Chapter Seven
XIAN brACED against one of the pillars that supported the shrine’s tiled roof.
The dash from the Reception Hall had him panting, the chilly evening air painful in his lungs.
He removed his slippers, casting them unceremoniously to one side of the door, and entered.
There was no sign of Daoshi Wenming, the Taoist priest who oversaw this shrine.
The room was only mildly warmer than outside, suggesting the fire had gone out some time ago.
He moved further inside and knelt on the Ningxia carpet’s deep blue wool.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled, taking in the incense-scented air with great relief.
The marchioness likely thought a long night spent here a chore, but for Xian this was a place of peace and safety; where he could be left alone with his thoughts.
Right now, those thoughts were clamouring, turning themselves towards the worrying events of the night, which in turn led to more favourable memories; the shoemaker, and his perfectly timed interruption of the captain’s attention.
Xian’s mind wished to name it a rescue, but he feared it was likely only an attempt by Song Lim to curry royal favour.
He uttered his prayers in the welcoming silence that enveloped the compact room.
The shrine was only slightly larger than Heng’s modest kitchen and was dominated by a raised platform, which held a large golden statue of Guanyin — the Goddess of Mercy — with her water vase and willow branch.
Butter lamps, which were insisted upon by Marquess Tian who’d taken a liking to the Tibetan pieces with their gilt silver and hammered metalwork, were lined in a row before the goddess; their ghee alight, the cotton wicks holding shuddering flames.
Long sticks of incense sent snaking trails of thin smoke around the deity, their sandalwood scent dominating the room.
Xian spent a few moments in quiet meditation, his hands clasped before him, before he rose again and removed his overcoat.
He traced the fine needlework of Song Lim’s repairs, recalling the man’s earnestness, and his bluntness.
His unabashed pride in his talent. The way he had seemed to truly listen when Xian spoke.
He shook himself. ‘He is a merchant, seeking more trade. That is all. He’s not been here long enough to know I am not worthy of his time.’
Xian carefully folded the air-light gauze, setting it down upon a low cedar bench at the back of the shrine.
He removed the hair comb that held the dangling lengths of pearls and coral, wincing as its wooden teeth caught at his hair.
Setting it atop the coat, he went next to the basket where kindling was ready for the firebox; wrapped in bundles with lengths of twine.
The raised brick platform where the statue stood doubled as a kang — that most vital heating source.
The hollow cavity held a firebox, whose flames would heat the platform, and the room.
Throughout the manor, many such kangs were installed, with the marchioness’s being the largest, and Xian had lit every one of them a hundred times over.
Most were used as beds, but Xian’s was too small for him to sleep upon its comforting warmth.
The door to the shrine rasped open.
‘Highness, gracious me!’ A white-haired man, draped in a daopao robe of varying reds and greys, bowed low. ‘Please, allow me to see to the fire.’
Wenming Dingyuan was the oldest of the daoshi who lived within the manor grounds. Despite his good intentions, the elderly Taoist priest was known for his slowness, and his offers of help were often met with polite but firm rejections.
‘Thank you, daozhang.’ Xian addressed the senior daoshi by his courtesy title even though he knew the man preferred less formality. ‘But Her Grace has sent me to assist you. I do not wish to burden you with a task intended for my hands.’
The daoshi grunted. ‘Not a task for those hands,’ he muttered. ‘Never has been. Spiteful woman.’
Xian smiled behind his veil. He’d not been meant to hear a word, but Wenming was hard of hearing and did not know how loudly he spoke.
The wizened man had little patience for the heavy-handed marchioness, nor was he afraid to speak of Xian’s mother in a favourable light when others whispered of witchcraft and sorcery.
All reasons Xian found his shrine such a sanctuary.
Daoshi Wenming shuffled his bare feet over the carpet and collected a brush and pail from a corner of the room.
‘At least let me dispose of the ashes once they are gathered. I’d rather not be idle whilst here in the goddess’s light,’ he said, with the good nature he was known for. ‘And I’ve just had three bowls of congee, I need to move about a little before prayers.’
Wenming’s age gave him some protection from the harsher politics of noble life, and his pleasant nature endeared him in such a way that even the sour Lady Tian thought twice before speaking harshly of the man.
Xian set about emptying the firebox of its cinders, taking extra care near the still-glowing embers. He was not so simply dressed as he usually would be when he was carrying out this task.
He filled one bucket, his gown’s fabric intact, and handed the ashes to Daoshi Wenming. ‘Are you sure I cannot take it for you?’
‘What’s that?’ The old man squinted, even though it was his ears that had failed him.
‘Can I take the bucket out for you?’
‘Don’t be foolish. You cannot be left to do everything, no matter what she thinks.’ He grumbled as he shuffled away, taking the bucket outside to be dumped on the pile at the back of the shrine, used later in the gardens.
Xian returned to the task, and did not hear the man when he returned.
A touch to his shoulder had him crying out, twisting away and sending a small cloud of ash rising into the air. He got caught up in his gown, landing on his backside with a thump.
The old man let out a startled cry in virtual unison, his rheumy brown eyes shimmering with distress. ‘No fear, no fear, your highness. It is only me, a soft-footed ancient who should have announced himself. Forgive me, forgive me.’
Xian quashed his sudden panic, willing his heart to stop its calamitous run. ‘It is I who should ask your forgiveness. I think I am more tired than I imagined after the ceremony.’
Daoshi Wenming offered his hand, and unlike when the captain had done so, Xian had no hesitation in reaching for him.
‘Come, leave the fire and sit with me a moment. We’ll not freeze in the next few minutes. You certainly shall not in that gown.’
Wenming led them to the cedar bench and lowered himself with a grunt. He’d not let go of Xian’s hand, who joined him in sitting. The daoshi’s hand was warm and thick-knuckled. ‘You work too hard, dear boy.’
Wenming must have been tired too, or perhaps under the influence of too much rice wine, for he only addressed Xian with such informality when not fully in charge of his faculties.
‘It is my honour to serve as my guardians’ dictate,’ Xian said, trying gently to extricate himself from the priest’s grasp. ‘They have provided me with a home for many years.’
Wenming scoffed. ‘Because they are paid well to do so. And they have hardly provided a home. A roof over your head yes, but a home? No. Don’t think my eyes are too blind to see. It suits me well for people to think me doddery, that is all.’
Xian bit his bottom lip, glancing at the door. Such talk was dangerous, especially as the Taoists were losing favour with the Imperial Palace. ‘Now then, daozhang, we shall speak of such things no more. Rest here, and I’ll set to building the fire before the night’s coolness takes hold.’
The daoshi gave Xian a most curious look, one he struggled to determine. Pity was there, for certain, but a hint of something stronger, too.
‘They dishonour you, and you do nothing to deserve it,’ the old man said in a loud attempt at a whisper.
‘I pray for you, every day, and I know the goddess hears me. She sees what I see.’ He moved his hand as though to touch Xian but evidently thought better of it, leaving it raised in the space between them, trembling.
‘A kind soul lies beneath those scars, and your goodness shall be rewarded. Just as the souls of the wicked shall be punished.’
Xian gave him a wan smile. ‘I suppose a journey to Manhao could be a reward, for it will remove me from this place a while.’
‘Manhao?’ He scowled. ‘Impure place. Why are you being sent there?’
Xian hesitated. ‘To dance for them, a gift from the marchioness, for the New Year.’
‘She is not one for gift-giving if there’s nothing for her in return.’
‘It is part of the latest agreement with Manhao’s Sub-Prefect, I am told. A gesture of goodwill, most likely.’
Wenming’s eyes held doubt beneath their drooping lids. ‘Who will go with you?’
‘I don’t know, she did not say.’ Likely no one, he did not have any attendants of his own. Xian swallowed at the thought of that long journey spent with the captain.
The daoshi spat. ‘Take care of yourself, boy. You’ll be set amongst those who value gold over the gods. Know yourself, and don’t let them drift you from your truth. Let us pray to the goddess, you’ll need her protection I fear.’
Xian shared that fear. ‘Let me set the fire first.’