A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (51)
He looks into the dancing light of the brazier, the fire reflected in his eyes. “One of the tunnels leads to the northern docks. Another to the teahouse district. That was built at Grandmother’s request, so she could attend the performances without having to take an entourage of guards.”
Grandmother. Dowager Empress Wuyang. It’s strange to think about the fabled rulers of Dàxī’s history as people with families. That Kang could know them as well as I know Shu and my father. The thought is disconcerting.
“We should keep moving,” he tells me. We head into one of the tunnels, and as we walk I can feel the gradual slope of the ground beneath my feet. The air grows damper, like we are headed into the bowels of the earth.
“It’s a peculiar feeling, coming back here,” he murmurs when we reach a split in the path. He lifts up his torch to look in either direction.
“How long ago did you leave the palace?” I ask, hopeful that being in a place of his childhood will make him more susceptible to my questions.
“When I was nine,” he says. “It’s been ten years now. Everything is familiar, and yet…” I wait for him to finish his thought, but he does not continue.
I don’t know how it feels to be expelled from a childhood home, to bear the physical brand of a traitor. But I do know what it feels like to be an outcast.
I place a hand on his arm, and he glances down at it in surprise, almost as if he forgot I was here for a moment.
“I remember now.” He gives me a smile. “We’re almost there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We do not advance far down the tunnel before we come to a wooden door, barred with a heavy beam on this side. It takes both of us to open it, covering our faces with our sleeves so we do not inhale the dust that fills the air around us; it’s obvious the door has not been opened for quite some time. We ascend the steps, keeping low and quiet, cautious that we may be emerging into an occupied space.
The first thing I notice is the smell of incense, rich and cloying, as the rest of the room comes into view. The chamber has five walls, each holding a carved stone panel. I approach each with reverence, recognizing that they are depictions of the gods.
The Lady of the South has rippling robes and a flute in hand, her slippered feet on the back of a bird with great wings. Another panel features the Archer King, astride a great horse rearing, its massive hooves grazing the sky. Shénnóng is portrayed with a flowing beard, floating on a lily pad, flower in hand, while his reflection in the water shows a giant carp with matching long whiskers. Next to him is a man with bulging eyes and a ferocious, fanged grin, holding a drum in his hand. Lightning streaks the sky behind him, reflecting off the mirror held by the woman at his side. The Thunder Tiger God, clad in his usual black, and the Lightning Goddess, his wife. The panel closest to the door features the Emerald Tortoise. All of them are stories familiar to any of Dàxī’s children.
Above us soars a painted ceiling of the constellations, drawn in silver lines on a background of deep blue. Two figures fly across the sky, a dragon and a serpent entwined in eternal battle. Somewhere in the distance, there is the sound of chanting.
“What is this place?” I ask softly.
“Língy? Monastery, the tomb of the former emperors,” Kang tells me. “They have one of the most beautiful gardens in all Jia.”
“Gardens?” My heart leaps at the thought, even as my mind tells me I should maintain the ruse, that I shouldn’t care so much. And yet, I miss strolling through the orchards and plucking fruit from the trees. I miss the work of harvesting the leaves from the tea trees. I miss the flowers, even though I disliked their prickly nature and the challenges of coaxing out full blooms. The palace gardens, though beautiful, are always under watch, and I’ve never been permitted to linger.
“They are currently performing the midday chant,” he explains. “After they complete this session, they usually go to the dining hall. With the news of the emperor’s passing, however, many of them will be called to the palace to assist. We should be able to go into the gardens and not be noticed, but we’ll have to remain here until then.”
I’m drawn back to the portraits again. This time I notice the shimmering iridescence of the details, inset into the stone. The beak of the bird, the mirror of the Lightning Goddess, the scales of Shénnóng’s carp.
“These are beautiful.” Even though I want to touch them, I know they should be preserved. “They must be quite old.”
“Those were made by my mother’s people, with stones taken from the cliffs of the Emerald Isles,” he says, with a hint of sadness to his voice. “They were part of the dowager empress’s dowry when she married the Ascended Emperor. Lǜzhou and Yún were in alliance … once.”
I say without thinking, “But isn’t that where—” I glance at him and notice the pain evident on his face, but it’s too late to stop my brash words.
“Yes, a land where degenerates and bandits live in exile. But once it used to be a place known for carvings like these, where artisans lived in collectives and created marvelous things.”
He brushes his fingertips reverently over the scales of the carp. “They were renowned for their work with the black pearls, which were used as jewelry or in headdresses and other adornments. The oysters’ shells themselves were also used as inserts in carvings and sculptures. The pearls can also be ground into powder for medicinal use, to be ingested for vigor in battle or used in cosmetics to preserve youthfulness. The soil isn’t rich there, and it’s difficult to farm. We found other ways to live on that harsh peninsula of rock until…”