10. FOR A LIFE

I'll confess.

The last word drips off my teeth. My flesh is lacerated, my bones crushed. It's pain like I've never known before, even as Lotus.

If all goes according to plan, I'll suffer worse.

The interrogators exchange a glance. One grabs my bleeding chin, wringing out a whimper. "Lie to us, and you'll wish even harder for death."

"Everything—I said—is true."

It would have been Plum. It should have been Plum.

But then Crow came in and spoke to the physician.

The nerve of him, risking death to use my chess piece.

I'll give him a taste of his own poison.

"I work—for the South," I repeat. "Crow—sent me. Just now, he tried—to silence me. He took my notebooks, afraid—there'd be evidence . . ."

The interrogators don't speak. The only sounds come from the neighboring cell; my wounds throb at Plum's wails. Her injuries won't be light. Without treatment, she will still die. Imay killtwo birds after all, I think, as one of my interrogators at last exits our cell, footfalls echoing, then fading. He's going to Miasma with my confession.

Step by step, death walks to Crow.

I wait. Time is hazy, elongated by the agony.

Then—I'm unbound. Dragged out. The smell of brewing rain. The reek of blood. It soaks the chopping block, wets my cheek when I'm pressed down.

Again, the blade falls.

I float through the palace and find Miasma in the throne hall, face pensive.

"Bring him and the wine," she finally says.

A servant delivers a goblet on a tray, and my gaze sharpens. A single-sided toast almost always means death by poison—one of the kinder capital punishments—and I must admit, I was not expecting Miasma to be so lenient. What will I do, if Crow takes the wine and stymies my scheme?

Then the sight of him, entering the room next, quiets my worry. He's killed me not once, but twice. He enabled Cicada to pull off the ambush at Pumice Pass. He caused Cloud to lose Bikong. Hate is too simple a word for what I feel for him. I despise him. I respect him. He's never disappointed me as an opponent.

He won't disappoint me now.

Ten strides from Miasma, Crow stops. He bows, and Miasma stares at his lowered head. Is she remembering Ren? Is she remembering how everyone always forsakes her in the end?

"Well, Crow?" she says as it begins to rain in earnest. "Any last words?"

Crow straightens. Without Miasma's invitation. It's an offense—minuscule, compared to whichever he's about to die for. And he knows—would have known the second the guards came for him, like they came for so many of his predecessors—that his death is sealed. So as his mind works—and it's working, I can almost hear its rhythm—it's not trying to figure out what's to come, but what led to this. Who condemned him? The physician—but why? How? He's a good judge of character. Could he have been wrong about her?

No, Crow. You were right about her. And you were right about me. You were right to never trust me. But I'm a god, and you're only mortal. Unfair, isn't it?

Such is war.

"Nothing?" Miasma says when the silence stretches.

And Crow—he takes a measured breath, one of the few he has left. "What can I say, after the thousands of words we've exchanged, if you trust the words of a stranger?"

"You admit to sending the physician."

"I admit to seeing her."

"Ah." Miasma holds out a hand, fingers spread. "I didn't realize there was such a distinction." Her hand closes into a fist; she slams it down on the arm of her throne. "I should have asked her for clarification before I killed her!"

We. We killed her, murmurs my conscience as Miasma's words hang in the air, insincere, their meaning clear. She doesn't need more evidence.

The suspicion I planted has finally flowered into a death sentence.

"Bequeath the wine," she says, and the servant proceeds, the dark liquid shivering within the goblet. My mind shivers with it. Prove me right. The servant stops before Crow, bows at him.

Prove yourself worthy of my scheme.

Crow bows too—to Miasma. "I decline."

The prime ministress rises from her seat.

"You can execute me."

She strides in.

"But I won't kill myself for no reason," says Crow as he's seized by the clasp of his cloak.

"You think I'm making a mistake," Miasma whispers, knuckles white around the black fabric.

Rain patters, loud in the quiet.

Miasma releases Crow.

Her hand darts forward, shoving into his torso as if she means to disembowel him. But when her hand comes out, it's with the physician's book. The bloodstained, cursed book. It holds no evidence, just notes, but it's something to hold, crush, and throw.

It smacks like a hunk of flesh upon the floor.

"A mistake," Miasma breathes. "What did I say by the river, Crow? I won't stand to be betrayed. A mistake." She chuckles. "You, Crow, are the one who's making the mistake. This?" She lifts the goblet. "This was mercy."

The goblet hits the ground too, poisoned wine joining the blood splatters on the book.

"Take him away," Miasma says, and I wait, breath bated, for the execution order. Beheading would be too quick, poisoning too irreversible without an antidote. The one method compatible with my plans is also the one Miasma favors.

Go on. Remind me of the only death fitting for traitors.

"After the feast tonight, steam him."

The smells escape the kitchens within the hour. Ducks, roasted. Wine, warmed. The rain stops, and outside on the pavilion, servants go down the long, stone tables, placing cushions for each official.

Two will be absent.

Plum has been left to rot in the dungeons. After scouting out the steamer, I pay her a visit. It's nothing personal, I think to her as she moans, like I thought to Crow, but truly, Plum's only crime is her fate. In any case, she won't survive much longer without treatment, and she won't be treated without a stronger restoration of Miasma's trust. I was right to choose Crow, whose presence I sense in the cell next door. I start to pass through the stone wall separating us, then still. I have no reason to visit him. No reason.

His words echo through my head, unbidden.

I won't kill myself for no reason.

A lesser rival might have taken the poison, innocent or guilty. Had Crow done so, he'd have thwarted my plans.

But because he is Crow, he refused. He kept his cover to the end. He will be steamed like the other Southern spy on the junk that night. That night we kissed. I pretended to be Miasma's. To be his. But he outperformed me. The ice in my mind spreads, spidering into the place where a human heart would rest, and without visiting Crow, I leave the prison block, floating to the soldiers' mess halls as the feast commences. Wine flows and voices brim. One table breaks into an argument over who is the better general, and I remember being crushed between Lotus and Cloud at Hewan.

I'm the god!

No, I'm the god!

Now Lotus is gone forever. Her spirit died at Pumice Pass, thanks to Crow, and her body in this palace. My field of vision shrinks, until all I can see is forward, to my next step.

The next table.

The next group of soldiers.

Three are slumped over. The first body doesn't take to me, too drunken. Same thing with the second.

Only one body left now. I'm about to try it when I notice the ghost, hovering at the table's end. Or is it the soldier's spirit?

No time to decide. The spirit moves down the table, toward the body. I sink in first—and keep sinking, sucked under by the stupor.

Close your eyes.

No.I will myself up, to my feet, and stagger past the soldier's confused spirit. He's not my first victim of the day.

Nor will he be the last.

In the barracks, I bind my face with bandages, leaving only my eyes uncovered, then steal a dagger from someone's personal bundle. I go to the steam room and wait.

At last, the soldiers assigned to Crow's execution come down the hall.

"Hey, you!" I shout, pointing at one. "Back to your station."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Orders from above." The soldier looks to his partner and I bark, "Take it up with the prime ministress if you have a problem." A bluff. Behind my back, I clench the dagger, grip relaxing only when the soldier shrugs. Goodchoice. I remember the horrible smell, the night Miasma steamed that Southern spy on the junk.

"What happened to your face?" asks his partner as I take his place.

"Burned it." I keep it simple, and my partner grunts. He faces the great doors before us.

"Let's get this over with."

I've already seen the steamer—was in it earlier, as a spirit—but the second time around is just as macabre. The bamboo monstrosity is at least one person tall and two in diameter. Bolted to its side is a ladder; under it is a vat of water atop a firewood urn. The other soldier grabs a torch from the wall and sets to work. I join him, mentally reviewing the specifications I gathered, from the width of the rim, to the drop from the top, to the slats at the bottom.

Once it begins, I'll have no room for error.

The fire flashes. The room grows warm, then humid. It's sweltering by the time two soldiers enter with Crow. He's been stripped of his black robes and left in rough-hewn white. Funeral garb.

"All yours," say his escorts, leaving as soon as they've passed him on. My partner grabs hold of Crow—and is shrugged off.

"I'll walk myself."

He climbs the ladder; I lift the lid. Steam billows into both our faces. Crow coughs, and my thoughts falter.

Behind Crow's every action is reason. When he asked Miasma to spare Lotus, it was for a chance to decipher the warrior. When he told Plum that Ren wouldn't attack the North in response to Lotus's death, it was because he suspected his and Cicada's plans had been foiled by that same warrior's last words. When he refused to take the poisoned wine, it was because he didn't want to give Miasma his guilt as closure. If he's to die, let his death haunt her.

But now? I can't imagine any reason behind his actions, which leaves his emotions.

Those, apparently, I have never known.

And I never will. As Crow pauses at the top of the ladder, something pushes into my heart—a desire to peer inside him and see his every thought. Where is your fear? I think as he gazes down at the death awaiting him. Where is your defiance? His hair falls forward, veiling his face, and I wish I could make him look at me, make him see me as his rival in his final moments.

But he is no longer mine.

In the end, we were not equals.

He steps into the steamer and my hand jerks, as if to stop him.

I stop myself instead.

Join the other soldier in putting on the lid.

The coughing starts, hair-raising and vicious.

My fists harden to rocks.

This is for Lotus.

For Cloud, whose death isn't averted, only delayed.

For Ren, who deserves a better fate than that of tragic vengeance.

In the corner of my eye, I see my partner. He's focused on the steamer—and then he's out cold from a dagger pommel to the temple. I tuck away the weapon, climb the ladder, and heave off the lid. Steam roars white past me as I dive through it, waist over the rim, eyes tearing, lungs seizing—

With my qì, I clear the torrent so that I can breathe.

Can see.

Crow.I land beside him—and choke. My hands—my knees, they're burning—but Crow's burned for longer. I grab his wrist. Alive. He's still breathing, but his spirit—it's gone.

Gone.

Gone is the strategist who saw through me—first as a defector, then as Lotus. Gone is the rival who outsmarted me—he's defeated like I wanted but—

I ended him.

I really ended him.

Don't act so shocked, says a voice from the depths of my skull. You always hadit in you to be the villain. Now rise—like the steam is rising. Like my spirit will rise, if this body expires. Is expiring. Stay put, and we'll die together. Yes, I could do that. I could, I think, gasping for air as I lose control of my qì, the steam billowing back in. I could let this body die—but it'd be meaningless. I'll never be able to join Crow. He's mortal. I'm not.

To help Ren one last time, I've sacrificed more than my heart.

I stand, face wet. Just condensation. I lift the body, push it over the steamer's edge. It catches. A sob escapes me. Just frustration. I clamber out and turn back, tugging the body down. He falls on me. We're both on the ground.

Only I get up.

Breathless, I gaze at Crow's motionless form, condensation dripping down my cheeks, to my lips. It tastes salty.

I swipe it off.

Move. You're not yet done.

Quickly, I undress him and myself, my mind on the objective. Avert Ren's and Cloud's deaths in the Marshlands. Repair the Southern alliance. I'll convince Cicada, as Crow. It starts with having her think she's lost him to Miasma. She needs to really believe it—as does Miasma. I pull on Crow's clothes, dress him in mine, then take out the soldier's topknot.

Our hair spills down, long.

Facing the steamer, I walk back toward it. Short of it, I kneel, hand to the ground. Five fingers, stretched out.

Do it. Do it now.

Dagger raised; dagger down. I throw the severed finger into the fire before the pain can reach my brain and then—because Crow shouldn't be bleeding—shove in my hand after it.

"A-Aghhhh!"

Not mine, I tell myself when I'm gasping at the mess of cauterized flesh. Not mine.

But this scheme is, and it's not yet finished.

One-handedly, I climb back up the ladder and into the steamer. I have to eject myself from my present body. Drinking is one way.

Dying is faster.

Steam is air. Water. Elements of life that become death as I pull the lid over my head. Instinct kicks in; I crawl to the walls and pound at them. I want out.

Out.

Out.

Out—of the body. My spirit shudders through the steamer's walls, into the torchlit room. My partner is still on the ground, as is Crow—

His body surrounded by a dozen-some ghosts. One reaches out to touch him.

"No." I slap at it, and visions—the red flag whipping overhead, the executioner's dripping blade—flash through my mind as my hand passes through its. I flinch backward, then recover. "He's mine."

The ghosts continue eyeing Crow.

I don't think ghost possession is possible, and I didn't go through living hell to find out. "Mine," I snarl, and descend into Crow's body.

My first breath sets me ablaze.

My skin feels like a bladder about to burst.

Moaning, I roll myself upright and cover my face—now really blistered—in the bandages.

Tying a topknot makes me want to cut off all my fingers, just to stop the pain.

Standing almost has me suffocating.

Nearly there.

I lurch to the wall and grab a torch.

The soldier and Crow might share a missing finger, but that's not enough to pass a close inspection, especially not Miasma's. So I set fire to the body I shed in the steamer, then to the steamer itself. When it's burned long enough, I press on the meridian above my partner's upper lip. He comes to—cursing when he sees the flames.

I help him put them out.

"What happened?" he groans after, cupping his temple.

"You fainted." I try to deepen my voice, but it's not necessary. I sound nothing like Crow, my vocal cords burned. "I tried to wake you, but I—I think I saw a ghost."

"You didn't."

"I did. It made the fire leap this tall."

More curses. "Have you checked the body?"

"Not yet."

We open the lid, coughing at the black smoke. It clears, revealing the body—or what's left of it—and my partner blasphemes the gods. "We're done for."

"No. It's not our fault. It was the ghost's."

"The ghost's."

"Yes." I nod. "Like I said, the flames suddenly started moving strange, and I saw a ghost. It looked—like Lotus's!"

"Who?"

Now he's embarrassing himself. "The famed warrior! Ren's swornsister!"

"O-okay."

"She said that she wanted to burn the strategist who defeated her."

The soldier blinks doubtfully.

"Listen to me," I say, for what other option does he have?

Later, we say the exact words to Miasma. She orders to see the body and frowns.

"Lotus's ghost, you say."

We nod.

Miasma compresses her lips. Seconds crawl by like years.

"Take it out of my sight," she finally orders. She turns from us, but not before I see her clutch her head.

May her fate still come to pass.

We bury the body on a barren hill north of the palace. As we shovel, my pain-dizzied mind flits to the physician. The soldier. I've ended the lives of two bystanders.

But they are not who I mourn. The hands I have around the shovel are closer to Zephyr's than Lotus's. The only calluses are from playing the zither. The missing finger—Crow lost it because of me.

Did you ever think you'd lose your spirit to me too?A hollowness echoes through me, stronger than even the pain. The ice in my heart gone, melted and become steam as well. I shake my head and shovel faster. The moment I stop, the moment I rest, the moment I regret, I won't be able to get up again, and I have to keep standing. Keep going.

I've come too far to go back.

That night, I sneak out of the palace and steal a horse from the stables. The stars shine, same as always. But the universe has irrevocably changed. It is now a world without Crow, and as I ride, tinier stars appear at my lashes.

They flick off in the wind as if they never existed.