The Girl King (The Girl King #1)(52)
The doors shut, leaving Min alone with her cousin—no, her husband, and the monk. Brother looked keenly at her; Set was looking at him.
“Why don’t you two have a seat,” the monk said, gesturing to the pillows upon which they had knelt for the ceremony. As they sat, he fetched one of the braziers near Min’s bed and drew it closer to them, using the coarse raw silk of his robes as a buffer between his palms and the hot handles. He pushed their wedding altar aside and replaced it with the brazier.
“This will do,” the old man said to himself. Min noted his voice seemed more substantial than it had when her mother was still in the room. Less airy and dreamy, more . . . well, ordinary. Clipped and efficient. She watched as he began to stoke the embers in the brazier until they hissed and blazed red once more. Then from within one sleeve, he withdrew a pinch of green-gray powder and dashed it against the coals.
A spry green flame the color of young wood sprang to life in the iron bowl.
Min flicked her gaze nervously at Set, wishing he might give her some word of comfort, take her hand again, but he was still watching Brother. She followed his lead.
“Do not be alarmed,” the monk told her. “I am using the flame to scry the promise of your union. This is a bit of my own make of magic—a sort of crossbreed between the old Hana water rites and some indigenous northern spells. Nothing to be frightened of.”
Min’s heart fluttered. Scrying? As far as she knew, Hana monks did nothing of the sort.
Brother smiled as though hearing her thoughts. “These days I know your monks do little besides burn incense and pray and sweep the Hall of the Ancestors, but there was a time, long ago, when their rites meant something more. Did more.” He turned his eyes back to the fire.
“Is it working? Can you see anything?” her cousin asked. He leaned forward tensely. “Has the prophecy changed now that my bride is Minyi and not Lu?”
“Patience,” the old man murmured, peering into the green flame. “How many times do I need to tell you? Patience. In all things.”
Set’s mouth was pursed. “You told me it didn’t matter who I married—that as long as it was a Hu princess, the prophecy would hold. That under my reign the old ways and the new would merge to create the most powerful empire—”
“Tell me,” the monk interrupted, focusing his gaze upon Min. “Are you on your monthly blood?”
“I-I’m,” she stammered, looking at Set in horror, but he just nodded encouragingly. When had her life descended into a constant state of mortification? “Yes?”
“It’s all right,” the monk told her with a gentle smile. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. Set is your husband, and I am a healer. You have nothing to hide from us.” Then his tone became practical again: “Is it your first time having your blood?”
“N-no,” Min whispered. “Only my second, though.”
“Ah,” the monk nodded, satisfied. “That would do it. Sometimes disturbances in your normal energy flow will cause interferences in what I can see.” He reflected. “However, they do present the opportunity for interesting solutions.” Then he asked, as though asking for a cup of tea, “Min, do you have any of your discarded bedding and wrappings here? Something stained with your monthly blood.”
Min supposed that dying of embarrassment must be impossible, as she continued to live. “Y-yes? Yes, probably. Normally my nunas would take it away, but I’ve been locked up in here all day—”
“Excellent. Would you bring me some?” the monk continued.
As though in a strange dream, Min rose and walked to the far side of the room, where a bin held her discarded clothing. She fished out a single wrapping, stained unevenly with brown, dried blood, and brought it to the monk.
Without ceremony, he tore off a small section of the stained cloth and threw it into the fire.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the fire began to eat at the frayed cloth, letting off the oddly damp smell of burned cotton. Min watched as its green tongues licked inward. The moment it touched the bloodstain, the flames hissed and spat, like an angry cat, flaring from green to an unnaturally deep blood red.
The brazier popped, flinging bits of char and coal over the metal lip, singeing the carpets beneath. One of the embers began to catch, flaring to a bright orange. Min gave a cry of alarm, but Set stamped it out before the fire had a chance to grow. Her cousin grimaced with the effort, but his face changed to one of shock as he looked up.
Min followed his gaze. There was a woman rising out of the brazier.
No, not a woman—more like the shadow of a woman. A body of flame wreathed in smoke rather than flesh and bone. Before them, she became more tangible, more concrete, the flames taking on the subtlety of her sunken cheeks, thin lips, pointed chin. Then her eyes opened—black, so black amid all that red and gray. And Min knew her.
The shamaness from her dreams. The girl who had shown her the death of the emperor. Min recoiled in wordless fright.
But the shamaness was looking only at Brother—glaring at him with unearthly fury. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but all that emerged was a rattling hiss, like that of dried leaves skittering across a stone floor.
Brother had risen to his feet in alarm with the rest of them, but now he sized up the fire-woman with calm fascination. Then he spoke a few words in a harsh language Min had never heard before. To her ears it sounded like blocks of wood being hit together. The fire-woman merely scowled, so he tried again. This time, she seemed to understand. The fire crackled and spat at them.