A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (82)

The servants unveil the covered chests beside each of us with a coordinated flourish, forcing my attention away. They are each a chest of drawers, familiar in appearance—one could be found in any apothecary. Each of the drawers is labeled with a small plaque.

“You will have the length of one incense stick to pick the drink you will make for our champion,” Chancellor Zhou says, “using the dān you harvested from the water lily yesterday to strengthen your connection and your bond to Shénnóng.”

I fish out the ball from my sash, recognizing now its intended purpose. It is a more potent form of the mash I created from ground-up herbs to remove the poison from Ruyi, meant to assist us in achieving the Shift. What little I know of it has always been that the process of developing dān was lost, the methods having been too carefully guarded and relegated to history. It was said to be a magic amplifier, like a voice carried between narrow cliffs, until you could be heard from one side of the mountain to the other.

Shao is already confident, heading for his chest of drawers with intention. Wenyi regards the champions with careful consideration, gaze lingering on Kang with a frown as if he finds him lacking. I take a hesitant step toward the chest, my hand skimming over the ebony surface. I can almost sense the pulse of the tree from which it was carved. My mother would have loved this cabinet—the wood lacks any strong fragrance that could taint the components inside, and its hardness ensures that the ingredients will not absorb into it over time.

There are different varieties of tea leaves in the top drawers, all rare teas, worthy of tribute to the emperor. Two of them speak to me in particular: Heaven’s Stream is one that is barely treated, only the youngest buds permitted to be gathered, and Hidden Autumn is an older tea, permitted to grow fully into the fall, then sunbaked until its inner sweetness is released. Opposing properties, depending on how I wish to approach the challenge. I skim over the other additives. Goldenflower, jasmine, honeywood, and dried safflower. Huáng qí is also an interesting possibility, its strengthening properties already known to me from previous uses.

Lian and I discussed how she had imbued her tonic with strengthening magic, so although it is not my specialty, I know the basics. Kang could do with increased awareness as well—but not so strong as to lose himself in his surroundings, like I personally experienced with the Lion Green. Or perhaps I need to give him something to dull the pain of fighting. But the problem is that my knowledge of fighting styles is woefully lacking, because I have never attended a tournament. I can only hazard a guess as to the specifics of the champions’ skills.

I make my choice of three ingredients: goji berry for awareness, the bitter yù jīn to improve circulation and relieve pain, and purple mushroom to increase endurance. A cup of tea worthy of challenging the representatives of the gods.

The first round begins as soon as the stick turns to ash, and the chancellor provides the next set of instructions. “You will have the length of a spiral incense to prepare and offer your selection, then for your champion to defeat the challenger. Defeat. There will be no ties, no second chances. The challenger must yield. To leave the circle is a failure. To be the first to have blood drawn, failure.”

So many unknowns. I look down at my ingredients, already questioning my choices.

“The judges have ranked the remaining competitors by their performances so far. First to begin, Chen Shao of Jia.” The chancellor nods at the herald, who lights the spiral incense, and the competition begins.

Shao moves forward to brew his cup, and the herbs soak in the water, releasing their aromas. The underlying scent of magic prickles at the back of my throat. Kang accepts the tea with a bow, downs it without hesitation, then steps onto the competition floor.

The servants have covered the ground with woven mats. The Tortoise moves languidly, sweeping the staff like an extension of his body. Kang moves with speed, dodging his blows. Whenever the staff hits the floor, it’s enough to shake the ground beneath us. Eventually, the staff meets the sword with a thunderous crack, and Kang slides back with the force of it, almost falling out of the circle. He rights himself again, and the battle resumes. The wood bends, then snaps back, the sword meeting and returning blows as the opponents clash, separate, and meet again. Kang twists and sidesteps, curving his body like a bow to avoid being crushed by the sweep of the staff.

Shao sits on his chair, beads of sweat forming on his brow from the exertion. His lips move silently, communing with the gods, just like when Mother would wrestle with a particularly difficult ailment. I wonder if Kang can hear Shao’s voice in his head, whispering.

Ten moves later, Kang’s sword is at the throat of the Tortoise, and the large man bows, conceding defeat.

The hall fills with applause. The audience is enraptured, despite their initial hesitation toward their champion.

“Well done!” they call out. Shao wipes his face with a handkerchief, his usual smirk gone. He stands on shaky legs and bows, leaning on the armrest for support.

“Lin Wenyi, acolyte of Yěli?,” the herald announces. Chancellor Zhou gestures for Wenyi to proceed. The tall figure moves with an elegance that speaks to his training. Clean, concise movements. No exaggerated efforts to entertain the audience. I’m pulled into his ritual even with my own trial approaching.

He uses a stone bowl instead of a cup, with higher sides than a typical one used for eating. Tipping the bowl to one side, hot water is poured down the side and leaps up the curve, creating the illusion of jumping waves. Using his hand to gently rock the bowl, he ensures that the water covers all his ingredients, taking on the golden hue required of a good brew.