Descendant of the Crane(89)

“Dianxia?”

Hesina had pressed her head to the bed frame. She never wanted to lift it.

“Is there something wrong?” asked her page in concern.

Yes. Everything is wrong. “No. That will be all.”

And then, because her head was simply too heavy, Hesina rested it on the pillow log.



She stumbled down a steep mountain pass, her bare feet bleeding into the snow, her ears numbed by the wind, which howled so loudly it almost drowned out the snarl.

She spun. The beast emerged from the rocks, shoulder blades jutting as it stalked in, ribs heaving as it inhaled.

She fumbled for her knife with half-frozen fingers.

Kill it, urged a voice in her ear.

Kill it, or be killed.

She bared the blade, and the wolf stopped short. Its raised haunches lowered. It sat, black lips pulling back over teeth as it spoke.

It spoke.

“Hey.”



Hesina opened her eyes to a pair of pale ones peering down at her.

She bolted up. Her head cracked into something hard, and pain watered her eyes. Even then, she made out his lean shape, ash-colored hanfu, and tail of darker ash hair falling over his shoulder.

“Akira? What time is it?”

“Early. Or late.”

“And what are you doing here?”

He rubbed his temple. “Waking you up from a nightmare, unless I guessed wrong.”

“I mean, what are you doing here?” Hesina gestured at the infirmary, then flushed, as if he could see into her mind and count all the times she’d waited for him to step through those sliding doors.

He sat at the foot of the bed and placed a ceramic jar on the sheets. “I meant to deliver this. Earlier. It took a couple tries to get right.”

Either she was groggy, or he was more disjointed than usual, because she struggled to understand what he was talking about. “What is it?”

“Ointment.” He rubbed the back of his neck as she removed the lid. “Or should be. I’m out of practice.”

It looked like ointment, which was more than she could have said for his flute. “Um, thank you?”

“It’s for your back.”

“Oh.”

“Er, you should probably test it…”

Hesina turned her back to him and loosened the sash of her underrobes.

“…later,” Akira finished.

“Close your eyes.” If her words didn’t fail her tomorrow, her back might. She’d do whatever needed to be done—including baring her hideous blisters and taking a chance on Akira’s ointment.

Applying it to her lower back hurt only a little. Reaching her middle back was trickier, and her scars protested against the contortion.

“Here.” A hand brushed Hesina’s arm. Her gaze whipped to Akira, but his eyes remained closed as he took the ointment pot from her palm. “You can guide me.”

Her pragmatic side approved of the plan, and an “okay” slipped past her lips. Having Akira apply ointment for her was efficient, expedient—and not embarrassing at all! No, further left, to that grosser scar! Yes, that’s the one!

“Actually—”

Hesina’s thoughts petered out at his touch. The air in her lungs solidified, leaving no room for breath. Goose bumps erupted across the small of her back, along her shoulders, over her knees, for Eleven’s sake.

“Actually…?” His finger stopped between her shoulder blades; her whole existence boiled down to this point.

Hesina moistened her lips. “Actually, I…I didn’t know merchant robbers made ointment.”

For a second Akira didn’t speak. “I’m not a merchant robber.”

She’d guessed as much, but she couldn’t say that. Couldn’t admit that she’d been making up his life story all this time. “What about your friend? The one who stole too much?”

“My friend.” His fingers skipped down her spine; her heart doubled its pace. “That was me.”

His voice sounded strained, as if he didn’t want to be talking about this at all. But Hesina played along. “What did you steal?”

Slowly, he lifted his hand. “Lives.”

Akira was talking about his past. The sun was setting in the east. Akira was an assassin. Hesina’s silly little story about him had been right.

Akira was an assassin.

She was sitting on a bed with an assassin.

Nothing had changed, she tried to tell herself. He was still Akira, her representative.

He went on to say how he’d specialized in poisons. It was so obvious in hindsight. His knowledge of them, his relative immunity to them, his skill at making antidotes—and now ointments. But:

“Why are you telling me this?”

Akira fell silent.

Hesina turned, remembering to clutch her collar shut, and watched as his eyes lifted to the ceiling.

“I never got the chance to tell someone else,” he said to the ginseng sachets. “They died thinking I was someone I wasn’t.”

Then his gaze swung to hers. In it, she read everything he couldn’t express. Fear—I thought you were going to die. Resolve—I had to tell you. Rue—even if I lost you.

“Okay,” Hesina managed, feeling just as defenseless.

“Okay?”