Chapter 17

ZHEN

"And nothing happened?" Qing asked.

"We slept on opposite sides of the bed." Zhen unwrapped a glutinous rice cake that Qing had brought for him. "He put a rolled-up

blanket between us."

They sat on the open terrace near the southern gate that separated the inner court from the outer. It was a favorite spot

for palace workers to spend their midday rest, enjoying the crisp summer breeze or taking a nap under the shade of scholar

trees. Majestic cypresses towered along the gate arches; two had interlocking branches, and the gnarled bark of another looked

like a pair of dragons were coiled around its trunk.

Zhen bit into the sticky, chewy rice mixed with minced meat. "I pretended to be asleep, and he didn't try anything. After

a while, he got up and left the room for about half an hour."

Qing's eyebrows shot up. "Did he go off to... you know, take care of himself?"

Zhen eyed her askance. "Where did you learn about that?"

She smirked. "Girls talk."

"I peered through the window. He was out in the courtyard talking to Feng. Then they meditated together."

Zhen thought he'd be ashamed that the prince only seemed interested in him physically—but as it turned out, that was the only

thing Xian hadn't asked him for.

Qing took a large bite of a steamed bun. "If you like him, you need to get your tail out of a knot because you're the one

who has to make the first move."

Zhen couldn't suppress a smile. "Are you giving me love advice?"

"Who else is going to? Boys are so clueless." She poked his side. "I saw the way he looked at you in the infirmary. If you

didn't mean anything to him, he would've just slept with you and tossed you aside. The fact that he hasn't tried to pressure

you into anything means he actually has feelings for you. It's kind of romantic."

After he was discharged from the infirmary, Zhen had seriously considered getting Qing and leaving the palace instead of going

back to Xian's chamber. They'd be miles away by the time anyone noticed they were missing.

But something held him back. Something that went against the instincts he'd always trusted. He had left Xian behind once before, when he was a helpless little boy who had almost drowned, and the guilt still haunted him. Maybe the gods were giving him a chance to make things right. He had no idea how, but he did know that running in the opposite direction wasn't the answer.

Zhen looked at Qing soberly.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said. "I'm the one the prince wants."

Qing chuckled. "Sure took you long enough to figure that out."

"No, that's not what I mean." Zhen drew a deep breath. "His mother has been ill for many years after being bitten by a white

snake. An oracle told him to come to Changle to find the cure: another white snake. That's the real reason he's here. He's

going snake hunting, and he wants me to be his guide."

Qing's eyes went wide. "Is that why you wanted us to leave the palace so urgently the other day? Because the prince is here

for the sole purpose of killing snakes?"

"He won't kill them. He intends to bring the white snake back alive. It's the last ingredient in the antidote that his adviser

is making."

"Ingredient?" Qing looked aghast. She grabbed Zhen's arm. "Let's get out of here. Right now."

Zhen shook his head. "I've changed my mind about leaving. I don't want to be a coward." And a thief, he didn't say. He still couldn't bring himself to tell Qing about the pearl. "Running away isn't going to solve anything."

"Uh, nothing except taking away an imminent threat to your life —"

Qing was interrupted by the resounding echo of a gong being struck. They both turned toward the outer court.

"What's going on?" Qing jumped to her feet as the gong sounded again.

They joined other curious palace workers streaming through the gate. On the other side, in the middle of the vast, treeless

outer court, a crowd had gathered around a raised platform with a broad wooden frame about twice the height of a regular doorway.

A familiar figure was shackled between the posts of the wooden frame. His back was facing the crowd, and his wrists were tied

over his head by ropes attached to the top beam. Governor Gao and Steward Chu stood by the platform, and Zhen quickly ducked

behind a tall man so they wouldn't see him.

Gao spoke. "The court of Changle has found this young man guilty of the crime of causing hurt to another person out of revenge.

A second, more serious crime of declaring falsehood to the prince of Wuyue was also taken into consideration."

Deng had been stripped down to his undergarments, and as unnatural as clothes still felt to Zhen, he knew that, to humans,

having this dignity forcibly removed was deeply shameful.

"He is sentenced to forty blows with the light stick," Gao continued. "He will be left hanging in the outer court overnight

to reflect on his sins, after which he will resume his palace duties. The punishment shall now begin."

An official struck the gong with a hammer. The ominous knell reverberated inside Zhen's chest. He couldn't see Deng's face, but the way he hung his head and slumped his shoulders was hard enough to watch.

One of the guards stepped forward, a long bamboo stick in his hand. The nodes of the bamboo had been rasped away, which made

the stick somehow more menacing.

Zhen's mouth went dry. A hush fell over the crowd. On the platform, Deng trembled.

The guard raised the bamboo stick and brought it down with brutal force. The stick whistled through the air and landed with

a loud thwack on the back of Deng's thighs. Deng's body tensed and arched like he'd been struck by lightning. The ragged scream

that ripped from his throat was one of the most horrible sounds Zhen had ever heard.

Zhen's hands closed into fists. Qing glanced at him.

The beating was swift and searing, carried out at one go. The lashes bled into one another, a pattern of cruel streaks crisscrossing

Deng's back and thighs. Zhen hoped someone was keeping track, because he had lost count and Deng had stopped crying out as

each blow landed.

When the guard finally lowered the bloodstained stick, a collective exhalation rose from the onlookers. Deng hung in the wooden

frame like a battered puppet, held upright only by the cords around his wrists.

Gao's expression was impassive as he gestured at Deng's bonds. Instead of loosening them, the guards pulled them taut. Deng's

body was yanked higher until his feet could barely touch the platform, putting immense strain on his shoulders.

Zhen took a reflexive step forward, but Qing caught his wrist.

"Don't," she said in a low voice. "Let's go."

Zhen's heart was pounding, but he forced himself to walk away.