A Venom Dark and Sweet E-Book

Judy I. Lin

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The enthralling conclusion to Judy I. Lin's Book of Tea duology—A Magic Steeped in Poison and A Venom Dark and Sweet—is sure to enchant fans of Adrienne Young and Leigh Bardugo. A great evil has come to the kingdom of Dàxi. The Banished Prince has returned to seize power, his rise to the dragon throne aided by the mass poisonings that have kept the people bound in fear and distrust. Ning, a young but powerful shénnóng-shi—a wielder of magic using the ancient and delicate art of tea-making—has escorted Princess Zhen into exile. Joining them is the princess' loyal bodyguard, Ruyi, and Ning's newly healed sister, Shu. Together the four young women travel throughout the kingdom in search of allies to help oust the invaders and take back Zhen's rightful throne. But the golden serpent still haunts Ning's nightmares with visions of war and bloodshed. An evil far more ancient than the petty conflicts of men has awoken, and all the magic in the land may not be enough to stop it from consuming the world...

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also By Judy I. Lin and Available from Titan Books

Title Page

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Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Kang

Chapter Two: Ning

Chapter Three: Kang

Chapter Four: Ning

Chapter Five: Ning

Chapter Six: Kang

Chapter Seven: Ning

Chapter Eight: Ning

Chapter Nine: Kang

Chapter Ten: Ning

Chapter Eleven: Ning

Chapter Twelve: Ning

Chapter Thirteen: Kang

Chapter Fourteen: Kang

Chapter Fifteen: Ning

Chapter Sixteen: Ning

Chapter Seventeen: Kang

Chapter Eighteen: Kang

Chapter Nineteen: Ning

Chapter Twenty: Ning

Chapter Twenty-One: Kang

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kang

Chapter Twenty-Three: Ning

Chapter Twenty-Four: Ning

Chapter Twenty-Five: Ning

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kang

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ning

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ning

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Ning

Chapter Thirty: Kang

Chapter Thirty-One: Ning

Chapter Thirty-Two: Ning

Chapter Thirty-Three: Ning

Chapter Thirty-Four: Ning

Chapter Thirty-Five: Kang

Chapter Thirty-Six: Ning

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Ning

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Kang

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ning

Chapter Forty: Kang

Chapter Forty-One: Ning

Chapter Forty-Two: Kang

Chapter Forty-Three: Ning

Chapter Forty-Four: Ning

Chapter Forty-Five: Kang

Chapter Forty-Six: Ning

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Glossary

ALSO BY JUDY I. LIN

AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

A Magic Steeped in Poison

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A Venom Dark and Sweet

Print edition ISBN: 9781803362205

Waterstones edition ISBN: 9781803365329

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803362212

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: January 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

© Judy I. Lin 2022. All rights reserved. Judy I. Lin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First published by Feiwel & Friends, an imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To my husband:

Your love helped me through the most challenging times.

CHAPTER ONE

KANG

When he was a young boy, Kang dreamed of returning to the palace.

An envoy would arrive at Lǜzhou, a spill of color against the gray skies and black rocks. Musicians playing something bright and cheery, banners fluttering in the wind. A palanquin would deposit a blue-robed court official to stand on the sandy beach where these daydreams often played out before him, and they would unfurl an embroidered scroll—a decree from the emperor. His family would be asked to return to Jia, their positions restored, and he would return to his life among the palace children.

But no envoy came, and those childhood dreams faded away. Only now, waiting before the grand gate to the palace, did those memories return to him. Cutting into him like those northerly winds once did, filling his nose with the scent of salt. He knows the truth, though: The home he knew as a child was no longer. No dowager empress asking the kitchen to bring them another plate of sweets. No emperor uncle demonstrating calligraphy on a stretched canvas. No princess reciting yet another treatise on negotiation before their tutor. He came back under a rain of arrows, bringing with him nothing but lies and destruction. No matter how much he wants to pretend otherwise, he had a hand in everything that will happen after this.

His horse nickers softly, jostling the one beside him. The animal senses the change in the air, the shift in the wind. He thought a coup would be bloodier. Blood and fire, from the stories told by the teachers and his own fragmented recollections of ten years before. Instead, he saw the soldiers of the army stream into Jia’s crevices like water into a dry riverbed. The capital of Dàxī drank them in throughout the night, as the sky turned pale and a new dawn settled over the sleeping city.

The gate opens before him. Kang enters, flanked by his father’s men. Rows of soldiers stand at attention, clad in the black uniform of the city guard. A path had been left for them, and the soldiers bow when they pass. There is no sound of battle up ahead, no defiant clash of steel. There is only that weight of expectation, of coming change.

When he met his father at the teahouse, the general was all smiles, face reddened by wine. His father clapped him on the back, told him that he had done his part. Like a good son, a good soldier. Although he wants to enjoy the warmth of his father’s approval, Kang still feels a sense of unease at the back of his mind, like an itch he is unable to scratch. Zhen’s voice whispers to him: All these schemes coming to fruition, but at what cost? He thought she meant their fraud of a betrothal, but she laughed in his face when he said so.

One of the foot soldiers steps forward to take the reins of his horse, and Kang dismounts. An official greets him with a slight bow, dressed in the black and green of the Ministry of Justice, introducing himself as the Governor of Sù, Wang Li. They slip in through a side door and ascend the narrow stairwell hidden in the high wall beside the Courtyard of Promising Future.

“The General of Kǎiláng!” a herald announces in the distance, and the resulting cry is thunderous, echoing through the stone passage.

“I want to extend a personal welcome to you, my prince.” The governor is all smiles at the top of the stairs, gesturing for him to continue forward. “Welcome back to Jia.”

The sound of that title makes Kang’s skin crawl. Prince.

But the thought is chased away by what awaits him in the courtyard below. From this vantage point, he sees the court officials clustered in the space before the stairs that lead up to the Hall of Eternal Light, surrounded by the red of the palace guard and the black of the city guard. Some of them appear bewildered, while others have already fallen prostrate on the ground in their eagerness to show deference to the soon-to-be emperor. To Kang’s left, the long wall is lined with archers, and he sees similar bobbing shadows along the length of the far wall. Their presence obvious to those below, a reminder of the general’s power.

The general stands at the top of the stairs, adorned in full battle armor. He gleams black and gold from the curved prongs of his helmet to the shine of his boots. Chancellor Zhou stands to his right, dressed in formal court garb. There is no question who will rule and who helped him onto the throne.

Kang’s father raises his arms, and the roar of the soldiers falls silent. They drop to one knee in a salute, a coordinated wave. The remaining stragglers of the court still standing kneel as well, following the lead of their peers. But Kang commits those faces to memory, just as he knows the chancellor is also taking note. The ones who bowed first, and the ones who hesitated.

The general’s arms return to his sides as the herald steps forward again. “Rise to hear the words of the regent, soon to ascend to the throne of our great empire.”

The soldiers stand once again at attention with a thud of their spears, shaking the walls of the courtyard. The officials stagger to their feet.

“For some of you, it may be a surprise to see that I have returned,” the General of Kǎiláng’s voice rings out over the crowd. “I had willingly gone into exile so many years ago, wishing to see the glory of our great empire continue without internal strife. We cannot stand strong when we are fighting from within. I thought I would give my brother a chance, and instead, he sought to bring Dàxī to ruin.”

Father was always one for rousing speeches, known for his ability to stir up the blood of those who follow him, to encourage them to fight on his behalf.

“With all his own ambitions, he never thought one of his own would turn on him. The princess he raised poisoned her own father and attempted to remove those of the court who would stand in her way of consolidating power. I have been entrusted now with restoring honor to the Li name and securing justice for my brother’s death.”

The general’s impassioned speech seems to have thrown a hornet’s nest into the midst of the court, for they can no longer hold still and keep silent; they whisper and mutter among themselves at this revelation. Kang senses attention on him, and he struggles to keep his face impassive, even though his unease grows.

A girl told him about the components of the poison and its origins in Lǜzhou. A princess tried to hide the news of her father’s passing from the rest of the people. He has glimpsed only a small part of his father’s deeply laid plans, and the general has refused to respond to his questions about the origins of the poison.

He meets the chancellor’s eyes, and the man gives him a small smile before turning back to the courtyard.

The doubt crawls deeper under Kang’s skin. Does it matter if his father released the poison? The emperor is no longer, the princess is gone, the throne is empty and waiting for the one who will ascend it. But inside, the question still burns: Was it his father who gave the order?

“I will bring peace and prosperity back to Dàxī. I will root out the traitors, the corrupt,” the general announces with great fervor. “Starting with the palace. The traitorous princess and her pet shénnóng-tú have escaped the palace, but they will not remain free for long. The Ministry of Justice will bring them back.”

Chancellor Zhou steps forward and proclaims, “So wills the emperor-regent of Dàxī!”

“So wills the emperor-regent!” his subjects echo, and they kneel once again to receive his divine command.

His head bowed, face hidden from suspicious eyes, Kang feels his lips curve into a smile.

She’s alive.

CHAPTER TWO

NING

Mother said the world grew from darkness. From that great primordial nothing came awareness, and the first gods awoke from their slumber. The Great Goddess emerged, splitting the darkness open like an egg. With her brother, they separated the heaven and the earth.

Never forget, she told us. The world began with a dream. Our lives are the same. Keep dreaming, my daughters. The world is greater than you know.

* * *

Sunlight streams through the canopy of green overhead, leaves rustling slightly in the breeze. The air smells like a pleasant summer day, but I’m caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. I feel like I’ve forgotten something important, just out of reach. My body is jostled by movement underneath me, and I sit up too quickly, head spinning.

Trees fly past my eyes. My hands brush against rough fabric, a blanket that slid off me when I moved. I turn and realize I’m sitting in a wagon. My sister sits across from me, eyes closed, mouth moving. I know that expression: She’s working through a particularly difficult puzzle in her mind. Some sort of embroidery pattern, or accounting for ingredients in Father’s storeroom. But then her eyes snap open and meet mine. She scuttles over to sit beside me.

“You’re awake,” Shu says with relief, and then before I can stop her, she calls out to the two figures sitting at the front of the wagon, “She’s awake!”

I can’t help myself. I grab her arm to make sure she is real. I need to know I’m not still dreaming, sleeping on a boat floating down the Jade River, still trying to find my way back home. Or worse, curled up on the floor of the palace dungeons, awaiting the morning of my execution. Those uneasy thoughts chase away the heat of the day, leaving only a chill in its wake. Shu looks down at my hand, and then she places hers over mine.

She opens her mouth to say something, but before she speaks, the wagon jerks to a stop, throwing us forward. One of the figures swings over the front of the wagon and lands next to us, the brim of their wide hat casting their face in shadow. It is only when they look up that I recognize the face—her striking features, revered by poets in their flowery texts, which are now familiar to me. Someone whom I may even dare call a friend.

Zhen, the princess of Dàxī, is dressed in a plain brown tunic, her hair tied back in a long braid. Behind her is the driver, someone I recognize as well—Ruyi, her handmaiden, dressed in an identical brown outfit. They look like farmers returning from a day in the fields.

Ruyi gives me a quick nod of acknowledgment before turning back to urge the horse forward again with a click of her tongue.

“How are you feeling?” Zhen asks. Shu also looks at me with great intensity, and my sense of dread deepens.

I shake my head, still a little dizzy, trying to remember. “You’ll have to tell me what happened.”

Images then appear unbidden before me. The imposing face of the chancellor, sentencing me to death. The vivid petals of the peony bloom on Shu’s embroidery. Chasing my sister through dark woods. My father, weeping over her body. The descending form of the Gold Serpent and the flash of its vicious fangs … its bloodred eyes.

A sudden pain pricks the center of my brow, and I gasp, doubling over.

Agony spreads like wildfire through my body, obliterating all other thoughts. Dimly, I feel hands on me, helping me to lie down as the pain crashes over me again and again. I drift through it for a while. It could be minutes or hours, I do not know. Until finally, bit by bit, the pain eases. Until I can slowly find my way back to myself and push back to sitting again.

“Here. Drink some water.” A flask is thrust into my hands, and I pour the cool water into my mouth.

“You were asleep for three days and three nights.” Shu passes me a handkerchief to wipe my face, radiating concern. “Your fever was high, and Father tried to draw out the infection as best as he could. Some probably still lingers …”

I pulled Shu out of the darkness only to fall into it, and I remember nothing of what happened after.

“Father … where is he?” We set aside our differences in order to save Shu, together. But I have much more to ask him. About him and Mother in the palace. About what he gave up to start a new life in Xīnyì. All that I never understood until I went to Jia.

Shu seems reluctant to speak. “After you lost consciousness, Father sent word to the village that I had taken a turn for the worse and could not make his daily rounds. Captain Wu came to check on me, and also to provide a warning.”

Our father once saved the captain’s life after a bad fall. Captain Wu has always been kind to us, trying to sneak us extra rations even though Father would usually refuse them.

“He warned us soldiers would come soon from Nánjiāng to search for you, by order of the governor. Father permitted him to search our house while I hid in the bed with you.” Shu’s lips quiver with the memory. I reach out and grasp my sister’s hand, knowing it must have been terrifying to experience.

“Your father came to find us later,” Zhen tells me. “Told us we should be on our way. Provided us with the clothes and the wagon and said he would send them in the opposite direction if the soldiers came.”

“Why isn’t he with us?” I demand. “He’ll be in danger!”

Zhen exchanges a look with Shu. That familiarity sends a jolt of irritation through me. There is something they know that I do not. What is it they feel they have to hide?

“He didn’t want to,” Zhen tells me finally. “He said he still has patients under his care.”

Of course. His patients. His obligations.

“I tried to persuade him to come,” Shu says, but instead of reassuring me, it only irritates me further. How she always tries to see the best in people, even when they continue to disappoint us. She should not be the target of my anger, yet—

“Village up ahead!” Ruyi calls from the front of the wagon, disrupting the tension.

Zhen climbs back to the front while Shu looks ahead with interest, leaving me alone with my questions and my dark thoughts.

* * *

The slanting afternoon sunlight does not shine on a bustling village. Instead, only a scattering of chickens runs across our path when we enter the gates. We pass mud-brick houses built around small courtyards, separated from the main road by low wooden fences. One woman hangs her washing on a line, and Ruyi goes over to talk to her, returning with the location of an inn. Looking back from the wagon, I see her stare after us, only turning away when she notices me watching.

Ruyi leads the horse down another road and pulls into a wide courtyard with an opened gate. The plaque hung on the wall only indicates it is an inn, without an official name for the establishment. An elderly man comes out to greet us with a smile and takes the reins of the horse from Ruyi’s hands.

I slide off the back of the wagon, but my legs almost buckle under my weight. I steady myself against the side. If I have been asleep for three days and three nights, it would explain my overall weakness … and my growling stomach. Zhen chatters cheerfully with the elderly woman who comes out to welcome us with a platter of sweets. I hear her weave a tale about how we are pilgrims heading up to Yěliŭ to pay our respects to the Emerald Tortoise of the West.

I recognize now we are at Xìngyuán, a village before the mountain pass that leads to Yěliŭ. We are two days’ journey north of my home, a place I have never been. Zhen must be following the directions in Wenyi’s letter, as she had originally planned. She will ask for aid. I am grateful to her for helping me get to my village, diverting her plans so that I could save Shu. She did not leave us behind, even though she easily could have.

“Let me look at your wound.” Ruyi comes up behind me and steadies me, noticing how I can barely walk. “We’ll need to change the poultice again.”

When she mentions the poultice, my arm begins to ache, almost as a reminder. I limp over to the door Zhen and Shu have already gone through. Inside is a large room with several wooden tables and benches. Ruyi assists me to sit down heavily on one bench.

“I’ll bring some tea over to you, kind patrons.” The elderly woman ducks her head, and Ruyi follows her through the other door on the far wall.

I stare down at the bandage, remembering the serpent tearing his fangs into my arm, and the horror of returning to my body with those marks still on my skin. I’m filled with a strange desire to see what they look like now.

Shu hovers close to me, trying to be helpful, but I sense her anxiety.

“You don’t have to see this. Ruyi will help me,” I tell her, knowing she is uncomfortable with the sight of blood.

She tries to protest, but Zhen calls out for her help, and she leaves me with a reluctant glance.

When Ruyi returns with a large bowl of steaming water and some clean cloths, I had already used what remained of the fabric to clear away the poultice remnants to see the wounds directly.

Part of my arm is pink and swollen, warm to the touch. There are two gashes where the fangs punctured my skin and pulled away when I fell out of the tree in the world of the Shift and back into my own body. I once believed, as I told Steward Yang, that I was not aware of any magic that could send a person through time and space.

These marks tell a different story. There are darker magics out there than we know.

Ruyi helps me clean the wounds. I grit my teeth at the sharp, stinging pain. She pulls out the herbs soaking in a separate bowl and packs them onto my arm. The pungent scent they release is medicinal and familiar—it reminds me of my father. I swallow down my sadness and tell myself that he chose to stay behind.

After the poultice has been applied and the wrap secured, the warmth of it eases the ache slightly. I open and close my hand, feel the skin pull and stretch. We are done just in time for our hosts to welcome us to eat dinner in the back garden, where we are surrounded by beautiful roses in varying hues, growing on the fence and the trellis overhead. Pale white with edges of the lightest pink, bright yellow blooms the size of my fist, and peach-colored climbing roses with many small, delicate flowers. The fragrance complements our meal as we eat bowls of spicy noodles tossed in chili sauce, topped with crunchy pork intestines and bean sprouts. The noodles are accompanied by small dishes of pickled cabbage and radish. We also share a plate of zhéěrgēn, a white tuber softened in oil, its sweetness a delicious contrast to the salty, cured sausage it is stir-fried with. The dishes of this village are considerably spicier than what I am used to, which is no surprise as this region borders Huá prefecture, well known for their love of chilis. Ho-yi and Ho-buo, the friendly innkeepers, keep our cups filled with chrysanthemum tea and refuse to be referred to by more respectful titles due to our elders.

With our stomachs satiated, we retire to our respective rooms early, knowing the journey to ascend the mountain to Yěliŭ will take us most of the next day. Ho-buo offers to help us trade our wagon and horse for two sturdy ponies to carry our provisions up the mountain.

Shu helps me tighten the wrappings on my arm to make sure it will not slip off overnight, but she frowns at my arm, as if it has insulted her somehow.

“Something wrong?” I ask gently.

She tugs on the wrappings one final time, making sure it’s secure, but does not meet my eyes. “I … I don’t like that you got hurt because of me,” she whispers.

My heart constricts at her expression. My softhearted sister, always willing to help, never wanting to see anyone in pain. I should have known she would fret. We have yet to discuss what happened before I came back, and what’s happened since. But I don’t know if I’m ready to speak of it.

“I’m back now.” I shrug, attempting to keep my voice light. “And you’re back, which is all I care about.”

She sighs. “I hate that I wasn’t able to help you, that I couldn’t even really help Father when he treated you.” I recognize her helplessness because I’ve felt it myself. It grieves me that I could not protect her from it.

“If it wasn’t for your embroidery, I wouldn’t have figured out the antidote,” I remind her. “Clever girl.” I try to ruffle her hair, like I used to do to annoy her when we were younger. She dodges my fingers, smiling a little at least.

I blow out the candle, and we sleep, setting those worries aside for the night. But instead of soothing dreams and happy memories, I dream of red eyes watching me in the dark.

CHAPTER THREE

KANG

When his mother died, Kang thought he would lose his father, too. For three days and three nights, the general kept vigil in the room where his wife’s body was kept, refusing to leave even when her family tried to encourage him to eat or rest. They asked Kang to speak to his father on their behalf, but it was futile. He would speak to no one. Kang could only kneel by the door and listen to the sound of his father weeping or raging on the other side. On the fourth morning of the vigil, a letter came from the capital marked for the general’s eyes only, and it was slipped under the door.

The general came out soon after, took a boat and enough supplies for a week, and disappeared. He said nothing of where he was going or when he was coming back. Kang performed the rest of the funeral rites alone. The prayers. The endless ceremonies, processions through the village. Receiving the tributes from his mother’s people, his father’s soldiers. He watched as the flames of his mother’s funeral pyre lit up the night, and he carried her bones down the cliffs to be offered to the sea.

Kang almost convinced himself that his father went on a journey to die. Then the sail of the boat appeared on the horizon almost one hundred days after his mother was laid to rest. He received his father on the shores under the Emerald Cliffs, still wearing his mourning white. His father looked gaunt, browned from the sun, but his eyes shone with a desperate fervor. Kang found out about the contents of the letter, about the hunting accident that wasn’t quite a hunting accident, and the emperor’s hand in his mother’s death.

It was then he understood his father’s renewed purpose.

Vengeance.

* * *

Two days after the general marched on the capital with his forces, Kang is summoned to his father’s council chamber. Waiting for admittance to the inner palace, Kang thinks fleetingly how everything looks the same and yet everything has changed. The guards posted to his residence have been replaced by his father’s private guard, familiar but not friendly faces. The officials who hurried past him in the halls not even a week ago now acknowledge him with a nod or even a reverent bow. The servants seem unsure as well of how to greet him and tend to avoid him instead, taking a different path if they see him coming from a distance. But those who serve him now serve with deference and a hint of fear, for the Ministry of Justice has begun its sweep through the wings of the palace after the general’s proclamation, rooting out those suspected to be in allegiance with the plot that resulted in the escape of the princess.

Other than the time he was brought to the princess’s private gardens as a prisoner through the secret tunnels, this is the first he has seen of the inner palace in years. Not much has changed from what he remembered of the painted hallways, but inside the council chamber, the walls are bare. All decorations of the former emperor removed, waiting for the new ruler to determine what he will find pleasing to his eye. There is only his father, seated at the redwood desk, and the chancellor to his left, sipping a cup of tea.

“Father.” Kang bows. “Chancellor.”

His father gestures for him to sit in the empty seat across from the chancellor, while the chancellor gives him a nod in greeting.

Kang sits down in the hard wooden chair as a servant comes by with a tray of delicacies and tea. He had hoped for a private audience with his father, but it looks like there is another purpose to this meeting. Something beyond family matters.

After his father returned from his journey over the sea, he never spoke to Kang further about his mother’s death. Never discussed his plans. In public, he always treated Kang as one of his soldiers, refused to show any preferential treatment, and Kang was grateful for it. But in their own residences, his father grew reclusive.

He remembers when the chancellor first appeared in Lǜzhou, disguised as a merchant on a smaller vessel. They spoke late into the night, meetings Kang wasn’t privy to, until Kang forced himself into his father’s study. A place forbidden to him before. He spoke passionately then, about no longer being dismissed as a child, about being treated as a capable soldier. He used terms his father would understand, even if Kang would not admit to the undercurrent of fear that ran through it all: He did not want to lose his father, too.

It was the chancellor who spoke up for him, who persuaded the general to send him on the task to infiltrate the capital.

“Our plans have come to pass as predicted.” The general sets his brush down on the stand, disrupting Kang’s memories. He moves the missive over to the right for the ink to dry. Kang sees only a few characters from this perspective. Something about granaries and Ānhé.

“It could not have gone more smoothly,” Chancellor Zhou comments, setting his cup down beside him. “We’ve sustained minimal losses in our numbers. Now it is only the support of the court we must gain to ensure your ascension is successful.”

Kang should be grateful to the chancellor for appealing to his father many months ago, allowing him to participate in the mission. Yet he has seen how easily the chancellor turned on the princess, heard the rumors about how No one ascends the throne without the chancellor’s approval. To survive the ascension of two emperors, now approaching the third … Chancellor Zhou is not a simple man, and the more Kang learns of him, the more his suspicions deepen.

“The Ministries of War and Justice have always deferred to those with greater numbers,” the general says. “I have the conscripts from Lǜzhou, my loyal battalions in the area, commanders willing to lead, carrying my banner. Along with the reserves from Governor Wang, I believe we control at least half the military force of Dàxī, and others may be persuaded when they are offered incentives. It is the Ministry of Rites, the astronomers, those involved in the governance of the empire, that I have to convince.” Kang’s father speaks of his numbers with confidence, and it is only when mentioning the court that his brows furrow.

“Minister Song loves his symbols, a grand purpose.” The chancellor smirks. “I believe my proposed plan will bring Your Highness what you desire, the acceptance of all the ministries.”

From his hand comes the sound of clinking stones. Kang’s eyes are drawn to two orbs as they are manipulated in Chancellor Zhou’s right palm. They are a deep, rich green, a sign of high-quality jade. These trinkets were popular when he was young, made of various precious, polished stones. Said to assist with concentration, but they have fallen out of fashion in recent years.

“Yes, I have reviewed your plan.” Kang’s father does not seem as convinced.

“We must act swiftly,” the chancellor states. “A quick reckoning for those who opposed you, to demonstrate that you will not hesitate to use the forces at your command. But …” His eyes slide to Kang, and he bows his head. A quick flare of annoyance twitches within Kang, even as he struggles to hide it. The obvious attempt at politeness, an old court official playing the part. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. The army commanders have their own posturing; the court officials use subtle gestures and veiled words. In the end, they are all the same, shuffling pieces on the board to ensure they have the most power.

“There is a reason I invited you to join me at this council,” the general says, speaking directly to his son. Kang feels the weight of it, the importance of what is about to be bestowed upon him. “Your mother always wanted to give you time to grow into your own person, before you have to take the responsibilities of upholding the Li family and the Li name. But now it is time for you to claim your place.”

“I have followed your instructions, Father,” Kang says softly, meaning every word. “I came to the palace in your behalf.”

“And you completed your task as I expected.” His father bestows a smile on him. To Kang, this is high praise. To have completed a job, to have the acknowledgment he so desperately wanted.

“There was a purpose for your presence in the palace before my arrival,” the general continues. “It was not only as a distraction, as I initially proposed to you, to ensure those in the court looked the other way while I executed my plans. It was also to prepare the court for the role you are to play, to plant those seeds of legitimacy.”

The warmth of the praise disappears as quickly as it came, replaced with a sudden chill. His father’s hesitation has a different meaning than that of the chancellor’s. He knows it will not be something pleasant. “What do you need me to do?” Kang asks.

“You will be named prince after I ascend, for a ruler with a suitable heir is one that offers greater stability. The natural order of things to come to pass. You have never expressed any sort of ambition for this role, and so I have to ask. Do you accept this?”

Here it is. The question that always loomed over their heads in Lǜzhou. The question all the advisers skirted around, the question his mother never wanted to answer, for Kang would never dare to ask his father directly regarding his ambitions for the throne. And the first instinct, the first expectation is always to follow. To obey without question, and yet … Kang is unable to do that. He has to ask. He has to know.

Kang leaves his chair and kneels on the floor, bowing his head, knowing this question could cost him everything. He has gone over various ways to say this time and time again. He defended his father to Ning, even when she gave him the terrible knowledge of the poison’s origins. At this point, the throne is within reach, and there should no longer be any reason for his father to obscure the truth from him.

“Father, if you will permit me to ask a question that has been nagging at me all this time in the capital … I beg that you hear it, and you grant me an answer.”

The chancellor makes an offended noise, but Kang does not care of him. He only cares for his father’s response. That has always been what mattered to him. His acceptance. Worth more than any amount of gold.

“Speak.”

“About the poison … the poison tea bricks that were distributed among the realm last year,” Kang says. He always feels a step behind, only recently admitted to the councils, and yet, still apart from them. From the trusted inner circle. “I heard rumors the physicians and shénnóng-shī separated the components of the poison, and one of the components is yellow kūnbù. From Lǜzhou.”

“What do you want to know?” His father’s voice is flat. He doesn’t seem perturbed by this, only curious.

“I wish to know why … Why did you poison the tea?” Kang chooses his words carefully, because he is mindful of his mother’s shared wisdom. She always told him choosing the right words is winning half the battle, in what is said and unsaid, known and unknown. Sometimes it is better to push forward than to step back.

Kang forces his gaze to remain steady as his father searches his face. He has learned quickly over the past few weeks how to swallow his own sadness, his own anger. How to imagine himself to be like the tides, never faltering.

“I warned you of this!” The chancellor slaps his hand on the table beside him, the noise as loud as a thunderbolt. He shoots to his feet, standing beside Kang, also bowing for the attention of the general. “He has spent too much time in the presence of the princess and that shénnóng-tú. They have whispered suspicions that would cloud his judgment, affect his loyalty.”

The chill is replaced by ice shooting through his body. Doubt, eating away at him. While he was struggling with his own doubts, it seems others were wary of the same. The chancellor is preparing to secure his place in the court. If he wins his father’s loyalty, places everyone else around him under suspicion, even the general’s own family …

“Father, I beg for you not to—”

“Sit down, both of you,” the general says forcefully, interrupting his plea. “Enough of this.

“Soon you will understand the ways of the world and how we must use the weapons we have at our disposal,” the general finally says after they have returned to their seats. “I have depended on the sword for too long, believed that loyalty and family ties would be enough to save those I care for. But even the distance was not enough. My brother was not content with my success in carving out a life on rocky Lǜzhou. He wanted to see me suffer, and now, I have brought the suffering to his own door.” The quiet intensity in his eyes is unsettling, and for a moment, Kang is afraid. Chancellor Zhou nods beside him.

“You have to thank the chancellor directly for bringing this to my attention many months ago. We would never have known the truth about your mother’s death if it were not for him.”

Ah. The origin of the plot. How cleverly the assassination was performed, an infiltrated spy among his mother’s people. The emperor’s knife in the dark. What was the chancellor’s price for sharing this information?

“It is only my duty, Highness.” The chancellor smiles then. The clinking of the stones is back, rotating in his hand as if in meditation. “No thanks required.”

He then looks over at Kang, and Kang understands the explicit warning: Watch yourself.

“Poison is a tool,” his father says gravely, staring into the distance, as if pondering the lines of an ancient text. “Like the use of the sword, the horse, the arrow. It can create utmost devastation, but it can also be used to weaken our enemies, slowly and discreetly.”

“Even if those enemies are Dàxī’s innocents?” Kang asks. Hundreds, maybe thousands, dead. All commoners, afraid.

“Would you lose one in order to save many? What about a hundred lives for a thousand lives? The lives of everyone in Dàxī?” his father counters.

Kang does not know how to respond.

He only knows it was the loss of one person that set this entire plan in motion. It was the death of Kang’s mother that sent one rock tumbling, and now an avalanche will follow, with devastating results.

His father’s face softens. “I always forget; you did have your mother’s sympathy for the common people.”

After assuring his father and the chancellor he would play the part, Kang is dismissed. With his hands still on the doors, he hears his name. He pauses, listening through the gap.

“Do you believe he will do as he should?” The chancellor, still questioning. Kang feels his mouth clench into a thin line. He will have to be careful.

“I believe he will see in the end all I have done for the empire.” His father suddenly looks tired, resting his head on one hand. “All I have done for him.”

“I hope you are right,” the chancellor says, rising to take his leave.

It may be a strange trick of the light, but when the chancellor turned, Kang could swear his eyes glinted red in the lantern light.

CHAPTER FOUR

NING

In the morning we load up two ponies with help from Ho-yi and Ho-buo. I notice sets of painted clay teapots and teacups on shelves in the main room, and I am reminded of my mother’s ruined shénnóng-shī box. All her tools, destroyed. Despite my bitterness, I am the keeper of her legacy, and I’ll continue in her memory. Because memory is all I have.

“I painted those myself,” Ho-yi says to me when she sees me pick one up, a finger brushing over the roses crafted with such a delicate hand. I buy a set from her and also a pack of dried chrysanthemums. The weight of the cups in my bag reassures me, and I didn’t realize until then how naked I felt without the tools for my magic.

Before we leave, Ho-yi gives us an extra sack of food and waves off Zhen’s offers of more payment in exchange, stating these supplies would go bad if we didn’t take them.

“It’s been a difficult year,” she explains. “Not many pilgrims are coming through the pass, not like previous years.”

“If only you’d traveled through here even two years ago!” Ho-buo exclaims. “The entire village would be bustling with people throughout the summer months. Food and market stalls, decorations strung up on every street.”

“Has your village encountered the poisoned tea bricks as well?” Ruyi asks.

They both shake their heads. “We’ve been spared that, thankfully,” Ho-yi says. “We had one poisoned brick, but it was found before it was distributed.”

“What plagues us are the bandits.” Ho-buo grimaces. “They’ve been menacing the roads around us, and they’ve been worse this past winter. Be careful.”

We start up the well-tread path early enough in the morning that the treetops are still misted with fog. I’ve made treks into the mountains near Xīnyì previously with my parents, but those seem more like hills compared with these peaks.

The forest is busy with activity. Something darts away from us in the dense shrubbery, frightened by the noise of our footsteps. The drone of insects and the sound of birds calling to one another fill the air.

Ruyi takes Shu up ahead with the first pony while Zhen stays back, taking the reins of the second from me. I can tell from her expression that she wants to talk, and I wait for her to begin as we start our ascent up the side of the mountain.

“We must speak of the contents of Wenyi’s letter,” Zhen says. “We’ve had little time for you to provide me with your counsel.”

I glance at her, surprised. The princess appears troubled as she leads the pony along the path. It is unsettling that she would show this level of concern, so different from her usual impassive demeanor.

“What did it say?”

“His family resides close to the Clearwater River. Over the past year there has been a rise in the numbers of a rebel group who call themselves the Blackwater Battalion.” A clever play on words, I have to admit. The Clearwater is the river that divides the province of Yún from the Lǜzhou peninsula. “There are suspicions this is the return of the general’s own troops, that some of the members were former leaders in his ranks.”

The General of Kǎiláng. The one I briefly encountered in the teahouse, whose presence terrifies me even when I think back to it now. He is Kang’s father, and it is a truth my mind finds difficult to align. The boy whose thoughts I felt as if they were my own, who I believed was innocent in the schemes until he broke my trust. He hid so much from me, out of reach of my magic. He should be one of the targets of my anger, and yet …

“Ning?” Zhen interrupts my wandering thoughts, and I realize I let the silence continue longer than appropriate.

“I’m sorry, please continue.” I shake my head. What is the use of remembering him? He is on the other end of the empire, out of reach, and I am walking beside his enemy, the greatest threat to his father’s ambitions.

“The local magistrate is suspected of charging citizens with petty crimes and sending them to Lǜzhou to serve time, but they never make it to the salt farms. They are conscripted into the Blackwater instead, forced to terrorize the countryside while pretending they are keeping the peace.”

“These are grave accusations,” I say. Even with my limited knowledge of politics, I know this is a level of corruption that could be achieved only with deep connections and resources. We know the corruption has crossed the empire from Lǜzhou to Sù, evident with the governor’s involvement—I wonder if there is any corner of Dàxī to which the general has not extended his influence, if they all are a continuation of his plan. His final, grand ascension to the throne.

“It is treason,” Zhen says. “But this is not the worst of what he has been accused of. Those able to escape the grasp of the Blackwater return home … changed. As time passes, they slowly begin to lose their hold on what is real.”

“I’m … not sure I understand,” I say.

“Apparently, the changes are slight at first,” she tells me. “But they slowly begin to succumb to what Wenyi suspected is another type of poison. They grow confused, stop recognizing their families and friends, and begin to hurt themselves or others around them.”

I shudder. What terrible power, to send your enemies to madness.