Chapter Text
Jiang Cheng gets engaged at fifteen. The timing is not at all accidental. Next year, Jiang Cheng will travel to the biannual Gusu lectures, where he will mingle in close quarters with high-ranking disciples from all the major sects, and all of the minor ones with sufficient standing to receive an invitation. In such circumstances, hasty engagements have formed in the past. For Wen Ruohan, this will not do.
The engagement between Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli was arranged at their births, by two major sect furens with ties to the Yu sect. It cannot be broken lightly, even by a sect leader who may not want Lanling's wealth joined to Yunmeng's agriculture and trade. But the second child of Yunmeng Jiang cannot be permitted to make a match undirected by the interests of Qishan Wen.
Anyone could have predicted this. Didn't Wen Ruohan strongarm the elders of Gusu Lan into accepting an engagement between his and Qingheng-jun's second sons, just a few years ago? Couldn't anyone with half a brain see that Yunmeng would be next on his list? Wouldn't a competent sect leader have taken better care of his son and heir's security? Well, Jiang Fengmian, are you listening to me?
When Jiang Cheng's father has sighed and shaken his head and said empty consoling words, Jiang Cheng's mother grabs him by the arm and drags him out to the practice yard. She shoves a whip into his hands and says, "Watch carefully," before unfurling Zidian and destroying a training dummy with aggressive yet efficient movements that Jiang Cheng copies to the best of his abilities.
He doesn't think he does so badly, at least for a first attempt, but his mother is already shaking her head. "What's the use?" she mutters. "He already knows how to counter those moves. If only I'd drop-kicked him off the side of the mountain six years ago…but he was just a student at the time."
Yu Ziyuan sighs, suddenly, and Jiang Cheng puts down the whip. "A-niang?" he says, tentatively. Her lips are pressed together in a thin, hard line, the way he does when he doesn't want to cry.
"Unlucky boy, to have such a mother," says Yu Ziyuan, turning to another training dummy. "I only left you behind in Yunmeng that summer because I thought, if I wasn't there, your father might…well, I was a fool." She glares at him. "Pick up that whip again, you don't have it right. Watch more closely."
Jiang Cheng tries again. The whip's handle is much more flexible than Sandu's hilt, and he keeps having to readjust his grip.
"This is Wen Ruohan's revenge, I'm sure of it," mutters his mother as she destroys a third dummy. "I refused him because I preferred being a sect furen to a concubine, so now he turns around and decides my son's furen for me. Petty bastard. Should have known, after what happened to Qiren…" She snaps, "It's a whip, not a sword. How many times do you need the move demonstrated for you to understand?"
Jiang Cheng tries again, and this time lands a deep slash across the training dummy's torso. He's not exactly expecting praise, which is fortunate because he receives none. Rather, Yu Ziyuan says, "Just cut his hands off on your wedding night and put an end to it there," and beheads the rest of the line of dummies in a blaze of violet light.
The next day, however, his mother is nothing but composed and diplomatic as she negotiates terms with Wen Ruohan's second aunt, an elderly lady who has been called in because Jiang Cheng's future spouse does not have any parents of his own—at least, none who still claim him as their son. Zidian sits quiet as the two women talk trade, treaties, land, goods. Even though it's exactly the kind of thing that Jiang Cheng has been learning about as his father starts handing over more sect responsibilities, they've been at it for hours and his concentration is starting to fracture.
Jiang Cheng sneaks a glance across the room at the Core-Melting Hand. He startles when he realizes that Wen Zhuliu is watching him back.
His eyes are very dark. Although he's only twenty-two, and a powerful enough cultivator that he will probably go on looking twenty-two for another decade, there are a few silver strands in his black hair. He sits straight-backed and soldierly, wearing black robes instead of the usual Wen red. Of course, he is not a Wen by blood. Beneath his bracers his forearms are wrapped in black cloth down to the infamous hands.
Jiang Cheng swallows and looks down again. His mother and Wen-daren talk on, and the Core-Melting Hand silently watches.
…
Later, Jiang Cheng goes to the kitchens to find his sister. This is her haven, her retreat, and so he only bothers her here if he really needs it. A-jie takes one look at him and sets him up with a pile of vegetables to chop.
When the silence has worn in comfortably, a-jie says, "I keep a list." Her back is toward him, so he cannot see her expression. "A list," she clarifies, "of things I am looking forward to when I'm married. Like tea with Jin-furen, or playing with Jin-gongzi's dogs, or making a map of the different kinds of gardens in Jinlintai." She pauses and says, "And I keep a list of Jin-gongzi's good qualities. He is attentive toward his mother, his calligraphy is excellent, and he is—Luo-guniang assures me—respectful to women."
Jiang Cheng has met Luo Qingyang, and her judgment on people seems generally sound. "That's good," he says. "A-jie deserves an attentive, respectful gentleman for a husband."
She sighs, and comes over to take the pile of chopped carrots from him. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "Oh, didi," she says. "If I could—if there was any way to keep you safe from that man—"
Alarmed, Jiang Cheng steadies his sister's hands before she can drop carrot all over the floor. "A-jie, don't cry," he says. "Maybe it won't be so bad. A-niang knows him, he was a guest disciple of Meishan Yu—"
"He was," says his sister. Jiang Cheng goes to wipe her tears, remembers that he has also been cutting onions, and uses a clean handkerchief instead. "Now he's Wen-zongzhu's dog, with his teeth pointed at your throat—"
Jiang Cheng folds his sister into his arms. "Maybe it won't be so bad," he repeats. "I won't be getting married for years and years yet. Maybe we'll like him more as we get to know him. What was it nainai said? If you can't marry for love, you must find love in marriage." He squeezes tight, rubbing her back gently. "Come on, a-jie. The future Jin-furen shouldn't have such a bad attitude toward the future Jiang-furen, right?"
There are but a few petals left on the tree branch outside the kitchen. They tremble as a man dressed in black steps back from the window.