Chapter 8: 8 The Moon Hangs Low

◎Nothing now as it was then◎

After that, Yan Rushi saw many more moons—but none so piercing and clear, none so unforgettable, as the first.

The memories rose, and the scent of sandalwood with them—and somehow, all the bloody scenes of the day dissolved from her mind.

Even though the City Lord of Fusang at her side was the very culprit of it all.

She edged closer to You Fusang, even though that body was no longer warm as it once had been.

Devil Cultivators are always thus: cold hands, cold feet, cold blood, cold heart. But had Senior Sister truly changed?

In the dark, You Fusang felt the person beside her stir and rustle. After a moment, a pair of hands crept out, cautious, and caught the sleeve of her inner robe—and then came the sound of tears falling, soft and steady, without a single sob, though each drop struck the herb-stuffed pillow with terrible clarity.

Yan Rushi missed home. Missed her mother. Missed the Yan Sect as it used to be.

Missed the Senior Sister she used to be.

Just as the weeping threatened to break loose, You Fusang slowly drew her hand away—no further motion, no gathering her into her arms.

Between the two of them… at some unknown point, they had come to this: gazing at one another across a silence.

A silence gone to dead stillness.

So the moon hung low, lighting a present unlike the past, and a choked, sighing sorrow.

Once the cold snap of false spring passed, Pagoda settled into days of unbroken sunshine.

In the next morning’s light, You Fusang had barely stepped through the palace doors when Geng Ying and Qingluan hailed her from the roadside, plainly long since waiting.

“Venerable Lord!” Geng Ying, clatter and clamor as ever. “Guess what wonderful news we’ve got!”

A glance at Yan Rushi trailing behind, and You Fusang turned back with a gesture. “Speak.”

Qingluan said: “Solitary Mountain has proclaimed it to all the world: the Solitary Mountain treasure the Yan Sect was accused of taking has been ‘recovered,’ and all enmity is dissolved.”

“The Yan Sect never took any such thing—” Yan Rushi cut in urgently.

“Taken or not, or staged by their own hands—it’s the victor’s game either way.” You Fusang looked to Qingluan. “Go on.”

“Mm. In short, the story Solitary Mountain tells the mortal world is this: the Yan Sect’s Sect Master took the Profound Mirror—a treasure forged by Solitary Mountain’s Daoists a thousand years ago—by accident, then refused to return it, and Solitary Mountain, goaded past bearing, was forced to bite. Now Yan Qingjue has returned the Profound Mirror, and Solitary Mountain, magnanimous, does not hold a small person’s fault against her; the two sects are on the warmest of terms. They’re even helping rebuild the Yan Sect after the looting, smashing, and burning…”

You Fusang understood.

Slaughter is too ugly—it’s no different from the heretic path. One needs a warm, harmonious ending to tell the mortal world: We are still the great orthodox sects of your hearts.

Qingluan went on: “Now that Solitary Mountain and the Yan Sect are reconciled, and the third-month rites of ancestors approach, they have set a Qingming Banquet, inviting the whole world—all to be held at the Qiantang Sea-Viewing Pavilion.” She paused, glancing instinctively at Yan Rushi. “There, Solitary Mountain will announce the matter of the Sea of Clouds Trial, to be held jointly with the Yan Sect.”

Yan Rushi started. Anger rose and dared not show; she said only, low: “How is that good news…”

“Not good news?” Geng Ying grinned shamelessly. “Young Sect Master Yan, the Yan Sect is about to become a puppet~”

The Yan Sect was in another’s power and outshone in name; henceforth every move it made would be made watching Solitary Mountain’s face.

“But at least… Mother’s life is safe.”

“Not necessarily.” You Fusang’s voice was cold. “A puppet, after all. Find one of similar build, apply a Disguise Technique—no great difficulty.”

Yan Rushi’s fists clenched until the knuckles went green.

Qingluan hesitated, then pressed on. “There is… one more thing. I hardly know whether to mention it… The treasure Solitary Mountain has set as the prize of the Sea of Clouds Trial… is… is…”

“Is what?”

“It is the Verdant Mountain Sword.”

“Th—that is my mother’s sword!!!” Yan Rushi’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “How can they—”

“How can they not?” Geng Ying’s smile was thin and venomous. “Didn’t you say it yourself, Young Sect Master Yan? Yan Qingjue’s been tortured until she’ll never lift a sword again. A famous sword without a master—who can’t it go to? Put plainly: when the tiger leaves its mountain, the dogs bully it. Who’d have thought the famous Sect Master Yan couldn’t even protect her own daughter, her own sword! Useless, truly!”

Geng Ying’s mockery was cruel, but every word was true.

The tiger leaves the mountain and is bullied by dogs; the dragon in shallow water is teased by shrimp. One who cannot hold a sword cannot shield those beside her either. Whose fault was that?

Yan Rushi’s teeth clenched hard. She flayed Solitary Mountain’s people a thousand cuts within her heart, yet could not say one word aloud. She herself remained unfree within Pagoda—without standing, without confidence, without opportunity or strength.

It should not be like this, she thought. A sect of thousands upon thousands—how did it come to this? Teeth knocked out, and still forced to swallow them down with blood…

The bitterness in her thoughts surged to the tip of her nose, and the tears burst free. Yan Rushi had never been a weeper, but now, calamity upon calamity, meeting death at morning and night, she was helpless—did not know, beyond weeping, what else there was to do.

Geng Ying crowed: “So the Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect is a useless thing who only knows how to cry!”

Before the words finished, she was silenced.

You Fusang withdrew her hand without any expression, and asked Qingluan: “Anything else?”

Qingluan shook her head. “That is all. The Qingming Banquet falls at the hour of Qingming itself. Solitary Mountain’s Acting Sect Master Fang Miaocheng and the Yan Sect’s Yan Qingjue will both attend.”

All at once, unexpectedly, You Fusang glanced again at Yan Rushi, still weeping. “And Young Sect Master Yan’s own thoughts?”

“I want to go…” Yan Rushi said, low. “To the Sea-Viewing Pavilion.”

Given even one thread of a chance, she still wanted to see her mother.

By feeling and by reason both, You Fusang had no grounds to agree. She hated Yan Qingjue; wiser by far to stay out of the muddy water and watch the dogs fight from the wall.

Yet she smiled faintly. “Very well.”

Yan Rushi’s eyes lit up. Qingluan cried out: “Venerable Lord!? You don’t think this is a…”

“I do think so,” You Fusang answered for her. “A Hongmen Banquet.”

“Then why…”

You Fusang smiled, entirely at her ease. “Am I afraid of Fang Miaocheng?”

Her mind made up, Qingluan could not press further. Yan Rushi, hope kindling, caught at You Fusang’s sleeve: “Ses—Venerable Lord, will you come with me?”

You Fusang made an acknowledging sound. “Might as well. Something to do.”

And so she watched the little peacock’s white feathers shake and ruffle, the tears in her eyes glitter, as she gazed up at her, hopping with joy.

You Fusang’s focus slipped, and she looked away before she meant to.

“Qingluan. Get Young Sect Master Yan a sword, and a bow.”

“Venerable Lord!?” Qingluan was scandalized. “You—you’re giving her weapons?”

You Fusang lowered her lashes. “So that at the Sea-Viewing Pavilion, she won’t be wholly unable to strike back—needing This Venerable One to shield her every step.”

The tone was one of finding it tiresome—but beneath her ribs there was another sentence she did not say.

A Junior Sister’s hands are hands made for sword and bow.

The Yan Sect was declining; Young Sect Master Yan with it. But fortune’s wheel turns. You Fusang still hoped, in the end, to see her standing back atop the clouds, back to that old, high-spirited bearing.

Solitary Mountain was an old acquaintance of a century past, and the ones at its height had not changed much.

Solitary Mountain’s surname was Zhou: the Eldest Lady Zhou, Zhou Yun; the second son Zhou Erlang; and the youngest, Little Sister Zhou, named Zhou Ling. The Eldest Lady’s heart was in the healing arts and she had no taste for power; when the Zhou Family elders perished, Little Sister Zhou was still too small. That left only Zhou Erlang. Step by perilous step, he and his wife Fang Miaocheng took the Solitary Mountain Sect Master Seal into their hands at last.

A pity—some people have the fate to fight and not the fate to enjoy. Before the Sect Master’s seat had even warmed, Zhou Erlang, worn down by chronic illness, breathed his last.

Zhou Erlang dead of illness, Fang Miaocheng fared no better. Near and far, outside Solitary Mountain and within its own walls, the envious and the predatory were beyond counting. But under those eyes and those whispers, Fang Miaocheng held up the sky alone and governed Solitary Mountain in perfect order.

…Well. It was all old dust now.

That lonely, widowed woman of the past was long gone; the Fang Miaocheng seated now over Solitary Mountain had, incredibly, beaten even Yan Qingjue to her knees.

You Fusang, however, held no deep impression of her. It was Solitary Mountain’s spoiled Second Miss she remembered with perfect clarity. Little Sister Zhou—Zhou Ling.

Ordinary aptitude, but with resources piled onto her without end, she had been dressed up into an air of unbearable smugness. Her weapon alone—a long whip and a Soft Sword—was already a one-of-a-kind piece in this world.

You Fusang had had the honor of seeing it lightning-and-thunder alive, and of feeling it strike: a pain of fire and ice at once.

That was at the Sea of Clouds Trial, two hundred years ago.

“So you’re the Yan Sect’s Eldest Senior Sister?” Zhou Ling, snake-bone braids swinging, smiling in her pampered arrogance, looking down her nose. “You don’t look like much. Can’t even take one lash from me. How humiliating.”

You Fusang didn’t argue—and suddenly the wind at her ears cut off.

Zheng—

A long arrow pierced the clouds, skewering Zhou Ling’s whip clean through.

“M-my whip!!”

Before Zhou Ling could mourn her darling whip longer, Yan Rushi arrived on sword-flight, face ice, and in her hand, unmistakably, a Cloud Shadow Bow.

The Cloud Shadow Bow, the Cloud-Soaring Arrow—one breath splitting the sky across fourteen regions.

She landed in front of You Fusang and lifted the bow again, arrowhead leveled at Zhou Ling.

“Yan Rushi—y-you dare!!” Zhou Ling stamped with fury. “You—you only dare bully me because my sister-in-law isn’t here!”

Yan Rushi put her own Senior Sister behind her. “And you only dare run wild because Fang Miaocheng is.”

“Heh. Do you know who you’re shielding?” Zhou Ling’s spear-point of a tongue swung to You Fusang. “The great Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect, walked over by a piece of trash—aren’t you ashamed? You, a Young Sect Master, who actually has to call a thing like that ‘Senior Sister’!”

Yan Rushi did not lower her bow. “The Yan Sect’s affairs are none of your concern to discuss.”

“And I’ve heard tell this You Fusang isn’t even human—she’s a Fierce Beast! That’s why Yan Qingjue had to keep her close, though never with a kind face…” Zhou Ling would not let go. “Just look at her name, if you don’t believe me—’toured through Fusang Land’—You Fusang. How careless can a name get!”

In truth You Fusang had long since grown used to such talk—from the Yan Sect, from mortals. She didn’t fear people’s idle fabrications; she only feared the collisions, the awkward pretense of not having heard. So exhausting.

But Yan Rushi suddenly smiled. “Curious about Senior Sister Fusang’s origins, are you?”

Apricot eyes curved and shining, like May peonies, quick and bright. Seen on her face alone, this Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect was a devastating beauty of Jiangnan mist and rain, bright-eyed, all the dashing spirit of youth.

Zhou Ling froze, assuming they were now comrades-in-arms. “Not curious. I’m just telling you so you won’t be led around by the nose by that Fierce Beast—”

The words weren’t finished when Yan Rushi loosed another arrow—

This time they stood far closer; the wind of the arrow dragged a wave of dread in its wake.

From the corner of her eye Zhou Ling caught a few stray strands—and felt something slide down past her ear. Blood, or something else.

…It was one of her snake-bone braids.

“Chew idle tongues again, and you’ll lose more than one braid.”

“Yan Rushi—!”

“GET LOST!” You Fusang had never seen the Little Peacock’s face so black with storm. “Let This Young Sect Master hear that talk one more time and see what happens!”

Weaponless, with Fang Miaocheng who knew how many thousand li away, Zhou Ling made the only sensible choice and left through gritted teeth with her household servants in tow.

The vast Sea of Clouds held only two people then: You Fusang, and Yan Rushi.

You Fusang was a little awkward. If the Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect feuded with Solitary Mountain’s eldest daughter, the lost face would be Yan Qingjue’s and Fang Miaocheng’s…

But before her, Yan Rushi put away bow and long sword and reached out to pull her into a great, sweeping hug.

“Does it hurt? I didn’t shield you well enough,” she said, covering You Fusang’s ears with her hands. “Those words—Senior Sister, don’t listen to them, don’t believe them, don’t be sad…”

“I’ve already hit her for you, Senior Sister.”

That was what the Little Peacock said.