Coming out of Wangchen Tower, Xiao Nanhui’s heart was heavy, and she felt a vague, inexplicable unease.
She understood the reasoning Yaoyi had laid out. Some old matters were not untraceable — they simply could not be traced. Those were wounds. To tear them open was to bleed.
Xiao Zhun knew this deeply, which was why he almost never spoke of those old events in front of her.
She believed she understood Xiao Zhun’s nature. A man forged on the battlefield was upright and resolute but lacked flexibility — she herself was the same. She had been shaped by Xiao Zhun, and Xiao Zhun was much the same way.
The imperial court was another kind of battlefield, where no one carried a sword or a spear, and you could not see a single move being made — yet when the round ended, someone would be cut down from their horse. The outcome was the same.
Xiao Zhun was not suited for that kind of battlefield. Xiao Nanhui knew it, but could offer no help, only worry.
By now it was midday. She could not say how it had happened, but the bright sky that had been clear just a moment ago had suddenly darkened. She squinted upward and saw a solid line of black cloud advancing from the distance like a vast formation.
The skies of Quecheng were truly capricious.
Uncle Chen had not yet sent anyone to fetch her — Xiao Zhun would not be back for some time. If she wanted to make her prayers at Yongye Temple, she would have to leave the city now, or she would not return before the gates closed.
Well, she would go alone then.
Xiao Nanhui’s birthday wish this year was: may Xiao Zhun remain safe and sound.
In truth, ever since the day she first came to know him, every birthday had carried only that one wish.
And in every year that had passed, it had been answered.
So Xiao Nanhui believed the temple was efficacious.
At least it had been so until now.
This year’s beginning had not been auspicious, but there would still be a happy ending.
There would be, wouldn’t there?
— ✦ —
Yongye Temple stood on Shuxi Mountain, thirty li east of Quecheng. Though the temple itself was small, it drew many worshippers.
Legend had it that when the temple was first built, its name had been Yongye Temple — named for the ancient place called Yongye, upon whose land the temple was founded.
Yet from the moment of its completion, Yongye had been afflicted by calamity after calamity. First, year upon year of floods swept away the villages at the foot of the mountain; then came seven years of severe drought; then the unrest of Chizhou brought relentless years of war. In one such conflict, a great stone rolled down and crushed the temple gate, caving in half the structure. The plaque above the entrance was damaged, and of the original two characters, only one survived — ye, “undertaking.” The head monk took this as a sign of heaven’s will and had the plaque left as it was, repairing only the gate.
From that day on, the temple’s name changed. And with that change, something extraordinary happened — Yongye was never visited by disaster again. Though no great monks resided within its walls, the temple proved remarkably efficacious, not in bestowing blessings, but in averting misfortune. In short, if a person feared they were about to fall into calamity, they would come to Yongye Temple and pray for protection. Three sticks of incense were all it took to turn ill fortune into good, and danger into safety.
With such a reputation, the temple never lacked for worshippers.
Yet it was best to come early, not late. Those who arrived after midday, like Xiao Nanhui, were rare.
A young monk accepted Jixiang’s reins and tied the horse to one side. A carriage stood nearby alongside a few other horses — Xiao Nanhui glanced at it without much interest, then hurried up the stone steps toward the temple gate.
The sky remained overcast. Inside the courtyard, clusters of golden blooms were at the height of their flowering, yet without sunlight, they had lost some of their luster. Unlike other temples that planted pine and cypress, Yongye Temple had kept the golden camellia trees that had been there when the temple was first built. Camellia trees were notoriously difficult to tend, and golden ones rarer still, but the soil and water of Yongye Temple suited them perfectly — without any careful cultivation, they bloomed fragrant and full every year.
Xiao Nanhui looked around and felt a flutter of joy in her eyes, yet thinking of Xiao Zhun’s absence, the pleasure was somewhat dimmed.
She sighed inwardly and walked straight toward the main hall. The dark clouds that had drifted in from the southwest seemed to have drawn closer still, pressing down over the upswept eaves of the hall, casting over everything an inexplicable sense of weight. From a distance, Xiao Nanhui noticed someone standing at the entrance of the hall — a figure in fine clothing, standing with hands clasped behind their back. Her sharp eyes caught the moment they turned slightly, angling the long sword at their waist to the other side of their body.
She looked away and thought little of it. Quecheng was the imperial capital, and those of high standing were everywhere. Some noble families preferred not to advertise their identities when they went out, and so would avoid wearing anything that might identify them.
The temple was in a remote location, she supposed — so they had brought their weapon along for protection.
The thought drifted through her mind as she passed the figure and walked on.
Inside the hall, the sutras banners hanging overhead blocked out much of the light from outside, and the room grew dim. A cool, clear air swept against her face. The flowers outside had been almost too sweet — and in the close atmosphere before rain, a faint bitter scent seemed to cling to the air inside.
Xiao Nanhui let her eyes adjust, then walked directly to the prayer cushion. She took out a plain handkerchief to wipe her hands, then lit three sticks of incense.
The ancient incense — blended with musk and snow lotus — carried a warm, pungent fragrance that cut through the lingering bitterness in the air. Xiao Nanhui drew a slow, deep breath and began to murmur her prayers for Xiao Zhun’s safety.
From somewhere in the side chambers, the intermittent tap of a wooden drum fell quiet. In the stillness of the main hall, only her low voice remained.
She began with the campaigns, then moved on to Xiao Zhun’s officers and generals, and at last to the mansion and to Xiao Zhun himself. She did not know how much time had passed, but at some point the hand holding the incense trembled — ash that had burned halfway down fell onto her skin, and it stung with heat. She considered carefully, decided she had forgotten nothing, then bowed her head reverently three times and pressed her forehead to the floor in prostration.
When she rose and turned, she found her gaze drawn to the oracle box resting beside the incense table, and she hesitated.
In this age, people put their faith in gods and in the Buddha. Xiao Nanhui had watched those who prayed to the gods and found it all rather troublesome and expensive. She had turned instead to the Buddha. Whether she truly believed, she could not honestly say — but before every battle, Xiao Zhun always paid his respects to both gods and Buddha, and over time, Xiao Nanhui had come to regard this as necessary herself.
Drawing oracle lots, however, was something she had never done. She did not understand fate or the workings of heaven, and knew only that every person had their lot in life — and that the more one tried to calculate one’s fate, the thinner it wore. She had always considered herself to be a person of meager fortune, not one who should test it further. Yet today, for some reason she could not explain, Yaoyi’s words had been circling in her mind all morning, and the moment she saw the oracle box, they surfaced again.
If he were to know now — would those people let him live?
The world was unpredictable — the Xiao Family was proof enough of that. If people could foresee what was coming, could they not avoid what others called fate?
Xiao Nanhui did not know. But when she came back to herself, the oracle box was already in her hands.
The octagonal wooden box had been polished smooth from years of use, and the hundred bamboo lots packed inside gave it a solid, weighty feeling.
Xiao Nanhui closed her eyes, murmuring her prayer as she began to shake the box.
Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle.
A slender bamboo lot slowly worked its way to the top of the box. With her eyes still shut, Xiao Nanhui gave one firm flick of her wrist — and the lot shot out of the box.
She opened her eyes and had to resist the urge to laugh.
On either side of the Buddha statue at the front of the hall hung enormous sutras banners that reached from ceiling to floor — except that a few inches from the ground, there was a gap, and through this gap her lot had sailed and landed on the other side.
This was the main hall of Yongye Temple. The scripture platform behind the Buddha was strictly off-limits to anyone other than monks. Xiao Nanhui stretched out her arm to reach for the lot, but no matter how she tried, she could not quite grasp it.
Then, from deep within the hall, came the faintest sound of footsteps.