Chapter 34

XIAN

They departed the hut at daybreak, the dawn at their backs as they rode westward toward the palace. Xian sat in front, holding

Zhaoye's reins; Zhen sat behind him, his arms linked around Xian's waist.

They arrived at the town outside the palace, which was also named Xifu, just after eight in the morning. Along the streets,

vendors sold steamed meat buns, roasted sweet potatoes, and loquats. People sat on benches and hungrily slurped noodles from

earthenware bowls. Cobblers mended shoes, and a woman screamed curses at a group of children who had trampled all over the

dyed fabrics she'd laid out on the ground to dry.

Xian had been able to slip out of the palace for trysts without being recognized; after all, most commoners had never seen the royal family up close. Now he listened intently to conversations around them, hoping to glean some news. People discussed the fire that had scorched the base of Leifeng Pagoda but had been put out before the upper parts of the structure were damaged. They were puzzled as to why the gates of the palace that separated the inner court from the outer had been shut for the day with no explanation. But to Xian's relief, there was no talk about the prince's death.

At the post station, Xian scribbled a brief, unsigned message, sealed the letter, and wrote Feng's name on the front. His

best friend would recognize his handwriting. He used one of the silver fixings on Zhaoye's reins to pay for a courier.

When the courier left to deliver the letter, Xian turned to Zhen. "Come on, let's throw out these old clothes and get a new

set of robes."

They entered a garment shop. Xian changed into an indigo robe and stood in front of the bronze mirror on the wall. He combed

back his hair and secured the bun on top of his head with a gilded hairpin. Next to him, Zhen put on a white robe that Xian

had picked out for him; its wide sleeves flowed elegantly by his sides.

"Come here." Xian ran a comb through Zhen's long hair, twisted the top half into a knot, and slid a jade hairpin through it.

Then he picked up a white paper fan and put it in Zhen's hand.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Zhen asked.

In addition to swords, martial artists sometimes liked to wield more unusual weapons—paper fans, ink brushes, even musical instruments. A fan was a useful weapon for a long-range attack; it could fly out in a wide arc, slice enemies, and return to the hand of its owner.

"With your powers, you could do some damage," Xian replied. "Give it a try."

Zhen unfolded the fan and threw it at an upward angle. The fan sailed through the air and reached the opposite end of the

room, startling the shopkeeper, before it looped back toward Zhen, who deftly caught it.

Xian grinned. "Show-off."

He handed over a gold buckle from Zhaoye's halter to the shopkeeper to pay for their purchases. They pulled the hoods of their

robes over their heads as they exited the shop. No one cast a second glance at the prince in commoner's clothing.

They left the busy marketplace and headed to a vacant farm at the outskirts of town. The abandoned grain silo's reinforced

iron door hinted at the structure's true purpose.

"I'm guessing this passageway leads into the palace?" Zhen asked.

"It's one of the secret escape routes in case the palace is attacked," Xian replied. "The door is bolted from the inside—if

it's locked, no one can get in from outside. Whenever I sneaked in and out of the palace at night to meet boys, I had to pray

that a watchman wouldn't pass by and find it unlocked."

Zhen smiled. "I suppose none of those boys knew they were being romanced by the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom."

The groan of bolts unlatching made them stop and turn. Hinges squealed in protest as the heavy silo door swung open.

Feng stood in the doorway, his face a mask of disbelief as he stared at Xian.

Xian gave him a lopsided grin. "You look like you've seen a spirit."

A choked sound escaped Feng's throat as he enveloped Xian in a tight embrace.

"I almost couldn't believe it when I got your letter," he whispered hoarsely in Xian's ear. "I really thought we'd lost you."

Xian chuckled. "Easy, I need to breathe. Don't want to suffocate and die for real."

Feng released him.

"How?" Feng still couldn't hide his amazement. "I... saw it with my own eyes. Your... remains. Only your bronze hairpin

survived the fire. Your father broke down when we brought it to him."

"Wang poisoned me with snake venom and tried to frame Zhen." Xian's tone became grim. "He broke into the box behind the plaque

and found my name. He wanted me permanently out of the picture so our father would choose him instead."

Feng frowned. "Did he set the fire to cover his tracks?"

Zhen spoke. "No, I did." Feng looked at him, aghast, and he added, "I'm sorry, but that was the only way to fake Xian's death

and give us a chance to escape."

"Does my mother think I'm dead?" Xian cut in. "Did my father tell her?"

Feng shook his head. "Only a few of us know what happened. Your father made each of us swear on our lives that we wouldn't say a word to anyone, especially your mother. The entire inner court has been sealed off to prevent the news from spreading. Your father is at the coffin home now, observing the monks performing rites for you. Wang is with him."

"Perfect." Xian's mouth twisted. "It's time to show my half brother that the living can be a lot scarier than ghosts."

They entered the underground passageway. Xian had used this tunnel so many times that he could navigate it with his eyes closed.

They emerged from the hidden entrance behind the altar in the Pavilion of Benevolence. Xian glanced at Zhen; being in the

palace was probably intimidating, given that he had been brought back to Wuyue in chains.

He took Zhen's hand in his own. "You're with me. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Zhen squeezed his palm. "I know."

The three of them made their way to the coffin home, where caskets were kept before the deceased were entombed in the royal

mausoleum outside the palace. The building had a somber gray roof with white lanterns hanging from the eaves. Daoist verses

hung vertically on the bone-colored pillars, and the wooden plaque above the doorway was inscribed with the epithet 義莊 —"Mansion of Righteousness."

The double doors of the coffin home were open. Inside, a casket rested on two wooden stools; a small altar with burning incense

and a lit white candle stood at its base. Daoist monks flanked the casket chanting prayers to the ear-piercing, discordant

sound of the suǒ nà , a woodwind instrument.

Xian's father stood in the courtyard, facing the open doors. An older person was not allowed to pay their respects to someone younger, so Xian's father—and his mother—couldn't publicly mourn for him. They couldn't even attend the funeral procession, as it was believed that would bring more ill fortune and disaster to the family.

General Jian stood on his father's right. On his left was Wang. His half brother had wasted no time in claiming the most favored

position. Fahai was notably absent.

Xian pushed back the hood of his robe and stepped forward. "Father."

His father turned. The shock on his haggard face sent a twinge through Xian. His father's grief was real. General Jian looked

astonished; Wang's disbelief quickly changed into panic that he couldn't hide.

"Xian?" his father whispered. "Are—are you a spirit?"

"No, Father." Xian knelt and bowed with his forehead to the ground. "It is me. Your son. I am still alive."

"My son," his father echoed. He exhaled in a rush and moved forward, his hand outstretched; he swayed, and General Jian quickly

steadied him. "Is it really you?"

"It's not possible!" Wang burst out. "General Jian and I saw his remains being put into the casket with our own eyes." He

glowered at Xian. "Whoever you are, you're not my brother. You're an impostor. A charlatan!"

Xian remained calm. "There's a straightforward way to resolve this matter. Please allow me, Father."

He strode into the coffin home, and the startled monks inside broke off mid-chant. Xian walked toward the casket, put both hands on the wooden cover, and threw it wide open. The monks gasped and jumped back, shielding their faces with their hands—

"See for yourself," Xian said.

A ceramic urn lay in the casket, surrounded by joss paper and swathed in a yellow cloth that would've covered the corpse's

face. More than a day had passed since the fire, and the dummy that Zhen had transmuted had changed back to its original form.

His father gripped the doorway, gawking at the empty casket.

Wang stared at the urn. He whirled around to face Xian.

"You have insulted us!" he snarled. "You have made a mockery of Father, of us all! Do you know how much he grieved when he

heard of your demise?" He shot a hateful stare at Zhen. "What kind of son allies himself with the same breed of snake devil

that poisoned his own mother, that poisoned him?"

"Poisoned me?" Xian countered. "With my body charred beyond recognition, how did you know I was poisoned before I supposedly

burned to death?"

Wang's expression froze. Surprise crossed the king's and General Jian's faces.

"Your plan worked beautifully, for the most part." Xian pulled down the left shoulder of his robe, exposing the two healed puncture marks. "You lured me to the underground chamber where Zhen was imprisoned, and then you stabbed me with a poisoned dart, knowing Zhen would inevitably be blamed for the venom that killed me. But you didn't expect the whole place to go up in flames."

Wang's nostrils flared. He turned to their father.

"Certainly you will not believe this—this lying, heartless son who ran away with a monster and made you believe he was dead

for an entire day and night! Such an unfilial prince does not deserve to be chosen as your heir!"

A long silence filled the air before their father spoke. "How did you know that I chose Xian to be my heir?"