“Are you full?” he asked. “Do you want anything else to eat?”
Duan Ling didn’t dare answer. He was already planning his escape.
“If you’re full, let’s go.”
Lang Junxia reached his hand out to Duan Ling, but Duan Ling shied away fearfully. He looked over at Lao-Wang for help, but the old man wasn’t paying them any mind. Lang Junxia flipped his hand over and caught Duan Ling’s instead. Duan Ling didn’t dare struggle any further and obediently went along with him.
Back at the Duan clan household, a servant came forward to report: “Madam, the man brought the bastard to eat wontons in the alley.”
Madam Duan gathered her coat around her and blinked, unsettled. She called for the housekeeper. “Have someone follow them. Find out where he’s taking the child.”
Thousands of families had lit up their homes for the night in Runan. Duan Ling’s face had gone red from the cold, and his feet stung from walking barefoot in the slush as Lang Junxia led him through the streets. Only after they arrived at Diancui Pavilion in the center of the city did Lang Junxia finally notice that Duan Ling had no shoes. He frowned and picked him up, then whistled toward the building. A horse trotted out at his signal.
Lang Junxia settled Duan Ling atop the horse and wrapped his coat tighter around him. “Wait for me here. There’s something I need to attend to.”
Duan Ling looked down at him. Lang Junxia’s face was handsome, as if carved from jade, with gleaming, sharp eyes. Stray reed flowers still clung to his hair. Lang Junxia motioned for the boy to wait, then turned and disappeared into the night with a flare of his robes, like a falcon spreading its wings.
Thoughts ran wild in Duan Ling’s mind. Who was Lang Junxia really—and should he run now? But the horse was very tall, and he didn’t dare jump down for fear of breaking his legs or the horse kicking him. He debated whether he should leave his fate to this strange man or create it himself. In any case, where would he even run to? Right as he made up his mind to take the leap, however, a figure flashed around the corner of the alley.
Lang Junxia stepped into the stirrup and swung easily astride the horse. “Hup!” he cued the horse forward.
His mount’s hooves rang against the bluestone path as the horse pranced out from the alley and down the streets—ready to leave Runan behind on this dark and lonely night.
Duan Ling sat in front of Lang Junxia, smelling the damp odor rising from his own clothes. Surprisingly, Lang Junxia’s robes were dry, as if he’d sat before a fire, and smelled pleasantly of shaobing flatbread. There was a tiny burnt spot on the sleeve cuff of the hand holding the reins.
The spot hadn’t been burnt before. Where had Lang Junxia gone, and what had he done?
Duan Ling recalled another story. Legend had it that, during the last dynasty, some rogues were killed in a dispute and buried in the dark ravine outside the city. They’d rotted there for hundreds of years, waiting for children to pass by so they could take over their fresh, young bodies. Their shades would first take the form of humans, each undeniably handsome and skilled in martial arts—and then, after they’d found a victim, they would lure the child back to their grave, unmask their rotten face, suck away the child’s vital essence, and inhabit their body. The unlucky child, their body stolen, would thus lie in the grave for all eternity, while the corpse monster shifted into their skin and strutted back into the mortal world to live a good life.
Duan Ling couldn’t stop trembling. He desperately wanted to leap off the horse and run away, but the horse was simply too tall; he would probably break his legs if he jumped down.
Was Lang Junxia a corpse monster? Duan Ling’s head was spinning as he sat in the saddle, stiff with terror. If the corpse monster wanted to absorb his essence, should he lead the monster to someone else? No, he thought—he couldn’t harm others.
A man at the city gate opened it for Lang Junxia, and their horse cantered south along the official road through the snow. Realizing that they weren’t headed toward either the mass graves or the dark ravine, Duan Ling began to relax. The rhythmic, steady pace of the horse’s stride made him feel settled and sleepy, and gradually he dozed off, engulfed in Lang Junxia’s dry, refreshing scent. Two long ravines stretched across the landscape of his dreams, like a shadow play sweeping across a curtain.
The heavy snow was like a white sheet, the green peaks of the mountains like ink. The horse galloped across the wintry expanse like the stroke of a brush over paper.