Chapter Eight #2
Leander sucked in a deep breath as he fought his way back to consciousness, but his eyes had barely fluttered open before he shot to his feet.
His heart beat so fast that he thought it might fail, and it took a couple of seconds to realize Heng stood in front of him, resplendent in a white and gold robe with his hair pinned back by an elaborate hair crown that looked like a pair of wings.
“Heng!”
“Lian!” Heng returned in the same tone.
“How... The plants should have warned me.” Magic had never failed him in the past, and the idea it might inspired such terror that a band tightened around Leander’s chest.
Heng gave him a small smile. “If I were standing on the grass, it would have warned you, but I remember your great skill. I am standing above the grass.”
“You’re flying?” Leander knew Chinese could learn to fly—hypothetically—but he had thought it would take decades to learn the skill. When they’d been young men studying together in the city, Heng had talked about flying as something old men and heroes could do.
“Hovering,” Heng corrected him. “I will have to cultivate my magic much longer to fly properly.” Sinking an inch lower, he touched grass, which protested the weight as the blades redistributed power to preserve as much life force as possible.
“Impressive,” Leander said. He stood and brushed off the dirt and dried leaves that had stuck to his robe. “Thank you for the robes.”
“Of course. It is nice to see you looking like a proper magic user and not a homeless American who has wandered into the village.” He smiled and took a step closer.
Leander backed up a step. “I seem to remember a young man who liked blue jeans.”
Heng shrugged without denying it. He might resemble a historical painting of some mystical prince right now, but Leander remembered him as a scruffy teen in jeans. “Master Teacher Wang Bo felt a magic user extend his chi, so I volunteered to investigate.”
“Master teacher?” Leander’s stomach churned. If he had offended someone that powerful, their days in the village were numbered. “I apologize for...” Leander wasn’t sure how to phrase it. He couldn’t offer to forgo his magic. He wouldn’t.
“Master Wang took no offense; he is only curious,” Heng said. “As am I. Your magic is much stronger than it was when we studied together.”
“I’m older now.”
“Most do not cultivate stronger magic without having teachers who can guide one to meditate or unless they have a powerful pill master able to craft pills.”
“I certainly don’t have any pill masters who like me,” Leander said dryly.
Heng laughed. “You’ve met Yang Xiangren, a man who likes no one.”
“I work for him,” Leander said.
Heng’s mouth fell open.
“Auntie Daiyu arranged for the job,” Leander said. He walked over to the donkey, which had ripped its reins free of the tree and was munching on grass.
Heng looked thoughtful. “Either she hates you, or she hates Master Yang, and she knows you will make him miserable.”
“I’m too old to make people miserable.”
“You are still a child compared to most magic users,” Heng said.
“Maybe in China, where you cultivate magic and live longer, but I’ve outlived most of my friends. I feel perfectly ancient.” He shouldn’t feel old because he was only in his thirties, but life had chewed him like a dog toy.
Heng’s expression turned sympathetic, and anger rose like a dragon in Leander’s chest. He didn’t need anyone to feel sorry for him, not when he’d made his own choices, and so had all his friends.
Except for Creek, whose teacher had taken that choice from him, but he had also chosen to cooperate, so he’d made a choice too.
“I need to get to work. I have a list of plants to find and strengthen with my chi before I harvest them.”
“Lian,” Heng said softly.
Leander stopped, caught in some distant past where he’d heard that voice whisper his name from the other side of the bed.
But the name had been different then, as had Leander.
Their time was over. He remembered an old saying he’d heard once.
Distance tested a horse’s strength; time tested a person’s character.
His character had significant cracks, and he couldn’t afford to indulge in the fantasy that he and Heng could rekindle a relationship.
Heng’s pity and Leander’s regrets were a pitiable foundation for a relationship.
“I am making a life for myself and my son. I must do that without you because your path is at the school.” The state of the house made it clear that Heng never came to the village.
“I asked Master Teacher Wang to test you for admission.”
“You know how unlikely it is that an outsider could join.” Their sifu in Chongqing had never given either of them his name because he considered teaching outsiders shameful.
He had been dismissed from some sect, or that was the rumor, and he taught outsiders because the alternative was to starve.
However, a reputable sect would never accept Leander as a member.
“I know how unlikely it is that an outsider possesses enough magic for Master Teacher Wang to notice him as he meditated in the hills,” Heng countered.
Leander sighed. “Do not risk your reputation by endorsing me. You have done enough, and I can create a life for myself and my son, without bringing shame to you.” Leander turned to the donkey’s reins.
A few plants were close enough for him to gather as he walked toward the stream he had felt.
There would be reeds there, and he needed to replace the worn basket Yang’s surly servant had given him.
“Leander,” Heng whispered, the old name caught on the air between them. They stood so close their breath mingled.
Leander smiled sadly. “I will always appreciate what you have done for me. You’ve given me a chance at life, and I will do everything I can to repay that.” He retreated, and Heng let him go. It hurt, but Leander turned his back on his old friend, his old lover, and walked the donkey away.
The stream was easy to find. It was a slow-moving snake winding around trees and spilling over rocks. Leander gathered his robes and held them close so he could squat and touch the tender reeds standing at the edge of the water.
Why had he been such a fool as a young man?
What made him think he could change the world?
Leander tangled his magic with the reeds, causing them to weave around each other.
The work was simpler than he’d expected.
When Heng had first offered him sanctuary, Leander had taken offense.
He planned to go home and make the mundanes respect magic users.
Druwolf would lead a revolution, and together they would save the country.
Even without stepping foot in America, Heng had seen a truth Leander had been blind to.
The reeds twisted into a circle before curling into a complex weave for the bottom.
Where would his life have gone if he had chosen better back then?
The sides of the basket coiled into wings and then crane bodies.
Leander hadn’t intentionally chosen the pattern, but it mirrored the wings on Heng’s hair crown.
“I’m pathetic,” Leander whispered. He wanted to burn Master Yang’s house down just because he was in a bad mood.
Instead, he moved several feet downstream and started a new basket, guiding the reeds into a wider base before weaving the sides with dragons that could destroy villages.
No. Countries. Leander’s fantasy dragons could destroy entire continents.
They would swallow them whole, erasing them from history so completely that all the mistakes, all the regrets, all the memories vanished too.