Meandering River, Ardent Flame

by Vivian Chak

  ***

  Li Xiaowen stared numbly at the blackened corpse. They had told him that it was his father, but that sounded ridiculous. Only an ardent fire could have overcome the hardened steel that had been his father, Li. His father would have never let himself die thus. Xiaowen had not wanted to believe it. Unfortunately, however, the blackened blade, with its distinctly flanged hilt and shaped pommel, found nearby, had dashed his hopes. Xiaowen examined it closely. Though the fire had melted part of the hilt, and darkened the blade, he could still see sections of grained steel: the product of repeated heating, folding, and hammering. It was, without a doubt, his father's sword.

  “You are sure this was my father.” He could barely grind the words out to the nearest guard. The man nodded in affirmation. “Who else perished?”

  “We believe no one else, Master Li—”

  “Don't.” Xiaowen couldn't stand to take his father's name. How could he? He had failed him. His mother wailed and wrung her hands nearby, already beginning the customary mourning. Xiaowen could say nothing.

  How many times had his father urged him to act resolutely, for the good of the family? Eliminating mere strangers, to protect his father, should have been an easy task. Lang was no stranger, a voice whispered, but Xiaowen's blood pounding with fury in his head drowned it. Why had he delayed in killing the Lian sisters? Had he ever intended to kill them?

  Xiaowen could only tell himself that he had; failing was frowned upon, but not even trying was despicable. Perhaps he had tried badly. Giving the younger Lian notions of swordplay had clearly been a disastrous mistake. At the moment, he could not understand why he had ever done so. It had something to do with his personal honour, but presently, Xiaowen felt that he would have gladly slain a hundred innocents to undo the shame of patricide.

  For that was what it amounted to. What kind of son, whose father had raised him in his own image, would go and destroy the very paradigm on which he was based? How could he repay his father's investments with filial disregard? Bring his mother to shame? His mother mourned loudly in the background. Only a murderer could so unfailingly set into motion the events that had killed his father.

  Above him, two crows circled over the courtyard. He stared up at them resentfully. They weren't going anywhere at all, just as Xiang wasn't. With a final glance at what remained of his father, he stalked resolutely out by the manor gate. The elder Lian, all his noble intentions; they no longer mattered. Flame was coming.