Camphor trees ringed an enormous grassy field, throwing their shade upon us. All around were soldiers, clad in
shining armor of white and gold. Commanders shouted instructions to their troops—some fighting with swords, others with red-tasseled spears. On a raised wooden platform, rows of soldiers followed the steps of an instructor. Their movements were as graceful and well-
synchronized as a dance, though far deadlier—I thought— as a woman flung a large soldier onto his back. Several
target boards were set up on the edge of the field where the soldiers were practicing archery.
As I watched them, a soldier released an arrow—slicing through the air, plunging into the center of the board.
Struck by admiration, I clapped until my palms throbbed. “You’re easily impressed,” Liwei told me.
“Can you do better?” I demanded. “Of course.”
The certainty in his tone took me by surprise. But then General Jianyun appeared, striding toward us.
“Your Highness, what do you wish to practice first?” “Archery,” Liwei replied at once.
At the general’s command, the soldiers cleared the round target boards—each painted with four rings that
culminated in a red center. Liwei selected a long, curved bow from the weapons rack. Almost effortlessly, it seemed, he drew an arrow and released it at the target. Before I
could blink, another whizzed past me. Both pierced the center with loud thuds.
I stared at the board, stunned by his accuracy and swiftness. “You did not exaggerate.”
“I never do,” he said. “Do you want to try?”
My hands reached out, but I snatched them back with a furtive glance at the soldiers surrounding us. I had never held a weapon before, much less one which seemed to
require such precision.
Liwei spoke quietly to General Jianyun, who left with the others. When it was just us, I breathed easier. He passed me a bow, smaller than the one he had used.
“Mulberry wood. This is a good one to start with as it’s lighter,” he explained.
My fingers tingled when they touched the lacquered wood, closing around the silk-wrapped grip. The bow did
not feel unfamiliar to me, but as though I had wielded one a hundred times before. Had it been so with my father, the
greatest archer who ever lived? If my mother had not taken the elixir, if we had remained in the world below, he might have taught me to shoot like him—though I doubted I could bring down one sun, much less nine. My heart ached, a
futile pain with no remedy. All the wishing in the world would not bring my family together again.
“Xingyin, are you ready?” Liwei called out.
I nodded, moving across from the target, a distance away, as he had. Liwei stood just behind me, guiding my hands as I raised the bow. “Breathe deeply from your core. As you draw the string, pull your strength from across your body, not just your arms.” He tapped my shoulders and lifted my right elbow up. “Hold these in a straight line.”
My arms strained to hold the position, the string biting into my thumb and fingers.
Finally satisfied, he stepped away. “Adjust your arrow
until its tip aligns with the target. When you release it, only that hand should move—keep the other steady on the grip. And don’t feel disheartened if you miss. It’s your first try.”
Something burned in the pit of my stomach. A desire to do well, to live up to my father’s name. Even if no one ever knew it but me. My eyes narrowed on the target in the distance. Everything else shifted into a blur, the board
shining as brightly as a beacon in the dark. Holding my
breath and keeping as still as I could, I released the arrow. It tore through the air, hitting the target’s outermost ring with a thud.
“I hit it!” A raw thrill coursed through my veins.
Liwei clapped, his mouth curved up. “You have a good teacher.”
“Hah! I’ll be better than you soon,” I bragged, shameless in my euphoria.
“Care to wager on that? Three months from now, we’ll
have a contest. The loser will have to do the bidding of the winner for a day.”
“Don’t I have to do your bidding, every day?” Somehow, I managed to say that with a straight face.
“Without complaint, without argument, without
hesitation,” he added, after a moment’s deliberation.
“But within reason,” I countered, the bow in my grip giving me a newfound confidence. And I could not back down now; he would tease me mercilessly.
“Agreed.” His grin widened. “Are you afraid of what I might order you to do?”
“Far from it,” I told him with an equally broad smile. “I’ll enjoy ordering Your Highness around.”
“You haven’t won yet,” he reminded me, before heading toward the soldiers practicing with swords.
“Neither have you,” I muttered to myself.
I decided to remain by the archery boards. My fingers
itched to hold the bow again—to feel the raw exhilaration
as the arrow sprang free, the satisfaction when it struck true. Plucking another, I drew it through the bow, trying to recall Liwei’s instructions.
“You shouldn’t have taken that wager. His Highness is an excellent shot,” someone remarked from behind me.
My concentration broke, my body jerked. The arrow flew wide of the target.
I spun around to find a Celestial soldier watching me. She was striking, with light brown skin and a smattering of freckles across her nose, her eyes slightly upturned at the corners. Her full lips were twisted into a grimace as she
inspected my arrow, buried unceremoniously in the dirt. “Yes, you definitely should not have accepted that wager,” she repeated.
Was this another Jiayi, concealing malice beneath a veneer of civility? My nod was cool, dismissive, even. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll be fine.”
I thought she would leave, but she folded her arms across her body. Did she intend to watch? Maybe hoping I would
humiliate myself?
I turned my back to her, wishing she would go. Drawing another arrow, I released it. It struck the board, quivering from the ring closest to the center. More likely through
fortunate coincidence than my untrained abilities, but I
couldn’t resist saying, “Maybe His Highness is the one who shouldn’t have accepted.”
“Not bad for your third try.” Her compliment took me by surprise. More so, when she wrapped her hand over her fist, inclining her head to me. “I’m Shuxiao.”
My mind went blank; I was unused to such civility. In the Golden Lotus Mansion, I had never been accorded such
courtesy. While here, it was Liwei upon whom all attention was fixed.
She tilted her head to one side, perhaps wondering at the awkward silence. Hastily, I returned her greeting. As I straightened, I thought furiously for something to say. The
weather would be too dull. We had no friends in common, or rather I had none to speak of. And I couldn’t ask after her family when I was unable to speak of mine.
“Do you enjoy being a Celestial soldier?” I finally managed.
“Who wouldn’t?” she said with a straight face. “It’s marvelous being ordered around most of the time, expected to obey without question, getting thrashed during training, and feeling lucky when you don’t wind up dead from an
assignment.”
I recoiled. “It sounds . . . dreadful.”
“I haven’t told you the best part. Do you see what we
have to wear?” She poked at her armor. “It’s heavier than it looks, if that’s possible. And when we walk, we clank like pots and pans. It’s a good thing we’re taught to conceal the sound from our enemies.”
“Why do you do it?” I couldn’t help asking.
She shrugged. “Who wouldn’t want to serve the Celestial Emperor and our kingdom?”
Was that catch in her voice earnestness or sarcasm? I
couldn’t tell and decided it would be wisest to remain silent as she selected a bow from the rack.
“I heard you study with His Highness. Do your parents serve at court?”
I shook my head, moving aside to make space for her, hoping she would ask me something else. Anything else.
She raised her bow, adjusting her aim as she inspected
the target. Her arrow whistled through the air, striking the board near the center.
“A good shot,” I remarked.
She grimaced. “Archery is my bane; I’ve practiced so much and still can’t hit the center. Swords, I prefer. Or
spears.” She peered at me, not to be diverted. “Are you a Celestial? Is your family from here?”
I stared ahead with feigned concentration. “My family is no more.” The lie came easier to me now, though the shame
burned just as hot. I had little choice but to maintain the pretense, as Liwei believed my parents deceased.
She was quiet for a moment, before reaching out to pat my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sure they would be proud of you.”
My chest tightened. How wretched I was to claim her
sympathy under false pretenses. And yet, how desperately I wished her words were true. I could not help wondering how my mother would feel, now that I served the household of the emperor who had imprisoned her.
“The courtiers were grumbling about a ‘nobody’ winning the position with Prince Liwei,” she added. “Highest
compliment in my opinion. How did you do it?”
“Luck,” I said with a flippancy I did not feel, irked at the same time. I would not be a “nobody” forever. They would know my name one day, and those of my parents.
“Where is your family?” I tried to shift the conversation away from me.
“We’re Celestials, but my parents don’t serve at court.
My father claims it’s too dangerous. Fractious, with everyone scrambling for favor. He prefers a quiet
existence.” She wrinkled her nose, adding, “Although with six children, our home is anything but peaceful.”
“Six!” I gasped.
“It’s not as horrible or wonderful as you might think.
When we get along, my brothers and sisters are the best friends in the world. But when we fight . . .” she shuddered, her features twisting into an expression of horror.
“Perhaps your father should have escaped to the Celestial Court after all,” I told her.
A wide smile stretched across her face. “My mother wouldn’t let him.”
For the rest of the afternoon, we practiced together. The youngest of her sizable family, Shuxiao had been
surrounded by companions since birth. She possessed a vitality about her, an ease of manner which drew others
close. Many soldiers called out or waved to her as they passed by. Some included me in their greeting, believing Shuxiao and I were friends.
And indeed, after today, we were.
By the end of the day, my fingers were blistered. My arms ached and my back hurt. I had not touched a sword or
uttered a whisper of magic. Nevertheless, as we left the field, I could not wait to come back.
In Liwei’s room, I set out the books for our lessons tomorrow. When he returned from his bath, he wore just a short white robe draped over loose-fitting black pants. His long hair, still damp, hung down his back. I expected to be dismissed, but he sat down at the table and looked at me expectantly.
“Which song will you play?”
His earlier request had flown out of my mind. I was tired, my sore limbs longing for bed—but I sat beside him and took out my flute. A lilting melody rippled through the air, of spring awakening, the rivers thawing and flowing with
life once more.
When I finished, I laid the flute down.
“It’s amazing how this small instrument can bring forth such music.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “This song is happier than the one you played before. Does it
reflect your mood?”
“Yes. This has been one of the best days of my life, and I have you to thank for it.” My words were plain, but heartfelt. I missed my home, my mother, and Ping’er still— yet I no longer felt I was drifting alone and untethered in this world.
Liwei cleared his throat, the tips of his ears reddening.
Rising to his feet, he strode to his desk. A scroll painting of a girl hung on the wall beside it. Dark eyes gleamed from
the perfect oval of her face. She sat beneath clusters of blooming wisteria, holding a bamboo embroidery frame.
“Who is she?” I asked.
He stared at it in silence for a moment. “She used to live in the courtyard near mine. When I was a child, I visited her often. She was patient, even when I tangled the threads which she wove into her embroideries.”
I imagined a young Liwei, brimming with mischief. “You said ‘used to.’ Where is she now?”
A shadow fell over his face. “One day, I came to her
courtyard and found it deserted. The attendants told me she had moved away. No one would say where she had gone.”
I wished I could ease his sadness. He sat down at his desk where a tray of drawing materials was laid out: a few sheets of crisp paper, a large purple jade inkstone, and a
sandalwood stand from which brushes of bamboo and
lacquered wood hung. I watched curiously as he selected a brush, dipped it into the glossy ink and drew on the paper with deft strokes. After a few minutes, he offered it to me. “It’s for you,” he said, when I made no move to take it.
I stared at the paper. My face looked back at me, a
remarkable likeness, gazing into the distance as my fingers rested on the flute. My hands trembled as I took the picture from him.
“You draw very well,” I said softly. “Though you don’t need to do this every time I play for you. It may not be a duty, but neither is it an exchange.”
“How else might I compensate for my shortcomings?” he asked with a straight face. “After all, I have so many.”
I laughed, recalling our earlier conversation. “Just this one, then.”
He smiled. “Good night, Xingyin.”
I rose to my feet and bade him good night. As I shut the doors behind me, I found Liwei still bent over his desk, his brush in his hand. My heart filled with an inexplicable
warmth as I turned away to stare into the sky above.
In the clear and cloudless night, the moon was dazzling, its light unhindered. As I walked to my room across the
courtyard, its radiance lit my way, brighter than a string of lanterns.
