The young man worked at the mast alone, for no one else knew what to do. It seemed they wouldn’t make it, but then the sail bulged as it captured a breeze. The boat lurched away from the quay. Kunmia was breathing fast, gripping the staff, staring at the fog as it drifted over the water. When the last of the artifact’s magic dried up, the fog would be blind to them again. They would be safe.
But not without a cost. The fisherman had fallen. And so had Lieren, one of the warriors who had come to rescue Bingmei from her grandfather’s quonsuun.
Bingmei felt part of her heart harden as she watched the fog dissipate. The staff finally went dark, the magic winking out, and Kunmia Suun bowed her head. She did not weep, only clenched her hands tightly around the staff and its awful burden.
But Bingmei could smell the pungent grief roiling inside her master.
CHAPTER TWO
The Phoenix Blade
The fishing boat glided listlessly on the water. The sail had been lowered, and dawn crept through the clouds over the eastern mountains. Everyone was sullen, still mourning the death of Lieren in their own private ways. The fisherman’s son sat dejectedly on his haunches, his eyes rimmed with red. A blanket covered his father’s face.
“We have to go back,” Kunmia said after what felt like hours of silence.
Bingmei stared at her, aghast. Mieshi and Zhuyi exchanged a glance before turning to her as one.
“Why?” Mieshi asked in a troubled tone. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Master, but the killing fog may yet find us.”
It was Marenqo who knew the answer already. His hands were clasped together, his brow furrowed in thought. “The sword.”
Kunmia nodded. “We cannot leave it behind.”
“Hasn’t it brought enough death?” Zhuyi asked.
“It is our duty to prevent it from causing even more harm,” Kunmia said. “Imagine if it’s found by someone who doesn’t know it’s an artifact? A peasant might accidentally invoke the magic and destroy their entire village.” She shook her head. “We’ll take it back with us to Wangfujing.”
Bingmei didn’t like the thought of returning to the place where they’d been ambushed by the Qiangdao, but she trusted Kunmia’s judgment, which was never sentimental. Her master always did the right thing because it was the right thing. And because honor and duty were her creeds.
Marenqo’s brows needled together. “Would you sell it to Budai, then? You know he’ll want it for his collection.”
“Would it be safer anywhere else?” Kunmia asked pointedly. “Or perhaps we’ll bring it back to the quonsuun.”
Their employer, King Budai, ruler of Wangfujing, did indeed possess a collection of magic artifacts. He was crafty, manipulative, but genuinely appreciative of Kunmia’s ensign and paid them well for their finds. His patronage was self-interested, however—he often turned around and sold the artifacts they’d brought him to other wealthy buyers or would-be warriors seeking to form their own ensigns. Yes, he would want the sword, even though they hadn’t found it at the ruins they’d searched, which meant he had no claim on their discovery.
Bingmei didn’t trust him because he smelled too much like the lemony scent of greed.
Kunmia turned to the fisherman’s son. “I am sorry for the death of your father.”
“No, I am sorry,” Marenqo said glumly. “I didn’t react quickly enough. It is my fault.”
“It is not your fault,” Kunmia told him. Not to placate his feelings. Bingmei knew she was scrupulously honest. Kunmia looked back at the young man, her eyes serious, her expression grave. “Have there often been Qiangdao nearby? Did you know they would be waiting for us?”
The young man looked her in the face. He shook his head no.
Kunmia then turned to Bingmei and tilted her head, a silent request for her opinion. Because of Bingmei’s gift, she had a way of divining people’s intentions. She knew when someone was honest because of how they smelled. She couldn’t explain her ability, but it was an instinct that had been with her all her life. The boy smelled like fish. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell exactly. Or a surprising one considering his vocation.
Bingmei nodded to Kunmia.
“You are trustworthy,” Kunmia said, reaching out and touching the young man’s shoulder. “Tell me of your family. What is your name? Where is your mother?”
He sniffed. “I’m Quion. I have no family now.”
Kunmia’s eyes lowered with compassion. “Your mother?”
“She died when I was little. It’s only been my father and me.” He blinked quickly, then rubbed his eyes. “There’s a debt on the boat. They won’t let me keep it until I’m older.” His glum expression struck Bingmei’s heart. She, too, had no family.
“So you have nowhere to go?” Kunmia asked.
He shook his head. “The man who owns the boat is in Wangfujing. We were going to sell the salmon we caught at Shilipu because it’s closer.”
“No, come with us to Wangfujing. I will make sure the debt is settled. Who owns the boat?”
“Mao Zhang.”
“I know him well,” Kunmia said. “There will be no obligation. If you sell the fish in Wangfujing, you will get a better price. Come with us, Quion. Maybe another fisherman will take you on. You’re a hard worker. You will not go hungry.”
“Thank you,” Quion said. His expression had brightened a little, although it drooped again when he caught a glimpse of his father’s covered body.
“Please take us back to the quay.”
He swallowed nervously. “But the fog.”
“If it’s still there, we won’t stop. But I think it will have settled by now. Do as I say.”
There was no way a fisherman’s boy would countermand someone with her authority, so it came as no surprise to Bingmei when the young man nodded and set to work.
As they sailed back the way they’d come, Kunmia came and sat by her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You will fetch the sword, Bingmei,” she said.
A quiver of pleasure went through her heart. It was followed by a throb of fear.
The air at the quay had an acidic smell to it. When the boat thumped against the damp wood of the dock, she saw the remains of the dead Qiangdao. Dewdrops glistened on the vacant faces, eyes closed as if in sleep. Their chests lay still, but if Bingmei hadn’t known better, she would have sworn they were only resting. Their placid expressions chilled her to the bone. She’d never seen the effects of the killing fog before, not firsthand, although the others in the ensign had told her stories. Bodies left by the fog did not rot like they should. No flies would buzz around them, even days later. They said the best way to dispose of the bodies left by the fog was to throw them into the water.
Bingmei looked at the others on the boat, trying to see if they were bothered by the death sleep. They were all different ages, although Mieshi and Zhuyi were closer in age to each other than to the rest. None of them appeared to covet the responsibility for which Bingmei had been chosen. They all looked sickened by the sight of what had befallen their enemies. And Lieren.
She stepped over the edge of the boat and onto the dock, sniffing. A sharp, acidic smell hung in the air, masking all other scents. A bird squawked from a tree in the distance. But nothing living would venture near.
Animals fled the killing fog as well.
She glanced back at the boat, watching the solemn faces stare back at her. Only Kunmia nodded in encouragement.
Mustering her resolve, Bingmei stepped around the fallen and started off into the long grass, hand on the hilt of her grandfather’s saber. The gentle breeze made the tips of the grass sway with a shushing noise. She walked deliberately, retracing her steps. Now that it was daylight, the scene looked entirely new and unfamiliar. Her foot struck something heavy, and she realized it was another dead man. She went around him, her heart beating swiftly in her chest.
A new smell struck her nose.
She stopped, freezing in place, her hand lightly touching the tips of the t
all grass. The smell of meiwood was a subtle fragrance. Meiwood trees were tall with straight trunks, and the ancients had used them to construct buildings. They were exceedingly rare, and what few groves still existed were guarded day and night. She’d heard it took over a century of waiting to harvest a single tree.
She loved the smell, which reminded her of her little wooden cricket. Kunmia’s staff was also made of meiwood, from a limb sheared off a trunk.
The scent came from just ahead. She cautiously started forward again, her boots striking another corpse of the Qiangdao. There were many dead ones nearby, flattening the grass. Then she saw Lieren, and a queer feeling clutched her heart. Even he looked peaceful. The unfairness of it grated on her. He had protected and guided the ensign for decades. Loss quivered in her chest again, though she tried to still the wrenching sensation. Death was something that happened often. It did no good to become too attached to people. Although she pitied the fisherman’s son, Quion, she would not let her heart linger on her compassion.
Staying alive was all that mattered to Bingmei. At least for long enough to exact her revenge on the men who’d murdered her family. Then . . . it didn’t matter.
The smell grew stronger, indicating she was headed in the right direction, but a strange sensation rippled down her spine. Something felt . . . wrong. Crouching down so that her eyes were level with the tall grass, she gazed around at the small copse of trees where the Qiangdao had concealed themselves. In the daylight it wouldn’t have been possible. She could see through the limbs in daylight. So why did she feel that she wasn’t alone?
Nearer the ground, she smelled the burnt tang of metal. She parted the grasses until she found the source: an arm and a hand clutched around a dagger. The blade was pitted, discolored. Had it always been that way? She pried it loose of the cold fingers and gazed at it, holding it closer to her nose. The smell was overpowering. She set it down in disgust.
Slowly she searched the grass, using her nose to draw her closer to the meiwood. A huff of wind sounded from above and behind her. She whirled, saber ringing clear of its scabbard. Her arms shook with fear. But she swallowed, steeling herself, and tried to calm her breathing. Nothing was behind her. It was just her imagination. So why were all her instincts screaming at her to flee?
Childishness. That’s why Kunmia had chosen her for this mission. So she could overcome her childish fears.
Get the sword. Go. That was her duty. Ignoring the prickling of her flesh, she stepped backward and nearly tripped over someone’s remains. The Qiangdao leader. Squatting low, saber held protectively in front of her, she groped with her free hand, searching for the sword. There it lay in the grass. Its blade was not tarnished in the least, a double-edged blade, unlike her saber, which was only sharpened on one edge. There was a rippled pattern in the metal, a technique lost with the ancients. At the nape of the blade, the guard and pommel were made of gold. An intricate carving of a phoenix had been embossed on each, and the meiwood grip looked sturdy and solid.
The phoenix. A creature of legend. A bird that reigned over all other birds. She’d seen them depicted in many of the artifacts retrieved by the ensign, although no two looked the same . . . some resembled roosters, others bore more in common with eagles. Most of the depictions had one commonality—their tail feathers were all different colors, each one representing a virtue, like benevolence, honesty, knowledge, decorum.
These stories and images were all they had left of the past. Upon joining Kunmia Suun’s band, it had surprised Bingmei to learn that the legends she’d been raised with differed from theirs. Each village had its own tales, and the degree to which they conflicted made her doubt if anyone knew the truth.
As she stared at the intricate blade, she felt compelled to touch it. It was the most beautiful weapon she’d ever seen. She reached for it, grasping it by the hilt, and lifted it from the grass. Power jolted through her body, frightening and thrilling her. The weapon felt strangely familiar, but she’d never seen its equal in her life.
Holding it, gazing at it, she felt a trance steal over her. Her eyes were fixed on the rippled metal blade, the twin phoenixes on the hilt.
“Bingmei!”
Kunmia’s scream jolted her from her reverie as the first wisps of fog crept toward her. The sharp acidic smell had become nearly painful. She bolted.
Although she hadn’t intentionally activated the magic of the Phoenix Blade, it had summoned the fog nonetheless. She couldn’t send it away, nor could she release the weapon.
She saw Marenqo shaking his head as she raced for the boat. Tendrils of fog licked at her boots, reaching for her. She put on more speed, desperate to escape the eternal sleep that had claimed the corpses in the meadow. The boat was coming away from the dock, the sail catching wind. In that moment, she knew she had to lose one of the weapons she carried in order to use the cricket. Her grandfather’s saber meant everything to her, but her duty was to fulfill the trust she’d been given. Besides, she didn’t think she could release the other blade. So with an ache in her heart, she cast the saber aside and shoved her hand in her pocket, grasping the cricket. The burst of magic propelled her into the air, vaulting her over the fog that was poised to envelop her.
She landed past the boat, falling into the icy river. She began to sink, her thick clothes soaking in the frigid water, but she wouldn’t let go of the blade. In fact, she couldn’t. It felt fused to her hand. She clawed toward the surface and broke free, choking on the water that suddenly lapped in her face. Confusion roiled her senses. She felt something heavy and rough strike her.
“Grab it, Bingmei! Grab it!”
It was a rope. She gripped it with her free hand, squeezing hard, and they began to reel her in. Her legs were quickly exhausted by the frigid chill of the river. She panted, coughing, and spat out water, but she didn’t let go.
A strong hand grabbed her wrist, and another grabbed her elbow. The fisherman’s son pulled her into the boat, sopping wet and spluttering, the Phoenix Blade still clutched in her hand. Kunmia and the others gathered around her. The weapon seared her skin, shooting bursts of power up her arm, but she couldn’t release it.
Kunmia touched her staff to the blade, and finally Bingmei’s hand was able to open. Once it did, the magic of the sword faded. Kunmia took the blade and brought it away from her. Bingmei’s hand tingled from it still.
“She almost died,” Zhuyi said worriedly.
They were all staring at her, especially the fisherman’s son. And she realized her dripping wig was askew, revealing the white hair beneath. The others in the ensign already knew her secret, but now the fisherman’s boy knew too. She’d been born this way—pale skin and with hair the color of ice.
You aren’t like other children, Father had told her. You’ll be teased and mocked if you go beyond the quonsuun. You must learn to not care what others think of you. You have arms and legs like other children. You have teeth and fingernails. You can fight! Who you believe yourself to be—that is what will define you. People shun those who look different. You cannot change your hair or your skin. But you don’t have to. Be an ice rose. Be unique. And always protect yourself with thorns.
“I’m cold,” Bingmei said, her teeth rattling.
But when she saw the blade in Kunmia’s hand, she wanted it. She needed it. And it was the need that made her afraid of it.
CHAPTER THREE
Wangfujing
Bingmei had changed into warmer clothes and huddled beneath a fur blanket, watching the cavernous walls of the inlet as the fishing boat sailed toward Wangfujing. The coastline was a maze of forested peaks and fjords that stretched north and west to the high glaciers and then west like a giant bow before going south again, hugging a vast sea. The mountains rising from the water were mostly uninhabitable except in a few locations where nature had permitted some settlers in flatlands and meadowed valleys. Villages and towns were also hidden within coves, invisible unless one knew they were there.
Ensign services,
like Kunmia Suun’s, were paid to know not only the inner secrets of the coastline but also what lay in the hinterlands. The landscape was harsh and unforgiving, and when the winter months came, it was almost impossible to travel. While Bingmei had never been on a mission before, she had visited Wangfujing many times to collect supplies to endure the season changes.
And the end of the season was fast approaching again.
The days were growing shorter, each one ushering in the time when the Dragon of Night ruled the world instead of the Dragon of Dawn. Bingmei hated the winters, the forced confinement, the bitter cold, the long days of darkness, but Kunmia was always quick to remind her of the opportunities the cold season presented. Time to hone and improve her skills, to calm her mind, and to prepare for the spring, when daylight could last all day long. In the warmer months, when the sun and moon were sisters in the sky, the farmers would coax the barren land to life again, hoping for a harvest that would last through the next cycle. The world felt joyful during the season of the Dragon of Dawn, full of delicacies to be tasted, festivals, and color. So much color. Bingmei loved the flowers that survived in the wild—peonies, larkspur, lilies, yarrow, irises, and globeflowers. There were wild berries too, black crowberries and bog bilberries.
“Wangfujing,” Kunmia announced at long last, her voice breaking Bingmei’s reverie.
They’d been sailing upstream for most of the day, the mountains coming closer and closer. Wangfujing was built on both sides of the river, connected by a series of six arched stone bridges. The first bridge lay ahead, and it was there that the fishing junk would be forced to stop, for the stone bridge was not tall enough to permit the mast through—just the first defense of the highly defensible town. That protection made it attractive, and it continued to grow in population every year. People were willing to pay extra for the promise of safety. It didn’t stop the Qiangdao from attempting to plunder it now and then, but King Budai had many guards and officers, and they organized the citizenry to help defend the city.
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