Chapter 3: 3 The Exquisite Face

◎Prisoner of the Silk Curtains◎

In the instant the words fell, Yan Rushi’s lashes trembled, almost imperceptibly.

“Venerable Lord… what did you say?”

“The Venerable Lord wants you to warm her bed and share her pleasure night after night! Hahahaha!” Before You Fusang could answer, Geng Ying was already laughing without restraint. “Young Lord of the Righteous Path—can you do it or not…”

And sure enough, she was silenced again.

Geng Ying didn’t care. As long as she got to humiliate righteous cultivators, she was happy.

Before the Pagoda Palace, Yan Rushi knelt; beneath the heavy, magnificent cloak her body trembled, exquisite. She raised her eyes, an expression of disbelief still edging her face with a smile. “Venerable Lord… do you truly mean that…?”

“Of course.” You Fusang looked down at her. “Feel wronged? Then let’s forget it. Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect, you are free to leave.”

Leave?

But where could she even go?

Yan Rushi had spelled out her desperation plainly, and still You Fusang said this—Yan Rushi had never expected her to exploit another’s peril like this. But why? Summoning her behind the silk curtains—did she truly want her body, or… only wanted to humiliate her? Back in the Yan Sect they had been kind and courteous to each other; they had rarely even quarreled…

Could it be that You Fusang had resented her all these years?

At the thought, Yan Rushi’s nose stung, and tears fell before she could stop them.

Tears brimming on her lashes, tumbling down her cheeks in a rustling stream, she bowed her head submissively and wept without sound, shoulders shaking without pause.

You Fusang watched her cry with cold eyes. Geng Ying was already mouthing her mockery: Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect, you climbed all over our faces step by step, begging this then begging that—you’re the shameless one from the start!

Yan Rushi read her meaning, and wept all the harder.

A beauty in the rain of pear blossoms, pitiable to any beholder—but You Fusang was wholly unmoved, already stepping away to leave.

Lightning-quick, Yan Rushi reached out once more, making the last plea and the last attempt at holding on.

“N-no… not wronged! Venerable Lord, I am not wronged.” Over a face full of tears she forced a smile, strained and wretched. “I beg the Venerable Lord’s mercy… I ask only that you remember the old bonds of our sect, and help my mother, and the rest of the Yan Sect…”

Yan Rushi…

You Fusang stared hard at her, silent for a long, long time—so long that Yan Rushi thought she would not answer at all.

At last, a visible trace of sighing sorrow was tucked away in those golden eyes, and she said lightly: “Very well.”

Yan Rushi was still in a daze when Geng Ying’s foot caught her in the waist from behind, as if to say: What are you being stupid for? Hurry and follow!

Only then did Yan Rushi come back to herself, pulling the cloak tight. She watched You Fusang and stood, legs shaking—the Young Sect Master Yan who had once commanded storms across her sect could barely remember how to walk.

The next instant, the scent of sandalwood leaves brushed close; before Yan Rushi’s eyes the world flickered bright and dark—You Fusang had half-crouched, taken hold of her calves, and, together with that cloak of gold and jade, scooped her up into her arms.

“Venerable Lord—!”

Gasps rippled one after another through the Pagoda Palace. Had Geng Ying not been under the Silencing Command, she would surely have been jumping and shrieking by now—

But none of it had anything to do with Yan Rushi anymore.

She felt only the heart so near her, nearly silent in death; felt the other’s body, cold as ice. She tipped her head back and watched those golden eyes fixed straight ahead, the cinnabar mark cold as blood, nothing stirring on that devastating face, not a thread of feeling.

When did Senior Sister’s eyes become like this? When did her hair turn so gray?

Yan Rushi had never known—did not know, now, whether she should ask, or how.

You Fusang’s stride was steady and swift; in moments they reached the high tower of Pagoda, where silk curtains and soft canopies met the eye, lavish and sumptuous, lotus blossoms waiting to be plucked—

Yan Rushi could already foresee it: a golden cage glittering with pearls and jade.

“Stay here.” Dropping those words, You Fusang carried her to the bed and offered no further explanation, lowering the bead curtain and withdrawing behind it.

Before long, the door opened and shut; You Fusang departed, and into the room came a short, round-faced girl.

The round-faced girl shot Yan Rushi a glance and broke into an awkward smile. “I’m Little Mi. Lord Geng Ying sent me to attend you.”

A prisoner behind silk curtains—even so, she had attendants?

Yan Rushi was momentarily at a loss for words.

A rustling noise rose at her ear: Little Mi was pushing over a bamboo tub wreathed in steam, gathering up the cloak from beside the bed, setting soap and linens within reach. “Miss Yan, bathe when you are ready.”

Bathing…

Yan Rushi understood perfectly what came after. The tears she had finally subdued fell again, soaking the ruined front of her robe.

She wept without moving. Little Mi peeked at her and said, softly, “So… you’re unwilling, then?”

“What?”

“You’re unwilling to… with the Venerable Lord…”

Yan Rushi, bewildered, answered with the tears already falling like a snapped string of pearls.

“Then why not leave?” Little Mi asked. “Just now in the hall, the Venerable Lord plainly gave you chance after chance. Why did you not leave?”

“Leave…” Yan Rushi’s whole frame shook with weeping. “Leave, and go where? My enemies hold my mother’s life in their hands. They hunt me with drawn blades, nets stretched sky to earth, determined to cut me to pieces. Where on earth am I supposed to flee to…?”

Little Mi considered a moment, took up the towel, plunged it into the hot water, wrung it hard.

The rush of water covered her voice: “So long as you leave, there’s always somewhere. Even in desolation, life finds a way. Rather than waste away in the Pagoda Palace keeping company with Pagoda Ghosts, better to go out and try your luck. The world is vast and wide—it can raise a Kunpeng, it can birth a mayfly. Why would it have no room for you?”

Yan Rushi thought only: Fine-sounding words, but talk on paper. Perhaps Little Mi had simply been lucky, never seeing a dead end where survival outside Pagoda was impossible. Everyone in the world dreaded the land of Pagoda, yet Yan Rushi had walked in of her own will—because something outside was more terrifying still.

And besides, her mother had only one life. How could she afford to gamble it?

Seeing Yan Rushi silent, Little Mi said no more, helped her out of her clothes, and eased her into the tub.

Medicinal herbs floated around her body, red and purple strewn across the water. The instant she touched it, the scalding steam wrung a low sound from Yan Rushi, and a flush rose in her eyes. Little Mi pressed her shoulders down. “Miss Yan, good medicine tastes bitter. The scars on your back need a long soak, or they won’t fade. Since you’re to be a Bed Attendant, better to be rid of these little marks sooner rather than later.”

Bed Attendant…

The hands braced on the rim of the tub clenched, almost imperceptibly, bone-deep suffering leaking through the fingers.

Ladle after ladle, the medicined water poured down, soaking Yan Rushi from crown to foot—from the peaks of her shoulders into her back, along the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades and down into her waist. The steam wreathed thick, setting off a body white as jade, delicately shaped, so that even the scars became ornament—blossoms on a jade branch, tears on jade leaves.

Little Mi stole a few extra glances and felt her own cheeks warm, in spite of herself.

Bathed, incensed, redressed—in between, Little Mi never stopped reminding her of her station as Bed Attendant, until Yan Rushi was grinding her teeth, her heart gone dead and still, a living wooden puppet for others to pull by its strings.

By the time Yan Rushi sat propped against the head of the bed, it was the third quarter of the Hour of the Pig.

The canopy was finely embroidered: vermilion magpies wherever the eye fell, Azure Birds overhead, every one carved of flowers holding jade hooks in their beaks.

Yan Rushi sat among them, twisting her fingers together, sick with dread.

At some moment, a slender, unfamiliar hand lifted the bead curtain—and before she could see the newcomer’s face, every candle in the room was snuffed out.

The Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect suffered mildly from Night Blindness. Plunged into darkness, her senses could not adjust; she only felt a pair of hands settle on her shoulders—not pushing her garments aside, but gently embracing her, drawing her down to lie together, tumbling into the silk quilts.

You Fusang’s voice came from inches away: “Sleep, Junior Sister.”

…She isn’t going to do anything?

Yan Rushi didn’t ask aloud; moments later she noticed the breath at the back of her neck slowing, evening out. The one sharing her pillow… seemed to have fallen asleep.

Or perhaps not entirely—perhaps only feigning sleep, to watch whether Yan Rushi would attempt anything untoward?

Yan Rushi couldn’t make it out. She stirred slightly in You Fusang’s arms, found a more comfortable position, and closed her eyes. Amid the astonishment there was relief too. Senior Sister may disregard our old sect bond on the surface, she thought, but underneath, she’s clearly still kind.

Beyond the curtains the incense burner breathed its haze, calming to the mind—and it was coral and aloeswood, the very fragrances Yan Rushi loved best. A breath or two of it, and soon she had drifted into dreams.

Behind her, those golden eyes stayed open the whole while, without the least hint of drowsiness.

May the Venerable Lord remember the old bonds of our sect, and save the Yan Sect…

You Fusang propped herself halfway up, reached out, and caught a length of Yan Rushi’s long hair, the sharp nail curving round to the beauty’s lotus face, tracing a faint line.

Only this little peacock would believe such nonsense as sect bonds.

Within the Yan Sect it had always been kill or be killed, human life trampled underfoot—not so very much better than the heretics and devils they were.

Three hundred years ago, Yan Qingjue, Sect Master of the Yan Sect, returning from travels in the land of the rising sun, picked up a grubby child in Fusang of the East Sea. That was the first knot binding You Fusang to the Yan Sect.

After that You Fusang entered the sect—only to be dumped in the Outer Sect and forgotten. Little by little, what people called her changed from “the child the Sect Master brought back” to “that one without Spiritual Aptitude—who knows what use she was meant to be.” Everyone had assumed a wild sparrow had landed on a branch; one flick of a slingshot, and the truth sprang out: nothing but a dusty gray rat.

But the You Fusang of that time was not discouraged. So long as I can keep my head down in the Yan Sect’s Outer Sect, she thought, it’s a far sight better than scrabbling through Fusang Land, where death and life are a coin toss.

Let others scold her, mock her, sneer at her—You Fusang didn’t care. What she didn’t yet know was that forbearance only ever invites worse.

“—You Fusang. What makes you think I would pull you up?”

“Eh?” On the cliff face, the young Fusang blinked, momentarily stunned. “Sister Jiang, don’t joke—q-quick, pull me up!”

The wind carried up the roars of beasts from the depths. They had already seen her, it seemed, and were only waiting for her fall, to tear her apart and swallow her.

Jiang Ru looked down at her, and truly, gradually began to draw her hand back. “Little Sister Fusang, take a guess—where do you suppose most of them go, the ones who vanish from the Yan Sect trials? They die, that’s where…”

You Fusang’s grip on the cliff edge was failing; she had no strength left for words. Her black eyes fixed on Jiang Ru, breeding hate beyond counting.

But hatred without strength to back it is, at best, a joke.

“You Fusang, if I really dropped you here today, do you think anyone would ever find out? The Sect Master personally brought you through the gates, thinking you some rare treasure. I only came to play with you a little. Who’d have guessed—a street rat after all. No wonder the Sect Master brought you in and then never looked at you again. No aptitude for cultivation, so no one cares about you. Isn’t that right?”

“Jiang Ru, you wouldn’t dare…”

“What wouldn’t I dare?” Jiang Ru sneered. “How many in this whole sect could even recall your name? Fewer still could match it to a face. I’ll go back and say little sister Fusang was too fond of her games—knew her cultivation was next to nothing yet had to show off, lost her footing, and fell off the cliff…”

She let her hand hang loose, a careless gesture. “Dead girls tell no tales, after all.”

The words fell, and Jiang Ru stepped on the fingers You Fusang had jammed into the cliff’s edge—and ground them down.

“Ahh—!”

After the white-hot pain came only endless rushing wind. You Fusang felt the world peel away at terrible speed, the gale a blade flaying her whole body raw.

Yet in the end, the expected agony never came. The instant before the canyon floor, something like Spiritual Power wrapped around her, and she landed, steady and soft.

…It was not her Spiritual Power.

It was another’s—purer, more quicksilver, belonging to someone younger.

While she was still reeling, a voice at her ear said, half laughing: “Hey, you’re crushing me to death, you know!”

What a clear young voice—clear as the chime of jade pendants. The most vital voice You Fusang had ever heard in her life.

She blinked for a long moment before realizing that in falling she had landed squarely on top of another person. Or rather… that person had caught her?

You Fusang slowly turned her head.

The first thing she saw was a pair of Exquisite Crane Shoes; above them, a Gold-Woven Daoist Robe with patterns that flowed with light, white plumes of fur spilling radiance under the open sky. Hair and collar bound high; even her garment buttons were of the finest jade work—a single one worth a fortune.

Not to mention that flawless face and brilliant smile—black hair, red lips, bright eyes brimming—lovely as a midsummer peony, beyond compare, enough to make any beholder forget the vulgar world.

And the bow on her back: a body of Wutong Wood, a core of Kunlun Jade—as though anything less than the rarest of materials would be unworthy of her.

The girl and You Fusang were of an age, yet their auras were worlds apart. The girl was a Phoenix, a Peacock, a divine bird riding the good wind past the Ninth Heaven. You Fusang…

You Fusang was fouled earth, was dust—loosed by any passing breeze to scatter across the four wilds, without so much as a sound.

Standing before such a Little Peacock, anyone would feel shabby by comparison.

Sensing the stare, the girl—who had been brushing dust from her shoulders—lifted her face and shot her a curious glance.

“You didn’t bring a weapon?” Taking You Fusang’s silence for terror of the cliff, she held out her bow and arrows. “Here, take them.”

A bow like that was the sort any clan would enshrine in its ancestral hall as a treasure passed down three generations. And this girl lent it out without so much as a blink—lent it to You Fusang, a perfect stranger!

You Fusang gaped and did not take it, only asked: “Then what will you do?”

Without her bow—what would you do?

The girl made a thoughtful sound, dug a thick sheaf of Talismans from her sleeve, and, counting them, split off half for You Fusang. “True. Then use these instead! More convenient than a bow, anyway.”

You Fusang had only ever seen that many Talismans in the hands of Yan Sect Elders…

She couldn’t help asking: “How do you have so many Talismans?”

At that, the girl tilted her chin up, proud: “Because I’m rich!” And seeing that You Fusang would take neither bow nor Talismans, she went so far as to hang the long bow on the other girl’s back herself and stuff the Protective Talismans into her pocket. “Oh, right—what’s your name?”

Somehow, You Fusang bristled instinctively and had no wish to give her name first. “The instructors of the Outer Sect say that before asking another’s name, one should give one’s own. That is what counts as courtesy.”

“Oh… is that so.” The Little Peacock blinked and laughed lightly.

She had always been proud of her name.

“My name is Yan Rushi—Yan as in the Yan Sect, and Rushi as in ‘I fancy the green mountains see me just so’!”