

Meandering River, Ardent Flame

Vivian Chak

Copyright © 2012 by Vivian Chak

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

1 Lian Flame

2 Lian Jiang

3 Yongtai

4 Li Xiang

5 Know What You Want

6 Bianjing

7 The Teacher

8 Return to Bianjing

9 Paying the Debt

10 Family Leave-Takings

11 Lian and Li

12 Flame

13 Family Li

14 Family Lian

15 Regret

16 Meandering River, Ardent Flame

17 Qing Ming Jie

18 Epilogue

Chapter 1: Lian Flame

Perched precipitously in a gnarled ancient tree, a girl peered into the gloom of the manor. It was nearing daybreak, but the house was silent and its courtyard was filled only with shadows. No one seemed to be around for a hundred li. Ominously, there were dark clouds above and obscuring mist below. Disquieted, the girl made her way from the tree, guided by its thick limbs and bulbous joints. At the bottom, the fog and silence nearly enveloped her. In a few steps, she could see the courtyard, but still no familiar faces. Stricken by the thought, she stopped moving. Where was everyone?

Maybe it's Qing Ming Jie; Tomb Sweeping Day, she thought, and everyone has taken the day off to visit their ancestor's graves.

The fog wasn't so right for the season, but spring had been late in coming this year. And she was in the north, so Flame attributed the cold weather to that. She moved quickly through the courtyard. A delivery of silk, stacked in cornered cart, awaited her father. Gardener Sun's spade sat in another corner, though the gardener himself was absent. Familiar surroundings told her she was home, but the suspicious silence made her want to believe otherwise.

The sound of something smashing—Ma's china—drew her attention to the central quarters of the house. Suddenly, she was there, and with a nauseous feeling, realized what day it was—her sister's wedding day, which was infinitely worse than Tomb Sweeping Day. She had the strange urge to laugh, even though it wasn't funny.

Before her, a strange tableau played out—three strangers were ransacking the hall—what right did they have to do so?—ripping apart the family shrine, slitting her mother's embroidered pillows, and tearing her father's calligraphy from the wall.

"Take care with that," one of them growled at the man tearing at a hanging scroll. It was one her father had written and illustrated with a river dragon. He then whirled and barked at another who had smashed a second piece of her mother's china with the end of his scabbard. "That's half your salary there." Despite the man's seemingly respectful efforts at preservation, Flame knew it to be based in his greed for loot, and hated him immediately. His deerskin boots were coated with a suspicious red tinge, and Flame found his scowl particularly hateful as he continually growled from beneath over-sized whiskers. The chastised man straightened his sword and tucked his hands in his robe sleeves. A thud made Flame turn. Several ledgers had been thrown at the barking man's feet with a triumphant smack. "It's all there," the third man said, his yellow teeth exposed in a wolfish grin.

What's there?

But before Flame could find out, a dread seized her, the room whirled, and she found herself hugging her mother tightly.

"No, Ma!"

Through a haze of tears and gloomy moonlight, she could see her mother's normally beautiful face drawn in distress.

"You can't stay. Are you a good daughter? Yes? Then listen to Ma: leave the house—" at this point, Flame gave a muffled sob of protest in her mother's arm "—leave the house and find your elder sister, okay? Leave home—" Flame, with sobs having stopped, shook her head wildly.

"Can there be intact eggs under an overturned nest?"

Flame thought her mother looked angry, though in the dark room she couldn't be sure.

"There should be. Where did you learn such sayings from, Elder Sister? The Lian family is not going to end with your Ba. Nor with me." At this, Flame naturally clutched harder. Her mother sighed and tried to run her fingers through Flame's tangled hair. "Being a good daughter—you agree that's right?" Flame nodded, not looking up, until she felt her mother's hand gently lift her chin. "Leave the house and find your elder sister. Remember the family. The family first. Ma and Ba love you." Flame felt a last embrace, then a push and urgent hiss: "Leave!" The sound of wind-chimes filled the air.

Instantly, the stairs filled with the sound of padding steps, and the wooden door was shoved open. A black winged hat, underscored by black brows, swept under the door frame to appear above it. Flame's first impression was that a large crow had entered the room. The wolfish man from downstairs appeared beside him. Though Flame had never seen the first man before, she knew him to be Magistrate Li. His dark eyes danced in the lantern flame as they met hers an instant before her mother's.

"You found her."

Though the tone was sardonically satisfied, his face was steely. Flame watched half-fascinatedly as Li's trailing moustache and beard both stayed still, as if independent of the man speaking.

"Better I than you." Though Lady Lian was smaller than Li, who was already very tall, she stood firmly between her daughter and the judge. Flame watched them both fearfully.

"The amends come late, as does the bride."

It seemed as if Magistrate Li had mistaken Flame for her sister.

"She remains unfound." But Li ignored her mother.

"Family Lian has been condemned," he continued, filling the doorway as he walked closer, robes silent and black wings flapping. Lady Lian remained silent.

"Good, I see you'll not protest charges. Now, under normal circumstances, I suppose you belong with your father and brother, given that Lian's widowed you—" Lady Lian jerked her head in silent disagreement "—but given that you've taken his family name in some act of abnormality, and won't be separated from his family—"

"—our family," gritted Flame's mother, as her hands shook through her sleeves. Li stepped back a pace, blocking the door, while Flame watched with growing panic as her mother advanced on the tall judge, who struggled to draw his sword in the doorway. A cohort of Li's men were behind him, but unable to enter, blocked by his figure.

"Captain!" cut Li's voice. The man with the bloody boots moved forwards, outstretched hands with grimy nails to suit his bestial looks—but Lady Lian shoved a wooden stool in his shins, aiming for his eyes as he tripped forwards. Her fingers found only air; now the man was moving towards Flame, and she changed direction to throw herself between them.

Li drew his sword.

It was in the newest pattern with horned guard and paw-shaped pommel. The blade, forged from repeatedly hammered steel appeared streaked with waves. Its steel edge was finely honed, and seemed to be directing rivulets of water, flowing in the trembling light of lantern fire.

Flame's mother had her back to her, arms stretched protectively on either side of her daughter. Wrapping the pair from behind were two earthen walls. Outside, the wind chimes continued their urgent cacophony.

"I am a magistrate, not an executioner."

The lack of expression in his face was anything but threatening; nonetheless, Flame was terrified. The sword was all she saw as the judge advanced, black hat flapping like a crow. That boded ill. Crows were notorious for picking at the dead, her sister had informed her once. Flame had been disgusted with them ever since, even though her sister had immediately added that most of them preferred to eat by stealing.

"Let my daughter go," Lady Lian spoke, hands shaking slightly.

"You know what lianzuo implies." Li's face remained impassive, even as his speech sharpened. "The whole Family Lian is condemned for what Prefect Lian has done."

"He has done nothing. And no just judge has ever interpreted lianzuo to mean the deaths of the women of their family."

Magistrate Li suddenly scowled. He pointed his blade at Lady Lian.

"Prefect Lian promised the hand of his eldest daughter, the only heir of his land, to my son. He reneged on that promise; even had the audacity to say he 'lost' her—"

"—Lian had no intention of making you lose face—"

"Too late for that!"

The magistrate's words curled into a snarl beneath his blade-sharp nose, and suddenly it seemed as if his nose had become a blade. The sword appeared to fill his face as he brought it forward to stop beneath the chin of Flame's mother.

"I am not one to threaten women with force. But justice calls."

"Justice?" Flame thought her mother looked incredulous. The word seemed to echo hollowly.

"I have the ledgers," replied Li sternly. "Every transaction down to mere coppers. And I will have every Lian, down to the youngest member, pay for that!"

He's rambling, and it doesn't make sense, thought Flame as she watched the judge's expression flicker animatedly, though it still looked unnaturally dead. Everything doesn't make sense.

As if to confirm the thought, Flame suddenly felt claustrophobic, as if the corner was squeezing her. Then she realized that it was. Somehow, she'd moved even further into the corner during the conversation. The room had filled with more constables in that time. Lantern smoke hazed the air, obscuring the candle flame, and it appeared as if the dividing screen in the room was trembling. When she looked up, the sword was pointed at her.

Flame could see the tiny rivers in the hardened steel—her death. The fire of the lantern flickered off the sword, and it seemed as if the watery blade was rippling and drowning the lantern flames reflected in it, as the judge turned his wrist. "Lady Hua, daughter Lian, both of you come." The steel river remained aimed at Flame. Lady Lian's fingers gripped her red robes forcefully, and her voice trembled only slightly. "I am a Lian."

Li acquiesced with a dip of his head, winged hat flapping. "Lian, then. A suitable name for a family that clings to each other so tightly, sharing death."

Lady Lian charged the lantern bearer. The red beizi worn for her eldest daughter's wedding tripped her, but she clutched at the lantern pole as she fell. Li grabbed at her arm, as did the hateful wolfish captain, though Lady Lian managed to swing the lantern at the judge's face before crumpling.

Bleeding, Flame knew, as she ran at Li, though she had seen no blade, and no stain on the red robe. But that was because it was red. It was also the only colour she saw as she grabbed at the judge's sword arm, yelling for him to stop. The words didn't seem to leave her mouth properly.

Smoke and flame filled the air as fallen fire consumed both lantern and ledgers. Flame could see blood now—red crimson trickling down her sight, adding its own rivers to those of Li's blade, and a pool staining the floor around her—

"Ma!" Flame collapsed near her mother, tears washing out the entire room. "Go," chided Lady Lian, patting Flame's hand with affectionate finality. "Remember your family."

Flame stood up unsteadily. The flapping hat loomed above her.

"You terrible, terrible man!" screamed Flame, with all the articulate fury of her ten years. The magistrate actually looked surprised, breaking his otherwise inhuman appearance, as Flame heaved a burning book at him. It missed, and hit a bed instead.

Flame was empty-handed and helpless. Powerless. The feeling made her want to despair.

Then the covers, the bed itself; followed by the wall trappings all flamed. And Flame saw red. The floor flooded vermilion, the blade's rivers were streaked in fiery red streams; yet there was no water to quench the fire. And the wooden furniture crackled as it blackened. Flame sank to her knees and keeled over.

...can't bury a body in red...who wants to fetch...tradition implies that such improper burial will foster ghosts...

Was she thinking all of this? Flame couldn't distinguish between the voices outside her head and those inside it. She hoped they hadn't been washed out along with her blood. Straw mats stretched out before her. The crimson flames licked them. The room divider screen fluttered, and crows descended, wings flapping madly.

Suddenly she found herself high up, impossibly high, in the ancient tree she'd climbed down from. She was still lying in the same position. Around and below her rose the mist, rendering everything unclear. The treetop crackled and burned with ardent flame as the mist encroached the lower limbs of the tree. Flame could still see her mother, robed in red, and the shocked face of Magistrate Li. It was all his fault, and he will pay.

Wind chimes rang all around her, in mournful pentatonic melody. Crows cawed, dogs barked; wolves howled. And she knew, because she had been powerless to stop Li, that her mother was a ghost.

***

Seventeen year-old Flame woke abruptly, shifting on her straw mat. It's Qing Ming Jie, without a doubt. Every year around this time, Flame would have the same dreams. Sometimes they'd come on other days too. Waking from them always left her with the strange sensation that she'd left her body for another, and that the one she'd returned to was not her own.

The book had felt heavy. Flame shook her hands. In her dream, they'd felt as heavy as if they'd been in pudding. The flames hadn't felt hot either. There was dust everywhere, and her mother had told her not to forget...

But it wasn't dust, was it? Flame doubted there was anything to dust; she'd never even seen her parents' graves. The thought filled her with sadness. She looked around the dark sleeping room at the empty spots where Jade, who taught her staff, and Yue, who wasn't as helpful but gave her tea, usually slept. They were both gone, as were most of the other girls. Even though Flame found conversation with them rather superficial and devoid of use, she might have talked to one of them now, if they'd been present. But all of them had gone home to pay their respects at the ancestral graves, and then picnic in their ancestors' honour.

No, there was something else she was supposed to remember, and she couldn't remember it. She shook out her sleeping mat vigorously, Magistrate Li's unnatural face still in her mind. An owl hooted, and Flame wondered if it was eating the buns set out early to cool. But owls didn't eat human food, Flame recalled. Crows did. They ate whatever they saw people enjoying; sometimes they would even attack people for food. Unconsciously, her mind wandered to her mother, who had always set aside funds for the sweet buns Flame loved.

The thoughts made Flame feel more and more melancholy. They were also meandering. The sword, with its watery hammered steel layers came to mind. She decided to find her elder sister. Maybe her sister would know what their mother had wanted her to remember.
Chapter 2: Lian Jiang

The horizon was still dark. The gong, though it struck early in the morning, had yet to be rung. Neither had the wooden boards, which precluded it, been clapped. Nineteen-year old Jiang noticed her ma bu . She looked down. Her knees were now past the prescribed approximate ninety degrees and she noted critically that her feet had began turning outwards. Jiang often started out with her feet parallel, but after some time, they began to splay out as she began to lose control of her legs.

There was padding in the hall near her novice's cell. Jiang could hear it through the entrance. She stared rigidly at the earthen wall in front of her, attempting to ignore the noise. But the shuffling came closer. Jiang tore her gaze from a particularly odd dab of earth on the wall. Her writing desk, a wooden slat on two blocks, sat low in the entranceway, where she'd moved it for space to exercise. She glanced anxiously at the hall. Hopefully, no one would be entering and tripping over it. Her mind went over the Diamond Sutra, and she wondered if they would chant it this morning. Perhaps they would chant parts from one of the Platform Sutras. She thought of the one of the Sixth Patriach and fixed her stance. Self-cultivation of the body is virtue, she thought, as a toe threatened to cramp.

An abrupt thump and Flame tripped through the entrance, lamp in hand.

"That wasn't there before."

Jiang felt her chi even before she relaxed her core slightly to speak. The muscles of her calf threatened to lock. Her younger sister placed the lamp on the desk and looked at her.

"My apologies," Jiang murmured.

Her calf cramped.

Lips pursed slightly, and taking care not to show a grimace, Jiang retracted her stance carefully. It had almost been an hour, anyhow. In the future, perhaps, she would achieve an hour.

"I dreamed things again," said Flame, straight to the point, "and Ma was telling me to remember something."

"Was it to live virtuously?" Flame shook her head.

"It was an idea."

"Related to family, then? Though one likely dreams of more fanciful things."

Flame brightened. "Remember to keep family honour!"

Jiang knotted her brows. "That doesn't sound like Ma." Their mother had went against her family to marry their father.

"I'm sure it was," protested Flame, looking upset. "Li taunted us with our family name."

Jiang was confused."Why would Magistrate Li do that?"

"It was in my dream," said Flame, growing increasingly more impatient.

"And what else occurred in this dream?"

"Li murdered Ma with a steel sword and tried to murder me too," said Flame. "He said that Ba had done something and he could prove it, and that Ba broke his promise besides. There was supposed to be your wedding and everything, and you weren't there—" Jiang automatically felt guilty—"and neither was Ba, and no one else was there, only Li, his dogs and crows and wolves besides. I threw a book at Li, but it was no good and there was blood everywhere and our house was burned on your wedding day."

Jiang's leg locked. Trying not to let it show, she slowly knelt in front of her desk. Her sister didn't seem to notice. Surreptitiously, she massaged the offending calf behind her back.

"I hate Li! I hope his generation dies out," Flame finished, as she sat down on a mat by the desk. Jiang winced internally. Her sister was never reluctant to speak her mind, so Jiang should have been used to it, but generational elimination was extreme.

"I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"Well, I would. If he knew what it felt like..."

Jiang watched silently as Flame trailed off. This line of thought couldn't go anywhere. Killing only brought more death, not life. Staying here in the monastery, far from the magistrate's home county and isolated among mountains, was life. If Magistrate Li even knew about them, surely he would have to leave them be. They would take their vows and sever all familial ties, so lianzuo wouldn't hold.

"It's safe within the monastery," said Jiang, trying to reassure. "In all likelihood, Magistrate Li has forgotten us."

"Forgotten you, most like. Just like you're forgetting him."

Jiang recognized the anger building as her sister began to make less sense. She watched as Flame pulled her knees up and hugged them tightly.

"I won't forget. Ever. If it weren't for him, we wouldn't have to be in a monastery. Everything is his fault!" Tears trickled weakly from her eyes. Jiang averted her own eyes and searched for a handkerchief. Procuring one, she handed it over silently and moved to sit beside her sister.

"Aren't you able to forget him? When you forget him and forgo your hatred, you may come several steps at once closer to...closure." Jiang would have said nirvana, but she presumed that secularism would appeal more to her sister's practical nature. She might have also suggested forgiveness; however as it stood, her sister was more likely to offer the magistrate a slap than forgiveness.

"I won't forget," repeated Flame, as if to confirm her thoughts. "Ma won't let me forget. Neither will Pa. Remember family, they say."

"They're dreams," said Jiang gently. "I dream too."

Flame looked up sharply. "Of Ma and Pa?"

That, and more, thought Jiang, but she didn't answer.

"I dream of them all the time. Of how Ma died. Sometimes of Pa too, even though I wasn't there. I can never do anything for them, though I always try." Flame blew into the handkerchief. "Ma dies, Pa dies, and they tell me to be a dutiful daughter. Or something. Then expressionless Li shows up, ordering things and waving a sword, and I wonder how I could make him die." Jiang winced visibly. She wondered how they had transitioned from family honour to killing the magistrate.

"Won't you forgive him as I have?" Jiang could no longer hold back her consternation; the words escaped her mouth even as her mind told her it was useless. Flame flared.

"I can't! I can't forgive him if I can't forget! Almost every week I dream of how he slashed Ma, demanded Ba's head, and slandered our family in public, all while threatening me in his bloody judge's robes! Sometimes he even bothers me during meditation!" Flame drew an angry breath.

"You might forgive him, but it's easy to forgive what you've forgotten, and it's even easier to forget what you didn't see!"

Jiang wished that were true, but she said nothing. Her eyes suddenly wanted rubbing and blurred. She stared fixedly for a few seconds at the ceiling until her impulse to rub them had passed. The beams were locked by square pegs, appreciated Jiang, transferring their weight straight down the walls without disturbing them and to the ground. This transfer helped keep the walls in place as well, although the role of the beams in this wasn't evident to the casual observer. Jiang admired the inconspicuousness of such a vital support. Her eyes cleared slowly. Flame was too absorbed in her rant to notice.

"He always has his watery steel sword, and I only get a burning book or something. Then he kills Ma the way he did for real, and I'm always powerless to touch him, the way it was then. I always regret that."

Regret. Jiang had to squint at the ceiling. Some of the wooden locks were ornately carved with swirls that looked like water or clouds. Jiang stared silently for a few more moments as Flame expounded on how if Li died, everything would be fine and their parents would leave her sleep alone.

"Flame, please. It's much better to look forwards than back," said Jiang as her sister finished. The words felt strangely hypocritical, but she pushed back the feeling momentarily. She stood up. "I'll sit next to you during meditation, is that fine? Maybe you'll feel better."

Flame got up wringing the wet handkerchief, and asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Mmm. Not really." Jiang directed the handkerchief back as Flame held it out. "You may keep it. It's Ma's."

"Thank you, Elder Sister." Flame left, taking her ghosts with her.

After her sister left, Jiang recalled another time after arguing with Flame, when she'd asked her father about their names.

"Why are Flame and me opposites?" Her father looked up from his accounts, piles of paper threatening to engulf him.

"What do you mean?," he asked, looking intently at her as she rubbed her eyes and sniffed heavily.

"Flame is named for fire. I'm named River, a bunch of water."

"A body of water, you mean. Have you been arguing with meimei again?" When Jiang nodded tremulously, her father sighed and waved for her to sit down.

"Auntie May next door is always saying we're meant to argue because of our names," said Jiang, curling her feet on the mat. Her father looked amused.

"If I believed things like that, I wouldn't have married your Ma. My family name used to mean horse. Your Ma's meant flower. Does that mean I would have trampled your mother?" Jiang smiled at that. Her father continued, "Your grandmother insisted on the names. I think it was her idea of revenge."

Jiang remembered how her father had left his family for her mother, and taken a new family name in the process. Her grandmother still refused to visit, and her father periodically recounted that Grandma had ordered all of his brothers to hold a funeral for him, the eldest.

"But they're not bad names. And if you'll recall, water begets wood, which feeds fire. So you can think of yourself as your sister's enabler. When your Ba's gone—" Jiang noised in protest.

"Now! That's part of life. But when I'm gone, and if you still haven't married—"

"I'm never getting married. I'm staying right here with you and Ma."

Her father sighed in mock exasperation.

"We should have given you a proper girl's name." He hung up his ink brush. "When we've left, you and Flame are looking after one another. You're Family Lian, always together, right?" When Jiang nodded, her father affectionately patted her head. "Good. Now go find your mei and both of you make up. The elder sister should care for the younger."

Jiang didn't know why she was thinking of all this. Maybe because she was tired. Attempting to comfort her sister always made her feel burned out. But then again, she couldn't blame her sister. Restoring her desk to its place, she tried to push the thoughts from her head. Two more months and she might be a nun, which would mean truly cutting off all ties to her previous life. Her eyes felt itchy.
Chapter 3: Yongtai

Several days later, after Flame had gone through breakfast preceded by morning chants, the novices from closer villages returned. Flame heard them chatting animatedly about Qing Ming Jie.

"I only had to visit two grandparents," said one.

"You're fortunate. I paid my respects to no less than twenty-five ancestors," said another, clearly from the larger family, with so many graves and shrines to visit.

"I didn't see any," piped another. "I don't have parents."

Everyone stared.

Flame happened upon the scene. "Neither do I. It's not a sin, you know." She couldn't explain why she'd spoken, but she felt it was right to do, for the poor novice surrounded by disapproving looks.

"We all know that," said one of the recent arrivals whom Flame had taken to disliking right away. "But running from the magistrate is. You shouldn't even be here. Everyone knows your sister ran here to escape a marriage, and your father had to pay for it." Most of the novices watched, faces flatly polite, but Flame knew they all agreed. Even the young novice looked at her seriously.

Flame clenched her fists. "At least my elder sister's not married to some old fishmonger." She knew this was the truth for some of the girls' sisters. But the words had little impact.

"Why would anyone ever want to run from marriage into Family Li?" continued the girl. "They're rich, they have land, and a son who's passed his imperial exams and will follow his father into government service. Truly, your sister must have been blind, even before she started reading all those books."

For the umpteenth time, Flame wondered why everyone knew that her sister read so much. She got her answer. Jiang stepped from the library into the courtyard with a stack of books tied together. Flame noticed that this didn't keep her from reading the top one, as it was without a cover.

"Hey, scholar! Tell your younger sister here that I'm right!" shouted the girl. Some of the bolder ones tittered in their sleeves. Jiang looked up absently. "Whatever the question was, there are always two opposite answers. I have confidence that you will resolve it without my opinion. Excuse me, I need to transport these books." She walked into the opposite building.

Into her head, most like, thought Flame, somewhat annoyed at her sister's failure to help her. She turned squarely back to the girl. "You're wrong. Family Li isn't rich at all." She remembered all the times the magistrate would turn up in their village and rent a palanquin since he didn't own one. Horses too, sometimes.

The girl snorted. "Do you walk with your eyes shut and your ears closed? Everyone knows that Family Li owns tens of hundreds of li all along the Yellow River!"

Flame had no idea when that had happened, but she had been at the monastery for seven years, and this girl had arrived last month. Thus she conceded grudgingly to herself that there was the slightest possibility that this wasn't a lie to spite her. And anyway, she was going to be late for morning duties in the garden, which she enjoyed. She shrugged and gave her blankest polite look. The girl gave a huff.

"You'd better run along before you're late. Better yet, maybe you should run somewhere further where Magistrate Li won't find you, yes?"

Flame stalked away, fuming. Li had an unfortunate way of being brought up everywhere. Speak of Cao Cao, and Cao Cao will come, was the idiom that sprang to mind, even though Flame was fairly confident that Li wasn't going to be showing up physically at that instant like the wily general. The magistrate was, however, coming into a lot of conversations, starting from when she'd mentioned him a mere few days earlier to her sister.

She arrived in the garden, on time. Sister Ma was there to meet her.

"Sister Ma," greeted Flame, bowing. The nun nodded. "Good morning, Flame. You'll be mushroom-picking today. Or rather finding them. It's rather early to be pulling them out, but I will be showing you how to find them so that you can pick them later."

It had been seven years, but Flame had never gone mushroom-picking before. She wondered if Sister Ma had known about her altercation with that girl. As if to support her thoughts, Sister Ma added:

"It will be good for you to leave the walls for a while, to learn some self-sufficiency. Mushroom-picking is a useful skill."

That caught Flame's interest. She wondered vaguely if she could eat some while picking. They only ate twice daily at the monastery, and never after noon, as per the Ten Precepts that applied even to novices.

"Don't eat any before you check with me," Flame was warned, as Sister Ma handed her a straw basket and ushered her from the garden. "I'll meet you in a few moments in the large grove you'll find by following the main path south until it crosses the river and branches off about forty paces east. No problems?" Flame shook her head. She thought she remembered it all, though the nun had been a bit long-winded.

"Good. See you again later." Sister Ma sprang lightly to the garden. Flame thought she might have been fifty, but the lack of grey hair—indeed, any hair, as the nuns were all shaved bald—made it hard to tell. Flame was rather bad at guessing ages. She left the monastery through the front gate and followed the bent path that curved sharply from the entranceway to the river.

***

Jiang knelt and placed the bundled books on the table. She'd gone through several buildings, a side corridor, and seen a dozen earthen walls and floors before she reached the classroom set some twenty paces from the main monastery grounds. Sister An was already teaching her class of girls to read basic Chinese characters. She stopped when she heard Jiang edging out somewhat guiltily along the packed mud walls of the room.

"An laoshi," greeted Jiang deferentially with a bow. Sister An had been her teacher once, when she'd been as young as the girls in the class. Jiang knew most of the girls present, like Liang, the smallest who often begged to climb on her back when she practised stance, and Mei who always asked for her buns. She spotted Huan and Chuntao, the two inseparables from Hebei region who both had a penchant for fruits. Jiang was frequently trying to find them some whenever she went to buy offerings. Qiuyue, from warmer areas south of Hebei, was sniffling in the back. She was often afflicted with some internal imbalance of yin every spring. Or at least it seemed so. Qiuyue constantly wiped her nose on her sleeves. Jiang felt sorry that Qiuyue inadvertently repulsed the other girls in that way. She made a habit of procuring handkerchiefs around Qiuyue, and sometimes offered her one, but the little girl would use them graciously and then return to her sleeves.

"You're late as ever," returned Sister An. She turned to the girls. "Children, isn't it written, 'By punctuality and knowledge, root out your darts of sin?'" Jiang recognized the excerpt from the translated Fanyu, the texts brought by Hsuan-tseng from India. Qiuyue and all the rest most likely didn't. They were staring at Sister An. Jiang shuffled one foot in the dirt slightly with the hope that Sister An would notice and give her a dismissal. Her former teacher turned.

"Jiang, you might think yourself to be knowledgeable, but without punctuality, you won't ever be attaining nirvana." She returned to address Qiuyue and the rest. "Jiang has given us an example of how not to act." She dismissed Jiang with a wave. Jiang bowed and left, feeling uncomfortable at the admonishment. Example of how not to act? Before she could be late for anything else, Jiang hurried from the earth walls for the carved pillars of the cloisters.

***

Flame was not very good with directions. Or maybe others weren't good at giving her directions, because she still hadn't found the grove yet. The river ran strongly over smoothed stones, but the trees were still densely packed. The forest smelled wet, and Flame hoped that it wouldn't rain as she continued to search for the trail that Sister Ma had said would reach the grove. It intersected the main road to the monastery further up beyond the river, but Flame decided that it was faster to just cross the water. There was a lot of wood lying around with which one could prop a makeshift bridge across the stones at the river's narrow points.

It would have been faster to follow the main path, thought Flame. But then she had been too distracted to remember how many paces. She stopped abruptly when she realized that she'd been trying to follow the diagonal of the path Sister Ma had recommended. It would be a different number of paces, she realized. Dejectedly, she stared at the darkening sky, trees surrounding her. It's all that girl's fault. If she hadn't brought up Li...

Flame didn't even know her name, or those of the other girls following her, but she resolved to find out. Maybe Li sent them to find me and make me miserable, she thought. Knowing the names wouldn't hurt—if they were from her hometown, perhaps that would confirm that they were Li's cohorts. It would be like him to send out such a gaggle to recognize her. Stories had flown when she was young about how Li had sent a suspected thief's dogs to root him out. And that they'd savaged the unfortunate man to pieces. People said that Li had judged it well-deserved, reasoning that only an ill-willed man would keep such ill-bred dogs. Not long after, rumours had flown that the dogs had actually belonged to Li, and—the sound of neighing interrupted her thoughts.

Flame looked up to see the grove trail she'd been searching for in front of her eyes. A horse caught her eye, but the man riding the horse held it. A scruffy band of four men were surrounding him in an ominous, wolf-like fashion.

"Spare some change," said the tallest, a grey-bearded man who looked to be their leader. "Or maybe that horse." The other two pressed on either side of the rider. Flame noted that his clean-shaven face was undisturbed. One hand clasped the reins, and the other the grip of a sword.

"Rich kid like you won't need that," jeered one of the men on the side. He had a wild, animal look, and his topknot was messy, leaving strands of his long hair to mingle with his equally messy beard. When he reached for the sword, dirty nails like claws, the horse reared back, flailing hooves narrowly missing him.

"You're a dead man, aristocrat!" growled the man. He drew a dao, curved edge flashing sharply, though the blunted reverse side was speckled with rust.

The greybeard blocked his advance with a pole. "He doesn't mean that, do you?" He turned from the angry man to the rider. "Just hand over your items of worth; you can always get more, living off the backs of others as you rich men do." The rider remained motionless. "Or your parents will have one less son."

"They'll have one less anyway," sneered the man with the dao. "I want myself some new silk clothes and that nice blade that rich boy here probably can't even use. His parents can always burn him some paper ones after I've done him in."

The blade was noiseless as the silent rider drew it smoothly from the scabbard and spurred his horse at the jeering man. He thrust the point at the man's wrist. The other spun his weapon up, blade intent on a whirling slice. Flame watched the swordsman reverse his wrist to cut upwards. The point nicked the other man's chin. The dao caught the stirrup strap and delivered a shallow slice to the rider's leg. Grinning, the man threw himself forwards a third time to repeat the slice. But the sword, moving in a straight line, was faster as it twisted forwards and buried its point in the man's throat.

His eyes caught Flame's as he fell. And Flame saw red pool the path and stain wood as he tried and failed to breathe. Disgusted, she turned to leave, but a fourth man blocked her path. This one held a staff, and while his hair was properly knotted, he smelled of wet dog. He stared for a second at Flame, standing amidst freshly budding trees and dried river stones.

"There's a girl here!" he hollered, advancing on her. Flame froze. She backed up the incline between the river and the trail, positioning herself near two trees, stepping carefully over their roots.

"Well if there's no one else around, maybe we'll just keep her!" returned the greybeard, staff end pointed protectively before himself. He edged cautiously from the trail to join the fourth man, trees on either side. The horse shuffled nervously, reluctant to follow onto uneven ground. The third man used the opportunity to return to the older man's side, throwing the rider a look near filthy as he was.

And then the three converged on Flame. Surprisingly, the man dismounted.

"Young man, you must either be very daft," addressed the greybeard, "or this must be your younger sister."

He paused to appraise Flame's plain clothes and sun-darkened face.

"Daft then. What kind of rich man runs to save peasants?"

The fourth man, sensing opportunity, hollered, "put down that sword, or the young girl here gets it!" He moved towards Flame, holding his staff single-handed as he reached to grab her with both arms. Flame wished that she wasn't in this spot right now and silently cursed Li for distracting her from Sister Ma's directions. Whenever Li got into her thoughts, it was never good for her. Glancing at the two trees flanking her, she decided it was the best place to stand. They'd impede his staff. She tucked her elbows in protectively. To the man, it appeared to be a shrinking movement of fear, and he leapt forward, arms outstretched.

She was within his guard, Flame realized instinctively, as his arms began to encircle her. Viciously, she struck the man in the chin with her right elbow, left hand wrenching him closer as he reeled, and kicked him in the groin. Drawing her hip forward and arms closely after, she thrust an uppercut beneath his jaw and into his throat as he crumpled downwards from the kick. Flame hadn't anticipated his weight as he fell, but she quickly changed to a crouch and grabbed his staff from where it fell. A final kick to the head sent him tumbling, but she soon followed. A misstep onto a root sent her rolling down the incline, staff in both hands. Breathing hard, hands shaking from undirected chi, Flame looked back up to where the man still groaned beneath two trees. He'd get up soon, or so she'd been warned by Jade who'd taught her kicking. The older girl had employed this tactic many times when bothered by drunken men, or so she'd said. Jade would have also said that this was the best time to leave.

The silent swordsman, having dismounted, appeared at the top of the incline, advancing on the dirt-faced man wielding an old-style Tang sword. The hilt was a lot smaller, and it was single-edged. Nonetheless, the man dove forwards with it, thinking to disarm his opponent first. The swordsman, still quite expressionless, flicked his wrist up, and began to spin the sword in double-loop pattern as he advanced. The low morning sun danced on the gleaming blade. The man backed up, daunted, Flame thought, but then he thrust low at the swordsman's feet. The swordsman leapt back, brushing his cut leg on a bush in the process. Angled light from the blade lit his suddenly pained face. He sunk onto one knee as his two opponents converged on him.

Flame thought this horribly unfair, and she found herself at the top of the incline, open trail and space around her, staff aimed for the base of the sword bandit's skull. He saw her coming and whirled on her, sword poised to threaten.

"Little ladies shouldn't play with large sticks," he taunted, as he knocked the staff aside. His sword failed to cut through it, however, and instead left a deep cut in the wood.

"Swordsmen shouldn't threaten women." Flame turned to see the previously mute swordsman thrust his blade forwards into the bandit's chest, point exiting through the back. Then she felt a painful thwack to her cheek, and she nearly fell over. It was the old bearded man.

"Didn't want to ruin your face, but stop your meddling. This is not your business," growled the man, gripping his staff double-handed to strike again. Flame advanced, toes gripping the ground through her shoes, stance solid, staff tip circling to find a weak point.

"Know your staff, do you?," the man brought out, sounding amused. "What are you, some nun from the monastery up there or something? Let's see."

The bearded man flung his staff in a sideways swipe at her head. Swinging up by the reverse end, Flame's staff met his, even as she spun backwards. The wooden staves cracked together. Flame flung the staff at his feet. With wrists turned outwards, her right hand directed the staff end and her left found her shoulder, as she angled to sweep out his ankles. But the man parried. Her staff found a tree instead, and the cut section splintered off. Undaunted by her miss, Flame reversed the staff and flung its intact end at the man's exposed side. He dropped his elbows to catch it, surprising Flame who had never seen the move, but he had underestimated her speed. Though the staff lost some momentum, the impact still knocked the air from him. Flame knew it from the sound he made. She delivered another swipe to his opposite side. His staff rose to counter, though by now he was winded and slow. Nonetheless, he managed to move backwards, and Flame's shortened stave merely scraped his wrist.

"Not bad," he grunted. "But here's something you haven't seen before." He dropped the staff and grabbed the dao from his fallen companion. The other staffed man, recovered from Flame's hasty kick, appeared on her other side. Face set grimly, the bearded man swung the steel at her head.

Though the dao wasn't as long as the staff, Flame panicked as she tried to figure out how to block it without getting her weapon cut to bits. She moved backwards stiffly.

Unexpectedly the swordsman was back, sword thrust at the face of the staff bandit who'd dragged her into the whole incident. The bandit moved back in panic. His staff moved up to block, but the swordsman merely retracted and stabbed at a new target, the metal blade scraping wood as the bandit moved his stave downwards too slowly. The thrust was fatal.

Then the sword blade whirled, trailing droplets of blood as it was deftly jabbed into the bearded man's hand. The dao dropped. Flame jabbed for the man's throat, intact end whistling in the air, but to her surprise, found it knocked aside.

"He's disarmed," the swordsman explained to her. Flame would have liked to incapacitate the old man for all the trouble he'd caused her, and for her suspicions that he might still be dangerous empty-handed, but the swordsman seemed serious. She lowered the staff, suddenly realizing that she was covered in sweat. The old man chuckled.

"If you'd utilized the pointed end as a spearhead, you might have disarmed me yourself," he said, indicating Flame's splintered stave. Flame glared. She had to admit that the old bandit was right.

"Off with you," ordered the swordsman, waving his sword at the bearded man. The older man left, but not before adding in a parting shot, "I'll render you a lesson some other time, when the young nun isn't around. Don't die before then, boy!" He winked at Flame and scrabbled onto the swordsman's horse before the other man could stop him.

"You shouldn't have done that," said Flame, still shaking slightly from uncontrolled chi. The swordsman watched his horse disappear.

"'See the dust but cannot catch up,'" he said, apparently quoting some idiom. He cleaned the sword on the grass and sheathed it. "That's what my father would have told me. I've been bested by a cleverer man." Flame didn't recognize the quote, though she was sure her sister would have, if she'd been here.

"You clearly got the better of him with your sword," Flame told him.

"Ah, but his mind got the better of me." The man grinned ruefully. "Clearly he knew early on that he could manipulate me into a position in which he would escape with my horse."

"Why did you help me, then?"

"Well, when I said 'clearly,' I meant that in retrospect. And anyway, it would be most ungallant of me to leave you in present company." He chuckled. "Meimei, younger sister." Flame was annoyed.

"What's funny about that?" she demanded, thinking that perhaps the old bandit was right in wanting to victimize classist aristocrats.

"I don't have a younger sister," admitted the swordsman. "Only my Ma, and she's more than enough female company for me." Flame started laughing, more as an excuse to release her pent-up tension than the man's attempt at humour.

"Now, would this younger sister, whose name I don't know, happen to have a bandage to give me?" He indicated his bleeding leg with the sword. "I'd be very grateful."

"You can call me Flame," she replied. "I'll give you my leg wrappings." Flame had forgotten to remove them after morning practice, and again after that unpleasant encounter with those girls in her rush to attend to her garden duties.

"Truly, a boon," said the man, pulling off his boot. Flame observed him carefully. His clean-shaven face showed no sign of guile, and he took the wrappings Flame held out warily. He dipped his head, topknot facing her. Flame relaxed slightly. If he meant her harm, he wouldn't expose his neck. Though he had a sword. It was a useful thing to have, Flame thought, mind meandering. For one thing, swords didn't splinter like wood.

"Is the monastery far?" The man looked up at her. "I mean to stay there a few days."

"It's just down that main road." She looked dubiously at his awkward seating. "You might want to stay more than a few days."

"It's a slight scratch," he insisted. "I should know. I've several scars to my face to date, old gifts acquired in duels. Naturally, I returned such favours." Flame wasn't one for metaphor, but she let herself be reassured. It would only cause her more trouble to insist otherwise. Besides, his leg didn't seem broken, and he was tucking his red trouser leg back into his boot without wincing.

Then she noticed that his pants were actually supposed to be white. Her hempen wrappings were swollen with his blood.

"You didn't tie them tightly enough," admonished Flame. She'd have to give up her arm wraps too. Pulling apart the straw basket, she handed pieces to the man.

"Hold them on your leg. I'm going to have to do this myself."

"You're beginning to sound like my mother."

Flame didn't answer. She strapped the straw pieces tightly around his leg, knotting them tightly against the wound. If it hurt, he didn't show it.

"This will do," he said, as Flame reached for another piece of basket. He stood up to leave.

"What about them?" Flame gestured at the fallen bandits. For some reason, she thought of her parents. It didn't seem right to leave them unburied.

"The old rascal will come back for them. Most likely to collect their weapons." He gestured at the dao and the sword. "Well, I don't fancy the notion of leaving him the wherewithal to terrorize fellow men." Flame watched the swordsman break the blade of the rusty-backed dao and sling the sword on his back, leg wrappings soaked anew. He gestured at the road. "Please lead the way."

Flame led him by the straightest route: off the track, over a shallow point of river, and through the woods to arrive at the monastery. Mushrooms and Sister Ma were completely forgotten.

***

"Aie, young lady!" exclaimed Sister Ma, who was waiting at the door. "I have been waiting for you since the hour of Wu, and worrying for you all throughout!"

"We were going slowly, Sister Ma." Flame immediately felt bad for upsetting Sister Ma. She hadn't considered that her absence would be worrisome to the nun.

"He hurt his leg." She indicated the swordsman. Sister Ma rounded on him.

"And how did that happen, sir?"

"I was assaulted by bandits. Flame meimei distracted some. A fortunate thing, as she was carrying bandages." He indicated his leg. The nun eyed it suspiciously.

"Those 'bandages' look dirty. And loose. And they smell of river...young Lian Flame, did you lead this wounded gentleman over the river?"

"Yes, Sister Ma." Flame scuffed her foot against the stone gate. She was never one to strain herself in imagining how others felt. This time, however, it occurred to her that it might have been beneficial to do so. To be leading a man with a pained leg, on a rough route potentially bristling with bandits (truly, the threat had never figured in her mind before,) was to be a helpless target.

"That wasn't very considerate of you," scolded Sister Ma, echoing Flame's thoughts.

"That's true, Sister Ma." She stared down at some stones in the dirt.

"Let's set you up somewhere. And we're getting some proper dressings. Any longer with those and you'll be bleeding dry," said the nun, rounding on the man. "What's your name, gentleman?"

The swordsman looked up from inspecting his leg.

"I am called Li Xiang by acquaintances." He crossed his arms.

Flame nearly jumped up at the dark surname, but she quickly remembered that Li only had one son, and that this son's name had consisted of two characters. Could this be a younger son? No, reasoned Flame; it had only been seven years since the ill-fated wedding, and this man was at least twenty, she conjectured.

"Thank you for the hospitality, fashi," he added, addressing Sister Ma politely with the title of a Buddhist teacher. Flame idly wondered how long she'd have to wash the leg wraps before they were usable again. She faced Sister Ma.

"Sister Ma, could I please have some leg wraps to use until mine have been cleaned?"

"You'll have to see me after evening chants," replied the nun. "I need to find some. The cloth supply is running low."

"Thank you, Sister Ma."

"Alright. Off to your cleaning duties," directed the nun. "This way," she indicated to Xiang. Flame turned to leave, but Xiang motioned her to wait.

"I'll recompense you for your leg wraps. And your trouble. Come when you're free."

Flame intended to. The day been full of upsets, beginning with those girls and their invocation of Judge Li, and ending with the bandit incident. This might be something good, and besides, she was curious about swordsman Xiang and the blade he held.
Chapter 4: Li Xiang

Xiang seated himself at a writing desk. The room was sparsely furnished, but it was furnished as befitted a noble visitor to the monastery. Being built directly into the thick walls of the monastery, it promised a warm refuge from chilly evenings. Actually, some cool air seemed wanting. He had already become slick with sweat from the ordeal with his leg, and his encounter with the nun had done nothing to assuage the unpleasant sensation.

"I won't impose on your hospitality for more than a few days," he'd said, hobbling after the nun. She'd moved faster than he had, despite her being older than his mother.

"Master Li, I'm afraid your length of stay is going to depend on your leg."

"Truly, the leg is fine." The nun had made a brief noise of disapproval to that.

"Did Buddha not warn against professing false knowledge?"

"Pardon a sinner. I merely speak from bravado." The nun's hectoring really did bring to mind his mother. She did seem to be more easily placated, however, as she finished:

"Bravado is not as bad as malicious falsehood."

They arrived at the apothecary, and Xiang submitted to having the makeshift bandage removed, gash prodded, and sutures added by steel needles. The needles bothered him the most. For one thing, they were a lot larger than acupuncture needles, and were going straight through him. And he had to submit to it. Xiang equated this to self-harm; consequently he had trouble staying still. In what Xiang supposed was an attempt to distract him, the nun began talking, though her questions were almost as discomforting as the needles.

"Before this day, you had never met young Lian, had you?"

"That's correct, though to my detriment," Xiang said truthfully, wondering where this line of questioning was going.

"What do you mean by that?" He winced as the needle began a second row of stitches.  
"Why, only that Flame is of a character that anyone ought to desire to have emulated." The needle continued piercing his leg, to his agitation, and he attempted calm himself by emptying his mind and to refrain from retracting his leg. "She's steadfast."

"Ah, when you were attacked. Forgive an old woman's curiosity, but oughtn't a young noble such as yourself be properly accompanied by guard?"

"My father desires that I not bring attention to myself," said Xiang, realizing as he spoke, that perhaps he had done exactly that. The nun pulled the silken thread across his leg.

"A good practice for a Buddhist."

"I confess I'm not one."

"You're welcome to stay nonetheless. Take a week."

This alone would displease his father. Xiang wondered how he would react to the additional fact that he was also bereft of horse. He put his brush to paper.

Honourable Father, your Filial Son sends his greetings.

Xiang wondered how he would explain that he'd destroyed his anonymity as well. He had been explicitly told to accomplish his research in the imperial library, and then immediately return to the capital for his upcoming governmental post.

I have accomplished the task you have set me—Xiang crumpled the paper in a ball. This wouldn't do at all. He hadn't really done what his father had asked—he hadn't even reached the library yet, but a part of him felt it necessary to assure his father that he was finished, in a way. Xiang gazed absently at his sword, propped in a corner of the room. It was a fine one that his father had given him, with a handle of ox-bone. To add to the opulence, both pommel and hilt had been worked with intermingling knot patterns. But the finest part was its blade. Though it was sheathed, Xiang saw clearly, in his mind, the ingenious construction—a pliant steel core that allowed the blade to oscillate when struck. Hard steel wrapping the core enabled the edges to be honed to a well-retained and unforgiving sharpness. He thought of how he had learned the sword, in conjunction with his studies for the imperial examinations. Knowledge and martiality coexist, his father had often told him. Abruptly, Xiang returned his gaze to the paper before him.

Honourable Father, I have accomplished the task that you have set me. He'd gone in a circle, he realized. Small wonder that his friends laughingly affirmed that Xiang was a name quite suitable. He shifted his leg. The silk stitches were itching him. Perhaps it was the afternoon heat. A knock sounded on his door.

"Enter." He stood up unsteadily and pulled the door open. It was Lian Flame. "Ah, Flame meimei. I'm still to compensate you for your wraps, I presume?"

"They were, uh, only wraps. Though they are useful to my training," spoke Flame quickly.

"Those wraps may have been essential in keeping me from bleeding to death," said Xiang, tapping his leg. "At least, I would presume so, given the amount of stitches I've been graced with."

"I would've given you more." Xiang raised an eyebrow at her, and Flame added indignantly, "What? I don't sew well."

"No lacquer needlework boxes for you then," Xiang chuckled. "I've purchased three and more for my mother, as per my father's request." His gaze followed Flame's notice of the sword in the corner. He had a sudden idea.

"Would you take a form as repayment?"

"You mean like one for a staff form?"

"One for sword." He watched as Flame's eyes widened.

"Really?" She frowned slightly. "What am supposed to practise it with?"

"A rod will do. I had rod before."

"What about that?" She indicated at the Tang sword that he had taken from the fallen bandit.

"That won't do. It never bodes well to use someone else's blade."

"Why?"

"I've often conjectured that such swords will never stay long with their masters, as evidenced by the fact that one received it from another. But it's something my father's told me."

Flame drew the old sword.

"It's like a dao," she said, eyeing the blade. "Is it really a sword?"

"It is, but it's more common nowadays to carry the jian, or straight sword."

"The ones with two edges?" Flame sighed. "It would be useful to have a real one to practise with. That way I won't forget your kuen."

"Yes. I'm sorry I can't teach you the spear. You seem to have a lot of staffs on hand to practise with, even if they don't have points. It's said that one can be taught to fight proficiently with the spear in a week, a dao in a month, but a sword in a year."

"Why is that?"

"The spear has the longest reach over the other three weapons; the dao has a blade thick enough to block with, but the sword—it is the thinnest, sharpest, and lightest of all three," explained Xiang.

"Doesn't that mean it's made easy to learn?"

"It means it's made to kill."

Flame didn't wince. Xiang wanted to smile sadly, but suppressed the urge. He folded his arms instead.

"You are sure you want to learn it."

"Yes."

"Let's go outside, then."

In the monastery garden, Xiang taught her the form. It was somewhat short, but it was full of useful cuts and dodges, and he thought it would be easy enough for Flame to remember.

When he had made sure that Flame could remember everything, he placed the sword in her hand.

"It's really light," she said, seeming surprised.

"That's the truth, as I stated earlier. Perhaps it's because you're used to a staff, but a blade requires a lot more wrist dexterity, and you'll be glad of its lightness soon enough." He watched her repeat the form, sword moving quickly from cut to cut, though only the tip of the blade would have reached anything.

"Is this right?" she asked. Xiang nodded.

"But stab deeply. That is the primary point in swordplay; a jian is pointed to thrust, lengthened to reach and sharpened to penetrate."

"What about cutting?"

"You could, but it was made thin and light to stab."

"To kill?"

"Yes. Try it again." Xiang watched as Flame repeated the form again, grip tighter, sword biting deeply. By the end of several sessions, she seemed completely at ease. And Xiang watched with crossed arms, a faint smile occasionally flickering across his otherwise hardening face.
Chapter 5: Know What You Want

Jiang stood in ma bu , staff across her lap, afternoon sun shining warmly and a light breeze shaking the trees overhead. The wooden pagoda, when free of pilgrims, was a fixating object for contemplation, centred in the temple complex of monastery and public areas. Jiang enjoyed the view of the gardens surrounding them. They aided her in ignoring the inevitable pain that would grow as her stance weakened. At the moment, however, her feet were planted firmly in the earth, and her stance firm.

She wondered if she might be made to recite the entire Diamond sutra before being deemed as meriting nunhood. That wouldn't be a problem. She'd memorized it within one month of arriving at the monastery with her sister, after their parents' deaths. It had been a balm, almost; something to aid her in cleansing wants and attachments. Was that accurate? Sometimes Jiang wasn't sure anymore. Living by Dharma, accumulating more knowledge, and helping the less fortunate all seemed to fill the hole that had emerged with her parent's absence. Or perhaps, this living was stretching it out, until it was large enough to go unnoticed.

But it didn't matter, as long as the emptiness no longer bothered her. After all, I am nothing, the hole is nothing, and when the two have been recognized I will be free; attain nirvana. Jiang thought that the former was sometimes simple to attain, merely by serving others out of anything but self interest; however the hole was proving to be a lot larger than she was. She thought of Flame. As a nun, she would drop her family name and all other worldly ties. Though it was selfish of her, she worried tremendously about what her sister was going to do without her. Flame did not strike her as ever wanting to be a nun, and no one would ever make her. She sprang up. It was late afternoon, and others would be needing her. She would be late if she didn't hurry. Jiang wondered why she was so self-centred.

Breaking into a run, Jiang sprang for the back courtyard. Dharma required that she teach today.

***

The girls followed Jiang as she moved through the empty-hand form. This one focused especially on tiger and crane moves. Both required strong forearms, so Jiang had made them do at least a hundred push-ups before starting, merely by having them follow her as she continued well past fifty, even as they started gasping. With the form, glancing at her students, Jiang slowed slightly so as to emphasize the correct motions. Arms circling, hands in claws to pull and subdue. Hooking an opponent's blow, arm as supple as a crane's neck. Jiang had repeated the moves many times. The girl Yue was having difficulty. Jiang had them all repeat the move several more times. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Wong shifu in careful observation.

The practice ended. Qiuyue, who had been watching interestedly, ran up to her.

"What's this?" asked the little girl, sweeping her arms in a circle, in imitation of Jiang.

"Hu zhua, tiger claw," replied Jiang. She demonstrated again.

"That doesn't look like a tiger at all," Qiuyue giggled.

"It's the imitation of a tiger bringing down its prey," Jiang explained, knowing to keep her explanation short for Qiuyue. Otherwise, she would have added that the motion had its roots in fire from the five Taoisist elements, and that it was only one of the five animal forms, the crane being the other.

"Show me," demanded Qiuyue, eyes wide. Jiang executed the move for her. She tried again sloppily. Jiang smiled and repeated the move for her. Again Qiuyue couldn't do it.

"You'll learn it when you're older," reassured Jiang. "After you've learned basics."

"It's hard. Why do we learn it at all?" asked Qiuyue, stopping her motions.

"Well, Princess Yongtai, for whom our monastery is named, and who was known for her great devotion to Dharma, practised it. That's why the nuns practise too."

"Why do you? You don't have to. You're not a nun yet." Qiuyue was adamant.

"That's true, but one should begin early," Jiang evaded, not wanting to invoke Qiuyue's loss of family by mentioning her own. In truth, Jiang realized, the exercises cleared her mind of everything. Not only of the selfish human desires the Buddha spoke against, but also of the physical exhaustion that seemed to fill her whenever she thought of duty to family and universal duty. Exercise, with instinctive movements, resulted in thinking of nothing, which brought her far from such thoughts.

"'By punctuality and knowledge...root out your darts of sin?'" quoted Qiuyue, somewhat slyly. Jiang looked at Qiuyue with some internal disquiet. Did her unrestrained, un-Buddhist thoughts show that openly? The alarm must have shown too, Jiang thought, as Qiuyue added, "I don't like Sister An either."

"It's not for us to judge whether or not someone else is likeable," Jiang said. Maybe she was being a bad example for Qiuyue, if the little girl was thinking such things. "How can a blind man laugh at another for being blind?"

"Maybe the other man made him blind."

"Clearly that wasn't a good example," sighed Jiang.

"That's okay," said Qiuyue. "Goodbye Jiang jiejie!" She skipped off, giving Jiang the honorific of Elder Sister.

"That wasn't the right example at all," growled a voice. Jiang turned around to see Wong shifu, and quickly bowed in greeting. He was on a somewhat permanent loan from the monks of the White Horse Temple. Rumour had it that they had wanted to get rid of him; that he had been sent from temple to temple all across the Empire. But Jiang didn't really believe rumours.

"Your execution of hu zhua was purely external, your chi completely undirected." He swept out quickly, arms retracting and hands exploding powerfully. "No?"

Jiang couldn't see how the internal energy was being manifested. Maybe she had been staring too much at the external: the instructor-monk's flapping robes, vivid orange unlike her novice ones. He clawed again, stopping with one claw near her wrist and the front one poised before her throat.

"Wong shifu, I understand where the tiger claw is targeted."

"Do you truly?" The orange robes snapped as he pulled his arms back and clawed out again, stopping at the same spot.

"The foremost claw is for the throat."

"Yes. The throat." He retracted his claws. Jiang tried again, aiming carefully at where the throat of her own mirror image would have been.

"Still external," said the shifu. Silhouetted against the reddening sky, his robes looked a fiery orange.

"Understand that the tiger's claw at the throat is fatal. One directs the entire chi towards this object. If even the slightest part of you objects, the internal energy is dissipated and weakened. Do you understand?"

Jiang nodded, but had to add: "Shifu, are we not taught by the Buddha and Confucius to eschew violence and forgive?"

The forty-year old monk nodded seriously. "That's so, but Confucius also taught that if you give all to the man who gives you harm, there is nothing to give to the one who gives you kindness."

When Jiang opened her mouth to protest the use of the quote, the monk added brusquely, "that's the way I see the master's words, and remember, giving all can mean your life. Would you do that?"

"If Dharma required it."

"Exactly. Preserve it for a better cause," he grumbled, rubbing his grey beard. "You'll make a good nun." He began to leave.

"Thank you, Wong shifu," said Jiang, bowing. He inclined his grey-stubbled head in acknowledgement.

"Remember what I said. Practise the tiger. Your crane is fine."

When he had left, Jiang again practised her hu zhua and he. The movements of the tiger claw still came jerkily as she tried to decide how far to extend. The crane, however, came naturally, and Jiang flexed her arms as a crane might flap its wings, to smoothly avoid and redirect incoming blows.

***

"Lian Jiang, you may enter," called Sister Lu. Jiang entered the temple hall, trying not to trip on her robes.

"Does anyone here object to the ordination of Lian Jiang?" Dimly, Jiang recognized Sister Lu, Sister Ma, and Sister An among ten other nuns. They were seated on a raised dais in the hall. Bodhisattva statues stared silently from alcoves. Incense offerings, most of them burnt out, wafted their scent across wooden rafters. It was evening, and dark in the hall, despite the wood and paper lanterns that hung from the ceiling. Sister An broke the silence.

"Jiang is only nineteen." The requisite age was typically twenty for women.

"She will be twenty by the time she has made the journey to Longhua Temple, for the ordination to be confirmed by the monks," returned Sister Ma.

"Even so, will Jiang be ready by then?" pressed Sister An. Jiang wanted to ask the same thing, but decorum kept her silent. She contented herself with watching the nuns instead. All of them seemed tired, and Jiang felt partially at fault, as it was the subject of her ordination keeping them up. Sister Ma actually turned herself angrily to address Sister An.

"The council regarding this matter has already explained the reasons for Lian Jiang's ordination." That was curious. Jiang didn't quite know the reasons herself; though she had been expecting to be ordained soon enough, this was quite early. And it was unlikely that Wong shifu could have persuaded them all on her behalf. He hadn't even known her that long, having arrived only eight days ago.

"That was the reason?" Sister An seemed incredulous. "We are making mockery of the ordination if we take that for the cause."

"This is precisely why Jiang is going to Longhua." Sister Ma looked at Jiang kindly. "There will be time to decide."

But everyone has already decided, Jiang thought. And it's what I've wanted. She stared fixedly at a spot in the ground to keep herself from thinking of aught else.

"I don't suppose you'll be sending her sister as well?"

"Yes."

"Why not ordain her too while we're at it?" Sister An drew shocked stares. Even Jiang wanted to stare.

"Sister An, that was ill-said," chastened Sister Lu, who looked angry. "You know about the letter. The one that arrived anonymously, a few days ago, to tell us that Li had arrived with it."

Li has found us? Jiang felt a twinge of panic accompanying the unease at the reason for her hasty ordination.

"I didn't," said Sister An, suddenly looking contrite. "Forgive my outburst. I had believed that all this trouble was over the visitor Li Xiang."

"I suspected him as well. But the letter arrived eight days ago, and meanwhile, young Xiang, even if he is Li's son, has done no harm," said Sister Lu.

"Perhaps he means to bide his time," said Sister Ma darkly.

"We'll not sully the monastery with scandal," Sister Lu said decisively, as Sister An nodded in agreement. "In any case, Lian Jiang has been found to be a suitable candidate for becoming a nun, on the basis of her completed studies and character. Her sister will be going because of the letter." Sister Lu paused thoughtfully. "Perhaps this will give Lian Flame broader future perspectives. She's still tenacious, from what she tells me about her nightly dreams."

Jiang had thought that she was the only one who knew about Flame's never-ending grudge towards Li, but apparently it weighed on her sister so heavily that Flame had to unburden feelings on others. Or perhaps Jiang just wasn't there enough for her sister to unload everything on her. She felt regretful. I will make up for my neglect during our trip, she decided. I can give up all family ties after Longhua. Or maybe that was too much of an indulgence; if she couldn't give up earthly ties now, wouldn't that mean she was incapable of doing so later, once fully ordained? Nonetheless, a voice in her head nagged, Ma and Pa would wish for you to mind her. To think of family.

Sister Lu cut into her thoughts. "Lian Jiang, are you ready?"

Jiang breathed softly, clearing her mind with heavy exhalation.

"Yes."

It was completely dark when she left the temple, new alms bowl in hand, grey robes on her back, and head shorn clean.

***

Flame took in her surroundings with pleasure. There were still plenty of mountains around her, but Fo Guang Shan, Buddha's Light Mountain, was already out of sight, and she expected that the rest would recede into the distance as they travelled south. She could still recall how they had loomed, jagged and tall, on the day she escaped to the monastery with her sister. She'd been unconscious for most of it, but the mountains were clearly etched in memory. Tall. Sharp-edged. Flame had never been able to dissociate their image from that of Magistrate Li, the man who had forced her into those mountains and torn her family to pieces.

She looked at her elder sister. Jiang changed that day as well, Flame suddenly realized. They'd hardly spent a full day together after that. Flame had always assumed that it was because her sister was too busy with monastery duties, but it struck her now that it might have been something else. Looking ahead she saw Jiang occupied in conversation with the monk, Wong. Not that she minded. Flame supposed her sister probably preferred more knowledgeable conversation, with the prospect of her becoming a nun looming near. However, Wong did not seem to be the obvious choice, as Flame felt sure that he was not as fond of sutras as her sister was.

In fact, Wong made her uneasy. He reminded her of the old bandit with the beard for some reason, and that was enough to make her wary. But Sister An had suggested that they travel with him to Longhua, as he was going there anyway. One never knew whom one would meet on the road. Flame had always found Sister An stifling, for always telling her what to do, but she had to admit that Brother Wong would probably get them to Longhua more quickly. Though it would still take them well over the ten-day huan,or week.

Still, she would be free—free of the oppressiveness that Li had forced on Flame and her sister. Taking in the rice fields near the foot of the mountains, she quietly gloried in the fact that she would never have to set eyes on the grim-faced shishi,which reminded her of dogs, guarding the monastery gate again. Though Yongtai Monastery had provisioned for seven years of her upbringing, while Jade and Yue had both helped Flame feel welcome, it had never felt like home, and Flame had never found there the universal family that her sister often spoke of. But away from the mountains, into which she'd been forced to flee, perhaps she would be able to shake free of Li. She glanced behind. Wong and her sister had both stopped; Jiang was waving her arms animatedly. Flame went back.

"We shouldn't just leave him there," Jiang was protesting. Flame saw that she was referring to a man who lay sprawled beside the road, bald but for a queue from his head. His arms wrapped wetly around his stomach. Flame avoided looking at the spot.

"You going to carry him, then?" snapped Wong. "He's not going anywhere. Besides, the local prefecture will take the hand you stretch out to him, and maybe your head as well."

"You're Jurchen," Flame addressed the man.

"Was...at inn with brother...for food...not fighting." He rolled his eyes in pain.

"What kind of dead Jurchen rebel goes to a Han inn for food?" growled Wong.

"Truly...by Buddha," gasped the man.

"I believe you," said Flame. She felt sorry that the man had only wanted to have a fill of warm food, and been filled with steel instead. The man drew his lips back in what might have passed for a smile, though the impression was ruined by the fact that his teeth were red.

"We're leaving," ordered Wong. The man seemed to notice him for the first time. His eyes widened.

"Elder Brother..."

"I'm not your brother," said Wong, glaring. "He's most likely looking like you, now."

"No...he went...ahead. Paid first."

Jiang knelt to offer him some water.

"That's going right out of him, it is," growled Wong.

"It will give comfort," stated Jiang, ignoring the monk. She offered her waterskin and helped the man drink it. Flame saw his other hand grip his wounded stomach more tightly as the movement gave rise to a trickling crimson stream. Wong bit his lower lip.

"This will give him comfort." The monk drew the scimitar from the man's bloody belt and showed it to him. The man nodded. He cleaned the waterskin as best as he could, on a clean part of his tunic and in the gravel as well, before handing it back to Jiang. Wong thrust the weapon expertly under the ribs and the man died almost soundlessly.

"We'll go now," he said, voice gravelled.

"What about his body?" asked Jiang. The monk was already walking away.

"You're not really a monk, are you, Wong shifu?" Brother Wong turned in reply.

"And you're not really a Shaolin Buddhist nun."

Flame appraised the dead man. He'd closed his eyes before died, so she wouldn't have to do anything about them. She looked at the scimitar. Leaving it in might be bad for his ghost. Trying not to look, she grasped the hilt and tugged. The blade seemed to have lodged, as Wong had twisted it as it entered, and Flame felt her eyes itch as she unwillingly recalled how Li's blade had twisted through Ma as well. The trees, earth, and the Jurchen's ribs clamping the scimitar all seemed to blur together in a red haze. She felt a hand next to her wet crimson ones. It was Jiang. Her sister moved her hands away gently. The scimitar was out before Flame had finished forcing down the tears. Jiang stared at the man for a few seconds as Flame dried herself. When Jiang still didn't move after Flame had risen from rinsing her hands with sand, she went up to her sister.

"The man's brother will come back for him," Flame said.

"How do you know?" Her sister's voice sounded somewhat inflicted.

"Ah...well, because he has one..." It was a bad answer, and besides, Flame didn't know. All that mattered was that his brother found him. Flame wondered if the brother would come after Wong for sticking a scimitar into his family. He shouldn't, though. The Jurchen had asked for it. Anyway, his brother wouldn't know that Wong had done it, and if his brother's ghost told him, he'd probably be told that the scimitar had been welcome. To her surprise, her sister grasped her hand warmly.

"Let's go," she said. Flame gripped her sister's hand tightly in reply, and the two returned to the gravel path. Wong was waiting impatiently. They followed the trail through wood and stones all morning. By midday, they were done with traversing the monastery's farmlands. Night found them in Dahuting.

***

"Eat plenty. It's a few more days to capital Bianjing," Brother Wong told them, "and we'll need to offer our alms bowls often there. City folk aren't this generous." They were lodged with a farmer's family, who had welcomed the party of monk, nun, and sister in return for prayers.

"Also, our enlightened presence isn't going to be needed there to ward off ghosts," he added, making reference to how Dahuting was located very close to an ancient Han cemetery.

"I don't quite see why they would want us around at all, Wong shifu," said Jiang. If all the monks and nuns who came down from the mountains were as exemplar as Wong, Jiang could not understand why anyone would offer them hospitality.

"Still thinking of abandoned travelers, I see," Brother Wong said, though he didn't seem upset. He gave Jiang a perfunctory glance from his seat by the hearth before returning his gaze to the fire. Everyone in the farmer's family had gone to sleep next door, but for the wizened family matriarch who lay bundled blankly near the fire. Jiang felt sorry for the woman's condition, but there was nothing she could do. The monk cleared his throat.

"You remember what I said last time?"

"About killing?"

"About knowing intent. You pulled that blade out pretty quickly, but when it came to helping the man while he was still alive, you had no practical ideas."

"I have never encountered a man in such a position before," Jiang admitted, slightly loath to do so, out of apprehension for what Wong would have to say about such a lacking. But the monk surprised her.

"Well, neither did Buddha, until he encountered the dying man from his chariot. Perhaps this will be a good thing for you," Wong commented wryly, feeding a few twigs into the hearth.

"I am not the best example for enlightenment," said Jiang, mortified at such a comparison, though at the same time wondering about the possibility of truth in the monk's comment. Wong looked closely at her.

"You'd best decide what you are before we reach Longhua, then. Know what you want." He stretched out before the hearth and became still almost immediately.

He was right, in a way, Jiang considered. Death was commonplace, and besides, didn't the Diamond sutra stress that attaining nirvana was akin to relinquishing one's earthly existence? Jiang meditated on the thought that both death and nirvana would be similar, in that one would be forever liberated from chasing life's insatiable desires upon reaching either. She ought to agree with Wong's sentiments that the man had been benefited, in being gifted with death.

But she couldn't. Maybe she hadn't grasped the principles of Chan Buddhism properly, but it seemed that in practice, people could never simply cease to exist peacefully after they had died. Tradition dictated that they remained remembered; that they were to be fed and provided with money, even after they had passed on. Even Buddhists offered prayers, though the object of these was to ease the passing of souls, through their different states of non-physical existence, to rebirth, and then possibly to nirvana. Was the object of enlightenment to forget, then? She glanced at her sister. It was possible that Flame, with her rather obvious tendencies to flaunt such practice, could have something to say about it. She would ask her.

"Flame?" Jiang saw her sister sit up abruptly. She hadn't been sleeping either, evidently.

"What is it, Elder Sister?"

"Why do you think it's so difficult to forget?"

"Are you remembering the man on the road?"

Jiang eyed the fire. It cast a glow on her sister's face, and she could feel the heat lick her own.

"Yes. Wong said-"

"Don't worry. I heard it all."

"Oh." Jiang thought she should have considered that perhaps the Jurchen man had been keeping Flame awake too.

"Why does one find it so difficult to forget such things?"

Flame shrugged.

"If I knew, maybe I'd forget Li." Her eyes widened. "How did you forget?"

Jiang considered for a moment.

"I thought of him as being like everyone else. All men are equal while they live on this earthly plane, and so there's no reason for me to remember him with any particularity." Jiang remembered too late that Flame would definitely come into conflict over such a statement, regardless of it being in line with their Buddhist teachings. The flame made her sister's face look crimson.

"How could you?" exploded Flame, the room's slumbering inhabitants forgotten. Jiang glanced anxiously at the curtain that separated the farmer's family from the hearth room.

"It pains me to remember. And pains others," Jiang said particularly softly, hoping Flame would follow in quieting her speech.

"I think it pains others to forget. If I forgot, Ma and Ba would be hurt. I would know." Flame paused thoughtfully. "There's your answer―it's difficult to forget, when it's family one talks about." Jiang started to protest, but Flame cut her off.

"And there's no forgetting family. The whole world is not 'family.' If it was, people wouldn't kill each other, would they?"

"I can understand what you mean, if you're making reference to the late Tang dynasty—"

"No, I'm not. I just mean people. Or maybe just the ones like Li," qualified Flame. Jiang began to regret the line of conversation she had started. Wong broke in.

"Conversations like these should take place outside," he grumbled and turned over, back facing them.

Jiang motioned her sister outside. Flame, as Jiang expected, followed her out, clearly still simmering to make her point. A bright red streak shot through the sky.

"It's a comet resembling a fenghuang," Jiang pointed out, eyeing a shooting star in awe. "How auspicious!"

"I thought you didn't believe in good luck symbols," muttered Flame. Nonetheless, she looked interestedly as well, for the supposed firebird.

"Ba used to point them out all the time." Jiang was waxing sentimental, but for once she didn't mind. Her sister wouldn't. The cool night air was making her feel slightly giddy, and she added, "Tradition has it that a new era is being born."

"A good one?"

"Why ever not?" To her surprise, Flame moved closer.

"I like when you're normal like this."

"What?" Immediately Jiang tried to pinpoint, out of the thousand ways in which she could be deviating from dharma, the faulty behaviour that Flame was referring to.

"Don't worry about it, jie―you're still good to me when you're not," Flame laughed.

Oh. Flame was merely funning.

"Thank you. I value that, truly," returned Jiang. They regarded the comet for a few moments more, and then returned to the hovel. As Jiang shuffled on the sleeping mat to get comfortable, she thought of what her father had told her about the fenghuang. It was a firebird, a symbol of goodly virtues, and the counterpart to the dragon. Its pairing with the dragon symbolized harmonious marriage. Jiang wondered why she was thinking about that. She certainly wasn't going to any weddings, least of all her own, save for the ones that she would be asked to bless, after being confirmed in her ordination. Unless—

No, I will not think about that. Jiang glanced briefly at Flame. Her sister appeared to be deeply asleep. What would Flame think if she knew it? Jiang had no desire to find out. She stretched out and closed her eyes, willing her mind to drift into the emptiness of sleep, an inadequate imitation of the nirvana she might obtain, if she could just discipline her mind enough.
Chapter 6: Bianjing

Flame watched as her sister returned from a noodle stand, carrying the several bowls that her alms had afforded her. They had reached Bianjiang that morning, and after collecting several coins, Jiang had decided to rid herself of the money as soon as possible, deeming it un-Buddhist to be carrying cash. Flame didn't mind. It was noon and she was hungry. She took the proffered bowl. Wong looked up from his.

"Did you purposely choose the oldest noodles?" The monk was evidently finding fault with them. Flame looked at the bowl. They were slightly overcooked and fused together, with a stingy portion of meat and vegetable covering them. She bit a noodle. It tasted slightly sour, and after a few more, she wanted to pitch the bowl.

"I was given these bowls," her sister said, sounding somewhat defensive. She ate all the noodles. Flame expected it. Her sister always had an appetite after morning meditation.

"Ah, one would think that I had been a glutton in my previous life, to be paired with such ill providers of food," sighed the monk. A haughty-looking man wearing a bejeweled sword passed by the stand. Flame watched him clink several sections from his string of coppers. He was spooned a bowl much larger than her own. She returned to the stand, handing back the bowl.

"How much for a bowl like that?" asked Flame, indicating the nobleman's noodles.

"Six qian," replied the noodle seller gruffly.

"What?" Flame was outraged. The price was at least twenty times too much.

"You clergy have it too good," the vendor snapped, jabbing his finger at Jiang and Wong, "living off the profits of your large holdings. Go ask them for cash." Flame clenched her fists and turned to leave.

"Wait," said the nobleman. "Call them over," he told Flame, waving a hand languidly in the direction of her sister. Jiang came over. Wong stayed a few paces back.

"Here," the man said, hands clasping Jiang's a few moments too long to be proper, as he handed over a string of coppers. "Master Yuan pays his compliments to a morning blossom. Ask at the Inn of Qian." He stood up and left, jeweled scabbard knocking the wooden posts of the noodle stand as he did so. Her sister stared after him, coppers in hand. Wong raised an eyebrow.

"You're not having those," Flame told the vendor, as she pulled Jiang out. The vendor snorted.

"What was that all about?" Flame asked Brother Wong, as they walked from the noodle stand. Wong sniffed.

"He just tried to buy your sister there," explained the monk. Flame noticed that her sister looked mortified, usual composure forgotten.

"What?" Both of them spoke at once. Wong sighed.

"You're not at the monastery anymore. Surely you know that men have appetites for more than noodles?" Flame had some vague idea of what he meant, having heard, in passing, pieces of gossip from village girls, but Jiang looked red and furious.

"I'm a nun!"

Wong appraised her coolly. "It'll take more than shaving your head bald to hide your face." Flame glanced at her sister. Jiang did look somewhat like their mother, features composed in dignified manner, eyebrows in delicate tilt. Even the shock didn't detract completely from her sister's otherwise more than agreeable face. Flame found herself wondering if she could be given coins too, simply by looking beautiful. It would be useful.

"I think I want a cowl," Jiang said. "Even if I'm not to have that many extra articles of clothing," she added, invoking more of the endless rules that Flame could never completely remember.

"I'll buy it," said Flame, quickly. Her sister definitely couldn't bargain, given that she had just handed over too many coppers for bad bowls of food.

"Alright then," said Jiang, handing Flame the string. Grasping the stringed coins tightly in hand, Flame headed for the market.

Bianjing was large, but Flame could find her way to the markets by the Grand Canal simply by following her nose. The fish at the market smelled strongly. It was near midday, a fact that Jiang had expressed with great interest when they had sighted the clock tower. Powered by a continuous stream of water, Jiang explained that it kept time and showed the movements of celestial bodies. Flame thought it would have been more practical to have a portable one, and Wong said that one could just look at the sky, but her sister had been fascinated to see something out of her books constructed in wood.

The market was set alongside the Canal by which the merchants shipped their wares. Flame saw an abundance of things being sold—rices, bolts of silk, writing services, and even weapons. She looked around. Weapons seemed to be in great supply, unlike hoods. Those only seemed to come in silk, which promised to be expensive. She looked for a better alternative, and after some searching, Flame spotted a hat stand. It displayed an assortment of wide-brimmed straw hats.

These would serve. Flame bargained the price down to sixty wen; sixty copper coins. The nobleman had given her sister at least five hundred such coins, all strung through their square holes, but Flame didn't want to waste.

She wondered why so many stands sold weapons. A shout caught her attention. Turning around, she spotted an angry soldier, sword drawn, yelling at a merchant. From what Flame heard, it seemed that he had been sold a faulty saddle with a seat had been glued instead of studded together.

"Old Yuan always sells the worst saddles," commented a nearby vendor, who was also selling saddles, "so don't you buy his things."

"Really?" Flame wondered if he was trying to get her to buy from him. The vendor threw up his hands.

"It's the truth. Day after day this happens, and then honest folks like me don't get any customers."

"He gives us merchants a bad name," grumbled another, who sold swords instead of saddles. "Maybe this time the regulators will fine him."

The saddle seller snorted. "He's spent hundreds of taels in bribes to avoid just that."

"And I thought it was because he has the Long Knife gang to intimidate them."

"He's got both," sniffed the saddle seller. "Canny Yuan's not going to have one without the other, lest the other turn on him."

A yell interrupted them. One of the merchant's hired securities had tried to disarm the soldier, who in return, had smashed in the man's nose with the sword pommel.

"Well!" Flame thought the sword vendor looked pleased.

"He'd best leave," commented the saddle seller, "before Yuan gets the office on him." But the soldier didn't leave. Instead, he pointed his blade at the merchant, shaking his faulty purchase with the other hand.

"You all know he cheats you here, don't you?" the soldier whirled on the bystanders, blade pointing everywhere. The merchant's clients moved back a respectable few paces, nodding in agreement.

"Give them their cash, then," said the swordsman, turning to the merchant with a satisfied nod. Flame found herself nodding in agreement.

"He's going to have constables in a few seconds." The saddle seller looked confident.

"Don't be ridiculous," the sword vendor snapped back. "Even constables have no respect for us merchants. He'll most likely get the Long Knives on him, right now, to avoid losing face." And it seemed the sword vendor was right. Two men, dao in hand, shoved their way to the front of the crowd and threw themselves at the swordsman.

Something told Flame that she should probably leave, but another part of her wanted to see how efficient the swordsman was. The soldier's blade had the longer reach on the dao, but there were two of them. She watched interestedly as the soldier positioned himself so as to be facing only one of the two men. The first dao attacked. The swordsman wasted no time in avoiding the slice, and then whirled his own blade under the other man's, to bite the leg. When the second man attacked, he knocked the dao aside with his blade in a heavy slash. The steel rang loudly, and the second man stumbled forward. The sword was deftly thrust through the hired blade's throat as he fell. A third man came from nowhere, short blade in hand to jump at the soldier from behind, but the swordsman whirled to meet him swiftly, and with his longer blade, easily ran the other through.

"Give them their money," the soldier repeated, still baring his blade. "And give me mine." Flame sympathized with him, over all the trouble he had taken to rid himself and fellow customers of the merchant Yuan's outrageous cheating. Old Yuan, stone-faced, called his assistants to return the coins to the soldier. Satisfied, the man left. The rest of the merchant's clients quickly finished their business, faces polite, as if nothing had happened.

"Oh ho!" exclaimed the sword vendor. "I was right! And Old Yuan's been humbled!"

"Don't you think he'll stay that way for long. You'll likely be selling that hot-tempered soldier's sword by this time tomorrow," the saddle vendor said darkly. Then he brightened. "At least I'll have more business for a few days." Flame had been viewing the sword vendor's wares throughout this short exchange. Now she turned to him.

"What can I buy for three qian?" she asked, though she had about five qian. She was curious to see how cheaply steel would sell for.

"You'll want more than a few taels if you're looking to buy anything remotely new for your brother or whoever," the vendor told her.

"What if it's old?"

"Your father a blacksmith or something?" The vendor rummaged under his stand. "I've a bad-luck sword right here—nice for melting." He rattled a dirty-looking scabbard with a Tang-style sword. Flame drew it out for inspection.

"It looks fine." The steel was smooth, clear of rusty specks, and the two edges—Flame noted this with interest—were still sharp. The saddle seller snorted.

"That's because he wants to get rid of it."

"You're right, I do," shot back the sword seller. "And if this young lady's father is going to buy it for a bowl of rice and melt it down, I'll consider it a profit." He turned back to Flame.

"Two qian," he said. Flame didn't bother to bargain. Two qian could buy about seven bowls of normally-priced noodles, and her sister had just spent three times as much on terrible ones.

"That's inexpensive of you," Flame commented, wondering what was wrong with the blade.

"There's nothing wrong with the steel," the vendor said, as if reading her thoughts. "It's just a bad-luck blade, of the old style, that no one wants. I got lots of better ones coming in, from fighting with Jurchens and all, lately. You make sure your father melts this one soon. Don't want ghosts around."

So that was where the influx of weapons was coming from. Flame wondered how close to the capital the Jurchen rebels were. Though it didn't matter. She would be leaving soon anyway.

Thinking of Wong and Jiang made her wonder if she'd worried them by taking so long. She still remembered how being late had upset Sister Ma. But looking up, she saw the two running towards her.

***

Jiang was in a panic, though she tried not to let it show. If Brother Wong had muttered correctly, they would need to leave now.

While waiting for her sister to return, the monk had casually pointed out a squad of constables, staring stone-faced at them from across the street. Jiang had not read much in this; people were welcome, in her mind, to stare wherever they pleased, though when the two of them moved, the constables had moved with them. That too, could be excused. But when they broke into a run at her sister, and Brother Wong muttered "Prefect Li" under his breath, Jiang wondered if she could have died of asphyxiation, so long did she hold her breath in shock.

And maybe she would have deserved that, Jiang thought, as the scene of policemen converging on her sister released her constantly suppressed memories.

She was twelve again. Cowering behind a screen, Jiang had been paralysed by the imposing figure of Magistrate Li as he swept into the room.

"So you've found her." The judge addressed Jiang's mother, who held Flame protectively back.

"What kind of mother would abandon her child to be found by you?" Lady Lian replied with steel in her voice. The magistrate was amused.

"Did I mean any harm? I merely willed that our families be joined. But Lian spat on my wishes and promised his eldest to a Jurchen khan; why, the fact that you're with her merely proves that Lian's been hiding her for barbarians. And to what end? Fermenting the fall of a dynasty? Betraying his people for promises of land?"

"My husband did none of that. You're blaming him to serve your own ends. And our eldest remains unf—"

"Lady Hua, I trusted Lian to billet the county troops, feed them, and deliver on a simple promise. Instead, he shamed me by 'losing' his daughter. And then he rode out in arms."

"Were we to believe that Jiang had simply wandered off and not been forcibly taken?"

"I wanted none of this," said the magistrate, shaking his head in regret.

Jiang had shaken similarly behind the screen. She had remained there, legs immobile but trembling, as her sister's nightmares played themselves out: Li authorizing arrest, directing his constables, and exercising his powers as magistrate to the full. Jiang had ventured out only to pull her sister from the flaming room and hear her mother's extortions for Flame to remember the family. And this was the price of flaunting authority in order to satisfy her selfish desire to escape marriage.

Seven years later, having submitted fully to the authority of faith, Jiang had believed herself to be beyond the power of such recollections. The sight of black-capped constables; the regret that cut into her for her ancient inaction, smashed this paradigm to pieces. The words of her mother, for the sisters to never forget each other, reopened and salted her hidden wounds. And the pain, along with her regretful desire for repentance, made her run.

***

Her sister held the old sword in hand, one trouser leg bloody from where she had wiped the blade. Jiang was surprised at how normal she felt. True, she was slick with sweat and perhaps something else, but she had felt eerily calm during the encounter, and even now she was still at ease.

The constables had come at Flame, short blades drawn, but Jiang had grabbed the first by the wrist, twisting his entire arm upwards, as her arms flowed with the momentum of her centre, to bring him down, blade and all. The others had been somewhat impeded by their fallen leader, but they had stepped over him quickly.

They had spread out to trap her, along with her sister, against the edge of the Canal. Jiang had lunged at the foremost man– preemptively, she told herself –before they could enclose her sister as they had done seven years ago. Dropping to a crouch, she had avoided a man's pommel aimed at her head, and pivoted to sweep his legs out. The following man had advanced with blade poised to cut. Jiang had moved back, to provoke a thrust; when it happened, she dropped him as she had done with the first.

Her sister's present movements took her from her recall. Flame was attempting to wipe down the blade, but there really was no room in the alley where Wong had led them. The sword disturbed her. Jiang grew cold when she thought of Flame killing with it. She hadn't killed anyone during their encounter, but her sister could hardly be expected to follow Jiang's example when she held a sword, could she?

Out of the corner of her eye, she had noticed one of the fallen men lunge at Flame's leg. It had been a mistake to merely leave them grounded, Jiang realized. Flame had rectified that mistake for her, but it still bothered her—the mistake and the method of correction. At least she hadn't repeated it. The next man was blinded with a crane's beak move after Jiang had winged his clumsy stab aside. She had then immediately cracked her fist into the side of his skull when he grabbed for her. The following man Jiang had sent flying into the water by kicking him with a horse kick, heel driven powerfully with a twist of the hip. Another man, unfortunate enough to be behind him, had been brought down simultaneously.

It had been a grave mistake, Jiang now considered, to leave the fallen men without incapacitating them fully. Perhaps if she hadn't erred so, it wouldn't have been necessary for Flame to shed so much blood. Jiang did not wish to estimate how many of them had been fatally cut, but numbers danced doggedly in the back of her mind. At least four. Jiang wondered what her parents would have to say on the subject of her allowing her sister to run amok—bodhisattvas of mercy forgive her—armed with a killer's blade. A different kind of regret now replaced the one she'd just tried to assuage by helping her sister. This one was over spiritual neglect.

Brother Wong returned from assessing their surroundings.

"No chance of leaving now," the monk told them, "they've got the guard on every gate, and along the Canal as well."

"Who put the guard on every gate?" asked Flame. Jiang sincerely hoped that Flame wasn't thinking of cutting that person down.

"Li ling, your former Magistrate Li, who do you think?"

"He owns the city now?" Flame had to admit that those girls who'd teased her had been correct. Li had indeed risen up. Jiang was equally startled by this piece of news.

"His influence runs across Henan, ever since he acquired that large collection of rice paddies seven years ago."

"What's that man doing with the Lian family lands? He should've been satisfied enough with murdering my family, with his ruthless order of lianzuo." Flame looked up from her attempts at oiling the sword with dirty grease.

"He killed for those lands," replied the monk.

"No. He killed because he hated us." Flame scraped at the sword furiously.

"You take this tone because you hate him enough to kill him," growled Wong shifu, "but who can truly tell the reasons behind murder? A soldier kills on instinct, as he hates the enemy, but a murderer who plans his crime is a different sort of man. He cultivates intent, and it takes more than mere dislike to grow something like that." He flexed his fingers as he spoke.

"I disagree. Li hated and blamed my family for everything, and I'm going to reciprocate." Flame was trying to whet the blade, but stopped after realizing the noise it made.

"Don't play the hero," growled the monk, "it'll just prove to Li that he should've killed you both."

"What do you know about this?" Flame shot back.

"Wong shifu, are you are acquainted with Magistrate Li?" Jiang asked him this in order to defuse her sister, and also because she had been bothered by the notion that Wong shifu was not all that he appeared. The monk made a noise in his throat.

"There'll be time for it later. I'm getting provisions," Wong brushed off, returning to his usual reticent self. He waved his arm at Flame's sharpening efforts. "Keep it down." Jiang wondered what else the monk knew, as he left.

Surely not about her agreement? Jiang subverted the freshly retrieved memory, and tried to return her mind to Chan state. But she had trouble emptying her mind. To distract herself, Jiang began to exercise her stance, grinding her feet tightly into the ground. The strengthening exercise had served her well, Jiang reflected, as she thought of her foot work during the altercation. She stared at the building wall.

"Elder Sister?" Jiang started guiltily. She was neglecting Flame again. "If Li were dead-"

"I don't think you should be attempting that," Jiang broke in hurriedly. She abandoned her stance and turned to Flame.

"Oh, I don't mean to," Flame said. "It's not practical. Not with my skill."

Maybe her sister meant to reassure her, but Jiang was not reassured. Flame would most likely attempt it when it became practical.

"If Li was gone, we would be able to leave, wouldn't we?"

"Perhaps not. The city governor under his influence might tighten security even more, for fear of being the one to let us escape."

"Then we're staying here a while."

"We may adjust in a few days." It might take longer for herself, though, Jiang admitted privately. The crush of people discomforted her, and their seeming amorality, as illustrated by the nobleman at the noodle stand, appeared to be too much for her to influence. Perhaps she'd have to be fully ordained first. And to stop thinking so much about her discomfort. That was self-centred.

"How does he even know to look for us?" Flame asked, perplexed.

"I believe whoever found us at Yongtai may have gone ahead of us and informed Magistrate Li."

"I told you he wouldn't forget us." Flame continued oiling the blade.

"You might not want to carry that around," Jiang told her, attempting to change the topic.

"Why not? It's practical."

It's also double-edged, Jiang thought, but Flame disliked metaphor, so instead she said, "I don't need one." Her sister appraised her with a look.

"Well, I'm not you. I can't kill barehanded," Flame said, ever blunt, "the way you did with that constable."

Constable? Jiang suddenly recalled the hook she had dealt the blinded man. She hadn't really thought of how hard she had hooked him, but the scene came back to her with accusing clarity. She had thrown her full upper weight into the side of his head, once angled far enough into his guard to render his dao useless.

"That's what Wong said anyway. You cracked that man's skull."

Did she really? Jiang felt uneasy. She had always known that martial arts could be fatal when applied, and that her training originated from the need to defend the monastery from bandits, but she had never thought that she would ever kill. That was for the unenlightened, wasn't it?

"Where was Brother Wong the whole time, to make such an observation?" Jiang couldn't really recall anything else about their affray with the law. Her sister took on an impressed look.

"Oh, he was clearing out the spearmen. He took one spear from them and sent them all into the Canal."

At this point, Jiang was certain that Wong was not a monk. She would have to confront him about that. The idea of having travelled with a false monk for nearly a week made her worry about how well-received that would make her when they finally reached Longhua.

"Spears are handy. But a sword has a longer blade; a sharper cut," her sister commented. Then she frowned in thought. "Like Li."

This was the first time Jiang had ever heard her sister make metaphysical comparisons. It slightly bothered her. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

Flame held up the blade.

"Ma died from one of these. Pa most likely did too. And he won't leave us alone. He wants to cut Family Lian clean off the earth."

Jiang sighed.

"Why do you always think he's after us?"

"He is after us," Flame insisted.

"I meant to ask why you think he's so motivated to kill us."

"Because of his hatred for our family, and the fact that if he kills us, Ma and Pa will get deprived in the afterlife as well."

"Maybe it's because he allows his human avarice and hatred to hold him."

"He's not human."

"Avarice and hatred are. If we let go of such things—"

"—we become inhuman. Really, jia, is that what nirvana will mean?"

"It means coming to the realization that Buddha's nature is in all. Everything is one and the same thing." Jiang believed that she had read this somewhere. "Letting go of human weaknesses brings us closer to this nature." Flame huffed her disapproval.

"It's no use if the majority thinks differently," Flame pointed out. "What good is being enlightened and treating everyone nicely, if everyone else refuses to return the favour?"

"That's not the point."

"Then what is? You say, 'forgive and forget Li,' but that's just pointless, because he evidently hasn't done the same for us."

Jiang would have liked to say that in a standoff between two conflicting parties, one had to cede first before negotiations could begin. Also, if she had just admitted it, perhaps she might have also said that the point of enlightenment for herself was to be able to influence others to the same end, by example. But there were many things that Jiang buried within herself. And besides, her sister was evidently intent on polemics.

"Leaving him alone has evidently done us no good," Flame cut into her thoughts.

"What are you proposing?" Jiang's voice came calmly, but inside she tensed. Flame tapped the hilt of the old sword.

"Didn't you say yourself that it wasn't practical?" Her sister was usually pragmatic, but when she was upset, most of her common sense seemed to leave her.

"I'll learn."

"Truly, mei, Ma and Pa wouldn't wish for you to do this," said Jiang, trying for a final sally.

"If they wished otherwise, Ma wouldn't tell me to remember the family," Flame said morosely, while idly wiping the sword on her foot. Jiang recognized it as a sign that Flame had been dreaming again. Her sister consistently began such recalls in depressed distraction; next she would inevitably ignore everything else in her recalling of the dream. Jiang grasped her sister's hand, and with a start, Flame seemed to notice the bloody streak on her trouser leg for the first time.

"Ma and Pa meant the living ones," Jiang said softly. Her sister jerked her head up.

"The dead want remembering too."

"But not to the point that we become like them, prematurely," Jiang was beginning to grasp for words as her sister similarly petered off her angry outburst. After a while, Flame eyed her squarely.

"All I want is to live without Li's spectre looming over me. I can't hold my head up and live normally while his condemnation of our family still holds. That's what Ma wants me to remember. The family name. That's why I need a sword. To undo his hold over me."

He wouldn't have a hold if I'd just listened, Jiang thought, reverting to regret. She wondered if Flame would have developed her irrational hatred for Li if she had known the truth of the circumstances that had brought them to Yongtai. More troublesome was the idea of how her sister might react if she found out now. It was possible that Flame would find out soon. Wong might divulge the facts. Jiang wondered if Flame's loathing for the judge could abate, if she knew, among other things, that it had been Magistrate Li who had helped Jiang drag her from their burning house.

She looked at her sister. Flame was whetting the old sword intensely.

Probably not.
Chapter 7: The Teacher

"I was born the only son of a famous Han general. He was falsely accused of treason, and I use his name no longer," began Wong. They had moved to the edges of Bianjing, where beggars with their bowls sat near the city gates. In the space of several hours, Wong had acquired an expensive-looking beizi, small palanquin, coats of plates, and bronze helmets besides. To anyone who looked, they were two bodyguards escorting a rather embarrassed Flame to some clandestine meeting.

"Following the tradition of my family, I studied, among other things, the arts of war and enlisted when I was grown. I had high hopes of distinguishing myself and redeeming my father's name."

This resonated oddly with Flame, though she couldn't place why, as she sat cramped in the palanquin, a strange woman's coat on her back. Her sword hung from Jiang's hip, despite the misgivings of both sisters. But Wong insisted the picture of two guards be complete. He himself wore two butterfly swords. Flame wondered how he had gotten all these things. Wong's voice grated against the palanquin.

"I hope you're both listening. You wanted to know what this is all about, right?"

"Certainly." That was her elder sister. Flame wondered what the use of all this was.

"Right. So everything was fine. Until two years ago when I was captured by the enemy following a border skirmish gone badly. Men always need someone to take the blame, just as they needed my father. That's why I'm here." The palanquin seemed to go over bumpy ground.

"What, here after being captured?" Flame was curious in spite of herself.

"That's what I said," Wong growled. "I'm Jurchen, see, or half at any rate. The fool who did it was perceptive enough to see the Jurchen in me, but blind enough to ignore whose side I was on. A Jurchen disguised as a Han, is what he said of me."

What was the point of all this? Flame grew impatient. She didn't really care who belonged to which ethnic group. In fact, if the Jurchen successfully took Bianjing, Li might fall with it, and then she'd be able to get out of the city. But then she wouldn't know for sure if Li was dead. And her parents' ghosts would nag her for it, as they had been doing for seven years. No, she'd have to do it herself.

"They broke all my fingers, trying to wring a confession," Wong chuckled ruefully. "But I got away. Found myself at White Horse Monastery, Luoyang." Flame was from Luoyang, or at least somewhere close by. Maybe this was useful.

"Met An there. She saved my fingers. We married soon after."

"Sorry?" That was Jiang, sounding agitated—an uncommon occurrence. Flame felt the palanquin stop abruptly. "Do you mean Sister An?"

"Same one. It was marriage for my fingers." He snorted. "That, and the fact that I was a rather conspicuous half-Jurchen, or so she said. Kind of an oblique way of threatening to give away my identity."

"But...An laoshi took vows-"

"-not then. She soon had me running all over the Empire, doing her dirty work. That is, digging up dirt on her younger brother, whose birth disinherited her of the family land. Her brother, your Magistrate Li." Flame was jolted in her seat.

"Li," she brought out softly. He seemed to dog everyone.

"It's not safe to mention him that loudly," Wong said, rather obviously. "Anyway, he made her become a nun soon after. Not that it did him much good. There wasn't much to inherit, see, since the Li family had been forced to give up their land for the 'good of the Empire' some years ago during the famine. An was bitter, nonetheless, for having been kicked out of the family."

"Following that, I presume Magistrate Li desired to deprive someone else, and appropriated the lands of Family Lian? And An decided to use us somehow to get back what she saw as rightfully hers?"

"An always worried that you were too intelligent," commented Wong. "Assumption's correct. Now you know why she was so loath to give both of you up to nunhood."

"I still don't see why. We can't inherit anyway," Flame put in. The tangled results of bureaucratic greed, which Wong was explaining, confused her. All that really mattered was that Li was at the centre of their troubles, and that they would end if she could get rid of him.

"Ah, but Jiang can. That marriage contract is still intact. Li kept it as security against his scheming sister."

"That's meddlesome of Li, but what do you have to do with it?," Flame cut in, somewhat impatient. "And how does he know that we're here?"

"You remember the letter, the one that was cited as part of the reason for Jiang's ordination? Well, An wrote that, because she realized that Li had discovered your whereabouts. Never you mind how he knew."

"All the same, An laoshi was very adamant against us leaving." Flame thought she could hear a note of uncertainty in Jiang's reluctance to believe in Li's clearly dogged hunt of them.

"She was just against you being ordained before your name was cleared, Li disgraced, and the Lian family lands donated, to the monastery in gratitude." The monk sounded almost flippant.

"So you're here to ensure that this all comes to pass. That's why An sent you with us, isn't it?" Jiang voiced Flame's thoughts in the first utterance. She'd also dropped Sister An's honorific, Flame noted.

"I assure you, no." Wong jerked the palanquin forwards.

"Why do you want to help us, then?" Jiang continued to voice their thoughts. She sounded reluctant to allow him. Flame, however, thought she would gladly let him, if the monk was willing to help them against Li.

"I've killed plenty, for country, family, and An's attempts at vengeance against the brother who did her wrong. Righteous causes and ideas of honour. Are they still righteous or honourable, if one kills for them?" The question was posed rhetorically. "I've had my fill of destructive notions, and I'm certainly not going to drag you two in. The battles are over for this old tiger, and he'll die free."

Free of An's struggles against Li, who had removed her from the family? Flame was perplexed. That was all very well for him, since it wasn't personal for the monk. As if he had heard her thoughts, Wong added:

"You've seen jiaozi, paper money? It's a promise of worth, not actual metal of value. But people exchange it for things of value. Same with notions―you can't feel their value, but they purchase the actions of the people to which they've been given." He paused momentarily, and Flame wished that he would hurry up.

"Don't be ensnared. Their worth is illusionary."

Flame had to completely disagree. Maybe feelings and notions were abstract like everything else, to a Buddhist like Wong, but to her, the notion of evil was very real. It manifested itself in Li's actions by the sword many years ago, with the callous group of girls who'd taunted her with Li at the monastery, and the constables who had persecuted her on Li's behalf. In Flame's mind, evil was not a concept, but a man―Magistrate Li. It was easier to focus hatred on a single man, and Flame did it naturally, without thinking about why.

"You still haven't told us how you're going to help," Flame reminded. Wong was proving to be very long-winded.

"Heh." The monk chuckled. "You know, An wanted me force one of you into fulfilling the marriage contract if she didn't manage to have Li eliminated."

"But you won't." Flame couldn't place the tone in her sister's voice.

"That's right. And I'm not killing Li either. Despite what either of you may think. I actually am a monk."

It looked like Flame would be dealing with Li herself. Evidently neither Jiang nor Wong could help her. She leaned against the seat back, suddenly exasperated with the lack of action.

"One more thing."

Perhaps her sister would do something after all. Flame turned, wanting to discern her sister's intention from expression, but in the dark, Jiang was invisible.

"Where is the marriage contract?"

"What are you planning?"

"To remove it, and Magistrate Li's hold over us."

"Well, I don't know where it is. Not even Li's son knows."

"Why would his son know?," cut in Flame. She was tired of guessing Wong's intent, and of her sister's seemingly more complex plans to extract them both from Li's clutches without actually confronting him.

"His father entrusted him with their records. Thought it was good preparation for any future positions that he'd hold."

"Where is he now?" Flame asked. She found herself wondering if Li's son would try to avenge his father, if she managed to kill the judge. She never thought much of the future, but this idea seemed important.

"Forget it," growled Wong, "both of you should stop living in the past. Such notions are lethal."

Flame felt that he knew. But clearly he wasn't saying. They travelled silently the rest of the way. It was pitch black by the time they reached their destination― the Canal.

***

Xiang walked down the main trail from Yongtai, regretting the loss of his horse. He was nearly out of money, and the farmers at Dahuting didn't accept jiaozi. He could most likely obtain provisions and lodging, if he cared to flaunt his rank and name, but Xiang did not want to extort others, even though his father had never forbidden it. He walked on, taking care to stay beneath the shade of trees. It was early morning and drizzling. Xiang yawned. He'd slept badly after examining the antiquities of Dahuting's Han cemeteries. He was sure that none of his ancestors were buried there and requiring offerings, yet his sleep had been troubled by bronze-armoured ghosts riding flame-coloured mounts. He hadn't recognized any of them, although the had faces seemed familiar, and the horses had reminded him of something. Now the horses from his thoughts filled his ears, as Xiang heard hoof beats. He whirled, sword loosened to draw.

It was the old man who'd taken his horse, mounted and setting the horse at a leisurely pace. Xiang watched him warily.

"Well, if it isn't the owner of this very steed!" The old bandit seemed cheerful.

"Grandfather, you have a lot of audacity, to be walking the horse before his rightful owner," returned Xiang, addressing the old man politely.

"Let me make you an offer," said the bandit, stopping his horse. "You give me both your swords, I'll give you your horse."

"And then this situation ends with you riding off again," said Xiang, drawing his sword. "Truly, it wouldn't do for me to be fooled twice."

"I wasn't finished," beamed the man through his grey beard. "Counter offer—we'll duel for your horse; your means to Bianjing." Xiang was instantly on guard. How did this man know his destination? If he won, maybe he would find out. But it didn't seem honourable to fight an old man.

"Grandfather, can you wield a blade?"

"Not at all, though it's considerate of you to ask," replied the old man. "Tell you what, I'll use this instead." He held up his staff. So dark was the wood, Xiang believed the staff to be of black iron, until it caught the light. Then the red shone.

"Hie!"

Hooves beat dust into the air, and Xiang rolled out of the way as the bandit attempted to ride him down, staff grasped double-handed near its base, as if to spear him. Xiang's sword rose to stab at the wrist, but the bandit snaked his staff forwards, end catching Xiang in the chest, to knock him down. Xiang had roped his sword by tassel to his wrist, but he had to grope in the earth all the same to find his blade. Chest aching―it had been unexpectedly heavy for a piece of wood―Xiang stood, sword arm back, left side facing the old man, who was drawing the horse in a circle to gallop back at him.

The wooden staff circled heavily to hit his wrist, but Xiang was faster, as he slid between horse and staff, directing the sword tip in a downward arc to bite at the inside of his adversary's arm. Dirt flew as the horse shied, and Xiang was momentarily stunned as the heavy wood circled under his arm and caught him in the elbow. He tripped back, blinded in a flurry of sand, to land heavily on his shoulders, even as he rolled over backwards to spare his back.

"I don't think you're actually trying," commented the bandit from the back of his horse. "Your father would be disappointed."

"What do you know about my father?" Xiang asked, shaking his sword arm in an effort to return the feeling to his numbed fingers. He suspected that his father really would have been disappointed, but Xiang wasn't about to let that show. Showing emotion would have disappointed his father further. The bandit smiled.

"I'll tell you if you win. Your father told me that if violence failed to spur you on, I should hold out knowledge instead."

"It would be rather hard to ask you anything if I won," Xiang commented wryly, while waiting for feeling to return to his arm. He watched warily as the bandit held the horse motionless.

The bandit smiled; sadly, it seemed to Xiang. "There's your father showing." He spurred the horse onwards again.

Xiang tried for a side slash this time, sword moving in tandem with his core, as he spun towards the bandit. He meant to slash below the staff—such a heavy rod would be difficult to manoeuvre into a block. Instead, his blade was struck nearly clear of his hands, as the bandit flipped the staff to follow the motion of the sword, base of the staff lifted high, while the other end snapped at Xiang's hands. He lunged forwards, but the bandit led the horse in a circle around Xiang's back, and tripped him up with the staff. The momentum of the fall brought Xiang into another roll, this time off the road, and between two trees.

He whirled up just as the horse came upon him. Protected by live wood, while threatened with dead, Xiang prepared to slash the heavy staff from the bandit's hands by striking it directly. His horse would stop at the trees, he knew, and perhaps with loss of speed, the bandit could be disarmed, or at least the wooden pole shortened if he parried badly. The staff shot suddenly, aimed for his injured leg. Xiang had just enough time to twist out of the way, and jerk steel into staff.

While Xiang's blade had a keen edge, and its core was durable steel, it did not feel nearly flexible enough, as the blade shook stiffly and threatened to tear from his grasp for a third time. The staff, gleaming dark red in the morning light, swept up sideways for his head. Xiang ducked, then grasped the reins of his horse, flinging them at his mount's head desperately.

His horse reared and crashed back down, narrowly missing a tree, and Xiang's head. The old man struggled to keep both seat and animal. Xiang used the opportunity to slip his sword above the man's two-handed grasp of staff, to point squarely at the throat.

"Yield."

"That was no way to treat your animal," the bandit replied, ignoring the blade.

"It was equally ill-willed of you to ride my horse at two trees, Grandfather," responded Xiang, still using the polite form of address, though he pressed the blade closer. The bandit chuckled.

"And I was beginning to think you weren't pragmatic at all, after I took your horse the first time and affronted your station."

"A station of which you're part, or at least provisioned by," Xiang said. "My horse, please." To his surprise, the old man dismounted readily, leaning heavily on his staff.

"How did you know?"

"By your staff," said Xiang, referring to the heavy hardwood of clearly precious type, given its rich dark tint. He moved carefully between his horse and the bandit. "The last time we met, you weren't as richly provisioned."

"The first time we met, I didn't have a horse either."

"You also speak richly, for a supposed commoner."

"I'm a learned old man," laughed the bandit.

"You're Lang laoshi," Xiang recognized suddenly. Lang had been his tutor when he was younger. His former tutor still looked sprightly enough, though his beard had grown longer and greyer, since the seven years that had passed. Xiang lowered his blade, bemused.

"That's correct," said Lang gravely. He palmed his staff quickly and thrust the end at Xiang's head. Xiang grasped the end while kicking at the wrist, wrenching the pole from his old teacher's hands.

"What are you doing?" Xiang was incredulous. Lang had been a law-abiding, and ever-constant voice of reason, for as long as Xiang had known him.

"Your laoshi has a last lesson to render, as per your father's request," said Lang.

"My father asked you to rob me?"

"Listen to me. Your father has always noted a lack of pragmatism in you. An honourable fool, to put his words nicely. But he wants you to know this―when someone wants your horse, threatens your family honour and goes against the law, you kill that someone. Personal honour is nothing compared to the honour of the family. And the law is absolute."

"Is that all?" Xiang had always had utmost respect for his teacher, but it was turning as weak as the false conviction in his teacher's words. Lang took a deep breath, and Xiang saw his hands shake slightly.

"He wanted you to remember that the law, based in Confucianism, and exercised for centuries since the Tang, has lasted so long because of its success in the preservation of strong family; strong Empire. That he has tasted bitterness, from the mistakes of his youth, to learn this, and would have you learn it earlier than he did."

"And what do you want to say?" Xiang was feeling warmer with anger, though he did not know why.

"Though it's to your father's despair that you'll let yourself be thieved, your station slandered, and Confucian law disregarded, all for self-honour, I want you to remember that Confucius also said, 'to put the family in order, we must first cultivate our personal life; to cultivate personal life, we must first set our hearts right'," replied Lang. "You are not your father. Your heart is different."

Xiang listened to all this with growing dread. It was evident that his father knew exactly what had elapsed between the time that he encountered Lang on the way to Yongtai, and on the way from it.

"All I did was teach swordplay!" Xiang burst out, angry for being trapped by his father and Lang. It appeared that they were pulling him in opposing directions.

"To what end?" When Xiang didn't answer, Lang sighed.

"I see. You intend to provide the means for honourable combat. Well, I'll say to you, don't let a dog eat your conscience." Xiang started Lang's use of the oft-said idiom.

"Are you speaking from experience?" Xiang was angry now, politeness slipping as did his self-control. "If not, Lang laoshi, what are you doing, dressed as a bandit and informing on me?"

"A dog ate your father's conscience," Lang smiled, all bandit again.

"Take that back!" Xiang was furious, for his father.

"Or you'll kill this old man?" Lang's mouth tautened. "I'm doing this because your father threatened my son. He's twenty-three, set to inherit my ideals." Xiang was twenty-three. He felt a stab of pity for Lang. But Lang wasn't his father. And although he owed Lang much, he owed his father more. The sword hung undecided in Xiang's hand.

Lang decided for him. The old man lunged and snatched up the Tang sword that Xiang had left hanging from the saddle. He flung the scabbard aside.

"I'm as adept as you remember," said Lang, beard moving ethereally in the wind as he spoke.

"That's not at all," said Xiang. The words had hardly left his mouth, when Lang thrust the blade at him. His laoshi, he recalled, had studied the spear while still young, but was woefully inadequate with sword. The old teacher seemed to consistently under reach, as he stabbed forwards and withdrew alternatively with the quick strokes of a spear point. Xiang parried them all easily, though the steel sounded uncommonly harsh as he did so.

Lang thrust offensively at his feet. When Xiang knocked the blade aside, Lang took up the wooden staff again, and speared for his face. Xiang knocked it down as well. His teacher's breaths began to come in gasps.

"Lang laoshi," said Xiang exasperatedly, "is my father trying to kill you?" The old tutor held his staff protectively in front of him, heavy wood of darkest red, to face Xiang's steel. Xiang lowered his blade slightly, in response.

"He's trying to make you kill me," replied his teacher, with recovered breath. Then he rushed forward, heavy staff gleaming red, circling downwards at Xiang. The sword raised to parry.

And instead of wood found flesh.

Xiang had just killed a week ago. Already he had only a vague recollection of the scruffy men who'd attacked him alongside Lang. They'd died quickly, in the thick of fighting. This was different. Lang was on his knees, hands devoid of staff, face emptying of blood.

"I don't believe you've killed your liang xin, conscience, yet. But be the dutiful son. Send my body, with the staff, to Bianjing. Tell Li that Lang has done his part."

He pulled himself from Xiang's blade, and Xiang watched him expire quickly. Had his father really arranged for Lang and his men to attack him, to make him kill? Xiang's head swam, and he moved from Lang. The blood pooled, in an earthy depression around the staff his father had provided. Xiang recognized it to be of zitan mu. It was a wood of scarcity and renowned for its resilience and desirable dark tint. This made it an expensive gift from his father. Xiang looked back at his tutor's body, and with a sudden pang of remorse, remembered that Lang had no son.

He looked to the staff. The blood had filled the pit, but the staff stayed sunken at the bottom. Zitan mu was the densest of all woods, and refused in a wholly unnatural manner, to float as other woods did.

***

Xiang was sixteen years old, calligraphy brush in hand, poised to blot the paper before him. He had asked Lang, his former teacher and an adept calligrapher, to advise. His father's birthday was fast arriving, and Xiang planned to submit several characters to his father.

He didn't know what to write. The saying, 'drinking the water of a well, one should never forget who dug it,' had few enough strokes for him to manage. But the meaning was more for himself; a reminder for him to appreciate the efforts of his father. Efforts that made Xiang who he was. 'One justice can overpower one hundred evils' appeared more appropriate for his father's vocation, but it seemed like gross flattery to Xiang, and his father, ever sharp, could penetrate easily through that. That was why he had called Lang.

Before his employment to Xiang's father, Lang Xin had been a government official, bound for ignominy, in a forgotten province. Magistrate Li had saved him from that, but not before Lang had languished a full decade, his talents used in nothing but calligraphy.

"Laoshi, I'm now considering 'ru mu san fen,'" Xiang told his old teacher, as the latter came in. "It is a concise piece of profound meaning, and I am confident that my honourable father will be pleased with it." Lang smiled at his former student's youthful confidence.

"Well, young Xiang, let's see. What exactly are you trying to give your father here?"

"Appreciation for him having position, power, and a dutiful son."

" 'Enters the wood by three fen,'" read Lang, from Xiang's preliminary practise. "Or rather, 'profound words carve deeply.'" He looked amused.

"Those were the exact words written by Wang Xizhi, master calligrapher of the Jin dynasty." Xiang defended his choice.

"And did you choose these for their deep meaning, or for the simplicity of the characters?" There were only four words, each with a small number of strokes. Xiang was at first annoyed, then sheepish. Lang had always known his pupil well.

"I don't know what to write," he muttered at his paper.

"Sometimes, the characters with the fewest strokes are the hardest to write. They need a tempered, but at the same time, flexible hand."

"As with a jian?"

"Always back to the sword with you, isn't it?" Lang chuckled. He took the brush from Xiang, and rendered the cursive character for jian in fluid, deft movements, lifting his brush only for the last stroke.

"I'll write this, then," decided Xiang, taking the brush from his teacher. The brush moved quickly across the blank paper, long marks rendered in bold strokes, the side stroke finished with a thin flourish.

"You move your brush like a sword," commented Lang, smiling as he looked over Xiang's work. Teacher and pupil compared the characters.

Lang's character was rendered with easy confidence, cursive strokes swept abstractly. The left side of the character was almost completely obscured in a swirl. The right side, however, containing the letter for dao, was distinctly visible. A long slash, that grew from a small point to a large blot, had been added across the stroke representing the knife's blade.

Xiang had written his character with heavy ink on top, then progressed to thinner strokes on the bottom as the ink dried. Unlike Lang's rendition, each stroke was clearly distinct.

"Why do you think I blotted mine?" asked Lang, indicating his character.

"Lang shifu, I don't know," Xiang sighed. The slash, sometimes called a blood-stroke, seemed to detract from the character's composition, even though the dao side was rendered quite distinctly.

"No need to call me shifu; I'm merely showing, not instructing."

"Lang laoshi, then," said Xiang, determined to address Lang properly. "I can only hazard that the stroke was done to bring the dao character into prominence."

"Well, you're close. I wanted to ruin it."

"What?"

"This is a blood-stroke, right?" Lang pointed at the long blot. "And here's the blade." He traced a finger along the stroke streaked by the blot. "It's the most important part of the character. You've rendered yours nearly invisible." He indicated Xiang's variation, in which the dao had been stretched out of resemblance.

"But I didn't blot mine," said Xiang. "Lang laoshi, why did you ruin yours?"

"It's a blood-stroke," repeated Lang, "and it's a reminder that no matter how fine the steel, or how beautifully the edge shines in the light, a sword is for killing. Don't you forget it."

Xiang looked back at his own work, then again at his teacher's.

"I believe I'll have to choose another character."

"No, I don't believe you will," mused Lang, stroking his black beard. "Yours will do nicely."

"But I've missed the point of the character," insisted Xiang. Lang looked over at the young man's letter.

"Not at all." He traced a finger over the clear and confident strokes of Xiang's work. "Your strokes have been rendered quite distinctly, each one with accuracy according to conventional rules. They're all quite clear. It suits the character."

"And the personality of my father," mused Xiang. His father, upright and determined, had single-handedly made a name for himself as a justice, elevated the family status through persistence, and raised Xiang strictly. Xiang was old enough to appreciate the latter; after all, wasn't Confucius quoted as saying, 'the gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trial'? The steel of the sword embodied his father's virtues, and its use in combat celebrated the struggles his father had gone through for his sake.

Then he frowned.

"But knowing the other meaning, how could I present mine to my father? It would be a lie." He looked thoughtfully at Lang's work as he spoke.

"Give him both, then," suggested Lang.

"I don't think he'd think very highly of you if I did that," worried Xiang. Lang shrugged his shoulders with a smile.

"Well, young Xiang, if it matters that much to you―"

"―it does." Xiang recalled that his father had recently presided over a trial, in which a man, accused of slandering the Emperor, had been sentenced to death. The only evidence had been lines of obscure poetry, in a dusty book. If his father was an extension of the Emperor's governance, it wouldn't do for Lang to insult him accidentally.

"That's quite considerate. Very good of you." It was Xiang's turn to shrug in reply.

"It wouldn't do to upset my father on his birthday," said Xiang. "But what will I write now?"

The wind blew violently and the shutters flapped open. Papers scattered to the floor, and Xiang's work ended up in the dish of water for cleaning brushes.

"I won't be writing jian," Xiang decided.

"What about a selection from the Tao Te Ching? Chapter 33."

"'To understand others is to be knowledgeable;

To understand yourself is to be wise.

To conquer others is to have strength;

To conquer yourself is to be strong.

To know when you have enough is to be rich.

To go forward with strength is to have ambition.

To not lose your place is to be long lasting.

To die but not be forgotten —that's true long life.'"

"Marvellous!" exclaimed Lang. Xiang had recited the passage accurately. "It will please your father, for him to know that you've been readying yourself for the examinations."

This would be a lot longer than jian. It also seemed a bit less applicable― his father didn't need reminding of such tenants, did he? He said as much to Lang.

"The man who recognizes that he has still much to learn is a wise man," Lang smiled. He was always merry, thought Xiang, idly. Was it because his teacher had recognized so much?

"At any rate, the passage could apply to yourself. Your father should be satisfied to know that his son can recognize the requirements of self-development."

"And the last two lines should be pleasing," added Xiang. He thought of how his father had worked unceasingly to raise their family to its current status, but still returned to his former prefecture and home each year, to pay his respects. The last line, which was probably the object of every patriarch, would make a good promise from son to father. The preceding lines, which his father practised in abundance, could also be interpreted as an oblique compliment, in reminding his father of what he already had. Writing this much text would also allow him to show off his calligraphy, even though he would probably have to rewrite it several times. There were also the points that Lang laoshi stated. Yes, this was a good idea.

Xiang dipped the brush in ink and committed it to paper, testing each character.

"I'll leave you to it, young Xiang," said Lang, as he left.

"Thank you, laoshi." Xiang inclined his head respectfully to his teacher.

He worked late into the night, forming each character with care, trying to force the truth into each one. By daybreak, he was surrounded by crumpled papers. The silk scroll still sat blank before him. Rubbing his aching temples, Xiang realized that he was due to practise his daily swordplay, under his father's supervision, in two hours. His eyes fell on Lang's jian character. The intentional slash seemed even more unsightly than before.

Sometimes, the truth isn't exactly what we want to see. But the conscience is always right. In his befuddled state, Xiang thought that he could hear Lang laoshi speaking. What felt right? He was tired and didn't want to think of it anymore. Grasping the brush, he wrote out all forty-six characters onto the scroll, each in bold, clear text. They stood starkly against the white threads, black ink contrasting sharply; even penetrating through the fine cloth where Xiang had pressed too hard. Though it was somewhat ruinous, it would have to do. He rushed to his father, sword in hand, explaining his lateness as being the result of his contemplation on one of laoshi's lessons.

***

His father had received the gift as graciously as was proper― coolly, at the banquet held in his honour, and again afterwards. It was well, he said, that Xiang could remember sections from one of the Five Classics required for imperial examinations, but he would still need to study the Four Books now, if he wanted a post before he was twenty. Xiang respectfully kept himself from reminding his father that he had already memorized all four books, as his father had demanded of him, a year ago. He watched as his father's eyes appraised the strokes of the characters closely for the first time.

"These are the bold, clear strokes of a swordsman," commented his father. "But the swordsman needs a more discerning cut. A feint is sometimes desirable over an outright stab." He put the scroll down and looked severely at Xiang.

"You will practise calligraphy under a new calligrapher, of highest ability, from now on." Xiang nodded his head in acquiescence. "No more drunken strokes." He dismissed Xiang.

Several weeks later, Xiang found himself practising calligraphy under a master, whose lessons cost enormous sums. His calligraphy looked as clear and blocky as before, but there was no comment from either his father or the master about it looking drunken. Lang had disappeared.

It would be seven years before Xiang would meet him again on the road, with staff in hand and arrayed as a bandit.

***

Only now did Xiang realize that his father had been referring to the saying, 'in wine there is truth.' He supposed that a truth, disliked by his father and planted by Lang, had shown in his overly-liberal strokes, the product of an overwhelmed mind. Feints, falsehoods, did not cut like outright thrusts. Lang had died for his opposition. Dropping to his knees by his former teacher, Xiang sighed deeply as he stared at the expensive zitan mu staff. It had been overcome by steel, and now lay, still showing its wine-red hues, in crimson. And Xiang again marvelled at how unnaturally it refused to float.

Night fell, and he sat up resolutely. His father's rectifying lessons always came at a high cost. Xiang vowed to not disappoint his father again.
Chapter 8: Return to Bianjing

The waters lapped quietly against the hull of the boat. All three of them were still outfitted as the circumstances had demanded. When Jiang had asked about removing the sword, and coat of plates, since they were now on water, Wong had dismissed the notion. They could still encounter guards at checkpoints, he warned, and besides, he had an indefinite loan of boat, outfit, palanquin and all.

"Did you kill someone for them?" asked Jiang, with alarm.

"Don't be ridiculous," snorted Wong. "I bought them all."

"A true monk― "

"―pledges his belongings entirely to Buddha and carries no cash," Wong finished for her. "Well, circumstances call for a bit of pragmatism. Anyhow, An's always had ways of acquiring funds for me, to run her errands."

"Then she's no true nun either," said Jiang decisively. Flame was somewhat surprised at her sister's new pointedness. Maybe because they had been away from the monastery for more than two days. Or because of the lack of sleep. She also realized that she was noticing these things in her sister. Flame attributed this to the fact that they'd been spending so much time in each other's company, a thing that had rarely happened at Yongtai.

The full moon brought a sheen to the waters of the canal, and Flame couldn't help but wonder how they were going to leave Bianjing undetected. Barges were being stopped every few docks. Jiang voiced this with concern.

"They're lax, you'll see," Wong assured her. "Despite Li's hold, underpaid guards aren't keen to search for two likely dead girls."

"Even when said girls are in the company of a supposed Jurchen traitor?"

"I'm dead to the world, and no one cares," shrugged off Wong. "Unlike you two."

If Li had been dead, there would be no chase, Flame reflected. Defeating the troupe of constables at the market had been pointless; in fact, it would probably encourage Li further, to hunt them down. Even after the deaths of her parents, the magistrate was still intent on wiping out the entire Lian line. She stared down at the water. The moon's reflection stared back at her from the river surface, a shivering facsimile.

"Supposing that we do leave the city, successfully, where are we going then?" Wong shrugged in reply to Jiang's question.

"That's up to you, as I've said before. Might want to avoid Longhua, though, seeing as Li most likely knows you're headed there."

That was troublesome. Flame felt that it might be better, if they simply stayed in Bianjing and dealt with Li. The moon was blotted out as they passed under a section of a huge arched bridge, and in the momentary shadow, she felt that the barge was about to smash into the side of the canal. They neared a dock, swarming with policemen. Flame could recognize them by uniform. Unlike the earlier attackers, however, these ones weren't as well-armed. A few had spears, but most held only wooden staffs. There were a lot more of them, however. Flame tensed, quickly locating her sister, in case she needed to draw blade.

But they drew a different type of attention.

"Hey, old man, share what you've got!" One of the men waved at Flame.

"This lowly servant has, alas, been instructed not to share," replied Wong, in mock bow. Though Flame could see Wong's sarcastic expression clearly, in the light of the single lantern hanging from the barge prow, the overpowering lights of the dock blinded the constables to Wong's dry smile. Jiang stood up, sword rattling.

"Some palm grease, then," grinned one man. He poised himself to board a nearby boat and give chase, in case they gave an unsatisfactory response. Wong grumbled and dropped anchor.

"I've no money. You think my master would trust me with his coppers?"

"What's he doing, trusting you with her, then?" The rest laughed drunkenly.

"You monkeys. I get my commission after she's safely delivered," Wong grated. "And besides," he added, indicating her sister, "he's here to make sure I do." Flame thought she saw Jiang wince.

"You want a song instead?" Her sister made the offer, not bothering to disguise her voice. Flame couldn't help but wince. Though it was hard for the men to tell who had spoken, she knew she sounded nothing like her sister, so she wouldn't be able to respond.

"Song and that nice beizi you're wearing." The man pointed at Flame's clearly visible and expensive silk coat, which she'd forgotten she was wearing. She should have hidden herself behind the curtain, scolded a voice in her head, but Flame brushed it off. It was too late now.

"That coat's embroidered with my master's family name," shot back Wong. "No sale value, though a mistress might fancy it. But how are you all going to share one coat?" The men started muttering among themselves.

"You cheater; you were going to paddle up for that coat and keep it all to yourself, weren't you?" accused one man, as he swung a drunken fist at the one who had been readying the boat. The latter shoved him back, almost off the dock. The other men moved mutinously.

"Alright, a song then," their leader replied, grudgingly. It was too late to let the barge pass freely and still keep face.

That was a bad idea, Flame thought furiously. Surely her sister could have come up with the coat idea first? At least that would have been faster to throw. Now they would have to waste their escape time, entertaining drunken louts. Or to be more precise, they would have to waste their time listening to her do the entertaining. It was maddening. But there was no choice.

"Pick a song," urged Wong, elbowing her. Flame nearly stumbled. What song could she remember? She looked up at the clear night sky, moon full and shining. The canal's waters were black as ink, but where the lantern light struck, the water reflected sharp yellow streaks that wavered drunkenly, with the movement of the boat. She tore her gaze away. It made her feel dizzy, near inebriated.

I'll sing Mulan ci, Flame decided. She stared up at the bright moon. The sight of the men made her angry with indignation. Consequently, the first eight verses were wavering, as her fury, at being responsible for mollifying the dock guard, made her stumble through the sounds of Mulan weaving at the loom. However, by the time she passed the twelfth verse, her anger had abated, in part due to her staring fixedly at the moon.

Father has no adult son,

Mulan has no older brother.

Wish to buy a saddle and horse,

and serve in Father's place.

She passed quickly over a good half of the song expounding on travelling, Mulan not hearing her parents call, and the conclusion of the war. Flame's heart just wasn't into it. Because it didn't resonate with her, Jiang would have said, but her sister was listening silently, hand gripping the sword's hilt, as the barge prow rose and fell in drunken strokes.

Father and Mother hear Daughter is coming.

They go outside the city wall, supporting each other.

When Older Sister hears Younger Sister is coming

Facing the door, she puts on rouge,

Flame was nearly finished, so she sped up the words. It wouldn't affect the song anyway; Flame was confident that she had articulated all the words clearly. Singing had been the only thing she'd ever excelled at, though for some reason that ability didn't translate to chanting sutras. That was probably because she mumbled them. Sutras didn't mean as much to her as songs did.

I take off my wartime gown.

And put on my old-time clothes.

Simple lines, but Flame muttered the words. She concluded the song slowly, articulating each word, describing the incredulity of Mulan's wartime comrades, when they discovered her secret upon their reunion, many years later. Flame couldn't remember the number.

"Alright, off with you," waved the man who had started the trouble in the first place. Wong raised the anchor, and the barge rocked. Flame removed the coat. The boat resumed its journey.

"An interesting choice of song," Wong commented, after some silence and empty waters. Flame shrugged.

"It was the first song I thought of." Flame didn't know why she'd chosen it either. Her sister turned to her, moonlight glinting dully from the sword hilt.

"Perhaps you should hold onto this," Jiang said, offering the blade hilt first. Flame waved it away.

"Brother Wong said that you'd need it, for the outfit. And anyway, I can always sing again, if we meet anyone." The last words came from her mouth before she could stop them.

"My apologies for forcing that option on you," said her sister hurriedly. Flame was silent. In truth, it was because she had nothing to say, not out of anger for her sister's singing suggestion.

"A poet's moon," noted Jiang, as she viewed the sky, to break the silence. "The kind that would have inspired Li Bai's best works. Of course, some might say the wine helped."

"Do you know why I chose that song?" Flame was abruptly struck by an uncommon desire to explore her feelings. Her sister seemed to look guilty.

"I thought you were trying to place me in the role of Mulan's siblings, who did nothing throughout the song to help their sister, or father."

"Actually, I didn't think of that, though maybe unconsciously it's true. It just seems that the song suits me. That's all."

"But you went through nearly half the verses in a rush." That was true, Flame had to admit.

"Those ones didn't feel as right. The ones about Mulan not hearing her parents calling, for example." Her sister looked pensive in the moonlight. Flame herself was illuminated, up to her hands, in pale white light. She moved out, from under the canopy of their borrowed pleasure barge, to catch the full light.

"Because ours have passed on?," her sister asked quietly.

"No. Because I hear them calling," Flame replied seriously. It was only a few seconds later that she recognized the strangeness of her statement. But it was the truth, as she did hear them; her mother primarily, whenever they visited her sleep.

"Very well. I'm not the one who suffers such dreams." Clearly Jiang was still uncomfortable whenever Flame mentioned them.

"The dreams might be a good thing. To chase off ghosts." Changing topics at Jiang's discomfort, Flame gestured at the sword.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"The sword seller sold me that blade for the cost of seven bowls of rice because he said that it was an old sword." Jiang looked at the blade dubiously when Flame pointed at it.

"An old sword trailed by the spirits of those it has slain."

"They won't bother you. You're a Buddhist nun," grinned Flame.

"And you?"

"I already said, I've got Ma and Ba to keep evil spirits off. If anything, I need to keep them off, to keep them from making me feel guilty when I sleep." Flame refrained from adding, and to do that, I need to kill Li.Her sister would just try to dissuade her.

"Maybe it would have been more practical to save those coppers for your rice," said Jiang, sounding annoyed, as if she had divined Flame's unspoken words. Or maybe it was because they had unconsciously returned to the subject of their parents, despite Flame's efforts to change the topic.

"I'll just eat less." Flame waved off her sister's concern. "This is more useful."

"Alright, both of you be quiet. We're passing another dock, and this time, the canal's not as wide," growled Wong. He poled the barge as close to the centre of the canal as he could.

***

Xiang arrived in Bianjing on a full moon night. A poet's moon hung lightly above him. But he was in no mood to drink. The enormity of what his father had burdened him with had taken from him all desire for wine, strangely enough.

He noticed that sections of the canal were being purposely narrowed. This was most likely part of preparations, for the approaching Jurchens. Xiang wondered if his father, as the Bianjing prefect, meant to flood the entire area around the city to slow their advance. It would make a ruin of the farmland for sure, but then again, so would a looting army. They would exchange one evil for another. Xiang glanced back. Lang's body lay in the cart behind him. Recalling what he had done to his teacher made him feel ill.

If he hadn't died, Father would most likely have had him killed for failing. But the thought did nothing to assuage his remorse. The alternative actions that he might have taken―disarm Lang, refuse to use his sword, or even, in emulation of his teacher, take the horse at the most opportune moment and ride for Bianjing―came quickly to mind, and hurt his head, like painful accusations.

Yet had he left Lang alive, his father would have asked him what had become of his teacher. And then his father would have been heavily disappointed, by his cowardice in a fight. Xiang refused to be weak. He would live up to his father's expectations.

Returning to the task at hand, Xiang tore his attention from Lang. The city walls, the branching canals, and wide streets filled Xiang's gaze. Shopkeepers, tavern owners, and the usual nighttime fixtures had all extinguished their lanterns early. Pathways, both earthen and watery, were devoid of populace. Even the moon was being obscured, by clouds.

Bianjing, with one of the largest populations in the Empire, was filled with the silence of a tomb. Xiang inferred that the emptiness was due to the curfew, imposed by the looming threat of invasion, but he had never known city folk to be that adherent. Perhaps it was his father's presence.

He scanned the waters pensively. The options of leaving the city were rather simple―by canal or by road. The swiftest and safest route, for any fugitive wishing to leave China entirely, would be by water. Still, Xiang was unsure. The Grand Canal, one of the oldest, Xiang knew, would have its blockages at points, particularly with the recent rise of silt carried into it from the Yellow River. And hiring both bargeman and barge was costly. The road might be less expensive, particularly if villagers were inclined to give alms to a nun of Yongtai.

No. Not a nun. Xiang was looking for fugitives from the law. One was potentially dangerous. If they attacked him, it would be fair for him to return the favour, with steel. He had no qualms forbidding him that. Xiang had felled men simply for trying to reach him with a blade. The cart thumped over uneven earth, and he winced.

He would have to stop possessing such scruples. A sword might bend, for the pliant core within, but it was the hardened outer metal that gave it a sharp edge, and its function. That was why it could shear wood. Why only metal would stop it. Xiang's face hardened. All his life, he had aspired to become his blade. His father had tried to temper him, but it seemed that he was still soft and dull. It wouldn't do.

The canal loomed large before him, water lapping softly and black without the moon. Lang's wooden cart still sounded. And before him, a melee fought out before a distant canal dock, silhouettes of men shaped against the flickering flames of lanterns.

Xiang was spoiling for a fight. This was opportune, especially since brawling among the night watch was explicitly frowned upon. He would end it quickly. Instructing the cart driver to go where his father might be, Xiang dismounted, tied his horse to the cart, and with steely authority, ordered a guardsman to row him over. No wind blew, and the stillness of the night was matched in Xiang's held expression, betraying no emotion.

***

Five men already lay on the ground; dead or unconscious made no difference to him. There were still twenty-five more, and Wong had to deal with them. Silently, he cursed. It was true that he'd taken it upon himself to help the Lian sisters from Bianjing, and also true that he'd come up with the idea of the barge, but he hadn't asked for confrontation. Wong had been through enough of those in his life. If only those guards at the first dock hadn't taken offence and rode to warn the next ones of their coming...

Another bamboo pole was thrust for his face. Wong batted it away lazily with his own. The group meant nothing to him, but if those sisters didn't pole off the boat, he'd have difficulty stopping the guardsmen from swarming the barge, once they tired of watching him. He hadn't wanted to stop the boat, but a flotilla had appeared, to block the fugitives off from the remainder of the channel. Wong almost felt flattered.

"Just drop it, old man," seethed one of the men. Wong didn't bother replying. He needed his breath. Two poles snaked for his legs simultaneously, but he swept both away, catching them as they crossed, stepping smoothly back with pole raised defensively. A man tried to slip behind him, so Wong, after swinging the pole in an accelerating circle, clapped him soundly across the chest with his staff end. The man splashed noisily off-dock. A quick glimpse behind him showed that the barge still floated in position.

"Go on!" Wong growled at the boat. It'd be pointless for them to wait; Wong had sprang, from boat to dock, in hopes of negotiating passage. Instead, they'd set upon him. All thirty of them. Fortunately, he'd deprived the closest man of a staff early on, and now he used it to fend off the rest.

One man, better equipped than the others, thrust a spear at his chest. Grinning, Wong caught and pulled the spear neck towards himself, unbalancing the man, and at the same time slid his foot along the pole, to sweep off the man's fingers. If Wong had ever favoured a weapon, it was the spear. Wresting it from the man, he flipped and gripped the spear, double-handed, near its base.

Lunging forwards, Wong thrust at the nearest man, his foremost hand twisting the spear tip in rotation as it entered the man's thigh. Without pause, he retracted the spear, and jabbed three times in a wide semi-circle as he fended off three men with dao. The second, having thrown himself back as the spear made for his face, whirled his blade forward as Wong retracted, but the spear was longer, and it twisted out to transfix his foot.

The rest of the company drew back, uncertain, as Wong struggled internally to maintain regular breathing. He inhaled heavily through his nose, willing his chi settle.

A sudden splash made him turn; it was a newly docked boat unloading a single swordsman, blade already drawn. Wong whirled to meet him, spear poised to jab at the face, but the swordsman swept it aside, blade hitting the steel neck of the spear with an ugly grating sound. The spear circled back, and the sword struck it again, this time in a downward cut, shearing off half the wooden pole. It was a cheap spear, for sure, Wong admitted regretfully to himself, as he knocked away one of the thirty who had regained their courage with the shortening of the weapon.

A glint caught his eye from the swordsman's boat, and Wong had just enough time to duck low and avoid a sword cut as a crossbow bolt streaked his scalp. A stab in his shoulder from the sword brought him lower. Fraction of a second more and the sword would return for his head. The sword whistled. A bad cut, thought Wong, even as he rolled to avoid the blade, springing up with a fresh staff from a fallen opponent to meet the sword.

But the blade never came.

Steel met scabbard, and Wong wanted to shout in exasperation as Jiang stepped to parry the blow aside by sword sheath. His eyes flickered quickly to the crossbow man. The guard lay unconscious, or possibly dead, in the boat, crossbow hopefully gone, as Flame climbed over the man to step ashore.

"Draw it," ordered the swordsman. Jiang moved back, sword still sheathed.

"No."

She tossed the sword down. Wong bit back the urge to shout. Where had her wits gone? And as if to prove the futility of the gesture, one of the men threw themselves at her, staff whirling down for her head. Jiang avoided it easily, catching the staff by the side and pulling herself towards the man, to strike him in the temple. The rest of the men then threw themselves at her, and Wong swept to meet them, staff in hand.

So it continued, wood striking wood and sometimes body; Jiang acquiring a staff somewhere along the way, and her sister elsewhere in the fighting.

Steel rang on steel, and Wong noticed with annoyance that the younger Lian had drawn the old sword. He hoped that it would stay in one piece; that the ghosts wouldn't break it in vengeance. Wong's grandmother had regaled him with plenty of oral tradition in which a sword's victims came back to wreck havoc on both owner and blade. They never ended well.

***

Flame had never actually used the sword against another swordsman before. The first time, with the constables at the market, she had drawn the sword in blind panic, sweeping it in short chops as if with a staff. Those had all been easily parried by dao that seemed foreign to her. This time, however, the sword that met hers was swung in familiar patterns. Long thrusts. Circling blocks. The only unfamiliarity was in the way the blade seemed to find its way into hers, clanging loudly every time it did so. Xiang had told her that this was bad for both blade and wielder, as it chipped the blade and tired out the arm with avoidable vibrations. She wondered if that was the point. Her opponent's blade seemed to be of finer steel than hers.

The sword leapt forwards for her throat, and Flame leaned back quickly, sword circling out to block, then spinning in figure eights to try and dissuade further attack. Instead, the blade danced for her feet, and Flame retreated, nearly bumping into the side of the guardhouse as she did so. It would have been better to move to the side. As the sword came again, Flame deliberately moved towards the swordsman, blade poised to sweep downwards for the throat. But in the glow of the lantern flame, she noticed a familiar face.

"Swordsman Xiang!" Flame was lowering her blade even as Xiang battered it aside. "Don't you recognize me?" It was clearly him, even though his face wasn't as clean-shaven and his topknot in a slight mess.

It took him several seconds to lower his blade, and another several before he acknowledged her.

"Flame meimei," he returned, voice taut. Flame gave him a swordsman's salute, handle grasped in left fist and brought up to right palm. He returned that tersely as well, but when Flame sheathed her blade, his stiff facade seemed to snap, and he thrust his blade abruptly into the wooden planks of the dock, where it then stood, quivering.

"Alright, what's going on?" Xiang's voice cut sharply across the fray. Flame could see her sister, still wearing her plates, and Wong, with his staff, at the centre of the din. They ignored him. Gritting his teeth, Xiang grabbed the guardhouse gong and dealt it several blows.

The sound reverberated as the gong shivered from Xiang's hand, and the combatants all jerked back sharply, looking for the high official that the sound of the gong was meant to precede. Seeing none, they turned their gaze on Xiang.

"You will explain yourselves. On the prefect's orders." He shook out a scroll, slightly worn from travel, but with the red chop still clearly visible in the dim glow. Flame thought the characters looked familiar, though they were in seal script, so she couldn't be sure. Anyway, it didn't matter, so long as the paper could sufficiently cow their enemies. The men began murmuring again.

"They attacked a monk," Flame offered quickly. Wong drew his glare from the men to her. He was still armoured. It looked suspicious.

"A monk in armour," one of the men said slowly. "Not a real one, then."

"We were trying to avoid false persecution. If you must know." That was Jiang. Sometimes her sister could be more frank than her. Everyone swivelled, surprised at a second female voice. Flame thought Wong was about to explode. One of the men, as if suddenly recognizing Xiang, turned to him speedily.

"Young master Li, if it pleases you, this is one of those girls your-"

Xiang smacked him with the scroll.

"I know what Prefect Li has ordered! And it pleases me to execute his orders personally!" He turned his fury on the remainder. "You're dismissed for the night. Find your replacements. And no more incidents of mistaken identity like this one."

"Are you certain it's not them?" This was one of the older men speaking.

"Grandfather," said Xiang, anger barely contained by the honorific, "leave the Li family business to Li." Flame tensed. She should have been used to Li being on their trail by now, but every time someone brought up his name, she felt irrationally angry. Why wouldn't he leave them be? She gripped the hilt of her blade harder.

"You're all coming with me," said Xiang, when the majority of the men had shuffled off, leaving a few to clean up the mess. He glanced at her sister and Wong. "No need for disguises."

"Pardon, Li Xiang, but we've an appointment elsewhere," said Wong pointedly.

"I don't believe you're going anywhere, trailing blood like that."

"Is your shoulder troubling you, Wong shifu?" Jiang regarded Wong's shoulder concernedly.

"I've been cut by younger men, in younger days. My hide's gotten harder since." Wong shrugged off Jiang's worry, and tied one of his monk's leg straps about his shoulder, knotting it by hand and teeth. It was a useful skill, thought Flame.

"Don't you worry about the blood, Master Li," Wong growled, characteristically, to finish.

"Nonetheless, I would suggest that the Lian sisters not attempt the waterway again tonight. Li will be watching." Xiang wore a scowl. It seemed that Li could upset anyone.

"What does Li want with us?" Flame had to know. Xiang looked around warily.

"Keep your voice down. I have it on good authority that he has some unfinished business with you both, to put it concisely." He crossed his arms as they walked from the dock.

"And finishing this business involves finishing us off, right?" She found it frustrating to be given indirect answers.

"No!" Both Xiang and her sister answered, adamantly and immediately. That was a surprise. Usually her sister was never this emphatic. She must have been annoyed by something.

"Well, then what's this all about?" Flame demanded. She had the intuition that if someone would just tell her, she would be able to put an end to all this running from Li. Astonishingly, Jiang answered, though not directly.

"We'll talk about it soon, tonight."

The moon, previously darkened, was becoming visible again, as the clouds unfurled. She could vaguely see Jiang's face, set in determined silence. However, Flame was reassured by the response, as her sister was one of the few people she knew who reliably meant what they said. Wong trailed them in unreadable silence. They reached a dilapidated-looking inn, and Xiang paid for them all, before excusing himself for further business.

Moonlight penetrated the thin curtains, and Flame found herself seated cross-legged before her sister, in anticipation of answers.
Chapter 9: Paying the Debt

Prefect Li would have never admitted to being envious of his governmental peers, but the fact that they did not have to deal with the heavy burdens of his office peeved him greatly. Since rising from magistrate to prefect over all of Bianjing and its surrounding regions, Li had discovered it to be a poisoned gift. One justice might have been able to overpower one hundred evils, but ten thousand, or more, in the form of Jurchens, were now knocking at his gates. Li conjectured that this was the reason for his extended tenure. Prefects were typically rotated every three years. Li had been in his position for nearly seven, with no mention of his leaving.

And Lian, his old friend, had wanted to form an alliance with the traitorous Jurchen, some seven years back. The Empire had formed an alliance, true, two years ago, but the Jurchen had broken it almost immediately. At the time, his fellow officials had applauded his foresightedness, in knowing that the Jurchen were not to be trusted. Some had even voiced the notion that it was this brilliance that had moved the Empire to allow his extended prefecture. Li knew better. He had learned to distrust seven years ago.

His son's calligraphy still sat among his scrolls and books. Xiaowen was the only one who gave him truth. He had nearly thrown it away, angered at the time by his son's perceptiveness; by Lang's audacity in criticizing him through his son. But the strokes, though written by a hand of naive youthfulness, were honest. That was what Li favoured in his son. Honesty. Unbidden, his mind returned to the fateful day that he had learned mistrust.

***

"And so you'll see, Elder Brother Li, I may be able to purchase such lands through subordinates, while retaining this official post." Li had not understood, but Lian seemed confident. He always did.

"Is this scheme of yours...legal?"

"That's the magistrate speaking in you," laughed Lian. "Now, if one were to go through all of the Tang code in great detail, I am certain that one would find something against it. But we determined some centuries ago that the Tang dynasty land allocation schemes serve no one."

"I believe that certain tenets are still applicable," commented Li. "They prevent one from holding too much power."

"What's power in land?" Lian mused aloud. "A plot to farm, providing a reaping to feed oneself, and perhaps others. There's a famine approaching. Is it wrong to gather up land in order to farm it more effectively?"

"If it is the will of Heaven for a famine to manifest its dissatisfaction with us, who are we to interfere? And is it not tasked to the Son of Heaven to avert such disasters?"

"You know as much as I do that those are empty words," Lian said seriously. "Did Confucius not say that one needs to start with satisfying the smaller masses in order to run the ideal empire?"

"That's paraphrase."

"What about it?"

Li picked up his wine, a dark red, and sipped it in silence. Lian followed in suit. After some time, Li voiced his concerns.

"Listen, Younger Brother. It's all well and good to be buying up such lands for the well-being of the people, but the Jurchen aren't part of the people. Buying up their land is going to be seen as some sort of traitorous funding scheme, seeing as the Jurchen belong to the state of Liao."

"Brother Li, they are chafing under the rule of the Liao. What funds they receive will only go to harming our common enemy."

"You sound confident of it."

"I am. I've already met with several. They are affable enough."

"What?" Lian struggled to maintain composure. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Don't worry about it," Lian said, flippantly. "I'm prefect over these regions, and as far as I know, the Censorate hasn't found fault with me as of yet."

They might soon, Li thought grimly to himself. The commissioners never had to tell the prefects what they reported to the capital, and it would be easy for any enemy of Lian to let slip the details of Lian's schemes to one of the commissioners. Schemes. That was the only word Li could find to describe his friend's plans. They certainly didn't seem allowed under the law.

"Lian, as your friend, I really think you should desist in this. Amassing all this land, having to handle its income, you could easily be accused of acting for your own interests."

"Or enemy interests, the way you seem to be pointing it." Lian sipped his wine casually. Li poured himself some more.

"I only say this because I know from experience that lesser men would be willing to use its income for their own purposes."

"Please don't worry about such a calamity befalling me." His friend smiled.

Li suddenly tired of such talk. Lian had always been overly casual, regarding government matters. He could afford to be. Already the son of a rich landowner, who had inherited thousands of tracts of fertile land upon his father's death, Lian commanded respect, or at least men's wills, by wealth alone. But in addition to land, Lian was intelligent as well. He had written the prefectural, provincial and Imperial exams all in quick succession, scoring the highest marks, and without the hiring of a tutor, as so many rich men could afford to do. His appointment to prefect had come quickly.

Li, on the other hand, had been poor since birth. The youngest son of twelve, his father had passed on the entire land to the eldest, adamantly stating that to split the already tiny plot into twelve pieces was to starve them all. Then his brother had died, and his sister had somehow briefly taken control. While the brothers shortly deprived her, Li was left with nothing, despite his integral efforts in getting their sister out of the way. Determined to then make his own way in life, he had written and passed all three exams as Lian had, albeit at a later age. In spite of this, he had not been given a prefecture, but instead appointed as magistrate.

The bitterness was still tasted, from time to time. Lian was his friend, but sometimes Li couldn't stand the easy way he went from post to post, climbing rank on rank, leaving nothing but a trail of satisfied superiors and subordinates. It seemed to him that if only he had the wealth of Lian, he might be able to carve a similar path. In Li's view, power, through will or wealth, was what men responded to.

"Let me tell you something, Brother Li," said Lian, breaking into Li's thoughts. Li forced his criticisms from his head, face expressionless.

"What is it?"

"I know sometimes that these lesser men, the ones you mention, envy me." Lian smiled easily, as he sipped from the wine cup, and Li stiffened inside, though he was careful not to let it show. "But I don't detest them."

"No?"

"To be in a position of wealth, in the trust of the Son of Heaven, or his appointed officials anyhow, begets its own woes. That's the price. And if you'll forgive it coming from me, nothing ever comes easily." Li wondered where his friend meant to lead this conversation. Lian concluded for him.

"I bring this up because I know that the district inspector is coming soon to make his reports. Men murmur over my unorthodox plans to avert famine. In my position, what would you do?"

"I would pay for their silence." Why did I say that? Li silently berated himself for the slip of tongue. Too much wine, perhaps. Lian grinned.

"Not bad, but I wouldn't have expected such a suggestion from the law-abiding magistrate."

"You asked me what I would do if I were you," Li replied pointedly, still cursing his slip internally.

"Ah. Sorry, Elder Brother. I don't actually work that way. One can't buy off one's enemies."

"But one can buy the means to stop them." Li thought of the men and horses that could be hired with a fraction of Lian's rumoured wealth.

"Not when you've too many. One needs to be realistic." Lian finished his cup and poured more for both himself and Li. Li took only a sip for politeness.

"What I believe in is converting such men to my cause."

"By what means?"

"Pardon the earnestness of my opinion, but when men envy, it is because they detest their own powerlessness. And they secretly desire to become like the men they envy. In such a case, there is nothing left for them to do but build their own strength, to challenge others, or to weaken others. Our bureaucratic system exists, with its numerous independents reporting on each other, primarily to combat this phenomenon. It spreads its powers thoroughly, in trying to safeguard against such men. And so, each man is left with an impression of power over others, and each is satisfied. At least until he realizes its illusionary nature." Lian laughed. "That's power for you; lasts only as long as you do."

"Lian, I do not like the direction of this conversation," said Li, warily.

"I'm not scorning the dynasty," reassured Lian. "All I mean to say is that if one satisfies this petty need, one has a content friend."

"Perhaps this friend then wants more. Even friends are not easily satisfied." Lian responded to Li's remark with a sad smile.

"You're right, Elder Brother. Sometimes that friend wants more. In that case, there's only one thing to do." Lian let the words hang, but Li was not about to ask. A few more sips of wine, and his friend broke the silence.

"You must allow the envious man to have all of you," stated Lian, completely serious, and provoking Li's harsh laughter.

"How do you give up everything you have for such a man?" Li wondered if the strain of work had made his friend lose his wits.

"I already have. It was years ago, when I decided to marry Lady Hua." Li fell silent at this. Lian never talked about his family.

"My father was furious. I was going to marry the daughter of a merchant—me, from a respectable background as a gentleman farmer. Where was the honour in that? So I gave up my inheritance, gave up my land; returned everything to my father." Lian drew a breath. "Even my family name."

"Why?" Li asked quietly.

"He was afraid of losing respect. When your hands become powerless, your influence at court weak, what power do you have but the respect you've earned in younger days?" Lian chuckled. They were both still young, though Li's hair was greying prematurely. "So I let him keep it. And I made my living as a lowly merchant, until I could write the exams."

Merchants may have been scorned, for making money only off the labour of others, but many were quite wealthy. That was how Lian must have afforded his land.

"You've never said any of this," Li accused.

"Well, I must confess that I wanted to keep at least some degree of respect."

"You paid for your lands through the produce of others!" Li was seething. Lian looked anything but contrite.

"I had no one to support me then, and now I've family to feed. And I'm determined not to leave them in the position my father left me. Why do you think I chose the family name Lian? We're a bound family."

"So, you want the Jurchen lands to feed your family and a high governmental post, all to show your father that you've lost nothing in ceding to him?" To Li, it sounded as if Lian's sole driving force in life had been to regain the power he had lost to his father.

"Brother Li, this is a strange twist of logic, even for you. The loss of face is nothing."

"You said you wanted some degree of respect."

"Perhaps privacy would have been the better word. A man should not be held back by his previous faults, nor by the faults of others."

"Then why, Younger Brother Lian, are you so determined to deal with rebels, buy their lands; increase your reaping and wealth, if not to gain absolute power?"

"So that everyone, those under my jurisdiction and rebels included, can have some piece of power currently denied to them, in the form of salary and a steady supply of food." Another downing of wine by Lian. Li sipped his mechanically.

"Power should be left to those who merit it." As a magistrate, he had handled enough legal cases of rich men who had illegally bought their way to a pass in the Imperial examinations, and then wrecked havoc in the counties assigned to them, in their ignorance—though it should have been expected—of basic law.

"Do we merit power?" Lian bent forwards with a sober look.

"Yes."

"I must disagree, Elder Brother. I don't think I really merit anything."

"Then you should give up your position. Stop with these plans." Li cut straight to the point.

"I would. If I had no more dependants."

"Your family?"

"Everyone. Farmer, merchant, Jurchen, Han—they all want a measure of security, and I plan to share mine with them." Lian spread his arms wide. Li was beginning to find Lian's insistence on treating everyone as equals infuriating.

"You can't please everyone, Lian. And I would suggest that you concentrate your efforts on avoiding the legal line you're about to cross. The Imperial censors won't be pleased with what you're doing. Neither will your friends, when you bring them down with you. They will care nothing for your efforts to help your extended 'family.'"

"Friends with such concerns would be sure to distance themselves, in such a case. Maybe even help bring me down."

"I'm glad you've realized that, Brother Lian," said Li dryly. Perhaps his friend was still thinking properly.

"Those would be the friends with power insecurity issues," said Lian laughingly, breaking Li's impression. Li let him finish laughing.

"Those would be the envious men," Li pointed out. Lian's face sobered.

"Correct. I'll have to give such men all of me then, Elder Brother." Lian stood, to bow his farewell. With a final incline of his head to Li, he left.

Li reached for his coins to pay for the wine. They had drunk a lot, he realized. He wouldn't be able to afford it, if they drunk like this every time. His earnings were not spectacular, and they certainly weren't supplemented as Lian's were. Putting forth a tael, Li wondered again whether or not Lian was actually allowed by law to hold lands in conjunction with his position. The clink of metal pushed into his hands returned him to the present. For today, he wouldn't worry. Lian had paid.

The next day, Lian announced, among other things, successful dealings with the Jurchen and proposed a marriage contract between his eldest daughter and Li's eldest son. Upon his death, his lands would pass on to Li's son.

Li was, at first, pleased. But then he recalled their conversation the day before, about Lian recognizing the need to appease the most dissatisfied; the men who were envious of him. His friend's offer was a veiled insult. How long had Lian known his thoughts, without ever acknowledging it? When had he actually concluded his land purchases, before choosing to divulge them to Li? And what good was having his son bequeathed this land, if Lian's buying of it was possibly treasonous?

Li pushed the thoughts from his head. The process of arriving at the conclusion didn't matter. What mattered in the end was that Li could never again trust Lian. Hadn't he known that from the way his friend had insisted on pressing forwards with his business deals?

But even those hadn't happened. As soon as the engagement had been confirmed, and the marriage date set, Lian's eldest had disappeared. Lian had been in a flurry of panic, and suspected bandits; he had ridden out personally to search for his daughter, armed with sword, even though Li knew that he couldn't use it.

It had been a convincing show for the townspeople. However, Li hadn't believed Lian's actions, and had let him know. It no longer mattered if Lian realized that Li could recognize the marriage as a false attempt at appeasement. Similarly, it merited no thought that Lian was riding off to gather his newly-bought Jurchens. Li had brought the Imperial guard with him from the nearest capital, Bianjing, in case Lian had made this very move. He had divined such an occurrence immediately, upon reading Lian's reasons (discussion of his schemes to buy up Jurchen land) for summoning him to Luoyang.

What mattered was that Li had known this would happen. Lian's actions had simply validated the mistrust sown on the winter day that the two men had sat down for warmed wine.

***

It was early morning, and Jiang was going through the motions of the tiger and crane forms. Hands sweeping from claws to wing and beak, Jiang whirled through each motion quickly, as if her thoughts could be similarly swirled away. Last night had been a trying ordeal, as Jiang explained the deal struck seven years ago with Magistrate Li.

Her crane's wing swept clumsily into an attacking beak. It was too rushed. She thought back to her sister's reaction.

"What do you mean Li dragged me out of the burning house?" Flame had been livid. "And if it's true, why didn't you tell me before?" Jiang had only recounted up to the point following Li's errant stroke to her sister's head, where the repentant magistrate had helped her carry Flame from the burning house. Flame had immediately interrupted then.

"I won't believe it. What did he get out of sparing us both? Did you give him anything at all? Whatever it was, he's obviously not satisfied if he still wants us dead now." Jiang had sighed at her sister's obstinacy in believing that Li wanted to kill them.

"Allow me to start by explaining my silence. Magistrate Li promised to give us safe passage—"

"—why would he do that?"

"It was on the condition that we never involved ourselves in regaining the Lian family land." Jiang had been hoping that Flame would understand. Likely if she had told her sister everything at a more opportune time, her sister would have been more receptive. Immediately, upon thinking this, regret had flared up strongly in her again, but she had suppressed it. She couldn't let her failings show if she was to demonstrate that her silence had been the most morally appealing choice, could she? Flame's failure to be appeased had suggested otherwise.

"I don't care about land, but he's hunting us anyway. He broke his word. You can't trust Li, especially if you don't give him anything; he's a regular, lying bandit!"

"Li asked for nothing, simply that we didn't interfere with his family."

"And then after getting nothing, and being dissatisfied with his pickings of our family belongings, he decided to hunt us down as well."

Trying to push the thoughts from her mind, Jiang moved three steps forwards to block and then blind a non-existent opponent with a crane's wing, and then beak. If an opponent my height had been attacking me, I would have failed entirely to redirect that blow. With that thought in mind, Jiang tried to imagine where she might have attacked herself, if she had been the attacker. She moved forwards, fists moving in opposing directions to block an imaginary leg and fist simultaneously. The movement felt weak. Her thoughts wandered again to last night's conversation.

Her sister was becoming better at picking the weak points of her explanations. Maybe it was because Jiang's thoughts were showing on her face. Jiang knew she was prone to self-reflection, but had never thought, until now, that it showed. To understand others is to be knowledgeable; To understand yourself is to be wise.

Jiang had thought that she had been living by this tenet, picked up from an old Taoist classic, Tao Te Cheng, her whole life. But her sister, and now Magistrate Li, were proving her wrong. Evidently Jiang understood nothing.

"Allow me to ask you something," Jiang had broke in. Flame had graciously fallen silent. "What does it mean, to you, that I've forgiven Li?"

"That it was wrong to do so."

Well. At least Flame hadn't said outright that she was at fault, though Jiang had known that she was. She had tried to explain. No. She had explained. It was no good thinking of what she had failed to do, Jiang told herself. She had to move forwards. Particularly since Magistrate Li seemed to be failing to do so. Jiang lunged forwards at her shadow, tiger claw poised to clamp about the leg of her silhouette.

"That's exactly true. I was wrong to forgive him based on what I knew." Jiang had recognized from Flame's dark look that her sister was bracing herself for one of Jiang's moral directives, but she had forged ahead nonetheless.

"If we're to break free of our mean cycles of rebirth, we need to learn to leave the past alone. It was wrong for me to forgive Li, having the knowledge that he had given me something. Forgiveness shouldn't be conditional. Now, I can't forget the positives that Li has done for me—"

"—there aren't any," Flame had hissed.

"Please let me finish. You didn't know about how he helped you. Therefore, you could have done better than I, and forgiven him truly, as befits a Buddhist practitioner."

Jiang now winced at her own naivety. She had always assumed that Flame was a practising Buddhist, even though Jiang had silently understood that her sister was not going to be a nun. But Flame's reaction had astonished her in spite of it. Truly, she hadn't known her sister well at all. The familiar twinge of guilt shot through her. Her counterattack following the crane felt inadequate, and her stance was wrong. Sweat trickled down her face as she tried to concentrate on amending it, but her recollections continued to guilt her.

"I'll never forgive that son of a dog," Flame had said vehemently, face shining in the moonlight. "Especially after hearing what you've kept from me all these years."

"Why?" Jiang, at that point, had felt completely impotent against her sister's hatred, in part because Flame had struck a nerve in pointing out her well-intentioned, but evidently ill-resulting, silence. Her sister had honed her hate for years, much as a swordsman whetted his blade, and now it had become so familiar in her hand, Jiang was powerless to pry it from her. It made her sad to think that she had never succeeded over the years in emptying Flame of her abhorrence. She should have spent more time with her. Their current escapade was certainly providing that time, but it was a tardy effort. Sister An, even though Wong had exposed her falsity, was still correct in one respect—Jiang was always late.

"Why won't I forgive him? Because then I'd be a hypocrite like you."

That had hurt. A lot. Jiang had bitten her lower lip in an effort to keep her face still. Maybe her sister was right, but at least she had learned. And now she wanted Flame to learn. Sloughing over her sister's sharp words, Jiang had summoned all her effort to pass on what she knew.

"I'm no hypocrite, so long as my actions are consistent with my beliefs." Jiang had waited for Flame's cynical expression to fade slightly before continuing. "Do you recall the wedding day?"

Though she had felt slightly selfish for using Flame's need for closure as the medium of her own, Jiang had felt a sharper need to purge herself of what she had withheld for seven years.

"The day Ma and Ba died," Flame had breathed out slowly, some of her anger replaced with curiosity.

"I didn't want it to happen. I didn't want to live in a strange household, with someone I didn't even know. I was selfish."

"I wouldn't have wanted to live with the Li family either," Flame had seemed to want to console her, anger having focused once again on Li.

"But I ran away. I was going to write exams, like Ba, disguised as man, and then bring the family honour that way. I thought that Ba would have liked the idea; even Ma."

"It wouldn't have worked," Flame had said, ever practical. Jiang had allowed a rueful laugh to escape.

"Not only did it not work, Ba got blamed for my disappearance. Magistrate Li was convinced that Ba had aligned himself with the Empire's enemies. And Ma and Ba died. All for my brief, wanton surrender to selfish impulse. My rebellion against authority. I have been trying for seven years to learn self-perfection, so as to serve as a better example to others."

Also so as to become a legitimate authority, something had whispered in the recesses of her mind. Jiang had immediately dismissed such a thought as sinful.

She had forced herself to look straight at Flame. "I did it to be an example for you."

"Why did you come back?"

Maybe her sister had missed part of the point, but at least she had been more curious than angry, if she asked such questions.

"Because I realized that family honour means nothing, if one has no family. Even if I had to marry a Li, at least I wouldn't have been dead to the family. When Magistrate Li ensured that I still had you, I swore to myself that I would renounce those idealistic notions of honour, which had, ironically, harmed our family—the very thing it was meant to uplift."

"Thank you for giving me the truth, Elder Sister." Flame had said it calmly, without rancour.

"What do you intend to do now?" Jiang had felt that she wouldn't be able to sleep if she didn't know what her sister wanted.

"The same as ever. Remember the family by actions. I'm not going to be a hypocrite."

"You haven't changed your mind."

"I can't, Elder Sister. I've wanted to, for seven years, but the past won't let me go. You might have been there, but behind a screen. It's not the same. And, as you used to believe, honour can still help the family."

"In what way?"

"I'll restore honour to the Lian name. Then we'll finally be able to live like normal people."

"That's constructive of you." Flame had shrugged in response to Jiang's draw for more detail through praise.

They'd gone to sleep after that. For once, Jiang had been in agreement with Flame's plans. Could it be possible that her efforts had finally put a dent in her sister's destructive hate?

At the moment, Jiang would be content to consider her sister somewhat reformed. Wiping the sweat from her eyes, Jiang set herself to practise a sliding kick. The name was a bit of a misnomer. Knee unbending, she focused her chi on whirling a kick straight out, at an imaginary knee in the air, as she spun, from one partial side split to another.

***

Flame was not going to trust others anymore. Or to be more specific, she was not going to depend on others to get what she wanted done for her. Last night's conversation had been proof of that—hadn't her sister practically admitted that she had been taking a passive position in the whole conflict, and only trying to influence its outcome?

Flame shook her head. She was letting her anger think for her. She tried two slashes with the old Tang blade, as if to pass it through Li's head. Immediately, she felt better. This was probably why her sister exercised all the time. Not long after the noodles incident, Flame had finally realized that her sister's mediation consisted of standing in ma bo for hours. At least she thought it was hours—her sister would sometimes read the Diamond Sutra while standing like that, and Flame knew that Jiang could meditate on its meanings for a long time.

She tried for an angled block, sword tip sweeping downwards, from the head, in a large circle. The move felt unbalanced, and her momentum forced her into a hasty stab. She inadvertently relaxed as the thrust was close to completion, and as a result, her arm shook when the blade vibrated.

Gritting her teeth, Flame tried for another block, which she promptly turned into a second stab. This time, she stiffened at the end, so that the blade was thrust steadily into Li's imaginary heart. Xiang's blade had moved straight and confidently throughout their confrontation with the bandits. Flame would have to ask him how he did it.

"A pretty blade you've acquired there." Flame looked up to see Wong watching from the porch. "Though it might have rusted all inside, given its age."

"It's still sharp. Probably cut a lot of people in its past use," Flame said, recalling what the sword vendor had said about it being malevolent. It was unfortunate that Wong couldn't teach her. Xiang was away again. He had business, he explained, but he promised to be back with a rectifying solution for their current stalemate with Li.

"All blades do that. They even do that to their owners. I had a teacher who accidentally sliced off her toe with a dao."

"What were you learning from her then?"

"Not to slice my toes off," said Wong, grinning. "But truly, it's the people who make mistakes, learn from them, and then admit it freely, who make the best teachers."

Flame wondered if Wong knew of her conversation with Jiang. It sounded as if he was trying to tell her something about her sister, though it wasn't useful if he was going to approach it vaguely.

"What do you mean?"

"Only that you shouldn't dismiss your sister simply for her past faults." The monk seemed to know what she was thinking. She should have learned to do that years ago with her sister.

"She didn't tell me her faults for seven years. Even if I were a nun, it would take me at least more than a single morning to get over it."

"What you want to do is learn from it."

"I did. I learned that I'm only going to get things out of my sister if I ask her explicitly." She thought of how her sister had admitted a desire to influence; control outcomes. "I also learned that influence is a weak form of power."

"Very perceptive. But you should make amends with your sister."

"Why should I do that?" Wong smiled slyly in response to this question.

"Because Li would be ecstatic to know that he could use you two against each other."

"I already said I can't trust my sister," Flame retorted, though somewhat weakly. Wong knew exactly how to get her attention, she realized, and what was more, his words resonated with her thoughts accurately.

"Would you at least trust her not to kill you?"

"Of course. My sister wouldn't kill anyone, for fear of providing bad influence." Flame was slightly annoyed. That was a pointless question.

"Alright. Keep that trust then. It'll be useful." Flame couldn't argue with that.

"And work on your blocks. I might not be a swordsman, but I can certainly spear one that can't parry," growled Wong, in a parting shot.

Flame was left alone with her ancient sword and thoughts. Did Wong watch everyone when they trained? Maybe that was why he knew how to appeal to them. Flame shook her head to clear it. Perhaps it was the fact that she had slept very little last night, or because of Jiang's words, but she was beginning to do a lot of reflection on the motivations of others. And it was distracting. She really should be figuring out how to kill Li instead.

The sword whistled through the air, parrying Li's imaginary blade, and then propelled itself to sink into an imaginary throat. Yes, her thoughts were slightly blood-soaked this morning, but Flame couldn't help it.

After giving in partially to her sister last night, Flame had awoken in the morning with the awful clarity that if her sister could keep secrets for so long, Li could definitely keep them to the grave. He certainly wasn't going to provide her with the means to clear their family name, when he was breaking a promise that her sister still believed. No one else could hate her family as Li did.

The only way was for Flame to kill him.

She continued to press forwards, blade spinning circularly to continuously block both upper and lower body. That hadn't worked very well with Xiang; most likely he would have killed her eventually if he hadn't acknowledged her instead. So she worked on it now. Besides, it might be useful against Li, when she finally confronted him.

It would be hypocritical of her not to, Flame mused, after reassuring her mother that she would remember the family. Part of the reason for her fitful sleep had been that she had dreamed of Li chasing her again, even after pulling her from the burning house, and her mother urging her in her head to remember Family Lian.

Well, actually her mother, in her dream, had only said the word lian. Flame stopped the spinning. Could it be a reference, to stay close, to her sister? No, that was over-interpretation, something Jiang was prone to do. She twirled the old blade idly. But it was possible. The blade stopped. Flame felt a cold prickle grow on her neck. It wouldn't do to upset her parents' ghosts. If they had continually haunted her dreams for seven years, just because Li wasn't dead yet, what would they do to her, if she made an enemy of her sister too?

Evidently this lack of sleep wasn't good for her. Flame resolved to sleep early tonight. But first she had to solve things with her sister.
Chapter 10: Family Leave-Takings

Xiang rubbed his temples in frustration. He had the familiar urge to pick a fight, but after how last night had ended, perhaps it wasn't wise. His blade had several nicks in it already, from his senseless hammering of steel on steel. The thought made him chuckle at the irony. His meeting with his father had been of the same nature, though his father had evidently been the harder blade. Xiang felt slightly chipped even now, as if he had been an extremely inferior piece of steel, when he recalled their conversation.

"As it stands, I am to accept that my son was found by the Lian sisters, failed to eliminate them within the length of the week, and provided them with the means to kill." Prefect Li wore his customary blank expression as he spoke, but Xiang could see the anger in his father's tightened features.

"I'm not a cold-blooded murderer."

"A meaningless retort. Would I have spent so much time raising a murderer?" His mother nodded in silent agreement as his father continued, "Did I title you Xiaowen, filial son, without knowing full well what expectations that laid on you?"

"What woe! The gods must have been angry, to give me such a son." His mother joined the scene, sobs accentuating her words. Li silenced her with a glance.

"You are your father's only son. I do not wish to see you courting your own destruction."

"What I taught Lian Flame is hardly sufficient against what you've taught me." Xiang immediately tried for self-preservation. Prefect Li was probably upset enough to have his anger slightly lessened by indirect flattery, and at the same time, ignore such sycophancy from his own son. It didn't work, however.

"Evidently you failed to learn anything," his father snapped at him sharply. "Did you even kill Lang yourself?" Xiang winced within. Afterwards, it had seemed as if his teacher had let Xiang kill him, by deliberately failing to parry. That had hurt him even more― he could not claim to have killed Lang, and at the same time, he was responsible for his death.

"I facilitated his death, yes," replied Xiang slowly, crossing his arms in thought. It was slightly vague, but Prefect Li would have been livid if he had said, truthfully, what he was thinking: Lang helped me.

"Then you didn't." His father had divined his thoughts. "Li Xiaowen, I expect honesty in your answers. Why are you intent on destroying your family, as you must be, in your protracted efforts to avoid killing the two Lians?"

"Because I find it dishonourable, Father, to kill without reason." As in the case of Lang, he almost added, but he didn't. That was too close to insolence.

"Insults are no reason either," his mother interrupted. "I have told you such, time and time again, after you return from your gutter fights."

"You are right, Mother, in saying so, but I only duel in response to familial slights."

"This is a familial slight," said his father, in reply. "Lian Flame would see me dead."

"How do you know this?" Xiang couldn't resist asking. He had known as much, from conversing with her, but how had his father?

"If your magisterial post is ever forthcoming, you will find that position carries with it influence, and with this, men will attempt to exchange secrets for favour." His father then tapped the sword that hung from his wall: "Raw power carries such heft as well." Rounding on Xiang, he added harshly, "And both need to be exercised, if one intends to keep both."

"I will," Xiang said, in response. What else was he to say? His father was correct― how else had he kept his position of prefect for over three years? Prefect Li made a noise in his throat.

"If you did even a tenth of that, it would be many magnitudes greater than what you do now." The prefect drew his blade from the wall. His mother protested, against the wielding of steel in the house, but Prefect Li ignored her. "Draw."

Xiang reluctantly unsheathed his blade. No sooner than he had done so, his father's blade streaked sideways for his head. He twisted and parried the blade away, but the movement was poorly done, and his father's sword bit into the edge of his. That would leave a mark. His father's blade was one of superior steel and make, with multiple alloys hammered and folded when hot, each one adding a different strength. The most Xiang could say of his sword was that it had been differentially hardened, so as to avoid softening its edge, following forging.

The twisted steel made for his throat, and Xiang leaped back, nearly tripping over a chair. That was new. His father had always insisted that they use the more traditional, though old-fashioned, sitting mats. It was good for cultivating one's composure, his father had told him. But now there was a chair. It felt out of place.

Prefect Li stood back a pace, sword at his son's throat. Xiang didn't move. How was he to know what his father wanted?

"I was once in a position where both Lian girls were under my power. In a moment of weakness, I showed mercy. It seems that I must now pay for that mistake with my son." At that moment, with his father's blade at his throat, and strange words to accompany it, Xiang questioned his father's sanity. His mother was silent, as if any word would provoke the prefect. No, that was wrong, he told himself immediately. If his father's actions appeared extreme, it was only because Xiang had pushed him to that point. He should have complied with his father from the beginning, and then maybe Lang wouldn't have had to die.

Li withdrew his blade, moonlight gleaming from its sharp edges. He set down his sword on the desk behind, turning back towards his son, hands empty. "Strike." The prefect's face was perfectly composed. Xiang stepped back, in confusion.

"Your father orders it. What you're doing now is surely meant to destroy Family Li; if I've taught you any resolve, you'll carry out your intentions swiftly, and now."

"Look what you've done, Xiaowen!" His mother scolded him, voice nearly shrill with anger and fear.

"There is no reason," Xiang protested, intent on placating Prefect Li, sword loose in his hand. It was unthinkable for him to strike his father, who faced him unarmed.

"There is no reason for you to protect the Lian sisters either." Xiang thought he could detect an undercurrent of fury in his father's voice, though Prefect Li's face remained flat.

"I'm not protecting them!" His father's blade sprang for him in reply. Xiang parried each blow, restraining himself from returning them, for then he would truly prove that he was set on destroying his father and family. They circled his father's desk, blades flashing, Xiang retreating.

The sword sliced through an edge of the chair, and Xiang realized that his father's blows were real. That worried him. His father must have been furious. But Xiang would not apologize; not for telling the truth. Instead, he threw his sword down.

His father's blade swept back, and circled around in a returning slash for his head. Xiang followed his sword to the ground, narrowly avoiding the slash as his mother cried out.

"Pick that up," his father ordered, blade tip pointing at his dropped weapon.

"No, Father." An uppercut swung for his chin, and Xiang scrambled back, scraping a strip of skin from his wrist on the broken side of the chair. His hand bled. Prefect Li's face was inscrutable, but Xiang held his gaze resolutely, even as his father's blade thrust for his chest―

―and buried itself in the chair, somewhat unsatisfactorily. Xiang had almost been ready to die at that moment, for being his own man. Now the idea seemed stupid, as the sharp steel vibrated gently in the ruined seating. His father had known that he would capitulate all along. Indeed, Xiang thought he saw a faintly triumphant smile tug at the corners of the prefect's taut mouth.

"It would seem that I've taught honesty," Prefect Li admitted, mouth stretching into a true smile now. Xiang was relieved. His father almost looked normal again, save for heavy rising and falling of the chest. "Now tell me truthfully, will you eliminate the Lians or destroy Family Li?" At this, Xiang took a deep breath, weighing his words carefully.

"I will kill them when I have gathered full proof of their family's treasons. Or when they threaten the Prefect's life." His father nodded thoughtfully in reply.

"Perhaps they would threaten said Prefect earlier if my son had taught both Lians swordplay," said his father sardonically.

"That was not my intention," Xiang confessed, slightly relaxing with his father's returned humour. "Though it suits the final objective conveniently. But the other Lian is a complete pacifist, intent on becoming a Buddhist nun."

"Becoming a nun does not make one a pacifist," his father commented. "Particularly in the case of your aunt." Xiang remembered that his father's sister was a nun at Yongtai. His father sent spies to inform on her regularly.

"That is why I must procure instead proofs of their family being marked for lianzou."

"You may spare yourself that effort." His father brought out a dusty ledger for him. "The proof of Prefect Lian funding rebels is marked here, and you will find copies of the official warrants stored at the Imperial library here as well."

"In that case, it may be better if I show them such documents to provoke their violence." The idea of killing, without a preceding physical attack upon his person, was abhorrent.

"Wishful thinking." His father and mother spoke the words almost simultaneously.

"I should have had you kill Lang seven years ago," mused Prefect Li, "when he began trying to turn you against me."

Maybe his father was trying to make him feel better by taking some responsibility for Lang's death, but Xiang felt guilty once again. Lang had cared for him as a son; that was all. The insulting calligraphy gift must have still been embedded in his father's mind, considered Xiang. But Prefect Li's words disproved the thought.

"He wanted you to renounce what I've taught you― that only with mastery over oneself and one's conscience, can one move forward. Where would Family Li be today, if not for our efforts to protect the Empire, in spite of its moralizing detractors?" Xiang had to concede the point. His father gave him a meaningful look. "I hope he has not succeeded, though your inability to carry out simple tasks directly is clearly thwarting that hope."

"I won't waver this time," Xiang promised. Otherwise, his father would likely find some other innocent to blame, and then Xiang would have to kill that unfortunate person as well.

"See to it that you do not," said his father, wrenching the blade from the chair, one-handed. "And don't use that sword anymore," he said, indicating Xiang's blade. "You've outgrown it." He pressed the hilt of his own into Xiang's hand.

"Thank you, honourable Father." Xiang bowed out of the room, as Prefect Li seated himself cross-legged on the mat before his desk.

Outside in the corridor, his mother handed him the ledger and fussed over his bleeding hand.

"Truly, Mother, it's just a scratch," insisted Xiang, as he tried to knot a bandage over it with hand and teeth, as the monk Wong had done.

"You're doing it wrong," his mother told him. She retied the bandage for him, then stepped back to appraise her son. Xiang knew from her silence that she was deeply disappointed.

"Don't ever provoke your father like that again," said Lady Li, as she fixed her son with a steely look.

"Yes, Mother."

And now he was wandering the empty streets of Bianjing at dawn. His own sword was still belted, and in his hands he held both his father's sword and Lian's ledger. A metallic taste hung in the back of his throat, as he considered what he would have to do to merit his father's steel.

***

It was always difficult to find her sister, Flame noticed, as she rounded the small inn in search of Jiang. The dining room was empty but for a few patrons shovelling late lunch, and the courtyard contained only Wong, who was seated in quiet meditation.

Most likely Jiang was at one of those private libraries, having said something this morning about searching for proof of Li falsely accusing their father. That had been unexpected. Evidently there had been some sort of misunderstanding, of her promise to restore the Lian family honour. Flame had been thinking that killing Li would be the best solution, but it seemed that her sister had books in mind. She passed by the good-luck jade hanging on the wall, to stop in front of a niched statue of Guan Yu. The red-faced general of righteousness stared back at her from the shrine. Flame figured that he would have agreed that Li deserved death for his crimes, among which promise-breaking was now counted. Grant me Li's head, Flame thought silently.

"Offering your prayers to the General, Flame meimei?" Flame turned to see swordsman Xiang enter, dusty tome in one hand, sword in another. She wondered if Xiang had read her ill-intentions towards Li. He smiled lightly.

"I'll take it that you've been praying for some way out of the city." The guess was close enough. "Did you know Guan Yu was once trapped at Maicheng?"

"Isn't that where the expression 'passing through Maicheng' comes from?" Flame might not have read the sutras as Jiang had, but the history of the Three Kingdoms, replete with its aggrandized historical figures, had been a fascinating read.

"That's correct. Unfortunately, as you know, the esteemed general hadn't passed far enough from the city when he lost his head," Xiang concluded hastily, "but you'll be getting out safely enough. This is yours now."

He unfastened the sword from his belt. Flame was astonished as he drew it and handed it to her, hilt first. Even for the fresh chips it had acquired, the blade was still as sharp and alluring as on the day Xiang had taught her to handle it. With a few hesitant cuts, Flame found that she could now appreciate how well-balanced the blade was.

"Why?" Flame meant to ask how the sword would get her and Jiang out of Bianjing, but the gleaming edges of steel took her remaining words. Xiang crossed his arms.

"It will give you safe passage from Bianjing," he replied.

"What about my sister?" Flame was suddenly worried for Jiang. Had Li found her?

"I'll be staying here." Her sister appeared behind her. "Xiang has recommended some library records that I might peruse in our efforts to prove that by pursuing us, Li is in the wrong."

One didn't need library records for that, Flame instantly thought. If Li had been right to cause the deaths of her parents, she would be haunted by some mutilated-for-their-sins ghosts. Instead, she was constantly being bothered, in her sleep, by the last protests and pleas of her unjustly murdered parents. That was proof enough for her.

"You could just tell Li that he's wrong, to his face," Flame suggested, testily. She was still smarting somewhat from her sister's secrecy. Jiang's face tautened slightly.

"As a matter of fact, I might, if only to keep you from attempted murder." Flame didn't bother to hide her shock, and guessed that her expression was probably being mirrored in Xiang's astonished face.

"If you did, then I'd really have to go after him; he'd probably kill you before you finished deciding if it was sinful or not to accuse him," Flame said sharply. Her sister conjured up the strangest ideas. Li would definitely have no trouble hunting down Jiang in the city.

"Please," interceded Xiang gently, with a wave of his hand, "let's not have disagreements among kin in front of the general of brotherhood." He guided them all away from Guan Yu's shrine.

"Xiang is suggesting that you travel for Taihe," said Jiang, ignoring her retort. "They teach swordsmanship at the Taoist temple, and while I really don't condone you learning ways to kill Li, I suspect that leafing through records with me day after day would just encourage you further. That's why you should leave Bianjing now."

"I don't really agree, Elder Sister." Flame felt that this wasn't the main reason for her having to go. "What's the real reason?" She watched Jiang bite her lower lip.

"That was it. But I suppose that another might be that Li's watching us. Though it means nothing."

"What?"

"He would have killed you both a long time ago if it had been his intention to do so," Xiang told her. "Rather, I believe he's waiting for something. And it's best if you leave before whatever he's waiting for comes to pass."

"Fine, but what about you?" Flame questioned her sister again.

"I don't think Li will ever leave us both alone, so in that case, you're leaving." Flame should have expected that of Jiang. But it still made her feel slightly ill.

"You're being dramatic," Flame accused uncomfortably.

"Not at all. I'm just trying to emphasize that you're getting a chance for a fresh start, and that you should take it." Her sister paused. "Forget Li. I'll manage the family matters, as the elder should."

"You'll kill him?"

"No. It shouldn't be necessary."

"Elder Sister..."

"Please Flame, you're getting an opportunity for a normal life. Take it." This was too many gifts at once. Flame felt slightly overwhelmed and said nothing. On one hand, she would be running to a remote place, forced by Li again. But on the other, she would be able to take an entirely new identity of her choice, as a woman capable of meeting Li with steel in hand, free to make her decisions apart from Jiang. And her sister was giving her this option to be apart from her.

Careful, a voice warned her. That's similar to the path your sister tried to take, as an independent scholar, and it involved forgoing the family entirely. She felt torn for a total of two seconds, before she remembered that Jiang had adeptly ignored such a voice for seven years, forgetting the past to become a nun in the future. Maybe she could silence the voice too.

"You really should go," said Wong, appearing as well. Flame wasn't sure, with everyone expressing the same opinion and no misgivings. How did they know that Jiang could manage Li alone?

"What are you going to do with Li?" Flame had to know. "Another deal?" Her sister shook her head.

"It seems I was wrong to trust him," her sister finally admitted. "Better I concentrate my efforts on procuring the documents to clear the Lian name."

"And if you can't find any?"

"Well, then it's a good thing you'll be gone," growled Wong. "We're leaving soon."

"You're coming?" Flame looked at him in surprise.

"Less suspicious for me to carry the sword until we're past the gates. I'll even go with you to Taihe."

She had to admit the practicality in the plan. Besides, the road would probably be full of rough characters, and Wong would be welcome company in that regard.

"Are you sure you're not coming, Elder Sister?"

"I'll be more useful here."

"You could forget Li as well," said Flame, before she could stop the words. Jiang definitely could, but she wasn't sure about herself. She had to think ahead, though, and Flame pushed the self-doubt from her mind. Jiang shook her head in reply.

"But I thought you were going to be a nun."

"Only when I've cut all ties with the past." She regarded Flame seriously. "I won't cut them until you can. 'Remember the family,' isn't that what Ma said? I need to do this, for you."

"Alright, if we're done discussing the notions of self-sacrifice, let's go," grated Wong from the doorway. The sky was beginning to redden as evening approached. Inadvertently, Flame recalled her mother bleeding, Jiang wrenching the blade from the dead man on the road, the constables falling under Wong and her sister, and the intervention between Xiang's slash at Wong that had ended with her sister tossing the sword down. Li's expressionless face loomed throughout all these visions. He had put her and Jiang into every one of these situations. Flame had a sudden vision of Li standing with a crimsoned blade, but this time it was over her bleeding sister.

"I'll remember you too." Flame rushed at Jiang. Her sister returned the embrace, taut features softening.

"I don't think you've hugged me in years." Flame had to say it, since it was the truth, though she laughed self-consciously into Jiang's sleeve as she did so.

"Truly? I'm sorry, then." Her sister returned a smile. "Alright, no more worrying. I'm afraid Master Xiang is finding this tiring, and that we're keeping Brother Wong." Xiang had retreated to Guan Yu's shrine, staring with crossed arms at the general's statue.

"You've both been keeping me for several days too many," Wong responded gruffly, "ever since the city gates refused to allow us swift passage to Longhua. I'll be back if you're still set on ordination. If that's what you want." The last two sentences were said pointedly for her sister.

It seemed that it had been only seconds ago that she had been receiving Xiang's advice for taking care of the blade, and repeating her farewells to Jiang, when Flame found herself passing through Bianjing on a fine red horse to match Wong's. She was again wearing the rich woman's overcoat, and Wong had the helmet and plates. The watchmen had waved them through quickly, without question, when shown the sword.

And now Flame was going to be truly free; her path in life would be her own to decide.
Chapter 11: Lian and Li

Several days after Flame had left, Jiang was searching idly through treatises on rice-growing in Henan. She didn't want to admit it, but it was proving impossible to find any mention of Magistrate Li confiscating her father's private land holdings. Then again, she was probably looking in the wrong place. Private libraries were not likely to contain legal documents, but they were the only kind of library she had access to.

Master Chen, to whom the books and scrolls of the library belonged, was loitering near the shelves of his collection. When Jiang finally ended her search in despair, he thanked her and ushered her out quickly. Doubtless others were waiting for a viewing, and Jiang's fruitless search had taken a long time. She hoped that the people waiting had not wasted too much time on account of her slowness. The familiar feeling of guilt was beginning to eat at her again.

Jiang had spent the past mornings searching multiple libraries; even summoning the courage to ask a wealthy judiciary for access to his library. That had been pointless as well. The search had turned up only a collection of coloured prints and several slim volumes of pictures that the man had refused to let her see. Suspicious, she had looked when left alone, but discovered only pillow images. Jiang was beginning to wonder if all of Bianjing was slightly depraved.

Yet that was unfair, she instantly thought afterwards. There had only been that jewelled peacock of a swordsman and the judiciary with the inappropriate pictures. Two people. Prefect Li didn't count yet. Contrary to prevalent legal practice, Jiang didn't believe in people being guilty until proven innocent. And so far, she had no proof that the prefect had falsely accused her father. Flame would have been disappointed.

Thinking of her sister intensified the guilty feeling. Jiang had been feeling it a lot lately, ever since she unsuppressed her dormant thoughts of seven years. Now she felt every day as if she had failed her parents, her sister, and even herself. Here she was, confined in Bianjing, neither nun nor sister― since Flame had left for good― and there was no clear way to rectify the situation. Save for dealing directly with Prefect Li. But she had made it clear to her sister that she wouldn't, and Jiang had no intention of reneging on her word.

She began walking to the Imperial library. Jiang would have to petition for permission to enter, which would produce no shortage of difficulties, in comparison to her current short library sweeps, but it would definitely contain more legal documents.

"You're beginning to look like a regular Xi Shi, with that frown." Xiang appeared behind her. That made three men with no respect for women. Or perhaps she just attracted that type of attention? Jiang banished the thought entirely. She had more self-respect than that. It was most assuredly not her fault. Besides, she was bald.

"I didn't take you for that type of person, swordsman Xiang." Jiang couldn't keep the edge from her voice. She was feeling somewhat annoyed from the morning's waste of time, and now, unwanted attention. Xiang's face immediately grew serious.

"My apologies. I only thought that the comment would be cheering; your sister might have laughed at the irony of being called so."

"Because Flame would never let herself become the subject of such a subjugating comment?"

"I meant no insult. But you see the irony." Xiang smiled slightly. "Now, what's troubling you?"

"I was considering the difficulties of locating documentation." Jiang was careful not to let any more of her troubling thoughts show. She didn't entirely trust Xiang, with his easy manner and freely given gifts.

"You want to get access to the Imperial library, am I correct?" He continued when Jiang nodded, his arms crossed in thought. "I may be able to aid you in that endeavour, but I'll need time. Librarians are astonishingly hard to wring favours from."

"How is it, that you would be able to gain access?" If he told her, Jiang could do it herself.

"I'm a First Class Imperial scholar," he mumbled, not looking at her.

"That's truly impressive," Jiang said, astonished. What was he doing, wandering with a sword like some nobleman's enforcer, then?

"I haven't anything to show for my troubles, however," Xiang admitted, now looking up. "One might say that I'm confined in Bianjing due to lack of initiative." Jiang thought she could detect some current of self-blame in his voice. It took one to know another.

"All crows under Heaven are black." Jiang responded ironically.

"Quite true." Xiang grinned. "Now, what would you say to an offer to tour the confines of our prison?"

"What's one to say to the gaoler?" Bad slip of tongue; I should sleep more, Jiang immediately berated herself. It wouldn't do for Xiang to know her suspicions. Fortunately, he didn't appear to have heard, as he was already striding off in clear expectation that she would follow. The behaviour deepened her mistrust.

Li Xiang, with his easily open character, seemed nothing like the son Magistrate Li might raise. Also, his name was comprised of only one character. Jiang could still recall that the younger Li's name had been Xiaowen, so traumatic had the idea of getting married been to her. Her father had tried to explain that the marriage would have been a means of placating his old friend, and that it would be good for everyone in the family, including her. Jiang had not believed the last part. She hadn't even seen the magistrate's son before, and the thought of being ground under some husband's authoritative rule had been abhorrent to her.

She glanced at him again. Xiang walked with long strides. He was tall, as the magistrate had been. His name could be false. But all that didn't tell her anything. Jiang didn't want to prematurely accuse. And her outright defiance for propriety had destroyed the Lian family. It was safer to merely follow along, for the time being. They crossed over the largest marble bridge spanning the Grand Canal. Jiang couldn't resist looking down at the water, as it followed paths both natural and man-made to sweep boats along.

"I'm not killing any fish," Jiang told Xiang pointedly, when he stopped to see what Jiang had leaned over the railing to view.

"I don't believe you ever would. Though Xi Shi must have done so inadvertently many times―"

"―when the sight of her beautiful face made them stop swimming," finished Jiang, before he could.

"I'm sorry," said Xiang contritely.

"You've done no wrong to apologize for." Jiang felt bad. It didn't seem as if he meant her ill, as of yet. She tried to clear her ill-founded suspicions from her mind.

"Nonetheless, we'll desist from the topic. I'm sure you're likely to find more interesting subjects of contemplation in Bianjing."

Like the exits. Jiang couldn't use them until she resolved her business with the prefect, but their locations would be useful to know. Her eyes searched, following the road that gradually widened as the bridge spread to the opposite side of the canal. Xiang seemed to be heading for the clock tower, located as to make efficient use of the water that had also been diverted to feed the palace gardens.

Jiang decided that the day was lost at any rate, and that it would be best to humour Xiang. At least until he could procure a way into the palace library. That was probably what her sister would have done. Jiang noted with no small interest that she seemed to be behaving more like Flame as the days passed without her.

"Did you want to admire the clock up close?" They had stopped before the celebrated clock tower of Su Song. Measuring approximately 30 bu tall, the wooden structure towered like a pagoda. Jiang could hear the redirected water falling endlessly. It collected in buckets, weighing the giant wheel within into motion. Their bronze parts clattered loudly, adding to the commotion.

"Is it allowed?" Despite the clamour, Jiang did want to glimpse the workings of the behemoth. She doubted, that after reaching Longhua and her ordination, that she would ever find herself at Bianjing again. It was simply too far, and her vocation would not allow for self-indulgences such as examining clockwork, however renowned.

"Astronomers come frequently, scholars less, but even so, I'm permitted." He folded his arms pensively. "You'll be welcome." Jiang wondered what he could be thinking; though his face was politely smooth, she recognized that he was undergoing some internal turmoil. It took one crow to know another.

"Thank you for taking the trouble, scholar Xiang," said Jiang, as she walked before him to the exterior staircase. As expected, the wooden stairs were narrow, and upon reaching the interior, branched several times back and forth, before the moving bronze sphere. Jiang found herself wondering if Flame was climbing stairs even now, to the Nanyan temple at Taihe. Her sister would probably be faced with more steps than her, Jiang told herself, as she followed the stairs up to the observatory. The large wheel still creaked noisily below, though it was hidden beneath the floor, and the bronze celestial globe betrayed none of its inner workings.

When the midday hour struck, an infernal din assaulted her ears, as the gong rang brazenly, and both wood and metal creaked loudly with extra movement. Though Jiang couldn't see them, she knew that the clock would be revolving one of the many designated mannequins, bearing the hour, out the door. Bass notes reverberated through the chamber, and when the globe gave a sudden movement, Jiang misstepped.

Stumbling backwards, and avoiding Xiang's outstretched hand of support, Jiang grabbed for a railing, simultaneously landing heavily on her left foot as she did so. Mercifully, she hadn't fallen on Xiang. But she'd done something to him, Jiang noted with alarm, when she turned to see Xiang gripping the railing unsteadily, mouth taut with pain.

"I'm profoundly sorry," said Jiang, when she realized that he was holding his torn leg, and that she had likely grazed it.

"Think nothing of it." He attempted a grin, but it came out as a part grimace.

"I believe I'd like to rest a bit," said Jiang, knowing that if she had asked if he wanted to sit down, he would have refused. She seated herself decisively in front of the celestial globe, before he could insist on moving. Jiang wondered if it was wrong to disregard one's personal pains. She recalled Buddha's remark: 'a wise man, recognizing that the world is but an illusion, does not act as if it is real, so he escapes the suffering.'

Upon her parents' deaths and shortly after arriving at the monastery, Jiang had taken the statement quite literally. Then she'd taken ill. Sister Ma, upon convincing Jiang to explain her refusal to eat, had then explained that this was a metaphorical statement, and that she would know the truth upon enlightenment. To get there, however, would take many years, and in the meantime, Sister Ma had added dryly, one had to treat hunger as real and physical, in order to stay alive until then.

"Do you believe that thoughts can cause physical suffering?" Jiang addressed Xiang directly, in an attempt to draw his attention from the hurt she had caused. It was only when the words left her mouth that she realized she might be just transmuting that pain into another.

"Very much." Xiang crossed his legs and sat upright. The wheel continued to groan, unseen.

"I'm of like mind," she replied, thinking of how Flame regularly blamed her lack of sleep and subsequent headaches on nightmares of Li. There was also herself, Jiang suddenly realized, when she reflected on how every time she failed someone, as with this morning's library search, she would feel physically incapable of action. And then she would have to exhaust the feeling in a flurry of forms and ma bu, until one pain had been exchanged for another.

"Is that what's been bothering you this morning?"

"Yes, but I wouldn't want to trouble you with that," said Jiang uncomfortably. More hidden instruments made their noise, and Jiang stared fixedly at the floor, while a gong rang beneath her. Xiang tugged her sleeve lightly in the midst of the cacophony.

"Now, there is a thought that will cause me some discomfort," Xiang grinned. Jiang wasn't about to voluntarily divulge her worries to him though, particularly since some of them involved accusing him of deceit. She settled for a polite smile.

"Have you read Su's book on the workings of his clocks?" Jiang felt it prudent to turn the topic to something less troubling for them both.

"I have. Unfortunately, parts pertaining to this specific clock tower's workings appear to be lacking."

"Perhaps Yi Xing's works could elucidate the escapement parts of the tower. He once co-designed a water-driven celestial globe. I was very much entranced by the descriptions of its workings," said Jiang, warming eagerly to the topic.

"Ah, then you would not be interested in perusing the library's copy, if you have read it already." Jiang wondered if this response meant no access for her to the Imperial library. Immediately following that thought was another, scolding her for being suspicious. It must have showed, because Xiang hastily added:

"Please rest assured that I'll still be finding the means to allow your access. I did not mean to insinuate otherwise."

"Well, only if it's not too much trouble." She felt slightly embarrassed at how well Xiang seemed attuned to her thoughts. It was possible that they were too alike in their brooding.

"Most assuredly, it will cause me much sorrow not to do so."

Would it? Jiang thought that she detected some underlying current of self-reproach in the statement. But she said nothing of it, and instead directed her attention to Xiang's leg.

"I hope that it will not cause you as much sorrow as your leg." Jiang noticed that the wrappings seemed old, caked with dusty road as they were. "I also hope that you've been changing your dressings."

"That's what my mother would say," said Xiang, face involuntarily grimacing as he tried to jerk his leg from Jiang's gaze. She looked away, understanding. Jiang wouldn't have wanted strangers noting her weak points either.

The two sat in silence for a few moments, Jiang contemplating again the nature of suffering. She had always tried her best to suppress it, in herself, while Flame had let it show, unrestrained. Which path was correct? Jiang's thoughts returned to the clock tower. Su Song hadn't divulged all the workings of his clock. Perhaps he had been right to keep his secrets; to preserve the seeming perfection of his supreme masterpiece.

"Remembering Flame?" Xiang had been studying her face carefully. Jiang nodded, and he continued. "Is that your rooted thought of suffering?"

"A part of it," Jiang admitted, looking away. She watched as the bronze globe creaked slowly, and the clattering wheels groaned loudly from repetitive turning below her. The incessant flow of water was beginning to fade from hearing, so constant was its noise.

"And what is the rest?" He seemed genuinely concerned.

"I am bothered by the obligations that family has laid upon me. I'm sure my sister has repeated them to you; about how the enemy of our family must die." Jiang watched his expression carefully as she spoke. If he was truly Li's son, her words might have some effect.

"I am truly sorry for that." Xiang did seem perturbed, as he rested the side of his face on a fist, concealing his mouth. "Would it help if I told you that I, too, suffer similar burdens?" He shifted his sword further behind his back, though his gaze never left her.

"I can take them on as well." Jiang was beginning to recognize the need, as her sister sometimes showed, to unload one's thoughts. When Xiang gave her a questioning look, she added, "Attachment is said, by the enlightened, to be the source of all suffering. Sometimes, attachments are easier to rid oneself of when there is someone else to give them to."

"I wouldn't like to wish my attachments on you," Xiang smiled slightly.

"I won't have any. Not after I've become a nun."

"And why do you want to become a nun?" She should have expected that question. Now she had to answer it, and truthfully as well, since she now knew why.

"I've wanted to for seven years, believing that it would allow me authority over myself, and to some degree, the authority to guide others to good." Jiang felt regretful. Perhaps if she had recognized it sooner, she would have been able to offer her sister clearer guidance.

"A noble pursuit." Xiang shifted his leg. "Me, I would be satisfied with authority over mine own self."

"You wouldn't like to have power over anyone at all?"

"It's written in the Tao Te Ching, 'To conquer yourself is to be strong. To know when you have enough is to be rich.'"

"Then it would seem that your goals are more lofty than mine." Jiang had to admire that Xiang was completely eschewing any struggle for power; not even obscuring it in pious idealism, as she did. She was beginning to think that it might be impossible to be a truly altruistic person. If that was true, it would be better to dedicate oneself to achieving nirvana, and then come back as a Buddhist saint to help the needy.

"There's no wrong in wanting to guide others."

"Truly?"

"Yes." Xiang looked at her decisively. "Can one encounter the needy, pass by, and still hold oneself with honour?"

"Perhaps the one in question is blind." Jiang vaguely recalled the conversation that she'd had with Qiuyue. It had been nearly a full moon ago.

"How so?" Xiang sounded slightly heated.

"He was blinded by a previous needy," replied Jiang, wondering why Prefect Li seemed to have reneged on his promise to leave both her and Flame be. It was possible that he considered them to have broken their side of the bargain, by involving themselves with Family Li when Sister Ma did so, but then how would he know?

"That is exactly the cynical response my father would give."

Was Jiang really like Li? But it didn't matter. Jiang knew the truth now, and she was Li's equal in terms of knowledge. Flame had encountered Xiang; shortly after that, they had been travelling for Bianjing on foot. A mounted messenger would have outpaced them easily, reaching Li early enough to send soldiers. The clock tower began ringing again; another mannequin would be turned unseen through the door by hidden machinations. Jiang was not going to be one of those puppets. She faced Xiang.

"Prefect Li's son."

The accusation, however, was not spoken by Jiang, but by a man outfitted in lamellar plate, a tight helm masking his face. Xiang sprang up, as quickly as his leg would allow, she noticed, but he was fast, nonetheless. The man bore a guan dao, heavy blade topping a long pole, the end of which was tucked behind his back. It was a ludicrous choice. There was no room in the narrow confines of the chamber to swing such a weapon, so compactly had Sung designed the tower to enclose its clock mechanisms.

"What do you want, sir?" Jiang attempted to divert. If he took Xiang, then she might never resolve the issue with Li. She needed Xiang, for the moment, selfish as it seemed.

"You're coming with me later," spoke the helm, not even bothering to turn to her.

"I regret that I'll have to make a liar of you." Xiang had drawn his blade. The metal was patterned like water, and when he moved, the blade appeared to ripple.

"That's not advisable," said Jiang, moving between the two. "How much were you paid?" Guan dao had been popularly applied as of late, on Jurchen cavalry, but the lamellar was definitely not city-issued. The man could be a bought mercenary.

"I wasn't paid. This is a favour owed to an elder brother." The man's voice sounded near guttural.

"One should never feel that murder is owed," Jiang responded steadily.

In reply, the blade swung from the floor, upward. The movement was slowly executed, but it stopped only a hand's breadth from Jiang's chest. She didn't flinch, though she could feel her pulse quicken.

"He did say you might be like that," the man chuckled. He turned the blade over, arm crossing on arm, and spun the weapon in a slow thrum. It was a clear display of intimidation. Xiang had moved silently behind Jiang in the meantime, and now he whispered quietly into her ear.

"Stairs behind panel. Into clock."

Jiang noticed a tremor take hold of his leg. And the familiar feeling of guilt came over her. The thought that she, a would-be Buddhist nun, was about to let her family's enemy possibly die in her defense gave her actual physical discomfort. The potential hypocrisy made her head itch. Or possibly it was her growing hair. At any rate, Jiang had already spent seven years in guilt, over having instigated her parents' death and ignoring the wounds it had caused her sister. Over the recent days, she had smarted over failing to give comfort to a dying man. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life regretting Xiang's death as well. For all she knew, he might have nothing to do with the plans of his father, Magistrate Li.

Jiang shook her head urgently at the blade.

"Move aside," the man ordered, when it was clear that the thrumming blade was doing nothing to dissuade Jiang. Ah, a bargaining point, she thought, triumphantly. If he didn't want her dead, then maybe she could extricate Xiang, along with herself, from the edge of his blade.

"I can't do that," Jiang said lightly, anticipating a verbal sparring. "I'm afraid I've become somewhat...attached...to Li Xiang." That was unlike her to say, and she almost felt embarrassed. But it didn't matter. Jiang was attempting to assuage the tension that she felt, in the form of Xiang's iron grip on her shoulder. She was afraid that if she didn't, he would charge their antagonist, to his own detriment.

"You can't be serious," growled the man, lowering his blade. "Aren't you supposed to be a Buddhist nun? I thought you were only attached to books." More slips of tongue. It seemed that the man was familiar with her habits; if she could discover his allegiance, perhaps Jiang could turn it. She was beginning to enjoy drawing points to use against him.

"However many holy words you read, however many you speak, what good will they do you if you do not act upon them?" She faced him steadily. They were high-sounding words, but the point was to wheedle the man's identity from him.

"I don't have time for whatever nonsense you're quoting." He was clearly not a monk sent by Sister Ma. Then who was he? Jiang couldn't tell. But it was good that this man wasn't versed in the texts. Laypersons always seemed to have more regard for clergy, and Jiang was very nearly one.

"I can attest that it doesn't matter." Flame, among others, had never been interested in her quotations anyway. "What does matter is that you don't do any further harm. However much you may have harmed others in the past, another hurt won't assuage it. Karma accumulates; one can't simply erase it."

"One can't erase dishonour either," replied the man, serious. "I swore an oath to my brother." He advanced, spinning his broad blade to increase its speed to when he could bring it down. Jiang felt something lift from her shoulder, and a glance told her that Xiang was moving, sword out. In an instant, Jiang was on the ground, having swept Xiang's legs out and connected with his wound again for good measure.

"What are you doing?" Both men spoke at once, and both were seething. Jiang ignored the guan dao, keeping her back between the blade and Xiang. The man would be honourable enough not to plant steel in her turned back; besides, he had implied that he wasn't supposed to harm her.

"We're leaving," she told Xiang, and she pushed him firmly onto the narrow stairs, where she could easily impede any further attempts to cut him down. They reached the bottom, and upon leaving the vicinity of the clock tower, Jiang was relieved to no longer hear the oppressive noise of running water. The fresh air was a relief, as she reviewed how she had successfully asserted herself over the situation. She had manipulated the man, to the benefit of Xiang and herself. The knowledge of the ability and her triumph gave her confidence in herself. Were not words as potent as a sharp blade, as Buddha had spoken?

The clattering of the clock receded from her ears as they walked deeper into Bianjing. Replacing it was the roar of the crowd surrounding her. Several black-clad constables came running up. Xiang gave a terse nod towards the water clock.

The birds painted on the clock tower panels seemed to mock her. They inadvertently recalled to her the black winged hat of Magistrate Li. Jiang had remembered seeing its ends flap, many years ago, when he had negotiated the marriage contract with her father. Had Li, as she had now, derived as much pleasure as she had, when he manipulated the Lian family to his benefit? Jiang's victory became bitter. It took one crow to know another. That intended marriage had resulted in death, much as the man Jiang suspected of being Wong's sworn brother might die, for the crime of threatening the prefect's son.

"Will you have him die for what he did, threatening the prefect's son?" Jiang questioned Xiang. Perhaps it was selfish to ask, as it would shift most of the responsibility for the man's fate to Xiang instead. But it would be more self-indulgent to remain ignorant of whatever punishment befell their assailant, free to imagine that he faced no repercussions.

"Would you, in my place?" Xiang regarded her thoughtfully. "I would hazard a 'no.' You don't seem to bear grudges, nor do you seem to fear the grudges of others."

"Any other in my position might be reluctant to condemn. He meant me no ill."

"You're very forgiving," noted Xiang. "I don't believe he meant to kill me either, but I might have killed him."

"Whatever for?" Jiang was instantly wary.

"He wanted to kill my father. Anyone who threatens me for being a Li usually only does so because they intend to harm the family head." He folded his arms pensively.

"Is that your rooted thought of discomfort?" Jiang asked quietly, echoing his previous words. Before Xiang could reply, one of the officers returned bearing the guan dao. Jiang was immensely relieved that the man was not with them.

"He's left, Master Li," said the man, bowing as he presented the weapon.

"You'll find him," Xiang ordered. He hefted the blade, palming it between two hands in thought. Jiang wondered how the man had eluded the constables, and if he would return in search of her. If her manipulations of him mirrored those of Li exactly, he or Brother Wong would likely return, as Jiang herself had done to Li. Words were blades, but all blades had two sides. Jiang would have to be careful.

"Knowing who I am, why did you insist on protecting me?" Xiang set the heavy blade on the wall, but Jiang's mouth cottoned all the same. His tone was anything but belligerent, but Jiang couldn't look at him, let alone answer. She needed to say something, though.

"I kicked you," Jiang muttered, trying to be evasive. Xiang led her further from the vicinity of the clock tower grounds.

"We will talk more freely elsewhere," he declared, leading her towards a bridge running to the northern reaches of the city. "And then perhaps the two of us needn't suffer poisonous thoughts any longer."

They passed a tea stand, and since Jiang carried no cash, as befitting a Buddhist nun, Xiang bought them both tea. Sipping the liquid, with the Iron Pagoda just visible in the distance, Jiang began to feel calmer. The familiar sight of a Buddhist tower comforted her, and the gentle ringing of bells, in contrast with the clock tower's resonant gongs, pleased the ear. She glanced at Xiang. The pagoda seemed to please him as much it pleased her.

"Now we'll speak openly," Xiang said, when they had entered the grounds of the Youguo temple. "Why did you save me? There was no need." Jiang noticed that Xiang was still walking carefully, as if to avoid scraping skin. And immediately she lost all desire to wield her words in manipulation.

"It would have been wrong to do otherwise, particularly given our disagreements at the time."

"I think we can say we're in agreement now," said Xiang, "given that you proved yourself not bitterly blinded to need."

"Not blinded to my own need, one might say," Jiang replied, thinking of how she had been motivated, at the time, by thoughts of using Xiang to get into the library. Xiang made a noise of disapproval.

"Lian Jiang, I believe that you're helplessly attached to yourself." Jiang looked at him in astonishment, but he continued all the same. "Oh, I don't mean in the sense that you're attached to the pleasures of life and making yourself happy. You're attached to your suffering."

"I don't quite agree." Jiang bit her lower lip, and stared at the pagoda as she contemplated the meaning behind his words. She had tried, ever since entering Yongtai, to forget the memories of her past. Xiang pulled gently on her sleeve.

"When was the last time you thought freely, without admonishing yourself for it?"

"Just recently, when you were gripping my shoulder and I said that I'd become rather attached. I don't think I should have said―"

"There, you're censoring yourself again," Xiang interrupted her, laughing.

While Jiang tried to navigate the quandary of not scolding herself, for scolding herself into misery, Xiang's face became serious again.

"I believe now that's part of the reason you came between me and the guan dao. You unconsciously felt that not doing so would bother you further, in the future."

"How was that going to cause me suffering?" Jiang knew the answer, but she had to ask in spite of herself. Xiang smiled gently.

"You find it impossible to ignore others' hurts." He continued when Jiang tried to protest. "No? Didn't you encourage me to share my troubles with you?"

"That was courtesy, as when you offered the same to me." Jiang didn't want to admit it to herself, but perhaps she was kind of drawn to alleviating others' discomforts, if only because she couldn't stand seeing it. Her sister was proof enough of that. How many times had she tried to reason through Flame's diatribes, or encouraged Flame to forget Li? And Xiang, with his leg that she had kicked twice now, and with an internal struggle that she could recognize, had similarly piqued her sympathy.

"That was your nature," Xiang said, as they stopped before the Iron Pagoda. Up close, the glazed brick and stone revealed its name to be a misnomer. There was not a single visible piece of metal on its grey exterior facade; instead it was covered with intricate carvings of men and beasts, with periodically placed Buddhas. Jiang wondered if they were purposely put just so, to offer structural support.

"Your empathy is an admirable sentiment, though it may bring trouble to you in the future, much more than it has today." Xiang cut into her thoughts. "Prefect Li would attest to it." Jiang tensed. Perhaps the younger Li was in agreement with the elder, though if he was, it would have been kinder of him to say so from the beginning. This way hurt more. It seemed in comparison that Jiang was poorly armed, when it came to using words as knives.

"However, you're a Lian," observed Xiang, "and the prefect is not your father, as he is mine."

"One obeys his family in all," Jiang said obliquely, while waiting for Xiang to admit his true intentions. She watched him fold his arms, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, while his expression became steely. Jiang unconsciously readied herself to run.

"Not in cold-blooded murder." He turned to her, smiling ruefully. "It's not my nature."

"Surely I wouldn't be the first person you've killed?" Jiang wondered if Li would now try to kill them both, for Xiang's refusal. That would be a waste of life, though she supposed that she might be able to give herself up for Xiang's sake. Perhaps it would mean that her life was worth more, if she could give it up for both her sister and familial enemy.

"Of course not. You wouldn't even be the first person to help me and die later in spite of it." Xiang sounded somewhat testy. "I have no intention of allowing such a travesty to occur again." He gripped her hand tightly as if to make a point, and met her gaze steadily. "You are not going to die for my benefit, or my father's."

Jiang wondered if the happiness showed on her face. She felt as if a burden had been lifted. Despite her guilt and idealism urging her on, Jiang wasn't really sure if she was ready to powerlessly relinquish her life. Xiang led her by the hand towards the pagoda, and Jiang obliged him.

The rest of the evening was rather easily spent, as Jiang allowed herself free rein to indulge in her admiration of the pagoda's interior architecture. Xiang examined the bronze Buddha as she looked for the pagoda's supports.

"Yu Hao originally constructed this pagoda in wood," Jiang told him, as she looked wistfully at the hard brick core. Even with carvings set here and there among the bricks, it all appeared quite dead.

"That one was burnt in a flaming conflagration some seventy-one years before." Xiang looked thoughtful as he spoke. "Lightning struck it."

"Quite a pity that Hao's Mu Jing on timber construction did not detail his pagoda." Jiang would have said more, but she didn't want to bore Xiang. Scholars weren't very interested in treatises on construction.

"Ah, but he gives such precise descriptions of timber roofing," interjected Xiang, "that it almost makes up for that lack."

"You've read Mu Jing?" Jiang had thought herself to be the only non-architect who had ever bothered to browse the book.

"When I was younger," Xiang admitted, "it was my ambition to be the architect of both wooden and brick structures." He grinned self-depreciatingly. "Though such a profession was too lowly for my father to condone me entering."

"Well, you might enlighten me nonetheless. My knowledge is rather lacking with regard to brick." Jiang gestured at the walls.

"You wouldn't be bored?"

"Not at all," Jiang replied, in earnest. Xiang began to expound on the pagoda's construction: how it was built on silt but sturdily grounded, and how pilgrims often took the name seriously until told otherwise. Jiang felt oddly touched that he would take the time to fill in her lack.

"Shall we ascend in joy as friends, following Du Fu, who delineates the sentiment so well in his poem?" Xiang gestured to the spiral steps.

"Why not?" Jiang walked by his side to the top. The bells rang as rain might fall, petering out lightly, and the pagoda rose high above Bianjing. It offered a clear view of the streets, canals, and surrounding walls. The Grand Canal glittered, a serpentine dragon; Su Song's clock tower rose high near the centre of the metropolis. And Jiang, for once, took nothing but pleasure from the view.
Chapter 12: Flame

Nestled in the Taihe mountains, the temple buildings sat on imposing heights. The sight was somewhat familiar, though unlike Yongtai, the Nanyan temple sat on cliff edges, as the name implied. It had taken the whole day to trek from the base of Taihe to the southern cliffs. Now the loose collection of timber and stone buildings finally appeared in her view.

At first, the sight of sheer stony cliffs had brought back bad memories. Flame had seen a similar facade during her flight from Li, seven years ago. And she was once again running from Li. But this time was different. Shaolin had been a mere two hundred li from Bianjing, and that had evidently not been enough. In the Taihe mountains, however, she was far from her home in Henan, and Li was located a good thousand li from her. Perhaps the Lian name would not be spurned here, in another province. It had been, after all, long enough. The spring breeze caught her hair lightly, and Flame was determined to forge a new life for herself.

Her only worry was Jiang. There had been a fatalistic gleam to her sister's eyes when Jiang was reassuring her that Li would be dealt with. But then again, her sister had told her that it was pointless to worry, and Flame saw truth in that.

She climbed silently after Wong, up the steps carved in stone, until they reached the temple gate.

"Here's the money from your horse," growled the monk, and he handed her several strings, strung with hundreds of coppers, along with a bag containing taels of silver. "And some advice to go with it: don't stay here at Taihe."

"Thank you, Wong shifu." Flame accepted the money gratefully, yet the advice bothered her. "But why shouldn't I stay here?" It might be good, she reasoned, to try Taoism instead of Buddhism, to relieve her of the past. There was also an advantage here: she might learn to wield steel. It was now the only source of protection that she could reasonably expect to have. Marriage was out of the question, with her family name, and besides, Flame wasn't going to give that up any time soon. She briefly amused herself with the notion of becoming a knight-errant. The idea of dispensing justice to the wronged― particularly those like herself, was kind of appealing.

"It's your choice," Wong replied cryptically. "But just remember, you don't have to go where the sword sways you." He gestured at Xiang's blade.

"Wong shifu, I can't let go of what it means to me." That was self-reflective of her. Flame wondered if she was becoming like Jiang.

"What does it mean to you?," Wong exhaled heavily, as he rubbed his stubbly face. The answer seemed kind of obvious, but Flame groped for the right words as the monk watched her patiently.

"Power." How else could she describe the sharpened steel, that Xiang could employ with such deadliness, that enabled nameless soldiers to face oppressive rich merchants, and that had carved her life until now? Wong raised an eyebrow.

"Interesting. Over yourself or others?"

"Both." Flame was slightly loath to admit something that she wanted but did not have yet, but it was the truth.

"Well, better you learn it for yourself first."

"I'll do that here."

"That's your choice." Wong gave her a tired grin. "But do it quickly. More useful that way. Goodbye, Flame."

"Wong shifu." She gave him a bow, money weighing heavily in her hand. Clearly Wong didn't intend for her to stay at Nanyan if he had given her cash...gained from selling her horse. It looked like she wasn't going to be headed for Bianjing any time soon either. The amount of thought people put into trying to control her actions annoyed her.

But Wong was gone, leaving her solitary, with sword in hand and money at her disposal. If she was to make the most of both, she would have to hide the latter somewhere. Flame didn't know much about Taoist temples, but if they were anything like Buddhist ones, there could be many travelers; unsavoury thieves included. Better that she appeared penniless, when she arrived.

A large flint rock sat near the gates. It seemed the right size, so Flame began digging beneath it with her foot. Then she worried that someone would come upon her as she dug; so slow was her progress, and so she began using the sword. Several sparks flew when she accidentally struck the rock on its side, and Flame nearly dropped the blade. Hastily, she shoved the money in the dirt, and pushed it as far as she could below the flint. Cleaning the sword on her side, Flame strolled to the gates and struck them.

As she waited for someone to arrive, Flame reflected on the possibilities now available to her. Alone she might be, but now she would be able to live entirely for herself. The idea was pleasing.

***

Prefect Lian had ridden his horse into a lather, searching the flat plains of Henan for his daughter. Jiang was nowhere in sight. She'd always been somewhat willful, and Lian reproached himself for not having anticipated her running off, given the impending marriage. He sighed. The past few days had been trying, given last minute changes to the wedding ceremony, and finding place to billet his friend Li's honour guard from the capital. It was understandable that he had not been able to pay much attention to Jiang, as of late.

There was also the matter of the honour guard. Lian couldn't help but feel that Magistrate Li was anything but appeased with the impending wedding. All his life, success had been as simple as working hard, with the sincere desire to provide for the needs of others. It had always benefited both parties. But now Brother Li was having none of it. Lian had been wondering lately if his friend was so staunchly a patriot, he would rather the province starve than submit to living from the reaping of the enemy.

He was loath to dismiss this idea, ridiculous as it seemed, for the alternative explanation was that Magistrate Li envied him. If that was true, Lian would be quite sad. He had always admired how the magistrate had worked his way, from poverty and obscurity, to his present position through honest means, and thought that there could be nothing finer. Lian had been furious when he discovered that his father had paid the county examiner to pass him, telling Lian that it would have been shameful to his own status, had his son not passed with the highest ranking. Lian had moved far from home after that, to study in a different province entirely, and passed the next level examinations on his own, but his early beginning shamed him. Wealth and class did such things to men.

And now it seemed that Magistrate Li was succumbing to this double lure as well. Perhaps he had been wrong to conduct such clandestine dealings with the supposed enemy in his friend's jurisdiction. It might have reflected badly on Li. Maybe that had instigated his friend's anger. But then Lian recalled how the magistrate had dismissed his beliefs that all men could be appeased with a sharing of power, or at least some notion of it. It had been rather tactless of him to state his beliefs so, if Li was indeed both callous and ambitious. Nonetheless, Lian couldn't waste time deciding who was in the wrong; he had to find Jiang or else lose Li's respect and trust. That was all Lian had, to ensure the success of his plans for averting famine, and to preserve his head as well.

The pounding of hooves made him turn. It was Li, and he was flanked by five guards. Instantly, Lian's hackles rose. There were five too many for easy conversation; too many for Lian to give himself up to. Li had wanted all from him, and the other five could not be given a share. There was no other choice but to appeal to his friend.

"Brother Li." Lian reined his horse over with an apparent ease that he did not feel. "I don't suppose you're here to aid me?"

"I'm here to arrest you." The magistrate's face was inscrutable.

"And are these gentlemen here in agreement?" It would be overly optimistic for Lian to hope that the Imperial guard was still of honourable calibre, but he had always treated the military with respect, and unlike other prefects, did not try to divert foodstuffs from the army.

"They're not of your rice bowl," Li told him harshly. Well. Lian should have expected that his efforts to provision Bianjing and its troops would go unrecognized. It was always hard for the collective well-fed to believe that their meals were owed to another individual. Though it was easy enough for them to blame said man, when famine struck.

"I only mean to ask whether or not these gentlemen are in agreement with the idea of starving this year."

"They'll starve only when you've lined your purse with the harvest of enemy crops, which no self-respecting Han would buy, and the Jurchen have ransacked the farmlands of Henan." Li's face was hard as he added, "Facilitated by your current funds."

"I will do no such thing," Lian said calmly. "How have I offended you, Brother Li, that you forget all bonds of friendship, and come for me thus?"

"It's not personal," his friend replied coldly, though Lian could see the untruth, even if Li could not. "As for any bond, you have broken it. You promised me a merger of families, and all that came with it, yet you've now hidden your daughter and seek to bring your newly bought allies against me."

"You're very wrong, Li." Lian sat steadily in his saddle. "I've only done what's best for others, Han and Jurchen alike. We have no conflict with these rebels fighting the Liao, but we do with the decrees of Heaven― a drought is coming, and only more efficient farming will lessen its bite―"

"Then you admit to wanting ownership of Henan."

"Management is not the same, Li." Lian spoke quietly but firmly. He didn't want to embarrass Li by feeding his friend's polemic before five others. However, Li seemed to not care.

"You false friend, I've proof of your transactions." Li waved Lian's ledger for the month furiously. He opened it to a random page, covered in scrawled characters. It wasn't likely that the soldiers with him could read the characters, so furiously did Li shake the pages, but men saw what they wanted to see.

"Who fed you such falsities?," Lian asked, forcing his tone to stay neutral. The last word trembled from Lian's barely contained anger. Though the numbers were true enough, there was nothing incriminating about them. Lian just didn't want to accuse his friend. It appeared that the magistrate's insatiability for power had pushed him over the edge of reason.

"That's for the trial." Li was firm. The supposed proof of Lian's wrongdoing rested lightly in the magistrate's hands. Something caught Lian's eye―

"I asked where you got that book." Lian's voice grated like steel dragged from a forge. He recognized the silk strip: Flame had given it to him as a bookmark. It was the newly burned edges that kindled his anger.

"From the flames." Li's face was emotionless, save for a slight movement of the throat― Lian wanted to cut that throat― when Li swallowed. His friend was gone, consumed by an uncontrollable fire that had brought down Lian's family as well.

"Don't do that, Lian," warned the magistrate, as Lian gripped his borrowed blade. "The next bride's father won't be pleased to wear a broken sword." Li's humour had returned, but Lian saw no laughter in his former friend's eyes. His blade came out. Five horses started forwards, but Li motioned them all back, eyes glinting unnaturally.

"Prefect Lian scorns the headsman. So be it." Li drew his sword as well, a dappled grey steel that rippled, like a river, when he moved. Lian gripped his own more tightly. He had never had any formal training with the sword, but for scattered lessons taken out of amusement, in his younger, more hot-blooded days.

Li spurred his horse into a canter, hardened steel sweeping for Lian's face. Jerking instinctively, Lian interposed his own blade between himself and Li's sword. The harder blade shaved slivers from his own as Li pulled back, only to circle the blade out again, for Lian's head. He bent low, but Li's blade trimmed his scholar's topknot as it passed. So sharp was the blade that Lian didn't realize what had happened, until he felt his hair fall to his neck.

"You will die for what you would do to the Empire," ground out Li, face as hard as his blade, "and for what you would do to me." Li's sword cut almost lazily, and Lian realized that the magistrate wanted to tell him something before attempting to cut him down.

"That's hardly fair, given what you've already done to me." He tried for distraction, as his hand circled for an opening. If Lian had to die along with his family, he would at least avenge them, though it was hard to do so when he pitied what Li had become. The sky had grown dark with night, and Lian was sorry that he had invited the guests for no reason. It was already past the designated time for the wedding. Several more strokes shot for Lian's wrist and arm, and he struggled to parry them all.

"What I've done to you? You've harmed me by association, ever since your schemes to acquire land started. Then you shamed me, not only before your family, but the entire county, when you decided not to give your lands to my son, and lost your daughter as an excuse." Li continued to cut at Lian while speaking furiously. "Your eldest daughter was at home, I can attest to that personally."

Lian's blade thrust rapidly for Li's throat. He couldn't see properly for the fury in his eyes, so he missed Li's blade swinging in an upper-handed stroke. By the time he noticed, he barely had time to jerk his wrist down into a block.

The magistrate's blade caught in the fresh notches of Lian's sword, shearing the softer steel through. Then it opened Lian's chest. Lian attempted a final stab, but Li pulled his horse back.

"You can't share power," Li admonished him, holding an expression of pity, for Lian's naivety, mixed with satisfied triumph. And then Flame slashed wide her father's throat.

***

Flame jerked violently awake, hand grasping for Xiang's sword. Li was here, and he wanted her head, or was it the other way around? She had to kill him; her hand reached for emptiness, but then she drew it back, appalled. Had she just murdered her father? The quiet of the guest room slowly calmed her, though the uncertainty of the dark left a lingering fear. Flame rose to open a window. Below her, the morning mist obfuscated the shear walls of Taihe mountain. The air swept her senses back to her.

Flame had been her father in her dream, and she had died believing the rest of her family to be dead. Jiang had said she always believed that Li had already murdered their father by the time he came for them. It was a false belief.

Wong, when she had pestered him enough while travelling to Taihe, had told her that it was the other way around. That had nearly made her turn around; it just proved that Li was a pitiless murderer, but then they'd reached Taihe, and Flame remembered that she didn't know nearly enough swordplay to face the prefect.

Prefect Li. Flame had been in his position during the final moments of the dream. She shuddered in disgust. What did Li have against her father, that he had to personally kill him? It had only been for his own honour, and what he thought was best for his son, and his family, all extensions of himself. The thought of being Li was sacrilege to her.

She drew the sword. The faint morning light revealed that the blade was patterned in several shades of grey. They seemed to streak the full length of the blade. Xiang had told her that it was due to slow cooling of the blade, effected by packing on clay. It gave the sword a harder edge.

She sheathed the blade. Her father's sword had been sheared clean through. Yet she now had a fine one, a harder one. But how long would she have to linger at Taihe, slowly working her way through the Taoist texts that the priests expected her to learn, before they would teach her? Flame didn't want to wait. Clearly, her dream, where she had been her father and ended up as Li, was meant to pass on some urgent message.

Flame contemplated Xiang's sword again. Quality of the sword didn't matter half as much as the quality of the swordsman, Xiang had told her. Then he had laughed and added that since the sword was an extension of its wielder, it was best that the extension be a fine one. Both mattered then, mused Flame, and Li, in the dream, had clearly possessed the latter. Flame needed to improve her skill, but Xiang's blade might even the odds. Sweeping on her day clothes, Flame resolved that she would demand to be taught.

Upon reaching the main hall of Nanyan, Flame realized that it was too early. The priests had not yet finished early morning altar services to their deity. She didn't know the name, though she had noticed an unfamiliar statue of a warrior, hand gripping a sword not unlike Xiang's. Flame decided instead that she would go through the form that Xiang had taught her, until the priests had finished. Drawing the blade, Flame began with the traditional salute, then brought the blade back to stab.

The mountain air lent vitality to her movements, as Flame executed a series of successive slashes and thrusts. She had already repeated the form at least five times more than she usually did, when the first signs of fatigue― stiffening starting from wrist and spreading to forearm, began. Maybe she should have warmed up, as her sister usually did. But then again, sword forms and Shaolin kuen did not seem at all alike to her. For starters, the latter had been created for self-cultivation. Flame wasn't sure what the sword form had been created for, but she had the suspicion that killing factored into the reasons.

"Do you know why we practise the sword, Daughter?" Flame almost stumbled mid-thrust. The speaker, however, was merely addressing her as an elder would the younger. Brushing her hair from her face, Flame saw a priestess regarding her seriously, though fine lines crinkled smilingly about the woman's eyes.

She shook her head in reply. The woman held a sword, fitted in an ornate scabbard. Flame thought that it was ceremonial, until the woman drew the blade. Despite the characters etched beautifully along the steel, Flame could see that the edge was very sharp.

"The sword is the highest extension of chi," the priestess told her, "and we use it to practise passing one's energies beyond the body. Tao becomes most tangible to us through its physical form, through chi." Flame contemplated the sharp edges of the woman's sword as she finished.

"Why is it sharp, then?" It seemed to Flame that a functional blade was utterly impractical for theological use. Also, the mysticism was making little sense to her.

"To cut one off from the forces that would prevent one from unifying with the Tao."

"But why would I want to unify with the Tao?" The indirect answers were tiring her, and Flame felt that she was going in circles. The woman smiled sympathetically, adding to her irritation.

"Tao is the source of all things. Upon becoming one with it, you may know peace." Before Flame could puzzle out the meaning, the priestess had taken three steps onto an outcropping that jutted above a steep drop.

"Xiangu, priestess, I'm sorry for upsetting you. Please come back, you might die." Panicked now, Flame didn't think that she sounded particularly persuasive, but she had to try, as a crisp wind was snapping and she didn't want the woman slipping. The drop was at least a thousand bu, and she did not want to be blamed if the priestess fell off. The woman didn't reply. Instead, she swept the blade in long, powerful strokes over the edge of the rocks. Flame could see that each stroke was aimed precisely, though the stone path was narrow and the woman barely had enough room to twist around in parries.

Flame watched as the form ended. The priestess still stood on the outcropping, robes flapping in the wind, sword grasped backhanded, as it had been in the beginning.

"Ah, xiangu, becoming one with the Tao doesn't entail dying, does it?" Flame really wished that the woman would come back.

"Did you not see the chi, a part of the Tao just now?" The priestess regarded her calmly while speaking. When Flame shook her head, the woman, to her dismay, repeated the form with faster, more violent strokes. Flame could hear the grinding of the woman's shoes on stone, as toes alternatively gripped and released the ground. Though the priestess's face was slightly flushed, Flame saw, through the blur of arm movements, that her expression was still placid. Several lines from a chapter of the Tao Te Ching, that she had read yesterday, came back to her:

Each separate being in the universe

returns to the common source.

Returning to the source is serenity

"'If you don't realize the source, you stumble in confusion and sorrow.'" Having finished the form a second time, and with sword recoiled, the priestess concluded the verse that Flame had murmured. Flame was in awe of how serene the woman was, even after performing swordplay at full speed, with strokes fast enough to bring death.

"I moved quickly, so that the movement of chi might be more evident. Did you see it then, Daughter?"

Flame nodded, contemplating the woman's words. Could it be that her miseries over Li had been due to her failure to recognize this fact? This seemed like a notion that her sister would produce over meditation, but the priestess's demonstration seemed filled with truth. The woman had faced death, and while her respect for it still held, in the way her feet gripped the stone, she held no fear or hate over its hold. The placid expression and repetition of the form for Flame had shown this.

"You could find joy in such a realization," the woman told her, as she finally returned from the edge.

"Could you teach me, xiangu?" Flame asked. She held out Xiang's blade. The priestess's expression again became serious.

"I might direct you to the correct path, but to learn mastery over the sword, one must discover the way alone." The woman sheathed the sword with finality.

Flame had no idea why she did it, but she stepped onto the outcropping. The wind whistled below, and the edges of the cliff seemed sharp as swords. It seemed a horrible idea right away, as Flame realized that if she died, it would be completely her fault. But she had put herself in this spot. Whatever for? She supposed it was for speedy enlightenment. Looking at the priestess, she saw that the woman was gazing at the cliff that backdropped Flame's precipice.

She'd learn this lesson alone, then. Seven years at Yongtai had taught her a steady stance, and all Flame had to do was focus on the movements of her arm. The sword reached out to stab, extending over the edge. If she fell off, Li wouldn't even know, she thought. She relaxed her wrist, pulling the sword back in an evasive twist. The sheer cliffs rose before her, tall and forbidding. Flame ignored them, and concentrated on her motions. The stones wouldn't harm her if she stayed above them. But it would have comforted her if they didn't look so jagged.

A smooth pebble nearly tripped her, and Flame instantly stiffened into a ma bu, feet gripping at the rough patches of the outcropping. She slashed the sword slowly, wondering if the sword could cut to pieces the evil spirits that willed her to fall. The movement made her feel unbalanced, as if the sword wanted to pull her off. Maybe she was approaching the problem too aggressively. She tried to will her chi through her sword arm. If she could extend it into the sword, she could forget the sword entirely. It would be under complete control of her energies.

The wind blew, and the cliffs began to take on the appearance of Li's stony face. When Flame looked again, however, after sweeping the sword closely around her shoulders in an evasive manoeuvre, the face was gone. Flame began to forget the cliffs below and around her, focusing solely on facing the death that faced her from misstep. There was no undoing any mistakes, no matter how good the rest of her form might be. Though the stones jutted threateningly and the cliffs climbed sharply all around, Flame ignored them all.

The form ended, and Flame felt confident enough to toss the sword into recoil. The handle spun up and she caught it stiffly, though firmly, before ending in a bow. Returning from the precipice, Flame felt a hundred thoughts clamouring for expression, but she could only choose one.

"Li will never again have hold over me." She returned her sword to its scabbard. Her legs shook slightly, and the cliffs once again took on an overbearing look, but she was triumphant. She had faced death, the most final of all forces, and she had won.

"Hasty words for hasty actions." The priestess appraised her seriously. She demonstrated a light catch with her blade. "When you are able to control your chi, it will return effortlessly. I will instruct you."

Flame was relieved, though at the same time, she wondered what else there was left, now that she had faced down the end. The priestess seemed to sense the thought.

"I don't choose to instruct you for your ability, but for your need. You have recognized but one aspect of the Tao; when you have recognized it in all, you'll truly have no need of others." The woman nodded at the cliff. "Then you will be able to face adversary calmly a thousand times, and even upon defeat― because it comes to all― you will accept it serenely, for by then, you will have joined with the Tao."

In spite of the censure, Flame was pleased. She wasn't sure if she could handle another self-taught lesson. The precipice now looked extremely threatening, and she had no desire to step on it again. She didn't want to actually meet her death, even if Taoism told her not to fear it.

That night, despite having spent the day receiving lessons and a crimson robe to wear to next morning's rituals, Flame slept fitfully. In particular, she dreamed of duelling Li on the cliff's edge, at her father's behest, and then falling off. Flame woke wondering if she was Li or herself. The idea made her feel sick. Brief practice with her sword made the feeling reside. When she slept again, however, Flame dreamed herself into Li, with her father shouting something unintelligible in her ear.

Following the morning songs of flute and drum, Flame was called to receive a letter. The scroll was handed to her by a black-clad messenger. His clothes made her think of a crow. She unrolled the dispatch in front of him. The first thing that struck her eye was the large red stamp of a chop. She had seen it before, when Xiang had used it on the soldiers at the dock. Perhaps Xiang was sending her something from her sister. The characters were few, however, and that was unlike Jiang. Flame read them.

Elder Sister bids you come.

Li, screamed a voice in her mind, even as Flame recognized the magistrate's name set deeply in the chop mark. Her sister wanted her to come, the letter was saying, but Flame knew it was Li. Both of them. The rush of blood to her head sounded like a swell of drums, and Flame felt tears come. Li Xiang had been his father's son― deceitful and a breaker of trust. And now her sister was gone. That was probably what her father had been trying to tell her last night. In fact, maybe her dreams, which had been more vivid than ever at Nanyan, had been trying to warn her against staying here. Even Wong had told her not to stay. Drums and flutes sounded steadily in her head. Without pausing to shrug off her ceremonial robe, Flame flew through Nanyan temple, pausing only to retrieve both sword and coin. Strangely enough, the verses from Mulan ci came back to her.

Father has no adult son,

Mulan has no older brother.

Wish to buy a saddle and horse,

and serve in Father's place.

Flame had no trouble buying back the red horse that Wong had sold. A few taels of silver, accompanied by her desperate demeanour and prodding from her sword, encouraged the dealer to give the horse up faster than the rich Bianjing merchant his money. There was even a thousand wen to spare.

By nightfall, Flame was beating a path for Bianjing. Behind her, the Taihe mountains loomed colourless and devoid of grass. She didn't look back. Family urged vengeance, and she wasn't dead yet. Li had caught her again. Feeling fury in her heart, Flame urged her red mount on. She would reach Bianjing in about four days. Hopefully her family would forgive the delay, though her anger, at having ever let Li fool her, would not. Streaming along the road, and clad in sanguine red from shoulder to steed, Lian Flame gave the impression of a brightly burning brand.
Chapter 13: Family Li

It was too late, Xiang thought, as he looked mournfully between his father's sword and Lian Jiang.

The two of them had been closeted away, in some decrepit apartment dating from the Tang dynasty, for only several days, before Prefect Li had sent him summons. Xiang had been struggling until then to decide how best to deal with Jiang, and thereby confront his father without losing face.

The conundrum had been causing him to lose sleep, and that in turn had made him prone to dizziness. His thoughts were definitely causing him physical suffering. What was worse was that he hadn't quite pinpointed the rooted thought of his discomfort, though something told him that he knew. It definitely wasn't his sense of filial loyalty. He had already discarded that, when he declared quite directly to Jiang that he wasn't going to kill her, despite his father's orders.

He had received the summons late in the evening. Xiang had felt uneasy from the start. Prefect Li's black-robed messenger had borne a white robe folded over one arm, and the crimson chop had contrasted with it starkly when the man shook the scroll open.

"Your father wrote to ask why you continue in your dalliances with the elder, when the younger has returned in revenge." The messenger had not even bothered with tact, in spite of Jiang's presence. Xiang had shown indignation on her behalf.

"I ask that you show more courtesy towards a member of the Buddhist clergy," Xiang had replied, fighting the urge to grip a blade.

"There's no need." The red chop was waved casually towards Jiang. "The prefect said you're to kill her." Xiang had shook his head. The man's hand had then reached for his dao, but Xiang had been quicker, and gripped his moving wrist in a steel vise.

"I'll do no such thing." In response to Xiang's defiance, Li's messenger had thrust a scroll into his hand. Then the man had tossed the white robe at Jiang with a scornful bow, and the words, "For you, Lian, from the prefect." It was a funerary robe. Jiang had picked it up silently and folded it carefully, even as the man watched.

When Xiang opened the scroll, he had been greeted by his own writing. The stark letters of the Tao Te Ching stood black and clear against the white silk. So his father had kept his calligraphy after all. Xiang had wondered what it meant. Li's messenger had given him the answer.

"'To die but not be forgotten― that's true long life.' Isn't that what you wrote, young Li? How better to remember your father than to follow his last wishes?"

Gods and ancestral spirits, was Xiang's thought, I've murdered my own father. Or to be more precise, his mercy had somehow facilitated Lian Flame's murder of his father. Didn't matter. The silk scroll had clattered to the floor as he drew his sword.

And now he stood, blade bared at the elder Lian's face, his arm weighing heavily with regret. Jiang still regarded him calmly. It really was too late. Xiang's arm shook, even though he hadn't held the sword outstretched for long. Too late to withdraw the blade; besides how could he, when holding back had resulted in his father's death? His calligraphy seemed to accuse him from the ground. The black stood clearly against the white.

The messenger regarded the scene with a relaxed air, hands folded away in black robes.

"First you delay, now you act rashly," the man said with a sneer. "The prefect wants you back tonight; he's decided not to give you any further wishes after that. And you're to come with Lian." He turned again to Jiang. "Wear that robe. It's cotton. Won't do to dirty the floors when Li Xiaowen finally obeys Prefect Li." With that, he left, robes flapping like a raven's wings.

Xiang still held his father's sword upright. Another character caught his eye from the ground. Folded in the scroll had been a paper with a single character. The strokes for sword, blood-stroke and all, were confidently rendered in crimson, assaulting his eyes. His sword trembled near Jiang's features. Prefect Li's calligraphy was quite painfully direct.

"I presume I'm to give your father my life." How Jiang could still look at him directly was incomprehensible to him. Xiang couldn't lower his arm.

"You don't owe him anything," he brought out shortly. "At any rate, it's too late." Xiang's father had always stressed utmost punctuality, a habit he had learned well. Except when it came to making decisions. The messenger had been correct; he had been delaying in dalliances. Xiang didn't quite know why, though he had been utterly serious in his comparison of Jiang to the beauty Xi Shi. Jiang, however, had no pained look at the moment. It was more likely that he was the one wearing a pained expression, as Jiang broke in, equally short:

"What do you owe him?" Everything, was Xiang's response. It didn't matter how many times his father had reprimanded him for foolishness, nor the innumerable instances in which his mother had exhorted him to obey his father. Nor did Xiang resent the prefect for pressing him into literature and art, drilling him in preparations for exams. Xiang had his Imperial degrees now. And all those morning practices with the sword had been taken from his father's own time. The prefect had wanted him to be skilled in self-preservation, and in that, Xiang felt he did not disappoint.

Until now. He had held back his hand, and now the younger Lian was coming for the prefect, his father and family head. The sons of the renowned scholar Kong Rong had followed their father to death. No eggs could survive under that overturned nest. Xiang felt inexorably bound to Prefect Li. He was his father's only son― it was his filial duty to obey his father to the end, and to burn the ancestral incense afterward. Why else had his father spent so much time and energy in his upbringing? I owe him all, Xiang thought, and thus it is unthinkable that I disobey him.

"You owe him too much, I see," Jiang said quietly. Her gaze went to the south window, where the red rays of evening still touched, towards Hubei and her sister. "Just as my sister believes that she owes our parents. It's too much."

Xiang's wrist was aching, but he was unable to exert any energy into turning his wrist upwards and easing the strain. Jiang regarded him with a sad smile.

"You recognized it, didn't you? That burning loyalty to one's kin would push one even to kill." Her gaze returned to the south. "You hoped that my sister would try to kill you when she discovered you were truly a Li. In that way, you might obey your father without denigrating into a dishonourable murderer of defenceless women."

His father's sword shook slightly, and a slight scratch appeared below Jiang's lip. That made him feel as guilty as her words did. He felt the need to vindicate himself.

"That has not been my intention for a full week now."

"Then what has your intention been?" Her emotionless countenance, which had been cracking all throughout her correct hypotheses of his motivations, was slipping. Xiang thought it looked somewhat hopeful.

"I intended to send Flame away for good."

"And regarding myself?"

"You were to stay." Xiang now felt very conflicted. He lowered the blade uncomfortably, and Jiang proceeded to wipe at her chin with a corner of the funeral robe.

"Whatever for? Surely not so I could displease your father by continuing to breathe." Jiang looked at the cotton robe fixedly, the white cloth spotted by only a small streak of crimson.

"Please don't do that," said Xiang, feeling thoroughly wretched. The sight of her nonchalantly wiping her chin, on the robe that his father wanted him to kill her in, discomfited him. He brushed the blood carefully away with his sleeve instead.

"What was the reason, Xiang?" Jiang was insistent, though she put up with his brushing. His discomfort heightened.

"I truly was hoping that you'd please my father alive," Xiang confessed. "Unfortunately, Prefect Li is not much inclined to any further weddings with Family Lian." He tried to withdraw his spotted sleeve, but Jiang's hand clamped his wrist with a stoic grip, as befitted a Shaolin nun.

"Did you know that your father wanted mine dead, over such a wedding, because my disappearance hurt his honour?" She was biting her bottom lip.

"It was over the lands that I was to inherit," Xiang said, "though the slight to honour was a convenient excuse. I always believed that my father had kept the marriage contract somewhere, and that he would have used it at the first possible opportunity to solidify his claim. Men envy his holdings, and there are those who murmur that Prefect Lian's daughter still lives to question, if not challenge, the claim."

"And did you find that contract?" Jiang's face was as inscrutable as his father's, though her grip tightened.

"I believe I am too late; that my father destroyed it inadvertently in the fire seven years ago. Fear of Jurchen invasion provided acceptance for his autocracy. Until now, I suppose, with his renewed interest in finding you and your sister. All I have is Lian's ledger, given to me by my father."

"Your father should have destroyed that too," said Jiang, finally letting go. "Why do we have to cling to such mementos of hate?" Xiang sighed in response to her words.

"Too much time has passed, and it's more comforting to stay in our well-worn paths and think our well-worn thoughts. Though I can burn the ledger if that pleases you." That was the best he could come up with, and he looked away in shame. He sheathed his father's sword and rubbed his wrist under Jiang's gaze.

"All that we are is the result of what we have thought. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him." Her hands stopped his. "From the Fajiu jing; I don't think anyone could expect me to come up with something so cheering," she added, focusing intensely on their hands.

Xiang meditated on this gift. Here at last was the answer to his problem. In his struggles to obey his father, he had injured a leg, been attacked in several affrays, and now lost sleep. While Xiang usually didn't take such sayings to heart, this particular saying seemed to resonate with him. He certainly had been dogged by pain, though he was now so very close to doing what filial piety deemed right.

The bells rung from the Iron Pagoda, sounding through iron-grey brick and apartment wall. And although it was a bit ridiculous, memories came back. The sounds recalled to him how he had coaxed an unconscious smile out of Jiang with his promise to relieve her of self-sacrifice. It also made him think of Jiang eagerly admiring the pagoda, sharing his interest over its architectural features, and later, of thanking him for his company and putting up with her gloominess, though he had been equally glad of her company, before and after the guan dao had accosted them both.

"Thank you, Lian Jiang," Xiang replied gravely. He let their hands linger a while longer, then withdrew. "I will confront Prefect Li tonight. A cup of tea?"

When Jiang hesitated, Xiang added, "It would alleviate my melancholy." The sorrow on his face was impossible to mask, and Xiang knew that she could see. Jiang accepted a cup.

"If it comforts you," said Jiang, sipping from the earthenware.

What would have comforted Xiang was for Jiang to have more certainty in her statements, though as it stood, the elder Lian was going to become a nun. Xiang's sadness increased at the thought, but he tried to push it away. That was what the elder Lian wanted to be happy. His sorrow grew at the thought that the younger was most likely going to demand satisfaction from him, as would his father.

But this predicament was entirely of his causation, and he would have to resolve it. Xiang picked up his calligraphy, and his father's, carefully. There would be no one else like his old teacher Lang to bear the brunt of his errors. He gripped the sword more tightly. Xiang would fix his mistake. Alone.
Chapter 14: Family Lian

Perched precipitously in a gnarled ancient tree, a young woman peered into the gloom of the Li manor. It was the darkest part of night, and Flame could hardly see into the courtyard. A steady drizzle of rain petered down, chilling her as she navigated the thick wood to the manor walls.

She had debated before between this and simply calling on Li, but by announcing herself, her chances of killing him would be considerably less. And it wasn't as if she would gain anything from following polite convention. For all she knew, Li or his son had already killed her sister.

Thinking of Xiang made her feel angry. He'd reassured her that her sister would be fine in Bianjing. Clearly, that had not been the case. Flame felt slightly dizzy in the heights of the tree, and clutched her enormous wine jug and straw bale more tightly. It was all that she had been able to afford. She would have to be careful with them. Fastening both on her back, Flame readied herself to spring from the tree to the roofed walls of the courtyard. She jumped. The baked tiles of the roof were curved and slippery, unlike the stones at Taihe. Flame imagined that they were the heads of the older and younger Li, and ground her foot in them all the more firmly.

A dog barked below, and one of the watchmen at the gate looked up. Fortunately, Flame was crouched on the other side of the wall, and out of sight. The dog growled some more, catching her scent, and Flame stayed still.

"Smells the Jurchen coming, he does," grumbled one man to the other, as he cuffed the dog. "They'll be here soon, and if we don't fight 'em off, they'll cut us all down, cursed barbarian turncoats."

"The Empire will stop them, as they always have, with expensive gifts," said the second watchman. The other man snorted in reply.

"Gifts like Bianjing, you mean, and the heads of everyone in it. You can only stop steel with steel."

"Perhaps they'll be turned back by the rising waters, when the canals have been flooded."

"A fool's wish." The man glanced longingly at the roofed gate, rain trickling down his plates. "Come on," he growled, as he tried to coerce the dog into shelter. "I'm in no mood to chase smoke."

When Flame had made sure that the courtyard was clear, she clambered her way to the interior of the gate. The kitchen sat along the exterior wall, to lessen the chance of a fire consuming the entire household. Flame had the brief desire to go there, but it smelled like sweet buns and reminded her too much of her mother. Though her family was why she was here. Flame hesitated a few moments more, before continuing, gripping her sword all the more tightly. She made her way softly through another gate, and into another courtyard. Li's manor was definitely large, and pocked with small gardens besides. Flame should have expected that of a wealthy official; as it now stood, she had no idea where to go and where Li would be.

A full moon illuminated the courtyard, as Flame stood alone in the middle of it. The middle. That was where Li, as family head, would have to be. She made for the central rooms. There were plenty of them. This might take all night. Muffled voices caught her ear.

"..have to wait all night...this isn't conspicuous enough?...extinguish other lights..."

Flame moved into the shadow warily. The sudden realization, that the courtyards had been conveniently empty and darkened, heightened her suspicion. What if Li was trying to ensnare her? Flame glanced warily around. She was still wearing the Taoist robes; those would show quite obviously against the drab walls. In her haste to get at Li, she had neglected to remove the red trappings. Too late for that, Flame told herself. She moved on to the next room. A censer stood before the ancestral shrine, and Flame remembered how Li had destroyed hers. Around the back, a single lamp shone.

The flame burned brightly in the rough pottery, and Flame felt almost certain that Li was nearby. She took several cautious steps up to the lamp, sword carefully held so as to avoid knocking it loudly into the walls. But no one seemed to be around. The fire burned and waved uneasily as Flame stood over it. There was no one else in the room, and no voices either. The light cast her shadow, long and high, onto the walls, as wind chimes sounded obscurely in the distance. A door stood closed before her, and Flame thought she could almost hear Li breathing within.

Her seven years of waiting were finally over.

The door opened noiselessly. Li was sound asleep on an elaborately carved bed. Flame went up, empty sword hand trembling, the other grasping her scabbard as it shook. Li did not look as she remembered. There were more lines on his face, which was to be expected, but what struck her was his expression. It looked perfectly calm, and paradoxically, that made her feel even more panic. His features were as full and sharp as ever, and the pointed whiskers and beard just as she remembered, but when he breathed, Li looked more alive than she had ever remembered from her dreams. She stepped back a pace uneasily, trying to still her shaking hands.

It was the perfect opportunity. Should she kill him immediately, or later? Flame crossed her arms over shaking hands as she tried to decide. There would never be another chance as good as this one. The guards might come at any time, or Li could wake up. Flame's scabbard rattled softly as she breathed deeply. She grasped her sword. Her hands stilled.

After so many years of being tormented—by nightly reminders from her parents to avenge their deaths, her guilt for not burying them, of hearing again and again the whispers of her family's shame in breaking their promise to Li, being ostracized for her name, being forced into hiding all the time—Flame could now put an end to all that. The man who had caused it all was right before her, defenceless in slumber.

Flame drew her sword. The steel gleamed faintly with the light of the opened door. Only one thrust. It would be clean. Yet when she saw Li's chest rise and fall, she couldn't do it. Not while he slept. Maybe Li Xiang's so-called notions of honour had taken hold of her; how else could she explain her frozen hand?

Flame sheathed her sword. She had waited seven years; a few moments would be nothing. Surely her parents would understand; maybe even approve. Li would die in the end anyway, but drawing his last words by sword point would satisfy her all the more. Perhaps he would even tell her the truth, as she would tell him the truth, of why he had to die. Telling Li might even ensure that her parents heard her take vengeance, and then they would finally rest in peace, and haunt her thoughts no longer.

She decided. Sitting down, with her hands shaking anew, Flame spread the straw and opened the wine jug with trembling fingers. Her heart was pounding in her ears, though the room was silent. The sound of the door opening further was a thunderclap to her ears. A quarter of the jug was spilled, before Flame rectified it, scrambling unsteadily to her feet.

"Lian Flame," cut a voice. Li stood before the door, framed by the light of the lamp. It gave him a demonic appearance. Flame's sword was out in a flash, and her sword arm did not tremble.

"I'm here for your life." Flame wouldn't waste that much time explaining. Li only needed to know she knew him to be guilty before he died. It would be like a trial of sorts, like the kind Li had once presided over. Her parents would hear it all. Wind chimes sounded as she looked at Li.

"That's incorrect. You're here for your sister's, your father's, and your mother's, lives." Li was curt. Flame waited for him to draw. As soon as he reached for his sword, Flame would determine his death.

"Isn't it so? After all, I'm not likely to give my life freely." The former magistrate did not move.

"You can't give me my family's lives either," Flame said, her voice shaking in anger. The sword in her hand was steady, though. But Li would not draw. Instead, he sat languorously onto a stool.

"No, I cannot. Though I could claim yours, to go alongside theirs." Li spoke at a leisurely speed, and Flame was transfixed by the sight of how his needled moustache gave only the slightest of movements. She still watched him warily, though. "And wouldn't that be fine? The Lian family would finally be wiped clean from the earth, with their one-generation ancestors forgotten, and the current generation dispatched."

That was a lie. The Lian family had set up an ancestral shrine to her parents' grandparents, in spite of the estrangement from their living relatives. Flame's father had still kept the generational respect and norms of society. But that was a concept that Li would probably twist, just as he had twisted the failed wedding into a perceived slight, and used it to murder her family.

"So why haven't you yet? Surely I don't intimidate you so," Flame demanded angrily, trying to provoke the prefect. She made a slight cut in the air before Li's face. Instead of looking angry, however, Li smiled superiorly.

"It appears that your elder sister must have been possessed of extraordinary brilliance, if she could grasp what you cannot." Flame was burning all the more, but Li still didn't reach for his sword. It was, however, getting easier to envision her blade cutting through his throat.

"What are you talking for?," Flame grated. "You've murdered my family and ruined my life. Surely there's nothing else for you to say. Draw." She would get the most satisfaction from overcoming him with his favoured weapon. Li stood up. The moonlight shone through the grated windows to reflect off her sword, as he moved from its reach.

"I still speak, because you're very wrong." The prefect moved easily around his bed. Flame made sure to position it between him and her exposed left side, though her sword arm was still close enough to strike.

"Firstly, I did not murder your parents. The Empire required their deaths. Your father was a traitor for dealing with the Jurchen, and your mother stood by him." The prefect pulled out his hat of office, and Flame was struck by the familiar sight of a black-winged hat.

"Secondly, your sister is still alive. Her meddling with my son, however, means that she must die. That too, is understandable under the laws, because the entire Lian family was condemned, originally." Li removed a sword from the side of his bed.

"Thirdly, I did not ruin your life. You did that yourself." The former magistrate brushed the dust from the sword's grip. "Rather, you and your sister did that, by becoming involved with Li Xiaowen, or Xiang as you know him."

"I did not," Flame retorted, "and you are entirely responsible for my parents' deaths. You hated my father, and blamed him for your own lack of success when he exceeded you in achievement." That was something her sister had thought aloud once, and Flame had believed it readily. Li's face darkened with anger, to her satisfaction.

"Did you know that I return every year to visit the site where your father died? Would I do that if I held no respect for him?"

"Power has a way of drawing respect," said Flame heatedly. "And fear, along with coercion. Guilt too, I suppose. My sister suffered a lot from that." When Li opened his mouth to reply, Flame spoke right over him. "She always felt like everything was her fault. But it wasn't. It was yours."

There was no sense in blaming the dead, and her sister was now one of them. One certainly couldn't attack them for their faults. Li, on the other hand, was still breathing, and he replied with heated breath.

"Prefect Lian has no hold over anyone now, save his daughters." Li drew his sword, though it still pointed down at the floor. "I merely pay my respects—"

"—so that everyone can see and believe in your upright, lawful character. You're just as insecure and power-hungry as everyone, Li. Only you've sunk lower. You're a liar and a hypocrite."

"And you're a young woman who needs to know her place." A meaningless retort. Flame felt that she had struck the truth.

"With the family."

Li's words came curled with fury as he slashed in a downward diagonal. The bed, however, meant that the cut did not reach as far as he intended it, and Flame had little trouble moving out of the way. She wasted no more breath on speech after that. Li's strokes, though slower than Xiang's, were executed with more precision, each one a thrust meant to disarm or find her vital points. Flame, in contrast, fuelled by fury, was cutting in quick succession, not caring if her strokes reached.

Round the room they circled, and Flame's anger did not abate. Li tried for an opening slice, bringing the sword in a circular swipe from foot to head, but Flame leapt easily out of the way with the speed of youth. She followed up with a vicious thrust that nearly pinned the prefect's sleeve. Li slashed for her side, exposed by her thrust, and Flame barely struck it aside. She concentrated on her enemy. Though she couldn't read Li's next moves—so practised was he in his skill—she believed herself to be quick enough to counter them when he struck.

Li suddenly cut for her wrist. Her sword thrummed, a part of her hand, as she turned both wrist and sword over in avoidance and parry. Though Li had almost struck off her hand, her quick withdrawal had saved it, and only a trickle of blood flowed. Flame returned with an upward diagonal slash, aimed to cut under his sword arm. Li turned easily, and thrust out for her throat. In dodging, Flame saw that Li's sword would have penetrated and cleared her throat by several inches, had she not moved. Clearly his chi and hatred were being extended through his blade. Flame now hung back, with her blows aimed only to distract, trying to find a more direct method to kill the prefect.

While none of Flame's blows had struck, she could see that Li had not fought for such an extended period in a long time. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, though it did not show in his stony expression. Perhaps she could outlast him. For once, the patience and endurance, that the nuns of Yongtai had tried to teach her, would be useful. Flame now tried only to defend. She would strike when Li was too tired to parry.

"Xiang taught you incorrectly." It seemed that Li had seen through her strategy, and was now talking to distract, to give himself time to rest.

"I don't care," Flame retorted shortly. "You'll die anyway, and so will your son, for killing my sister."

She aimed directly for his throat, trying to transmute into the blade her full chi and all of her hatred for Li's crimes. The blade cut the air soundlessly, and Flame's anger burned as she saw nothing but a murderer, and the father of a murderer, before her.

Li, however, was not as tired as he seemed, and batted the blade aside. His rippled steel—the very one that had murdered her Ma—shone like water as it cut for her side. Flame moved her sword outwards, twisting away as she did so, but Li's hateful blade returned and dove for her foot. Flame jumped, but Li had struck something. While returning the blow, Flame felt like she had stepped in a puddle of water. Sudden pain told her it wasn't.

The sword dove for her throat with a ruffling of the prefect's dark robes, and Flame instinctively knew that she could not raise her sword in time.

So she kicked his feet out instead. Li went down in a crunch, and Flame clamped her good foot down on his blade, relieving him of his sword. She spilled the remainder of the wine on him when she knocked the jug over with her foot. The wine covered a good half of his front; the rest soaked the straw, and a rusty red formed where it soaked into the ground. Flame saw it clearly, in the moonlight, as she pressed her sword at his throat. Despite all this, Li laughed. Flame wondered if he had lost his wits with his chance at victory.

"I'll tell you what Xiang taught you in error," Li said, eyes gleaming unnaturally. Even disarmed, he still attacked, with words.

"I don't want to know," Flame told him. "I just want to avenge Family Lian." She prepared to twist her sword into Li's throat.

"It was mercy." He smiled ironically. Flame opened her mouth to argue that mercy wasn't wrong, but a sound at the door stopped her.

The doorway was suddenly packed with Li's guard. Had they been there all along? While she glanced, her blade dropped slightly. Li had pushed her sword away with one hand, and was reaching with the other for her sword arm. Unhesitatingly, Flame slashed him aside, even as the first man entered with a yell.

It was a sufficiently deep cut. Flame could see the blood, even amid the red stain of wine. Li could only purse his lips in pain as he clutched at his side. The guards streamed into the room, some heading for the fallen prefect, others converging on Flame.

She now swung wildly. Her only desire was to finish Li, but the guards were all around her. She glanced at her enemy. He was now bent up against the bed, still in the position she had left him, with two of his guard surrounding him. The ugly mess in his lap told her why. Li was in worse condition than the dying Jurchen she had met on the road. Satisfied, Flame focused on cutting free of the guards that pressed around her.

But the men kept entering in a flood. One of them held a lamp. As they grasped for her arms, Flame knocked the light from the man's hands with a spinning kick. The lamp fell on Li. Fuelled by wine, oil, and straw, the flame spread almost instantaneously. Though some of the straw had dried, the lamp oil on it was potent. The room became a conflagration.

Flame didn't look back. The earthen walls wouldn't burn very well, but the straw was burning enough that the occupied guards didn't see her exit. Within moments, the nearby veranda was aflame as well. The sloped roof had kept the wood dry from rain, and the fire had spread with the aid of her hay. While the damper and more distant parts of the Li mansion wouldn't burn, Flame was triumphant.

It had stopped raining. If the fire wasn't put out by morning, maybe the entire house would be dry enough to catch fire. Guards, labourers, and servants were all running now, to put out the fire. Flame noted with interest that Li's personal guard, sent to deal with her, had been small. Most likely because Li had meant to keep the business private.

It no longer mattered. Li was now dead by her hand. Perched safely in another tree, beyond the compound walls, Flame surveyed her work while musing over what she had learned. What had she meant to say to Li? She couldn't remember, though she could recall wanting to disagree with Li's insistence that teaching her mercy had been wrong.

Flame thought the statement was quite true now. Mercy had almost gotten her killed. It had certainly killed Li. If I had been Li, I would have killed the entire Lian family at once, Flame thought to herself. She wasn't a Li, however, but a Lian. Her sword still hung by her side. She could kill the entire Li family at once, if she found Xiang. Certainly, that was what her family's memories deserved.

Rainwater no longer trickled on her face, and Flame was completely dry. Far off, the sound of wind chimes rang mournfully. And the flames burned ardently.
Chapter 15: Regret

Jiang awoke with a start. Was it morning or night? She felt somewhat disoriented. Above her, instead of the precisely fitted timber beams of the apartment, Jiang saw wooden wheels interlaced with bronze. Was she actually inside the clock tower?

The tea! Jiang scrambled to her feet, filled with a powerful dread. She had not felt this way since the night she cowered behind a screen and watched her mother die. Then, as now, she had let herself be exploited by a Li!

Her thoughts streamed quickly: Xiang had seemed kind enough, but she had made the mistake of sharing her weaknesses; her weakness for him—for fellow sufferers, she corrected—and he had used it to give her laced tea. It didn't matter. Jiang forced her thoughts to slow. She could still taste the bitter dregs of the drink.

"Nice to see you conscious," growled a voice. Jiang sprang up abruptly, in anticipation of her attacker. The monk Wong appeared, bearing a lamp, and Jiang immediately masked her surprise. She wouldn't show vulnerability.

"I'm pleased to see you as well, Wong shifu." Jiang forced her voice into normality. "Though I believe your sworn brother was sufficient enough to act in your stead." She swallowed as she looked for the exit.

"A comrade from my martial days," confirmed Wong. "I merely sent him to escort you from Bianjing. Clearly he failed."

"Why? And why are you here?" The questions slipped before she could contain her ignorance.

"Let me ask you a question instead. What are you doing here?"

"I was under the impression that I was handling past family matters." The monk sighed at her reply.

"You've been trying to do that ever since you reached Bianjing. Are you sure you actually want to?" When Jiang didn't reply, being occupied in questioning her motives for staying, Wong shifu added, "In any case, your sister's taking care of that."

The bronze chain made a horrible rattle, and the monk's words were not comforting. It sounded as if her sister had killed someone. Bodhisattvas of mercy, I have failed again. It didn't matter who had died; Li and the entire city would be hunting her sister down. The lamp sputtered from stray drops of water. And it was all because Jiang had neglected her sister. Again. Remember the family, her mother had said, but she had forgotten her sister at Taihe, for Li's son. And her sister had killed. The guilt brought her physical nausea.

"Anyway, time to leave Bianjing," interjected Wong. Jiang looked up from her self-rebuke.

"And my sister?" Jiang was afraid of what he would say, though he looked regretful.

"I should have never agreed to you two separating," he muttered mostly to himself, "but it's a bit late for that now." He looked back at Jiang. "Your sister seems quite determined to stay, though you might leave."

This was an ironic change of roles. Jiang had stayed to die, but now it seemed that Flame was staying to kill.

"I'll leave when she does," Jiang said decisively. The monk exhaled heavily, in obvious discomfort.

"Then you'll both die. Your sister's killed Li."

"Which one?" Jiang felt the familiar waves of guilt swamping her in periods. There was now no questioning that her sister had killed.

"Which one do you think?" He sounded impatient. "She's probably tracking down the younger one right this moment, now that she likely knows his identity."

"You knew."

"I've always known." Wong chuckled ruefully. "I've also known that you're prone to paralysing fits of guilt leading to indecision, that your sister is full of unhealthy hatred, and that neither of you could leave the past alone."

"And why, Wong shifu, haven't you left us alone?" Jiang was curious to know.

"I've told you both before― the past belongs behind us. What did chasing my father's honour bring me? My desire to redeem myself by becoming a military paradigm, in killing the enemies of the Empire; ridding it of evil? Broken fingers." Wong shifu looked at her intensely.

"Your sister believes that destroying evil is as simple as thrusting a blade into a man's heart, or maybe even a hundred of them. And that is what blaming another man for evil demands. You want to overcome it by appealing to the heart. That's for your shame of allowing yourself to be manipulated by evil. But it's never that simple. For evil lives not in man's heart, nor any other part of his body, but in ideology."

"I can reach that," said Jiang, adamant.

"Ideology belongs to no single man. Just look at how many scorn me for being part Jurchen."

"I'm trying nonetheless." Wong sighed at her insistence.

"If you give all to the one who gives you harm, there is nothing left to give the one who gives you kindness," warned Wong, "and remember that 'all' includes one's life. You've only one for the present, no matter how many cycles of rebirth you might think to pass through."

Jiang thought of how she had failed her sister, and of how Flame was probably going to kill again. That would make Xiang her fault too. Though he had taken advantage of her character, Jiang was beginning to develop the nagging thought that he had meant well. Why else would he leave her for Wong shifu to find and talk her out of town? That made her feel guilty as well. But motivations were nothing; what mattered was that Jiang prevented both her sister and Xiang from satisfying their misguided notions of family and self-honour.

"Wong shifu, I thank you for the concern, but I need to end the suffering I've caused by my neglect."

"True to the end, aren't you?" The monk bent his hands into hu zhua, curled as a tiger's claws. "You may face death in the process. Is that what you want?"

Jiang thought that if she walked away from Bianjing, and the guilt didn't kill her, her regret certainly would. She nodded. Wong shifu jerked the claws at an imaginary throat.

"I won't impede you." He pulled his hands back. "But know what you want."

Jiang nodded in acquiescence to his words, as she bowed to Wong shifu with grave finality. And then she was running from the clock, hoping that she wouldn't be too late to meet her sister, or Xiang. A meeting of them both promised to be fatal. She would have to stop one of them. Know what you want. But she didn't.

***

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

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

"We believe no one else, Master Li—"

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

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

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

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

Above him, two crows circled over the courtyard. He stared up at them resentfully. They weren't going anywhere at all, just as Xiang wasn't. With a final glance at what remained of his father, he stalked resolutely out by the manor gate. The elder Lian, all his noble intentions; they no longer mattered. Flame was coming.
Chapter 16: Meandering River, Ardent Flame

The break of day was met with a strange sight. Though Family Li had prepared their white garments, and was searching for a priest to oversee the funeral, the prefect's son was nowhere to be found. Following the noise of clamorous steel, however, the servants soon found Li's son engaged in clashing swords with a vermilion young woman. It was the prefect's killer! Several of them ran to find the mistress, while the rest remained to watch, wide-eyed.

The pair was fighting viciously, red one cutting in a quick blur, circling closely into their master's guard, where he could not use the full length of his weapon effectively. Xiaowen's blade turned and sought an opening, but the murderess spun in its direction every time, heedless of the death in his hands, pressing dangerously close with her sword. Fortunately, it seemed as if she had not yet figured out how to stab him, at such close quarters, but it was only a matter of time. The servants trembled.

Lady Li came running, already pale in a white mourning gown, and she grew paler still at the sight of her son.

"Xiaowen!" The mother's call was plaintive. But the son did not turn. He was caught by the need to avenge his father. The red robes spun and flew like flames, while the blade pressed ever more quickly. Xiaowen was caught between wall and sword, streaked with sweat, as metal might bead, in the presence of fire. He slashed out desperately.

A quick blur of blue-grey robes appeared from nowhere. It was difficult to tell who it was― oh, this must be the flame's sister! Bianjing would be discussing this for weeks to come. Not surprisingly, the pair did not cease. The master's sword whirled for the red's throat, but the young woman's blade was already inches from his own...

...until the blue-robed woman batted it away barehanded, as a crane might wield its wings. That was a surprise. The master's sword continued in its trajectory, but the woman threw her sister down. He had glanced the younger's arm, however. They could tell by the darkened ground. Young Li now stood over them both, blade in hand. The elder stood to face him, empty-handed. This one was dangerous though, they knew. The head guardsman of the docks had regaled the youngest among them with tales of a crazy Shaolin nun, who had battered four of them into unconsciousness. One of them had died.

But the master didn't seem to move. Indeed, he might as well have been made of metal. The servants stared, and the mistress shrieked something unintelligible. It might have been an order for her son to kill, or maybe for one of them to get the constables. The cook ran for the guard. The remainder watched. On the manor wall, a murder of crows stared with beady eyes.

***

"You're supposed to be dead," Flame said accusingly. What was her sister doing here, and why had she stopped her from killing Li? Maybe it was a vengeful ghost, though her sister was the last person she would expect to become one.

"Fortunately I'm not." Her sister glanced at Li Xiaowen. "We're leaving."

"I can't let you," he responded. Flame thought he sounded contrite, though it was probably a ploy. She needed to kill him. Focusing her chi, Flame willed her hate to propel her blade into his throat. But it didn't happen. Her sister had pinned her sword arm down with one foot.

"What are you doing?" Flame was furious. Mulan has no elder brother. Could it be that Jiang had forgotten the family? Of course! Why else would she be alive? "You traitorous hypocrite!" Flame wrenched her arm upwards, and made for her sister's face. However, she was too close, and Jiang easily clamped her arm in a vise between two elbows.

"I'm no hypocrite." Jiang looked back at her resolutely. It disconcerted her. Jiang was never this focused on anything, save for exercises in self-perfection. What had Li done, to make her sister turn on her? She tried again to stab him, but Jiang's grip was solid.

"Let me go!" Flame struck at her sister's face. Jiang blocked, but freed Flame's arm in the process. Flame thrust weakly for Li. It seemed as if her chi was leaking away, with the blood running from her arm; she saw her sword move slowly, as if through water. Then her sister directed the blade into the ground, palms dripping blood.

"You're bleeding for him, instead of your family?" Flame was incredulous. She collapsed onto one knee, holding herself up with the sword. Both her arm and foot were bleeding copiously now. It recalled to her the dreams in which Magistrate Li had left her similarly powerless.

"There's the concept of universal family," said Jiang. Flame wanted to respond angrily, but the loss of blood made her swoon. Powerless. She blacked out.

***

The constables had arrived in full numbers, and Xiang was once again indecisive. His father's death demanded justice, but Jiang hadn't been involved—No. That was the wrong way to think. His father had left half of the Lian family alive, and when Xiang had delayed in killing them, he had killed his father. He couldn't now leave the other alive. The younger one had seemed to move, but that had been an illusion. The elder had bent down and risen with a devastated look.

"Don't you provoke your father's ghost—kill her," ordered his mother, appearing at his shoulder. Xiang walked, with quick steps, up to the elder Lian, his sword raised. The crows watched from the family home, doubtless waiting for the leavings of death.

He positioned himself behind Jiang. It wouldn't be possible for him to look at her. She had intercepted Flame's blade for him, but as a Lian, she still had to die. He raised the edge of his father's sword to her throat. A quick pull would mean a hasty death. But his hand shook uncontrollably. Most likely he was tired from fighting Flame. He grasped Jiang's shoulder, but his sword arm still shook.

"It's fine." Jiang grasped his arm lightly to stop the tremor. That merely amplified it.

"It's not ," Xiang ground out. "Just...wait a moment, my arm's exhausted."

"Your mother's not going to wait. If you don't kill me, the ones waiting for an excuse to harm Family Li will, and then they'll kill you as well."

"Why would they do that?," Xiang snapped. His arm would not cease to shake.

"Ostensibly for being complicit in Prefect Li's death, by not executing the apparent accomplice."

His mother would have implicated covetousness, of Family Li's power, as the motive, but Jiang had divined his cause for self-reproach accurately. Xiang suddenly found his hand steadily pressing his father's blade further. The shaking redoubled upon this realization.

"And what would they gain if I killed you?" Xiang reached across her shoulder to steady his trembling hand. Jiang shrugged in reply.

"People need to direct their hatred somewhere. And other people are the most convenient objects."

Clearly the proximity of death was taking a toll on her reasoning. He felt her hand steady his, as she returned with a question.

"Do you intend to do this cleanly?"

"Your conversation is distracting; that's why my arm is shaking," he ground out, angry with indecision.

"My apologies." Jiang positioned his blade near her throat, and grasped his hand to help him pull.

But he still couldn't. Ancestral gods and all others watching, he wouldn't! Xiang wouldn't murder in cold blood. He grasped Jiang's hand tightly and threw the blade down. In the distance, he could hear the pounding of hooves, the twang of crossbows, and the shouts of men.

The crows took wing, ready to scavenge. High above, a crane flew. It looked to land on water.
Chapter 17: Qing Ming Jie

Perched precipitously in a gnarled ancient tree, a girl peered into the gloom of the manor. The courtyard was completely empty; the house silent. A croaking sound made her turn, but Flame saw nothing but a crow, picking away at the leavings of Qing Ming Jie.

She was about to leave, when the sound of wind chimes called her back. Flame saw her Ma and Ba. Somehow, they were a lot taller than her. They greeted her smilingly, but there was something sorrowful about the glances between them.

"What's wrong?" Flame directed her query at them both. Her father ruffled her hair affectionately, but her mother smiled sadly.

"You've forgotten the family," her mother told her.

"But I killed Li," Flame protested. Her mother knelt down, and Flame realized that she was ten years old again.

"That was never the intention," murmured her mother. "You were both to remember each other."

"Elder sister forgot me first," Flame had to explain.

"Be nice," chided her father. Flame looked at him with puzzlement. "Share responsibility for the wrongs, even if Jiang was first." He laughed lightly.

Flame wanted to reply, but she felt a burning sensation. That was strange. She couldn't burn― she hadn't when Li had come for her family, and she wouldn't now. But the pain pervaded. Wong, Xiang, and her sister all appeared above her.

"Is this real?" She addressed Wong. Xiang and her sister were too much for her.

"Everything is real, but at the same time, false," Wong told her, ever the Buddhist monk. "Let go of your illusions and your past." Everything swirled around her. Flame thought she had a fever, so dizzy and hot did she feel. Jiang now came into view. She was crying. This had to be a dream, Flame thought. Her sister never cried.

"I'm sorry, Flame. I've caused your death."

"It wasn't you; it was Li." Flame didn't even deign to say Xiang, but her sister seemed to know.

"Wong provided the horses, and Xiang carried you on his. He's been struck by crossbow bolts, though. A position-hungry enemy of his father paid the constables."

Flame should have considered doing the same, but she hadn't had more than a thousand wen. Anyway, that wouldn't have satisfied her sense of being wronged. Nor did it bother her as much as Xiang's actions. Once again, a Li had borne her from impending death. Flame wondered if this was done out of amusement by the gods.

"It's not your fault, but Li's," Flame repeated. And then everything whirled again. Her life, or afterlife, was confined to a silent, dark courtyard for what seemed like days.

"Flame meimei." Xiang's voice jarred her. He looked guilty. As he should. He'd deceived her, and tried to kill her as his father had. Now he sat before her.

"Could you forgive my actions?"

"No," Flame snapped. Xiang looked somewhat pained, as did her sister, who had appeared behind him. Nonetheless, he continued.

"Even if I died?"

"For all I know, you might already be dead," responded Flame, as she had no idea anymore.

"How perceptive of you," said Xiang, amused, even as he pressed on. "But would you?"

Flame considered it for a few moments.

"No," she said, with a shake of her head. "You'd be dead, but still a Li. And I haven't, nor will I ever, forgive your father, Li."

"Alright, what if I ceased to be Li?" Xiang smiled, and Flame laughed in spite of herself.

"That would take some act of Heaven. Next thing I know, you'll be asking if becoming a Lian will make me forgive you."

"We've decided to choose a less binding name," her sister broke in. Oh. It was a serious name change. Flame had never considered it, but even if she had, she would have dismissed the idea. It would have dishonoured the family.

"I won't forgive you, Li," Flame said, heavily.

"Steadfast to the end," Xiang sighed melodramatically. "Well, so long as you don't haunt me, I'll be satisfied." You're not a Lian, Flame wanted to reply, but the pain in her foot and arm had spread to her head. Actually, her whole body hurt; her bones felt crushed. She thought she could see her sword in the corner—perhaps she could slash away the fires that burned her, but then maybe the flames would melt it. The thoughts ran quickly through her head.

Flame gave up thinking. Family Li was likely dead, her parents were dead, and possibly her sister as well. Maybe Flame was dead too. There would be no more hauntings, no more visits to the past. The thought satisfied her. All her life she had lived for her vengeance. And now she had it. The fever burned, as did the rest of her.

Lian Flame burned herself out.
Chapter 18: Epilogue

Within several months of their departure, Bianjing had fallen under the Jurchen's Jin, or Gold, dynasty. Wong had returned to the monasteries of Henan province. However, nothing was ever again heard from either Sister An or Wong. It was decided that he had convinced Sister An to desist in her dealings with Family Lian. After all, none of its members were left.

It had been some years since Flame passed away, but Jiang still thought of her often. Xiang knew, from the way she would sometimes stare thoughtfully into the hearth, or stand for hours on end, in ma bu, beneath the moon. The latter occurred with increased frequency around Qing Ming Jie, but Jiang had assured him that it lessened the pain of mourning. Today, however, no such thoughts entered either of their minds. They were both newly parents.

Their child gave a satisfied yawn, and Xiang watched contentedly. The only damper on his contentment was the challenge of naming. The two of them had debated for days, over their son's name. Xiang had advocated for a name rooted in wood, but Jiang had disliked the idea of naming their son after an element. That hadn't turned out well for herself, Jiang had pointed out, and though Xiang didn't agree with her reasoning, he had finally agreed that it was a bad idea. It seemed restrictive of character.

"I've thought of a name." Jiang sounded decided, as she came up behind him.

"Please tell." He clasped their hands together.

"Bao." She looked pleased.

"Won't that make our son grow up with the belief that he's entitled, being precious like his name?" Xiang was slightly worried. Jiang smiled in response.

"Isn't all life precious?"
