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“Your highness?” Lie Zhanying asked.
Mei Changsu a part of Prince Qi’s household?
Jingyan knew better than to accept as truth what surely was yet another of Xia Jiang’s many lies. Except what would he win with this particular lie? The prince put down Xia Jiang’s confession and gazed across the courtyard, which was being scrubbed and swept by the army of eunuchs who had accompanied the emperor and Noble Consort Jing.
“Place a third perimeter around the prisoners,” Jingyan said shortly. “We’ll maintain that until Hui Yao is tracked down. I doubt he’s capable of an attack, but he’s the type to send assassins to choke off anyone who might reveal his part in the rebellion.”
General Lie Zhanying could be forgiven for assuming that Prince Jingyan’s air of preoccupation, signaled by the shadow of a line between his brows, could be attributed to the astounding fact that the emperor had relinquished total control of the hunting lodge—and the army camping outside it—into Prince Jing's hands. That meant entrusting no less than his own life to his seventh son, as well as the lives of Noble Consort Jing, his younger brother, and the courtiers the emperor had graced with an invitation to the spring hunt.
As a result, Lie Zhanying—who was no slacker to begin with—ran off to oversee the perimeter around Prince Yu, until so very recently whispered to be the next crown prince.
Lie Zhanying went straight from there to the next in a long list of duties, skipping supper in order to see that all was as it should be. He reported back late that evening, to find his prince still dressed in his armor as he went through reports at his desk. To Lie Zhanying’s (unexpressed) surprise, he saw no easing of Prince Jingyan’s troubled frown.
“Thank you, Zhanying. I’ll take a last round myself. Let the men see me.”
Lie Zhanying thought he understood: the court, and the survivors of the shattered imperial guards, would take comfort in seeing the prince who had wrested victory from nearly certain death. The evidence that the prince was ever awake and aware would reassure them enough for them to get their well-earned rest.
As for Jingyan, restoring order in the aftermath of battle was nothing new. Even the fact that his father was part of those who must be guarded only gave him the briefest pause—he shrugged it off, attributing the emperor’s sudden trust to the relief of victory, intensified by the shock of Fifth Brother’s treachery. The emperor’s mood was as volatile as the weather, and gratitude could change overnight. Jingyan's reality check was the memory of riding away thirteen years ago, leaving his brilliant brother, Jingyu, then Crown Prince Qi, trying to clean up the court . . . and returning to the horror of executions, poisonings, suicide. All at the emperor's command.
As Jingyan walked the walls illuminated by the torches, his gaze took in the quiet scene but his mind kept reaching three days back to when he rode hard for reinforcements.
Su Zhe—Mei Changsu, a part of First Brother Jingyu’s household? Jingyan remembered every one of that household. Except maybe a few of the younger stable hands and runners, taken in while Jingyan was away. Could he have been one of those stable hands? How old was this man with two identities, and for that matter, which was the true name? His smooth, elegant face looked quite young, especially by candlelight. It was possible he could have been a boy thirteen years ago . . . but at other times he seemed old—far older even than Jingyan.
That wasn’t the only mystery.
A single image stubbornly insisted on recurring again and again: standing with Sir Su and Commander Meng before the big map, then Sir Su ripping Jingyan’s sword from its sheath in order to point out the parameters of defense.
At the time, the gesture threw him back to Xiao-Shu impatiently ripping his sword free in order to sketch out a tactical map in the grass above the river.
But he dismissed that, arguing with himself that grabbing a sword to point something out was a gesture that anyone could have made in the heat of the moment. Jingyan recollected the shock in Meng-Qing’s and Zhen Ping’s faces, surely caused by the breach of etiquette from someone who ordinarily scrupulously observed the niceties. (Only once before had Jingyan seen Mei Changsu break etiquette, but it was far too painful to contemplate that snowy day in the courtyard of his manor, after he had been so spectacularly wrong.)
“Your Highness,” Lie Zhanying said when Jingyan paused over the gate, looking down sightlessly at the carpenters working to restore the ruined gate with wood cut from the battering ram. “You haven’t eaten. Shall I fetch—”
“It can wait,” Jingyan said, and began moving again, his stride lengthening as if he could leave the memory of that bitter wintry day behind.
To equate a single gesture with Xiao-Shu was utterly stupid. He knew that. Maudlin, even. It would be impossible to find between the netherworld and the celestial realm two more different people than the fiery, impetuous, passionate Xiao-Shu and the cold, controlled, dispassionate Mei Changsu, who lived half-disguised as Su Zhe, common scholar. Xiao-Shu had never been common anything.
Stupid, maudlin, and yet Sir Su had pulled the sword in order to illustrate the fact that he had mastered the potentially lethal military situation as quickly as Jingyan had himself—and then had planned with Jingyan the entire defense in a fast exchange of ideas in a way that Jingyan had not experienced since he and Xiao-Shu had plotted wargames with one another as teenage captains commanding hundreds of men, young as they were.
He paused outside his mother’s suite, noting the lack of light. He addressed the captain of the night guard. “My mother has everything she needs?”
“Your highness,” the man saluted. “She dismissed her maids half an hour ago. All’s quiet.”
“Excellent. Send someone if there are any problems in the night.”
“Yes your highness.”
Jingyan crossed the hunting lodge’s inner court. His mind stubbornly arrowed straight back to that strategic review as he, Meng, and Sir Su stood on the path outside the camp: Sir Su had known about that hidden cliff path. Nihuang again, apparently—she’d made friends with the strategist after Sir Su helped her ward off the emperor’s attempt to marry her off. It could very well be that the two of them talked over her old battles, and then ranged back farther to the days when she, Jingyan, and Xiao-Shu had wargamed by pitting their honor guards against each other as they tested their ideas.
That explained Sir Su knowing about that path. And however modest he was about picking up random military information from wandering warriors, no one who successfully ruled over fourteen territories in the notoriously chaotic jiang hu could be ignorant of military fundamentals.
And yet . . . and yet. The speed of that plan coming together, its riskiness, a throw against insane odds, was the very essence of Xiao-Shu’s strategic thinking. Which was why he had become a marshal by nineteen . . .
Jingyang turned to Zhanying. Time to stop asking himself questions he could not answer, and put them to Sir Su—
But Zhanying pointed out that Sir Su had to be exhausted, and had retired.
Just as well.
After a short, restless night, morning light restored sanity.
Of course there was no connection. The idea was absurd.
As soon as Gao Zhan signaled that the emperor was awake, Jingyan went to make his bow, which began the day. He threw himself into work until the advance of a headache forced him back to his quarters for a quick meal—which was interrupted by the welcome news that Hui Yao had been laid by the heels.
With that news came Su Zhe and Nihuang, the former wearing his usual smirk. Jingyan took one look at that marble-smooth face and felt like an idiot for all his wild assumptions the night before.
He put his question—and there it was, the expected perfectly reasonable answer. Even a satisfying one, in a twisted manner: the strategist, in trying to win time while in the hands of a very formidable enemy, had lied to the master liar himself. Of course he hadn't been part of Prince Qi's household!
Jingyan was just resolving never to leap to conclusions again when Qi Meng dashed in with the totally irrelevant news that the ‘beast’ that had been plaguing the mountain villages had at last been captured.
Only Sir Su seemed to take an interest . . .
. . . and not half an hour later, here was another mystery.
“ . . . You say Sir Su gave his own blood to that furry man to drink?” Jingyan asked incredulously.
“I . . . think that’s what I saw,” Lie Zhanying mumbled uncomfortably.
Jingyan’s jaw tightened. Not a quarter of an incense stick ago, he had witnessed Sir Su’s mask of control break for the third time, when he demanded that the filthy man-beast in the cage be freed. Jingyan still couldn’t believe that that creature had gone so meekly with the frail scholar, who he could have snapped in two with one swipe of those hairy paws.
His thoughts splintered when Sir Su appeared himself—to kneel formally in request for Jingyan’s mother’s medical attentions to this mystery person.
There was nothing for it but Jingyan must set aside the mounting pile of reports and witness this consultation himself.
And what he saw left him with more questions than answers, centering around a small bowl with blood pooled in the bottom. And, half-hidden by that scholar’s plain sleeve, a bandage around Sir Su’s wrist.
The fact that his mother asked none of those obvious questions only sharpened the mystery—but he knew better than to interrogate her. When it came to her patients’ privacy, his mother was as silent as the tomb.
He forced the entire frustrating subject to the back of his mind, and went to change and wash up before eating a hasty meal as he dealt with the ever-increasing pile of reports.
Time slipped by until he heard an urgent teenaged voice, “Water buffalo! Water buffalo!”
His first reaction was that he was dreaming—that Xiao-Shu called across the years. Except that wasn’t his voice, or his tone. A heartbeat later he recognized Fei Liu, who would only be here if something was wrong.
He knew something was very wrong when his mother instantly agreed to return a second time, her expression the serene, utterly unreadable one she wore as armor in the throne room. Of course he could not know if this was her habitual expression when she tended her patients in the harem, but this much intensified his interest: as soon as he uttered the words Sir Su she asked no questions, and made no reference to the imperial physicians. She rose, sent a maid for her doctor’s kit, and followed him back to the guest wing, though she had to be as tired as anyone else after a long day of soothing the emperor as well as tending the wounded.
When they reached the suite, Jingyan followed his mother inside. He saw Zhen Ping look startled as Jingyan took up a stance from where he could see everything clearly, but what could the liegeman say? Jingyan had spent his life among persons in command, and knew the unspoken rules as well as the strict rituals of court and military life. One rule was to avoid commanding the staff in another man’s house. He had scrupulously adhered to this rule with respect to Su Manor, even as his rank steadily rose.
He issued no commands now. He didn’t have to; he was aware that Zhen Ping would not order him out. He was determined to solve at least one of the mysteries that seemed to be multiplying by the day, and that meant watching as his mother sank down beside the bed on which Sir Su lay, restless and feverish.
Shock radiated through Jingyan to see him thus. Jingyan knew the jiang hu chief was sickly—one could scarcely avoid that conclusion after a year of Sir Su huddling in cloaks with heated braziers nearby, even in the warmth of spring. And guilt still pulsed at him whenever he remembered how anxious the Su Manor staff had been after that bitter wintry wait outside the gates of Jingyan’s manor had struck their leader down with what he’d been told was a spectacular cold.
But this man lying there was delirious. It was very clear that this illness was not just a bad cold.
His mother addressed Zhen Ping softly. Sir Su’s liegeman—who had fought as hard as anyone, and who had probably not slept since the first night of the attack, judging by the fact that he was still wearing his dusty armor—said in a hoarse, exhausted voice, “He gave his last pill to General . . .” Zhen Ping visibly caught himself, sent a wild glance around, then in a lower voice, finished, “General Nie.”
General Nie?
Then there was a second survivor of the slaughter at Meiling?
Jingyan scarcely dared hope, for Xia Dong’s sake as well as his own. He would give anything for Nie Feng to have survived the treachery that the Marquis Xie had perpetrated for Xia Jiang. But why would Zhen Ping be reluctant to say his name when everyone in this room had been in on the secret of the rescue of Wei Zheng?
On the bed, Sir Su stirred restlessly, as Jingyan’s mother uncovered his wrist to take his pulse. “Father . . .” he muttered.
Jingyan started. “What did he say?” And when his mother didn’t answer, he pressed—though he could tell from her silence that she was going to retreat into her doctor’s silence.
Sure enough, she issued instructions about Sir Su’s care, using that remote voice that meant she would say nothing more on any other subject.
But then Sir Su spoke again, so softly it was almost unintelligible. “Jingyan . . . don’t be afraid.”
Jingyan? Sir Su—Mei Changsu—whichever he truly was, had never breached etiquette in such a way, using his intimate name.
Jingyan turned to his mother, but once again she was the aloof doctor, insisting it was mumbling, unclear. She rose firmly, packed up her kit, and perforce he accompanied her out—but once she went inside her rooms he hastened straight back, turning over in his mind what to say if Zhen Ping tried to chase him off.
But when he entered the room, he found both Fei Liu and Zhen Ping bent over the bed as Sir Su twisted his head from side to side, muttering feverishly. His hair had come undone from its clasp, straggling in loose ribbons over the pillow.
From the far room guttural noises issued forth. General Nie? How could he have possibly ended up in that condition?
And—Jingyan stared down at the restless man on the bed—how had he known what, or who, that individual in the cage truly was?
“Jingyan . . .” This time there was no mistaking his name—his private name.
Zhen Ping looked up, distraught, and Jingyan made a dismissive gesture, intending to reassure the liegeman that this was not the time to worry about questions of etiquette. But Zhen Ping did not look reassured as he and Fei Liu tried to keep Sir Su from sitting up.
For such a frail man, he seemed to have gained strength from the ferocity of his fever, for his right hand evaded both, reaching . . . toward Jingyan.
Who dropped onto the stool beside the bed, and took that thin hand in his own, intending only to secure it for the two trying to get their patient to lie down.
But as soon as those clammy fingers closed around Jingyan’s, Sir Su lay back, letting out a long sigh, and closed his eyes. Fei Liu also sighed. “Su-Gege sleep,” he instructed the completely oblivious figure on the bed, and he ran out.
“Thank you, your highness,” Zhen Ping said, head bowed, hands up in formal salute. “I can see to him now.”
Jingyan half-heard him. All his attention was on that hand that fit against his own so well, so well-remembered.
But that was mere fancy. The hand of a lightly built teenage boy and the thin fingers of a man with chronic illness might bear a superficial resemblance--it was the warmth that was disconcerting. But even that was wrong; the dry warmth of Little Fiery’s body could not have been more unlike the sense of burning fever that Jingyan felt below the clammy surface cold of Sir Su’s touch.
He gently disengaged his fingers—and then stilled, shocked, as that hand closed around his in a merciless grip as strong as it was brief.
Jingyan sank back down onto the stool, and once again, Sir Su relaxed, his shuddering breathing slowing.
“I beg your pardon, your highness—” Shen Ping began, clearly worried.
“It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ve done as much for badly wounded men under my command, men I scarcely even knew. He’s not aware of what he’s doing. I hear your other patient. Is that truly General Nie, alive after all?”
Zhen Ping’s gaze dropped. “It is.”
“How did your chief recognize him? The rest of them did not even know he was human.” A thought occurred. “Did Wei Zheng know?” But why wouldn’t he tell us—
Zhen Ping’s gaze shifted, as another grunt and a howl issued from the far room. “If you will pardon me, your highness, I’ll see what he needs.”
Jingyan said, “Of course.”
Zhen Ping vanished into the far room. Jingyan flexed his fingers, about to try once more to remove them now that Sir Su appeared to be sleeping, but once again the sick man moved restlessly, muttering as his fingers tightened convulsively.
“ . . . burns. Burns,” he muttered. “Father . . . “
Jingyan bent closer as the soft voice dropped to a whisper, “ . . . don’t tell him . . . Jingyu . . .” And then a long, deep sigh, and, for the third time, “Jingyan.”
Jingyan’s nerves flashed cold at the longing in that whisper—so very much the right tone, but the wrong voice. Questions battered at him: had Sir Su truly said Jingyu? Prince Qi’s name was so seldom spoken aloud by anyone, much less his intimate family name. These names—the sword—the sheer brilliance—
But every time Jingyan thought facts added up to the conclusion he desired more than anything in life, his gaze came straight back to that face. Admittedly it was elegant. Handsome. Intelligent. But that face formed no part of Jingyan’s early memories, that much he was sure of.
Another impossible idea occurred, and for once he could satisfy his own inquiry. Glancing aside to make certain he was alone, he lifted his left hand and slid Sir Su’s sleeve up his arm. Except for the bandage around the thin wrist, there was no mark—skin smooth and unblemished. No sign of the nicks and scars that Jingyan had known so well.
Hastily he tugged the sleeve down as if he had done something indecent to the helpless figure on the bed, though he knew he was being absurd. Everything he was thinking was absurd, and yet he felt a conspiracy of silence formed around this qilin who had dedicated himself to Jingyan’s cause unasked. Unwanted, at first, even; Jingyan remembered, quite clearly, his own wariness and distrust.
A quiet knock at the outer door, which slid open, and there was Lie Zhanying. “Ah, there you are, your highness,” Zhanying said softly, coming noiselessly in. “You’re still here.” The unspoken question lay in the air.
“Zhen Ping is attending the other patient. Who, you will be glad to discover, seems to be General Nie.”
“Really? How—how did they know that?”
“A question I raised. So far, no answer. But it can wait. Zhen Ping has two patients on his hands, and I doubt he’s eaten yet. He certainly hasn’t rested.”
“Neither have you, and there are not many hours left before the emperor will expect your presence,” Lie Zhanying said.
“I’ll be fine,” Jingyan said, jerking a shoulder impatiently. “You know I’ve gone longer without rest on campaign—ah, did my mother ask you to remind me?”
Zhanying bowed, a hint of a smile on his somber face.
Jingyan grunted, looking down at Sir Su. Impossible to guess how old he was. His features were so very fine, but that steely intelligence that so characterized him was utterly absent now. It struck Jingyan that the man shielded himself so well that the shield was imperceptible. It had to take concentration, day and night, to be so guarded. Strength. Sir Su seemed to have so very little to spare.
More to the point, why would he need a shield? What was he guarding—and here was the round of questions again.
Still staring down at that sleeping face, and the long lashes lying on the smooth cheeks, as the hot hand lay quiescent in his, he said softly, “Zhanying. Do you remember the eclipse we saw that summer, on the northern border inspection tour?”
“Yes, your highness.” Lie Zhanying went on, “So extraordinary, that was. While the sun began to vanish, the shadows lay so strangely on the tree leaves. The air was blue. And then the sun vanished entirely, except for a ring of fire in the sky. So many of the toughest men cried like children, until it began to pass.”
“That’s it. The ring of fire,” Jingyan murmured.
“What made you remember that eclipse, your highness?”
The cool moon moving across the sun, shielding it. The ring of fire. The heat hidden in this hand, in his own heart, fueled by memory and hope.
The questions . . .
He tried to frame an answer for Lie Zhanying as he gazed down at that sleeping face, then Zhen Ping's quick step returned from the far chamber. “It’s difficult to know what General Nie wants, as his tongue seems to be paralyzed. But I think the sound of voices worry him. I suspect he doesn’t want to be caught and caged again. Or maybe he’s worried about the emperor finding out who he is.”
Jingyan listened to two long, slow, deep breaths from the figure on the bed. That, at last, was the breathing of true sleep. For the third time he tried to remove his hand, and this time the slack fingers loosened. Jingyan laid that thin hand on the bed, as Zhen Ping pulled the cover over it then said worriedly, “He didn’t say anything . . . um, strange, did he? This illness, it puts him out of his mind—he would feel terrible if . . .”
“Nothing but muttering,” Jingyan said—aware that he was using his mother’s words. And wondered how much truth lay in them. “I couldn’t hear clearly.”
There was no mistaking Zhen Ping’s relief.
Jingyan rose, intensely aware of the lingering feeling of that warm hand, the shape of muscle and bone, and above all that overwhelming sense that that grip had known him. Though he would have sworn an oath that he and Mei Changsu had never so much as brushed against one another. “If you like, I’ll go sit with General Nie. I want to reassure him that he’s safe within the perimeter of my command. And we’ll see that he gets safely back to Su Manor without discovery. I also want to reassure him about his wife.”
Zhen Ping bowed. “I think he would greatly appreciate that.”
Jingyan turned to Lie Zhanying. “I’ll return presently.”
Zhanying bowed and withdrew.
Jingyan nodded at Zhen Ping, resolving to curb his desire to interrogate the liegeman, who was clearly as exhausted as he was reluctant to speak. Who knew what orders he had been given? And why.
No, it is you who I must question, he thought, gazing down at the sleeping face: despite the moon you've shielded yourself with, I still see that ring of fire.
We’ll begin with your father.
Smiling with determination, he walked into the far room.