Page 21 of The Dragon Wakes with Thunder (The Dragon Spirit Duology #2)

Fifteen

A wise general discerns that a battle is won long before it is fought. For if one can signal the certainty of victory, then victory is already within grasp.

Lei didn’t seek me out again, but he didn’t seem to hold a grudge either.

Only a few weeks later, a series of damning letters and financial records were delivered through Lily.

The Ximing prince had even uncovered accounting statements that demonstrated how rations, housing, and stipend expenses had doubled, despite the number of official reported soldiers remaining unchanged.

I showed up at Winter’s quarters at the crack of dawn, heeding Lily’s warning against making my relationship with Winter obvious. Rumors of an illicit affair between us were already circulating, though those within the palace’s inner circle knew there was little truth to them.

Sure enough, when Winter met me in his sitting room, wrapping a robe around his bare chest, I caught sight of Captain Tong in the bedroom before Winter shut the door behind him.

“This couldn’t have waited?” he asked, voice scratchy with sleep.

“I wanted to avoid gossip,” I said.

Winter scoffed. “This will only fuel the…” But he trailed off as his gaze drifted to the documents I’d arranged on the table before him.

Over the next hour, he pored over the Imperial Security Commissioner’s private correspondence, his hand often lingering on the crimson red stamp left by Yuchen’s name chop.

“I have to say I’m impressed,” he said, after some time. “You’re certainly cleverer than I gave you credit for.”

I blushed. “I have clever friends.” At Winter’s look of confusion, I busied myself with rearranging the pages. “Don’t ask,” I said, before echoing his own words: “A gentleman never tells.”

He laughed, a clear sound like wind chimes. “How are you planning to deliver the evidence?” he asked.

“I’m going to ask for a private audience with the Imperial Commander.”

Winter raised a brow. “You’re trying to take down Yuchen that way?”

I nodded.

Winter sighed, riffling through the documents again. “Do you want my advice?”

My shoulders stiffened before I nodded reluctantly.

“Only a fool makes herself the face of the opposition,” he said. “Gather the necessary evidence, then give it to Prince Keyan.” He smiled grimly. “An enemy of an enemy is a friend.”

“Then Keyan will take the credit,” I said, bristling.

“Yes, and the blame,” he said. “Rule number one of palace politics: always leave yourself an exit.”

I stroked my jade pendant, mulling this over. Winter’s gaze flicked to my necklace, before just as quickly flicking away. Still, my hand tightened reflexively around my seal; when it came to my jade, my defensiveness verged on paranoia.

Chancellor Sima had once believed Winter to be the next summoner of a Cardinal Spirit. And yet, despite his powerful affinity, Winter seemed to have no interest in spirit wielding. Or was he only biding his time?

Can I really trust you? I wondered. Or are you lying to me—just as so many others have before you?

Winter stared back at me, unblinking, his eyes as dark as tea leaves.

And this was what made me trust him: he’d had so many opportunities to seize power, and yet he’d taken none of them.

He’d been born a prince of Anlai, yet had no interest in competing for the throne.

He possessed the greatest lixia affinity of anyone I had ever met, and still had never made a deal with a spirit.

Instead, he seemed content to lurk in the shadows, learning to fight not with swords but with sharp eyes and sharper words.

I had once thought him weak, but now…now I envied him.

“The Imperial Commander will be furious if he learns of Prince Yuchen’s treachery,” I said, returning to the matter at hand. “If he thinks Prince Keyan is the one who uncovered the plot, he’ll be grateful to his son—and convinced of his ability. I’ll only be setting him up to succeed.”

“You help him, and you make a friend,” said Winter. “Then, when you stab him in the back, he won’t see it coming.”

The words were ruthless, made more so by the fact that he was speaking of his own brother. But who was I to judge?

I rose to my feet. “Give the files to Keyan, then, when he returns from Saiya,” I said. “But tell him to act quickly.”

He nodded, following me to his threshold. “I think we all wish to avoid another war.”

My hand on the door, I hesitated. “Are you prepared to lose a brother?” I asked.

His eyes flashed against the lamplight. “It wouldn’t be my first time.”

The next morning, I woke in my bed, something wet and sticky sliding between my ribs. I pressed my hand to the wetness, then gasped.

I’d been stabbed.

I rolled out of bed, wrenching open the curtains and staring open-mouthed at the mottled bruises that peppered my legs, the trail of black soot my bare feet had left on the rug, and most damning of all, the wound between my ribs—which, after my initial panic had subsided, I discovered was barely a graze.

A knock sounded at the door; I realized the knocking had woken me.

“My lady?”

It was Lily. “What is it?” I rasped.

“Prince Sky is here,” she said, poking her head through the door. I noticed her eyes were rimmed red, but I was too preoccupied to give it much thought. “Should I tell him to…” Her voice trailed off as she took in my state of dishevelment.

“My lady, were you…?”

“Tell him I’m indisposed,” I said, my voice coming out hoarse. As if I’d been screaming.

Lily left. Moments later, she was back. “He’s asking what’s wrong and if he can help—”

“No,” I said, and I was shaking now. “I’ll clean this up on my own.”

“Meilin…”

I shook my head, and she fell silent, though her expression was mutinous. She wanted to help, I knew, but fear gripped me, driving me back to my default state—relying only on myself.

Alone, I cleaned and bandaged my wounds.

Lately, I’d begun waking up most mornings with fresh cuts and bruises, with no memory of how they got there.

I longed to tell someone, anyone , to ask if I was going insane.

But who could I tell? Sky would insist on confining me to bed rest. Already he was concerned I was overextending myself.

Lily would urge me to put my irons back on, but I couldn’t afford to lose any more time.

And Lei…how would Lei respond? He would laugh at me, most likely, and make some petty joke about sleepwalking.

And then he would tell me whatever I most wished not to hear.

So I handled it myself. I meditated and pushed the memory to the back of my mind. Years of enduring my father’s abuse had taught me the art of compartmentalizing. By the time I was finished, no one could tell I was any worse for wear.

“The prince is gone,” said Lily, when I emerged from my bedroom. I nodded, glancing at Lotus. “And Caihong?”

“The consort is in the Imperial Art Pavilion, my lady,” said Lotus, delivering the information I’d requested earlier.

“Very good,” I said, touching my ribs to ensure my bandages were in place. “Take me there, please.” It was time to initiate the second phase of my plan. This time, Prince Keyan was my target.

Lotus nodded and rose, but not before Lily tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned as she adjusted the sash around my waist, making sure it was no longer creased in the back.

I smiled at her, and she smiled back, though it was a pained expression.

“Let me know if we should suspend tomorrow’s training session,” she said quietly.

“Why would we need to do that?” I asked, shaking my head. But I saw the worry in her eyes.

The Imperial Art Pavilion was an open-air space, with green bamboo stalks interspersed with mahogany wooden beams. As the breeze drifted in, their shadows danced across the polished stone floor, which was tiled with intricate spherical designs.

The air was still and silent but for the sound of running water from a nearby stream.

I found Consort Caihong in the sculpture room, bathed in dappled sunlight, her attention fixed on porcelain vases from the Sun Dynasty.

As I approached, I saw that she carried a small sketchbook and was in the process of rendering a vase by hand. Although the design was simple, her skill was evident in her confident, swift strokes.

“Consort Caihong,” I said, bowing.

She turned, shutting her sketchbook. “Lady Hai!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t see you there.”

“How well you draw,” I said. “May I see your work?”

She blushed prettily. “Oh,” she said, delaying, “they’re nothing—”

“Please,” I insisted. “I’m trying to learn, but I’m a rather slow study.”

At that, she handed me her sketchbook. I flipped through the pages, discovering landscapes, still lifes, portraits.

One drawing gave me pause—a lone figure standing at the edge of a cliff, gazing into the river below as her long hair billowed loosely around her.

Something about the inherent melancholy of the piece spoke to me.

As if the artist had touched something deep within me—something I’d believed I was alone in feeling.

“You’re very talented,” I said, handing her sketchbook back.

“It passes the time.” She shrugged one shoulder with a practiced smile.

“Do you come here often?”

She nodded, a pleasant smile still pasted on her face. “It’s my favorite part of the palace.”

“And what is your favorite work?”

At this, her smile grew genuine. “This one,” she said, leading me into an adjoining room, to a glass display in a corner.

Inside was a small statue that appeared like a fossilized piece of amber, which caught and reflected the dappled light.

The longer I stared, the more its colors seemed to shift and change.

At first it appeared blue, but now I was beginning to think it green, or gold.

“What is it?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“It’s a reproduction of a remnant of the old gods,” she said, her voice also lowered in respect.

“The old gods?” I repeated, surprised.

She glanced at me. “Do you know the stories?”