A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (16)

When we reach the first platform, we are directed to separate—one line to the right, one to the left. We fill in the spaces between the rows of black tables, each with a cushion for us to kneel on. At the center of each table, there is a wooden box with our name written on the lid.

It is then that I sneak a glance over at the crowd, and suddenly there’s a koi in my gut, wiggling and flipping in protest. I almost sway at the size of the gathering before me. It’s but a blur of faces, illuminated by the lanterns that dangle above the spectators’ heads. They number more than all the people in my village, several times over. Around the perimeter, more soldiers in red stand guard, faces hidden beneath their helmets.

The stage in front of us continues onto another set of stairs, leading to a platform with empty tables, awaiting the judges. Behind that rises the grand hall, a splendor of Dàxī’s architecture, built in the days of the Ascended Emperor. A bell is struck, and the crowd quiets, following the cue. A herald dressed in resplendent purple appears at the top of the steps to make the proclamation.

“Welcome all to join in the celebrations honoring Dowager Empress Wuyang, long may her name resound in the heavens. The princess hopes all have enjoyed the feast shared with you today…” He pauses for a moment. “The emperor sends his regrets that he is unable to attend. He will be eagerly awaiting the results in his chambers and will personally bless the winner when the time comes.”

Stomps and shouts arise from the assembly, demands to see the emperor, for an explanation as to why he will not be making an appearance. The herald raises his arm to quiet the din before speaking again.

“Our competitors and our honorable judges! The Minister of Rites, Song Ling. The Marquis Kuang of ānhé province, from which our most precious tea originates. Elder Guo of the venerable Hánxiá Academy, and … Grand Chancellor Zhou.”

As they are named, the judges descend the steps from the balcony of the Great Hall to the upper platform. My gaze rests on the imposing figure of the chancellor, his hair done in a severe topknot, clad in a dark-colored ceremonial robe bereft of embroidery. He is known for his commoner background, as someone who rose through the ranks due to his shrewd intelligence and his high marks in the imperial examinations. He surveys the crowd with keen eyes, his expression betraying nothing.

“Finally, we welcome Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Li Ying-Zhen!” She appears at the balcony to cheers, but there are also a few scattered jeers and hisses. I remember what Bo said to me: that she is not well-liked by all, that the people grow restless.

The princess slowly descends. Her robe, its train cascading down the steps, is even finer than the one she wore at our welcome ceremony. Hundreds of embroidered cranes fly from her shoulders, over a midnight sky gradually lightening to the palest blue. Her hair is swept up atop her head, adorned with jeweled pins shaped like birds that sparkle in the light. She takes her seat at the center of the table, the other judges framing her on either side.

Minister Song stands, voice booming out over the crowd. “What these competitors before you do not know is that our judges have already reviewed their choice ingredients. They have deemed half of the competitors worthy of partaking in the first round.”

Startled at this sudden turn, we look at each other in confusion.

“You will lift the lid from your box,” the minister continues. “If you see your dish and the tea contained within, then you will continue today. If your box is empty, please leave immediately.”

There are gasps and murmurs—from both the stage and the crowd—and I freeze. This could be it. Gone before I’ve even had a chance to brew a single cup.

I reach out with shaking hands. Around me, people yell in happiness or despair. Some of the younger apprentices are crying as soldiers assist them down the steps. I shut my eyes, terrified of the emptiness I may find within. Taking a deep breath, I lift the lid and look down.

There is a dish inside my box.

Tears spring to my eyes as I take in the two plump rice dumplings, glistening on a carefully cut triangle of banana leaf, a dusting of crushed peanuts on top. The dumplings are smaller in scale, meant to be popped into one’s mouth in one bite. Despite the pressure of the moment, all I can think of is how the village aunties would have complained. What a waste of time to make something so small!

I glance around and take in the fact that we’ve—just like that—gone from over fifty competitors to twenty-some. The way forward will still be steep, but I’ve made it past the first step.

I catch Lian’s eye. She, too, has made it through. The same is not true for many of the girls housed in our residence; I can see a few of them dejectedly leaving the stage.

Now, servants in red livery begin to set up for the next step of the competition on the judges’ platform. A small brazier filled with hot coals is placed to the left of the prepared table, a pot filled with water placed on top to boil. And finally, a row of teacups, numbering five—one for each taster. I can’t tell the material of the utensils even when I squint. I’ll know when it’s my turn.

Just like a martial arts fighter, each belief system follows a different style that the shénnóng-shī believes to produce the best cup of tea. But the outcome depends on the practitioner and the rules of the competition. In previous trials to determine whether an apprentice could become worthy of the rank of shénnóng-shī, it was rumored that one session involved identifying a selection of tea leaves, all unlabeled—the apprentices had to discern the teas by scent alone. In another session, all the shénnóng-tú were blindfolded before preparing their tea, to test their steadiness of hand. The trials were all held in secret, the knowledge passed down from teacher to student. Now, we are on display for all to see.