Chapter 13:
Seven Fifteen
XIAHOU LIAN ATE AND SLEPT, slept and ate, virtually living the life of a pampered young master.
Each courtyard was its own little world. Not only was Xiahou Lian injured, Xie Jinglan was indulging him; as long as that continued, no one would object to Xiahou Lian’s behavior, no matter how domineering he became. During his convalescence, he acted more like a young master than the actual young master himself.
Xie Jinglan didn’t completely ignore the threat to the Xie family Xiahou Lian had reported. He had Lianxiang tell the steward to be cautious and tighten the manor’s security. With that, however, he closed his door to focus on his studies. He assumed the steward would handle the matter; there was no need for children like himself and Xiahou Lian to worry.
After a couple weeks, Xiahou Lian’s wound had mostly scabbed over. He spent his days lounging in bed, occasionally wandering into Xie Jinglan’s room to disrupt his studying. Fortunately, thanks to his training at Zhuiyue Tower, Xie Jinglan had developed the ability to tune out noises. Thus, he paid no attention to Xiahou Lian’s chatter.
When Xie Jinglan did engage, he subtly probed about Xiahou Lian’s former life. Mentally replacing all mentions of “thieves” or “bandits” in their conversations with “assassins,” he pieced together something close to the truth.
Xiahou Lian’s stories were exciting at first, but over time, they became extraordinarily dull.
Most people imagined Qiye Garden as a place of indulgence, where assassins drank fine wine, embraced beautiful women, and sang all night, their bloodstained blades resting among the flowers. In reality, the assassins lived on a remote mountain with a laughably quaint name. The Garden’s leader was an ancient monk on the verge of death who guarded a dilapidated temple. The supposedly fearsome Garuda, meanwhile, spent her days chasing her troublesome son across the mountain and begging neighbors for rice to feed them.
The assassins had all been forced to ingest a poison called “Seven Fifteen.” Once a year, they had to take an antidote, or they would suffer an excruciating death on the fifteenth day of the seventh month. Each winter, when snow sealed off the mountain, the assassins gathered in the crumbling temple, holding cups of hot tea. There, they listened to the abbot recite scriptures longer and more torturous than an old woman’s foot-binding cloth. After, each assassin reported how many heads they’d taken that year and received their annual dose of the antidote from a communal alms bowl.
Every year, some faces disappeared, never to return to the mountain. The bodies of those assassins rotted out in the mud like dead fish in salt. No one would speak their names again, and new assassins quickly replaced them. Although he usually fell asleep halfway through the abbot’s lengthy scripture recitation, Xiahou Lian had always thought that it was meant as a prayer for those lost souls.
His mother was often away, leaving him to roam the mountains like a wild monkey. He invented all sorts of bizarre contraptions, making ammunition from bird droppings or caltrops from wood, and if he hit one of the mountain’s assassins by mistake, they’d catch and beat him. Thus, Xiahou Lian developed a thick skin.
Few assassins stayed on the mountain year-round. The only permanent resident was the old monk, and that old geezer never spoke plainly, only mumbled scriptures. When Xiahou Lian misbehaved too much, Uncle Duan sometimes dragged him to the temple and forced him to sit beneath the Buddha statue while the abbot droned on. It was pure torture.
More often, though, Xiahou Lian lay alone in the woods, lost in thought. He’d raided every bird’s nest and waded through every stream on the mountain, and its creatures were wise to his antics. Knowing what a terror he was, birds and beasts vanished wherever he went.
Surrounded by endless mountainside, the ceaseless rustling of pines, and the empty huts of the assassins, Xiahou Lian would sit on the steps of Qiye Garden, fighting off sleep as the old monk mumbled endlessly. In those circumstances, he had no alternative but to retell himself the stories he’d learned in Qiye Garden and wander the familiar mountain paths day after day.
In a way, Xie Jinglan was his first friend.
“Aren’t any paths available to you beyond taking up the family business and wandering the jianghu?” Xie Jinglan asked him.
“People like us have only two paths from birth: We follow our elders into the jianghu or grow old on the mountain,” Xiahou Lian replied, poking at the charcoal in the brazier. “And since I don’t want to be trapped on the mountain for the rest of my life, I have to learn the trade.”
“The old monk’s really that powerful? He can hold that many of you hostage?”
Not wanting to explain what “Seven Fifteen” was, Xiahou Lian just sighed. “Yes. Not even my mother could defeat him.”
Sunlight filtered through the carved window frame, casting intricate patterns on Xiahou Lian’s body. Half his face was in shadow, his eyes downcast as his right hand occasionally stirred the charcoal.
Apparently, even someone as carefree as Xiahou Lian had moments of melancholy.
“I really envy you, Jinglan-shaoye,” Xiahou Lian said softly. “Do you remember once asking me why I was helping you?”
The question took Xie Jinglan aback.
“It’s because I’m destined not to have a future.” Xiahou Lian looked up, his eyes sparkling with faint amusement. “But you’ll have one. Studying, becoming an official, improving yourself, managing your family, and bringing peace to the nation—you could leave a legacy for the ages and be celebrated for generations. That’s amazing!”
He and Xie Jinglan were on completely different paths—one leading to darkness, the other to glory.
Xie Jinglan felt a faint sting in his heart, as if tiny needles were pricking it. He opened his mouth. “I…”
Did he really want that?
In the beginning, he’d studied in order to make the Xie family kneel in regret someday. Under Dai Shengyan’s guidance, he’d abandoned that petty ambition. But even now, what he cared most about wasn’t the bustling masses in the streets; they were too distant, too numerous, and his heart was too small and shallow. It could only hold a few things.
“I am going to save you, Xiahou Lian. When I rise to power, you’ll be free. However strong your boss is, he can’t defeat an entire army.”
Xiahou Lian stopped poking the charcoal and scratched his head sheepishly. “When you put it like that, it almost sounds like I’m some stunning beauty, and you’re mobilizing the entire nation’s troops to win my hand.”
Xie Jinglan had been nervous, expecting Xiahou Lian to mock his overconfidence. After all, how could he be sure he’d someday rise to power? Even if he did, could Xiahou Lian wait that long? But Xiahou Lian, uneducated and full of tales about scholars and beauties, generals and princesses, had turned the conversation absurd.
Xie Jinglan glanced at Xiahou Lian. “Your looks aren’t so bad. You could pull it off.”
Time flew by, and soon it was spring. Xiahou Lian stood in a basin, stamping on Xie Jinglan’s undergarments, his sleeves and trouser legs rolled up to reveal slender limbs. At twelve years old, he was sturdy and full of youthful energy. Still, he’d been washing for a while; his hair was damp with sweat and stuck to his cheeks.
Xiahou Lian didn’t dare stamp for too long. If Xie Jinglan caught him washing clothes this way, he’d be furious. Ever since that “pants-wetting” incident, Xie Jinglan had refused to let Aunt Lan or Lianxiang wash his undergarments. Since Xiahou Lian already knew that secret, Xie Jinglan simply tossed the dirty garments to him instead.
After finally finishing the laundry, Xiahou Lian hung the clothes on the line, cleaned himself up, and headed to the library to fetch Xie Jinglan. Dai Shengyan had gone to Mochou Lake for a few days, so Xie Jinglan had been studying in the library on his own. There would be a temple fair that evening, and Xiahou Lian had been begging Xie Jinglan to sneak out with him to see the lanterns.
Xie Jinglan was buried in a pile of books at the pearwood desk, wearing a light-pink jacket that made his pale skin look like white jade. Despite that, his frail frame gave him a sickly appearance, as if he were a paper doll that the wind could sweep away.
“Shaoye!” Xiahou Lian called. Xie Jinglan looked up and gave him a fleeting glance. His beauty was almost otherworldly, and even a glance from him was captivating. Mentally, Xiahou Lian stuck out his tongue and coined a new nickname for the other boy: Princess Jinglan.
Xiahou Lian helped tidy and shelve the boxes of books, then handed Xie Jinglan a set of servant’s clothes. This wasn’t their first time absconding. Xiahou Lian had a knack for leading people astray; he’d even persuaded Lianxiang to sneak out with him once, but she’d spent the entire time at a cosmetics shop. Xiahou Lian had vowed never to take her out again.
“Only an hour,” Xie Jinglan warned.
Xiahou Lian nodded eagerly. “Deal!”
They took a shortcut, scaling two walls before finally reaching the alley outside the manor. As they were about to exit the alley, a sharp voice called out from behind, “Where do you think you’re going, San-shaoye?”
Hearts sinking, they both froze and slowly turned around to see the plump face of Matron Liu, her narrow eyes glaring coldly at them.
“I’ve caught you at last. You’ve been far too bold. If I weren’t keeping an eye on you, the mistress would never know how daring you’ve become.”
Xiahou Lian berated himself for failing to keep an eye on the matron. Xie Jinglan normally stayed late at the library, which was itself relatively secluded from the rest of the manor, so few people visited it. Their plan had been to sneak out to see the lanterns while everyone assumed they were still there studying, but now Matron Liu had caught them.
Xiahou Lian stepped forward. “The idea of sneaking out was entirely mine. If you must punish someone, punish me!”
Xie Jinglan grabbed Xiahou Lian’s wrist. “Xiahou Lian, you’re speaking out of turn! Matron Liu, there’s no need to say any more. If the mistress wishes to punish us, so be it.”