Doctor Lim insisted that her first responsibility was to attend to Jun’s wounds, so he was forced to sit and grit his teeth with impatience and pain while one of Lim’s apprentices stitched and bandaged his cuts. “Congratulations, one of the other victors bled out from his wounds while you were in the arena, so you’re in the final four!” the apprentice gushed. Jun didn’t care.
“I’ll find us a carriage,” Ren said quickly, after Jun explained the situation, but that turned out to be unnecessary; as a royal physician, Lim had her own private driver and vehicle. They departed as soon as the doctor deemed Jun sufficiently treated, fighting the crush of traffic on the south bridge alongside thousands of other people trying to leave the Island.
Jun wondered if it might be faster for him to run all the way back to the inn, but he was in no shape to do so. None of his wounds were life-threatening, but a heavy and terrible apprehensive chill was penetrating his bones, and he struggled to keep his whole body from shaking. The interior of the carriage was silent. Ren clasped his hand in support; he hated that she could feel him trembling but was grateful for her comfort. Lim occasionally glanced at Jun with what seemed to be muted surprise and admiration, as if she hadn’t really expected him to pull off what he’d so impulsively promised. When Jun met her eyes, the doctor looked away with awkward guilt.
The awful dread that thickened the silence in the carriage felt unbearable. As soon as they reached the inn, Jun threw back the coverings and leapt out. He took three paces before he saw the corpse wagon parked outside the courtyard, the innkeeper speaking to the driver.
Jun’s legs turned to water. He stumbled to his knees in the street, picked himself up in a mindless haze and staggered into the inn as if powered by something other than his own will. “No. No. No.” The one word issued breathlessly from his lips, as if he could chant away reality.
There were two more people in front of his father’s room—another staff member from the inn and a priest who someone must’ve summoned. Jun shoved past both of them and dropped down next to his father. “Baba,” he whispered. “I’m back, like I promised. I brought a doctor with me. She’s breathmarked, so she’ll be able to help you better than the other one.”
Li Hon did not open his eyes. He looked as if he were dreaming, his brow furrowed with worry at what was happening in his memories. His hand, when Jun took it, was still warm, but his chest didn’t rise and fall. In place of his harsh, laborious wheezing, there was silence.
Jun shook his head in desperate denial even as his vision blurred and a hot, sharp pain started in his chest, threatening to squeeze the breath out of him and stop his heart. “Remember you wanted to tell me something? I’m here now. Wake up, please, Baba.”
Doctor Lim crouched down on the other side of his father’s cot and sighed regretfully. “I’m sorry. Even if we’d arrived earlier, I doubt there was anything to be done for him.”
For half a second, Jun wanted to leap over his father’s body and throttle the greedy physician. Maybe he would’ve lived if only you’d come right away! It’s your fault—
But it wasn’t Lim’s fault. It was his. He’d fought and nearly killed a breathmarked fighter in the arena to try to save his father. It shouldn’t have been for nothing. Yet it was.
When he felt Ren come up behind him and put a hand on his back, the wave of anger and guilt crested over fully into grief and he crumpled, laying his head on his father’s chest like he used to as a little boy, tears stealing away his vision and dripping onto his father’s shirt.
Eventually, Doctor Lim and the sympathetic but impatient innkeeper drew him away so they could take the body and prepare it for burial. Ren spoke to them in Jun’s place, and he felt profound gratitude for her presence because he could do little more than sit and stare at the empty cot where his father had fought to take his last breath.
Ren came and sat down beside him. Her eyes were red, even though she’d only known Jun’s father a little, as the kindly stuntman who used to warn them not to run around backstage lest they get in the actors’ way or hurt themselves. “A wagon will leave from the south gate as soon it opens tomorrow morning, to take your father back to Cheon to be buried,” Ren said gently.
Jun squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, trying to pull himself together enough to think. “I’ll leave with the wagon in the morning.” He would accompany his father’s body back home. There, he would settle his father’s debts, pour libations on his grave, and beg his spirit for forgiveness before entering the customary three-month mourning period, withdrawing into the time of austerity and isolation expected of a child who’d lost a parent.
“Thank you for making the arrangements,” he croaked. “And for … for being here.”
“I’ve settled the bill with the inn and paid the wagon driver and the embalmers already.”
“I don’t have the money for all that.” He’d used up nearly all his coin to register for the tournament and had barely enough to buy food and lodgings on the trip back.
“Sifu and I can afford it. It’s the least we could do.”
Jun bowed his head, fighting back a fresh onslaught of guilt and grief. “I’m sorry. You and Sifu Chang did so much for me. All for nothing, in the end.”
Ren jerked, as poked by a sharp stick. “Don’t you see by now?” She spoke almost angrily. “Sifu didn’t train you and bring you here out of generosity. The Silent Flute Society has been planning for years to have one of our own win the tournament and become the Guardian. We almost succeeded six years ago with Yama, but he betrayed us. This time, we had a different plan, but with General Cobu sponsoring his own entrant, we knew Ghostface could fail, too.” She raised eyes wet with apology. “You showed up at the right time. Sifu said you were a gift from Dragon. If you won the tournament, it would stall Cobu’s plan. And we would have a friend in the Guardian’s Residence, someone who might help us. You were our backup plan, Jun.” She laughed, with irony rather than mirth. “You don’t owe us anything.”
It was just as he’d suspected, right after he’d heard Ghostface had been injured. It still stung, though, to hear her lay it out so bluntly. “I guess it goes to show what a fool I am, then,” he blurted, his voice rough and twisted. “Just like you said I was from the start.”
“I didn’t say that,” Ren mumbled.
“My father was right. He knew I wasn’t cut out to be the Guardian, that I should’ve stayed where I belonged.” Jun’s head pounded; he wished a hole would open beneath him and suck him into the earth. “And now he’s dead because of me, and I never did make him proud of me, not once, not ever.”
Ren said, “Your father loved you. And I don’t think that he needed you to be the Guardian to be proud of you.”
Jun turned his face away, not wanting Ren to see his tears. No matter how skilled a fighter he was, he didn’t deserve to be the Guardian. Someone who didn’t even care for his own father couldn’t be trusted to care for the Scroll of Heaven and for the entire nation. He’d justified his disobedience by promising he’d make it up to his father tenfold later, after he became the Guardian. But his father hadn’t wanted another son with a great destiny—only a son who stayed.
“We can’t stay here,” Ren reminded him. “Let’s go back to our rooms at the Golden Gate Inn. You need to get a full night’s rest and pack supplies before you go.”
Jun let her coax him to his feet and lead him out of the room. In a gesture of compassion, or perhaps guilt that she’d profited so handsomely off Jun’s performance in the arena without being able to do anything for him in return, Doctor Lim had sent her driver back with the carriage and instructions to transport Jun wherever he needed to go for the night. The sun was descending below the city walls as they rode sorrowfully back to the Golden Gate Inn.
Jun roused his attention enough to ask, “Where’s Yin Yue?”
“After his match, he went to look for a posting station,” Ren said. “He wanted to send a message to his master at the Iron Core school, explaining everything that’s happened at the tournament in case…” She bit her lip. “In case things don’t go well tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. The final day of the tournament. By the time the sun set again, a new Guardian would be named. Jun felt a pulse of dull regret. It would’ve been better for all concerned if Hsu the Boss had cut his throat. At least then there would be three remaining finalists to oppose Leopard instead of only two.
“Leopard won’t win.” Without a bit of envy, he assured her, “Yin Yue is the best fighter from the South. And Ghostface has Sifu’s training on his side. Their side. There’s more than one person behind the mask, isn’t there?”
Ren nodded. She, too, must have seen how the masked fighter had returned in the afternoon, perfectly healthy, and a little bit taller. “Anyone can be Ghostface.”
“Multiple fighters competing under one name,” Ren agreed. “It’s not technically against the tournament rules because no one has ever thought to try it. Who would? Anyone who’s ever fought to become the Guardian has done so for themselves and their schools and families. Ghostface stands for an idea. No one knows his face, and any one of Sifu Chang’s other students could take his place. If Ghostface wins, he won’t betray the Silent Flute Society.”
Something else Ren had said itched at his numb brain. “Unlike Guardian Yama—that’s what you said earlier. Was he one of Sifu Chang’s students as well?”
“I’ve placed too much hope in one place before.” Chang’s words last night.
“Yes.” Ren looked as if she had something sour in her mouth. “I remember watching him train with Sifu when I was just a little girl, and he was a much older, promising candidate. Yama was recruited and trained by the Society, but once he became the Guardian, he did nothing to advance our goals. He stayed in his residence, studying the Scroll by himself and not speaking a word of protest while General Cobu became more and more powerful.”
The carriage arrived at the Golden Gate Inn. Despite the fresh grief weighing down his every step and thought, Jun wondered what to say to Chang in parting. He owed the flutist so much—yet now he understood that he’d never been special, just a tool. A means to a political end that the Silent Flute Society had been working toward for years.
What little anger he could summon was dull and lifeless. How could he blame Chang for not entirely trusting him, when he hadn’t shown any interest in the history or politics of the role he aspired to so badly? When he hadn’t cared for anything other than his own victory? When he’d already disobeyed and run away from his previous instructor and his own father?
The miserable thoughts hurt, but they fled Jun’s mind as he and Ren entered the courtyard. The ordinarily tidy, welcoming entryway of the Golden Gate Inn was a scene of violent disarray. Decorative vases and potted plants had been knocked over and shattered on the stone pavers. Three of the inn’s cleaning staff were on their hands and knees with wet rags, washing the floor clean of the dark, splattered puddles that Jun suspected were not spilled red wine.
“What happened here?” he exclaimed.
No one answered him. A dozen of the inn’s guests were clustered at the end of the courtyard, murmuring worriedly and not heeding the agitated innkeeper who was trying to urge them back to their rooms. Jun looked up, following the crowd’s gaze to one of the guest room doors on the second story, hanging askew on its frame, having clearly been smashed open.
“Sifu!” Ren bolted for the stairs. “Sifu!”
A horrible sinking sensation chilled Jun from head to toe, freezing him in place for a long heartbeat. Then he dashed after Ren, calling after her and pushing through the gawking guests, barreling past the innkeeper and ignoring the man’s shouted protests. He took the stairs three at a time, catching up with Ren just as she charged through the broken doorway into Chang’s room.
The small space was wrecked: the lamp, thankfully unlit, overturned and dripping oil off the displaced table, the chair by the bedside broken, the flutist’s trunk flung open and his belongings scattered. Chang’s bamboo cane was lying across the threshold, snapped in half.
Ren collapsed in the middle of the disaster, picking up an object from the floor and clutching it to her chest with a moan. When Jun dropped to his knees beside her and grasped her arms, he saw that it was Chang’s flute, remarkably still intact. “They took him,” Ren choked out.
“Who took him?” Given the wreckage, Chang must’ve fought furiously, and had no doubt been outnumbered. Jun was thankful the destroyed room didn’t contain the flutist’s body.
“We didn’t think they’d find us so quickly,” Ren went on, rocking back and forth. “We didn’t think Cobu would dare to parade his soldiers around and use force within the city while the tournament was still going on. What complete fools we were. Those miserable fucking Dragon-cursed pieces of shit!” She beat her fists against her thighs, tears of fury streaking her face. “And I wasn’t here to stop them. I wasn’t here when he needed me.”
A thick lump formed in Jun’s throat, Ren’s despair an echo of his own. “Why would Cobu come after Sifu Chang now? Does he think arresting him will stop Ghostface?”
“Yes.” Ren lifted her face, her expression bleak. “He’ll torture Sifu for the identities of all the Silent Flute Society members in the city. Then he’ll have them arrested and executed.”