Chapter 28

XIAN

Xian brought the cup of bái jiǔ to his lips and drank, letting the liquid blaze a trail down his throat. White liquor was strong and meant to be taken with

food, not on its own, but the dishes on the table were still untouched. He had dismissed everyone, and they left him alone

in the finest room in the inn at their first way station.

Five guards were dead, fourteen injured. But instead of returning to Changle to regroup, Xian had chosen to press on with

the journey. They had already lost enough time that day. The goal remained unchanged: reach Wuyue as soon as possible.

There was a comfortable wooden armchair in the room, but he had opted to sit on the floor. He stretched out his bandaged left

leg. A mild tingling of nerves was all that remained of the snakebite healed by the masked man. A physician had pronounced

the wound clean and applied a salve of herbs.

An image of Zhen's mouth drawing out the venom from his snakebite flashed in Xian's mind. There was nothing romantic or titillating about the dark blood on Zhen's lips as he spit, but somehow it had meant more than any of the kisses Zhen had given him.

I left him behind once—I won't make the same mistake again!

Zhen had saved his life. When his masked accomplice shot stones at him to force him to let Xian fall, Zhen had refused to

leave Xian's side even if it meant being recaptured. Even when it meant being separated from Qing, the only family he had.

A choice as inexplicable as the tangle of feelings that Zhen still evoked in him.

Xian stood, gingerly putting weight on his injured leg. He grabbed the handle of the jug of bái jiǔ and walked to the door. The guards outside his room stood at attention as he left and made his way out of the inn.

Next to the barn where their horses were stabled was a new armored wagon that Feng had requisitioned from Changle. Feng himself

was standing watch; after the debacle earlier that day, the royal bodyguard was taking no chances.

Feng looked resigned when he saw Xian, as if he'd known he would show up sooner or later.

"You should be resting." His brow furrowed as his gaze fell on the jug in Xian's hand. "And you certainly shouldn't be drinking."

"I want to talk to him," Xian said.

Feng uttered a small sigh. He stepped aside, and Xian approached the barred door.

Zhen was curled up in the corner of the cage. Back on the underground bridge, Zhen had surrendered without a fight and handed over the key to unlock Xian's cuffs. They now encircled his own wrists, glinting like the collar around his neck that forced him to stay in human form.

Zhen blinked when he caught sight of Xian. He was clothed in a clean gray tunic, although his long, dark hair was still disheveled.

His forearms and elbows were covered in scrapes, probably chafed raw by the rocky edge where he had held on to Xian and promised

not to let him go.

Xian spoke in Feng's direction. "Open the door."

"What?" Feng sounded appalled. "Xian—"

"You were there," Xian said. It didn't matter that Zhen could hear them. "He could've escaped. He didn't."

Feng still looked incredibly put-upon, his bodyguard's instincts clearly warring with Xian's order. Xian raised his chin,

as if challenging his best friend to defy his command. A moment passed before Feng took out the key to the wagon. Its hinges

creaked as he opened the door.

Zhen emerged, his expression wary as he set his shackled feet on the ground. Even as a prisoner, he still possessed a kind

of grace, a sort of dignity that refused to be crushed.

Xian nodded toward a stone bench a distance away. Feng's disapproving stare followed them as they walked toward the bench.

Zhen's bonds clinked as he moved, the new set of manacles around his feet stopping him from taking more than small steps.

Xian wasn't sure why he had asked for Zhen to be let out of the wagon. Maybe it was the recklessness of the alcohol. Or maybe he knew that he just couldn't have this conversation with Zhen through iron bars.

They sat side by side on the bench. Out of the corner of Xian's eye, he could see Feng standing guard several feet away, his

hand poised on the hilt of his sword. The dim outline of woodlands lay ahead, demarcated by the watershed of mountains. Was

it a mockery to bring Zhen to this spot, within view of his forest home, knowing he could not return?

Zhen broke the silence. "You're drunk."

Xian let out a humorless sound. He brought the jug to his lips and drank straight from the mouth. His father would've been

appalled.

"You should try some." He shook the jar of bái jiǔ—there was about half left—and held it out to Zhen. "Don't worry, there's

no realgar in it."

Zhen didn't move for a long time. Just as Xian was about to withdraw his hand, Zhen reached out and took the jug by its neck.

Their fingers touched—a sense memory of something that was now beyond reach.

Xian watched as Zhen drank deeply, like a condemned man on the eve of his execution. He was surprised that the other boy could stomach the strong, burning liquor without coughing. Perhaps he had learned to drink, on other prior occasions when he had taken on human form. It occurred to him, now, how little he really knew about Zhen, about the life he had lived in these past seven years. Before their paths had crossed again in Changle, had Zhen already experienced as a human everything he wished for?

Zhen passed the jug back to Xian, who surreptitiously touched the rim of the jug to his lips. Maybe it was his imagination,

but the warmth of Zhen's mouth still lingered, like the ghost of a kiss.

Zhen looked down at Xian's bandaged leg. "Are you all right?"

Xian turned to face him. "Your friends wanted you to choose your freedom over my life. Why didn't you?"

They were close enough to touch, but the distance between them felt vast, uncrossable.

"What you said was true," Zhen replied quietly. "Nothing will ever make up for what I took from you. I don't expect what I

did to change anything."

A knot formed in Xian's throat. He wanted to believe that everything Zhen said were lies—but as he had dangled over the edge,

his legs kicking a thousand feet above nothingness, he had stared into the other boy's eyes and seen only honesty.

Xian drew a breath and steeled himself. "Before we left Changle, I went to the temple. I asked the gods to give me a sign,

and they did. I have to bring you back to Wuyue. You are the cure that will save my mother's life."

Zhen's expression became earnest. "You saw how Hei Xing cured your snakebite so you could walk." He dropped his voice so Feng

wouldn't hear. "Our spirit abilities allow us to heal. I once healed Qing when she was badly injured. I could try to do the

same for your mother—"

The snake spirit may try to bargain for freedom by offering to heal your mother. Fahai's warning echoed in Xian's mind . But you must not trust him. If he gets close to her and tries to perform any kind of dark magic, it could cost her life.

Do not allow him to deceive you again.

"No," Xian said.

A shadow of hurt crossed Zhen's face. "You think I'm a monster."

"I don't," Xian replied. "You saved my life even though you didn't have to. But I can't let you near my mother. Don't make

this harder than it has to be."

As Xian got to his feet, he felt a tug on his sleeve.

"Xian—"

Zhen broke off, and Xian blinked at the glint of a blade at Zhen's neck.

In a split second, Feng had moved forward and leveled his sword at Zhen's throat. "Take your hands off him."

Zhen swallowed hard and stepped back, holding up his shackled hands. His eyes shone in the darkness as they met Xian's.

Xian held the other boy's gaze.

"Goodbye, Zhen." He glimpsed the other boy's shattered expression before he turned to Feng. "Summon the physician to tend

to the injuries on his arms."

Xian had to muster every ounce of willpower not to look back as he walked toward the inn.

He returned to his room and sat heavily on the floor, letting the empty jug fall from his hand. The vessel landed on its side

with a dull thunk and rolled a couple of feet away.

Xian had wanted so badly to bring Zhen back with him to Wuyue. But he had never imagined it would be like this. Caged in a wagon. Chained hand and foot, a shameful collar around his neck to keep him from reverting to his true nature.

A prince should not feel heartbroken.

He raised his scratchy voice. "Guard."

One of the guards came into the room with a brisk bow. "Yes, Your Highness?"

Xian pointed at the empty wine jug lying close to his outstretched leg.

"Get me another," he said.

They arrived at the palace in Xifu at dusk on the eighth night of the journey. By then, the town was already buzzing with

news about the white snake the prince was bringing back to Wuyue, which in human form had been his attendant and likely also

his paramour.

Xian wasn't concerned. Let them talk. This wasn't the first time people had gossiped about his love life, and it certainly

wouldn't be the last. The important thing was that no one knew the truth about what really happened after the ambush. The

attack on their delegation was too major an event to obfuscate—but in the official version, Xian had pursued Zhen through

the forest and cornered him in the underground cave while his accomplices had fled.

No one except Feng, who had reached them first on the bridge, knew that Zhen was recaptured only because he had stayed behind

to save Xian's life.

Most people speculated that Xian had brought the snake spirit back to the palace to be subdued by the priests or sacrificed to the gods. Only a handful knew where the white snake was really being imprisoned.

Feng escorted the wagon to Leifeng Pagoda, where Fahai would be waiting, and Xian headed back to the palace on the pretext

of needing to speak to his father. The truth was that he couldn't bear to personally hand Zhen over to the fate that awaited

him.

When Xian arrived at the palace, General Jian informed him that his father had invited monks from Goryeo to seek blessings

from their ancestors and pray for his mother's recovery. The king was observing their rites behind the closed doors of the

Ancestral Temple and had given strict orders that they were not to be disturbed.

Since Xian would have to wait until the morning to see his father, he headed straight to his mother's quarters. Her handmaids

bowed as he entered her bedchamber. When he stepped around the folding screen, he saw his mother lying in bed instead of sitting

against the headboard.

"Niang Qin," he greeted her. "I have returned."

In a month, she had grown visibly weaker, like the waxy green leaves of a lotus starting to shrivel at the edges. But her

smile still shone like the elegant petals of a lotus flower.

She held out her thin arms. "Xian'er."

Xian hugged her. She seemed so fragile in his embrace. But not for long. She would recover. The gods had decreed it. He had

brought back the cure... even though he felt as if he had lost as much as he had found.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I promised I would stay in good health to wait for you to come home," she replied. "Was your journey to Changle a success?"

Xian pushed down a sharp pang. "Everything went as planned."

"That's wonderful. Your father will be pleased." She beamed. "And I am, as always, ever so proud."

He took her hand in both of his. "Did you make zòng zi for the Duanwu Festival?"

"Not this time," she replied. "I wasn't in the mood without you around to help me."

Xian guessed she had been too weak.

"Just as well," she added. "I would've missed chiding you for denting the dumplings as you tied them."

Xian smiled in spite of himself. "I give you my word that I will help you next year. And I solemnly promise I will eat all

the dumplings that I dent."

His mother chuckled. "Mischievous boy. That will only give you incentive to dent more of them!" She stretched out her hand,

her bony fingers trembling, and touched his cheek. "There's something different about you. Did anything unusual happen in

Changle?"

I fell in love with the one responsible for prolonging your suffering for seven years, Xian couldn't say. And I still can't bring myself to hate him.

His mother's expression turned furtive. "Ah... I know that look. Did you meet someone special?"

Xian wished everything were so simple. That Zhen was just an ordinary boy he had met in Changle and fallen in love with, someone he could bring back to the palace and introduce to his mother as his beloved. Instead, Zhen was imprisoned under Leifeng Pagoda, and his mother would never meet him or know his name.

She squeezed his hand. "Oh, all right. Keep your secrets. I know you'll tell me when the time is right."

If his mother knew the true price of her healing, it would grieve her. They would always have to keep this secret from her.

"The hour is late." Xian leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "I'll come and visit you again in the morning."

When he exited her bedchamber, Feng was waiting in the corridor. The handmaids stole surreptitious glances at him. Xian signaled

toward the garden, and they stepped outside.

"Were there any problems?" Xian asked.

"Everything went smoothly," Feng replied. "Fahai was waiting for us at the pagoda. Zhen didn't put up any resistance when

we handed him over." He hesitated. "What's Fahai going to do to him?"

"I don't know." Xian wasn't sure he wanted to. "Whatever he needs to do to make the antidote." Out of the corner of his eye,

he caught a flash of a topknot darting from behind a jujube bush at the far end of the garden. "Who's there?"

The figure ducked into the shadows, slipped into a side corridor, and vanished.

"The gardeners should not be working at this late hour," Feng said with a frown. "I'll have a word with your mother's guards to be on the lookout for any intruders."

Xian looked at Feng. "Did Zhen say anything before you left?"

Feng shook his head.

After the first night at the inn, Xian had not gone to see Zhen again. There was nothing left to be said, and he couldn't

afford to drink himself into a stupor every evening when he had to ride from dawn to dusk the next day.

Feng spoke. "You still care about him."

It wasn't a question but a statement. Xian turned away so Feng wouldn't see through him, even though his best friend knew

him too well.

"It doesn't matter," he replied. "Not anymore."