Chapter 2 Àn’yīng
àn’yīng
Xī’lín Village, Central Province, Kingdom of Rivers
Hào’yáng’s gaze sharpens, and I know my guardian in the jade is gone, replaced by the captain and heir.
He traces a thumb over the back of my hand, the gesture almost reflexive, as he turns his gaze to the river.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “It’s time for me to stop running and to face the realm’s judgment as to whether or not I am worthy of ascending its throne. ”
“I’ve been waiting for this moment for nearly ten years,” I say. “We all have. Claim your throne, Hào’yáng. Tell me what I need to do to help you.”
The morning sun dances across his face as he turns to look at the water.
“When I was eight years old, my father took me on a journey on the Long River, from where it runs past the Imperial Palace to where we believe the heart of the Azure Dragon pulses.
The waters were the purest shade of blue, and the way sunlight refracted on the ripples gave the illusion of scales.
Crowds were lined up as far as the eye could see, throwing flowers into the water to bless us and the dragons.
“My father told me that there, at that exact spot, was where he had been crowned emperor and where I would also be crowned one day.” Hào’yáng speaks with a faraway look and the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“The mortal emperor is selected when his blood joins with the waters of the Long River. His blood is an offering; the land will decide whether he is worthy of acceptance. If it does, he will be joined as one with the realm.” He extends a hand toward the riverbanks.
“As Pearl River is an offshoot of the Long River, here is where I’ll offer my blood and face judgment today. ”
I’ve heard the legends, but none except the imperial bloodline know the secret to how the mortal realm conferred upon its emperors the divine right to rule.
In the years when wars were fought between all the eligible heirs to the throne, the land grew unstable and tempestuous as harmony was broken.
Those years were plagued with natural disasters; famine and disease swept through the people.
“How does the land choose?” I ask.
Hào’yáng laughs. “Had I the answer, I would not have waited so long to return. It’s a divine decision, as mysterious as the Heavenly Order.
Historians have tried to summarize the conditions: Typically, if the entire living bloodline declares allegiance to one ruler, that ruler is accepted.
If there is only one with the dragons’ bloodline left, the land will also accept.
But those are guidelines; the exact choosing lies in the magic tying my bloodline to the realm.
The land must believe the heir worthy to rule.
” Hào’yáng pauses. “That is why I remained in the Kingdom of Sky all these years, why Lady Shī’yǎ trained me and pushed me so hard to become the best version of myself I could be.
I needed to be worthy of the mortal realm’s acceptance. ”
I imagine, as I often have, twelve-year-old Hào’yáng arriving on the steps of the Kingdom of Sky, having just lost everything: his family, his home, his kingdom.
How well he’d hidden that part of him when he spoke to me through the jade pendant, guiding me and comforting me when he must have been going through so much pain of his own.
I recall how he told me training with the immortals as a mortal was difficult; that because he was the weakest of them, he’d vowed to become the best.
And he had.
“I can’t think of anyone more worthy,” I tell him.
This coaxes another smile out of him. “Legends say that once the land chooses a new emperor, dragons will dance in the skies of our realm. If the land accepts me, àn’yīng, the dragons will declare their allegiance to me. The tides of this war would turn.”
To gain the allegiance of the Realm of Dragons would change everything. Gods of the rivers and oceans and every body of water across the realms, dragons are more ancient than even the Heavenly Order that governs all realms and living things, their powers uncontainable by the skies or seas.
“How would we get to the dragon realm to request their allegiance?” I ask. It had never occurred to me that this was a possibility, for growing up, the tales had portrayed the dragon realm as the most ancient and mythical of all.
“The Realm of Dragons is said to reside somewhere within the Four Seas—beyond the seams of the mortal realm. No mortal has entered it in a long, long time, and legend has it that to do so requires passing a test of sacrifice.” Hào’yáng grins at my expression.
“One thing at a time. If all goes according to plan and the land acknowledges me as emperor, the dragons will come to us; there will be no need to journey to them. The other realms, though, we’d need to seek out: the Clan of Phoenixes, the merfolk of the Southern Sea, the fox spirits of the Kingdom of Green Hills…
They are not tied to the mortal realm as the dragons are. ”
“But if you’re crowned emperor and the dragons accept you, we would have a formal title and banner under which to seek the others’ allegiance in this war,” I finish for him.
Hào’yáng nods and draws his longsword. Azure Tide gleams as he brings it to his side. “Only one way to find out.” His smile turns grim. “When I offer my blood to the river waters and the land, I’m going to be vulnerable. I need my most trusted warrior to defend me should anything happen.”
I draw my crescent blades. They clink gently as I tap them to his sword. “I’ll be here,” I say, “always, Hào’yáng. You need never ask.”
He touches my cheek. “I know,” he says, and straightens. “Let us hope this is the beginning of the end of this war.”
As Hào’yáng turns and strides toward the river again, he sheds his pale shift.
Sunlight sweeps across the hard planes of his stomach, the ridges of muscles on his arms and his broad shoulders.
I catch sight of scars, so many scars, crisscrossing the golden tan of his skin and vanishing into the waistline of his pants.
Scars, he once told me, accumulated from years of sparring and training, when the immortal instructors hit him for being weak and mortal and he was determined to prove them wrong.
This is my boy in the jade now: captain of the immortal guard, heir to the mortal throne, and a man, tall and powerful and beautiful.
Again, I have the feeling of shifting currents in my chest as I watch Hào’yáng cast his shift onto the riverbank and stride into the water. Azure Tide glimmers as if it were made of the river itself.
Hào’yáng bows his head as though in prayer.
Then Azure Tide arcs sharply through the air as he plunges it down. Two slashes: one to each forearm, unlocking a flow of bright-red blood. As it trickles into the river, the river reacts.
Currents swirl in a circle around him, forming a whirlpool as the entire river pulls toward him, churning faster and faster, until all of a sudden—
Hào’yáng goes under.
I swallow a shout.
I’m running before I can think, my blades at my sides and my heart slamming against my ribs. I’ve survived too much to take anything lightly; I’ve lost too many people I love. Fear is an emotion stitched into my bones.
“Hào’yáng!” I gasp, but the tides are too strong and I’m forced to stop at the river’s edge. “Hào’yáng!”
I scan the water for him, but they are frothy and it’s impossible to see anything.
“Hào’yáng!” I call again, and then I hear it.
A high-pitched giggle sounds from somewhere near.
That’s when I notice that the forest around us has grown eerily still. A shadow shifts between the trees as a lovely, singsong voice drifts toward me.
“O princeling, young princeling…”
The sun vanishes behind clouds, and I raise my crescent blades to greet the mó approaching through the pines.
—
It’s a female. I’m struck by how much she resembles a fairy from mortal paintings, all billowing silks and black hair and porcelain skin, and she’s holding a lyre.
The only thing that gives her away as a demon is her eerie stillness as she watches me—and the purple horn protruding from her forehead.
A demon who can no longer hold the camouflage of her mortal appearance is weakened—starving, perhaps—and reliant upon the strength of her dark magic.
“O sweetling, O sweetling,” the mó sings softly, strumming her lyre.
She pauses and breaks into a sudden smile. The muscles of her face are out of sync: One eye falls shut, and only half her mouth lifts while the other half sags, like a broken puppet. “I smell blood.”
I don’t dare to move from the river where Hào’yáng remains underwater. I cock my head at the mó. “Come closer and I can give you a taste,” I say.
The mó stares at me, still attempting that gruesome half smile. But for the wind stirring her clothes and her hair, she might have been carved of stone. Then, slowly, she tilts her head.
“Blood, bright and sweet as nectar, O, imbued with a drop of…the other.”
Her song lyrics send a shiver through me.
“Two princelings were born, sun and moon brothers,” the mó croons, plucking the strings of her instrument. “Neither can be emperor without killing the other.”
“What is that song?” My voice roars loudly in my ears, and I’m breathing fast.
The mó smiles suddenly. “Do you like it, sweetling? It is common knowledge in our realm. There are two heirs—one mortal and one halfling—so neither can triumph. And now we will be handsomely rewarded to bring the mortal princeling to the Empress of Fallen Darkness.”
A halfling, she speaks of. Yù’chén.
Yù’chén, illegitimate child of the demon queen and the late emperor of our land, and half brother to Hào’yáng…could also be a contender for the mortal throne.
Hào’yáng and I discussed this possibility, yet there is no precedent for a demon halfling taking the mortal throne. Still, the mó’s eerie song and words give me pause.
If the demon queen Sansiran has issued a reward on Hào’yáng’s head, then the news this mó brings must be fresh from the Kingdom of Night. That means Sansiran, at least, believes there are two heirs—and that her own son is one.
I can’t help it: I glance back at the churning river where the waters swallowed Hào’yáng, my certainty dissolving in the morning air. Hào’yáng said the entire bloodline needed to be aligned with one ruler. If there are two living heirs, will the land hold off on selecting its rightful emperor?
“Blood, bright and sweet as nectar, O…imbued with a drop of…the dragons,” the mó finishes singing, her voice deepening as her smile shows her canines.
“I can smell it, sweetling. That same strange scent that runs through the veins of our prince. The fabled blood of the dragons. Reveal him, and I may let you live.”
I angle my daggers. “Over my dead body.”
She laughs, a sound high-pitched and jarring.
In half a blink, she’s vanished and reappeared a half step from me.
Up close, I can see the cracks of her camouflage: fingers strangely curved and nails sharp like claws, eyes that flash between silver and black as though she bears an affliction.
A trail of saliva glistens down her chin as she tips her head back and inhales deeply.
I lash out. Fleet enhances my speed as I plunge Striker down into her chest—where, instead of a heart, a demon’s core pulses—with enough strength to crack open stone.
Except Striker arcs through empty air where the mó was. And I know I’m in trouble when I hear a soft giggle at my ear.
The mó’s razor-sharp teeth sink into my shoulder.
As pain sears through my bones, I grit my teeth.
Then I turn and I stab her.
The mó hisses and leaps, impossibly far and fast, to the tree line, where she nurses her wound as I nurse mine.
Spirit energy flows to my fingertips as I trace the talisman for healing upon my skin.
I learned this from my father’s engraving on Healer, one of the eight crescent blades he gave me.
Over the past days, I’ve been practicing my magic beyond using the blades.
During the Immortality Trials, when I lost two of my weapons, I realized that there may come a day when all I have are my own two hands and my practitioning abilities.
Warmth infuses my shoulder as the talisman takes effect. My bleeding slows; the pain subsides.
The sound of rushing water comes from the direction of the river, and I turn just as a wave rushes up onto the bank, leaving behind a familiar figure.
Hào’yáng lies motionless, his dark hair fanning out under him. Next to him, Azure Tide gleams.
A scuffling noise sounds from behind me. I turn just in time to catch the glimmer of the mó’s pale skin as she springs for Hào’yáng.
I throw myself forward, pivoting in midair. My vision sharpens as though time has slowed, and there, as I drive Striker upward, it happens.
Light blooms from beneath my skin, spiraling up Striker’s handle and pooling in the blade. It’s that same glow that saved me before, when I slew the beast áo’yīn during the Immortality Trials. A glow that I cannot explain.
But with the wound in my shoulder, my aim is just off.
The mó screams, a strangled noise that sounds neither human nor animal, as I open another gash in her abdomen—just a handbreadth below where her core should sit.
She leaps back again. A trail of ichor dissolves like smoke from a gash in her side, and it is with grim satisfaction that I catch the dark substance staining Striker’s blade.
The mó’s form is changing: Webbed wings sprout from her back, and violet veins begin to darken her skin. Her face has warped: an animalistic snout, thick cords on her neck, and muscles bulging on elongated limbs. She must be severely weakened to be morphing back into her true form like this.
The mó turns and vanishes into the thicket.
I send a pulse of spirit energy into Fleet, preparing to give chase, for I cannot have her bring news of Hào’yáng’s whereabouts to the Kingdom of Night.
I have taken several steps forward when a thought stops me abruptly.
Hào’yáng. I can’t leave him here, defenseless.
He’s stirring slightly as I run to him and kneel by his side.
His skin is hot, almost feverish to the touch, his chest bare and corded with raw power.
A long white scar runs up each of his arms where he cut himself to join his blood with the water—healed already, perhaps by the magic of his ties with the river.
Hào’yáng’s eyes flutter open, and within their familiar brown, I find my boy in the jade. The tightness to my chest dissipates, replaced by a sinking stone of trepidation in my stomach as he speaks the words I most dreaded.
“The land rejected me.”