Page 42 of The Dragon Wakes with Thunder (The Dragon Spirit Duology #2)

Twenty-Eight

In the wake of the war, Zhong Wu came to be known as the City of the Dead. The fallen lay strewn along the roads, untouched and unburied, for none dared approach, fearing the plague clinging to their spirits. And so, silence claimed the city, where even the wind dared not mourn the unburied souls.

Kuro let us go freely, but he was not without his spite. He took from us our horses, our provisions, even our former clothes. But it did not matter. Lei and I were used to surviving, and neither of us were strangers to suffering.

For three weeks we journeyed on foot, taking the long route around Zhonghai Lake to avoid the Anlai warlord and his five-hundred-man contingent.

By the time we reached Mount Fuxi, spring was well on its way.

The air had grown fragrant with budding hydrangeas and plum blossoms, and the forest songbirds had returned with the advent of clear skies and warm weather.

I kept my irons on at all times, even though they dulled my senses and drained my stamina. We moved at a snail’s pace because of me, though Lei hid any sign of impatience.

I began to dread the passage of each day, sensing the finite strength of my life force slipping away. I was only nineteen, for skies’ sake. Even my mother had lived longer than I. And Qinglong would have stolen both our lives.

The spite fueled me then, when exhaustion threatened to overwhelm. Just another mile, I told myself, for Qinglong would not take me too.

All the while, Kuro clearly ignored Baihu’s caution.

We saw more and more spirit gates cropping up along our path, which left me with a deepening sense of intertwined dread and guilt, so that I could barely look at the corpses littered on the forest floor, much less the still-writhing ones, alive but not for long.

How many had successfully made the transition? How many had emerged as spirit summoners, glorifying in their newfound power and awareness? How many already regretted their bargain? How many had begun to sense the insidious pull of corruption?

In the woods, we stumbled upon two crying children—a rare sight in these parts. I wished to avoid them, but Lei insisted on investigating.

Standing at the bank of a dried creek bed were two young girls, the older one around Rouha’s age. Though distressed, they appeared unharmed.

“What happened?” Lei asked, crouching in front of the older one.

“Ma,” she whimpered, pointing toward the creek bed. “She went through that…that pocket. She didn’t come out.”

The pocket was a spirit gate. It shimmered against the forest shadows, its surface rippling like an ocean tide. Even from a distance, I felt the luxurious heat radiating from it, the way its lixia tugged at me, calling me closer. But to Lei, it meant nothing.

“You,” said the younger girl, her huge eyes locking on me. “ Help. ”

Her expectant gaze unsettled me. Somehow, she knew I could help. She knew I could cross into the spirit realm and search for their missing mother.

“I-I’m sorry,” I whispered, backing away. “I can’t.”

The older girl grabbed my hand. “You can!” she insisted. “I know you can. Please.”

I yanked my hand free, too forcefully, and the girl stumbled back, landing on her bottom. “Why?” she cried out. “Why won’t you help us?”

I shook my head, as if swatting away an angry bee. Why must I help? Hadn’t I done enough? I had saved my kingdom during the war, only to be slandered for it. That was when I’d learned: selfishness was survival.

I had done my part; I had warned Kuro to stop. If the veil between realms tore, let the rest of the world solve its own problems. I would not lift a finger to help.

“Rui? Sisi?” A man crashed through the underbrush, sweeping his daughters into his arms when he saw us.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“She’s here to save Ma!” the older girl said confidently. “She’s the one from the stories!”

The man’s eyes settled on me, afraid and assessing. I took a step back. Always, I would be found lacking.

“Are you?” he asked, suspicion in his voice. “Are you the one we’ve been waiting for?”

In the silence, I felt Lei’s wordless gaze slide toward me, a gaze like a lit match.

“N-no,” I stammered. Then I turned and ran.

After that, I tried to avoid all spirit gates.

It was not necessary to steer clear of them—Lei was immune to the lure of lixia, and I could come and go freely between realms—but my guilt was intensifying to the point of pain.

Every portal was a reminder of the violence I’d inflicted, the high cost of my hubris.

And yet Lei would not allow us to deviate from our path.

He made a point of passing every gate, looking into the faces of those lost to our world.

He did not try to convince me of any side or stance, but his silence conveyed more than words ever could. After all, I reminded myself, the Ximing prince always had his own agenda.

Only once did we run into bandits along the way. Instinctively, I reached for my irons, but Lei recognized my intent and stopped me. “No,” he said.

“But—”

“You know it’s not worth it,” he said darkly, and I recalled that it was Lei who’d held me as I’d suffered from lixia withdrawal, shaking through the odd hours of the night.

Before I could answer, he’d thrown a series of daggers, and within moments all the bandits lay wounded or dead.

We left without making a scene.

I found a semblance of peace in our near-total isolation, in the lack of demands and directions and desires thrown at me.

Lei and I learned to read each other’s thoughts by gesture alone, until we could determine when the other wanted to rest or press on by a simple look or pause.

Knowing he was immune to the dragon’s influence, I took comfort in his steady, even-keeled presence, trusting that even if I were to lose myself, he could keep me sane.

But the peace of our journey was short-lived, and by the time we reached the base of the Red Mountains, I sensed that confrontation with Sky was inevitable.

Only one path led up to First Crossing from the northern outpost of Kuntian, and from the rumors swirling around town, the Anlai prince and his men had set up camp just beyond the Kuntian city limits.

Kuntian was the last outpost before the five-day mountain trek to First Crossing.

On the Red Mountains, which lacked abundant vegetation or prey, we would have to carry our own provisions.

So that evening, as Lei set out to purchase supplies for our journey, I feigned exhaustion and told him I would sleep early. I did not know if he believed me, but he said nothing.

As soon as he’d departed from our campsite, I doused the fire and strapped my sword to my back. Then, as I was about to leave, I noticed a stray shadow a little way from the fire.

Lei’s best moon dagger. He’d known—and left it for me.

A lump in my throat, I secured the trusted dagger against my thigh. I glanced at the moon, brilliant in its fullness. A line from The Classic of Poetry came to me: And if I ever write “Tonight the moonlight is strong,” I am trying to say that I miss you.

I hate you.

I miss you.

Ignoring reason, I crept into the dark.

All I wanted was to see him one more time.

Not even to speak to him—I would be satisfied with just a glance.

I wanted to see his face, the familiar lines around his eyes and mouth, the cowlick at the back of his head.

Our relationship was over, and we could never go back to the way things used to be.

But I would pretend, just for one last night.

Then I would move on.

His camp was hard to miss. The Anlai warlord and his heir had traveled with over five hundred men for the signing of the Three Kingdoms Treaty, and now they pitched their tents just outside the city limits of Kuntian.

Climbing up the roof of the temple building, which was the highest vantage point in Kuntian, I surveyed the expansive night sky and the sleeping camp below it.

Patrol soldiers circled the perimeter, their metal armor flashing against the dark.

Others, off duty, stumbled sleepily to the latrine or stayed up late chatting around the firepits.

They looked so close I felt as though I could reach out and touch them.

But I was not afraid; I knew no one ever bothered to look up.

One soldier ignoring protocol caught my eye; he drifted away from the center of camp, into the surrounding darkness, with only an oil lamp to guide him.

How presumptuous, to think himself above the law.

If I had ever dared wander alone at night, Sky would have rebuked me to no end.

But here he was, doing what he would advise no other to do.

The field was fallow, littered with cut sorghum stalks and stubble, like a young man’s beard.

Setting his lamp down, Sky drew his sword against the dark, and as he wove his blade back and forth in a rising crane formation, the moonlight reflected against the steel, casting the planes of his face in stark relief.

His face was so dear to me it hurt.

I hated him. I hated him for making me care for him. For making me want him. And then, with the same breath, behaving in such a way that I could never be with him again.

His blade hesitated, then lowered. Sky raised his head to gaze up at the moon, which was merciless, baring what was best left hidden in shadow.

I watched the lines of his neck and shoulders, the tapering of his waist, the hair at the back of his head that would not lie flat. I watched him and I said goodbye.

Then he turned.

Impossibly, his eyes searched the temple eaves. I froze, caught between fear and desire. Did I wish to be known? To be found?

He found me. There was a single breath, a moment between moments, when I believed it might be possible to suspend reality. Then the moment passed. Sky took a single step.

My chest seized with fear. I recognized the lunacy of my actions and leapt up from my crouch. Sky started to run. Heart racing, I sprinted across the temple eaves and threw myself across the gap toward the next building. And then the next.

I felt him before I heard him. The thud of his body landing on the temple roof, sending vibrations across the wood.

He was close behind me and gaining still.

I pushed myself faster, faster; I could not let him catch me.

I could not let him undo weeks and weeks of running from him, the palace, imperial life at court.

I flew from roof to roof, until I’d reached the end of the village.

In a moment of weakness I glanced over my shoulder—and gasped. He was nearly upon me.

Running was futile. I spun and hurled a throwing star I’d taken from the Leyuan rebels. He dodged but kept advancing.

“I don’t want to fight you!” he shouted, and his voice sent shivers of terror and happiness coursing through me.

“Then stay away from me!” I shouted back. But he ignored me, approaching with his usual stubbornness.

I had no choice; I drew my sword. His jaw tightened but he responded in kind, raising his own.

I attacked first, launching at him and spinning across the low-hanging eaves.

He parried, distracted, his attention lingering on my face rather than my sword.

My anger unfurled within me, long-buried resentment resurfacing beneath the moonlight.

This time, I struck without restraint, and my blow landed with such force that he stumbled, his sword slipping from his grasp and tumbling off the roof into the shadows below.

Unaccustomed to the terrain, he tripped on a loose tile, falling dangerously close to the edge. I didn’t give him a chance to recover. Seizing my opening, I pinned him down, my blade pressed to his throat.

“If I beat you in single combat,” I said, and he stilled beneath me. I saw it in his eyes—he was remembering, just as I was, the first time we’d fought with lethal intent. “If I beat you in single combat, then you leave.”

“I thought winning meant staying,” he whispered, the knot at his throat rising and falling.

“That was when I wished to stay.” How young I’d been in those army days, thinking everything I wanted could be won with glory.

“And now?”

“And now I’ll never return.” I started to rise. “Let me go, Sky.”

His face darkened. He reached out and grabbed me by my tunic, pulling me down. Furiously I struggled against him, and in our frantic tussle we slid farther down the edge. We cared less about living than about fighting, and perhaps that was why the moment we tipped, we only saw each other.