…
"… most recent problem was a fire demon that had taken root in a local family's home. It nearly burned the village down before we managed to root it out with the help of Ouyang-zongzhu's disciples."
There's a pause as Jin Ling nods courteously to the Ouyang delegation across the hall, as dignified as possible for a twenty-year-old sect leader in half a dan's worth of embroidered golden robes of state. He's pretty composed, given that he's addressing the other sect leaders and representatives for the first time since reaching age of majority, and given that a few days before he completely freaked out when Jiang Cheng informed him that he'd have to make a speech. He also presents a remarkably convincing front of dignity for a boy who regularly goes yelling and chasing after Jingyi when that rascal of a Lan calls him little mistress and makes fun of his dog.
Seated with his own contingent of representatives to Jin Ling's left, Jiang Cheng sends his nephew an approving look, which Jin Ling catches out of the corner of his eye and, having been waiting for it, flushes with pleasure.
Then he looks back toward the other delegates, who seem to be listening with at least moderate attentiveness.
"Apart from that, Jin sect has no major news. We look forward to cooperating with everyone on a solution to the red spotted fever and better production of woodblocks for the purpose of …" Jin Ling pauses again, this time probably trying to remember the smart words he'd planned on using, "… of edifying the common populace."
From the head table Lan Wangji, Chief Cultivator, the venerated Hanguang-jun and worst brother-stealing in-law in the history of in-laws, gives Jin Ling a nod of acknowledgment. "Thank you, Jin-zongzhu."
Jin Ling sits down. One of his gold-clad attendants leans over to whisper something in his ear, and he relaxes fractionally, his clenching fingers loosening on the folds of his outermost robe.
"Nie-zongzhu," intones Lan Wangji, "please give us your news of Qinghe."
Nie Huaisang rises, and with a delicate little flourish lets his fan bloom in one hand like a spread of cards. Unlike every other cultivator seated this day in the audience hall of Cloud Recesses, he does not look proudly on his audience, nor square his shoulders, nor bow solemnly to his host. Instead, he coyly ducks behind the fan and begins, artfully, to prattle.
Across from him, the Jins sit gleaming like gilded iron. To his right are seven representatives of Xihua Piao, clothed in soft sunset pinks. Throughout the conference hall, cultivators sit poised like brightly coloured birds in their jewel-toned robes, adorned with swords and silver bells, dubiously listening to the Headshaker meander from subject to subject like a fluttering bird: pecking here, nibbling there, and giving them all the impression that he doesn't in the least know what he's talking about.
Jiang Cheng doesn't pay attention to any of them. He has not looked away from the Lans all day, except to reassure himself, every so often, that his nephew is conducting himself properly.
It isn't Hanguang-jun that interests him – because truly, as he thinks to himself a hundred times a day, fuck that guy. And for once it isn't Wei Wuxian, who has the audacity to lounge beside his husband, twirling a flute that looks enough like Chenqing to scare everyone who might think of talking back to him. Jiang Cheng is still mad at his first disciple for insisting on sitting with "the love of his life" instead of with his own sect. But that's just the latest addition to a long list of things for Jiang Cheng to be mad about today.
Such as the fact that Lan Xichen hasn't once looked at him.
The honourable Zewu-jun is seated on his brother's other side, hands settled on his knees, politely giving Nie Huaisang his full attention as if the nesting habits of the white-quilled pygmy goose could not possibly be of greater interest to him. Gray-white glimmers leap across the fabric of his robes as it shifts under the light. His expression is pleasant, if a bit tired. There are dark circles beneath his eyes. Jiang Cheng scans his features again, searching for the man who wrote the words How did you bear it, and ignores the little voice in his head that says this glance has turned out way longer than quick, discreet glances are generally supposed to be.
So he's been staring too long. He doesn't care. Lan Xichen has barely deigned to meet his eyes since he first walked into the audience hall and made his grudging, obligatory obeisance to Lan Wangji his host, with six disciples of the Jiang behind him. Zewu-jun stood at his brother's side, then, and bowed, and briefly held Jiang Cheng's gaze when they straightened out of their salute; but then they were required to greet the next party, and Jiang Cheng was forced to relinquish that gaze and lead his attendants away. And naturally, Zewu-jun gave no less than his full attention when Jiang Cheng rose to deliver his own opening courtesies, but that's no more than anyone has to give, to a long-time peer and sect leader; it doesn't count. The moment Jiang Cheng surrendered the stage to his nephew, Lan Xichen switched focus as if the past eight-some months of letter-writing never even happened.
Damn every minute they waste listening to these preliminary speeches. He wants to march across the room, make Zewu-jun look him in the eye and … and say something. Anything.
Jiang Cheng shifts his gaze to the tables diagonally across from his, where Nie Huaisang's fan-fluttering is getting progressively more nervous as he comes to the crux of his speech.
"… and I guess that's how we knew the trees were poisoned. We're working on it. At least, some of the people who live there are working on it. I don't know yet. The pygmy geese ought to come back soon. Anyway, that should be all, so, thank you for listening –"
"Nie-zongzhu," Wei Wuxian interrupts lazily.
The room goes silent. A few cultivators near the back were whispering to one another, but now they all shut up and stare, watching the Yiling Patriarch loll his head backward until it nearly rests on Lan Wangji's shoulder.
Nie Huaisang gives him a startled look. "Um. Yes, Wei-gongzi?"
"Just so we're clear, these pygmy geese roost in trees near water?"
"Oh. Yes?"
"And they eat from the lake vegetation, not the trees?"
"I don't know," Nie Huaisang says fretfully, shaking his head behind the fan. "I don't know. I think so."
Wei Wuxian gestures with fake Chenqing in a wide arc around himself. "So why do you think the trees around the lake are poisoned, and not the lakewater itself?"
"Oh." Nie Huaisang blinks. "Wei-gongzi, you're so smart. No one draws water from this lake, so that never seemed like a problem. But who would come and help us, when we are all so busy?"
"Don't you have your own foresters?" Wei Wuxian asks.
Hanguang-jun tilts his head to one side, so that his cheek rests lightly on his husband's brow. Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes as far back as he possibly can.
"They're busy with something else. I don't think," Nie Huaisang says, wide-eyed, "that they can help with this, anyway. It seems like there's resentful energy growing around this lake. What if we send an ordinary person and it eats them?"
"If it likes the taste of pygmy goose, I'd say you're good," Wei Wuxian says dryly. "Unless you send someone really short. Just clear the contaminated water before it has time to develop its own consciousness."
If this is how the rest of the conference is going to go, Jiang Cheng would rather walk to Qinghe and eat the damned goose himself, feathers and all. He shifts his gaze across the hall just in time to see Lan Xichen look back into his own lap.
"Thank you, Nie-zongzhu," says Lan Wangji, who has clearly also grown tired of the conversation. "Piao-zongzhu, perhaps you would like to continue."
Nie Huaisang takes a seat with apparent relief. Jiang Cheng, a strange electric current running through his arms and fingertips, stares in open shock at Lan Xichen. He could have sworn …
"With your permission, Hanguang-jun," Piao-zongzhu says, rising and bowing so low the tips of her rosy sleeves pool against the floor. "Fortunately, Xihua has been mostly peaceful, with no major incidents. Two marriages and a few important adoptions have taken place since the beginning of the new year …"
No. He must have imagined it. Why would the First Jade of Lan want anything more to do with him? Now that he's out of seclusion, Lan Xichen will gradually resume his duties as head of his sect, and probably those of Chief Cultivator too, assuming his brother hasn't developed an unlikely taste for power these last three years. He'll be too busy to stay in touch with anyone outside of Gusu. And he'll certainly be far too busy to come visit Lotus Pier, like Jiang Cheng sort of invited him to do in his last letter.
"… silk production is expected to rise dramatically with the promised cross-breeding of our mulberry trees …"
Not that Jiang Cheng is actually waiting for him to answer that invitation.
It's probably for the best, he thinks bitterly. He might himself be a sect leader, but Lan Xichen is far above him in terms of upbringing and character. He's a refined, virtuous, caring person, balanced and elegant, the very embodiment of Lan sect discipline. And for Jiang Cheng – choleric, indelicate, short-tempered as he is – to wish to be friends with him is patently ridiculous.
It takes an hour and a half for the leading representatives of every delegation to get up and say their piece. Jiang Cheng, stewing in his own impatience, glances occasionally at the First Jade of Lan, who with all apparent tranquility is listening to each minor sect leader expound on the political and economic benefits of this taxation reform or that second son's union to a commoner heiress. Then, almost before he knows it, Lan Wangji has stood up once more and formally thanked them, and invited them all to mingle with one another for a while before returning for the evening banquet at you shi.
Surreptitiously, Jiang Cheng lets his eyes flick from Hanguang-jun to Zewu-jun and back again. There. No one saw. He's being subtle. He's being stealthy. He's –
– he's completely forgotten what he was even thinking, because Zewu-jun has caught his gaze across the hall with a half startled, half guarded expression, as if he didn't mean to be caught in the act of looking at all.
Jiang Cheng should pick something else to look at immediately, but his pride won't let him. He holds Zewu-jun's eye contact defiantly.
In the distance, Lan Wangji adds something else – probably an official dismissal – and every cultivator in the room stands to salute the Chief Cultivator one last time. Jiang Cheng takes the opportunity to drop his eyes and hide for a moment behind his own folded hands. By the time he straightens, a hum of conversation is already filling the audience hall. The first general meeting having been adjourned, the attendees are now free to circulate and hail their friends and far-off acquaintances. And Lan Xichen, without the loss of a moment, has rounded the table and started gracefully across the room toward the Jiang delegation.
Yao-zongzhu's deputy chooses this moment to waylay him. He steps deftly into Lan Xichen's path, followed by a few of his chosen adepts and their friends from the Ouyang delegation, and salutes him with the gravest respect. Lan Xichen bows back. His expression, when he rises again, shows polite curiosity. Yao Kuangfeng evidently takes this as permission to make a well-rehearsed congratulatory speech, which is sustained by occasional asides to his fellow adepts and lots of expansive gesturing. Jiang Cheng, spared from having to compose himself too quickly, dismisses his six disciples so they can hare off and leave him to manage what's coming next with a little more privacy. When he turns back around, he discovers that the throng around Lan Xichen has grown to include cultivators in Jin, Piao and Mu colours, who have apparently decided to mob him in the only show of respect and admiration they're any good at.
The noise swells. Lan Xichen's tight-lipped smile grows more polite. Jiang Cheng casts about for anyone who might see his discomfort and disperse the rabble, but Hanguang-jun has been likewise trapped by well-meaning diplomatic small talk and Wei Wuxian is nowhere to be seen.
Which means he has to do everything himself, as per usual.
"… Of course, Hanguang-jun is wise in refusing our humble requests," Yao Kuangfeng is saying, with the tolerant air of a man addressing someone thirty years his junior, "but wisdom comes in many forms, and no one has forgotten Zewu-jun's long and prosperous term as chief of Gusu Lan. Your honourable brother surely cannot dispense with your good advice."
"It is my privilege to advise Wangji whenever he may wish it," Lan Xichen agrees.
"Then would you not agree that it is possible Hanguang-jun may tend to be a little hasty in his rulings? The ghost pavilion is of vitalimportance to our research in trapping ghosts and spirits, and some of the materials cannot be obtained without lifting trade restrictions on spirit-sensitive metals."
"If the Lan sect put those restrictions in place," Jiang Cheng says, "then I doubt they'll lift them for your sake, Yao-fushou."
Yao Kuangfeng jumps. Zewu-jun looks up, startled, and the throng around him loosens, a few of the gawkers stepping back and exchanging guilty looks. These are the effects of Jiang Cheng's reputation: that when he interrupts people, and loses his temper, and barges in where he's not wanted, nobody challenges him about it, because it's common knowledge that this is what he does. And because they're all a little nervous of him.
Which is, of course, the very same reason that people treat Wei Wuxian the way they do. But that's not something Jiang Cheng likes to dwell on.
Yao Kuangfeng recovers and gives him a haughty look. "Jiang-zongzhu, one must sometimes sense when the wind is changing. Yao-zongzhu believes a spirit pavilion on the border between our territories would be a worthy investment."
"Yao-zongzhu believes a lot of things," Jiang Cheng says caustically, "but the wind sounds as noisy and tiresome as ever to me. When it does change, let us know and I'm sure Hanguang-jun will be happy to take up your case." While Yao Kuangfeng splutters indignantly, Jiang Cheng turns to Lan Xichen and folds his hands in a perfunctory salute. "Zewu-jun. May I have a word?"
Zewu-jun doesn't waste any time. "Please excuse me," he tells his audience. "We can speak later tonight at the banquet."
Thus dismissed, Yao Kuangfeng turns with aharrumph and a flounce of sleeves. The rest follow suit while conversing in low voices. Once they're alone – or, at least, in their own respectful bubble of space – Jiang Cheng turns to Lan Xichen and opens his mouth to deliver a polite, ordinary greeting, the sort of thing that's become automatic after twenty years of leading Yunmeng Jiang.
How did you bear it?
The greeting sticks in his throat.
Lan Xichen returns his gaze with dark, steady eyes. Then he says, very quietly, "You have a habit of doing that."
Which is not the polite, ordinary greeting Jiang Cheng was expecting to receive in return. Especially from the famously courteous First Jade of Lan. "What?" he says blankly.
"Saving me," Lan Xichen says.
Oh.
Oh.
Jiang Cheng feels the back of his neck growing hot. Get a grip. That's obviously not what he means. They're talking about being extracted from awkward party conversations, not the letters. In fact, it might be best if neither of them ever acknowledges the letters for as long as they both live. "Well," he mutters, looking away, "if it were me, I'd have … wanted to be saved, too."
Zewu-jun smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Have you been well?"
"What? Yes, of course. I'm fine. That's what I should be asking you," Jiang Cheng says distractedly, annoyed by his own self-consciousness. "Have people been bothering you like that since you … I mean, when did you come out of –?"
"On the last half-moon," Zewu-jun says. "About a week before the final invitations were sent out."
And only a day after Wei Wuxian set out from Cloud Recesses to hammer on Jiang Cheng's door in the middle of the night. "My first disciple says you're playing the guqin again."
"I am."
"You must be out of practice."
When Zewu-jun, by way of answer, smiles a little with the corners of his mouth, Jiang Cheng realizes how that must have sounded. He winces. "Sorry, that was rude."
"Not at all. You're right," Zewu-jun says peaceably, gazing out across the room. It's a little less crowded now, full of golden afternoon light pouring in through the open doors. "I am quite rusty. Perhaps when my skills are up to par again, you might allow me to play for you."
"I – all right?" Somehow a simple conversation has become very confusing. "You know that the Jiang sect doesn't focus much on musical cultivation."
"I know. I did not mean spiritual songs." Lan Xichen turns back to him. "We still have time before the banquet. Would you join me for tea, if you are not otherwise engaged? There is …" He hesitates. "There is something I must say to you. But it has no bearing on sect business, so if there is something you must take care of, then of course that would take precedence."
"No," Jiang Cheng says, after a moment. "There's nothing else. Do I need to herd my disciples back together or will someone tell them where to go for the banquet?"
"Someone will tell them. If I may be candid," Zewu-jun says, gesturing him toward the open doors, "I think I need a moment of quiet after being in public company for so long. You would really be doing me a favour." When they emerge into the honeyed sunshine and pause to let their eyes adjust, he adds thoughtfully, as if to himself, "I already owe you a great deal, of course. But this is one debt anyone can easily repay."
…
The Yashi is as clean and tasteful as Jiang Cheng remembers, with pale blue gossamer curtains tied by each doorway and mats swirled with cloud designs under their boots. The floor is dark walnut panelling, matched by the partitioning latticework, and a rosewood table has been set out for them with porcelain teacups. Lan Xichen invites him to sit and busies himself brewing tea while Jiang Cheng takes a surreptitious look around the room. This is where Lan Qiren received his father, Jiang Fengmian, and Jin Zixuan's father, Jin Guangshan, to break off A-jie's engagement twenty years ago. They must have taken a lot of trouble to re-create it after the sack of Cloud Recesses. Not that he would know the difference if they hadn't, having only been inside a few times himself.
"This room has not changed in decades," Lan Xichen comments, as if following the same train of thought. He sets the lid back over the teapot to let it steep. Then he flicks his sleeves out of the way and, with perfect decorum, places both hands on his knees. "But after three years in one building, even a room I've known all my life feels like a fresh change of atmosphere."
Jiang Cheng isn't sure what to say to that, so he pulls a scroll from Lan Wangji's library and says, "Hm." He hopes Zewu-jun doesn't notice him surreptitiously rearranging his own hands where they'd been resting in his lap.
"My brother and I used to eat watermelon here when we were little," Zewu-jun goes on absently, gazing around himself with something like wistfulness. "I have not had watermelon in ages … Do you know, the first thing he did when I came out of seclusion was invite me to eat with him? I think he was scheduled to have dinner with someone from Jin sect that night, before he received the news. Though of course he will not tell me so."
Jiang Cheng eyes him across the table. He has his own opinions about what Lan Wangji ought to have done about the hermit in the Hanshi these last three years; and if it were Wei Wuxian sitting across from him, he might have said as much. But he won't censure Hanguang-jun to his own brother's face. "You said you had something to say to me," he says instead, stiffly.
It's too brusque for a subject change, but Zewu-jun graciously allows it. "Yes. Please excuse the inconvenience," he says. "We could have spoken in the audience hall, without my having to drag you halfway across the mountain. But I thought this might be better, given that what I have to say is of a rather personal nature."
"If you're going to remind me that corresponding with someone in seclusion is against Lan sect precepts," Jiang Cheng says, "I already knew that. I won't apologize for writing to you."
Lan Xichen holds his gaze. "I would not accept it if you did."
And just like that, everything that passed between them over the last eight months has been conjured into the room with them.
Jiang Cheng has imagined this moment approximately ten thousand times since Yunmeng Jiang received word of Zewu-jun's emergence from seclusion, but he has not, alas, prepared himself for how strange it would be to find himself alone in this man's company. They've become confidants without ever really being friends, which is definitely atypical, and he's forgotten by now what it's like to be in someone's physical presence when you care whether or not they like you but aren't sure if they do.
(Shut up, Wei Wuxian does not count.)
Lan Xichen watches him with those dark, graceful eyes, and takes a deep breath.
"Jiang-zongzhu," he says, "I asked you here in order to apologize. And to thank you."
Neither of those have ever boded well for Jiang Cheng, historically. "What do you have to apologize for?"
"For not answering your last letter. You deserved an answer, and I had a great deal to say to you, after everything. But I needed to speak with you in person." Lan Xichen scans his features; for what, there is no way to tell. "I owe you my gratitude."
"No," Jiang Cheng says. And then again, with anger, "No. Don't be ridiculous. You don't owe me anything."
"Yes," Lan Xichen says quietly, "I do. Your letters –" But here he stops again, as though finding the right words has become difficult. His gaze is trained on a point somewhere across the room. Then he takes a quick breath and goes on: "They found me in a locked room with no door, no windows and no key. You reminded me of my responsibilities to my sect and my family. You persuaded me to come to the wedding despite my own self-pitying recalcitrance. If I hadn't, I would have regretted it for the rest of my life. And you continuously went out of your way to show a man who'd never offered you friendship that he was not alone. Do you have any idea what that meant to me?" Lan Xichen does not raise his voice, but anyone could have heard the wavering timbre within it, like a plucked string. He lifts his eyes to Jiang Cheng's face. "You opened your own grief to me, to lessen mine. And you made me want to leave the Hanshi when I thought I could never bear to leave it again. That is the debt I owe you."
Jiang Cheng's lips part in soundless astonishment. His first instinct is, of course, to deny this too-generous portrayal of his interference in Zewu-jun's seclusion, but he can't make words form in his mouth. Debt? What debt? Since when was this about keeping score of who offered whom solicitude? Does Lan Xichen think he did it for thanks?
Lan Xichen watches him for a moment across the polished rosewood table; then, evidently deciding that no response is forthcoming, he pulls his sleeve back with one hand and lifts a teapot out of the sunken hearth with the other. "May I pour for you?"
Jiang Cheng furrows his brow hard enough to put ridges between his eyes, but when this fails to adequately communicate how he feels, he jerks his head in a nod.
Zewu-jun pours him tea.
It's such a courteous, ordinary gesture, the sort of thing he might have done while listening to Jiang Cheng talk about Lan Sizhui and last summer's harvest. Jiang Cheng finds himself at a total loss for what to say. Here at last, before him, sits the man who wrote the words How did you bear it, who has received more of Jiang Cheng's freely given honesty than anyone else alive except Jin Ling, and it's somehow both familiar and strange to sit and talk with him at the polite distance of an arm's length instead of several dozen li. But if they're here because Lan Xichen thinks he owes Jiang Cheng anything so shackling as gratitude, then Jiang Cheng had rather set him free from that immediately. He won't play the debt game with anyone else ever again.
He picks up the teacup, just to have something to do with his hands, and says, "There's no debt between us. Believe me."
Lan Xichen doesn't answer while he pours for himself, but there's a skepticism in his silence. Jiang Cheng adds, "You've already repaid me, in fact. I owed you first."
"Whatever for?" Lan Xichen puts the teapot down.
"For helping Wei Wuxian when I wouldn't have. You sheltered him."
"I did it for Wangji's sake. My reasons were selfish."
So were mine. Jiang Cheng doesn't bite the waspish retort off fast enough: "Maybe your brother should have written to you instead, if you've done so much for him."
Lan Xichen shakes his head. "My brother has too great a respect for the laws of seclusion, and for my own personal boundaries. He would not have dared."
Right. Because personal boundaries aren't really a thing Jiang Cheng publicly concerns himself with. "Your uncle, then. He might have done it, for the good of your sect if nothing else."
"I would not have listened."
"Why not? Don't you defer to his judgment in everything?"
Lan Xichen drops his gaze and takes a sip of tea.
Shadows flicker against the screen-shade behind him as a few twittering birds execute an acrobatic volte-face and fly off again. Distantly, young murmuring voices grow clearer as a herd of juniors leaves the Lanshi and emerges into the adjoining courtyard. Lan Xichen puts down his teacup.
"In the past," he begins quietly, "my uncle has not generally approved of the people the rest of our family chose to grieve."
Jiang Cheng doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't speak. He's not supposed to. Zewu-jun smiles ruefully up at him and goes on:
"They say that Lans tend to love only once in a lifetime. It is true of my brother. It was true also of my father. They both defied my uncle and everything our sect stood for to protect the people they loved. I have had time to consider whether or not I would have done the same, had I known –" He stops. The shade of Jin Guangyao lingers, smiling cruelly, even here. Even now. "But I know for certain that my uncle would have had no sympathy for me on that score. If he had written to me, he would have written only of duty. He would have scolded me for my negligence." Lan Xichen shrugs minutely. "And he would have been right. But I would not have listened."
"So why listen to me?"
"Because of your experiences with Wei-gongzi. You told me as much, in your last few letters."
"Right," Jiang Cheng says, mortified. How could they have known how much I hated him, how furious I was, how I despised myself for waking up every morning still his brother and his killer? Better to sit vigil alone than explain any of that to an outsider. He's had time, over the past however-many months, to regret some of the things he shared in those letters, no matter how well-received they might have been. "I hope you burned them."
There's a pause. Lan Xichen looks down at his folded hands, lips pressed together in a smile of demurral. It takes a moment for Jiang Cheng to work out what it means, and once he does, he stares at Lan Xichen in complete and utter dismay.
"You did burn them, didn't you?"
"No," Lan Xichen admits. "They are still in my possession."
"All of them?"
"All of them."
Well, shit. All this time, Jiang Cheng has been operating on the assumption that his letters were being safely and reliably thrown away, based on one rule or another off the Wall of Discipline, and here Zewu-jun is informing him that they're all still there. Jiang Cheng's expression must speak volumes, because Lan Xichen hurries to add, "Though if you wish, then of course I will burn them."
"Yes," Jiang Cheng agrees fervently. "Please. I wrote a lot of … I wrote a lot. It's not that I doubt your discretion, I just – assumed you'd have nowhere to keep them, eventually."
"Well," Lan Xichen says, in a reasonable tone of voice, "the Hanshi is quite spacious. It could have fit more."
There's a teasing quality about his choice of words, if not his expression, that catches Jiang Cheng off guard. He speaks without thinking: "My office couldn't have."
"I see." Lan Xichen picks up his teacup, and says delicately, almost as if in afterthought, "I take that to mean you have likewise disposed of my letters?"
Fuck.
When Jiang Cheng continues to say nothing, Lan Xichen stops with his teacup halfway to his mouth. Then he puts it down. "Jiang-zongzhu?"
Jiang Cheng prays silently for marauding corpses to burst through the door and start laying waste to the tastefully furnished room. None appear. And so, because there's no avoiding such a direct question and he should at least have the decency not to lie, he resolves for the third time this afternoon to just keep his mouth shut.
Lan Xichen, with infinite tact, allows him to. For a minute, anyway. He takes up the teapot and pours again for both of them, sets it back down, and then lets his hands come to rest on his knees. Then he remarks, "It seems we are at a stalemate."
"There's nothing – politically important in the letters," Jiang Cheng bursts out, unable to bear it any longer. "I didn't think I'd be violating any kind of etiquette if I kept them."
"Very true," Lan Xichen agrees. "There is nothing politically important in the letters. I can therefore see no danger in keeping yours."
"Wrong. If the other sects got wind that we've had to replace an entire section of Lotus Pier because of water damage, they'd have us bankrupt in a week."
"Bankrupt? Why?"
"Because of the timber shortage? Because of the ghosts in Qinghe … It was in Nie-zongzhu's opening statement," Jiang Cheng says, raising an eyebrow at the bland incomprehension on Zewu-jun's face. "Didn't you hear what he said?"
"Ah," Lan Xichen says. "No. Forgive me. I was – distracted."
Understandable. Nie Huaisang's fan-fluttering would put anyone off their game. "Well, anyway, I'd prefer it if the secrets of Lotus Pier didn't fall into the wrong hands."
"Then I will guard them."
"With your life?"
"My sword should be sufficient."
"Right," Jiang Cheng says. If he's not seeing things, there's actually a twinkle in Zewu-jun's eye. "… Right, it should be. I guess you can keep them, in that case."
Lan Xichen inclines his head gravely. Remembering something, Jiang Cheng turns to look over his shoulder: the afternoon light has changed again, slanting almost across the opposite rooftop. "It's nearly you shi. Should we go eat?"
"I think I will abstain from tonight's banquet. It is still difficult for me to be around other people for long stretches at a time." Lan Xichen's tone is cordial, but firm, as if to forestall any attempt at changing his mind. "If my brother asks after me, could you tell him I will see him later this evening?"
"Of course," Jiang Cheng says, trying to hide his disappointment. "No problem." He stands. Zewu-jun, taking his cue, rises with him in a single, fluid movement that probably requires double-jointed kneecaps. "Thank you for the tea. It was … good to see you in person."
"And you as well," Lan Xichen says softly.
There's something gentle about his eyes that makes prolonged eye contact with him acutely flustering. Jiang Cheng flushes, and in an act of pure cowardice, breaks his gaze first by dipping into a ceremonial salute. "I'll see you at the next general meeting."
Two hands catch his wrists, stopping him.
Jiang Cheng looks up. Zewu-jun is wearing a strangely tentative expression as he leans over the table with arms outstretched; his thumbs are pressed to the backs of Jiang Cheng's hands, his fingertips a warm pressure against the fabric of the inner sleeve. "Please," he says. "You do not have to do that. Not with me." He waits for Jiang Cheng to straighten before dropping his hands. "Jiang-zongzhu, I know you are about to be extremely busy. But if you ever have a free moment during the next four weeks, I would be grateful if … that is, would you come and see me?"
"Really?" Jiang Cheng blurts out, in a very un-sect-leader-like way. Then, squaring his shoulders, with a little more dignity: "I mean … yes, if there's time. But I thought you'd still be settling back in after your seclusion. You don't have to entertain guests."
"No. That is my brother's duty for the time being," Zewu-jun says. "The last thing I desire now is to have more free time on my hands. I have begun teaching again, intermittently, and plan to remain by Wangji's side for the duration of the conference. But it is not the same as talking to someone I know, and who knows me in return."
Damn these sweet-talking Lans. Jiang Cheng can't help grinning, for a moment, like an absolute idiot. "Then I'd be glad to."
Lan Xichen blinks, as if dazzled. The sunlight must be slanting directly into his eyes by now. Jiang Cheng adds, "If you're sure. I know you're still recovering."
"Yes." Lan Xichen refocuses on him with a summoned smile. "Of course. The company of a friend is what I need."
…
"What happened to you?" Wei Wuxian demands, frowning at Jiang Cheng – who has just walked into the elegant receiving room – around cheeks bulging with food. He swallows, and gestures with his chopsticks at him: "You're late, you know. We waited for you an incense stick's time past youshi. A whole incense stick! I was starving."
His words break the silence of a dozen different sect representatives eating under Lan clan's "no talking during meals" rule. On Wei Wuxian's other side sits Hanguang-jun, who has not acknowledged Jiang Cheng's entrance; across from them are Nie-zongzhu and Jin Ling, who are content to avoid looking at each other; and between them are Yao-fushou, Piao-zongzhu and all the others who were present at the opening meeting earlier today. A few of them dart surreptitious glances at Wei Wuxian, who has not bothered to keep his voice down. "I'm sure," Jiang Cheng says, likewise not giving a flying fuck. He folds himself down next to his first disciple. "Pass the soup?"
He's halfway through filling his bowl when he realizes that Wei Wuxian hasn't moved since he sat down. In fact, Wei Wuxian has not stopped staring at him since he walked through the door. Jiang Cheng gives him a look of deep aggravation. "What?"
"Jiang Cheng," Wei Wuxian says, eyeing him as though he were a completely unfamiliar person whose name he's suddenly being required to remember, "you're … cheerful."
Jiang Cheng scowls. "Can't I be in a good mood if I want?"
"You can't be in a good mood, period. I can't remember the last time I saw you in a good mood."
"Sounds like a you problem."
Wei Wuxian leans closer, dropping his voice. "Were you with Zewu-jun?"
"What? How did you know?"
"You left the audience hall together, remember? Where anyone could see."
Well, that's … not untrue. "He invited me to have tea with him," Jiang Cheng mutters. "Don't make it sound so sordid."
"I'm not," says Wei Wuxian, picking up another mouthful of bland vegetables. "It's not my business what you do behind closed doors."
"You're damn right, it's not."
"I'm just glad you picked Zewu-jun, of all people. He's maybe good enough for my shidi."
Jiang Cheng pauses with his chopsticks held suspended in midair.
Wei Wuxian blithely goes on eating. No one else seems to have heard the last part of the exchange. Jiang Cheng waits a frankly unprecedented length of time before putting his chopsticks down and taking the bait. "As a friend and associate, right?"
Wei Wuxian makes a noncommittal humming noise.
"As a friend and associate, right?"
"No talking during meals," Hanguang-jun says, without bothering to look up.
"Wei Wuxian!"
"Mm?"
"Whatever you're implying, just – just –"
"I'm not implying anything," Wei Wuxian says, giving him a reproachful look. "Eat your dinner. You might as well get used to Lan cuisine as soon as possible."
"Wei Ying," Hanguang-jun says pointedly.
"All right," Wei Wuxian says, blinking at his husband like a contented cat. "I'll be quiet now. Promise."
"Temporarily," says Hanguang-jun.
Yes, Jiang Cheng thinks bleakly, staring down into his bowl. Temporarily.
Wei Wuxian puts a piece of stewed onion into his rice for him.
…
"Rabbits for sale! Rabbits for sale! Five copper per head, six for the young! Rabbits for sale!"
"Tell me again why we're here," Jiang Cheng says.
Wei Wuxian isn't listening. He's making a beeline for the rabbit seller through the market crowd with a gleam of vengeance in his eye, and so it's Nie Huaisang who taps Jiang Cheng's arm with his fan and says, "We're here for old time's sake, Jiang-zongzhu. Remember? Caiyi Town was the closest place we could have a drink when we were all attending lectures with the Lans."
"Rabbits for sale! Makes a delicious stew with fresh greens and broth, along with a dish of – hey!"
Jiang Cheng watches Wei Wuxian pick up a wooden cage full of rabbits in each hand and start arguing with the trader. "I remember," he says.
"And we all technically have a couple of free days to settle in before the conference starts for real. Personally," says Nie Huaisang, leaning over to peruse a pendant-seller's wares, "I think I'll be taking lots of naps."
The trader points to his sign, which dispels any illusion that he might be giving the rabbits away for free. Wei Wuxian makes a show of putting down one of the cages to root around in his pockets. "Maybe I should rephrase," Jiang Cheng says, watching from afar with a kind of incredulous fascination. "What does any of that have to do with buying up every rabbit we find?"
"I think Wei-gongzi wants to expand Hanguang-jun's fluffle."
"Excuse me?"
"His fluffle," says Nie Huaisang absently, using his fan to nudge one of the pendants into a more charming configuration. Jiang Cheng has to suppress the urge to gag. When Nie Huaisang glances back at him, catching his expression, his eyes widen. "Jiang-zongzhu, a fluffle is a rabbit colony."
Like hell it is. "You're making that up."
"I am not!"
"Yes, you are. A rabbit colony is a rabbit colony, not a –" Jiang Cheng grimaces. Let lightning strike him down from heaven before he ever utters the word fluffle.
Nie-zongzhu heaves a sigh. "You're probably right. I'm not really knowledgeable about these things." He gives the pendant-seller an apologetic shake of the head and turns to stand by Jiang Cheng, where they have a full view of the scene unfolding by the rabbit seller's. Wei Wuxian has produced another Chenqing lookalike out of nowhere and is wagging it menacingly in the man's face. The rabbits, if they have anything to say on the matter, are staying out of it. "I think," Nie Huaisang says, "your mind may have gone into the gutter just now, Jiang-zongzhu."
"You never know with those two," Jiang Cheng says, folding his arms over his chest. A little girl in homespun clothes toddles past with a stick of candy in her mouth and then stops to tilt her head up at him appraisingly. "What are you looking at?" he snaps down at her, before it can occur to him that to pick a fight with a child is pointless and embarrassing. The girl looks him up and down, thoroughly unimpressed, then moseys on.
"Jiang Cheng! Nie-zongzhu!"
Wei Wuxian is waving to them enthusiastically over the crowd. The rabbit seller, looking cross, has begun dismantling his stall. "We're up," says Nie Huaisang.
"He wants you to pay, doesn't he?"
"Jiang-zongzhu, I already have more money than I know what to do with. I'm happy to sponsor Hanguang-jun's fluffle."
Dear gods. "If you're the sponsor," Jiang Cheng says, following Nie Huaisang as he navigates a path through the market crowd, "then what am I?"
Nie Huaisang cheekily taps his shoulder with the fan. "You're the muscle."
They've come up to the rabbit seller's kiosk. Not bothering to warn him, Wei Wuxian picks up a crate and, with a whuff, heaves it triumphantly into Jiang Cheng's arms. "Could you take this for a second?" he says, and without pausing for an answer lifts a second crate onto the first. Jiang Cheng finds himself nose-to-nose with a downy, brown-and-white spotted rabbit, which twitches its muzzle at him and nibbles at some grass.
It's the cutest thing he's ever seen. With difficulty, he manoeuvres the crates to one side so he can glare at Wei Wuxian. "What do you take me for, a pack donkey?'
"Patience! Patience!" Wei Wuxian says, tying up a few bags of vegetable feed. Behind him, Nie Huaisang has engaged the rabbit seller in bright, twittering conversation, while pulling out a silken silver pouch. Only one of those things seem to interest the man, and it's not the conversation.
The brown-and-white rabbit leans forward to sniff its new porter through the netting. Jiang Cheng experiences a sudden and overpowering urge to boop it with his nose.
"Okay, all done," says Wei Wuxian, straightening. He bows shallowly to the rabbit seller. "Pleasure doing business with you, old master."
"Hmph," the man says, eyeing his black robes. "You're going to put us all out of business."
"Haven't I just paid you handsomely for all these bunnies? It seems to me like you're doing splendid business." Wei Wuxian picks up another crate and holds it out to Jiang Cheng, as though expecting him to make room for it. "Come on, open up. There's two more we have to carry."
"Carry them yourself," Jiang Cheng says tartly. "My hands are full."
Wei Wuxian sticks his tongue out at him, then turns to Nie Huaisang. "Nie-zongzhu, your hands aren't full."
Nie Huaisang flicks his fan open and hides behind it. "I don't know. I don't know if I can do it. It's been so long since I carried anything so heavy."
"It's, like, a tenth of a dan. It's not gonna kill you."
"Please don't make me, Wei-gongzi. My hands are so delicate. What if I drop the rabbits and they die?"
"For fuck's sake," Wei Wuxian says. "I guess I have to do everything myself." He stacks the last two crates together and hoists them up by the base. "Let's go, you squares. We're taking these little guys back up to Cloud Recesses."
"We couldn't just have a nice day at the market," Jiang Cheng mutters. Ahead of them, Nie Huaisang starts steering a path through the crowd, turning at intervals and waving for them to move forward. "We couldn't just come here for old time's sake. No. We're here to rescue some rabbits from a man who's just going to bring thirty more when he comes back next week."
Wei Wuxian twists his head aside to grin at him. "Jiang Cheng, if you wanted to have a nice day at the market for old time's sake, you could have just said so. What do you say we come down here for a drink tomorrow night?"
"Are you paying?"
"Nie-zongzhu is paying. He has more money than he knows what to do with."
"Fine," Jiang Cheng says. "Tomorrow night. As long as Caiyi Town isn't under the same restrictions as Cloud Recesses."
"Oh, no. No way," Wei Wuxian says, pausing to yield the right-of-way to a poufy gray cat crossing the street. "The people would riot. We're not going to get caught and beaten up this time, I promise."
"You promise a lot of things," Jiang Cheng says. Then, hastily, "Look, why don't we go there?"
Wei Wuxian cranes his neck around the rabbits in his arms. A familiar-looking teahouse is coming up on their right, its painted façade bleached from the sun. "Oh!" He grins. "I remember that place. That's where we heard about the dancing statue. We should definitely go there again."
Jiang Cheng grunts, and taking another step, nearly collides with Nie Huaisang, who has stopped by the open door of the teahouse. "Hey!"
Nie Huaisang spreads the fan to shade his eyes with. "Look," he says, squinting inside. "Is that who I think it is?"
Wei Wuxian puts his crates down, and Jiang Cheng crowds in beside him as best he can without jostling the rabbits. Their eyes are adjusted to the bright noonday sun, so it's difficult to pick out what's being pointed out to them right away; but after another moment, peering into the teahouse interior, Jiang Cheng sees them. Two familiar figures, sitting together and talking, distinguishable by the vivid patterns of their robes – one in shades of gold, the other in white and blue. The first is Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng's melon-headed, newly ascended nephew.
The other is Zewu-jun, First Jade of Lan.
Nie-zongzhu snaps shut the fan. "Let's go say hello."
"Look," Wei Wuxian says suddenly, whirling and pointing across the street to the opposite rooftop. "Is that a snowy egret?"
"What? Where?"
"Over there! I definitely saw a long beak and white feathers. Here, follow my finger, see where it's sitting on the roof over there?"
Nie Huaisang turns eagerly, and Wei Wuxian leans an elbow on his shoulder to direct his gaze away. With the other hand, hidden behind his back, he snaps his fingers to conjure a slip of paper. Jiang Cheng sets his two crates down by the door of the teahouse.
"Are you sure it's an egret? They're not very common … Maybe it was a crane instead?"
"No, it was an egret. I'm sure of it. It was smaller than a crane, and it had black legs." The slip of paper starts flapping back and forth, impatiently. Jiang Cheng grabs it and finds a stick of charcoal in his pocket. The two of them pulled this trick enough times while growing up in Yunmeng. He braces the paper against the outer wall of the teahouse and scrawls a quick message on it:
LIMIT: 40 PATRONS. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.
Then, dropping the charcoal and picking up one of the crates, he steps into the teahouse and kicks the door shut behind him.
Nie Huaisang's voice comes through, high-pitched with surprise. "Oh! Where did Jiang-zongzhu go?"
"Who knows?" Wei Wuxian says, unconcerned. The slip of paper, imbued with a little spiritual power, must have stuck to the other side of the door. "Nie-zongzhu, look, maybe that's it – that bright white patch over there."
"I think that's just reflected sunlight. He must have gone into the teahouse."
"Well, we can't go after him. The sign says no more patrons. We'll have to come back some other time."
"I suppose you're right." Nie Huaisang sounds disappointed. "And he left an entire crate of rabbits! How careless of him."
Jiang Cheng looks down at the crate in his arms. A dozen fluffy white heads with long ears twitch up at him: innocent, defenseless, and now entirely his responsibility.
Well. This might as well happen. It's not like today was ever going to be normal, anyway.
"Wei-gongzi, what are we going to do? We can't just leave them here."
"Maybe you could carry them?"
"Oh, I really couldn't. I'm sure if I just found a nice, hardy villager, I could pay them to help us out … Over there, she looks strong. Probably has Nie ancestry somewhere in her line. I'm just going to go ask how much she wants."
The voices fade.
Jin Ling and Zewu-jun haven't noticed anything yet. Jiang Cheng squares his shoulders and starts toward them across the floor of the teahouse, as dignified as possible with the bulky wooden crate held in front of him. Better to carry it with pride than try and leave it somewhere, so it can get picked off by street urchins, or hide it in a corner somewhere as though he's ashamed. He's Sandu Shengshou, master of Lotus Pier, and he can walk around with a dozen soup bunnies in his arms if he damn well pleases.
Jin Ling sees him first. "Jiujiu!" he says, putting his chopsticks down. "What are you doing here?"
Zewu-jun looks up. "Hi," Jiang Cheng says, stopping by their table. And falls silent, because he can't think of anything to add that will properly account for his waltzing in to impose on a pre-arranged meeting between his nephew and the First Jade of Lan.
But Lan Xichen saves him the trouble. "Jiang-zongzhu," he says warmly. "I did not know you would be passing through town today."
"Neither did I, until about two hours ago. Could I join you?"
"Please."
Jiang Cheng sets the crate down and seats himself in the empty space Lan Xichen indicates him to. A young waiter, probably having heard Lan Xichen address him by title, appears at the table to take his order. "Just tea," Jiang Cheng says, and the boy scurries off again. "I won't stay long. Jin Ling, I hope you're not making trouble for Zewu-jun."
"Not at all," Lan Xichen says, glancing at Jin Ling. "I invited Jin-zongzhu to join me here. It's no trouble."
Jiang Cheng likewise turns to his nephew, who raises his chin as if defying Jiang Cheng to scold him. "Zewu-jun is one of the world's finest cultivators. This is a good opportunity to learn from him."
"Yes," Jiang Cheng says, resting one hand on the crate. "He is one of the world's finest cultivators. He is also a teacher, a scholar and Hanguang-jun's support in managing the conference. Which is why I'm certain he has enough to do without you pestering him."
"I am not pestering him! Don't I have the right to accept someone's invitation if I –" Jin Ling catches sight of Jiang Cheng's hand where it holds the edge of the crate. "Are those …?" He peers closer, trying to see through the wooden slats.
"Rabbits," Jiang Cheng says baldly. "Yes."
There's an eloquent pause. Jin Ling looks up at him with narrowed eyes, clearly trying to decide whether or not to be embarrassed on his uncle's behalf.
Jiang Cheng stares him out.
Jin Ling is a major sect leader, but he's only twenty years old. He looks away first. Jiang Cheng makes a mental note to scold him for that later.
Unfortunately, there is still an experienced former sect leader at the table. "Jiang-zongzhu," Zewu-jun says, as if the meaningful silence has gone right over his head, "may I ask why you have a crate full of rabbits?"
And there it is. Bluff called. Jiang Cheng looks, resigned, at the crate. "They're for Hanguang-jun's fluffle."
Jin Ling chokes on his tea and dissolves into a coughing fit. Zewu-jun's posture shifts, as if his instinctive response is to reach over and rub his back, but he's sitting too far away. Jiang Cheng, who is not, makes no such gesture. He calmly sips his own tea, placed at his elbow by a discreet server, and waits for Jin Ling to emerge, red-faced, from behind one golden sleeve. "Fluffle?" he repeats, through streaming eyes.
"Yes. A rabbit colony is properly called a fluffle."
"Jiang-zongzhu, perhaps if you patted his back?'
"That would interfere with the body's natural response to fluid in the lungs." When Jin Ling, still unable to speak, sends him a furious look, Jiang Cheng raises his eyebrows. "There's a bit of doctor's wisdom for you."
Jin Ling tries discreetly to wipe at his eyes. "Zewu-jun, is that true?"
"Yes," Lan Xichen says, with visible regret. "Generally, one is not supposed to hit someone on the back when they are coughing. If there is food caught in the windpipe, it could be dislodged and get stuck even farther down."
"Not that," Jin Ling forces out. He coughs a little, one last time, and straightens again, restoring himself to the image of a dignified young nobleman. "I meant about the – the –"
"The fluffle?" Zewu-jun supplies gently.
Jiang Cheng fights back a smile. Jin Ling takes a deep breath, his colour slowly returning to normal. "Yes. The fluffle," he says, clearly mortified. "If you say it's a real thing, I'll believe you. The Lans don't lie."
"Oh, so you'll believe Zewu-jun," Jiang Cheng says, "but not your own beloved jiujiu?"
"You don't know everything. Besides, Zewu-jun is my uncle now too, sort of."
"Jin Ling! Don't be presumptuous."
"No, no," Lan Xichen says. "I would be glad for Jin-zongzhu to think of me as family. And to advise him as I may out of my own paltry experience."
"You were asking for advice?" Jiang Cheng frowns at his nephew. "Why are you badgering Zewu-jun when you have such great respect for him? Did you just get tired of badgering me?"
"No," Jin Ling snaps, flushing with indignation. "I just had a question."
"On what?"
No reply.
"On how to secure one's position as sect leader," Lan Xichen answers quietly, "when one is young, and has suffered recent losses, and has few people on whom one can rely."
Oh. "Jin Ling," Jiang Cheng says, stung. No wonder he went to Zewu-jun of all people. But … "Why didn't you just ask me?"
"I have, jiujiu," Jin Ling mumbles. "Lots of times. I just wanted to get a second opinion. That's what you always say I should do," he adds, as if to reassure Jiang Cheng that not all his advice goes ignored.
"I told Jin-zongzhu," Lan Xichen puts in, "that above all he must find trustworthy people within his circle and keep them close."
"Which is funny, considering jiujiu told me to find the people I couldn't trust and boot them out." Jin Ling glances sidelong at Lan Xichen. "His words, not mine."
"They seem like two sides of the same philosophy."
"Right. They both assume you can tell who the trustworthy people are in the first place."
Lan Xichen exchanges a glance with Jiang Cheng across the table. His expression is a mirror of concern and compassion, as though he, too, remembers going through the same period of uncertainty. Jiang Cheng opens his mouth to say something when another voice interrupts.
"Excuse me, sir. May I ask if this rabbit belongs to you?"
Jiang Cheng, Jin Ling and Zewu-jun all look up, startled, at the harassed-looking server who has appeared at Jiang Cheng's elbow, holding a ridiculously fluffy rabbit with a single black spot over its eye. "What?" Jiang Cheng says, not understanding what he's supposed to do with it.
"We found it in the kitchen," the server says apologetically. "This humble one saw Jiang-zongzhu come in with a crate of other rabbits, so I thought perhaps it might be one of yours?"
Jiang Cheng twists to look over the edge of the crate. There are definitely fewer rabbits in there than before. "Damn it," he says. "They've been escaping." Even as he watches, a white rabbit with red eyes springboards off the bottom of the crate and lands inches away from the server's feet.
She catches it in her other hand. "My mother used to breed them," she says, unwittingly answering their surprise. "If they've been escaping, they can't have gone far. I'll search the premises and bring back as many as I can f–"
There's a delicate scream from across the room. All four of them – Jiang Cheng, Jin Ling, Lan Xichen and the unfortunate server – turn toward the table beneath the northern windows, where a man in expensive-looking robes has leapt to his feet and capered backward. "A rabbit!" he yelps. "There's a rabbit under the table!"
His female companion gestures disinterestedly with her chopsticks. "Probably a stray."
"It's in my food!"
"For heaven's sake, sit down. You're embarrassing me."
"Wo de tian," the server says, despairingly, under her breath. "Excuse me a moment." She places the two rabbits carefully back into the crate and hurries across the room, where the scholar is flicking his robes back and forth as though the rabbit might have crawled beneath them. Jiang Cheng, with an enormous inward sigh, glances at Lan Xichen, whose ability to keep a straight face has once again proved remarkable.
"Aah! Where did it go? Is it gone?"
"I," Jiang Cheng says, in the voice of death, "will be right back. Jin Ling, keep an eye on the others."
He spends the next ten minutes following the beleaguered server around the teahouse as she looks under every table, scours every corner, and apologizes profusely to every customer who gives them annoyed looks as they pass. She pounces on the rabbits when they try to evade her, exhibiting preternatural instincts for where they might be hiding. Jiang Cheng, praying none of them die of fright before he delivers them to Cloud Recesses, is forced to cradle them against his chest as she passes each one into his arms. I am Sandu Sengshou, he thinks furiously as a wet little nose sniffs the underside of his jaw. I am sect leader Jiang, master of Lotus Pier, and I can walk around with soup bunnies in my arms if I damn well please.
It doesn't really help. Once they accumulate four rabbits, Jiang Cheng thanks her gruffly and tells her to invoke his name if she comes under fire at her job for the commotion today. Then, cursing Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang and the rabbit seller and whoever else conspired to put him in this situation, he returns to the table where Jin Ling and Lan Xichen are waiting. "Jin Ling," he says, ignoring his nephew's transfixed expression of glee, "help me with these. I can't throw them in all at once."
"But jiujiu," Jin Ling says, wide-eyed as though he'd like nothing more than for this moment to last forever, "I'm keeping an eye on the others, like you told me to." He puts a hand on the crate to prove it. "What if they escape and we have to start all over again?"
Brat.
"I will help," Lan Xichen says, rising smoothly from the table.
Jiang Cheng tries to shift the rabbits in his arms, but one of them has climbed up onto his shoulder and another, he's pretty sure, is barely holding on, pressed between his right hand and his abdomen. Lan Xichen comes round to him and, after careful consideration, starts by detaching the rabbit on his shoulder, lifting it into the crate to join its fellows. The others he puts in with equal caution. A man who knows what a fluffle is, Jiang Cheng reflects irritably, must perforce know how easy it is to give a rabbit a heart attack. It's a miracle none of them have snuffed it yet.
"I take it you're flying back to Cloud Recesses?" he asks once when there's only one rabbit left, which he lowers into the crate himself. Jin Ling has propped his chin on one fist but not, alas, managed to wipe the gloating look off his face.
"I actually thought I might walk," Lan Xichen says. "It will be a while before I have another chance." He glances down at the crate. "Will you manage, by sword?"
Jiang Cheng follows his gaze. "No. Looks like I'm walking, too."
"Then you could join me, if you have no further business in town. Jin-zongzhu – the invitation is, of course, open to you as well."
"Oh," Jin Ling says, startled. "Yes. I mean, I'd like that."
"Then let me speak with the proprietor," Lan Xichen says, "and I'll join you in a moment."
He moves off in a swish of fine brocade. Jiang Cheng picks up the crate of rabbits, figuring that he might as well do it himself; he's not about to dump more of Wei Wuxian's bad decisions on Jin Ling. But when he turns to his nephew, what he sees instead of contrite gratitude is a curious expression following Lan Xichen across the room.
Behold, Jin Ling! There goes your one uncle who, at some point in his life, actually had it together!
Jiang Cheng can't snap his fingers in front of Jin Ling's face, so he settles for nudging him with the side of the crate. "Hey. What are you staring at?"
Jin Ling glances at him, then back at Lan Xichen, who has found a diminutive man in an apron and – if the man's beaming smile is anything to go by – is complimenting him on the quality of his cooking. The man bows low, speaking effusively. Lan Xichen listens for a while, and then glancing across the room at Jiang Cheng, nods to the crate of rabbits. The man in the apron waves a dismissive hand, as if to say no, no, no trouble at all.
"I think," Jin Ling says thoughtfully, "we should invite Zewu-jun to dinner."
…
It's a nice thought. Unfortunately, neither of them has the chance to act on it, because of the abominable difficulties in trying to prepare for each week's meetings in an environment where one is expected to rise before dawn and cease working at nine o'clock sharp. Bad enough to send messengers in a place you aren't allowed to run, and try making yourself heard where you aren't allowed to shout – Jiang Cheng must now also be civil with people he cannot stand. Chief among these is Hanguang-jun, but all the other sect leaders – save two – tie for second place. They never stop talking, and they're one and all better at following the behavioural precepts of Gusu Lan than he is.
Jiang Cheng has never been, shall we say, an easygoing person. By the time they all walk out of the weekly general conference three days later, in which he, Yao-fushou and Xia-jicheng hashed out a redrawing of the borders between their territories – and in which he nearly got himself thrown out for "sarcasm" and "treating others with contempt" – he's wishing for marauding corpses and demon pygmy geese.
The strange, weightless mood that came over him after talking to Zewu-jun has vanished. They haven't even been in the same room together since Caiyi Town, much less had the chance to talk, apart from that one time they're thrown together to arbitrate a minor stock-breeding disagreement between their sects. Seated at the same table, facing two prominent cattle farmers who have come to Gusu as to a high seat of justice, Jiang Cheng listens to them make their case while trying very hard not to focus on Lan Xichen's physical presence two handsbreadths away.
"– and so it turns out," the first cattle-breeder is saying, her darkly tanned face a mask of polite displeasure, "that Mo-taitai took my lost bull into her herds five years ago without permission, and has been using him for stud ever since. It is only right and just that all the animals he has sired should be returned to my humble family's herds."
"I understand Yu-taitai's points," Mo-taitai says with venomous sweetness. "Unfortunately, there's a clause in the agreement signed by our grandmothers seventy years ago which specifically states that it's our responsibility to keep our cows in our respective territories, which directly correlates to my not being responsible for Yu-taitai's lost property."
Lan Xichen listens with a neutral, perfectly attentive expression, hands settled on his knees in graceful stillness. Of course he's too well-bred to let his attention wander. At least, that's what it seems like right up until Jiang Cheng impatiently draws their attention to a different clause of the settlement their grandmothers signed seventy years ago and Lan Xichen quietly and unobtrusively picks up his empty wooden cup and turns it upside-down on the table.
Jiang Cheng, noticing this, loses his train of thought. Mo-taitai prompts him. "Jiang-zongzhu?"
"Right," he says, looking back at her. He's completely forgotten the point he was trying to make.
"No provision for offspring," Zewu-jun says helpfully.
"Right," Jiang Cheng repeats, shaking his head. "There's no provision for offspring in the portion on return of lost property. Mo-taitai should return the stud bull, but she's not required to give up the animals he sired. Let's not waste any more time."
A few minutes later, Mo-taitai and Yu-taitai lean toward each other in a fierce, hissing private conference, and Zewu-jun touches his fingers to Jiang Cheng's knee.
Jiang Cheng nearly jolts out of his skin. Beside him, Zewu-jun has not otherwise moved. They're sitting close enough to the table that the placement of his hand is hidden from view. Jiang Cheng glances at him, and Zewu-jun gestures with his chin, very slightly, to the last blank sheet of paper on Jiang Cheng's desk.
"Very well. We are agreed," Yu-taitai says sourly, turning to face them again. "Mo-taitai willreturn my bull within two weeks of our return to the lowlands –"
"– but his offspring will remain in my keeping," Mo-taitai finishes, looking smug.
Jiang Cheng slides the sheet of paper across the table. Zewu-jun, receiving it, says, "Then let us record the conclusions of this hearing." He carefully slides the paper under the overturned cup. Then he picks up a brush, dips it in the inkstone and starts filling in the empty spaces of the legal document that's to act as written proof of Mo-taitai and Yu-taitai's case. While the two women crane their necks forward, trying to read his writing upside-down, Jiang Cheng darts a suspicious sidelong look at Zewu-jun's cup. He can't remember if dishware features on the list of Lan clan precepts. But who knows, maybe the Lans are just uptight about leftover tea or something. Why not, when they're uptight about everything else?
The mystery isn't solved until Yu-taitai and Mo-taitai both leave and Zewu-jun, lifting the sheet of paper by the edges, rises and carries it outside, where a bamboo screen shields the room from view of the stone steps. Jiang Cheng joins him by an outcropping of rocks guarding a mountain rivulet.
"Zewu-jun?"
Lan Xichen takes the cup off the paper and a yellow spider scuttles out, making a break for the rocks. He kindly shakes it off the paper in the direction it seems to want. "Yu-taitai is afraid of spiders," he says. "I did not want to alarm her."
Jiang Cheng looks at where the spider vanished.
Then he looks back at Lan Xichen.
He honestly doesn't know what he expected.
Lan Xichen takes his silence to mean that he wants context for this knowledge. "We spoke during a different consultation some years ago. There was a spider on the ground, and she … reacted with some surprise, and crushed it."
Only with a massive effort does Jiang Cheng resist the urge to drag a hand down over his face. He's had a long and very trying week, and it rankles that Lan Xichen still has enough concern to spare for spider charity. "You could have just – killed it."
"Why?"
"It saves time. If I tried to capture and release every spider I found in my office, I'd never get anything done."
"Taking a life on the premises is forbidden." Lan Xichen half-smiles, an expression notably less forced than the one he tends to wear in public. "But even if it were not, I would not want to kill a living creature simply because it was convenient."
Jiang Cheng almost wants to argue on principle, but he has, unfortunately, enough critical thinking skills to work out how this philosophy might apply to living creatures bigger than spiders. "Oh," he says. "Well, I hope it … finds its family?"
Zewu-jun smiles. "I'm sure it will. Do you have any other duties today?"
"Until sunset, yes."
"Then I suppose we will see each other again at the next general conference."
Jiang Cheng can't help a stab of disappointment. "I suppose," he says. The only reason he was at all impatient for this convention of sects was so he could find Zewu-jun and talk to him – or, more accurately, make Zewu-jun look him in the eye and admit to being a wreck. But he's already pretty much done that. They're associates, if not friends. So what is there to feel disappointed about?
"May I walk you back down?" Lan Xichen asks, gesturing at the stone steps.
"If we're going in the same direction, I don't think it can be helped," Jiang Cheng says peevishly.
And Lan Xichen, instead of taking offense, surprises him by laughing.
They do end up seeing each other at the general conference a few days later. Lan Xichen catches Jiang Cheng's eye from across the room, where he's seated with the rest of his sect, and raises his cup in a silent toast. Jiang Cheng returns the gesture after a moment's hesitation. But when it's over, they're both pulled in different directions by the demands of their work, and no further chance to talk presents itself. The next time Jiang Cheng hears from him is midway through their second week, when a young junior in cloud-patterned robes delivers a note to his quarters and then just … waits, as if she's been instructed to watch him read it.
Jiang Cheng unfolds the note, and the now-familiar handwriting leaps out at him like a breath of clean forest air.
Jiang-zongzhu,
At the conference, you mentioned an aberration in your predecessors' records of Yunmeng's early cotton production, which is now giving you some trouble. I hope I do not presume too much in offering a potential solution. Cloud Recesses has its own tradition of account-keeping, and in looking through these, I have found records which could fill in some of the gaps for you.
I will be in the Library Pavilion all day today. Please come and join me at your convenience; or, if your responsibilities prevent it, send back my messenger and I will give them the records to give to you.
Lan Xichen
Jiang Cheng looks up at the junior still waiting for his verdict. "You can go," he says.
She bows and vanishes. He re-reads the last few lines before tucking the letter into his pocket and picking up a stack of scrolls from his desk. He thought he'd be working in his rooms today, but sect leaders have to be adaptable to last-minute changes.
When he strides into the library, he finds Lan Xichen at a table near the back, filling a large scroll with column after column of tiny characters. His brow is clear, his face relaxed as though he has lost himself in the work; his sleeves are spread like moth's wings on either side of him, and his chest rises softly, imperceptibly, with each breath.
So this is what Lan Xichen is like when he's alone. Jiang Cheng stops with the scrolls and papers still in his arms, transfixed. After a week and a half of hurrying and arguing and fuming inwardly at everything, seeing him like this feels like emerging in a deep wooded glade where sunlight and shadows dapple the earth, a place suffused with the hush of quietly passing time.
Lan Xichen looks up and, seeing him, lays down the inkbrush. "Jiang-zongzhu," he says. "You received my note?"
"Yes. You didn't have to go looking for those records for me," Jiang Cheng says. Something unspools in his chest at being so warmly greeted, and he forgets to be anything but pleased. "Did you come across them by accident?"
"I decided to search for them after hearing you speak at the last meeting. It is difficult to be caught off guard by missing data, especially if your case depends on the precision of past accounts. I wanted to help you."
Lan Xichen picks up a tray with three scrolls on it, obviously prepared in advance, and holds it out to him with both hands. Jiang Cheng accepts it in the same way. There's a foreign sensation in his face that could be the beginnings of a smile, or possibly just his scowl relaxing for the first time in ten days. "Thank you," he says. "I'll – go have a look."
He retreats to one of the other low tables positioned around the room and folds himself down behind it. Lan Xichen watches him go, as if anxious for the scrolls to prove useful; then, catching Jiang Cheng's eye, he smiles and lowers his gaze again.
The records actually do help, being meticulously dated with precise records of harvest yield, amounts sold, the names of buyers and the quality of the cotton export. Jiang Cheng ends up writing down the numbers he needs with a relief approaching total exhaustion. Thank the heavens for the Lans and their diligent habits. It's a miracle these documents were ever preserved. Most likely, Cloud Recesses had been buying up cloth for their next three generations of disciples, and saw fit to investigate whether or not Yunmeng's cotton products were worth their money. He doesn't really care. By the time the sun starts dipping below the distant pines, he has everything he needs and one less issue to worry about.
"You don't know how much I appreciate this," he tells Lan Xichen afterward, handing back the scrolls. A bit late, admittedly, because several times over the past few hours he looked up at his library companion only to realize that this was how he'd always pictured Zewu-jun while writing to him in seclusion: serenely absorbed in his own world, with the blue gleam of twilight in his finery. It kept making him forget what he was supposed to be doing. "I would have gone mad, trying to puzzle out the figures for myself. Thank you."
"It was no trouble," Zewu-jun says, looking pleased. He has put the inkbrush down again and set his hands on his knees, as if to give Jiang Cheng his full and undivided attention. "It was good to have someone else in the room. I know we may have little chance to speak to one another," he adds, "while you remain in the thick of your conference work. But if you should ever want company, I am here."
"Here in the library?" Jiang Cheng asks stupidly.
"Mm. I will probably spend most of my time here while the conference is in session. It is one of my favourite places; quiet, with few distractions."
You only believe that, Jiang Cheng is tempted to say, because vanity and mirrors are both forbidden to you. Yet he agrees, and comes back the next day with his arms full of notes for the next general meeting, and he and Lan Xichen spend the afternoon in companionable silence while beams of sunlight travel sleepily across the floor. He never sees what Zewu-jun is working on, but assumes that he, too, has some kind of sect business to take care of, because he always works at least as long as Jiang Cheng himself and puts his things away only to see him through the door, like a proper host. Jiang Cheng returns again the day after that, but this time does a poorer job of sitting still, changing position every five minutes and tapping his fingers impatiently, wishing for the thousandth time that he could delegate the paperwork to someone else and go slay some demons.
By the third day, he's so keyed up that it's not five minutes into their study session before he abandons the inkbrush, stands from the table and begins to pace: because, he tells himself, he needs to think of an argument that'll convince Hanguang-jun to let Jiang disciples walk through Gusu without having their passes checked every five seconds, but mostly just trying to contain his frustration. Politics are the absolute worst, most tedious, mind-numbing garbage in the world and he's been neck-deep in it for two consecutive weeks.
"Jiang-zongzhu, are you all right?"
He turns. Lan Xichen is sending him a look of concern, no doubt having picked up on Jiang Cheng's restless energy with super subtle people-reading skills. His inkbrush, where it rests against the paper, is long since dry. He obviously can't focus on his own work with a storm brewing on the other side of the room. "Sorry," Jiang Cheng says, and grimaces: now there's a foreign taste in his mouth. "There's this town in Gusu where a few Jiang families live, and their relatives in Yunmeng have permission to visit 'whenever they want'" – here he puts quotations marks around his words, in case Lan Xichen misses the sarcasm – "but they have to renew their passes every year and these get checked obsessively whenever they do cross the border, and one of my councilmembers requested that I look into it at the conference –"
Lan Xichen nods to show that he's listening.
"– but I'm pretty sure Hanguang-jun will refuse just to spite me, and anyway, I'm going insane locked up indoors every day. I need to fight someone," Jiang Cheng finishes, because that's the only thing he can think of that will make him feel better. He takes another couple of steps and then spins to pace the other way.
"Anyone?" Lan Xichen asks offhandedly.
"Anyone."
When Jiang Cheng glances at him, he appears to be doing some thinking; a bland, faraway expression has come onto his face, as if he's listening to a tinny voice through the wall. Then he nods and says, "Very well."
Jiang Cheng frowns. Lan Xichen rises smoothly and folds an arm behind his back, as if answering a formal summons.
"If you are going to fight anyone," he says, "fight me."
…
Lan Jingyi darts up to the door of the Shiyanshi and hammers on it with his fist. "Wei-qianbei! Wei-qianbei, let me in!"
There's a yelp and a small explosion from inside. Lan Jingyi chooses to interpret this as a cry for help that automatically sanctions him entering someone's dwelling without permission. He pushes the door open and finds Wei Wuxian on the floor, coughing up smoke, surrounded by singed and sparking drafts of a new talisman. "You haven't found the right design yet," he observes. "Don't worry, Wei- qianbei. I'm sure you'll get it eventually."
"Jingyi," Wei Wuxian says hoarsely, pushing himself up on one elbow, "what is the four hundred and seventy-fifth rule of the Lan clan?"
"'Do not enter someone's dwelling without permission.'"
"And what did you do?"
"I already have permission, remember? You asked me to tell you if I saw anything happen with Jiang-zongzhu and Zewu-jun."
Wei Wuxian sits up in alarm. "Why, what happened?"
"Nothing yet. They're fine, as far as I know."
"But what did you see?"
"No, no. You're right, Wei-qianbei. I've broken the rules again. I guess I should get back and start doing lines, maybe some handstands –"
"Jingyi, I will bring you sweet buns from Caiyi Town if you tell me what you saw."
"They're fighting in the archery range. Sparring, I mean. Sizhui's on standby with flares and bandages."
"Already? Oh my god. Okay. I'll be right there. Do not let them start without me. Where's Lan Zhan, is he seeing this?"
"I think Hanguang-jun's in a meeting."
"Good. Can you keep him there for me?"
"What? Why?"
"Because I'd hate for us to cheer for opposite teams." Wei Wuxian starts sweeping all the scraps of talisman paper together, smushing them into a pile between his hands. "Also, Lan Zhan wouldn't be too happy about Jiang Cheng picking a fight with his brother."
"I don't think that's what happened," says Jingyi, who was studying with Sizhui in a different corner of the library at the moment Jiang-zongzhu and Zewu-jun loudly and dramatically agreed to have a sparring match. But Wei Wuxian just waves him off.
"It wouldn't matter. He's worried for Zewu-jun, and he and Jiang Cheng don't get along. He'd see it as a deliberate insult."
"Wei-qianbei, aren't you worried about Jiang-zongzhu picking a fight with Zewu-jun?"
Wei Wuxian deftly stuffs all the scraps into a wooden box and shuts the lid. "What for? He picks fights with everyone. The real mystery is why Zewu-jun agreed to fight him in the first place." He hurries over and nudges Jingyi out the door. "Come on. Sizhui's gonna need backup."
…
Jiang Cheng turns to face off with Lan Xichen in the sandy centre of the archery range, the tip of his sword hovering just above the ground. "You're sure about this?"
"Yes," says Lan Xichen. He has at some point disposed of his heavy brocade outer-robe and now stands in a pleated inner layer of silk, patterned blue as a summer sky. Jiang Cheng wants, absurdly, to avert his eyes. "It is only forbidden to fight without permission. I give us leave. And no rules will be bent if I let my brother know about it afterward."
That's the last thing they need right now. "Not what I meant," Jiang Cheng says, twirling the sword once, twice, around himself to loosen up. "You were in seclusion nearly three years. Aren't you – out of practice?"
Lan Xichen smiles tolerantly. "Perhaps. But please, do not go easy on me. Sandu Shengshou has a reputation to maintain."
Jiang Cheng nods, and shifts into an opening stance.
Later, of course, he will remember this last courteous remark, made as if in the spirit of fair and honourable combat, and wonder if Zewu-jun was mocking him. Yes, it's forbidden for Lan sect disciples to say one thing and mean another, let alone make fun of people, but Lan Xichen knows how to mask his emotions nearly as well as his brother does. Jiang Cheng won't ever know. What he will know is how confident he'd been, himself; how it never even occurred to him to ask Zewu-jun not to go easy on him, as one does with an equal swordsman. And he will be ashamed enough, for once, to apologize for it.
But that's the Jiang Cheng of tomorrow. The Jiang Cheng of today doesn't have a goddamn clue. He springs forward, whirling into the first strike; sword meets sword in a discordant clash of spiritual steel; he slashes, meets nothing but air; slashes again –
– and freezes. Lan Xichen's sword is at his throat, brought there arrow-swift in a move that would have taken his head off had he followed through with it.
Jiang Cheng numbly moves out of its way. Zewu-jun lets his sword hover a moment longer, then likewise steps back, reversing into a beginning stance of his own.
Their eyes meet.
"Again," Jiang Cheng says.
This bout lasts two more moves than the first. He lunges into Zewu-jun's space, sword-first, trying to penetrate the invisible shield created by his opponent's weapon, only to feel Shuoyue tap his collarbone.
This, too, would have been a killing blow. Jiang Cheng steps backward, scowling, and repositions his weapon.
Zewu-jun's face has gone as smooth and expressionless as jade. "Again?" he asks politely.
Jiang Cheng growls and hurls himself forward across the sand.
It goes on like this for a fair bit. Zewu-jun always stops short of mortal contact, but doesn't otherwise hold back; and although their bouts grow steadily longer, Jiang Cheng learning by trial and error what to expect of him, he remains absolutely untouchable. Seclusion has clearly had a honing effect upon his swordsmanship. He holds his weapon, as do all adepts of Gusu Lan, like a paintbrush: an instrument of precision, to capture one's opponent in graceful inkstrokes and nimble wristwork, and so Jiang Cheng is captured again and again and again, neatly and without quarter, until he figures out how to anticipate each counterstrike with his eyes and through shifts in the air.
Jiang Cheng has never imagined matching himself against the First Jade of Lan in single combat before, primarily because cultivators don't learn the sword to fight other cultivators, and secondly because the invisible opponent in his mind has always taken on the form of Wei Wuxian for one reason or another. But now, as he and Zewu-jun clash and separate and clash again, he feels the familiar edge of battle-hunger taking over, as though electricity has gone crackling through his entire body beneath the skin.
He rushes Zewu-jun like a river-current, in a swirling, twisting, billowing onslaught, trying to bring down the crane at the apex of its dive. Zewu-jun evades him in fluid, parabolic steps that carry them both in broad circles through the clearing. Sometimes his sword vanishes, concealed behind a long silken sleeve; and sometimes sunlight catches in his silver hairpiece like water, gleaming. He moves like a needle darting in and out of fabric, or a sleek, sharp-edged wing shearing through the air.
Jiang Cheng nearly lands a tremendous blow on his shoulder, is repelled by Shuoyue, and spins to slash across the free arm Zewu-jun keeps tucked against his chest. His sword makes contact and is knocked out of his hands. He drops and rolls as Shuoyue whistles overhead, parting the air with elegant violence; and when he lands on his feet, staggering a little, he finds himself well out of sword's reach of Lan Xichen, who has stopped to appraise him at a distance.
This last bout lasted much, much longer than the others. Breathing heavily, Jiang Cheng goes to pick up his sword where it fell. Getting disarmed is somewhat better than getting killed. Maybe. Just barely.
"You're good," he says, turning to the First Jade of Lan. The adrenaline is fading, and with it all the anger and frustration that were fueling him. If he'd wanted to be honest and humble, he would have said In fact, you're better than me, but just because it's true doesn't mean it needs to be said. He adds grudgingly, "Really good."
Lan Xichen, having tucked his sword back against his side, receives Jiang Cheng's reluctant accolade with a small smile. "You flatter me," he says. "If I had been anyone else, save perhaps Wangji, you would have bested me a dozen times over by now."
Jiang Cheng snorts. "Thanks."
"I mean it sincerely. It is no small thing to meet someone new in battle and learn from them, as you do." Lan Xichen sheathes his sword and brings his long-sleeved arms up in a salute. "This has been an educational experience for me as well. Thank you."
Jiang Cheng bows in return, somewhat mollified. "I appreciate your taking the time to do this." Then, shaking his head, "I haven't gotten beaten like that in ages. How did you do that thing, the –" He mimics a certain sword movement.
"Ah," Lan Xichen says. "Shall I show you?" He unsheathes his sword again and draws it up close to his face, sword-arm bent like pulling back an arrow on the bowstring. The other hand he stretches in front of him, two fingers upheld. "Attack me the way you did before, when I parried here and you spun for my other side."
Jiang Cheng starts forward. "Slowly or normally?"
"At normal speed, first. Then we will do it slowly."
When he's close enough, Jiang Cheng darts forward at an angle and drives his sword point-inward at Zewu-jun's chest. Shuoyue blocks him once – twice – he uses the new angle, and the force of the rebound, to spin across to Zewu-jun's unprotected side and lay Sandu on the juncture between his neck and shoulder –
– or at least that's what he wanted to do; but faster than he can think, the blade of his sword twists and is nearly wrenched from his grip. He's forced to redouble it and dart backward again, avoiding the hinge-pivot of Shuoyue's steel edge. "That's what kept tripping me up," he says, outraged, and lifts his sword. "Okay. Slower, now."
The corner of Lan Xichen's mouth ticks up. "Very well. Attack me."
"Right."
Feeling a bit silly, as if he's a fifteen-year-old practicing under his mother's watchful eye all over again, Jiang Cheng repeats the same attack at a drawling pace, and Zewu-jun parries it with the same exaggerated slowness. It feels weird to do fighting motions without their hair flying everywhere and long-ass sleeves getting in the way. When they come to the crucial moment – when Jiang Cheng, blocked, must spin for a new angle of attack – Zewu-jun stops him.
"Stay there a moment. Do you feel how I can control your weapon for an instant, catching it like this?"
They're frozen like painted figures on a scroll. "I feel it," Jiang Cheng says.
"It has more to do with your position than mine. Here." Zewu-jun steps back deftly, sheathes Shuoyue and lays two fingers on Jiang Cheng's arm where the inner wrappings meet the wrist bone. Jiang Cheng feels that jolt again, half surprise and half pleasure, at being touched so casually, as if human contact really is a simple thing that can be granted him at a moment's notice. "Your wrist is rotated too much. It's straining here" – Zewu-jun's fingers trace a professional line down the thumb joint, and then a bit of the inner arm ligaments where they run side-by-side with the veins – "and here. It is easy to take advantage. Change the rotation of your wrist, and your sword will be perpendicular to my hand instead of flat against it."
"Hm," Jiang Cheng says, intelligently.
"Try it now. I will correct you."
Lan Xichen obviously has no idea that his student has had a dearth of physical kindness over the past, oh, twenty years. Jiang Cheng, squashing the very unwise impulse to pretend not to have understood so said physical kindness will be repeated, wordlessly goes through the manoeuvre in slow motion. It does feel better when the flat of his sword is aligned with the flat of his wrist. And this way, his opponent couldn't manipulate the weapon with the fulcrum of his own grip on the handle.
"Good," Lan Xichen, scanning Jiang Cheng's form from head to foot. He nods in approval. "Good. Now try again."
He takes a step backward, returning to a dueler's distance. Jiang Cheng is about to raise his sword when the sound of footsteps reaches them from the other side of the archery range. It's one of the Lan juniors, who, without classes to attend, has been instructed to run errands across Cloud Recesses. She speed-walks across the clearing and stops in front of them, bowing.
"Jiang-zongzhu. Zewu-jun."
Lan Xichen turns to face her. "What is it, Shimin?"
"There's a message for you both from Hanguang-jun's council."
"Go ahead."
"Strange activity has been reported on the borders of Heilin, east of Caiyi Town and south-east of Zhongli. Three people have vanished, possibly abducted, from the edge of the forest over the last seventy-two hours, and villagers speak of a malevolent atmosphere in the trees. The scouts we sent believe it originates from the ruins of an old temple where fresh footprints were found. Hanguang-jun has arranged for a night-hunt to take place this evening and would like to know if Zewu-jun and Jiang-zongzhu can be spared." Lan Shimin delivers this speech on what looks like a single breath, and once it's done, she clamps her mouth shut and inhales through her nose.
"Finally," Jiang Cheng says, sheathing his sword with a sharp, impatient gesture. "I was starting to think Gusu didn't have any ghosts or demons left. When do we leave?"
"This disciple does not know yet. There will likely be a second messenger once the exact hour is decided."
"Thank you. We will both attend," Zewu-jun says.
Lan Shimin salutes them. "Jiang-zongzhu, Zewu-jun."
But instead of going back the way she came, she strides over to the stand of trees on the eastern edge of the archery range, where thick branches and foliage conceal the forest paths from view, and vanishes inside. Then she can be heard saying, "Wei-gongzi, there is to be a night-hunt this evening in Heilin. Strange activity has been reported on the borders east of –"
Wei Wuxian's exasperated voice answers her. "Yes, yes, I got it. You don't need to repeat yourself."
Jiang Cheng's fist tightens on the grip of his sword. Beside him, Zewu-jun calmly folds an arm behind his back, as if he gets spied on by demonic cultivators every day.
"Very well," Lan Shimin says. "Hi, Sizhui. Hi, Jingyi."
"Hi, Shimin!" Lan Jingyi answers cheerfully. "No class today?"
"You've got to be joking," Jiang Cheng says.
"Just running errands. I'll catch you both at dinner this evening."
"Are you coming on the night hunt?"
"Not this time."
"Ah, well! I'm sure they'll call you for the next one."
"Wei Wuxian," Jiang Cheng says, louder, trying vainly to project his voice through gritted teeth, "you have five seconds to come out of there before I drag you out myself, and I promise you, it will not be pretty."
Lan Shimin emerges from the stand of trees and makes her way back across the clearing. She's followed by Wei Wuxian, looking bored and disappointed, then Lan Sizhui, sheepishly holding a roll of bandages, and finally Lan Jingyi, who has never had a jauntier spring in his step. The three of them stop ten paces away like a group of children called out to answer for a broken tea service.
"Well," Wei Wuxian says, scratching his head, "I don't suppose you care if we thought we'd have to carry one of you to the infirmary afterward?"
…
The night-hunting party takes off from Cloud Recesses at seven that night and travels to the dark forest where villagers were reporting a "malevolent atmosphere." Among those attending are Jin Ling (who looks happier than Jiang Cheng has seen him in months, probably because he, too, feels that any kind of supernatural nonsense is better than sitting through another meeting), Xia-jicheng (who also looks happy, probably due to Yao-fushou's absence), Lan Xichen (who looks no different than usual, and whose reasons for coming are anyone's guess), and Wei Wuxian (who caught a ride on a flustered Xia disciple's sword so he could plague them, obviously, across half of Gusu).
Jiang Cheng is delighted that his first disciple is coming with them, because that means he can keep chewing him out while they continue on foot through the forest.
"– never show any respect for anyone's boundaries, and I'm your sect leader –"
"Look, Jiang Cheng, there's some weird residue on those mushrooms."
"– spying on me like what I do in my free time is any of your fucking business –"
"It looks kind of like pine sap. Hey, Jin Ling! Come look at this weird residue! Don't you think it looks like pine sap?"
"Pay attention when I'm talking to you! I don't want to be followed around whether it's at Cloud Recesses or Lotus Pier. How many times," Jiang Cheng hisses under his breath, keeping an eye on the main party where they've drawn ahead by thirty paces through the darkness, "have I told you to leave it alone about Zewu-jun? I don't need a chaperone."
"Well, that's a relief to Zewu-jun, I'm sure, but I don't know why you think I care." Wei Wuxian drags his fingers through the saplike goo on the fungus growing on the trees by the path. Then he examines them in the light of the lantern he's holding, which is supposed to make sure they don't trip on their faces on their way to the temple. "Yep, this is definitely pine sap. But not the normal kind."
"And how the fuck would you know?"
"Sap's an old friend of mine. It's great for pranks. Remember that time you put porridge in my bed and I 'accidentally' stuck a fresh pine branch in your hair the next day?"
"Yeah," Jiang Cheng says, glowering at his brother. That sap had been a nightmare to wash out. "I remember."
But the lantern light must diminish the force of his glare, because Wei Wuxian just wipes his hand off on his robes, unconcerned. "Come on, let's catch up. We'll lose the others if they get too far."
"I'm not done talking to you."
"Jiang Cheng, what else is there to say? I'm sorry I spied on you, but I legitimately thought we'd have to bind Zewu-jun up when you were done with him."
There's a distant giggle from up ahead, magnified by the densely packed trees. Probably Lan Jingyi laughing at one of his own jokes. Wei Wuxian, humming something under his breath, starts back down the path where the rest of the night-hunting party has nearly disappeared. Jiang Cheng hurries to fall back into step with him.
"… you think I could beat Zewu-jun?"
"Uh, yeah. Aren't you Sandu Shengshou, wielder of Zidian and the fiercest cultivator in all jianghu?" Wei Wuxian's tone carries the derisive, unspoken postscript: Are you dumb? He lifts the lantern between them so Jiang Cheng can see where he's putting his boots on the leaf-strewn footpath. "I was kind of shocked that you let him off so easy. Pleased, I mean. He is my brother-in-law. But shocked. I didn't think you'd ever take pity on anyone in a fight, even someone you liked. You've always wanted to win." He switches the lantern to his other hand so he can pat Jiang Cheng's arm. "But I misjudged you. You've grown."
That's the sweetest, sincerest thing Wei Wuxian has said to him in ages. "You're getting sap on my robes."
"Oh, shoot. Sorry."
"You're not off the hook for spying on me."
"I know, I know."
They catch up with the rest of the night-hunting party, which has stopped quite motionless on the footpath, lanterns held high in midair. By their hazy yellow light, Jiang Cheng can see Xia-jicheng creasing her forehead in concentration, Lan Sizhui laying an uneasy hand on the hilt of his sword, and between them, a few juniors and minor disciples each from the Jin, Jiang and Xia sects, all wearing identical expressions of disquiet. Even Zewu-jun, having kept his preternatural sangfroid, lets his eyes rove through the darkness with an air of watchfulness.
"What is it?" Wei Wuxian asks softly, parting the ranks as he and Jiang Cheng come up the footpath behind them. Then he says, involuntarily, "Oh."
Something raises the hairs on the back of Jiang Cheng's neck. Careful not to make any sudden movements, he angles into a defensive stance and reaches across to where Sandu's pommel hangs at his other side.
They've arrived at the crumbling, overgrown ruins of an old temple. It's impossible to tell which spirit or deity it was once meant for. All that remains now is the skeletal stone foundation, mossy and covered in lichen, an empty black maw of a doorway and on either side of it, a tree stump and a torn hole in the ground, like something might have ripped its way free. There are no crickets. No birds. No wind ruffling the leaves on the trees around them. There's just a taut stillness, like somebody holding their breath. And that by itself wouldn't be unnerving if it weren't for the extraordinarily unpleasant hostility of the place, like walking into a room only for everyone in it to leap up and scream in your face to get out.
So, basically, just like every other haunted as fuck place they've all been in before.
"Is this it?" Zewu-jun asks.
"It should be," Lan Sizhui says. "We've walked two and a half li, and we haven't seen any other old temples."
"Nobody go inside," Wei Wuxian says.
He receives a few puzzled looks for this. Puzzled, and nervous. Sizhui asks, "Why not?"
"Just don't. Not until we don't have another choice. Let's have a look around first and find the source of this 'malevolent atmosphere.' Any ideas?"
One of Jiang Cheng's disciples, the youngest member of his delegation, raises her hand. "It could be the ghost of someone who used to live in the temple. They'd have any number of reasons to resent their home and place of worship falling into ruin."
Wei Wuxian points to her. "Good, Huilan. The simplest answer is usually the right one. But this place looks like it's been abandoned for a hundred years – why would these people only have started disappearing now?"
He's in teacher mode. It almost makes Jiang Cheng feel better about the yawning black doorway of the ruins and the torn-out spot in front of it.
"It could be a demon, if it's been eating people," Lan Jingyi says thoughtfully. "Those always create the strongest malevolent atmosphere."
"Also possible. But let's try to stay positive. Jin-zongzhu" – Wei Wuxian's tone becomes sly – "may we have the honour of hearing your thoughts?"
Jiang Cheng expects his nephew to snap or say something haughty, but Jin Ling is too busy staring at the doorway of the ruined temple. "There's something off about that stump," he says. "And the hole in the ground. Did there used to be another tree there?"
They all turn their gazes toward the torn-up spot on the other side of the doorway, opposite the stump. It's a likely guess. Forest temples like this often have caretakers who plant things in symmetrical configurations outside, especially trees for stability and longevity. But while the stump is clearly a tree that was chopped down – a large one, at least as wide as a tall man's arm from shoulder to fingertip – the hole in the ground is … mystifying.
"Look at those tracks," Wei Wuxian says. There are deep furrows in the ground all around the clearing, especially around the stump and the torn-up soil, as though something has been plowing through the earth. "What could have made that, do you think? Zewu-jun?"
Lan Xichen shakes his head. "I am not certain."
"Well, I don't sense any spirits," Xia-jicheng declares. "Or any malevolent activity. Whatever it is that's been making the villagers disappear, it must have gone off into the forest. We'll have to follow the tracks and find it."
"Do we split up?" someone asks.
"Perhaps we should organize by sect in this instance, after all," Lan Xichen says. "This is not familiar territory for anyone, and we all know the abilities of our fellow disciples the best."
Which is standard practice for large night-hunting parties. Jiang Cheng pushes toward his three disciples. "All right. Yizhi, Andiao, Huilan, you're with me. We'll follow the tracks up north. Do you all have flares?" he asks, looking around at the others, and receives nods of affirmation. Wei Wuxian picks up a flare-stick from his belt and waves it as proof. "Good. If anything goes wrong or you need help, use a red one; if you find something interesting, use a green one. We'll meet back here in an hour. Pick a set of tracks and follow it, and make sure you're with a senior cultivator at all times." He sends a glare around at the juniors, some of whom shrink back a little. "Is that clear?"
"Yes, Jiang-zongzhu!"
"And for heaven's sake," says Wei Wuxian, "don't touch the trees. I think they're all pouring sap."
The company starts to break up. Zewu-jun takes charge of Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui, and with a nod across the clearing to Jiang Cheng, disappears eastward with them. Jin Ling has already begun conferring in low voices with his two chosen night-hunting companions: Jin Baocui, his first disciple, twice his age and reliable, and Jin Jiongyan, nineteen and impetuous, whom Jin Ling probably brought along only so he wouldn't be the youngest member of his own delegation. They're both good fighters, and loyal to him. Jiang Cheng lets his eyes linger another moment before leading his own small team into the forest.
Jin Ling is a grown man and full-fledged cultivator in his own right. He doesn't need to be looked after anymore. He'll be fine.
Whatever's in this forest should be far more afraid of him than the reverse.
…
"Jiang-zongzhu, the tracks have stopped."
Huilan's uncertain voice cuts through the hush of a forest at night. Creaking branches. The hoot of an owl. Sturdy boots on a carpet of dead leaves. The other two juniors, hearing her, mutter something disappointed where they've spread out to search for more furrows in the ground.
Jiang Cheng, ten paces away and scanning the darkness ahead of him, goes abruptly still. But not because of what his disciple said.
He could swear he saw movement – there –
"Jiang-zongzhu?"
But there's nothing now, of course. That would be too convenient. He half-turns toward Huilan, keeping his voice low. "Like how? Like it climbed a tree? Like it went back in the same direction?"
"Maybe. I don't know. It's hard to tell."
The four of them have a single lamp between them, and are relying mostly on their other senses to find whatever crawled out of that ruined temple. Cultivators have decent night vision, but they're generally expected to be able to navigate the world blind if necessary. Fine-tuning his other senses with meditation was never Jiang Cheng's strong suit, but his hearing and sense of smell are straining as much as his sight right now, trying to get a sense of the landscape around him. "Right," he says, starting to turn the rest of the way toward his junior, "show me where they –"
– and freezes, whipping his head back around.
There's something in the darkness beyond the circle of lantern-light. And it's staring at him.
"They end here," Huilan says. "I think it might have –"
"Don't move."
The muffled command is swallowed by the thickly-set trees, but behind him, he can feel the three juniors stop moving and hold their breath. They must be watching him, trying to work out what could have spooked him, what he might have seen. But an order is an order. They don't move. And a good thing too, otherwise the yao might have turned its attention onto them.
The shape of the thing becomes a little more distinct even as he stares into its coal-black pits of eyes. It's a tree: a monstrous, deformed spirit-tree with an unfurling mass of leafless, crowded branches like human hands stuck together. They look dead and blackened, as if by the depths of winter. And on the trunk of the tree, carved in bark, a snarling, jagged mouth lets out a vicious creak that breaks the forest hush.
"Is that –" begins one of the other juniors.
"Quiet," Jiang Cheng says.
The yao creaks at him again, twitching its branches and shifting on its roots. This time there's an agonized, pitiful edge to the sound, like a whine of pain. Trying not to attract its attention, Jiang Cheng lifts his index finger and touches his thumb to Zidian where it rests against the second knuckle.
It's never wise to attack something without knowing what kind of damage it can do. His mind is racing: attack with Sandu first, and with Zidian only if there's enough space to manoeuvre between the trees. Protect the juniors. Take the thing down before it can turn on them or lose them in the forest.
The yao attacks without warning. Grasping branches shoot like rapidly growing vines from the densely packed crown-nest of boughs growing from the trunk. In the darkness, Jiang Cheng nearly doesn't dodge in time, but the snapping sound provides enough warning. He spins aside and draws his sword and brings it down on the nearest branch as it ricochets toward Bai Yizhi, whose mouth is still an O of surprise. The branch breaks off. The yao makes a creaking sound like a thousand winter trees bending under the weight of snow. Another branch shoots toward Qiu Huilan. She shrieks and swings her sword up from the ground, knocking it away. The yao-tree immediately swarms through the gap it's made in their ranks, flowing smoothly on its roots, and vanishes in the direction of the ruined temple.
This time the silence is incomplete, having once been broken: they can hear the yao creaking and moaning all the way through the woods. "It's headed for the temple," Jiang Cheng says, sheathing his sword. There's no point trying to fly in pitch darkness. "Yizhi, the lantern. Is everyone all right? Good. Now let's go! Move!"
They run back the way they came, Jiang Cheng in the lead with the lantern swinging and jolting in his hand, the juniors hot on his heels. There's no danger of tripping on anything: the path has been cleared for them by the yao, which digs furrows in the earth by pulling itself along by the roots. They followed the trail for less than thirty minutes before getting attacked, so they can still make it back in time to warn the others – provided no one else has returned early to the ruined temple. It's too late to discuss plans. Liberate, suppress, eliminate – that will have to do. Cultivators are trained to cooperate with each other at the drop of a hat in dangerous situations. And Jiang Cheng only takes the most capable disciples with him to interclan conferences, ones that won't disgrace him as their sect leader. They'll be fine now they've gotten over their surprise.
He holds the lantern up as he runs, checking for furrows and broken branches that would signal the yao's divergence from the path, but its trail doesn't branch off anywhere: it's retracing their footsteps exactly to the temple clearing.
The forest hush is ruptured yet again by the yao's creaking wail, no longer very distant; this time with human shouting mixed into the noise. And beneath that, the faintest ringing of a clarity bell.
It must have come across Jin Ling's hunting party.
He'll be fine, Jiang Cheng chants furiously to himself, even as he starts to run faster. He'll be fine. He'll be fine. He'll be fine.
A red flare explodes in the sky above the canopy, briefly illuminating the forest and throwing mangled shadows onto the earth.
Shit. They're not fine.
If Jin Ling gets hit by that thing, he'd better be ready for the scolding of a lifetime, sect leader or not –
Huilan, out of breath, puffs out something that sounds like, "I see it!"
And it's true: the trees are thinning. They're nearly at the temple clearing. Through a break in the foliage ahead, Jiang Cheng can catch the light-flash of a talisman burning up, a spiritual sword being used, yells and grunts, the sounds of a fight. Then there's a cry – "Jin-zongzhu!" – and another creaking scream from the yao-tree, building almost into a roar: a cacophony of inhuman voices at once too high-pitched and too low-pitched to have been produced by anything earthly. Jiang Cheng bursts into the clearing with Zidian crackling to life in his hand and takes in the scene at a moment's glance.
The yao has a cultivator in Jin robes backed up against the crumbling stone of the temple. Another lantern, knocked over some twenty paces away, combined with the one Jiang Cheng is holding shows the yao's vicious arm-branches shooting toward him like barbed vines, and the cultivator's sword, limned in smoke-trace firelight, hacking them away. Behind him, another Jin cultivator lies senseless in the arms of his companion, who's frantically trying to rouse him with his own clarity bell.
Jiang Cheng's vision goes red.
Jin Ling.
Jin Ling.
The yao is screaming something unintelligible in a horrible fusion of inhuman voices. The cultivator with the sword suddenly cries out in pain: he's been cuffed hard on the temple by one of its branches. He slumps to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
"HEY!"
The yao jerks and turns halfway to the source of the shout. Then it gives a screech of pain as Zidian splits through its topmost branches with a racket like smashed kindling, if kindling were full-grown demonic boughs suddenly cracking and splintering under the force of a spiritual weapon. Zidian slithers out of its reach and back into Jiang Cheng's grip. The yao-tree swarms around in place to face him, opens its jagged black abyss of a mouth and howls, "YOU CUT HER DOWN!"
The moss-hung boughs that are still intact surge forward through the air. Jiang Cheng hauls off and brings Zidian down in another ruthless sword-arc, hewing through the rest of the clover-flower of branches and cleaving nearly into the trunk. Above its redoubled screams, someone shouts across the clearing in a voice crackling with panic: "Jiang-zongzhu! He won't wake up!"
It's Jin Jiongyan, the cultivator who was trying to rouse Jin Ling. She has dragged the senseless Jin Baocui away from the yao to where Jin Ling lies and taken up a defensive position in front of them with her sword upraised. The three of them are still blocked from escape by the massive yao-tree. Not taking his eyes off it, Jiang Cheng signals to his own disciples, who scamper along the edge of the clearing; they'll try to slip past the murderously lashing branches and help the Jins to safety.
"YOU CUT HER DOWN! YOU CUT HER DOWN! YOU CUT HER DOWN! YOU CUT HER DOWN!"
He has no idea what that means, or why he's supposed to care. You hurt Jin Ling, he might have said, if he had any desire to talk to the thing. So now I'm going to kill you. He raises his arm to deliver the fatal yao swarms toward him with an unholy scream, its branches out of commission and hanging broken like dead spider's legs.
Before they can test out whether or not Zidian is capable of holding off a homicidal ten-dan tree, a new sound drifts through the air: the delicate whistle of a bamboo flute.
The yao goes still. Even more surprisingly, Jiang Cheng hesitates mid-swing. Zidian slithers back into dormant loops in the palm of his hand. Across the clearing, the Jiang disciples are helping Jiongyan carry her sect leader and first disciple beneath the forest canopy, as far as possibly from the yao-tree while keeping it in sight. On the other side, Lan Xichen stands holding a xiao to his lips, spiritual energy twining down its length in pale blue streams. The music is beautiful, of course, but it can barely be distinguished from the glaring spiritual command to stop. Behind him, Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui are emerging from the forest, and with them Xia-jicheng and her own two disciples. Wei Wuxian appears last of all, disheveled with twigs in his hair, opening his mouth as if to declare how disappointed he is to have missed all the fun. Then he sees Jin Ling and Jin Baocui lying motionless beneath the trees, and all the blood seems to drain from his face.
"Wo de tian," Sizhui gasps. "Jin Ling!"
There's a general rush across the clearing, and then four cultivators and a demonic patriarch have joined Jiongyan and the Jiang disciples in crowding around the two unconscious people on the ground. Xia-jicheng, sword drawn, stays behind as physical backup for Zewu-jun, who seems to have brought the yao into a sleepy sort of fugue state. Jiang Cheng ducks beneath an outstretched, still-frozen branch and tears across the clearing to his nephew's side.
"Out of my way! Out!"
He nearly knocks two people over before dropping to his knees and taking Jin Ling's face in his hands. It's so pale that his eyes look bruised. Someone is saying to him, "He's alive, Jiang-zongzhu, he's alive, I checked," but he presses two fingers beneath Jin Ling's jaw and nearly wilts with relief when he finds a pulse: weaker than it should be, and irregular. "Jin Ling," he says frantically, bending over his nephew. "Jin up."
People are talking in quick, worried voices all around him: what had happened, what sort of yao this was, has anyone else been struck down in a similar way. Jiongyan explains in a quavering voice that Jin Ling decided their team should stay in the temple clearing to investigate, in case their quarry returned to its place of origin; that it snuck up on them in a moment when everyone was distracted, and in the ensuing fight, struck him precisely in the centre of his chest. Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi are hovering anxiously over their friend, asking, "Wei-qianbei, can you help him? Is he going to be all right?" as Wei Wuxian kneels down next to Jiang Cheng and wordlessly puts a hand over Jin Ling's heart.
If anyone else had dared touch his nephew just then, Jiang Cheng would have snarled something so eviscerating that their diplomatic relations would have been irrevocably broken. But Wei Wuxian knows about spiritual injuries, and he's – he's family. Jiang Cheng lets him shut his eyes to concentrate for about two seconds before demanding, "What's wrong with him? Why won't he wake up?"
"He's been struck in a prime meridian point," Wei Wuxian says quietly, without opening his eyes. "It must have been a lucky hit."
Jiang Cheng gathers his nephew into his arms, cradling his head against his chest as if Jin Ling is a child again and not a young man of twenty. His own voice is humiliatingly unsteady. "What does that mean? What do we do?"
Wei Wuxian's brow scrunches as he focuses on something none of them can see. A hush falls over the little crowd surrounding them.
"Wei Wuxian –"
"Let me through."
A few people jump at the voice, firm and commanding; then the whole company parts to let Lan Xichen stride through to where Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian have knelt by Jin Ling's side. "The yao?" someone asks.
"Incapacitated," Lan Xichen says, kneeling down. "Jiang-zongzhu, if I may."
It's not a question. Jiang Cheng hesitates before leaning forward, allowing him to take Jin Ling's pulse, pull back one of his eyelids, and finally lay a hand on his prime meridian point. Lan Xichen then does the same for Jin Baocui, who manages to open his eyes and squint up at him despite the impressive lump swelling up on his head. "Zewu-jun?" he mumbles.
"It is all right," Lan Xichen tells him. "The yao has been dealt with."
"Jin-zongzhu …"
"Will be fine. Save your strength."
Jin Baocui exhales through his nose, as if in pain, and shuts his eyes.
Jiang Cheng can't stand it anymore. "Zewu-jun!"
Lan Xichen looks at him, then up at their gathered audience. "Jin-gongzi will recover; his injury is not serious. But Jin-zongzhu is in spirit shock. He must be treated immediately, or his meridians will rapidly grow sluggish and deteriorate."
"Sizhui and I can take him back to Cloud Recesses," Lan Jingyi says at once.
Lan Xichen shakes his head. "He requires a careful transfusion of spiritual energy. I trust no one but myself to do this. Sizhui, Jingyi, I need you to take care of the yao. It is all but dead. Burn it, then fill the place it once grew with the ashes. Xia-jicheng, you hold the most senior rank. I trust you will bring everyone back safely once your work is done here."
Xia-jicheng bows, hands folded. "You may rely on me."
He nods to her before turning to Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian. "Jiang-zongzhu, Wei-gongzi, we should return as quickly as possible."
"Can't you treat him here?" Wei Wuxian demands.
"Once he starts absorbing the new energy, he will not be able to be moved. And it may not be safe here." Lan Xichen looks at him steadily. "I give you my word that I will not let him come to harm. Will you trust me?"
Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian exchange a glance. After a moment, Wei Wuxian gives Zewu-jun a nod.
"Then let us not lose another moment." Lan Xichen rises and draws his sword in preparation for flight. "If you carry him, Wei-gongzi can ride with me. The faster we arrive, the sooner he will recuperate. Jin-xiaojie" – to Jiongyan, whose lips are bitten raw with anxiety – "this was not your you see your sect leader again, he will be well. Take care of your first disciple and re-plant the yao's remains. That will be more than enough for a single night. Tomorrow we will tell the villagers that they have nothing left to fear from the woods."
…
Jiang Cheng was expecting the infirmary, but instead, they go to the Hanshi. Lan Xichen pulls the door aside for him to step through with Jin Ling cradled in his arms, Wei Wuxian close on his heels, and shuts it again behind them. At any other time, Jiang Cheng might have gawked around at the room where the First Jade of Lan sequestered himself for three years, mired in grief and guilt, but not tonight. All that matters right now is the raised dais in a secluded back chamber, where Zewu-jun directs him, and on the dais a low bed-pallet with a cylindrical pillow. He lays Jin Ling out on it, careful not to jostle him, and brushes the hair back from his forehead while Wei Wuxian silently busies himself removing the boots from Jin Ling's feet.
Tian ah, Jin Ling. If you get yourself struck down by a common yao, you have no one to blame for it but yourself, you really don't …
And now there's a lump in his throat. Great. Not looking at Wei Wuxian – or at the First Jade of Lan, who must surely be still in the room somewhere – Jiang Cheng smooths down the mattress, surreptitiously trying to swallow back the heat building behind his eyes. It's been ages since he's had to be so worried for his melon-head of a nephew. Wei Wuxian lines up the boots on the edge of the bed-pallet and moves to pull a blanket over Jin Ling, but Lan Xichen stops him with a hand on his wrist.
"It would be better if he were in his innermost layer for this."
Wei Wuxian looks up. "Won't he be cold?"
"Not once the transfusion begins."
After a moment, Wei Wuxian nods, and goes to gently undo the first two layers of robes, just like Jiang Cheng used to do when Jin Ling was little and too tired to do it himself.
Once there's a neat pile of robes on the dais, Zewu-jun kneels down quietly on Jin Ling's other side. Jiang Cheng is carefully taking out the band of beaten, engraved metal holding Jin Ling's hair together, so as not to hurt him; when he's done, he sets it aside and runs his fingers through his nephew's hair, combing it out a little so it can breathe. There's nothing more for them to do now. When he glances up, Lan Xichen is watching him with a pensive expression, as though there's something rare and stirring in the sight of a notorious grouch tending to his nephew.
Jiang Cheng averts his eyes.
Wei Wuxian has knelt, too, but he's fidgeting like he's about two seconds from leaping up to rouse all of Cloud Recesses if it will give him something to do. "What now?"
"Now," Lan Xichen says, shaking his sleeve back, "I will begin the transfusion. I must be careful to replenish this meridian in balance with the others." He lets two fingers hover over Jin Ling's temple and places the other hand over the centre of his chest, where the yao struck him. The shirt beneath is dampened with sweat and transparent enough to show a reddish-purple bruise spreading through the skin. "This may take several hours."
"Do your best, Zewu-jun." Wei Wuxian's tone of command makes it transparent that Zewu-jun will answer to them both if he does not.
Lan Xichen nods, turns back to Jin Ling and shuts his eyes. Spiritual energy begins travelling through his fingers to Jin Ling's temple.
Silence falls.
The bruises beneath Jin Ling's eyes are dark blue against the pallor of his face. Lan Xichen's brow furrows a little in concentration, but otherwise remains serene. Jiang Cheng, who quickly finds that kneeling is extremely unfriendly to his joints, shifts into a cross-legged position and keeps scanning his nephew for signs of improving or deteriorating health. Whatever's going on with his meridians right now, it's completely invisible. The transfusion of spiritual energy actually seems to be having a greater effect on Lan Xichen: shadows grow beneath his eyes as time goes on, making them appear deeper-set than they really are, and his face looks more and more drawn in the shifting lamplight.
Maybe two incense sticks could have burned down before Wei Wuxian, who has been alternately wringing his hands, shifting positions and reaching out to touch Jin Ling's sleeve, finally gets up and starts pacing the Hanshi. His agitation manifests as waves of frustration across the room. Every time he passes Jin Ling's bedside, Zewu-jun frowns a little harder, and the streams of energy flicker, just a bit. Jiang Cheng's fists curl tighter and tighter into his trousers at the knees; until finally he can't stand it any longer and hisses, "Wei Wuxian!"
Wei Wuxian stops and gives him a frantic, despairing look.
"Sit down!"
"I can't!"
Jiang Cheng gestures with an equally frantic expression at where Jin Ling lies unconscious, looking as though a touch could bruise him.
Wei Wuxian grimaces, wrings his hands, then repeats, "I can't." He looks at the door, torn. "… I'll be right outside. All right? I'm not going anywhere, I just –"
He needs to move, or he'll go out of his mind. Jiang Cheng nods; he knows. "Call me the second anything happens. Anything," Wei Wuxian says. Then he's crossing the room and sliding the door shut behind him.
And sure enough, his pacing footsteps come through clearly, but muffled, as though he's begun keeping guard on the Hanshi's porch.
Half a shichen goes by in silence after that. The streams of spiritual energy twining from Lan Xichen's fingers eventually grow pale and shrink, and Jiang Cheng, who has bitten the inside of his cheek bloody, is on the point of interrupting with a question when Lan Xichen abruptly lets a breath gust out and sits back.
Jiang Cheng speaks at once: "His condition doesn't seem to have changed."
Lan Xichen touches three fingertips to his temple, squinting as if to refocus his vision. "I know," he says. "It is a slow process. But I only need a moment." He summons up a wan smile. "It is best to work in intervals, so that my own spiritual energy is not permanently depleted."
"Permanently? Zewu-jun, you – don't overstrain yourself!"
"There is no harm in straining myself a little. Treating spirit shock does no harm to the donor, so long as their spiritual energy is channeled properly."
They're siting less than a handsbreadth apart. Jiang Cheng swallows. "Why did the yao attack those people? It kept saying, 'You cut her down'."
"Her sister-tree from the temple, I suspect. Trees tend to have immensely strong bonds with one another. Perhaps one of the common people wanted firewood and chopped her down, and that was what awoke the yao's spirit in her twin."
"Oh."
"I was sorry to have to put her down. I hope something new grows from the ashes, when Sizhui and Jingyi put them back where she came from."
"You're sorry?" Jiang Cheng gives him a look of disbelief. "I'm sorry I didn't put it down myself."
"But you did not," Lan Xichen says, looking up at him, "because you were worried for Jin-zongzhu. His condition was more important to you than getting revenge. Wasn't it?"
Jiang Cheng looks down at his nephew's sleeping face, his pallor, his tangled hair. The bloody bruise showing through his white shirt has barely begun to fade. "That yao hurt him. And now if anything happens to you, it'll have been responsible for that too."
"Nothing will happen to me. I have the power to help him, so I will help him. Everything else is of secondary concern." Lan Xichen tugs his robes back from his wrist and stretches forward; the fabric whispers against Jiang Cheng's sleeve as he places two fingers at Jin Ling's temple and shuts his eyes again.
Jiang Cheng watches spiritual energy issue once more from his fingertips. Then he looks up at Zewu-jun's face, and behind his own breastbone, feels the blossoming heat of anger.
How could Jin Guangyao have betrayed a man like this?
It could be a trick of the light, but the dark circles under Jin Ling's eyes seem a little fainter. Less like he hasn't slept in three days. His cheeks have more colour, and the awful bloody bruising around his prime meridian point is slowly fading to a mottled yellow-green. Jiang Cheng, desperately frustrated to not know when his nephew is supposed to wake up, clenches his jaw. How could Jin Guangyao have let himself become the kind of person Zewu-jun would kill? He's the kindest, most selfless, most fundamentally decent person in the whole cultivation world. Every time he's forced to choose between doing his duty and doing what is right, he freezes so badly that he makes terrible mistakes. Allowing the Wens to die – killing his own sworn brother – Jiang Cheng isn't kind, or selfless, or fundamentally decent, but he has made the exact same errors. The difference between them is that Lan Xichen will punish himself for years out of guilt and remorse for killing a man who deserved it, while Jiang Cheng digs himself deeper and deeper into the same grave by hunting down anyone even remotely related to his demonic cultivator brother, who grew up with him and protected him and sacrificed everything for his sake –
He scrunches his hands into the fabric at his knees, chest tightening with the effort of suppressing a fresh wave of grief. Then he sees, through an unaccountable blurring of his vision, that Jin Ling's breathing has eased, as if in sleep. The bruising on his chest is all but gone. Now Zewu-jun is the one who looks like he hasn't rested in a week, the planes of his face gone pale and gaunt. The stream of spiritual energy emanating from his fingertips has been reduced to a trickle. Alarmed, Jiang Cheng reaches out and wraps his fingers around Zewu-jun's wrist, where the fishbone-patterned inner sleeve guards him from all but the most deliberate contact. "Zewu-jun! Don't use too much –"
Jin Ling's eyelashes flutter.
"Zewu-jun!"Jiang Cheng redoubles his grip, hardly aware of it. "Look!"
Lan Xichen opens his eyes at once and refocuses on his patient, cataloguing all the changes that have manifested in the past shichen. After a hesitation, he pulls his hand away, and the last trickle of spiritual energy runs out.
Jin Ling opens his eyes.
Jiang Cheng wants to reprimand him immediately, but there's an unaccountable swelling in his throat that won't let him speak. Jin Ling squints up at the roof of the Hanshi, then, blearily, at Lan Xichen, who's kneeling at his bedside. "Zewu-jun?" His voice is hoarse. "What are you …"
Then his gaze falls on Jiang Cheng, and his face lights up. "Jiujiu!"
That look – that expression of relief, a child's relief – it's the same as when he used to toddle down the hallway and shake Jiang Cheng awake after a bad nightmare, and Jiang Cheng, even grumpy and sleep-deprived, would let him climb into bed. "You idiot," Jiang Cheng says thickly. "How could you let that thing get you? What kind of sect leader are you?"
And then he thoroughly embarrasses all three of them by bursting into tears.
…
Wei Wuxian must hear something, because he hurtles inside almost immediately to "help Jin Ling sit up," but mostly so he can take Jin Ling's face in his hands and turn it this way and that, checking for traces of spirit shock. Jin Ling is disgruntled at being treated like an invalid, and by the time Wei Wuxian leads him away, dressed for decency's sake in his second layer of night-hunting robes, he's already demanding to see his injured first disciple and for someone to tell him how the night hunt ended.
Lan Xichen sees them out the door, which tactful gesture gives Jiang Cheng a minute alone in the Hanshi to compose himself. There were not many tears, but they were, alas, very obvious tears.
It's beyond embarrassing.
Then again, it's not like this is the first time Zewu-jun has seen him break down crying.
The transfusion must have taken a lot more time than Jiang Cheng realized, because when Lan Xichen returns, he's followed by the pale, bluish light of dawn. Judging by how long it's been silent outside, Jin Ling and Wei Wuxian are long gone. He must have deliberately waited longer than necessary outside his own doorstep. Jiang Cheng meets him halfway to the entrance and dips into a shallow bow.
"Zewu-jun, please accept my thanks. You saved his life. If you hadn't been there, I don't know what might have happened."
"There is no need for thanks between us," Lan Xichen says gently. "Remember? Or debts. You said so yourself."
"Then accept my apologies." Jiang Cheng straightens, heat creeping up the back of his neck. "I'm sorry you had to see that display. I shouldn't have lost control like that."
"You were afraid for your nephew. It is understandable."
"Still, it's not – admirable, for a sect leader to cry in public."
"Really?" Lan Xichen asks softly. Then, after a pause, he looks down at his boots and says, "I admire you."
He – what?
When Lan Xichen doesn't follow that up with anything, Jiang Cheng's brow creases. It's got to be a lie, sect rules or no sect rules. "Why?" he demands.
"I've seen how protective you are of your family. How committed you are to them."
"Not when it matters."
"What do you mean?"
"My … brother. Wei Wuxian." Jiang Cheng swallows. "I pushed him away. I let him die." His hand drifts to his chest, to the scars of surgery. "I let him …"
But there's nothing he can say that would do it justice, nor adequately explain how wretched it is to know that no matter what he does, no matter how long he lives, he will never, ever be able to look his brother in the eye again without shame.
"You wronged him," Zewu-jun says quietly.
Jiang Cheng lets his gaze fall to the floor. He can't do this.
"But you have made amends."
Jiang Cheng looks up again. Lan Xichen is watching him with such an expression of wistfulness, of open longing, that it's actually a little painful to look at him, as at someone who knows that what they want most in the world will never be theirs. "I am still not convinced that you made any mistakes where Wei-gongzi is concerned," he says. "But if you did, you have atoned for them sevenfold. Things may never be the same between you and your brother, but he is your brother again. Is that not worth everything?" When Jiang Cheng, too shocked to speak, doesn't reply, Lan Xichen goes on passionately: "But that is not the only reason I admire you. After Guanyin Temple, I – I was paralyzed. But you, after Nightless City – you kept going. You rebuilt your sect, you raised your nephew, you shouldered every burden thrust upon you and still had enough strength left over to be furious on your family's behalf. You are a good leader, and a good man. I think your parents would be proud if they could see you now."
Jiang Cheng stares at him, struck quite speechless.
Lan Xichen flushes and looks down, as if to compose himself. "I hope … I am not too forward in saying so."
"You can't know that," Jiang Cheng protests, finally finding his voice. "You can't know any of that."
"Yes, I can."
"How?"
"Because it must be so. If you will not be just with yourself, then I will do it in your stead, and gladly. It pains me that you do not see what an extraordinary sort of person you are."
A skylark warbles just outside the Hanshi. Lan Xichen adds quietly, "I never believed your reputation. That you have ambition I have no doubt, and that you have a temper I have seen for myself. But you have always put your family and your sect above everything else. Your kith and kin are what matter most in the world to you – that is why you defend them so fiercely. And for that, I have always respected you."
Jiang Cheng searches his face for any trace of artifice, of exaggeration, already knowing he won't find any. Lying is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, and Zewu-jun has never been anything but consummately sincere with him. It's almost worse to know that he means it than that he doesn't. "My kith and kin," he repeats after a moment, his throat tight. "That means you, too, you know. You're my kin now, as much as anyone."
And I would defend you.
Lan Xichen smiles. "You honour me." Gracefully, like a sweep of wings, he brings his long-sleeved arms up and folds his hands together in a formal salute. "If I may ever offer assistance … or company … to you or Jin-zongzhu, please do not hesitate to call on me."
Jiang Cheng catches his wrists. "Enough, already. Don't do that." It comes out a lot gruffer than when Zewu-jun does it, but the gesture itself is what matters, right? "Just let us treat you to dinner or something, and we'll call it even."
Lan Xichen's eyes crinkle at the corners, his smile growing singularly bright. "How could I refuse?"
Yes, Jiang Cheng thinks, blinking dazedly. Very bright.
But that might just be the sunlight coming in through the open door of the Hanshi, heralding a cloudless new day.
…
