangi truly believed Kyoshi had wronged them, then there was no hope.
It was clear. Kyoshi needed both of them in order to feel whole. She wanted her paired set of friends put back into its original place, before the earthquake had knocked everything off the shelf. This state of not-knowing they were trapped in was a plane of spiritual punishment, separating them from their old lives like a sheet of ice over a lake.
“Rangi’ll come around,” Yun said. “She’s a person of faith, you know? A true believer. It’s hard for someone like her to deal with uncertainty. You have to be a little patient with her.” He caught himself and twisted his lips.
“What is it?” Kyoshi said.
“Nothing, I was just acting like Sifu for a second there.” The smile faded from his face. Yun plunked the back of his head against the wall at the thought of Jianzhu. “It’s him I’m really worried about.”
That seemed backward. The student anxious about the well-being of the teacher.
“I didn’t realize it when I first met Sifu, but determining who should train the Avatar and how is a cutthroat business,” Yun said. “You’d think the masters of the world are these benevolent, selfless old men and women. But it turns out that some of them simply want to use the Avatar’s power and reputation to profit themselves.”
Jianzhu had told her something similar in the infirmary, that whoever taught the Avatar held immense influence over the world. Kyoshi regretted what she’d said to Kelsang the day before. He might have had reasons for wanting her to be the Avatar, but material gain was certainly not one of them.
“It’s especially bad in the Earth Kingdom,” Yun went on. “We call the prominent elders ‘sages,’ but they’re not true spiritual leaders like in the Fire Nation. They’re more like powerful officials, with all the politicking they do.”
He held up his hands, comparing his clean one to the one stained with ink during the battle with Tagaka. The color still hadn’t faded from his skin.
“But that’s partly why Sifu and I have been working so hard,” he said. “The more good we do for the Four Nations, the less chance that another sage tries to take me away from him. I don’t think I could handle having a different master. They would never be as wise or as dedicated as Sifu.”
Kyoshi looked at his darkened hand and wondered if she couldn’t hold him down and scrub the ink off his skin. “What would happen to the work you’ve done if—if—” She couldn’t finish the thought out loud. If it wasn’t you? If it was me?
Yun took a deep, agonized breath. “I think nearly every treaty and peace agreement Sifu and I brokered would become null and void. I’ve made so many unwritten judgments too. If people found out that it wasn’t the Avatar who’d presided over their dispute, and only some street urchin from Makapu, they would never abide by the outcome.”
Superb, Kyoshi thought. She could be responsible for the breakdown of law and order around the world and the separation of Yun from his teacher.
That was the worst prospect of all. For as long as she’d known him, Yun had staunchly refused to talk about his blood relations. But the reverent way he looked at Jianzhu, despite any arguments or bouts of harsh discipline, made it very clear: He had no one else. Jianzhu was both his mentor and his family.
Kyoshi knew what it was like to founder alone in the dark, grasping for edges that were too far away, without a mother or father to extend a hand and pull you to safety. The pain of having no value to anyone, nothing to trade for food or warmth or a loving embrace. Maybe that was why she and Yun got along so well.
Where they differed, though, was how long they wallowed in sadness. Yun sniffed the air and his gaze wandered until it landed on a porcelain bowl resting on top of the chest. It was filled with dried flower petals and cedar shavings.
“Are those . . . fire lilies?” he said, a wide, knowing grin spreading across his face.
Kyoshi flushed beet red. “Stop it,” she said.
“That’s right,” Yun said. “The Ember Island tourism minister brought a bunch when he visited two weeks ago. I can’t believe you simply shred the flowers once they dry out. I guess nothing goes to waste in this house.”
“Knock it off,” Kyoshi snapped. But it was too hard keeping the corners of her lips from curling upward.
“Knock what off?” he said, enjoying her reaction. “I’m just commenting on a fragrance I’ve come to particularly enjoy.”
It was an inside reference that only the two of them shared. Rangi didn’t know. She hadn’t been there in the gifting room eight months ago while Kyoshi arranged a vast quantity of fire lilies sent by an admiral in the Fire Navy, one of Hei-Ran’s friends.
Yun had spent the afternoon watching Kyoshi work. Against every scrap of her better judgment, she’d allowed him to lie down on the floor and rest his head in her lap while she plucked deformed leaves and trimmed stems to the right length. Had anyone caught the two of them like that, there would have been a scandal that not even the Avatar could have recovered from.
That day, entranced by Yun’s upside-down features dappled with the flower petals she’d teasingly sprinkled over his face, she’d almost leaned down and kissed him. And he knew it. Because he’d almost reached up and kissed her.
They never spoke of it afterward, the shared impulse that had nearly crashed both of their carriages. It was too . . . well, they each had their duties was a good way to put it. That moment did not fit anywhere among their responsibilities.
But since then, whenever the two of them were in the presence of fire lilies, Yun’s eyes would dart toward the flowers repeatedly until he was sure Kyoshi noticed. She would try unsuccessfully to keep a straight face, the heat coloring her neck, and he’d sigh as if to mourn what could have been.
Today was no different. With a wistful blush on his own cheeks, Yun stared her down until her defenses broke and she let out a giggle through her nose.
“There’s that beautiful smile,” he said. He pressed his heels into the floor, sliding up against the wall, and straightened his rumpled shirt. “Kyoshi, trust me when I say this: If it turns out not to be me, I’ll be glad it’s you.”
He might have been the one person in the world who thought so. Kyoshi had to marvel at his forbearance. Her fears were unfounded—Yun could still look at her and see a friend instead of a usurper. She should have believed in him more.
“We’re late,” Yun said. “I was supposed to find you and bring you to Sifu. He said he has something fun planned for us this afternoon.”
“I can’t,” she said, out of ingrained habit. “I have work—”
He raised his brows at her. “No offense, Kyoshi, but I think you’ve pretty much been fired. Now get up off that maybe-Avatar rear of yours. We’re going on a trip.”
THE SPIRIT
“Master Kelsang needs more time to heal,” Jianzhu said over his shoulder. “In the meanwhile, we can perform a spiritual exercise that might shed light on our situation. Think of it as a little ‘Earthbenders-only’ outing.” He adjusted Pengpeng’s course, the breeze blowing her tufts of fur in a new direction.
The group was the unusual combination of Jianzhu, Yun, and Kyoshi. They’d borrowed Kelsang’s bison, leaving Rangi and Hei-Ran behind. There should have been nothing wrong with the concept of three Earth Kingdom natives bonding over their shared nationality, but Kyoshi found it unnerving. Without Rangi or her mother present, it felt like they were sneaking away to do something illicit.
She glanced at the terrain below. By her best reckoning, they were somewhere near the Xishaan Mountains that ran along the southeastern edge of the continent, the same ones that the Earth King incorrectly considered a sufficient barrier to waterborne threats like t
he pirates of the Eastern Sea.
Kyoshi still wasn’t fully comfortable addressing Jianzhu in a casual manner, so it fell on Yun to ask what the point of this trip was. “Sifu,” he said cautiously, an idea forming in his head. “Is the reason we’re going to a remote area because we’re trying to invoke the Avatar State?”
His master scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s the Avatar State?” Kyoshi whispered to Yun.
Jianzhu’s sharp ears intercepted her question. “It’s a tool,” he said. “And a defense mechanism. A higher state of being designed to empower the current Avatar with the skills and knowledge of all the past ones. It allows for the summoning of vast cosmic energies and nearly impossible feats of bending.”
That sounded definitive enough. Why wouldn’t they try it, after the failures they’d suffered?
“But if the Avatar can’t maintain conscious control over so much power, then their bending can go berserk, causing elemental destruction on a grand scale,” Jianzhu continued. “They’d turn into a human natural disaster. The first time Kuruk practiced entering the Avatar State, we went to a small, uninhabited atoll so we wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“What happened?” Yun said.
“Well, after his eyes stopped glowing and he came down from floating twenty feet in the air inside a sphere of water, the island wasn’t there anymore,” Jianzhu said. “The rest of us survived by the skin of our teeth. So, no, we’re not triggering the Avatar State. I shudder to think what would happen if an Earth Avatar started hurling landmasses left and right with abandon.”
He took them lower. The westward side of the mountainous ridge was dotted with empty mining settlements. Scapes of brown dust spread from the operating sites like an infection, eating into the treeline and displacing the natural vegetation. Kyoshi looked for signs that the land was growing back, but the scars were permanent. The wild grasses kept a strict cordon around the areas touched by the miners.
Jianzhu set Pengpeng down for a landing in the center of a mud-walled hamlet. Whoever originally earthbent the structures into shape had been so sloppy that it seemed intentional, as if to remind the occupants that they weren’t going to stay long. Kyoshi was surprised they didn’t cause any further collapses by jumping down from the bison.
“This is an important locus of Earthen spiritual energy,” Jianzhu said.
Yun dug his toe into the dust as he surveyed their surroundings. “It looks more like a wasteland.”
“It’s both. We’re here to commune with a particular spirit roused from its slumber by the devastation. I’m hoping one of you can help ease its suffering.”
“But talking with spirits is no guarantee,” Yun said. “I’ve read of past Avatars who’ve had trouble with it. And then there’s people like Master Kelsang who have been able to communicate with the spirits effortlessly at times.”
“I didn’t say the method was perfect,” Jianzhu snapped. “If it was, I’d have used it on you long ago.”
Yun frowned and bit back more questions. Kyoshi was glad that he shared her apprehension at the very least. The desolate town was eerie, the bones of a once-living thing.
But on the other hand, she was slightly comforted by the knowledge that it would all be over soon. She knew nothing about spirits. In her opinion, being spiritual simply meant acknowledging the power of forces you couldn’t see and coming to terms with the fact that you didn’t have control over every aspect of your life. The rituals of food and incense placed at sacred shrines were gestures to that worldview. Nothing more, nothing less.
The stories about strange translucent animals and talking plants might have been true, but they weren’t for her. The Avatar was the bridge between the human world and the Spirit World, and whatever test Jianzhu had in mind would settle the matter. Yun would glow with energy or some other final proof, and she would lie there inert, listening for sounds she couldn’t hear.
After leaving Pengpeng with some dried oats to chew, they walked up the slope of the mountain on a tiny path that ran alongside a gouged-out sluice canal. It was steep going, and Yun remembered there was a faster way to climb. “You know, I could make a lift and—”
“Don’t,” Jianzhu said.
Eventually, the incline revealed a large terrace carved into the mountain. It was bigger than the entire settlement below, and it had been constructed with more care. It was perfectly level, and empty postholes indicated it had once held some very heavy equipment.
“Go sit in the middle,” Jianzhu told them.
Kyoshi felt the same prickle on the back of her neck as she did when stepping onto the iceberg with Tagaka. It made little sense, seeing as how she was surrounded by her native element.
“Come on,” Yun said to her. “Let’s get this over with.” He seemed to have a better understanding of how this might escalate. She followed him to the center of the terrace.
“It’s not the solstice, but it is almost twilight,” Jianzhu said. “The time of day when spiritual activity is at its highest. I will guide you two in meditation. Yun, help her if she needs it.”
Kyoshi had never meditated before. She didn’t know which leg you folded over the other or how your hands were supposed to touch. Fists pressed together or thumb and forefinger?
“You’ve . . . basically got it,” Yun said after they sat down. “Tuck your tailbone in a bit more and don’t hunch your shoulders.” He stayed facing her, taking up his own pose not too far off. She could have reached out and poked him.
Jianzhu produced a small brazier and a stick of incense, which he placed between them. “Someone help me light this with firebending?” he said.
They stared blankly at him.
“It was worth a shot,” Jianzhu said. He lit the incense with a precious sulfur match and backed away until he reached the edge of the terrace, positioned like the high mark of a sundial.
The air took on a sweet, medicinal note. “Both of you, close your eyes and don’t open them,” Jianzhu said. “Let go of your energy. Let it spill from you. We want to let the spirit get a taste of it, so to speak, so it knows it can come forth.”
Kyoshi didn’t know how to control her energy. But if Jianzhu was telling her to throw away the idea of containing herself, to stop minimizing the space she took up, to let herself grow and rise to her full dimensions . . .
It felt wonderful.
The next exhalation she made seemed to go on forever, drawing from a reservoir inside her that had no end. Her sense of balance ran wild, the pull of the earth coming from each and every direction in turn. She swayed within the stillness of her own body. Her eyelids were a theater of the blank.
A rasping noise came from the mountain. The sound of millstones with no grain between them.
“Don’t open your eyes,” Jianzhu said softly. “Hear sounds, smell smells; take note of them naturally and let them pass. Without opening your eyes.”
The breeze picked up for a moment, dispersing the incense smoke. In the time it took to settle back down, Kyoshi thought she detected a whiff of something damp. Almost fungal. It wasn’t so atrocious as it was . . . familiar.
Familiar to whom? she thought, giggling silently as the incense took over again.
“You know what would be funny?” she said. “If it was . . . you know . . . neither of us.”
“Kyoshi,” Yun said. His voice sounded slurred. “I need to tell you. Something important. Me and you.”
She tried to speak again but her tongue was too big for it. Jianzhu hadn’t told them to shut up yet. That was weird. Jianzhu was Master Shut Up. Was he okay? She had to check if he was okay. It was her duty as a member of his household. She disobeyed and peeked.
Yun was meditating peacefully. Had he spoken at all, or had she imagined it? She tried to turn her head toward Jianzhu but went the wrong way, looking at the mountain instead.
A hole had been opened in the rock, a tunnel of pitch-darkness. In its depths, a great glowing eyeball stared back at her.
Her shriek caught in her throat. She tried to scramble away, but her muscles failed her as if her joints had been sliced by a butcher. Nothing connected to anything.
The eye floating in the mountain was the size of a wagon wheel. It had a sickly, luminescent tinge of green. A web of pulsing veins gripped it tightly from behind, giving the sphere an angry appearance, as if it would burst under its own pressure at any moment.
It swiveled over to look at her, her futile struggle catching its attention.
Yun! her mind screamed. He wasn’t moving. His breathing was slow and labored.
Jianzhu was unfazed by the horrific spirit before them. “Father Glowworm,” he called out in greeting.
A cordial, mellifluent voice rumbled from deep within the mountain, the echo concentrated by the walls of the tunnel. “Architect! It’s been so long.” The eye darted between the three of them. “What have you brought me?”
“A question.”
The spirit sighed, a low, nauseating hum that Kyoshi felt in her bones. “That chatty little upstart Koh. Now every human thinks they can march up to the oldest and wisest of us and demand answers. I thought you had more respect, Architect.”
Jianzhu stiffened. “This is an important question. One of these children is the Avatar. I need you to tell me which one.”
The spirit laughed, and it felt like the earth bounced. “Oh my. The physical world is in poor shape indeed. You do know I’ll need their blood?”
Kyoshi thrashed back and forth. But whatever Jianzhu had drugged them with rendered her flailing into mere twitches of movement, her cries into halting breaths. Yun’s eyes opened, but only by the smallest degree.
“I know,” Jianzhu said. “I’ve read Kuruk’s private journals. But you’ve tangled with many of the Avatar’s past lives. I must have the unerring judgment of a great and ancient spirit such as yourself.”
A carpet of slime spilled from the hole in the mountain, flowing over the terrace. It was the same moldy, rotting green as the eye, and it reached toward Yun and Kyoshi in tendrils, the shadows of fingers against a curtain. There was a scraping noise against the stone floor. It came from pointed flecks of debris floating in the wetness, bone-yellow roots and crowns.
