Chapter 3 Àn’yīng
àn’yīng
Xī’lín Village, Central Province, Kingdom of Rivers
We are silent as we wing our way back to Xī’lín astride Meadowsweet.
The wind makes it difficult to speak, but the weight we carry at our failures this morning is a shared feeling.
The sun glides through gray clouds, their shadows drifting across the pine forests and silver rivers beneath us—a reminder of the darkness into which our realm continues to fall.
It is still morning, and Mā and Méi’zi will be making breakfast at home, but we have only a handful of hours of sunlight left before the long night of the demon realm swallows our day.
We land in the forest near my village. Here, at least, near the warded walls of Xī’lín, we’re safer—though the concept of safety is fraught.
“àn’yīng.” Hào’yáng’s fingers slip easily through mine. I turn to face him, recalling the raw power of his arms and chest. He’s looking at my shoulder. My wound has healed with the help of my talisman, but the blood remains. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“What for? I’m all right.”
“For putting you in danger.” Hào’yáng exhales slowly. “My father told me once that my duty would come into conflict with my personal will—and that I should always choose my duty to the realm and the people.”
Lifting my gaze to his, I lay it bare between us and speak the truth. “It would have been my duty to defend you with my life,” I whisper, “but above that, Hào’yáng, I did it out of my personal will.”
His grip tightens on mine. “That’s not what I wanted. I don’t wish to be the reason you’re in danger, àn’yīng. Ever.”
“Hào’yáng, you’re the only hope for our realm. You’re the only way for me to save Mā and Méi’zi and my village and everything I’ve loved in this life. I can’t lose you.”
Something like sorrow flickers over his face before hardening into sharp-edged resolve.
“You’re right,” Hào’yáng says, and he lets go of my hand.
“We cannot stay here much longer. We need to move forward with the next steps of our strategy.” He tilts his head, his gaze faraway, and I recognize the calculating look that slides over his brows.
“àn’yīng, I believe we need to go to the immortal realm.
The answers to how you will go about inheriting Lady Shī’yǎ’s powers and army lie there.
We need to focus on that part of our plan while I resolve… mine.”
I draw a deep breath. “I know why the land couldn’t accept you,” I tell him.
Hào’yáng’s eyes cut to mine. “Because of Yù’chén,” he says, and everything in me tightens.
“You told me he was the halfling child of my father and the demon queen. I wasn’t certain before whether he would be eligible for the mortal throne, but it seems he is.
” Hào’yáng’s hand goes to the hilt of Azure Tide.
“It seems the land will not accept me with him still as a contender for the throne. So either I kill him…or he kills me.”
His words crack through the air, shattering the illusion of the idyllic, golden morning I’d dreamt of: bringing fresh meat back to Xī’lín for breakfast with Méi’zi, quiet moments with Mā catching sunlight through our plum blossom tree.
I’d wanted just one more day like that, away from the inevitability of war, of kingdoms, of realms.
But the mó in the forest served as the clearest reminder of the danger we’re in. I recall her song and ominous words: There are two heirs—one mortal and one halfling—so neither can triumph.
“Then we leave for the Kingdom of Sky tomorrow,” I say.
“It’s only a matter of time before Sansiran and her army know we’re here.
Before they come after you.” I touch a palm to my chest, where the lotus hides beneath the folds of my dress.
“I’ll find a way for the lotus to recognize me and to summon Lady Shī’yǎ’s army.
Then…” I find that I can’t finish, so Hào’yáng does for me.
“Then we strike the mó at our Imperial City when their forces are busy with the war in the Kingdom of Sky,” he says.
“We break their stronghold on the mortal realm and deal them a critical blow. Next, in order to ascend the mortal throne and push the Kingdom of Night out of our realm once and for all…I must kill my half brother.”
Ice has frozen over my heart. Yù’chén’s eyes, so earnest and dark and wide, are in my mind, the echo of his whisper—real…it’s real—in my ears. I hear my voice, as though from a distance, say: “Yes.”
Hào’yáng is silent for a long while. There is something of regret to his tone when he finally speaks again. “In that case, I’d like to seek your mother’s permission for our betrothal today.”
I’d known this was coming; after all, I’d agreed to this alliance between us. But for some reason, the detachment in his tone sinks like a weight into my stomach.
I’m to be married.
I’d never thought myself destined for any great romance like those our epics sang of. But as I think of love and the closest I have come to knowing it, my traitorous heart unfurls a memory I’d tried to banish to the back of my mind.
I want you, more than anything in my life. More than anything I have ever felt. I…want you.
I inhale sharply and twist my head to push the voice away. A part of me wants to dig out everything I ever felt for Yù’chén, every memory I have of him, and fling them into the ocean.
“àn’yīng?”
Hào’yáng’s voice pulls me back to the present. My pulse is racing; I wonder if he senses my guilt.
Selfish, I berate myself. While you were dreaming up foolish fantasies of your heart, Hào’yáng has been thinking of the ongoing war, of his duty as heir to the Kingdom of Rivers.
“Yes,” I blurt out. My voice is loud to my own ears, but I would do anything to forget the image of that crimson cloak, those ink-black eyes and soft grin.
I reach for Hào’yáng’s arm, as though to anchor myself.
I chase the feeling of familiarity in his warm brown eyes, and my heart settles slightly.
“Yes,” I repeat, more gently this time. “Let us be married by nightfall, then.”
This way, at least Mā and Méi’zi can attend my wedding—before we ask them to leave the village and go into hiding.
Hào’yáng nods. In that moment, his expression is not so dissimilar from those of the immortals who raised him: utterly devoid of emotion or empathy, as cold and immovable as the mountains of our realm.
“Good,” he says. “I’ll speak with your mother.”
He turns and makes for Xī’lín, tension in the lines of his shoulders. And as I follow, I feel that my boy in the jade is slipping away from me with every passing moment.
—
Xī’lín is waking when we arrive. Zhū’zhū and Shēn’ní stand watch at the pái’fāng.
Survivors of the Immortality Trials, they are from the Northern Province, where their families perished in the war against the Kingdom of Night.
With nothing to return to, they elected to stay behind and fight with us when we escaped the Kingdom of Sky, along with many others.
The rest of the surviving candidates chose to get far away from the dangers of the demon-plagued Central Province, returning to their families and loved ones in the outer provinces, where mó presence is scarce.
Hào’yáng stops to fill the warriors in on our encounter with the rogue mó and asks them to rally the villagers for a meeting at my house.
I enter the village first, making for my home at a run.
The close brush with the mó has brought back familiar nightmares that used to spin in my head.
Mā, lying prone on the ground with Bà’s body next to her as the Higher One—whom I now know to be Sansiran—drinks her soul.
The same thing happening to Méi’zi, like that vision the monster known as a painted skin once taunted me with in the Immortality Trials.
A peal of laughter rings through the bright morning air.
I round the corner of Fú’yí’s house, with its stack of firewood for the winter and a fresh vase of yellow dandelions—the last flowers her late husband planted for her before perishing in the war.
Then there is my house, marked by bright plum blossoms.
My front yard is alive with motion. A little white fox darts around our flowering plum tree, letting out yips of glee.
Chasing the fox and squealing with joy is my little sister.
As I watch, she lunges and snatches the tip of the fox’s tail.
The next moment, the fox is gone and my sister and a young woman dressed in white wrestle on the ground, their laughter ringing in the sweet morning air.
Beneath the plum blossom tree next to the house, reclining in an old bamboo chair, is my mother. Autumn sunlight dapples her complexion as she watches all this with a faint smile.
My steps slow; my heartbeat settles. Suddenly, my panic seems outsized.
“Méi’zi! I thought you were washing the rice,” says an older woman who rounds the house from our backyard with a washcloth and a pail of water.
Fú’yí, our widowed neighbor who helped take care of my family in the years of the war, sets the pail by Mā—and catches sight of me. “Ah, àn’yīng! You’re back.”
Méi’zi glances up. “Jiě’jie!” she shouts, and erupts into giggles as Lì’líng—our fox spirit halfling friend from the Trials—tickles her.
“They’ve been at it for the past half hour.
” A tall figure peels away from the wall of my house.
Tán’mù’s eye bags are darker than ever, but her normally somber expression has softened over the past few days.
Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow as she scents the blood on my shoulder—which is now hidden beneath a cloak. “What happened?”
I lower my voice so that Méi’zi and Lì’líng’s play fighting washes over my words. “Mó.”
Fú’yí is crossing the yard to greet me; her expression tightens as she overhears our quiet conversation. “Where?” she asks in an undertone.
“The Pearl’s Claw River.” I turn to Tán’mù, who is less familiar with our geography, and explain: “A half day’s journey by foot—but we flew.”
“Dead?” she asks calmly.