Chapter 3
“TWO BOWLS of Laba rice porridge, please.”
Warmly glowing lights accompanied Lang Junxia’s voice. Duan Ling was so sleepy he couldn’t open his eyes; he rolled over dazedly as Lang Junxia patted him awake.
In the guest room of the inn they had stopped at, a server brought over two bowls, the porridge within thick with beans, dried fruit, and nuts. Lang Junxia handed one to Duan Ling, who scarfed his meal down again as his darting eyes stole glances at Lang Junxia.
“Still hungry?” Lang Junxia asked.
Duan Ling gave him a suspicious look. When Lang Junxia sat on the bed beside him, Duan Ling shrank nervously backward.
Lang Junxia had never cared for a child before, and seemed confused by Duan Ling. Lacking any candy to coax the boy with, after a moment’s consideration, he untied the jade pendant from around his waist and held it out to him. “You can have it.”
The jade arc was slightly translucent, like a piece of sugar brittle; Duan Ling didn’t dare reach for it. His gaze shifted from the jade pendant to Lang Junxia’s face.
“If you want it, take it,” Lang Junxia said.
The words were warm, but his voice held no emotion. With the jade held between his fingers, he stuck his hand out toward the boy. Duan Ling nervously accepted the pendant, poring over it intently, until finally his eyes lifted to Lang Junxia’s face again.
“Who are you?” Duan Ling asked—then, as if it had just occurred to him, he continued, “A-are you my father?”
Lang Junxia didn’t answer right away. Duan Ling had heard countless rumors about his father: Some said his father was a monster in the mountains; some said he was a beggar. Others said his father would come back for him one day—that Duan Ling was destined for wealth and nobility.
“No,” Lang Junxia said. “My apologies for disappointing you, but I am not.”
Duan Ling hadn’t really believed it himself, so this answer wasn’t particularly disappointing. Lang Junxia seemed to be mulling something over, but when he shook off his abstraction, he said nothing more except to bid Duan Ling to lie down. Lang Junxia pulled the blanket over him. “Go to sleep.”
The whistle of wind and snow echoed in Duan Ling’s ears. They had already traveled forty li from Runan, and Duan Ling was still covered in healing wounds; the instant he fell asleep, nightmares of being beaten started all over again. Sometimes his body twitched uncontrollably, or he whimpered and screamed, trembling the whole time.
At first Lang Junxia had lain down on a mat on the floor—but when he realized Duan Ling’s nightmares were never-ending, he slept beside him instead. Whenever Duan Ling reached his hand out, Lang Junxia covered it with his own, large and warm. Eventually, Duan Ling’s dreams seemed to settle, and he fell into restful sleep.
The following day, Lang Junxia requested hot water and gave Duan Ling a bath, washing his whole body clean. Duan Ling was so skinny his ribs showed through his skin, and old scars were scattered across his arms and legs. His older wounds hadn’t healed before new ones were laid over them, and the hot bathwater stung all his collected hurts. But Duan Ling paid the pain no mind; he was focused on playing with the jade arc in his hands.
“Did my father send you?” Duan Ling asked.
“Shh.” Lang Junxia held a finger to his lips. “Don’t ask me anything. I’ll tell you little by little. For now, if anyone asks, tell them that your surname is Duan and your father is named Duan Sheng. You and I are from the Duan family of Shangzi, and your father travels between the cities of Shangjing and Xichuan for business, so he entrusted you to your uncle’s household. Now that you’re older, your father sent me to bring you to Shangjing to study. Got it?”
Lang Junxia applied medicine to Duan Ling’s wounds, dressed him in an underrobe, and wrapped him in a slightly oversized coat lined with silky mink fur. He led him outside, sat him on the horse, and looked directly into his eyes. Although still unsure, Duan Ling returned Lang Junxia’s gaze for a long moment, then nodded.
“Repeat it back to me.”
“My father is Duan Sheng.”
Their steed galloped all the way to the riverbank, where Lang Junxia dismounted. At the crossing, he led the horse and carried Duan Ling across the frozen river.
“I came from the Duan family of Shangzi…” Duan Ling repeated.
“…to study in Shangjing.”
Lang Junxia lifted him into the saddle again, and Duan Ling swayed on the horse, drowsy.
Thousands of miles away, below Yubi Pass, Li Jianhong limped onward. He staggered more than he walked, his body a lurching collection of wounds and fractures. The only things he carried with him were the sword on his back and the red cord around his neck.
From that red cord hung a pendant of flawlessly clear white jade.
A gust of wind scoured away the dusting of snow on the jade, which seemed to glow warmly in the darkness. In a distant corner of the world, from another jade pendant, a powerful force called. Between them stood the Xianbei Mountains that the northern goshawks could not cross, and the frozen winter streams through which fish could not swim. But the force that called from the other side of those waters was binding—it was fate. The power drawing him forward despite his agonies was rooted in his very soul, flowing in his veins.
Through the howling blizzard, he heard something approaching. Was it a pack of wolves in the wilderness, or a whirlwind set to destroy the world?
“Skychaser!” Li Jianhong roared.
A pitch-black steed galloped toward him, its pure-white hooves frothing up clouds of snow. The warhorse’s whinny pierced the sky. Li Jianhong grabbed the reins and used all his remaining strength to swing himself onto the horse’s back.
“Go!” Li Jianhong shouted as he rode Skychaser into the blizzard.
Crossing river after river, Lang Junxia and Duan Ling headed north; as the temperature dropped, the number of people they encountered rose. Lang Junxia repeatedly warned Duan Ling to keep his past a secret. Once he had finally memorized the backstory Lang Junxia taught him, Lang Junxia entertained him with stories of Shangzi, amusing Duan Ling such that, little by little, he forgot his hurts and worries.
Like the wounds on his body, Duan Ling’s nightmares also healed slowly but steadily. The wounds on his back scabbed, and the scabs fell off. Only a few pale, soft scars remained by the time their long journey ended at the most opulent city Duan Ling had seen in his life.
Shangjing’s tall buildings reflected light like the sea, and the people’s luminous clothes and carriages flowed by, shining like river waves. The setting sun cast a ruddy light from the western side of the Xianbei Mountains, glowing warm over the surrounding wild expanse; the shining band of the river coursed around the city like a shimmering, ice-crusted belt.
The city towered in the twilight.
“We’re here,” Lang Junxia said.
Duan Ling was bundled tightly within his oversized coat; the journey had been much too cold. Held in Lang Junxia’s arms, seated on his horse, Duan Ling gazed at the distant rooftops of Shangjing. He squinted slightly, feeling warm inside despite the winter chill.
Nightfall arrived alongside them at the gates of Shangjing. The city was heavily guarded, and as Lang Junxia handed over his official documents, the guards eyed Duan Ling.
“Where are you from?” a guard asked.
Duan Ling stared at him, and the guard stared back.
“My father is Duan Sheng.” Duan Ling had his story well-memorized. “I’m from the Duan family in—”
The guard interrupted him to ask, “What’s the relationship between you two?”
Duan Ling looked at Lang Junxia. “His father and I are friends,” Lang Junxia replied.
The guard read the documents over and over again, then finally—reluctantly—let them through. The streets were brightly lit and piled with snow on either side; it was the end of the year, a season of festivities when drunk men clung to the lampposts and enjoyed their wine on the side of the road, when women entertainers played their instruments and sang for passersby in front of the railings. Even more people sat or lay down outside the boisterous pubs. Courtesans’ bold calls spilled into the night, and martial artists with swords belted at their waists stopped for a look. Filthy rich merchants, drunk beyond reckoning with pretty women in their arms, staggered down the street. One nearly upended a noodle stall. Carriages clanked as they sped down the icy roads, and at a carrier’s cry, another luxurious sedan was lifted high off the ground by its men, as if houses moved freely through the streets of Shangjing.
Galloping was banned on the main road, so Duan Ling sat alone on the horse’s back while Lang Junxia led it by the reins. The boy drank in the city sights with intense curiosity through the sliver of visibility allowed by his fur hat. Once they turned into an alley, Lang Junxia mounted the horse again and spurred it back up to speed, its hooves throwing snow into the air as they galloped down the narrow lane.
The music faded, left behind on the main streets, but the lights remained bright. Red lanterns hung on either side of the quiet alley, and the only sound was the crisp clacking of hooves on icy paving stones. The further down the side street they traveled, the more numerous and secluded the two-story houses flanking them became, with countless strings of lanterns layered and stacked overhead. Even the falling snow was consumed by their constant, warm light.
Upon their arrival at the alley’s back gate, Lang Junxia told Duan Ling, “Get down.”
A beggar sat beside the gate. Without so much as looking at him, Lang Junxia flicked several silver coins into his bowl, which clinked against one another at the bottom. Duan Ling turned his head to better see the beggar, curious, but Lang Junxia turned his head forward again, then patted the snow from his body and led him inside. Lang Junxia was clearly familiar with the place; they passed without assistance through an open-air pergola covered in snow and the central courtyard, accompanied by the distant thrumming of a zither, before turning toward a side wing.