by Zoe Marriott
I do this for my family and for my country, I told my trembling hands. It is my duty, and by embracing duty, all actions become correct.
My hands didn’t stop shaking. Why were they shaking so much? I had expected to be afraid. I just hadn’t expected to feel so strange, so … so excited.
Concentrate, Zhilan. Concentrate on what you must do.
There was a second thing all the challengers had in common. Whether they were awed and astonished by his skill, or chagrined and bitter, none of them ever realized what Father was hiding. They knew the legend. None of them knew the truth.
While his limp added a sort of weathered, menacing majesty to his stride, the injury it betrayed would not allow more than a few of the swift, graceful movements needed for sword-work without collapsing beneath him. Nor could his damaged lungs handle the demands of extended battle. If he was forced to fight on, he would begin to wheeze, and then, more frightening still, his lips would turn grey.
Once he began to cough, he was finished.
Outside the room, dawn birds were starting to stir and chirp in the trees on the hillside. The sun was beginning its steady creep over the mountains.
Faster now, I pulled the lightest and least elaborate of Father’s suits of armour from the cabinet. A long red, felt coat that fell to below my knees, a pair of heavy boots that could be strapped up to just above them. Then a plain steel helm – Father’s first, standard army issue, from before he was awarded the white horsehair plume of a general – and a long vest formed of panels of square, boiled leather scales, reinforced by metal studs, with similar scale panels at the shoulder that tied under the armpit to offer protection to the arms. I struggled to tie them, and gave up only half-satisfied, hoping they wouldn’t flap around too badly. Next, a pair of leather gauntlets. A wide leather belt to strap the armoured vest down firmly on to the red coat. And finally…
The sword.
My fingers hesitated a butterfly’s breath from the gilded pommel of Father’s blade, laid reverently at rest on its ebony stand. It was a two-handed shuangshou jian, nearly five and a half feet long, a straight, double-edged blade with a golden pommel and golden winged guard, each chased with flowers in honour of our family name “Hua”. The hilt and scabbard were inlaid with rough, pearly sharkskin, dyed a vivid emerald green. The sword had been awarded to my father by Emperor Gao Zi himself.
I had never touched it, and I could not bring myself to do so now.
Sighing, I turned aside and chose a basic steel sword with a bronzed, rounded pommel and heavy guard in the old style, and a plain leather grip and scabbard. I had used it to practise many times and knew there were countless others like it scattered throughout the empire. Nothing about it would invite interest or recognition, and, therefore, I would not need to expend any extra effort to shift the shadows over it into an illusion of another sword.
It would be hard enough to keep myself disguised in the midst of battle.
I secured the sword to the leather belt that I had tightly cinched at my waist, tucked the helm under my arm, and walked – a little heavily, as I accustomed myself to the weight of the full armour, which I had never worn before – across the room to the screens that divided it from the courtyard beyond.
Fumbling the screen open, I peered out. It was still mostly dark – the coming day was a milky ripple of pale grey-blue above the rooftops. There was no sign of bent-backed old Yong Chou shuffling across the courtyard to unbar the great gates, and I could smell no smoke drifting from the kitchen building. I stepped down into the courtyard, carefully. In the stillness of such a clear morning even small noises might start my father awake. If he, or anyone, came to investigate now, all would be lost.
The magnolia tree was in bloom, the thick swathes of wine-cup-shaped flowers providing deep, shifting shadows that would conceal my presence until the right moment. I made sure both feet were solidly planted and that I had the support of the twisted trunk to help me stay still, and carefully placed the helm on my head. Then I closed my eyes and focused on my qi as Father had taught me.
I saw my qi in my mind’s eye as light suffusing my veins, liquid gold that ran within my blood from the tips of my fingers to the top of my head and the soles of my feet. As my state of inner contemplation centred me, I examined the qi, seeing it swirl in mildly agitated patterns – a response to my anxiety – over my cardinal points and the major acupressure areas. A few moments’ concentration drew thin threads of it up and outwards so that it tingled on the surface of my skin, and then, with a slow exhale, I pushed it up, out, beyond my skin, until it hovered around me like the corona that blazes around the sun in a lunar eclipse. I felt the illusion form. It was a face. A new face.
A boy’s face.
The energy settled. I opened my eyes. Now I must wait for the sun to rise, the servants to stir, and Yong Chou to unbar the gates. Despite my attempts at discipline, my hand slowly crept to the hilt of the sword and clenched there.
At last, sunlight warmed the courtyard. I heard the rattle and grinding of a door as it slowly opened, out of sight, on the other side of the tree, and felt my nerves vibrate with tension and anticipation. Equally slow footsteps moved past me and towards the entrance to the compound. Iron grated against iron, and wood thunked.
The house gate was open.
Yong Chou passed me again, moving in the other direction.
It was time.
I slipped out from under the tree. As I had hoped, the servant had propped the gate open to allow bad dreams to flow out. He was already reaching for the door to my father’s bedchamber, his back to me.
“Respected servant!” I bellowed, nerves making my voice hoarse and aggressive despite using the most polite language possible. “Wake your master! I have come to challenge the legendary Hua Zhou to a duel of honour!”
My father defeated his opponents quickly because he had no choice. That was his greatest secret – and I knew it. I knew all his weaknesses. He taught them to me, day by day, for ten years.
He taught me how to do what no one had ever done.
He taught me how to beat him.
Five
faced my father across the worn paving stones of the courtyard.
The magnolia’s shadows danced gently as the sun rose behind it, a faint, warm breeze stirring its leaves and blossoms. Father was hastily dressed and his topknot was not as perfectly smooth as it was wont to be, but he exuded that familiar, unfamiliar sense of menace and purpose, his grip on Gao Zi’s priceless sword relaxed and ready, a sort of fearsome suppleness in his stance.
His eyes had never looked on me this way before. Coldly, assessing, as a stranger. It was … not exactly pleasant. Yet it also carried a strange thrill. A bead of lukewarm sweat trickled gently down the side of my face beneath the steel helm.
“What is your name, boy?” he asked casually. “Where is your family from?”
No one has ever called me “boy” before…
I shook the thought away. There was no illusion that could disguise my voice, and so I shook my head, refusing to answer his question.
His eyebrows quirked, but I thought that something at the back of his eyes softened. “There is more than one path out of this courtyard, you know,” he said. “Perhaps you have travelled a long way, prepared for many days … but that does not mean you must go through with this fight.”
He was thinking of Da Xiong, I realized – how when my younger brother was scared, his nerves overcame him and struck him dumb.
Father went on, “A good soldier knows the wisdom of retreat. If you have changed your mind, you may walk away now with no shame.”
No, no, don’t feel sorry for me, I begged silently. Another moment and he would refuse to fight and send me away. All would be lost. I could feel my chance slipping from my grasp, and there was no way to stop it, except one: force him to see me as a threat, a target.
Slowly, infusing my own movements with as much prowling menace as I could muster, I began to circle him. My
overly large boots made tiny scuffing sounds on the flagstones. I was used to practising in my bare feet on wooden boards. I ignored the noise as best I could and shifted my blade from a one-handed to a two-handed grip, positioning it defensively across my body in the Dancing Crane form.
Father’s face went blank as he quickly reassessed me. I had given away both training and some measure of skill. The softness vanished from his gaze and his eyes narrowed again. He began to turn to keep me in sight. “Very well. Let us begin.”
I nodded, prowling on. Father circled his wrist slowly, loosening the muscles of his hand and arm, still absently turning to keep his silent challenger in view. I waited until the sun was behind me, and he was halfway through shifting his weight off his bad leg … and suddenly changed direction, darting to the right.
He faltered, minutely off balance. The hesitation would barely be perceptible to any ordinary observer. It was exactly what I had been waiting for. I lunged into his space.
His sword was a flash of lightning. Our blades met with a clash that made my heart leap in fear and exultation. He twisted his blade, trying to unbalance me and steal my sword from my gloved fingers, but I shifted, shadowing his movement and keeping my grip on the hilt. His superior strength bore down on me. The muscles in my arm screamed in protest. With a fluid sideways motion, I disengaged our blades and ducked away.
To my astonishment, I saw the faintest hint of a smile pulling at one corner of his lips as I fell back. He looked … impressed.
“You are one of Sifu Jiao’s, aren’t you? I didn’t know he was still taking on students, but your form is unmistakable. Did he send you here to face me?”
Sifu Jiao had been his own master.
I shook my head again, moving restlessly into the shade of the magnolia tree, trying to keep my movements unpredictable, as he had taught me. My head was buzzing as if a swarm of hornets had nested under my helm. You are fighting Father, Father’s sword is raised against you, you are fighting your own father. But it was working. I just had to keep it going, keep him curious and distracted.
“How old are—” he began.
Before he could finish the thought, I spun out of the shadows and came at him once more. Our blades clashed at the height of my waist, disengaged, clashed again before my face. The point of his sword slipped under my guard and grazed the shoulder of my armour, sending a handful of leather scales flying. I turned the movement against him and my elbow thudded solidly into his gut. I heard the hard cough of his breath and the soft wheeze beginning beneath it.
He was already beginning to tire. He would seek to end the fight quickly. I must prolong it.
This time when I tried to glide out of range, Father pursued me, sword a whirlwind of metal that I could only barely fend off. I felt pride and reverence bloom warmly inside me even as I ducked, dodged, feinted. He was a marvel, a master; any student of sword-work would have wept tears of joy to see such a display of finely honed skill.
I could not hope to match his speed or strength. My greater agility was my most valuable weapon. Swiftly, I leapt back into the shadows of the tree and then changed my path, drawing Father off the paving stones on to the uneven surface of the raked gravel where I would have the advantage.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice a little hoarse now as he followed me. “I must know your name.”
Not yet.
I sought to spin again, to force him off balance – and the toe of one of the too large boots caught on the very surface I had sought to use against him. I stumbled. Before I even had time to register dismay, he was upon me.
Now the fight was in earnest. He treated me as he would have an enemy on the field – no mercy, no hesitation, no quarter. It was all I could do to meet his sword blow for blow, to keep to my feet as he drove me back towards the side of the building. The harsh sawing of my own breath rattled me from within. Sweat poured down my forehead and my back.
But even above my own discomfort, I could watch it happening. Father’s face was turning pale. His breaths had become gasps, shallow and painful. He was reaching the end of his endurance and now he would be getting desperate.
When a man is desperate, he had always told me, he will all too often bring about the very destruction he has sought to avoid.
Wait, I told myself, bringing my blade up and wincing from the shrill scream of metal as I clumsily parried Father’s powerful slice. Wait. It will come soon…
In the next instant there it was. He was shifting, preparing to deploy the Striking Snake attack against me. A thrill made my hairs stand up even while my stomach lurched. He had only used this form once in a duel before, against a young man whom he had almost agreed to train. I had done more than impress him.
I had won his respect.
As he began the characteristic short, chopping movements of his sword, I felt my own body go liquid, flowing instinctively, easily into the risky counterattack. I matched his movements, forcing him on to the defensive, driving him back now as he had done to me a moment before. His mouth gaped in disbelief and then his icy eyes flashed with sudden fury as he realized he could lose his own sword instead of taking mine.
With a painful sideways wrench, he managed to disengage his blade and foil my attempt to steal it. But his retreat became a painful stagger; his bad leg was giving out.
I saw my chance.
Slipping forward, I brought my knee up and hit him hard in the upper thigh, swiping his shaky leg out from under him. He twisted away, already falling – and his sword hand flew up. I dropped my own sword, grasped his wrist with one hand and jerked the hilt of his blade from his fingers.
He hit the ground with a soft grunt and rolled, both hands slapping down to break his fall. The next second he was up again, wavering on his feet, his eyes fixed on the shadows under my helm in an expression of stark, almost comedic disbelief.
I stood motionless before him, dazed and panting. The bright emerald-and-gold of the emperor’s blade glittered in my hands. If he could have seen my face in that moment, I have no doubt my expression would have mirrored his exactly.
It worked. It worked. It actually…
I won.
With a sharp crack that made both Father and me jump, the screen veiling the great room on the southern side of the compound flew back. Da Xiong and Xiao Xia stood in the opening, their faces pale blurs with wide, dark gaps for eyes and mouths. Behind them, Ai Bo and Yong Chou stood frozen in similar attitudes of shock and dismay.
White-eyed fool, I cursed myself. I should have realized they would spy. After all, I always had. Now it was too late, and they would have to see, which meant the news would fly to Mother like an arrow.
“Who are you?” Father demanded, keeping steady in his stance with what I could tell was an effort.
I let out a slow, shuddering breath. Then I sank down on to one knee and held up Father’s sword in both hands, reverently offering it back to him. He hesitated for a moment, as if suspicious of a trick, then reached out and, when I made no attempt to hold the sword or draw it back, took the unsheathed blade from my fingers.
With my hands free, I reached up and pulled the helm from my head, letting the shadow of illusion I had cast over my face dissipate as I did so. I placed the helm neatly on the ground before me. Long strands of hair fell from my topknot to brush my cheeks. I forced myself to look up.
“Zhilan.” Father breathed the word, nearly soundless.
Xiao Xia let out an aborted shriek. Without looking I could guess that Da Xiong had slapped his hand over her mouth.
“Most beloved and virtuous Father,” I said formally. “I beg a thousand pardons for my deception and will accept any punishment that you think just.”
“Why, daughter? Why have you done this?”
“To prove I could. To prove that you have trained me for a reason, just as you promised all those years ago. And to prove that I am your equal, any man’s equal, in battle. The emperor demands the Hua family send a soldier to fight for the army. Very well.
Let that soldier be me.”
Six
high-pitched, warbling trill cut through my dreams, scattering the hazy fragments of sleep as wind scatters the early morning mist from the mountain. I blinked reluctant eyes open to see a pair of small, vivid blue-and-gold robins fighting among the interlaced branches of the sapling that swayed over my head. The sky beyond them was soft grey, lightening to yellow. Dawn, but only just.
In the next blink, I remembered where I was – and why.
Before letting out my next breath, I found the warm light of qi within myself, unravelled it through my pores as fine threads that formed an increasingly familiar shape, and let go, feeling it gently drape into place as the air whistled gently between my lips.
I eased myself cautiously into a sitting position, groaning, then let out a yawn that cracked my jaw. I squashed the urge to politely cover my mouth, as my mother had many times chided me to do. Boys did not have to cover their mouths. Instead I stretched out stiff back and shoulders that were unused, as yet, to sleeping on the ground, rose to my feet and dutifully began the qigong.
The slow, precise, almost-dancing exercises did not only warm up my aching muscles and soothe my cracking back. They helped stimulate the flow of my qi to its highest potential, and maintained those energy levels day by day. The most important part was neigong, the internal movements, the deep, conscious breathing and invisible tensing and releasing of muscle and tendon; these made each external movement twice as difficult – and twice as potent.
You do not have qi. You are qi. That was what my father taught me in my very first banner-breaking lesson. I remembered staring up at him, wide-eyed, not wanting to admit that I was already lost.
“It is the energy that binds together your tiniest fibres and fragments, warms your blood, animates your consciousness. It is in all things. It is the essential building material of the universe. And aside from being made up of qi, every person, animal and object also generates new qi … and that is where the ability of banner-breakers originates.
