Round, red lanterns fringed in yellow silk were strung above the stone-paved streets. Trees rustled, throwing their shadows over the pale building walls, the diamond latticework on the doors and windows worn to muted shades of red and green. Gray roof tiles blended into the darkness, a practical choice against the temperamental weather of the mortal world. This village might have appeared dreary in the night, but the luminous lanterns lent it an enchanted glow.
A hundred aromas wafted in the air of foods, perfumes, and mortals. People thronged the streets, most dressed in plain cotton robes, while the more prosperous few were attired in gleaming brocade or silk. Ornaments hung from their waists, some adorned with jade beads or discs of precious metal. Loud popping noises startled me, as bright sparks, shreds of red paper, and thick smoke burst into the air. Firecrackers. Was there a festival tonight? The faces of the villagers were alight with excitement, just as when I had watched them from afar in the moon.
Liwei and Wenzhi stopped outside a large building. A sturdy black plaque hung over its entrance with the characters painted in white:
西湖客栈
West Lake Inn
Gourd-shaped lanterns cascaded on each side of the red wooden doors. Its windows were flung open to the cool night air, music and laughter spilling onto the street. A lively establishment, though my head began to throb from the incessant noise.
We would spend the night here before journeying to the Changjiang, the river where the Long Dragon had been trapped under a mountain for centuries. When Wenzhi had proposed that we stop in this village, I readily agreed, eager for a glimpse of how the mortals lived. But for a slip of fate, I might have been one of them, too.
At the sight of us, the innkeeper shook his head to turn us away. Was the inn full? The town was certainly bustling. Wenzhi did not speak, merely placing a silver tael on the table. It worked as well as any enchantment, the innkeeper’s face lighting up as he tucked it into his sleeve. He said something in a low voice to Wenzhi, but it was drowned in the burst of laughter from a nearby customer.
A young girl, his daughter perhaps, showed us to a wooden table by the window. She left, only to return shortly, carrying a tray with plates of stir-fried wild mushrooms, braised pork ribs, a small fried fish, and a large bowl of steaming soup.
“What entertainment is there tonight?” Wenzhi asked the girl, nodding toward the raised platform in the middle of the room.
She bowed to him, a blush staining her cheeks. “A storyteller, Young Master. One of the best in this region.”
Young Master? I swallowed my laugh. Wenzhi must be twice her grandfather’s age, though his smooth skin and chiseled features gave no hint of it.
Midway through our meal, the storyteller arrived. A long, gray beard dusted his wrinkled face, his pouched eyes gleaming beneath thick brows. As he settled onto a bamboo chair, he laid his gnarled wooden staff on the floor. Accepting a coin from a customer, he cleared his throat before beginning his tale—of a noble king who had been betrayed by his favorite concubine, a spy planted by an enemy kingdom. When the ill-fated pair died at the tragic end, the rapt audience sighed and clapped, while a few dabbed their tears away with handkerchiefs and sleeves. I stifled a yawn, feeling little but revulsion at the concubine’s deceit, and impatience for the king’s foolishness.
With an amused smile, Wenzhi tossed a piece of silver to the storyteller who caught it with surprising deftness, slipping it into his pouch.
“Young Master, which tale do you wish to hear?” the storyteller asked him deferentially.
“The Four Dragons,” Wenzhi replied.
I sat up straighter, my ears pricking up.
“Ah! A classic. Young Master must be a scholar,” the storyteller flattered.
Several occupants of the teahouse groaned, likely hoping for more salacious tales of lustful kings and beautiful maidens. But when the storyteller raised his hand, they fell silent—the silver gleaming in his beard as brightly as that which now lay in his pouch.
He began, his voice as smooth as the finest wine. “Long ago when the world was still new, there were no lakes or rivers. All the water was in the Four Seas, and the people relied upon the rain from the sky to grow their crops and quench their thirst. The Eastern Sea was the home of the four dragons. The Long Dragon was the largest of them all, its scales as red as flame, while the Pearl Dragon glowed like winter’s frost. The Yellow Dragon blazed brighter than the sun and the Black Dragon was darker than night. Twice a year, they rose from the sea to fly in the sky above.”
The storyteller raised his voice, startling his listeners. “One day, they heard loud crying and wailing from our world below. Curious, they flew closer, hearing the people’s desperate prayers for rain after a long drought. Their clothes hung loose on their thin bodies and their lips were cracked from thirst. Distraught by their suffering, the dragons pleaded with the Heavenly Emperor to send rain to the mortals. The emperor agreed, but due to a divine calamity it slipped his mind and weeks more passed without rain.”
He paused, reaching for his cup and lifting it to his mouth. When he continued, his tone was a controlled whisper. I found myself straining to listen, though I knew this tale well. It was the same one I had offered to tell Prince Yanming, the one he had scoffed at.
“Unable to bear the misery of the starving people, the dragons flew to the Eastern Sea. They filled their jaws with briny water, spraying it across the sky. Their magic transformed it into pure water which rained to the parched earth below. The people fell to their knees, rejoicing and praising the gods. But the Heavenly Emperor was furious that the dragons had overstepped their authority. He imprisoned them, each beneath a mountain of iron and stone. However, before each dragon was trapped, it sacrificed its immense power to bring forth a gushing river to ensure that our world never lacked water again. From that day, four great rivers flowed across our land, from east to west—named after the dragons in honor of their noble sacrifice.”
The audience applauded, although with less enthusiasm than before. One woman quickly tossed the storyteller a coin, shouting out her request.
I did not hear it, lost in the memories which drifted over me. This tale had been one of my favorites as a child and I had often asked my mother to tell it to me. Closing my eyes, I could almost imagine myself lying in my bed of cinnamon-wood, my fingers grazing the soft white drapes that fluttered in the breeze. I had no need for a lamp as the stars glittered in the sky and the lanterns threw their pearly glow through my window.
I had loved this story, though its ending left me unsettled. One night, I had asked my mother, “Why did the emperor forget to bring rain to the mortals?”
“The emperor has many concerns and responsibilities; governing the realms above and below is no easy task. Each day he oversees countless petitions and requests.”
“But why did he punish the dragons for helping the mortals instead of thanking them?” I wanted to know.
Her hand had brushed my cheek, her cool touch soothing my restlessness. “Sleep, Little Star. It’s just a story,” she had said, evading my question with ease.
Only now did I understand that there was no satisfactory answer. At least none to avoid offending the Celestial Emperor.
The emperor’s task filled me with unease, like a thorn stabbing the underside of my heel. More so when I recalled Prince Yanxi’s admiration of the dragons, the tales I had heard of their benevolence. If the dragons were unwilling, could I fight them for their pearls? Could I even defeat one of them, much less four? This was a hopeless task, a thankless one—where success would come at the price of my honor, and my failure would be the death of me.
“Xingyin, what’s the matter?” Wenzhi’s question roused me from my thoughts.
“I’m tired,” I said, although I had no reason to be.
“Why don’t you sleep?” Liwei suggested, not looking up from his bowl. “It will take us a full day to get to the Changjiang by foot, even without stopping to rest.”
Since we had spoken in the Willow Song Pavilion, a coolness descended upon us. Had the words exchanged severed the lingering ties between us? Or was it the intimacy he had witnessed between Wenzhi and me? Whatever the cause, Liwei was unfailingly courteous but withdrawn. And while this was exactly what I had asked of him before, it left me hollow inside.
The innkeeper’s daughter came to clear our table. As she lifted each plate onto her tray with painstaking slowness, she stole furtive glances at Wenzhi and Liwei. Her eyes darted back and forth, back and forth, as though she could not decide who took her fancy more. Indeed, they had little competition in this place. Even garbed in plain robes, their auras muted, Wenzhi and Liwei had the same effect on mortal hearts as they did on immortal ones.
I stood up, eager to leave. Just sharing this meal with them had rubbed my nerves raw. “Where is my room?”
Wenzhi grimaced as he gestured to the floor above. “The inn is full. The three of us will have to share.” As he caught my horrified expression, he added, “You may have the bed, of course. I’m sure His Highness can do without one for a night.” A hint of mockery laced his voice.
“Indeed,” Liwei said coldly. “Though I intend to be present in the room nonetheless.”
Was that a warning? Was I reading too much in the edge of his tone? It mattered not. Even if this inn possessed the softest beds in the kingdom, a patch of damp grass would be preferable to suffering through a night as that.
“Ahh, I’m not tired after all.” I backed away from the table, coward that I was. “After eating so much, I’ll go for a walk. It’s my first time in a mortal village.”
Wenzhi’s stool scraped against the floor as he rose. “I’ll join you.”
I shook my head, smiling to take the sting out of my refusal. I wanted some time alone. And, for some reason, I did not want to go with Wenzhi and leave Liwei by himself.
I hurried through the inn, slipping out of its back entrance. This street was smaller than the one we had strolled through earlier, but no less lively. Several villagers watched the street performers as they spun plates on sticks or breathed out tongues of flame. I stopped to listen to an old man playing an er-hu, a two-stringed wooden fiddle. The plaintive melody suited my mood well. When it ended, I dropped a gold tael into his bowl, where it clinked against the copper coins.
Even at this late hour, children ran around, chasing barking dogs or crowding the stalls. Some carried insects and butterflies woven from dried grass, while others clutched sticks stacked with glossy balls of red sweets. Curious, I bought one for myself, crunching through the crisp candied shell to reach the tangy hawthorn berry within. As I licked the bits of sugar off my fingers, some villagers stared at me, perhaps wondering at my enthusiasm over the common treat. Had my mother liked this, too? I lifted my head to the skies, wishing I could ask her.
The luminous orb of the moon was smaller than it appeared in the Celestial Kingdom, but just as striking against the black night. It struck me, that if my father had not been gifted the elixir, if my mother had not taken it—perhaps we might be living in a village such as this. In a house with white walls, a weathered moss-green roof, and wooden doors. Our family, whole. For a moment, I could not breathe, lost in the dream. Or perhaps, you would be dead, my mind whispered.
Did my mother still cast her eyes here with longing? Did my father live still? Did he . . . blame my mother for her choice? Me, for endangering her life? If only I could seek him out, but I had no idea where to start. And I dared not test the emperor’s patience any more than I had.
I turned into a quiet lane. Not more than fifty steps in, my skin crawled with that same prickling sensation as whenever danger was afoot—just as when the archer had shot at me in the Eternal Spring Forest. Impossible that he could be here, in the Mortal Realm. More likely, he was dead, killed by Liwei’s soldiers. But it did not change the fact that I was being watched.
Feigning ignorance, I continued down the path. While I doubted anything could injure me here, I had a couple of daggers tucked away for good measure. The Jade Dragon Bow was slung across my back, wrapped in a piece of cloth to avoid attracting attention. When Wenzhi had suggested that I bring it along, it seemed a wise idea.
In the quiet of my room, I had practiced using this bow. In the beginning, I could only sustain its arrows briefly, but over time they had grown steadier in my grasp. I had longed to test its power, to let fly the crackling shaft of light—yet never dared to. Where might one release a bolt of Sky-fire unseen in the Celestial Kingdom?
As footsteps thudded behind me, I reminded myself that immortals were forbidden from using magic in the Mortal Realm unless there was a dire need. Hostile dragons were undoubtedly one—yet for now, my physical abilities would have to suffice.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” a man called out. “Would a beautiful lady like you enjoy some company?”
Three men swaggered forward, encircling me where I stood. They wore fine clothes and headpieces of silver and jade, but the pungent fumes of wine assailed my nostrils. They must be drunk indeed to call me beautiful, I thought scathingly. From the leers on their faces, it was not hard to guess their intentions.
My fingers clenched into fists. “Not the type of company you have in mind,” I replied curtly, turning away.
A meaty palm clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around. “Don’t be so shy. Why would you be wandering here, alone, if you didn’t want to be found?” the taller one slurred into my face. His breath was sour, stinking with the remnants of his previous meal, his hand now fumbling at the collar of my robe. “Do you know who we are? We can afford to—”
Rage and revulsion erupted through my veins. I seized his wrist and flipped him onto his back. He screamed in agony, clutching his hand. Was it broken? I hadn’t intended to, though part of me hoped it was. His two friends snarled, charging at me together. I sidestepped their grasping hands, grabbing them both by their necks and bashing their heads into each other with a resounding crack. Two kicks sent them flying into the ground. Before either of them could sit up, I held a dagger in each hand against their throats.
Pressing the blades down until a thin line of blood oozed out, I hissed, “I’m guessing this is not your first time. If any of you even think of committing such a vile crime again, I’ll come back and sink my knives into your hearts.” I raked them with a scornful look before placing my foot onto each of their spines in turn, my kicks sending them sprawling.
“Demon! Demon lady!” one of them gasped, his eyes bulging as he scrambled up and fled.
Not quite, I thought to myself. But it was a closer guess than he would ever know.
My rage unappeased, I released a surge of glittering magic which streaked after them. Perhaps my minor transgression would slip by unnoticed. It was rash of me, but I was sickened by their intent. And how they had tried to blame my choices for their despicable behavior.
Someone snickered. I swung around to find Wenzhi leaning against a nearby wall, his face alight with amusement. “That was well done,” he complimented me. “I would have joined you, but you didn’t need any help.”
“I’m glad you found that entertaining.” I wiped the daggers clean before sliding them back into their sheaths.
A dangerous glint sparked in his eyes. “If you hadn’t taken care of them, I would have been glad to. They wouldn’t have been able to walk afterward, much less run. You let them off too lightly,” he chided.
“I haven’t told you what else I did. Their wounds won’t heal for months; every bruise aching, the blood seeping from their cuts. They won’t easily forget tonight—what they tried to do and what I did to them. I don’t think they’ll be able to look at another girl again, much less try to attack one.”
Wenzhi raised his brows. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
He pushed himself off the wall, closing the distance between us, his hands reaching out to slide around my waist. My pulse quickened as I lifted my face to his, anticipation flaring across my skin. His eyes blazed with unfathomable emotion as he bent his head, pressing his lips to mine. Light sparked through my mind like a scattering of stars. For a moment we stood there, utterly still, our bodies molded together. Then his lips parted mine, his mouth urgent and seeking, his breath sliding in warm and sweet. Heat flashed through me—burning, molten bright—racing through my veins, setting me alight. His palm swept up the arch of my back, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulled my head gently back. Cool lips glided to the curve of my neck, trailing a scorching path. I was afire. Undone. All thought fled my mind as I clutched him closer, pressing against him until the pounding of his heart echoed against my own.
When his hands fell away, I could not help the sigh that slid from my throat. I wrapped my arms across my chest, small comfort to the emptiness that gaped within. Our breaths came harsh in the sudden silence which fell over us.
“I wasn’t following you to stalk you. I wanted to show you something,” he told me.
We walked until we reached the bank of a nearby river. It was crowded with people who were lighting lanterns and releasing them into the water. Unlike the ones of silk in the village, these were made of colored waxed paper that had been artfully folded and shaped into lotuses. A candle glowed from the center of each flower, luminous in the dark.
“I thought the Water Lantern Festival might interest you,” he said.
The faces of the villagers were solemn and grave, a few weeping openly. Sadness clung to the air like winter’s chill.
“What are they doing?” I wondered.
“Praying for guidance from their departed ancestors. Honoring and remembering their loved ones who have passed. The lanterns are also meant to guide wandering spirits back to their realm.” From his flowing sleeve he drew out a small one, offering it to me.
I looked up at him. “What is this for?”
“A dragon is no small matter. Perhaps you should ask for guidance from your own ancestors.”
I stared at him, a tenderness unfurling in my chest. With this, he acknowledged my mortal roots and my place in this world, too. It was then I realized just how much he cared for me. And I, for him.
I took the lantern and lit its candle, crouching down to release it into the river. It bobbed unsteadily for a moment, before righting itself and floating away. I did not ask for guidance—who might I ask? I did not know whether my father was still in this world or the next. I did not even know the names of my ancestors. But I hoped wherever they were, they would see the lantern I had lit in their honor and know they were remembered.
Beneath the dark sky, we stood unspeaking. The river shone with the light of hundreds of lanterns, a stream of living fire which flowed with the current toward an unknown horizon.