Chapter Eleven
BY THE time they reached the steps of the herbalist’s room, Xian was ravenous for relief.
‘Your shoes, your highness,’ Daiyu said, reminding him to remove them before he entered her father’s rooms. The scents inside were unpleasant, dark and earthy, rich and bitter, but Xian inhaled a wet breath through streaming nostrils, eager to find comfort in their tang.
Daiyu settled him on a simple wooden stool, under the startled gaze of her father, Master Liang.
‘What has happened?’ He was a handsome man, though his cheeks were perpetually red, and his queue shaved too far back on his head; his high forehead accentuated by his bald scalp. ‘Is he injured?’
Daiyu explained in a lowered voice the evening’s events, and as Xian sat hunched upon his stool, he saw the look of horror on the man’s face.
‘Why would they do such a thing?’
Whatever answer his daughter whispered had the herbalist grinding his jaw, his red cheeks highlighted by the light of the many lanterns that lit a room filled with drying and freshly cut herbs; bundles hung from hooks set into the wooden beams.
‘Give me what you have for this melancholy.’ Xian spoke with the same coldness that filled him. ‘Hurry now. I have preparations to make for the journey tomorrow.’
Daiyu cast him a concerned look, but her father shook his head. ‘It is better, when a loss is great, to weather the storm it creates.’
Xian’s numbed body came to life, a sudden overwhelming fury grabbing him. ‘Give me what you have, or I shall see that the marchioness learns you defied her. You will both be banished from Kunming before morning, and no noble in the city will take you on.’
‘Your Highness,’ Daiyu cried. ‘The prince is in pain, bàba . He does not know what he says.’
Her father patted her shoulder before he moved to Xian’s side, taking another stool to sit beside him.
‘Prince Xian, I am so very sorry for the loss you have endured this night. I will help you, I did not intend otherwise. But know that the tincture I give you will only mask your pain for a short while. Grief is no easy daemon to run from.’
Xian turned his head, staring at the blackened pot that hung over glowing embers in the fireplace.
‘Do not lecture me, Master Liang. Or do you forget I am a prince of the Son of Heaven?’ He never lauded his birthright.
The words tasted as bitter as the waft of whatever boiled in the pot.
‘I need to be ready to travel tomorrow. If I am not, the fault lies with you.’
His words were appalling, but so was his pain.
The journey to Manhao seemed heaven-sent now. An escape from this place of torment.
What a fool he’d been to imagine that if he kept to himself quiet enough, if he obeyed orders as they came, that he might live here unscathed.
The time spent with the shoemaker had been a wonderful dream, and Mercy’s death a violent awakening.
Maybe those who whispered of his bad fortune were right after all.
‘Be quick about it, man.’ He spoke with a fierceness he never thought to call his own. ‘Do you dawdle when the marchioness calls on you?’
‘No, your highness.’
‘Then don’t you dare do so with me. Bring the tincture to me now.’
‘Of course, your highness.’
Daiyu watched him; despair and disbelief chasing themselves in her expression. Good. Let his manner repulse her; it was better she felt no compulsion to aid him. Distance from the Cursed Prince meant safety.
‘This tincture should be taken carefully, and only for a few days. It shall bring you unnatural happiness, and you will crave its taste should you take it for too long. Do not be fooled by the illusion that you are healed.’
‘Are you calling me a fool?’ Xian rose to his feet, the world spinning, but he held his ground. ‘How dare you speak to me in such a way.’
‘Forgive me, your highness. I think only of your well-being.’
‘Liar,’ Xian shouted.
When her father flinched, Daiyu stepped between them, glowering.
‘That is enough, Xian.’
But he tingled with rage, and did not wish to lose the balm of its eviscerating presence. ‘Leave us, now. I tire of your company.’ Xian glared at her; the only other living being he’d thought of as a friend.
‘It is alright, Daiyu. I shall treat the prince now. You should go, so he does not become more distressed.’
Was it possible to be more so? Xian felt the cracks in him grow larger, the spinning of the room nauseating.
‘Very well, if that is what you wish, your highness.’ Daiyu hesitated, thinking him pliable perhaps. But he was made of stone now.
She bowed and left him.
The tears marched to the back of Xian’s eyes once more, pressing their spear tips there.
‘Get on with it.’ He hissed.
‘Of course, your highness.’
Xian lost track of the time that passed, sitting silent until the man returned, clearing his throat.
‘I have it done.’ He held a small bottle of a cloudy, faintly blue concoction; liquid with the tinge of winter ice.
‘May I, your highness?’ In his other hand he held a small wooden spoon, its ladle already full of the tincture.
‘Take only a spoonful of this a day, for no more than a week. Less if you can manage.’ He swallowed.
‘Some who take this become overly reliant on its effects, and find themselves lost to its strength.’
Xian nearly sobbed with longing to be so lost. ‘Give it to me.’
Master Liang hesitated. ‘A spoonful each time, no more. I beseech you.’
Saying nothing, Xian opened his mouth, and the liquid was poured onto his tongue. He closed his eyes. The taste was repulsive, like meat just shy of rotting, but he gulped it down.
A blissful heat moved down his throat, through his chest, spreading tentacles of warmth into his ribs. He felt it pool in his belly; pungent and dominating.
He sat with eyes closed. Waiting.
The effects struck him after barely a minute or two; the anguish left him, the tears retreated, and his throat opened.
Xian blinked, and the world drew back into focus, the dark mist at its edges evaporating under the tincture’s glare. He felt his lips move and realised they were stretching into a smile.
But the herbalist did not return his smile. The man looked grim. ‘You feel it already, your highness? I’ve not known it to take hold so quickly, perhaps the dose is too much for you?’
‘The dose is just right.’
Master Tiang did not seem convinced. ‘I see its effects in your eyes. Allow me to remix the tincture to a level better suited to you.’
Xian held out his hand, the smile still on his lips, his anger shrinking down like flames doused; his grief cowering in the depths of his soul. ‘No. Give me the bottle. I must go. I have much to do.’
Liang did not immediately hand over the bottle, and a prick of something bitter touched Xian’s mind. But he refused to allow anything to curtail his bliss.
Xian snatched the bottle from Master Liang’s hand. The man let out a shocked gasp, but Xian was not yet done, grabbing at the spoon as well.
‘There. Not so difficult was it?’ His smile was not entirely comfortable, but nothing compared to the torment of earlier, so he smiled wider. ‘You have served me well, good man.’
Master Liang shook his head. ‘I fear I have only added to your burdens, my young prince.’
Xian, though, was in no mood for such grim assessment. He rose to his feet, wavering only a little. ‘Good evening, Master Liang.’
He made his way to the door, placing the tincture bottle and spoon in the deep hidden pocket of his sky blue ruqun. The same place he’d intended to hide the slipper once he’d retrieved it from Mercy’s pond.
Xian faltered, the tug at his happiness like the scratch of a branch against a rooftop. He hurried on, running from the daemons the foolish herbalist claimed could not be outraced.