Jade Fire Gold(77)

I walk for what feels like an entire day. At last, the expanse of sand greets me, a familiar sight I want to forget. It seems apt that this will be the last place I see Shīfù.

I dig at the earth, gritting my teeth as coarse grains rub against my skin. I tell myself to breathe when that feeling of being buried alive returns. I push away my dark memories, my nightmares. Push away the desert that has taken so much from me.

All I focus on is Shīfù and his last words. Even his dying breath was spent worrying about me. I must honor him. I could use my magic to dig his grave, but it is only fitting I use my own hands. It is only right that I should suffer.

It is the only penance I can offer.

Reason tells me I could not have saved him without risking my life or Ahn’s. But it sickens me that I didn’t even try. Shīfù wanted me to protect the Life Stealer. No matter the sacrifice, he’d said. I could tell myself that I was abiding by his wishes. But I know I made a choice.

I chose her.

I chose my revenge, my throne, my ambition over a man who loved me like a son. A kind man. A good man.

Your choice will be paid in blood.

Is this what the Phoenix meant? Was Shīfù’s life the sacrifice for my immunity? Hot tears slide down my cheeks. It isn’t worth it. It isn’t. I’d rather have Shīfù by my side than anything else in this world.

But it is too late for regrets.

I slit my finger with a knife and press on the wound. I can’t offer Shīfù a proper burial. No grand tombstone befitting his stature to mark this grave. No crowds honoring his service to the country lining the streets. I scrawl on a slab of stone an old nomad saying: Life is but a dream, and death is returning home. The roughness of the stone tears the cut wider and my finger bleeds freely, but the pain brings a twisted solace.

When I’m done, I push the slab deep into the sand, fortifying it with rocks. I stand, spreading open Shīfù’s favorite fan. The silk is ripped and blood stains parts of it. I touch the small character seal printed in red on one of the thin bamboo slats that hold the semicircle-shaped fabric together.

Sun.

I gifted the fan to him a few years ago for his birthday, and he has never been without it. I stuff it into my robes, watching the blood dripping from my hand.

“I can’t change the past, but I will change my future,” I whisper to myself.

My shoulders tense at the sound of footsteps. Ahn. Something flares inside me. Hot, blistering like an untamed flame. This is the girl I have to put my faith in. This is the girl who will help me get my throne back. This is the girl who will either be my salvation or the damnation of the entire world.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She reaches out, her touch gentle. Her arms go around me.

And slowly, the fire in me subsides.





32


Ahn


We ride east through the night, fleeing from the wreckage of the tavern. I did not see Master Luo or his family among the dead. I tell myself they must’ve fled in time, and that they are safe somewhere. I can only hope that this is true.

We find shelter at sunrise in an abandoned monastery half hidden behind a copse of trees. As soon as we arrive, Altan crumples into a heap in a corner of the courtyard, blank and unresponsive. Grief takes form in many ways. He has shed the tears he needs to, and now, there is only silence.

His presence hurts too much, so I wander around, unable to rest despite my exhaustion. The monks must have left this place long ago. Overgrown with tree roots and creepers, it feels like nature is reclaiming this holy site. Leafy climbers spread across the walls and whorl around the reddish-brown timber of the pillars. Anything worth something has either been removed by the monks or stolen by looters. Even the gold leaf that once decorated parts of the altar has been scraped off.

Murals, faded and discolored, peek from beneath the dust and soot. Smudgy images of temples, pagodas, and magnificent palaces; scenes of battles with hordes of armored soldiers on horses and great beasts that look like lions with wings; images of celestial beings, clad in what must have once been glorious colors of red, gold, and ivory, now faint. A phoenix, its tail flaring out, circles the sky. Swimming in the sea below the villages and towns, a blurry painting of snakelike creatures with horns or antlers appears. Lóng—dragons. Creatures of lore that are said to have lived in our lakes and seas.

Protectors of our land. That’s what Ama used to call them whenever she told me fairy tales to get me to go to sleep.

Ama.

The thought of her makes me faint with worry. I collapse against the wall and rest my head in my hands. A surge of terror threatens to drown me, but I push back, forcing myself to think.

I could go back to the capital to rescue Ama from my father’s clutches. That is, if that’s where the priests took her. But even if I did find her, where would we go? Where can we hide? What can I do against the might of both the palace and the priesthood?

I wish things were different. I wish I wasn’t born with magic. I wish.

My hands start to shake uncontrollably. Neither elegant nor shapely, calloused from work at the inn, they look like the hands of a peasant. Hands that know labor.

Hands that steal lives.

You cannot escape your fate. The gods have chosen you for a reason.

My father’s laughter echoes in my head. He lied. Magic isn’t a gift. It is a curse, and I can find no blessing from it.