The Shrine and the Letter #3
“You married a woman who looks like that,” Tairui says, gesturing at the portrait with something approaching religious fervor, “and you describe her as organized.”
“Organization is important in a partnership.”
“I give up.” Tairui sits down heavily on a fallen pillar. “I give up. He wins. Whatever contest this is, he wins, because I cannot continue to exist in a world where this happens.”
“You’re being dramatic again.”
“Every town.” Tairui’s voice rises. “Every town, every inn, every temple, women throwing themselves at you, and you think they’re being helpful, and meanwhile you have THAT waiting at home and you call her practical—”
“She is practical. She maintains excellent household accounts.”
Tairui puts his head in his hands.
“I think,” Lián says, still grinning, “that you should write her back. Tell her you’ve been maintaining your stamina. For the mountain roads.”
“That’s thoughtful.” Ailun nods seriously. “She worries.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“The frame probably does need attention. We’ve had it for three years now.”
“The frame. Yes. Definitely attend to the frame.”
Tairui’s shoulders are shaking. He might be laughing. He might be crying. It is impossible to tell.
“I should probably go,” Ailun says. “My turn for perimeter check.”
He tucks the portrait away with the same careful precision, nods politely to all of us, and walks off into the gathering dusk.
Tairui does not lift his head.
“Every letter,” he says to his hands. “Every letter, she writes him things like that, and he thinks she wants him to fix the bed frame.”
“Furniture maintenance is important in a marriage,” Lián says, perfectly deadpan.
“I am going to find that sea.”
“If you find one, let me know. I have opinions about drowning.”
He laughs, defeated and exhausted and genuine, and pushes himself up from the pillar. “You two deserve each other.”
“We know.”
He heads toward the eastern perimeter, still shaking his head, and for a moment the shrine is quiet again. She leans into me, still smiling, and I am aware of the warmth of her, the easy weight of her against my side.
Then Dumpling returns from the treeline.
He moves differently than before. Lower. More deliberate. His ears are flat against his skull, and when he reaches the shrine entrance, he does not settle into his usual sprawl. He sits facing outward, body tense, fur beginning to rise along his spine.
She notices the same moment I do. Her smile fades.
“That’s not his hunting posture,” she says quietly.
“No.”
We watch him. He does not move. His eyes are fixed on something in the darkness between the trees, something I cannot see.
The laughter of moments ago feels very far away.
“There is someone in the treeline,” Tianlong says. “Eastern approach. They have been there for approximately two hours.”
“Hostile?”
“Unknown. They have not moved to attack. They are watching. Reporting.”
“To whom?”
“That is the question.”
Tairui returns from his second patrol. His expression tells me everything before he speaks.
“We’re being tracked.” He does not waste words. “Since the water dispute, maybe before. Multiple observers that I’ve spotted. They’re not amateurs.”
“Equipment?”
“Matches Xiang. Standard reconnaissance kit, high-quality but not distinctive enough to trace. But they’re not attacking. They’re mapping.”
“Mapping what?”
“Our route. Our patterns.” A pause. “Us.”
She has gone still beside me. Not frozen but alert. I can feel her shifting into the mode I have learned to recognize, the assassin’s awareness, centuries of survival instinct rising to the surface.
“We’ve been careless,” I say.
“We helped people.” Her voice is flat. “That’s not careless.”
“Our competence drew attention.”
“Then we’re competent. That’s not a flaw.”
“It is if it gets us killed.”
“Everything gets us killed eventually.” She stands, moves to the entrance where Dumpling holds his vigil. “How many?”
“Three that I’ve confirmed,” Tairui says. “There may be more.”
“There are more.” She does not explain how she knows. She does not need to. “They’re waiting for something. Or someone.”
“Xiang?”
“Maybe.” She stares into the darkness. “Maybe not.”
Dumpling growls, low and sustained, the sound of something small confronting something vast. His eyes are fixed on a point in the treeline I cannot see.
“She is correct,” Tianlong says quietly. “Whatever watches us now, it is not merely Xiang. Something else is out there. Something that has been watching for some time.”
“We cannot move tonight,” I say. “Too dangerous.”
“Agreed.” She turns from the entrance. Her face is calm. Her eyes are not. “We wait for dawn. See what comes.”
“And if what comes is hostile?”
“Then we’re hostile back.”
My hand finds hers in the darkness. Not seeking comfort. Offering partnership.
She does not pull away.
Her hand tightens in mine.
I do not let go.
Whatever comes, we face it together. That is what we have learned. That is what she has taught me. Not just to want, but to hold on to what I want.
The night stretches ahead of us. The watchers do not move. Dumpling does not move.
Neither do we.