A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (62)

“Usually I would brew this overnight,” she says, shaking the herbs. “But we don’t have time.”

Definitely not, with the dampness of Ruyi’s skin, the black rings around her eyes, and the black veins creeping ever closer to her heart.

The herbs steep in the hot water, then Lian pulls the bag out of the pot and squeezes it over a bowl. Cupping the bowl in both hands, she takes a deep breath, then blows across the surface. I can feel the infusion of magic, the spicy scent of cinnamon, even though I know there was none in the mix.

“Sit her up,” Lian says, a subtle shift in her voice. A commanding tone, like someone else speaks through her. The surface of the bowl ripples.

The princess adjusts her bodyguard’s position so Ruyi is sitting between her legs, supported against her.

“Open her mouth.”

The light in the room begins to flicker, even though there is no breeze. Princess Zhen looks like she is about to protest, but I give her a shake of the head. She nods in resignation and tips Ruyi’s head back. The liquid goes in, but Ruyi coughs, and the tonic trickles out the corner of her mouth.

“Keep it in,” Lian directs me as she holds the bowl above Ruyi’s head again.

The princess pulls Ruyi’s mouth open, and with my assistance, we close it once all the tonic enters, forcing her to swallow. The tension in the air eases, and the room once again smells faintly of incense.

Lian sinks back to her seat and blinks. “It’s done,” she whispers, sounding once again like herself.

I draw in a shaky breath as I approach. I can feel the weight of the princess’s and Lian’s gazes, expectant, waiting for me to fulfill my part of the bargain.

For Shu, I tell myself, and climb onto the bed, readying myself for the task ahead.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


My dilemma is evident before me. I need to expel the poison from Ruyi’s body, but she cannot lose more blood in her weakened state. I sift through the tray with my fingers, hesitating over this ingredient and the next before settling on peelings of the umbrella tree, a common ingredient in any apothecary shop. I wish I had stronger ingredients, such as hú huáng lián or the bark of the silk flower tree, but those would be in a physician’s storeroom and not as easily accessible.

I mash the concoction of bark and leaves between my fingers until it becomes something I can easily manipulate in my hands, a living poultice. Then I pack the paste into her wound, leaving dark smears against her skin. Rolling the remnants into a ball, I place it under my tongue. The taste of it is repulsive, but I force my lips to close. I’ve seen my mother perform this ritual before, when she worked alongside my father, the two of them practicing their respective arts side by side like an intricate dance.

I place my hands on either side of Ruyi’s head and close my eyes.

Shénnóng is communion, a joining of your soul to theirs. Be vulnerable, be open …

I understand now. The magic is not in the ceremony of pouring the tea or the sharing of the cup. It is in the connection, the brief joining of souls. The tea leaves are a channel, the ingredients the signposts.

I can see Ruyi lying at the roots of a great tree, surrounded by a swirling darkness. Swallowing my fear, I approach her, the tendrils of smoke parting at my feet, but there is no telltale smell of fire.

Where the smoke dissipates, I can see past her skin and muscle. Her body is translucent, lit up by dazzling pathways of red and gold—blood and life essence moving through her. But there, spreading from the wound at her side, is a writhing, pulsating darkness. Its tendrils have already wrapped around her intestines and liver, tracing their way upward toward her beating heart.

Leaning forward, I place a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at me with dazed eyes.

“Who are you?” She is afraid, knowing something is not right.

I don’t know what to do.

Above our heads, the tree rustles, then the head of a crane dips down through the leaves. It is a beautiful bird, with snow-white feathers and a head crowned with vivid red. The Lady of the South.

Her voice rings in my head: The receiver must be willing.

I think of how the princess carefully wiped the sweat from Ruyi’s brow. How she threw herself into harm’s way without hesitation to protect her handmaiden from harm. Each touch speaks of shared intimacies.

“Zhen sent me,” I tell Ruyi now. “I only want to help.”

“Zhen?” A bit of clarity returns to her as she turns her face toward me, then she gives me a slight nod. I don’t know if she sees the bird above us, but I look up at the goddess, silently asking her what I must do next.

She inclines her head. Reach in and grab it.

When a goddess instructs, I know I must listen. Even though every part of me is shrieking in protest at the thought of touching that … darkness, I reach in. It feels like my hand is sinking into warm water, like when I touched Kang with the assistance of the Golden Key. I force myself to contain my revulsion when I can feel a slippery chill glide through my fingers.

Ruyi screams when I try to pull it back, as if I am ripping her heart out of her body. The darkness grows barbs, sinking into her organs like nettles embedding themselves into flesh. Setting my jaw, I grasp the darkness with two hands, struggling to hold on to it with all my strength. It thrashes, attempting to burrow its way deeper, trying to make its way to her heart, but Lian’s tonic shimmers like a silver cage, repelling its attempt to take hold.