A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (73)

She turns to me and Lian expectantly.

Something churns inside me as we approach the dais. Mother told me that if anyone is found to have died at the hands of a shénnóng-shī, the murderer’s name will be stricken from the Book of Tea. She died of a poison created by one of us, someone who walked in pretense along the path of Shénnóng. And someone in the palace knows who it is.

That cold thought is the only thing that steadies my hands as I prepare to do this cruel deed.

“I’m sorry, Peng-ge,” I whisper to the bird as I carry its cage to the enclosure. It chirps at me, oblivious to the fate that awaits it. I close the door and watch it tentatively hop out of the cage.

The pot is placed into my hands, heavy and cool. My fingernails sink into the softness of the seal, releasing the lid. I regard the jīncán sitting at the bottom. Such a small, unnatural thing. I lift it out and set it into a bowl. Lian passes me a jar of water, which I pour on top of the jīncán in a thin stream. The gold silkworm rises, then sinks as it absorbs the water, releasing its essence.

I slide the bowl into the enclosure with Peng-ge. It is accustomed to my presence now and hops forward to explore the bowl’s contents. Its trust makes this worse, as I watch it test the water. For a moment I hoped it wasn’t as smart as the elder had promised, that it would see the water and drink. But it seems to recognize the danger contained within and flits away, uninterested.

The tray on my table has only three items. A knife. A block of tea. A bowl.

Picking up the tea brick, I inhale its scent. Tea leaves packed together and formed into a block the size of my hand, left in the dark to ferment and age. Easy to transport, easy to store.

Using the flat blade, I slice off a chunk of tea and place it into the waiting bowl, strands of asarum sitting at the bottom. Lian walks forward with the heavy kettle, the water already awakened. When she pours it into the bowl, it releases a fierce sizzle. I need it strong and I need it potent, to wield it as a weapon.

Just like the shénnóng-shī who murdered my mother.

Closing my eyes, I lift the bowl with both hands and bring it to my lips.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


Shao made the jīncán appear as something else, performed a trick of the senses. I will use my magic directly on the Piya instead.

The taste of the tea is thick, heavy, leaving a bitter coating on my tongue. The magic awakens quickly, drawn to its promised purpose. Father uses the asarum to clear the throat and nasal passages, circulating warmth. But to the shénnóng-shī, it is used for another purpose. To reach out to the mind of another, providing the power of subtle persuasion. In my palm, I hold a single feather belonging to Peng-ge that I collected from the base of its cage.

Please, I send a plea up to the goddess. You helped me before. Do so again, even though I know I am exerting a terrible influence contrary to your tenets.

Following the strands of magic, I step out of myself, imagining my hands reaching for the Piya, calling its name affectionately. The bird lifts its head, as if it can see me approaching, though I am aware the judges will only see me with my eyes closed, lips moving slightly.

Peng-ge cocks its head, its mind simple and not comprehending. It knows only the basic things, having been raised in the confines of Hánxiá, in its enclosure covered with trailing begonias and ivy, never knowing the freedom of the open sky. It knows hunger, it knows thirst, and it recognizes what will make it sick.

“You’re thirsty,” I whisper to the Piya, gaining hold of that ill feeling. “You’ve been thirsty for a long time. For days, without water.”

The bird squawks as the discomfort creeps into its mind, tendrils of my magic snaking in to take hold. It feels wrong at every step, and bringing forth the bird’s thirst causes the feeling to also be reflected in myself; my lips crack and my mouth runs dry.

Inside me, I find the tender spot, the twisted nettles of every resentful feeling, every bitter thought I’ve had since the chancellor unveiled one of the components of the poison and revealed that Kang had lied to me at each and every step. This magic, a dark and seductive pull, calls on me to use it against another, to make them feel the pain I felt.

My throat stretches itself painfully, needle thin, desperate for moisture. The Piya tries to lift itself and flee from the influence of the magic, but it manages only a few weak flaps of its wings before falling.

“Drink,” I coax, leading it to the poison.

Taking hesitant, tottering steps, it swerves toward the bowl of water. It is torn between survival and sickness, between living and dying. It fights against everything it has been taught, and finally succumbs.

It dips its head and drinks its fill.

I stumble backward, Lian catching me as the connection between me and Peng-ge is severed when the bird loses consciousness.

“All right?” she asks quietly, and I nod, draining the flask she passes me, eager to wash the filth of that taste out of my mouth. It tastes of cruelty and power, not so different a flavor from the crow’s head. But my stomach turns before I have a chance to consider it further.

Lian works to rid the poison from Peng-ge, using what we learned from expelling the poison from Ruyi. The crimson mushroom for strength, then the umbrella-tree bark to wrestle with the toxin. The effects of the poison are weakened, as the bird only drank the infused water and did not eat the jīncán itself.