Chapter 1

XIAN

"Copperhead." Xian's sturdy leather soles trod almost soundlessly over the leaves littered across the forest floor. "Also

known as the hundred-pacer. They say after you've been bitten, you can take only a hundred steps before collapsing."

"Sounds delightful." Feng hung back, his hand poised on his sword hilt. "Nothing like fresh air, sunshine, and deadly venom

to start our day."

They'd agreed that Feng would cut off the snakes' heads only if they unexpectedly attacked. Otherwise, Xian wanted them alive.

Summer had arrived, which meant snakes would venture farther from their dens for mating season. Early morning was the best

time to catch them, after the rising sun had warmed the jagged, rocky outcroppings but before the scorching heat sent them

back into their burrows.

"Haven't you captured one of these before?" Feng eyed the reptile. "You've been working doubly hard since the Year of the Snake began."

Xian pointed. "See that stripe down its back? Copperheads don't usually have white markings."

If not for the white pattern on its dorsal scales, the reddish-brown copperhead would have been almost indistinguishable from

the fallen log under which it coiled.

Feng leaned closer for a better look. "You think it could be distantly related to the white snake that bit your mother?"

"I'll ask Fahai when he gets back." Xian stepped forward, tongs in one gloved hand, long hook in the other. His gaiters were

made of alligator skin, thick enough to withstand the long fangs of pit vipers.

He grabbed the copperhead with the wide mouth of the tongs. Startled, the snake hissed and reared its triangular head. Xian

snagged it with the hook, holding it at arm's length—but the copperhead attacked, its fangs snapping within inches of Xian's

forearm.

Feng raised his sword. "Watch out!"

Xian struck the back of the snake's head with the tongs in his other hand, knocking it out. It sagged, dangling limply from

the hook.

Feng exhaled. "That was a little too close."

"I had everything under control. Your protective streak is really appealing, though."

"It's not a protective streak. I'm your bodyguard."

Xian put the unconscious snake into a double-stitched sack and tied it shut. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and stifled a yawn.

Feng raised a brow. "Who was the boy last night?"

Xian gave his best friend an innocent look. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Nice try. I know you slipped out through the Pavilion of Benevolence again."

"Oh, right. You wouldn't be a good bodyguard if you didn't."

When they were younger, Xian and Feng—General Jian's eldest son—had found one of the secret escape routes that led out of

the palace. The entrance was hidden behind the altar in the Pavilion of Benevolence, and the tunnel emerged in an abandoned

grain silo on the other side of the outer wall. Xian had been putting the passageway to good use.

Xian grinned. "We arranged to meet in a hut near his father's farm. He still thinks I'm the son of a merchant who procures

tea for the king."

Feng sighed. "I wish you'd try harder to be discreet."

"Don't worry, no one saw us." Xian lifted his chin. "And even if people found out, why should anyone make a fuss? Emperor

Ai took male lovers, as did all nine emperors of the Han dynasty before him." One story of Emperor Ai was well known: When

the emperor's favorite lover fell asleep on his robe, Ai chose to cut off the sleeve of his imperial garment rather than wake

the young man.

"Well, you can do whatever you want when you're the king," Feng replied. "But right now, you know that Wang is just waiting for you to slip up. Since his guān lǐ , he's been trying extra hard to discredit you and gain your father's approval."

At the age of twenty, every noble male had his long hair—combed into a bun, as usual—crowned with a special headpiece. Two

weeks ago, everyone had gathered outside the Ancestral Temple, huddled under umbrellas in the late spring rain, to witness

his eldest half brother's crowning ceremony. Xian was three years away from his own guān lǐ , so his topknot was secured with just a hairpin.

The gong in the palace's wooden astronomical clock tower tolled in the distance, announcing the stroke of ten. The sun had

ascended higher in the cloudless sky, and a trickle of sweat ran down Xian's brow.

"Fahai should've returned from his hometown visit by now. I'll bring this copperhead to him and see what he thinks." As Xian

picked up the tied sack containing the snake, he noticed Feng's hesitant expression. "What?"

"I overheard my father talking this morning," Feng replied. "Fahai wasn't visiting his family. Your father sent him west to

Mount Emei to see the oracle."

Mount Emei was the tallest of the four sacred mountains. The monastery where the reclusive oracle lived could be reached only by a narrow stairway of a thousand steps cut into the steep cliff face. Monks would carve a pilgrim's request on an ox's shoulder bone or a turtle's plastron in the oracle's ancient script. The bone or shell would be heated in a furnace, and if the oracle chose to respond, he would interpret the pattern of cracks.

Xian frowned. "What did my father want to ask the oracle? Whether he should choose Wang as the crown prince? Is that why Fahai

didn't tell me where he was really going?"

Feng attempted a nonchalant shrug. "He could be on official court business..."

Xian narrowed his eyes. "Feng, I have a deadly snake in this bag, and I'm not afraid to use it."

"You knocked the thing out."

"A snake's fangs can still inject venom an hour after its head has been chopped off."

Feng sighed. "I didn't want to say anything ... but I have a strong feeling Fahai's mission to see the oracle has something

to do with your mother."

Xian's heart pounded as he raced across the inner court of the palace.

Everything suddenly made sense. Why his mother had been sleeping more than usual. Why the palace physicians had begun prescribing

opium-poppy medicines. They were meant to make her as comfortable as possible. Why hadn't his father told him? Did his mother

know her condition was getting worse? How—how much time did she have left?

His strides echoed on the wide marble steps leading to the king's hall. Its yellow gabled roof and double eaves stood grandly

above the rest of the palace buildings in Xifu, capital of Wuyue and home to the West Lake.

After the fall of the Tang dynasty, the land had fragmented into ten different kingdoms, and Wuyue carved out its territory in the east. None of the kings were strong enough to take up the mantle as Tang's successor, and for a rare moment in history, there was no emperor, and each king—including Xian's father—reigned independently.

Nine was an imperial number, and his father's hall was the only building in the palace that could have nine jiān —the space between two columns—and five arches. None except the king could enter through the center arch, so Xian darted through

the one on the left.

His father's guards outside the throne chamber made a feeble attempt to stop him, but he shook them off and pushed the double

doors open.

The throne stood on a raised platform facing south so anyone coming into the king's presence would have to bow toward the

north—a sign of respect. Tendrils of sweet smoke wafted from ornate red copper incense burners, and two huge bronze mirrors,

one on either side of the throne, gleamed to ward off malevolent spirits.

Xian raised his eyes to the wooden plaque above the throne, where 一正壓百邪 was engraved in gold from right to left. One justice can overpower a hundred evils.

The sign wasn't just decorative. Formerly, tradition dictated that the eldest son of the empress or queen would automatically be the crown prince, but Xian's great-great-grandfather had eschewed the custom by declaring that any of his sons could be his heir. Infighting among his many sons from wives and concubines led the king to institute the practice of keeping the name of the chosen crown prince in a box behind the plaque that would be opened only upon his death. The box containing the decree was considered sacred, and anyone caught tampering with it would be put to death.

"Xian?"

Xian's attention snapped back to the imposing man seated on the throne, who had deep frown lines etched between his brows.

He was decked out in a bright yellow lóng páo , a regal robe that was embroidered with nine five-clawed dragons—five on the front, three on the back, and the ninth hidden

inside the front panel. On his right thumb was a signet ring made of láng gān , a blue-green gemstone even rarer and more valuable than jade.

In front of the throne stood Fahai. In his early thirties, he was younger than the rest of the court advisers. He wore a red

robe with wide sleeves, and his b? zi —the square insignia woven on the front of his robe—was emblazoned with a crane, a symbol of longevity and of the highest

rank among scholars. His yú dài —the "fish pouch" around his waist—was another mark of his senior status in the king's court.

Xian's father glowered at him. "Have I not taught you proper manners, my son? What devil emboldened you to barge into my chamber

when you have not been summoned?"

Anyone who came into the king's presence without being called, even his wife or consorts, could be severely reprimanded. And Xian should've been attired in his round-collared golden-yellow court robe—the color of princes.

"Father, I beg your forgiveness." Xian, still dressed in his hunting clothes, knelt and bowed. "I am willing to accept any

punishment. But first, please tell me—what did the oracle say about my mother? Is she going to die? Is there any way to save

her?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Xian could see the bases of the red columns surrounding the throne. His father used to tell

him stories about the poets who wrote the verses painted on each pillar. The intertwined tenets of love and filial piety in

his father's favorite poems had inspired him to marry the noblewoman his parents had chosen—but he later took Xian's mother,

a commoner and his childhood sweetheart, as his first and most beloved consort.

Xian ventured an upward glance and caught his father's expression softening.

"Fahai was about to reveal the oracle's answer when you interrupted," he told Xian. He extended his palm, signaling for Xian

to rise, before giving Fahai a nod.

Fahai came forward and presented a scapula-shaped bone wrapped in silk. Xian's father held the cracked bone to the sunlight

to see the slanted, hieroglyphic characters, the oldest ancestor of their written language, which few alive could read.

"What is the oracle's interpretation?" the king asked.

"?‘The cure you seek is in Changle of Min,'?" Fahai replied.

Xian couldn't believe his ears. The cure? Was there a way to not just save his mother's life but completely heal her of the terrible paralyzing pain she had suffered for almost a decade since that fateful snakebite?

"Send me to Changle," Xian blurted out.

His father shook his head. "The capital of Min is a ten-day journey from Xifu. You have never traveled so far from home on

your own. General Jian will go."

"Father—"

"No, Xian," his father repeated more firmly. "Seven years ago, I took it upon myself to obtain a spirit pearl to heal your

mother. As a result, I nearly lost you. Both of you—in your mother's fragile state, grief would've overwhelmed her. I will not let that happen again."

The king had refused to seek out another pearl, seeing the first one as a bad omen that had led to his son's kidnapping. Unlike

Xian, his father was deeply superstitious—probably why he had not offered a fake pearl in exchange for his son's life, fearing

that deceit would bring even more disaster.

Xian kowtowed so low that his forehead struck the floor with a loud thud. He knew which tiles had inverted mud jars placed

beneath them—people believed that the more resonant the sound, the better the chances of winning the king's favor.

"Father, you once told me that crows have the virtue of caring for their parents," Xian said. "Now I implore you to allow

me to do the same. I am my mother's only son. Please let me go to Changle. I must be the one to find the cure. Otherwise,

I shall live with this regret for the rest of my life."

A long silence ensued. Filial piety was the foremost of all Confucian virtues, the reason both males and females kept their hair long—as a sign of reverence for their parents and ancestors. Xian invoking his filial duty would make it harder for his father to deny his request.

Xian waited. Finally, his father picked up a brush and wrote on a scroll. He took the royal seal, which had a pair of entwined

dragons on the knob, dipped the square base in red ink, and pressed the insignia to the parchment.

"Prepare a delegation. You will leave for Changle at sunrise." Xian's father held out the scroll. "Fahai shall escort you

on my behalf. Heed his advice as if it were mine. If this undertaking is the will of the gods, they will bless your journey

and make the right path known when you arrive."

"Thank you, Father." Xian bowed as he received the royal edict with both hands. "I will not return until I have the cure."