THE MOON HUNG FAINT over the treetops, white tinged with blue, like an overturned porcelain dish. Dark clouds occasionally passed before it, resembling the dish's cracked glaze.
Liushao-er lay alone in her carved canopy bed, the beaded curtains pulled back. Moonlight streamed through the half-open lattice window and fell directly onto her. She lazily waved a round fan, her eyes fixed on a painted scene of a scholar and maiden in red and green. Suddenly, inexplicable frustration overtook her, and she threw her fan aside. It clattered to the floor and slid underneath a lacquered incense table, vanishing.
The girl went to the trunk that held her newly purchased dresses and lifted the lid. Layered inside were a crimson-and-gold patterned vest, a richly embroidered mamianqun, and a silver-red jacket adorned with gold-threaded blossoms, each more exquisite than the last. Liushao-er tried on each garment, strutting back and forth in front of the mirror. Assured that not even a princess could rival her beauty, she finally returned to bed, satisfied.
She was in the midst of sweet dreams, when a pair of cold hands slid under her blanket. She startled awake with a shriek, scrambling upright, clutching her blanket. "Help!" she cried. "A ravisher!"
The intruder clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling her sharp cries. "Liushao-er! Liushao-er! It's me!"
Liushao-er squinted in the darkness and realized the intruder was indeed Shu Qing. He looked worn; his beard was unkempt and his face dusty from travel. Liushao-er pressed her hand to her heart, taking several deep breaths to calm down. Then she snapped, "Are you trying to kill me, scaring me like that?!" Her eyes reddened as tears threatened to fall. "You scoundrel! You've been gone for months. You may have sent word at first, but then there was nothing. I thought you were like other men—abandoning your bride!"
Shu Qing smiled apologetically. "But I've sent you money every month, haven't I? Things got so busy I couldn't send any more letters."
Liushao-er lifted her porcelain-white chin and retorted bitterly, "I wouldn't care if you abandoned me! At least my face is still pretty enough to keep me from starving."
"What are you talking about?!" Shu Qing barked, growing anxious. Then, seeing the redness rimming Liushao-er's eyes—as if she'd brushed makeup over her lashes and brows—his heart softened, and he lowered his voice. "Liushao-er, believe me, I'll never leave you. Even if I die, I'll first ensure that you have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of your life."
As the moon shifted east, the window lattice fractured its light into pale shards that resembled shattered porcelain. Liushao-er helped Shu Qing undress, hanging his clothes on a rosewood rack. His shoes were filthy, so she placed them by the door for the maid to clean the next morning.
They lay side by side, holding each other close.
Liushao-er nestled into Shu Qing's arms. "Erlang, the autumn exams are approaching. Please stop following Xiahou Lian around and focus on studying," she pleaded. "It's the proper thing to do."
"I… I…" Shu Qing stammered.
"He's your sworn brother, and I know he's helped us plenty with money, but he's not a respectable man," she continued. "For now, we can rely on him for funds, but once you pass the exam and become an official, you must stop associating with him."
Shu Qing's heart twisted in knots. He wanted to follow Xiahou Lian's advice and tell her he was a murderer and a fugitive, but the words wouldn't come. After stammering for ages, he finally muttered, "Liushao-er, I'm not going to take the imperial exams. Don't bother thinking about it."
Liushao-er sat up abruptly. "What? Why? Doesn't Xiahou Lian want to support you anymore?"
Shu Qing sat up as well and hung his head. "I'm not cut out for studying. Give up on that dream. I'm fine working with my shige—that's all. Stop bringing it up." He lay back down and turned his back to her. No matter how many times Liushao-er swatted him, he refused to respond.
Liushao-er sat on the bed in a daze, staring at her pale hands and feet as the icy moonlight illuminated them. Her skin was so white that her limbs seemed almost transparent.
She had seen plenty of men like Shu Qing and Xiahou Lian—men drifting through the jianghu, cobbling together a trade or doing odd jobs for their superiors. Some were lucky enough to strike it rich, but most sank midway and never resurfaced. As long as Shu Qing worked under someone else's thumb, he would live a precarious, day-to-day existence.
Xiahou Lian, on the other hand, did have some grit, and the kind of sharp, determined gaze that suggested he could earn money. The dresses in her trunk and the jewelry in her vanity—she'd received them from Shu Qing, but they'd been bought with Xiahou Lian's money, hadn't they? Still, Xiahou Lian was Xiahou Lian, and Shu Qing was just a fool—if he couldn't pass the exams, he'd amount to nothing.
Liushao-er had investigated his situation long ago. Shu Qing was a pauper with no parents, family, or pedigree. Once, he'd roamed the jianghu with a master, and now he wandered with Xiahou Lian. There was no future for someone like him.
Liushao-er lowered the bed curtains, shutting out the moonlight. Darkness fell instantly. She lay down beside Shu Qing, who was already fast asleep from exhaustion, and gradually closed her eyes as she listened to his deep breaths.
The next day, Shu Qing left with Xiahou Lian. Liushao-er stood on a high balcony, silently watching the pair sail away in a canal boat. Dressed in black hemp, Xiahou Lian squatted on a sack of salt and talked to the boatmen. Beside him, wearing a pale blue scholar's robe, was Shu Qing, who was still waving to her. Liushao-er silently turned away and led her maid inside.
***
XIAHOU LIAN RETURNED to the Garden. He rarely went back there except to pay respects to Xiahou Pei and celebrate the New Year. The Garden village at the foot of the mountain was as tiny and unremarkable as ever with its tightly packed clusters of thatched cottages. In a small clearing between houses, half-grown children sparred with wooden swords. When they saw Xiahou Lian and Shu Qing ride past, they stopped mid-swing to watch, their expressions as sharp and cold as iron that had rusted in a grave for years.
Xiahou Lian knew that their eyes were on the blade that hung at his horse's flank. For these children, possessing a blade meant earning their plaque and being able to leave the mountain; what they didn't know was that most who left didn't make it back.
Xiahou Lian first ascended the Black-Faced Buddha Peak to visit his brother. Chiyan had returned from the Oirats a few days earlier with a gold-inlaid glass earring for Xiahou Lian—one Chiyan had apparently taken from the ear of a decapitated head. Such items were highly prized in the Oirats, reserved for the elite and affluent.
"You're not seriously suggesting that I pierce my ears, are you?" Xiahou Lian asked, flipping the earring back and forth in the sunlight. The transparent glass refracted a dazzling spectrum of color.
Chiyan brushed aside his hair to reveal a matching earring in his right ear. The pale glass glinted like Chiyan's own eyes—clear and flawless, reflecting the ever-changing sky and clouds, the splendor of the world. At that point, Xiahou Lian realized that Chiyan had only given him one earring.
"Why wear something so delicate? You look ridiculous," Xiahou Lian scoffed, eyeing the earring critically. "It's far too feminine."
"Oirat men wear them too," Chiyan replied simply. "Matching earrings—one for you and one for me. They're perfect."
Xiahou Lian frowned and tucked the earring into his pouch. "We're from Great Qi, not the Oirats. You couldn't pay me to wear it."
Looking slightly crestfallen, Chiyan said nothing, turning instead to watch the sunset. The sun hung low on the horizon, half-submerged, like a red paper cutout torn in two and pasted onto the sky. The mountain wind swept over them, cool against their faces, as the pair sat atop the peak, surrounded by clouds and the ink-black silhouettes of distant summits. Feathery mists drifted by lazily, shifting and flowing.
"Chiyan, do you know where the Garden's archive is?" Xiahou Lian suddenly asked.
That archive was his reason for returning. The Garden followed strict protocols, documenting every assassination mission in meticulous detail. Their records included a target's biography, tastes, and assets, as well as the assassination's time, location, and weather conditions, in addition to the designated executioner. All those records were stored in the archive.
Before her final mission, his mother had promised him that she'd ask the Garden for a sheath. But when Xiahou Lian went to Liuzhou to find her, no one seemed to recognize that the person lying dead in the northern market was Xiahou Pei. At the time, he'd assumed that Xiahou Pei had lied to him. Now, it seemed more likely that she'd requested a single sheath, who hadn't come to her assistance at all but had somehow evaded punishment from Qiye Garden.
If Xiahou Lian could locate Xiahou Pei's records, he might discover the sheath's identity—and the truth behind his mother's death.
Chiyan remained silent for a long while. Only when the sun had almost fully set did he lower his gaze and ask, "Do the dead matter that much? Are they more important than the living?"
Xiahou Lian froze. "What do you mean?" he asked, turning to look at Chiyan. Chiyan's head remained bowed, the shadow of his lashes falling over his eyes, which gave him an uncharacteristically solemn expression.
Chiyan said nothing more. Instead, he stood and led Xiahou Lian to a hidden cave, pulling aside a curtain of vines to reveal a dark opening half a man's height. The entrance gaped like the maw of some wild beast poised to devour any who dared approach.
"The Black-Faced Buddha is hollow," Chiyan explained. "The archive is hidden in its belly."
"So the abbot climbs in through here!" Xiahou Lian exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me so earlier? I've been scaling the mountain every time I come to see you!"
"You aren't allowed inside," Chiyan murmured. "But…" He lifted his gaze to meet Xiahou Lian's, his large, dark eyes calm and serene. "Whatever you wish, I'll help you make it happen."
Feeling a twinge of guilt, Xiahou Lian awkwardly offered his thanks before bowing slightly and preparing to enter the cave.
Chiyan suddenly stopped him. "Xiahou Lian, do you want to be abbot?" he asked.
Xiahou Lian turned back, puzzled. "Why would I want that? I have no interest in becoming a bald monk who chants prayers all day."
Chiyan said no more, letting the vines fall back into place and plunging the cave into darkness. Xiahou Lian lit a fire starter and blew, and a flame roared to life. He paused for a moment, replaying Chiyan's question in his mind. Vague discomfort stirred within him. Chiyan, a man without personal desires, had made Xiahou Lian's wishes his own, and he felt that he owed Chiyan something. The glass earring suddenly seemed heavier in his pouch as Xiahou Lian realized he'd never thought to bring a gift for Chiyan.
Sighing, he pushed the thought aside and focused on descending the staircase. The steps extended endlessly, at least a hundred in number, before opening into a spacious underground room. Tables cluttered with jars and containers lined the space. As Xiahou Lian stepped forward, his foot struck something round. He bent down to pick up a small pill.
Several potted plants were arranged against the wall. At their center stood a leafless flower with a single palm-sized red blossom. Its layers of narrow petals curled inward like blood-stained fangs, exuding an eerie, unsettling beauty.
This must be where the abbot makes his addictive drugs, Xiahou Lian thought as he surveyed the room. He considered burning the place down and putting a stop to the abbot's abuse, but he decided to avoid creating unnecessary trouble and focus on his mission.
Faint moans echoed from deeper within the cavern. Xiahou Lian extinguished his flame and crept forward in the dark. The sounds grew louder until he reached a dim cavern. There, mats were laid along the walls, each occupied by a pallid figure. Some emitted weak groans, their mouths hanging half-open, while others lay completely silent; it seemed they were already beyond saving. Most were likely already dead.
Xiahou Lian recognized a few faces—one was a defector Qiu Ye had captured last year. Xiahou Lian had assumed the man was executed, but here he was.
Xiahou Lian did not linger but continued downward, finally reaching the archive itself. The towering shelves that filled the space were crowded close together, leaving barely enough room to walk between them. Dust clung to the old records. Xiahou Lian scanned the shelves until he eventually found a section labeled Garuda. The records inside detailed the lives of the successive assassins who'd held that title. Turning to the end, he found a portrait of Xiahou Pei.
The drawing, done by some unknown artist, actually bore little resemblance to Xiahou Pei beyond the facial features—the woman in the portrait had a lively expression and a gentle smile, resembling an innocent young maiden rather than a bloodstained assassin. Even so, as Xiahou Lian touched the small painting, his eyes grew red.
Brushing away his tears, he flipped further into the file. The records detailed every assassination Xiahou Pei had carried out from ages twelve to thirty-five. Xiahou Lian skipped to her final mission only to find that the page had been torn out, leaving only the jagged remnant of the page edge, like a row of yellowing teeth.
Though he'd half-expected this outcome, Xiahou Lian still felt the sting of disappointment. His faint hope slipped away like sand through his fingers. After standing frozen for a moment, he flipped through earlier entries:
Summer, the twenty-eighth year of the Qianyuan era, fourth month, Dingsi day. Heavy rain. The Garuda killed Ye Xiu of the Water Transport Guild on a street in southern Qingzhou.
Autumn, the twenty-seventh year of the Qianyuan era, seventh month, Dingwei day. Rain. The Garuda killed He family patriarch He Kun on Bai Chi Cliff beneath the family's archway.
Summer, the twenty-seventh year of the Qianyuan era, sixth month, Jiachen day. Heavy rain. The Garuda pursued Mu Qing, deputy master of the Junzi Blade Sect, in Taoshu's Wujia Village. Surrounded by ten opponents, she killed them all.
Xiahou Lian flipped through several pages, starting from the twenty-sixth year of the Qianyuan Era: heavy rain… heavy rain… rain… rain… heavy rain—every record noted rain! A revelation struck him—someone had wanted his mother dead for a very long time. Qingzhou was a coastal city, notorious for its heavy April rains. Baichi Cliff, another coastal location, frequently experienced torrential rain during summer and autumn. Taoshu had the same conditions. Someone had deliberately sent his mother on assassination missions during the rainy season to exacerbate her injuries!
Who could it be? Who had the authority to assign missions to Qiye Garden's Eight Legions? Who? Xiahou Lian's head throbbed. He knew the answer. A shadowy figure emerged in his mind and slowly came into focus. But why? Xiahou Pei was the Garden's top assassin, their foremost swordswoman, and she had never betrayed the Garden. So why kill her?
Xiahou Lian flipped back to the page with her portrait. There, at the bottom of the page, faint ink recorded the artist's barely visible name.
Shixin, it read.
Xiahou Lian's hands trembled. The file felt impossibly heavy, as though it was going to slip from his grasp. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"It's me." Qiu Ye stepped out from behind him. "I knew you'd come here."
"Shifu." Xiahou Lian's eyes were red.
Qiu Ye placed the file back on the shelf and whispered, "Let's go. We'll talk outside."
As the words left his lips, footsteps echoed down from the level above. Qiu Ye and Xiahou Lian froze in shock. Xiahou Lian quickly extinguished his light, and the two hid deeper among the shelves.
The footsteps neared, and a man holding a candle appeared just ahead of them. Xiahou Lian crouched low, peering through gaps in the records to get a look at the man's face, but the bookshelves obscured his view; he could only see a flicker of light that cast a long shadow on the wall. The shadow swayed, rising and falling, filling the cavern with a haunting, ghostly presence.
Xiahou Lian's vision began to blur—everywhere he looked, the cave seemed alive with flickering shadows.
The man remained silent, standing exactly where Xiahou Lian had stood moments earlier, then placed his hand on the Garuda files, lingering there for some time. Finally, he pulled out the file and opened it to Xiahou Pei's portrait. Carefully, he tore the page free bit by bit before holding it to the candle's flame. Fire danced across the illustration, and Xiahou Lian's heart clenched painfully. He watched as Xiahou Pei's bright, smiling face turned to ash that then scattered into the air, vanishing without a trace.