23. LONG MAY SHE LIVE

The doors open.

We follow Ren inside.

The city is empty. The streets are cleared.

Our hooves echo in the quiet.

Cloud hefts her glaive. It's safe, I'd tell her, but best to be vigilant. Shuttered storefronts line the streets, shadows lurking behind windows. When we pass a half-closed doorway, I catch a glimpse of eyes from the darkness. The civilians are here, just in hiding. Are they happy to see us? Or are we simply more warlords to them, like the countless others who've fought to control the capital before Miasma? Perhaps they fear the turbulence of the future, should we defeat her, but they needn't.

Ren won't let it happen.

Unchallenged, we're soon at the palace. A great wall surrounds it, at least two stories tall, bisected by a single set of doors.

These too are already open.

Before anyone can move, Cloud gallops through with me. I already know her fated death won't spring out from the eaves or fly down in the form of a hundred crossbows, but still. Warriors.

The coast clear, Cloud looks back at the others; Ren shakes her head while Cicada hisses, cursing Cloud for putting me in danger, I imagine, then following through herself.

We stop before the steps that ascend to the throne hall.

Ren breathes in.

She once walked these steps, as an official of the court under the previous tyrant. Perhaps she walked them beside Miasma, the tyrant of the present. It's been six years. Now we're here. We've ridden farther than the scrolls said, farther than the visions showed.

Fate will change.

In some ways, it already has.

Ren dismounts. She goes first. We walk up the steps after her. My muscles tremble. I stumble, and Cloud catches my left arm while Cicada catches my right; glares pass over my head, but they keep silent. A leaf drifts in the air as we climb; I look up to it, to the swooping eaves of the throne hall, lifted toward the sky like the snouts of dragons. Beyond the palace are the mountains and the origins of rivers. We're at the empire's helm. A draft surrounds me, and I shiver.

Crow? Is that you?

Please tell me if you're still here.

But no response comes, only the draft, and as we reach the top step, even that disappears.

The leaf settles on the marble of the pavilion.

Ren strides over it, then over the threshold.

"Ren, oh, Ren. How long has it been? You've grown thin."

The words are loud after so much silence.

"Where is she?" Ren asks, and Miasma rises from her cushion like a monk out of meditation. Behind her is the expanse of the throne hall—with no throne. No ghosts. Only a fa?ade waits in the back, painted with mountains and rivers and flanked by two gongs.

"Impatience isn't like you." Miasma. My eyes go back to her. Her gaze is focused solely on Ren. If she notices me, Cicada, and Cloud, she pays us no mind.

"My patience for you long ran out," Ren says.

"Ah, the hatred." Miasma walks forward. "Did it ever make you dream of me, Ren? Did you ever dream of driving a blade into my neck? Because I've dreamed of the day I'd see you like this." She stops several steps away, the red bell chiming at her ear. "Sometimes, I worried you wouldn't make it."

"Where is the empress?"

"You betrayed me, Ren." Miasma speaks as if Ren never did. "We once fought on the same side. In the same army."

"You betrayed that army first by taking the empress hostage."

"Me? A betrayer? I'm the reason why your dear empress is alive at all. I'm the one who ended Gongsun Qian, Wang Boyang, and Xuan Cao!" Miasma's voice booms. "As you spent your energies fighting me, I fought to protect this empire, which is still named Xin, I'll have you know. Look at who you've allied with. That girl, there?" Finally, Miasma acknowledges us. My mask feels sheer, but she only points at Cicada with her sheathed sword, her eyes still on Ren. "She's the one who really wants to kill Xin Bao and steal her throne."

"You don't speak for me," growls Cicada, but my attention is on Ren. Even if she suspected that was Cicada's goal, will it faze her to hear it spoken?

No—she, like Miasma, is of one mind. "Where is the empress?" she asks for a third time, and Miasma steps back.

"Defeat me, and I'll hand her to you like I promised. I'll give her to you fair and square."

"I'm not fighting you until you show me that she's alive."

"So pedantic." Miasma waves a hand, and two eunuchs emerge from the wings, each going to one side of the fa?ade. They pull, and the screen splits down the middle, revealing our empress.

Xin Bao, fifth of her line, descendant of the great Xin Bang who defeated the legendary warrior Gaixia to establish the Xin Dynasty. She sits in her throne, made of gilt. Her robes are red and flowing, her headdress towering, the beads curtained over her eyes. One bead moves—a red bell, same as Miasma's. It tinkles, jostled by a breath.

She lives.

She lives, but is tied. Ropes bind her arms to the throne's. Ren starts for her—and meets Miasma's still-sheathed sword. The rest of us freeze too, having moved with her.

"Uh-uh." Miasma wags her finger. "This is not how it'll work. Take a closer look at the empress you've journeyed so far for."

I squint.

Over Xin Bao's head, higher than even the headdress, is a bronze bowl suspended from a thin chain. At Miasma's signal, one of the eunuchs pushes the empress's throne forward, out from under the bowl. Miasma, meanwhile, walks toward Ren. Cloud's fist audibly tightens around her glaive as the prime ministress stops three strides from our lordess.

She places a foot down, slow and deliberate.

Thwunk.Liquid splatters. My eyes flash to the bowl, now overturned.

"Under these floorboards is a series of levers," Miasma explains with great pleasure. "Should anyone step on one, the bowl will flip, and the oil within—hot this time—will pour down. You will fry our empress here—long may she live.

"So be good now." Miasma beckons Ren forward, and Ren alone. Ren walks in, eyes trained on the bowl as it's refilled. The oil is lit, the bowl hoisted up the chain, the empress wheeled back under its shadow. "Sit, and watch the show."

Ren unsheathes. "Stay where you are," she says to us, "no matter what happens." Her eyes never leave Miasma.

Cloud and I are silent. We've traveled thousands of l with our lordess; we know better than to argue with her at this junction.

Only Cicada is a stranger. "Wait," she says before I can tell her not to bother. Ren turns—catching her second sword by the hilt as Cicada throws it.

Virtue and Integrity, finally reunited.

"Defeat her," Cicada says. Miasma chuckles, but Ren nods. She turns back to the prime ministress, and I know this is the moment Ren has lived for, day after day. Facing Miasma in a battle to end all battles, so that no one else—not one more soldier or civilian—dies in her name.

How can we take this away from her?

But how can we bear watching her be taken away from us?

We must. I must, even as Ren's every step toward Miasma unravels me as if we're connected by a string. I plant my feet to the ground. I poured the elixir out knowing the risks. Ren is my lordess, but above that—Ren is her own person.

Her life is not a game I can win for her.

She stops across from Miasma, ten strides left between them.

"What are you waiting for? An invitation?" Miasma opens her arms. "Come at me, Ren."

We're far, but not so far that I can't see the rise of Ren's chest as she takes a breath. And another step.

Miasma stands where she is, smiling, sword still sheathed even when Ren's next step is quicker than the last. Three more steps.

She dashes.

Miasma sidesteps, ducks, Ren's swords swiping at where her head was. Her sword remains in its scabbard and my teeth grit, but Ren is patient. The bell at Miasma's ear tinkles as she jumps around, before finally stilling before the throne. I don't see her unsheathe so much as I hear it: a shrill of steel, then a clang, her blade brought up to block Ren's. She staggers backward almost playfully.

"Missed me, didn't you?"

Ren doesn't speak, just presses in, two swords to Miasma's one, Miasma's blade under hers—then between as Ren changes hold. She jerks and Miasma's blade would go flying if Miasma didn't spin with the torque, toward Ren. They break apart.

And meet again.

"Remember what you said to me?" Miasma asks, pressing into Ren. "‘Names don't mean anything—'"

Arc of steel.

"But you lied." Clang. "Everything you've done—" Clang. "—and continue to do—" Clang. "Hasn't been for the people."

Clang clang clang.

"It's been for your good name." Miasma shoves, and Ren whirls back and crouches, one hand and knee to the ground. "Not talkative, are we? Then I'll make you talk."

Miasma springs forward and Ren pushes off. Blood flecks, someone cut. Miasma. Still she lunges, the tip of her sword nicking Ren's brow. Blood streams down, and I choke on a breath as Miasma moves in while Ren is blinded. Ren raises her sword as if on instinct, blocking Miasma's blow, but not her foot. It slams Ren's chest and the silence holding us breaks.

"Ren!"

She lands, swords spinning across the floor.

Miasma walks in, and I grab the back of Cloud's cloak just as it pulls taut. She glares at me; I glare back. I've sparred with Ren more recently than Cloud.

I know this is not the end.

Miasma swings and Ren rolls, out of the blade's path. I let go of Cloud. "Beside you," she hisses, and beside me—is Cicada, walking toward the forbidden floorboards.

Her eyes on the empress.

Should anyone step on one, the bowl will flip . . .

Stop. But say it, and I'll be like all her advisors. Cicada will only want it more.

If she stops, it must be by her own accord.

As she walks, I notice something in her grip.

The poison dart shooter.

She stills, stands, and eyes Miasma and Ren, who are now tangled on the ground. Fist to mouth, arm around neck, the upper hand gained and lost. My stomach turns with them. Shoot Ren, and Cicada could call it an accident. Then I stop worrying about Cicada, because Miasma is on top, a dagger suddenly in her fist. Ren stops it hairs from her face, grip shaking. Grip opening. The dagger plunges into the floor, Ren's face turned away, Miasma rooted—then pinned belly-down, Ren's hand wrapped around her lopsided ponytail. With her free hand, Ren draws another dagger from the hidden stash in Miasma's broadbelt.

She shoves the blade under Miasma's chin. "I win."

Two words, breath laden.

"No, Ren." Miasma grins, then grabs Ren's hand, dagger and all. "You may have gotten stronger, but you're—"

She bucks her head back and pulls the dagger up, over her face.

"—still too soft."

The blade skims through the base of her ponytail, leaving Ren with a stump of hair as Miasma twists around, freed, the tip of her nose sheared off. A fresh dagger flashes into her hand.

It all happens at once.

Cloud leaps over the floorboards as the dagger goes into Ren's gut and Cicada fires a poison dart. It hits Miasma—in the armguard. She plucks it out, somersaults, and slams it into Cloud's jaw as the warrior bears down on her.

Cloud crumples.

Miasma rises and grins at Cicada. "Thank you, ally."

Cicada breathes hard through her teeth. "Our alliance is over."

"Your aim could have fooled me. And now for breaking the rules I set so clearly . . ."

She bolts at us. Cicada fires—dart in ceiling as Miasma seizes her wrist. She takes the dart shooter and the next thing I know, a dart is in my arm.

We hit the ground, Cicada and myself.

Boots stop by my body, already numb.

Miasma squats.

She slides my mask up.

"Hello, Crow. Thank you for sharing the physician's notes. Who would have known that her medicines would work so well in treating my migraines?" Miasma sighs. "I killed her too hastily, didn't I? I thought I'd spare Plum and give her a chance to redeem herself. A shame she couldn't, seeing that you made it out of the Xianlei Gorge. Ah, well, I suppose I'll execute you soon enough. For now"—she turns my head to the side, so that my eyes face the throne hall—"please enjoy their finales before your personal one."

My body might be frozen, but my mind isn't.

By using the notes against Crow, I inadvertently saved Plum and delayed Miasma's death.

My failure, and Ren will pay for it.

Miasma lugs her across the hall.

"Which would you like to be pinned with? Virtue or Integrity? No preference?" Miasma stabs Integrity through Ren's hand and Ren grunts, the sound more awful than the scream she swallows for us. I taste blood in my own mouth as Miasma nails the sword to the wall, then turns. Cloud is still a heap before the throne.

Miasma walks to the warrior and gazes down at her.

"Twice, I've captured you. Twice, I've set you free. Do you want to know the real reason why?" She looks over her shoulder, back at Ren. "She was never there to watch you die."

"Mimeng—"

A rasp from Ren. Mimeng. It's the name I heard in Miasma's mind, a name from another time. Will Ren beg for Cloud's life? I would, if only I could speak. If only I could do anything but lie on the floor, powerless, as Ren says, "Do you know why the heavens will never favor you? Not because of your name. Because—of what's inside. Your own bloodthirst made you irredeemable. The people—will never love you because of—it."

Silence.

"Do you think they love you?" Miasma says. "No. They love your ‘Xin' and the continuation of this dynasty it represents. They follow you out of fear of change. It's anything but love."

Then Miasma turns her back on Ren, facing Cloud again.

"You said you'd serve me only in my dreams." Get up, I think to Cloud. Get up! Be the warrior that I know you are! But Cloud is as motionless as we are, and Miasma smiles. "Maybe you'll consider serving me in the afterlife.

"Goodbye, Cloud." She raises her sword, tip poised above Cloud's shoulder blades. "I thought of a poem just for this occasion. Would you like to hear it?"

Get! Up!

But still Cloud doesn't move, and I go cold with despair.

Or . . . is it the cold of Crow?

What should I do?

What can I do?

Miasma's voice warbles out, beginning her poem. "The length of a life—"

Across the room, Ren pulls the sword out of her hand. She staggers away from the wall, pooling blood, and I wish I could shut my eyes. It's hopeless. She can't save Cloud. Beside me Cicada strains to move. It's useless. I saw how long the pirate was incapacitated by the poison . . .

Cicada'spoison. She'd have tolerance—

—or an antidote.

Something pricks my skin.

Too slowly, feeling trickles back through my limbs.

"—whether long or short—" Miasma recites on.

Twenty paces from her, Ren lurches to a stop, her face glistening with exertion, the cut above her brow stark.

"Depends not on the will of the skies."

Miasma is taking too long. Why?

Ren raises her sword, her eyes closing against the blood dripping into them.

"One who sleeps well and is well-nourished—"

Crow's voice fills my mind. Not everyone is a chess piece, Zephyr—

—Least of all the people we serve.

For me, that's Ren.

For Ren that's—

No.My vocal cords strain to move, but any sound that I make is drowned out by Miasma's voice as Ren charges.

"Will outlive the tortoise—"

The distance, closed.

The sword, thrusted.

Blade through chest.