by Kim
The waiting is the worst part.
In some ways, it is like nothing has changed. Her grandmother still summons her every day to share a cup of tea, as they have done since Yanli was first brought to Meishan as a child. Even so, her silence is telling.
There is no news from the war—for it is a war. No matter how the cultivators who surround her tiptoe around the subject—at least around her, Jiang Yanli believes, as voices grow louder the moment she leaves the room—she knows her sect’s slaughter had to be the beginning of a greater storm.
It is easier, she thinks, like this. As long as she thinks of her loss as an entity, instead of the individual shards of the people who made up the life she knew, grief cannot swallow her whole.
The letter comes unannounced, nothing more than a slip of paper stuck through her half-open window.
It is funny, how just a handful of words can tear a world apart.
(Later, she stands among the wreckage and wonders, A-Cheng, what have you done?)
Jiang Yanli is no warrior.
She is no stranger to the notion, however. She got used to all of it as a young girl: the shock, the barely-veiled disappointment, the disbelief that the firstborn child of such a renowned clan should show no talent for cultivation. Jiang Yanli has never had the heart to tell them it is also for lack of will.
(There are better things I can do with my hands than kill, she remembers telling her father one dusky evening. He’d said nothing, only laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. From the next day onwards, summons to train never came again.)
For the first time in her life, her helplessness enrages her. She’s never minded staying behind before, to mind the hearth and tend to the wounded while her brothers rush into the fray.
But her brothers are gone, and their absence has turned waiting into hiding.
Jiang Yanli is no warrior, but she is no coward, either.
She’s reread A-Cheng’s letter so many times it has begun to fall apart, the paper growing yellowed and brittle in her hands.
He did not leave an indication to find him, not even a clue as to his whereabouts. Jiang Yanli knows her brother as well as she knows herself, and she can tell what seeps through his words is anger, grief, but most of all shame.
I do not know what happened to you, she wants to tell him, but I have loved you since before you were born. I love you now.
There is not much she can do for him now, though, wherever he’s run from her. The only thing she can do is fight for herself, so that she may someday give her brother a home to return to.
Jiang Yanli folds the letter once again, tucks it against her heart and starts to pack up her meager belongings, the beginnings of a plan taking root in her mind.
The night starts exactly as planned. With a quick glance from her, Jiang Yanli’s retainers drop their weapons and flee like so many scattered birds, leaving her alone at the mercy of her enemies.
Her palms are moist with sweat. This is but the first step of her plan, yet her heart is already threatening to jump out of her throat. In a way, it is almost a relief to slip into her act, going through the motions as she knows she has to, so her fear no longer belongs to her.
Jiang Yanli lets out a shrill scream as the Wen soldier pulls her hood back, exposing her face. She quickly throws up her hands as if to conceal her features, curling into herself like a frightened child.
The woman yanks her head back by her hair none too gently. The torch the patrol’s companion holds comes a touch too close to her face, and Jiang Yanli doesn’t have to fake flinching away.
“I’ll be damned,” the man whistles. “It is her.” He grins. “Looks like your loyal dogs aren’t so loyal after all, eh?”
“Let me go, you bastards!” She puts up some semblance of a fight, kicking and thrashing in her captor’s grip. Tears well in her eyes at the sudden brightness surrounding her.
The man mistakes them for a sign of distress and tuts mockingly. “Don’t you worry, Maiden Jiang. Until you give us cause to, we won’t hurt a hair on your pretty head. Sect Leader Wen wants you healthy and unharmed.”
“I’d rather slit my own throat,” Yanli spits. She has never known herself to be so callous, but venom spills from her lips effortlessly.
The woman doesn’t blink, only backhands her across the face like she might have swatted away a disobedient dog. Her teeth cut into the soft flesh of her cheek, and the salty tang of blood spreads across her tongue.
“That’s for talking back. Watch your mouth or I’ll even it out.”
For a moment, Jiang Yanli can only stare at them in stupor, her fright momentarily overtaking the courage she has managed to cobble together. After a few seconds of stunned silence, she forces herself to nod.
The soldier seems to take it as a sign she’ll cooperate from now on. They must have prepared for her capture, for the man fumbles with his bag and clamps a pair of iron manacles around her wrists. They make her arms too heavy to lift her own hands, let alone a sword.
Fear crowds in her throat. What am I doing? Once I'm among them, I will either win or die. What if I die there? What if I can never live free again?
A small weight against her thigh grounds her again. Among the shuffle of boots in the dust and the drag of her chains as Jiang Yanli is pulled forward like a mule to slaughter, she hears the thin, silvery tinkle of the Yunmeng Jiang bell in her pocket.
However much she cries out, her parents are gone and her brothers are nowhere to be found. There is no one left; not a single soul from Yunmeng to do this but her.
What choice does she have but to attempt the impossible?
Nightless City is grander than she remembers. She’s only seen the Wen sect’s stronghold once, as a child tottering behind her father at a Discussion Conference, when Jiang Cheng had still been too small to be presented as Jiang Fengmian’s heir.
Back then, the audience chamber had been a whirlwind of colors and crests, a gathering of sects so numerous it seemed to Jiang Yanli the whole world had come together. Now, no matter where she looks, all she sees is red.
No, that wouldn't be quite right. Speckled across the walls are long white banners, scorched at the edges, the elegant clouds of Gusu Lan sullied with ash and blood.
Through the ruckus of the celebration, Wen Ruohan watches her approach in silence. Perched upon his golden seat, he looks like a hawk, a bird of prey ready to snatch her up and devour her whole.
Next to him stands his eldest son, watching just as intently. Wen Xu cuts a striking figure. Unlike the rest of the guests, he’s still clad in armor, as though battle just spat him out of its maw.
He does not seem cruel, she thinks, for a fraction of a moment. Then she looks to the sigils of the Gusu Lan sect, hooked to the wall as so many spoils of war, and quietly revises her opinion.
Wen Xu is, at worst, as much of a murderous madman as his father is. At best, he is a dog at Wen Ruohan’s feet, either unable or unwilling to go against his orders.
Still, she needs him, for better or for worse. Of the many hinges her grand scheme relies on, he is perhaps the most important, and the most unpredictable.
Her captors almost bend themselves in half as they stumble over each other to bow. The woman’s firm hand on Yanli’s neck forces her to sink to her knees.
“Sect Leader Wen,” the Wen cultivator intones. “We have brought you the last member of the Yunmeng Jiang sect, as requested.”
Wen Ruohan tilts his head towards her. Jiang Yanli shivers under his gaze.
“Chao-er didn’t manage to wipe you out as he should have, did he?”
She takes it as her cue to sink to the ground, forehead pressed against the cold marble tiles, and let out a heart-wrenching wail. “Sect Leader Wen,” she hiccups between her building sobs, “please, have mercy! I—I don’t want, I don’t want to die...”
Some snicker around her. Jiang Yanli has a sudden, spiteful thought, wondering how they’d beg if they found themselves in her shoes, with all of her future weighing down the scales.
Wen Ruohan’s enjoying this, she can tell. What is this mad conquest for, if not to get himself drunk on power and see people grovel at his feet?
Perhaps in the same show of domination, he ignores her, turning instead to his son—and to his advisor. On the other side of the sun-crowned throne is a young man with golden eyes, a hat of black felt sitting atop his neatly combed hair. In different circumstances, she might have thought his face earnest, even kind. His piercing gaze washes over her, up and down, with no small amount of scrutiny, before he leans towards Wen Ruohan and whispers something into his ear, his lips moving wordlessly.
Jiang Yanli can practically see the gears turning in Wen Ruohan’s head. She is not the feared warrior or the respected leader her parents were, little more than a child and just as powerless to go against him. The only value she holds is her Jiang blood, a promise of legitimacy to cement the Wen sect’s iron grip on Yunmeng and the Lotus Pier’s riches.
In keeping her by his side, he has everything to win and nothing to lose.
“Maiden Jiang,” Wen Ruohan finally says. His voice has turned silk-smooth, as enticing and rich as dark honey. “There is no need for such blubbering. I would be honored to have you as my guest, as long as you’ll accept our hospitality.”
The underlying message is crystal clear: the moment she becomes more trouble than she’s worth, her life will be forfeit.
Of course, the Jiang Yanli she is meant to be does not realize that. She only needs to be relieved, overjoyed at her good fortune, but still possessing enough restraint not to make a spectacle of herself. Instead, she prostrates herself once more, though less desperately than before. “Sect Leader Wen is too kind.”
“Please.” Wen Ruohan’s pretend kindness reaches neither his voice nor his eyes. She wonders if he smiled like this, when he was presented with her parents’ corpses. “Guangyao, if you’ll see our guest to her quarters.”
Jiang Yanli doesn’t realize who he’s speaking to until the young man—Wen Guangyao?—bows and descends the steps to the throne. He gives her a pleasant smile before leading her to one of the great hall’s many exits and gesturing for a few servants. She doesn’t need to listen too closely to make out the instructions he gives them: keep an eye on her.
As she follows her new captors, Jiang Yanli allows herself one glance back. Among the crowd, ebbing and flowing, she can feel Wen Xu’s eyes on her, burning into her skin.
She has slept only fitfully since her arrival in Nightless City. In her dreams, she is a child again, calling out a little boy’s name in the dark, but the shadow she chases disappears every time she even comes close to touching it.
At least, no one ever asks anything of her, besides staying quiet, pretty, and most of all out of the way. When she isn’t exploring the city-fortress to look for its nooks and crannies or trying to engage in conversation with the servants who seem most sympathetic to her situation, Jiang Yanli has taken to visiting the same little set of gardens, tucked in between the grand pavilions like a secret treasure just for her. Most of the time, she finds herself alone in the narrow pathways, with only the occasional cultivator or servant hurrying past—and never, ever, meeting her eye.
Even so, it does not entirely surprise her to walk into the garden to find Wen Xu waiting for her.
He looks out of place, a hulking shape of a man awkwardly sitting among the delicate blossoms, his face tilted up to watch them fall. It makes for an endearing picture, but as Jiang Yanli reminds herself, she must not let it sway her.
Think of the Cloud Recesses. Think of the heat, and the acrid smell of fire, and remember he is of the same breed of monster as his father.
“Young Master Wen,” she greets in her meekest voice. “Have you come to see the plum blossoms? They’re quite lovely this time of the year—”
Wen Xu interrupts her before she can finish her sentence, his gaze hard as flint. “I was looking for you, actually.”
He doesn’t mince his words, that one, spits her mother in a corner of her head. If she were here, Jiang Yanli is quite certain she wouldn’t mean it to be a compliment.
A tendril of dread creeps at the back of her throat. Has Wen Ruohan changed his mind? Is she not worth the trouble of keeping her here after all? Wouldn’t he have come armed, if he meant to kill her?
All of those fears are squashed in the bud when he smiles at her. It is not a reassuring thing, more a rictus than a grin, but there’s a touch of earnestness to the curve of his lips she doesn’t think is fake.
“Maiden Jiang, you’re trembling.”
Belatedly, she realizes she is indeed, her hands wound into fists in the folds of her dress. He tuts at her like she’s a recalcitrant pet, and when he speaks again, his voice has made itself soft as velvet, coaxing, luring. “Won’t you come sit? I thought this spot was one of your favorites.”
Jiang Yanli finally finds the composure to reply. “Y-yes, it is.”
Gathering folds of fabric into her hands, she carefully lowers herself onto the bench next to Wen Xu, not as far from him as she could be. Surely he must notice, but he gives no signs of moving away, either. “You’ve been getting rather close to the servants. I’ve rarely ever seen them so fond of anyone.”
She blinks at him, wondering if this is a threat in disguise. And to think she hasn’t even gotten to the actually important parts of her plan yet… “I’ve been quite lonely, Young Master Wen. Not to say your hospitality is lacking!” Jiang Yanli hurries to add. “I am simply not used to Nightless City just yet. I only wish there were something for me to do… I’ve not dared ask anyone for a needle and thread just yet.”
There’s nothing wrong with sewing and embroidery, of course. But she’s met many men like Wen Xu before, and is decidedly unsurprised when a small furrow appears at his brow, just short of disdainful. Yet he still gives a small, terse nod. “Then I will see it done. Whatever bauble you might ask for will be taken care of.”
Jiang Yanli barely has to push to fake the smile that blossoms over her face. She might be here on a mission, but she cannot yet be seen out and about at any hour of the day, and there is precious little to be done during those hours save entertain sorrowful thoughts. “You’re being very kind, Young Master Wen.”
Then she lets her smile wilt, turning her face away from him as if ashamed. “But I cannot accept when I have no way of repaying you.”
“I only ask that you let me see you again.”
She looks up, doing her best to look startled. “Surely you have better things to do than listen to me babble on about such silly things.”
If there’s one thing she’s learned about men, it’s that an unfortunate number of them will reach for that which they are denied. Even if Wen Xu is lying, bending to his father’s whims, he isn’t so devoid of pride that she cannot tug at the right strings.
“You’ll distract me,” is what he settles for after a long moment’s silence.
Jiang Yanli finds that if she did not have a solid guess concerning his nature, she might just have believed him.
Later that year, at a moon’s turn, Wen Xu asks him to marry her.
“You have charmed me,” he says, cupping her hands in his. “If it were only up to me, I would not go another day without calling you my wife.”
She lets go of him, not ungently, but firmly. “Did your father put you up to this, Young Master Wen?”
For a fraction of a second, he looks almost pained. “I told you not to call me that.”
What am I to do, then? Kiss you sweetly, call you A-Xu, and forget you’re a butcher? Of course, she voices none of this, only staring at him intently until he eventually takes her silence for an answer.
“He did ask me to propose,” he admits. In his mouth, ask sounds like command. “But I wanted to regardless.”
What a sweet liar you are. She shouldn’t be surprised; this is proof that the son is perhaps an even better actor than the father is. Wen Xu may display less open cunning, but he is far from guileless, she reminds herself.
Being his wife may have been the position she’s been vying for from the start, but it does not stop her from shivering. As it happens, she is not the first to occupy this position.
The cultivation world is rife with rumors attempting to explain what happened to Wen Xu’s late wife. She was killed in a night-hunt, that much is clear, but those who knew her speak of her strength and her talent, and of how her skill could never have failed her in such a critical moment. Jiang Yanli has heard one such tale for herself : that Li Mingzhu grew too popular and influential for Wen Ruohan to ignore, thus unknowingly signing her own death warrant.
She wonders if such a thing will befall her, if she accepts Wen Xu’s proposal.
Of course, Jiang Yanli isn’t foolish enough to believe he’s interested in her for her beauty or her wit. As he must have been taught, Wen Xu sees a way to extinguish one of the last possible beacons of rebellion among the cultivation clans.
As he does, he plays right into her hands.
She timidly reaches for his hands, shy and demure. He lets her, those sharp eyes of his never leaving her face, but there is a new hopeful shine to the way he looks at her. “It would be my honor and my privilege.”
Red, her father’s serene voice says into her ear, is for celebration. One day, you will wear wedding robes, all in crimson, and I will weep for joy.
Jiang Yanli looks down at her hands, at the body that should belong to her but feels like it does not. Red runs down her arms, wet and sticky; she chokes as she tastes blood and her nose is full of the stench of ash and burning flesh, and—
She blinks, and comes back to her senses. The red is only silk, the smoke incense, and the sharp pang upon her tongue is that of the wine she just drank.
Her parents are not here to see her wed, of course. Nothing is as it should be, even as cheers course through the grand hall like thunder and strangers’ congratulations blur into white noise.
When Wen Xu takes her hands, his touch feels like a brand. He presents her with a beautiful seal as a wedding gift, a marvel of delicately chiseled jade, and for an appalling moment all she wants to do is seize it and smash through his skull with it.
So Jiang Yanli does what she does best: she takes it and thanks him and smiles and smiles, through the scream building at the back of her throat.
(That night, as Wen Xu sleeps off the revelry, she slips out of bed, lights a candle to pick through the contents of his desk—then, when she has found what she’s looking for, begins to write.)
“Young Master Jin.”
The voice makes him look up, blinking the glare of his night candle out of his eyes. In the doorframe stands A-Yue, his most trusted servant.
It is late, and so the sight of her makes Jin Zixuan’s gut clench with anxiety. A-Yue never comes to him this long after sundown, save to deliver dire news. “Did something happen?”
His concern must show on his face, as her serene expression melts into surprise, then amusement. “No, nothing like that. I thought you might still want to hear it now.”
Jin Zixuan waves her forward. “I can make that judgement for myself. Speak.”
“Someone has been tipping off our encampments. Warning them of the coming of troops early enough for them to pack up and disappear by the time the Wen-dogs get there.”
“An insider, then.”
Qishan Wen is secretive about nothing, save its strategies. As long as this war has gone on, Jin Zixuan’s only ever known them to strike like thunder, appearing out of thin air and wrecking havoc without warning. Only a trusted advisor—or someone close enough to a commanding officer to be privy to these tactics—would have been able to provide them with this kind of information. He would know; he’s spent months trying to sneak spies into Wen Ruohan’s entourage, only for them to be sniffed out and executed.
“Do we know anything about this mystery informant? Has no one thought to interrogate them?”
“Our men swear up and down they haven’t seen anyone they didn’t know enter or leave the camp.”
Jin Zixuan frowns. “How have they been receiving the messages, then? Notes?”
Without bothering to answer, A-Yue hands him a small piece of paper. The handwriting is unassuming, neat as a schooled child’s, nothing of note that might help identify the note’s author. But at the bottom of the page, a careful hand has pressed a flower-shaped sigil into dark wax.
“The Black Lotus,” Jin Zixuan muses, holding the note up to the light.
Whoever this person is, they are shrouded in mystery: powerful enough to pull strings all over China, somehow shrewd enough to not only survive but thrive in the very nest of the enemy, yet anonymous in all other matters.
He cannot remain in the dark.
“Try to get a lead on who their contacts are, but don’t make yourself known. I want to send them a message without them ever knowing we were involved.”
The order is more complicated than it sounds. If the Black Lotus is as clever as their actions so far have shown, they’ll change informants regularly enough for them to slip through his fingers, and one loose thread might be enough to lead them back to him.
Mistakes are something Jin Zixuan cannot afford to make.
A-Yue must understand. She’s been at his side for as long as he can remember, first as one of his mother’s young maids, then as the young master’s when no one else would bear with his sullen moods as a teenager. Since this mess began, her loyalty has been tested time and time again and found unfailing.
As he expects her to, she bows low, like he just asked her to go fetch some tea rather than spy for him again. “Of course, Young Master.”
“Thank you, A-Yue.”
There is no need for dismissals between them. Jin Zixuan nods at her, suddenly too tired to speak, and turns back to the pile of letters he’d been steadily working through before A-Yue’s arrival.
Yet, as the girl’s footsteps fade into silence, his thoughts drift back to a seal of black wax, and the shadow-faced puppeteer who put it to paper.
Who are you? he silently asks them. Who are you really?