Crown of the Starry Sky: Book 11 of Painting the Mists

by Patrick Laplante

  “Of course,” Yin Zhen said. “It is one of the main reasons why we were never able to become a great clan. Despite harnessing the power of our ancestral crypts, we simply don’t have the time to break through our limits. Half the time, to be precise.”

  “I apologize for my ignorance,” Wei Longshen said.

  “Well, it isn’t like we’re as popular as we once were,” Yin Zhen said. “Four hundred years ago, we were all the rage. Especially with women. For the skin, see?” He touched his smooth white cheek, and Wei Longshen shuddered. “But I neglect you, my guests. Come, it’s after breakfast, and you surely must be a little hungry.”

  Wei Yimu cleared his throat. “Is that… safe?”

  “Outside food, outside food,” Yin Zhen said. “Ah, our sect members are returning as we speak.” He waved for them to come inside, and in short order, they had a small assortment of fruit, pastries, tea, and a pitcher of wine—for Wei Yimu. The man admittedly knew his audience. As for Yin Zhen, he ate a different meal. It was mostly meat, and the food looked dreadful and unappetizing.

  “Please, eat with us,” Wei Longshen said. Wei Yimu kicked him under the table.

  “Ah, your uncle didn’t tell you,” Yin Zhen said. “No matter. I will explain. You see, another reason why our sect does not expand is the limitations of our food supplies.”

  “You require special food?” Wei Longshen asked.

  “A key component of our body-refining techniques is ingesting ample death qi,” Yin Zhen said. “We must grow all our food here. The plants and livestock we raise absorb the death qi of our crypts. Fortunately for us, this special environment is difficult to reverse. Many consider our lands polluted. I daresay that if not for this devaluation, we would have been chased out of our estate a century ago.” He looked mournfully at the fruit Wei Longshen was eating. “Alas. Those who’ve trained past a certain level must cease eating the food of normal mortals. It contains too much life essence, you see. The food you eat is poisonous to me. Enough of it could even kill me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wei Longshen said. He had so many questions. Could they still taste food? Were their other senses like their sense of touch also tainted? Were they numb all around?

  “We make many sacrifices for our art,” Yin Zhen said. “Only the willing participate. We force no one, and we often take new blood in to replenish those that leave us. Our clan does not inherit by blood, you see. All members of our clan are adopted. Even I, the Patriarch.”

  There was an awkward silence then. Wei Longshen looked around and found a good fallback. “This tea is nice,” he said, pouring himself a cup.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Yin Zhen said. “It was once my personal favorite. Your drunkard of an uncle has never respected fine beverages. He’s in favor of constant inebriation.”

  “Still stronger than you,” Wei Yimu muttered.

  “Such is life,” Yin Zhen said.

  Wei Longshen took a sip and put down his teacup. He looked around and took in the decor. “This room is unique. The style doesn’t match the rest of the city.”

  “We were once a branch of a famous clan from the central continent,” Yin Zhen said. “This might surprise you, but we are an old clan. Even older than the Wei Clan.”

  “That would do it,” Wei Longshen said. “I sense many memories in this place.”

  “Alas, not all is remembered,” Yin Zhen said. “And when your uncle mentioned certain accomplishments of yours, I thought it would be a good idea for you to pay us a visit.”

  “I hope he didn’t exaggerate,” Wei Longshen said. “I have certain talents, and I will do my utmost to help you.”

  “Who can tell?” Yin Zhen said. “No one else can help us. We have searched for an answer for decades, but the disappearance of our main clan leaves us with little hope. No one bothers to try anymore. It’s worth my time even if there’s only a tiny chance of success.”

  “Can you show me around?” Wei Longshen asked. “It helps to see the setting in which I’m working. I work with music, and it’s important to incorporate mood into any piece I play.”

  “Why not?” Yin Zhen said. “Can you drink and walk, you old goat?”

  Wei Yimu grunted. “I can outdrink you and outwalk you any day of the week.”

  “This place is creepy,” Wei Yimu said. “Every time I come here, I can’t help but feel unwelcome.”

  “Quiet,” Yin Zhen said. “I suffer your disrespect as a friend, but I will not stop others from dueling you should you insult our ancestors.”

  “Let them try,” Wei Yimu said.

  “I do not say this for your sake, but for theirs,” Yin Zhen. “Please consider their feelings.” He turned to Wei Longshen. “Have you seen enough?”

  “I’ve seen many things in my life, but nothing quite like this,” Wei Longshen said. “It’s difficult to describe it all. In many ways, this place lacks life. There are no children, for one.”

  “It is difficult for anyone to bear children in such an environment,” Yin Zhen admitted. “Though it happens from time to time. Those rare children are born with a Yin Core. They become the greatest among us, patriarchs among patriarchs.” He shook his head. “Alas, the last one came a thousand years ago. Had one been born in the last century, we would not have fallen so low.”

  Wei Longshen nodded. “This is a place of death. It is a place where people die. They kill themselves, painfully at first, in exchange for power. There is great sadness in the air, yet there is very little resentment. It is a strange concept to me.”

  “The destruction of the library hit us hard,” Yin Zhen said. “Believe it or not, our clan is not a place of death, but a place of life.”

  Wei Yimu snorted. “I see anything but life here.”

  “I believe it,” Wei Longshen said. “You see it in the people. They are dying. They are killing themselves. But they do so for hope. Hope for a better future. A desire for self-improvement. And strangely enough, family. Everyone here is a family. I see no infighting like in the other clans.”

  “It is a curse we’ve never had to suffer,” Yin Zhen said. “I believe it has much to do with the recognition each member is given. No matter their station, everyone here will be remembered by their clan. Everyone leaves a name to be honored and respected, and there is no need for underhanded means and the vain pursuit of immortality. Now come, let me show you the library.”

  They entered a large room. No, not a room. It was an ashen hole in the building. Many clan members were here, training desperately, though many others were kowtowing to their ancestors, hoping for something, anything to bring it all back. It seemed a good tenth of the clan was loitering in this massive gap in the estate. They were in mourning. For what once was. For what might be.

  “Should I clear them all out?” Yin Zhen asked.

  “No,” Wei Longshen said. “Perhaps their presence will help.” He took out his flute and felt at the wind. There was a song in the air, a melody to remember. The story of a library and the wonders it contained. Endless shelves lined with books, along with practice rooms and places where people could debate and argue. It was an inspiring song that clung to every member. Young or old. Weak or powerful.

  Wei Longshen played, and at first, the song could barely be heard. It was almost inaudible. The wind blew in the empty courtyard, sweeping past each of the downtrodden members. The song increased in volume, and as it did, the shadows danced. They remembered what once was. Not all was forgotten in this place. First came a single line. A divider separating many bits of knowledge. Then came the shelves.

  A framework was needed. Scaffolding for the memory and the song. As the sounds filled the courtyard, they filled the transparent shadow of a ruined building. Stairways appeared, as did rooms and laughing faces. People long gone but still lingering inside their minds.

  Then came the books. Countless books. The sect members that had been moping around the blast crater stood with mouths agape. Some reached tentatively for the books of shadow and realiz
ed they could open them. They took the books off the shelves and found they could actually read them.

  “Amazing,” Yin Zhen whispered. “Simply amazing. It all looks so real.”

  “I told you he could work wonders,” Wei Yimu said smugly.

  Wei Longshen himself wondered at the truth of those words. There was nothing real here. He’d brought a memory to life. The memory of a library. To an ordinary observer, and even to these rejoicing clan members, this was a miracle among miracles. Yet to him, it all seemed so lacking and insubstantial. A mere shadow of something real.

  They read. For minutes and first, and for nearly an hour. Their eyes glazed over as they looked at the books longingly. Yin Zhen himself joined them and leafed through pages, a smile lighting up his face.

  Those aren’t smiles of understanding, Wei Longshen realized when he saw a tear trickling down the Patriarch’s cheeks. Those are looks of nostalgia. Of mourning and sadness.

  “I’m sorry,” Wei Longshen said. He stopped playing. The library disappeared. The looks of joy faded, only to be replaced with begrudging acceptance. They’d known all along that the books weren’t real. They contained no knowledge, only memories of what knowledge could be. “I shouldn’t have given you all false hope.”

  “That’s all right,” Yin Zhen said. “You tried.” He laughed. “For a while, I thought you’d succeeded. For a few moments, I thought everything was all right. For that alone, it was worth it. It was good to see joy in their eyes after so long.” He sighed. “I suppose all good things must come to an end.”

  Sadness filled the room. Sadness and hope. Though the disappearance of the library was disappointing, its appearance still encouraged them. The people here were not strangers to these two emotions. They saw them every day. They were sad because they killed themselves, but they did so for hope of a better future. For remembrance.

  Now, however, a third emotion filled the room. It crashed into the balance of sadness and hope that had kept the sect together. It followed naturally from the fresh loss of their library. The moment their dreams came crashing down. Had they known it would vanish? Perhaps. Only a fool would believe those texts were real. Yet for a moment, it was all they had. They’d clung to that hope and believed.

  That new feeling was called resentment. No, it wasn’t completely new. It was an old, lingering feeling that pervaded their entire clan grounds. It was not the resentment of the dead and dying but that of giants who had once known glory and had it stolen away. It was the blistering anger of a father whose child’s future had been taken. It was the rage of a youngster who’d lost his way.

  And it wasn’t just them. Not just the living. Wei Longshen shivered when he saw that others had joined them in the library. They were spirits, ancient and old. They remembered what once was, and when they felt the anger of their clansmen, their tempers flared. They wanted blood. They wanted vengeance. Their children’s future had been stolen. It had been plundered by their enemies, and they would see that people bled.

  The Xia Clan! said a whisper in the wind.

  What have I done? Wei Longshen thought.

  “We’d best get going, boy,” Wei Yimu said.

  “It would be safer,” Yin Zhen said, feeling the shift in the mood. “Blood will be spilled this night, I’m afraid.” The pressure was suffocating. Indeed, many of these ghosts had been rune-gathering cultivators in their lifetime. Many of them had even been corpse puppeteers—their souls were not weak.

  Others came still. More spirits from beyond the pale. Not from the Yellow River itself, but from the minds of the people themselves. They were beings of memory. They were creatures of passion. Rage had brought them to life, and while they were temporary apparitions, each of them knew it.

  Something had to be done. If not for the Xia Clan, for the Yin Clan. All this resentment needed to be spent, lest these ghosts bring ruin upon them. Wei Longshen began to play, a shrill tune at first. A song of battle. A song of rage.

  “Stop that, boy, you’re agitating them,” Wei Yimu said. He reached for Wei Longshen, but a ghost interposed himself between them. “Back off, old ghost.”

  The ghost screamed, and dozens more joined him. They surrounded Wei Longshen and refused to let the elder break through. Wei Longshen had summoned them, and he was helping them. He was channeling their emotions. They would not let an old goat like Wei Yimu interfere.

  Emotions raged. Sorrow, anger, hatred, and hope mixed together in an awful cacophony. It was a song unlike any other Wei Longshen had ever played. Concepts he’d never seen before filled his music and brought him inspiration. Life and death blurred. Was he still living? Was he dead? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to play. There was a song here, and it needed an outlet.

  So he played. He played like he never had before. It was not his song, but someone else’s. But that didn’t matter, did it? A musician didn’t just play for himself. He played for his audience. He heard a breaking sound. A tearing deep within. He quickly realized it was his soul that was ripping.

  I should have known, he thought, but continued playing. There were limits even to transcendent souls, and the emotions present were too much for it to handle. Still, he kept playing. He had to. This was not his song. It was a song for the living, the clansmen who summoned their old ghosts. It was also a song for the dying and the dead.

  He heard another crack. Another tear. He felt them dying, the normal clansmen, as his soul was ripping apart. These remnants of the Yin Clan were pouring their very death essence into his song. The very essence that kept them living. I should stop, he thought, but immediately, a chorus of voices yelled back.

  No! You must keep playing!

  But you’ll die, he said, his fingers still moving. But he continued playing. This was their song. Their music. It was their choice, in the end.

  Still, they needed an outlet. One that he was barely providing. What else could he do, aside from playing? Should he lead them into battle? Should he guide their vengeance? He could do that, he realized. Through this song, he had this power.

  He heard another crack, and this time, his soul shattered into a hundred pieces. I’m dying, Wei Longshen realized with horror. But he continued playing nonetheless. If he was going to die, he would at least finish playing this one song. He refused to do so until then.

  Then, something curious happened. His soul began to heal. It wasn’t energy from heaven and earth that poured into it, but the nearest available source of energy. The deathly energy from the crypts flooded into his soul, which had just torn through its initial transcendent limits.

  He was breaking through. Insight flooded into his mind as his soul expanded, and in that moment, he knew what he had to do.

  Give me your will! he pleaded as he played. His music grew louder. The wind raged, and shadows extended from each clansman. He reached out to them and took what he needed. Memories. Fragments of their will. Even small pieces of their souls. Their life force? He also left it. He didn’t need life. He needed death. He didn’t take it from the spirits, however. The Yin Clan was no normal place.

  I am a soul piper, Wei Longshen realized. I channel memories. I channel spirits. But most importantly, I channel death. These strong memories came from death and pain, and through them, he would craft a song to make the world remember.

  The Yin Clan had plenty of death qi to spare. It filled their crypts. It filled their walls, their beds, and their homes. It filled their flesh and bones. He didn’t need to take from the clansmen, but they had bodies and death aplenty. He reached into the deepest of graves and pulled out as much death qi as he could. He might not be able to make them a library, a thing of the living, but he could give them something of the dead.

  Which masters will serve the Yin Clan? Wei Longshen called out. Which memories offer their lives? The spirits communed, and in less than a second, they brought forth a dozen of their number. Ten years, Wei Longshen said. Ten years, and your memory will fade. You will be forgotten by your clansmen. Your s
pirits will vanish. They will strike your names from their plaques, and they shall never remember you.

  But for that price, you will gain time. You will gain shape from memory. You will have ten years to make a difference. Is this price acceptable? Is this something you will? It was a difficult question. After all, the prevailing feeling in the clan was that glimmer of immortality. The hope that they would be remembered.

  We accept, they said as one. Their will was unanimous. Then he realized why that was—everyone here was remembered regardless. They had lived. They had died. They had been honored by their descendants. Yet what was the point in any of it if you let your family suffer? No matter what happened to their names, their corpses, or their stories, they would never be forgotten. Their clan would endure, and their legacy would live on. That was the true memory that mattered. The only glimmer of immortality they needed.

  Wei Longshen wove soul, shadow, and wind into his music. He drew upon death and will and memory and poured them into the twelve specters. No, not mere specters. They were spiritual shells given life. Beings of memory. These ancient masters appeared before the Yin Clan crypts. They bowed to Wei Longshen and dove into the tombs, only to emerge moments later.

  “I, Yin Hu, will take in twenty disciples!” the first said. He was tall, and his body strong. “Come and greet your master!”

  “I, Yin Xun, will take in fifteen disciples!” the second said. He, like the first, was a very real person. “Come and greet your master!”

  They came out one after another, each announcing their intentions. Each soul inhabiting a body they’d taken from the crypts, scratching out their names on the ancestral tablets on their way out of them. Emotions were still raw in the air, and they acted as one. As soon as a master announced their intention, students sprang up to accept them.

  This continued until finally, only one master remained. A female puppet exited a crypt and walked up to Wei Longshen. She bowed lightly, then turned to the Patriarch and the elders who had joined him. “I, Yin Shi, will take on three disciples,” she said. “You, Patriarch Zhen, and two of your elders. Hurry, for we have much to do. Little time remains.” She then gave Wei Longshen a calculating look. “There are worse people to attach yourself to, Patriarch Zhen. Let us meet in the morrow. Come with the elders.” She then walked back to the crypts and closed them, sealing off the cloud of thick death energy that had spewed out from them.