Work Text:
Zhou Zishu is already wary when he scouts into the mountain pass. The cliffs are high and there’s little cover, only rocks and scrub. The gorge carved into the mountain by a long-dry river is narrow and winding, and the shadows are cast long from the high walls. If he were to plan an ambush, this would be a good place for it.
He isn’t disappointed, but it isn’t the welcome he expected. The warriors who drop from the rocks above take up positions on every side, but don’t attack. All of them remain in their winged Aeriat form, with the spines down their backs raised aggressively and their retractable claws extended.
Zhou Zishu tenses as though to leap into the air, but he already knows he won’t risk leaving here. Not without what he’s hidden nearby. He doesn’t want to take on all of them at once, but he will if he must. With the advantage of surprise on his side, it will be a quick fight.
A juvenile queen lands between two of the warriors, facing off against him. In her Aeriat form she has scales patterned like violet wind-chime flowers and a proud, pointed chin.
“Who are you?” she challenges. Her mane of spines flares out to make her look bigger, wings spread wide. She’s too young to be his match in size, but she’s a queen, which gives her other advantages.
“Only a traveler.” He tries diplomacy first, mindful of the warriors behind him and the outcrop of rocks beyond. These aren’t the warriors from the Northern Reaches who’ve been close behind him for days. He’s stumbled into the territory of another court.
He’s alone, as far as they know, and in his Aeriat form there’s no mistaking the black sheen of his scales. A consort is too rare and valuable a prize to be left to wander off, which gives them good reason to be suspicious. If they decide he’s a feral solitary, they might try to kill him rather than merely driving him off.
“You should travel somewhere else. Who told you to come this way?” The queen’s long tail curls and lashes in warning, and her eyes narrow. Zhou Zishu feels the pressure of her will on him in the next moment, and resists it. A strong queen can force another Raksura to shift out of Aeriat form and into groundling, and she’s trying to use that ability on him. If he yields, soft-skinned and surrounded by her warriors, he’s as good as dead.
A shadow-knife of black scales and spread wings drops to the ground between them. Zhou Zishu’s first thought is Fell ruler, and it freezes him in place. The Fell are natural enemies of the Raksura and seem to be everywhere these days, destroying colonies and slaughtering entire courts.
Then he recognizes the sleek, elegant form of another Raksuran consort. This one is older than the queen, closer to his own age. He moves like a predator disguising itself as prey.
“A-Xiang,” the consort rebukes, and shifts into groundling form between one breath and the next. A lifetime of court etiquette succeeds where the queen’s exerted will had not, startling Zhou Zishu into shifting as well. It’s a courtesy so ingrained that he doesn’t even think about it.
The warriors and even the queen have done likewise, reacting instantly out of respect for their consort.
The consort smiles and takes a step forward. “You must have traveled a long way, to have found your way to us. Wen Kexing, of Ghost Valley.”
Zhou Zishu waits for an offer of lineage, the pedigree that every consort carries to establish their bloodline and worth, but it doesn’t come. “Zhou Xu,” he returns, and doesn’t give the name of his lost colony. There is no Four Seasons court now. He is the last of them.
One skeptical eyebrow lifts at the sparing introduction. “It is our honor to welcome you to Ghost Valley,” Wen Kexing says, ignoring an angry hiss from the queen just behind him.
“I didn’t know I had crossed into your territory.” It’s as close to an apology as he’s willing to make for trespassing, when he doesn’t know exactly where he is after long days of flight.
“I would be surprised if you had. We don’t get many strangers here,” Wen Kexing returns. He sounds amused. There’s a light thread of teasing in his voice that pricks at Zhou Zishu’s nerves.
“Why are you inviting him in? We don’t even know where he comes from. He could be nothing but trouble,” the queen complains, eyeing him with mistrust. She’s pouting now, a young predator denied the hunt and victory over her enemy.
Wen Kexing ignores the storminess in her expression. His gaze is still fixed on Zhou Zishu when he says, “With such a conformation, he must come from a bloodline of the finest court. We would be fortunate to have him as a guest.”
Zhou Zishu is spared from having to reply by the sound of tumbling stones, and a cascade of pebbles falls from the outcrop behind him. He shifts as he whirls around, the startled guards jerking back away from him as he lunges toward the hiding place behind the rocks.
The fledgling he’d rescued from the massacre at the Mirror Lake colony leaps into his arms, clinging tight to Zhou Zishu’s collar flanges with both hands to leave his claws free for fighting. Zhang Chengling buries his face against Zhou Zishu’s neck, braced for flight. He knows how to wrap himself around Zhou Zishu and hold still, making himself easy to carry for the first leap into the air. They’ve had to run many times before this.
When Zhou Zishu completes his spin, putting his back and delicate wings to the cliff face rather than the warriors, he finds Wen Kexing still in groundling form with one restraining hand on the young queen’s shoulder. The warriors stir uncomfortably. They’re fighting their own instinct to transform, unwilling to break protocol while their consort still stands there in soft-bellied groundling skin. It’s a mark of Wen Kexing’s power in this court that none of them shifts, even when alarmed by a potential threat.
Wen Kexing smiles as though he hasn’t noticed the tension at all. “Two guests,” he amends, his gaze dropping speculatively to Chengling. “We are twice as fortunate.”
Introductions at the Ghost Valley court are correct to a fault, observing every formality and courtesy, but something feels off in a way Zhou Zishu can’t yet pin down. He’s welcomed by the highest-ranking female warrior, Liu Qianqiao, who speaks on behalf of the ruling queen. She politely pretends there’s nothing strange about a consort from an unknown court traveling alone with a fledgling.
Zhou Zishu is officially introduced to Gu Xiang when it’s time for the queens to greet him. He’s told with apologies that the ruling queen is unavailable, as they weren’t expecting visitors. Wen Kexing joins them for the tea ceremony, dressed in fresh silks, adorned with jewelry made of onyx and carved cinnabar.
He sits beside Gu Xiang on a cushion that seems to have been set there for him. It’s against the custom that dictates consorts should sit behind the queens, but then Zhou Zishu and Chengling are already out of place in that regard. Zhou Zishu has the impression that Wen Kexing is there ahead of the normal schedule as a chaperone, although he can’t tell whether that’s for him or for Gu Xiang.
“Did you steal him?” Gu Xiang asks, blunt and curious. She peers around him at Chengling. His orphaned fledgling sits half-hidden behind him, stiff with nerves but faultless in his manners. “He doesn’t look anything like you.”
Wen Kexing’s eyes cut sideways to her, but he offers no rebuke. He’s likely just as interested in the answer, and her lack of courtesy is convenient. Just as Wen Kexing had known, however idle his flirtatious comment earlier, that Zhou Zishu had come from an old and established bloodline, it’s obvious that Chengling isn’t from a clutch of his line.
“I didn’t steal him,” Zhou Zishu answers calmly. “His court was destroyed by the Fell. I was entrusted with him by one of his teachers.”
“You came from the north?” Wen Kexing asks. “We hear more of Fell from that direction with each season.”
Zhou Zishu nods in confirmation. Gu Xiang asks, “Was your court destroyed by the Fell too? Was that why you were visiting his court?”
A splinter sticks in Zhou Zishu’s chest, but his voice is level when he answers, “Something like that.”
He’d thought his emotions well-hidden, but Wen Kexing’s gaze sharpens on him, and this time he intervenes as Gu Xiang draws breath for another question. “Enough. You must be tired. There are pools for bathing, and a bower where you can rest. You can dine with us tonight, or food will be brought to the bower for you.”
They’ve traveled hard for days, trying to put distance between them and the Fell flight that had massacred Mirror Lake, circling the area like scavengers around weakened prey. It isn’t safe to let down his guard here, in an unknown court, but Zhou Zishu has little choice. Exhaustion is already creeping in, his body lulled by nourishment and inactivity. He’d been able to keep going for so long only because he hadn’t allowed himself to stop.
They’re shown to a spacious bower by helpful Arbora, who are the soldiers, teachers, mentors, and hunters of the colony. They’re stocky and solid, lacking the height and wings of their Aeriat counterparts.
The Ghost Valley colony extends deep into the mountain, through a network of underground caverns that have been expanded and refined over time. The room they’re given has recessed bower-beds carved into the stone, worn smooth by the polish of Raksuran scales and large enough for several bodies to curl up in comfortably together. Raksura generally prefer not to sleep alone, but the comfort of being surrounded by familiar bodies is a luxury so far distant that Zhou Zishu can hardly remember it.
Charmed light-stones cast a soft glow over the gray walls, which are ornamented with carvings of trees and flowers. A brazier-bowl in the center of the room has made the cave warm and inviting.
It doesn’t have the feel of a guest bower. There are books in piles around the room, chests of clothing and jewelry, and enough of the carved stone alcoves for a dozen Raksura to sleep here easily. Wen Kexing’s scent is everywhere, but if this is the consorts’ bower, Zhou Zishu can’t find any trace of others.
There are two private pools for bathing in the bower. The caverns must be connected to hot springs, because one of the pools has steam rising from it and the water smells strongly of minerals. Zhou Zishu tells Chengling to bathe before they rest, determined to give the fledgling some token of normalcy in a life that’s been turned upside-down.
He rinses the travel-dust from his scales in the cold pool while Chengling splashes in the steaming water of the other. He doesn’t trust himself to remain upright if he indulges in a hot soak, however much it might relieve his sore muscles.
The pains of their journey are enough to make him stagger when he shifts back to groundling form, all of the countless small aches, scrapes, and bruises hitting him at once. He catches himself against one of the alcove beds, but doesn’t allow himself to sink down into it, knowing he’ll be asleep the moment his eyes close.
The shapeshifting magic that allows Raksura to take a groundling form masks the clothes they wear and small items they carry while in that shape, and as soon as Zhou Zishu returns to groundling form he can smell the sweat and dried blood on his only set of clothes, seeming even more grimy now that the rest of him is clean.
He ought to stand guard, but the limited energy he had is now flagging and he needs to rest. The best he can do is to install Chengling in one of the alcove beds and sit with his back against it, where anyone who enters will have to go through him to get to his young charge.
“Do you think the Fell have come here?” Chengling whispers the fear neither of them have voiced, curled up close to Zhou Zishu at the edge of the alcove.
It’s a fair question. The Fell are everywhere, insidious and invisible, poisoning every court they touch.
Zhou Zishu’s instincts tell him there’s something wrong here, but he doesn’t think it’s the Fell. He hasn’t caught their scent for days, and this place is hidden, isolated from the rest of the world. It was only chance that allowed them to stumble on it, and he doubts that the Fell would be invited in for tea.
Whatever strangeness infuses this place, it isn’t threatening. They’re at the heart of the colony, surrounded by soldiers, hunters, and warriors. If Ghost Valley wanted to kill them, they would already be dead.
“We’re safe enough here for tonight,” Zhou Zishu replies, avoiding a direct answer to the question. “Get some sleep. We may have to move on in the morning.”
When Zhou Zishu wakes, he’s disoriented by the lack of sunlight before he remembers where they are. He guesses by how well-rested he feels that it must be morning, although in the underground caverns it’s difficult to tell.
Chengling is still asleep, so Zhou Zishu bathes again, this time at his leisure. The water in the hot pool would scald his groundling skin, but feels luxurious against his Aeriat scales. It eases the deep ache in his back from long hours of flight with Chengling clinging to his chest. He soaks until he’s lulled nearly to sleep again, and then a noise at the entrance to the bower brings him sharply upright. Water sluices from him as he rises, coiled to spring across the room toward Chengling.
Wen Kexing studies him from the arch of the cave mouth. He’s in groundling form, clad in dark silks and ornamented with bloodstone jewelry. Zhou Zishu shifts, only slightly embarrassed but refusing to show it, grimacing internally as the hot water stings and reddens his ankles. He steps out of the pool, shaking out the clothes that cover him in groundling form, which had reappeared to soak up the water from his skin the moment he’d shifted.
“Good morning,” Wen Kexing greets him. There’s a tray in his hands, with several covered dishes and a tea set. “Have you eaten? I sent food last night, but the Arbora told me you were already asleep.”
Zhou Zishu glances at another tray left by the cave mouth. He hadn’t heard anyone come so close last night. The Arbora are nearly silent when they choose to be, but it’s unnerving to realize he’d been so deeply asleep.
Chengling stirs, blinking awake at the sound of another voice. He sits up and squints at the steam curling gently from the pot. “Is there tea? I mean, good morning.”
They haven’t gone hungry, but they’ve been living off the land, without such indulgences as proper tea. Last night was the first time Zhou Zishu had tasted it since before he’d come to MIrror Lake. The Fell had arrived before he could be introduced to the queens, and after that, they’d gone on the run.
“It would be my honor to drink it with you. A-Xiang,” Wen Kexing prompts, and the queen they’d met yesterday slinks in after him with another heavily-laden tray. “Did you sleep well?”
Chengling looks to Zhou Zishu before he answers. “Yes, very well. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Do you know how lucky you are?” Gu Xiang asks him, busying herself with the tray. It’s technically a consort’s place to serve, especially in the presence of a queen, but Wen Kexing makes no move to stop her or take over. “A fledgling consort like you, traveling without protection? You should have a queen to look out for you.”
Wen Kexing looks amused at this. No doubt he realizes, as Zhou Zishu does, that her chiding could apply to both of them. Zhou Zishu makes no excuses for himself, leaving Gu Xiang to chatter on before Chengling can stutter his reply.
“You don’t have to worry now. Our queen won’t let anything happen to you. Luo Fumeng looks after everyone, even silly fledglings.”
“Luo Fumeng?” Zhou Zishu knows the name. He looks to Wen Kexing for confirmation when he asks, “The white queen of the Neon Palace court?”
The Neon Palace colony had been one of the first to fall from within, corrupted by the Fell so many turns ago that Zhou Zishu couldn’t remember it. Tainted by Fell influence, the Raksura there had turned on each other and opened the doors to their enemies in self-destructive madness. He hadn’t known that anyone had survived.
“Congratulations,” Wen Kexing tells him, offering a toast with his bowl of tea. “You’ve found the only court in the Reaches to welcome solitarities.”
There’s a teasing smile at the corner of his mouth when he says it, like a shared secret between them. Zhou Zishu doesn’t know where Wen Kexing thinks he’s come from, but if that’s bait to fish for his life story, he doesn’t rise to it.
“Will she meet with me today?” he asks instead. He’d feel easier if he knew where they stood with this court’s queen, and how long they might be allowed to stay here.
Wen Kexing’s smile fades slightly, although he remains polite. “I’ll speak with Liu Qianqiao. I wouldn’t presume to speak for the queen.”
Gu Xiang gives him an incredulous look, which Zhou Zishu guesses is because Wen Kexing presumes to speak for her all the time. “I’ll show you around!” she offers enthusiastically to Chengling. “You need a queen to look out for you.”
“You’re looking out for people?” Wen Kexing asks, dry and amused again. “Do you even know how? Haven’t I done all the looking out for both of us?”
She scowls at him, every inch a fierce young queen, but he only smiles and offers her one of the bowls of tea. Zhou Zishu doesn’t think they’re clutchmates, and Gu Xiang isn’t young enough to be from one of Wen Kexing’s own clutches, but there’s something similar in their relationship.
Chengling gives Zhou Zishu a nervous look, but there’s something hopeful in his eyes, too. “Go and look around after breakfast,” he agrees. “Don’t go far.”
An unknown court could be a pit of vipers when it comes to politics, and the last thing they need is to offend someone in ignorance.
“I’m sorry,” Liu Qianqiao says, her eyes downcast in sincere apology. “Our queen is unavailable today. She wishes us to see to your comfort until she can meet with you in person.”
Zhou Zishu is restless and curious, but so long as they aren’t being turned out, he’s willing to wait for an audience. He explores some of the caverns, and is unsurprised when Wen Kexing glides out of the shadows to join him, falling into step at his side.
“It seems Luo Fumeng is indisposed,” Zhou Zishu explains, to see whether or not Wen Kexing will offer any information in turn.
“I’m sure she will greet you when she can,” is his only answer. “She’s very busy. Have you seen the dripstone statues in the lower caverns? Let me show you the way.”
Zhou Zishu sees a large number of curious Arbora, and warriors in nearly every cave and tunnel, but no other consorts or queens. Either they’re being kept safely away from the strangers, or this is a smaller court than he’d first guessed.
They pass Gu Xiang with Chengling when they climb back into the upper caves. Gu Xiang is in animated conversation as she explains how the hot springs are fed into the bowers. Beside her, Chengling listens attentively.
“He’ll be safe with Gu Xiang,” Wen Kexing assures him, catching the direction of Zhou Zishu’s gaze. “I’ve asked her to keep an eye on him.”
Chengling is far too young for any queen to claim, even if one did try to steal him. Zhou Zishu isn’t particularly worried, and says as much. Wen Kexing smiles, entertained by his logic.
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned about your virtue? A beauty like you in a strange court? You’re fortunate that I’m here to protect you. You’d drive all queens to distraction.”
“I’ve only seen Gu Xiang here,” Zhou Zishu replies, prying just a little. “Shouldn’t I be honored if she wants to court me?”
The flash of emotion that crosses Wen Kexing’s expression doesn’t give him the information he’d been fishing for, but it’s interesting in its own way. Wen Kexing has been so effusive in his praise that Zhou Zishu hadn’t believed the flirtation was genuine. The hot flare of annoyance in his eyes when Zhou Zishu suggests a match with Gu Xiang is almost enough to convince him.
He changes the subject to soothe Wen Kexing’s ruffled spines. Raksuran consorts are, on the whole, high-strung and temperamental. He doesn’t want to start a fight over something as ridiculous as a juvenile queen. Even if Gu Xiang is looking for a consort, she hasn’t shown any more interest in him than he has in her.
“Are all those here refugees from the Fell?” he asks, and sees Wen Kexing’s expression sober at once.
“The Fell, or the Raksura who might as well be Fell,” he answers grimly. “The courts are being poisoned in the south by Fell influence. Too many go mad, or submit to Fell control, and pay the cost.”
“In the south?” Zhou Zishu doesn’t hide his startled reaction. “I thought it was only in the north.”
Wen Kexing shakes his head. “There are Fell flights in both directions, creeping in toward the center from all sides. Some attack outright, and destroy whatever they find. Some gain influence and corrupt the colonies. The end result is all the same.”
“Chengling’s colony was lost to the Fell,” Zhou Zishu tells him, seeing no reason to lie. “He’s the only survivor of Mirror Lake. I found him hiding with a teacher who died soon after, and escaped with him. The Fell were busy…”
Feasting, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. Wen Kexing must already know. Thinking about it turns his stomach.
“And you?” Wen Kexing asks, thankfully turning the subject away from what the Fell do with their vanquished enemies. “Was your court lost as well? They must be missing you, otherwise.”
The Four Seasons court had fallen to his folly long before the Fell had arrived. There’s no explanation Zhou Zishu could give that would make sense of it.
There’s a whisper of movement above them, and he sees a ghost-pale shape flash between the stone columns of the gallery that overlooks the hall. The white queen is there and gone again before he can catch more than a glimpse of her, vanishing back into the shadows. He wonders if she’s been watching him, and for how long.
“I have no court,” he tells Wen Kexing. It’s not even a lie.
In the morning there’s a knife at the entrance to their bower.
“Is it a threat?” Chengling asks, big-eyed and worried. He’s shifted to Aeriat form, likely in response to Zhou Zishu’s caution, and peers out from behind Zhou Zishu at the blade on the cave floor.
Zhou Zishu gently but firmly removes Chengling’s curling tail from his waist and stoops to lift the knife. It’s keen-edged when he slides it from the cloth-wrapped sheath, light and deadly. Beneath it is a coiled belt of tooled leather, embossed with a delicate design of climbing flowers. The leather has been dyed the color of a forest beneath the tree canopy, and the hilt of the dagger winks with pale green amber.
Zhou Zishu was very young when his life as a sheltered and protected consort ended, but he still knows a courting gift when he sees one.
“No. It’s not for you,” he adds, having just reached that conclusion. Chengling is too young to be seriously courted, and Gu Xiang isn’t much older. This is a gift for Zhou Zishu from the ruling queen.
He wonders what Wen Kexing’s status is, and whether this will complicate things for him. He acts like a first consort, responsible for the harmony and well-being of everyone in the colony, but they’ve seen no other consorts to challenge that claim. Zhou Zishu wouldn’t necessarily displace him, but there can be hard feelings when a queen takes another consort. He doesn’t want to cause trouble in this place when they have nowhere else to go.
Liu Qianqiao is waiting for him when he emerges from the bower. He wonders if she’d been the one to leave the gift on behalf of her queen, or if Luo Fumeng had been here, as silent and swift as she’d been in the gallery the day before.
“Our queen invites you to take tea and refreshment with her,” she says, so perfectly neutral that he can’t tell her own feelings on the matter. He accepts with appropriate courtesy, and they go together to join the queen.
Liu Qianqiao hesitates briefly outside the entrance to the meeting hall. “Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?” she asks.
Zhou Zishu realizes he’s being offered a chaperone, and only just hides a smile. “I am very comfortable as a guest of this court,” he assures her. It’s a warning in its own way. He expects the ruling queen to honor court hospitality, and treat him with the same respect she would if he’d come with a delegation of protective sister-queens and armed warriors.
He doesn’t really think Luo Fumeng will be so enraptured by him that she’ll try to take him there in the meeting hall, but now they have an understanding. It’s more than another queen might have offered when faced with a nameless solitary in her colony.
Luo Fumeng proves his assessment of her correct. She observes every formality, speaking only through Liu Qianqiao, who inquires after his health and the comfort of Zhang Chengling. Wen Kexing must have told her everything they’d spoken of the day before, but she doesn’t pry into the fate of his court or the reason he’d traveled so far alone.
They drink pale green tea, sweet with flower petals. Luo Fumeng is attentive and keen-eyed, and every member of her court angles subtly toward her, centered on her quiet strength. She’s older and larger than he is, and radiates a calm, settled power that he responds to instinctively. She doesn’t try to exert her will on him as Gu Xiang had, only watches and listens to him as he speaks of the Fell attack on Zhang Chengling’s colony, and their journey here.
He can sense her coming to some decision, but before she or Liu Qianqiao can voice it, an alarm is raised from outside the cavern, echoing through the stone tunnels. Luo Fumeng looks up sharply as a bronze-scaled warrior skids into the hall, her spines flattened in submission but wings flared.
“Five Lakes,” she gasps, and, “a skirmish with a patrol…”
“A-Xing,” Luo Fumeng says sharply, speaking aloud for the first time. The warrior turns and leaps away, rebounding off the wall as she presumably goes to protect their first consort. “Qianqiao,” Luo Fumeng says next as she rises, and Liu Qianqiao follows her out, the other warriors falling into formation behind her.
One of the Arbora appears at Zhou Zishu’s side, correctly guessing his first priority. “Your fledgling has been taken to the nurseries. The teachers are with him. I can show you the way.”
The teachers bristle when he runs toward them, prepared to defend their charge from a stranger to the death, but Chengling cries out behind them and leaps for him. He hooks his claws into Zhou Zishu’s collar flanges and tucks himself tightly against Zhou Zishu’s chest.
The Arbora, familiar with a consort’s duty and instinct to safeguard fledglings, promptly reassemble around both of them. They wait in tense silence for the sounds of battle to reach them. Chengling trembles against him, undoubtedly remembering the last time he’d been guarded like this, and the destruction of his colony, his home, everything he’d ever known.
Zhou Zishu can’t reassure him now, while his instincts are focused on the danger outside and the possibility of a fight. He puts Chengling behind him, gentle but firm, teeth and claws ready for anyone who would dare an assault.
After long minutes of echoed shouts and the whisper of scales on stone, an all-clear is relayed down from the upper caves. It’s tempting to remain here for longer, just to be certain, but Zhou Zishu needs information. He and Chengling may have been followed here. If this attack was intended to drive them out, he needs to speak with Luo Fumeng before she cuts her losses and turns them over to her enemies.
“I need to see the queen,” he requests of the Arbora who’d led him here, and leaves Chengling in the well-guarded safety of the nurseries to beg another audience.
To his surprise, Zhou Zishu finds Wen Kexing with the warriors just outside of the cave mouth. Zhou Zishu blinks in the bright morning light. His eyes have grown accustomed to the dim, charmed glow of the caverns.
Wen Kexing shifts to groundling form when he sees Zhou Zishu, and the warriors around him all follow his lead at once. The fabric of his clothing is too dark to easily show stains, but there’s blood on his hands, which a moment before had been tipped with sharp, bronze-banded claws. Wen Kexing grimaces at the sight of it, and looks around until he finds a basin of water to rinse himself clean.
Zhou Zishu wonders whose blood it is, and whether the fighting had come closer to the colony than he’d thought. The court’s first consort should never have been in such direct danger that he’d need to defend himself, unless the situation had been dire.
The situation certainly doesn’t look dire. The warriors are at ease, and Wen Kexing appears relaxed when he dries his hands, not shaken by a close call. “A-Xu,” he calls, startling Zhou Zishu for a moment with both the endearment and reminder of the false name he’d given. “I hope you and Chengling are well?”
“Has there been trouble before, with the Five Lakes court?” It’s more blunt than he should be, but he’s still on edge. Seeing Wen Kexing with blood on his hands has done nothing to allay his urgent worry.
“They haven’t tried before, but we knew they might.” Wen Kexing glances at him, too knowing. “You think they were here for you?”
“For Chengling,” he admits, before he can keep the suspicion to himself. He nearly says more, but holds back. He doesn’t know Wen Kexing, and doesn’t have any relationship with this court. It’s unwise to be too trusting.
Wen Kexing studies him. He’s dark-haired in groundling form, like Zhou Zishu, but it’s a deep brown rather than black. The sunlight picks out the chestnut highlights around his pale face.
He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a shout from Gu Xiang, who lands with a thump on the ground beside them and shifts to groundling form nearly in the same breath.
Wen Kexing looks at her with a mix of indulgence and exasperation. “Don’t you know by now to wash before you shift? There’s blood all over your clothes now.”
“You’d already shifted,” she points out, unapologetic. “The patrols have gone all around the border. There’s no sign of anyone else.”
“Good girl. Are you hurt?” When she spins around to show him that she doesn’t have a scratch, he dismisses the warriors to keep watch, leaving the three of them alone at the entrance to the colony.
“I came to find your queen,” Zhou Zishu says. He doesn’t know yet whether Wen Kexing is aware of Luo Fumeng’s overture and courting gift, which makes it slightly awkward to ask for his aid in seeing her now. “Will she speak with me?”
“She’ll be busy now,” Wen Kexing answers. He shades his eyes to look up past the mountain peaks far above them, toward the open sky. Luo Fumeng must be with the warriors on patrol, or the Arbora soldiers on the ground. When Wen Kexing looks back at Zhou Zishu, there’s a teasing smile on his lips. “Did you come out here unarmed? You should at least carry a keen knife. It’s a dangerous valley.”
There’s a long dagger strapped against the small of Zhou Zishu’s back, but it’s obvious that Wen Kexing is referring to the courtship gift. He must know about it, then, and is giving his blessing. Zhou Zishu answers as diplomatically as he can. “I wouldn’t want to cause offense by taking something that belongs to another.”
Gu Xiang sniffs derisively. “No one belongs to anyone, can’t you use your nose?”
It’s a rhetorical question, since only queens can detect the scent-marking placed on consorts when they’re claimed. There’s no way for Zhou Zishu to know that Wen Kexing isn’t Luo Fumeng’s consort by scent, and he’s startled by the revelation.
“Silly girl, are you finished telling other people’s secrets?” Wen Kexing asks, with a look that’s as annoyed as it is fond. “Go inside and clean up before you bring scavengers.”
She does so with ill grace, leaving them to consider one another. “You’re unattached,” Zhou Zishu says at last, seeing no reason to avoid the subject.
“Luo-yi hasn’t taken a consort in turns,” Wen Kexing answers easily. “She may not be my birth-queen, but she’s the closest there is. Why? Are you interested?”
It’s too blunt, when Zhou Zishu is still adjusting his view of the court. They seem stable, even thriving, but a queen who hasn’t taken a consort means there are no royal clutches. Even if he takes on the duties of first consort, Wen Kexing won’t clutch with the Arbora if he hasn’t first been taken by a queen. Zhou Zishu has seen the nurseries now, empty of clutches and babies. This is a court without a future, if their fortunes don’t change.
He wonders if that’s why Wen Kexing hasn’t been offered to another court in exchange for an alliance. Ghost Valley’s situation might be too precarious for him to leave the colony.
“I didn’t come here looking for a queen,” Zhou Zishu answers, and sees a combination of relief and disappointment cross Wen Kexing’s expression.
It vanishes behind a mask so quickly that he wonders whether he saw it at all.
There’s another gift awaiting Zhou Zishu the next morning, left in the same place by the entrance to their bower. It’s a robe made from silk so fine, it slips through his fingers like melting ice. The cloth is dyed a pale sky blue, and the sash is embroidered with a long branch covered in blooming flowers.
It’s the second gift to feature a floral motif. He wonders uneasily if that’s deliberate, and whether he’s been recognized from his birth court.
He lets the robe slither through his hands onto the belt and sheathed knife next to the door. It’s not quite a rejection, but it isn’t acceptance either. Luo Fumeng seems to be a good queen, but Zhou Zishu doesn’t know that he wants to be taken and ruled by her. There’s too much that’s uncertain about this court.
That brings to mind his primary concern, Zhang Chengling. The fledgling is settling in well, growing friendly with Gu Xiang and several of the Arbora. He even ventures out on his own now, whenever he grows restless while Zhou Zishu is soaking in the hot spring pool or sleeping.
He seems to be modeling proper consort behavior from Wen Kexing, which is a headache that Zhou Zishu has chosen to ignore rather than address. He’s relieved that Chengling feels comfortable around another consort, but Zhou Zishu could have wished for a better example.
There’s something strange about Wen Kexing, and Zhou Zishu still hasn’t pinned down what it is. He fulfills his duties, offering them the courtesy of a good host, and everyone in the court respects and obeys him. Every so often, however, one of the warriors will pause in making a report, or Liu Qianqiao will appear to say the queen is asking for him, and the air will grow heavy with things unsaid. Wen Kexing had chided Gu Xiang for giving away the court’s secrets, but there are clearly more to be unearthed.
Chengling grows bolder in Wen Kexing’s company, offering sly comments and jokes, ignoring strict courtesy to pose questions more personal than a brief acquaintance warrants. He asks Wen Kexing outright about his relationship with Luo Fumeng, and whether he’s going to find a consort for Gu Xiang, and if the colony has favorable alliances for a union.
He acts, in short, exactly like Wen Kexing, who prods at Zhou Zishu’s reserve with similar questions like he’s prying open a closed shell.
They’re standing in the earth garden, surrounded by vivid green ferns and wood ear mushrooms, when Zhou Zishu finally cracks and turns the questioning around. He turns to look at Wen Kexing, who is in his Aeriat form, wings trailing behind him and tail lashing lazily over the carpet of plush green moss.
“Why haven’t you been taken by a queen, Lao Wen?”
It’s an intensely personal question, and Zhou Zishu doesn’t have the right to an answer. Even the teasing name is a pointed reminder that Wen Kexing is long past the age when he’d normally have been presented to a queen or offered to another court.
He sees surprise and perhaps even guilt cross Wen Kexing’s expression, but in the next moment they’re gone again, layered over with false cheer and sly charm. “After seeing your beauty, could any queen compare?”
Zhou Zishu doesn’t have time to reply before there’s a cry from the tunnel, alarm and worry twined in one voice. He’s quick to react, wings flaring and spines raised, but Wen Kexing is even faster. The air from his wings buffets Zhou Zishu when he launches from the ground, gliding across the cave to catch Luo Fumeng in his arms just as she stumbles in through the door.
Zhou Zishu can’t hear what they say to one another, only the panicked confusion in Luo Fumeng’s tone and the low, soothing murmur Wen Kexing offers in return. He has his wings mantled around her, hiding her from Zhou Zishu’s gaze so that all he can see of her distress is the coiling whip of her tail.
They shift together into groundling form and she sags into him, her face still hidden. Liu Qianqiao bursts in through the stone archway a moment later, her spines raised in alarm. She seems to relax slightly when she sees Wen Kexing, shifting respectfully to groundling form, but her eyes are only for her queen. “Is she…?”
Wen Kexing cuts her off, loudly enough to be obvious, and Zhou Zishu sees Liu Qianqiao’s gaze dart away, her eyes widening when she sees him standing there. “Only tired. I’ll take her back to her bower. Will you ask someone to accompany our guest through the garden? A-Xu, I’ll see you later tonight.”
Wen Kexing doesn’t wait for an answer, scooping his queen into his arms to carry her away. Zhou Zishu watches him go until he’s out of sight, and then finds his concern mirrored on Liu Qianqiao’s face when she meets his eyes.
“Is Luo Fumeng feeling unwell?” he asks, attempting politeness and diplomacy.
“She…falls ill, sometimes,” Liu Qianqiao answers. There’s still fear in her expression, and Zhou Zishu has the uneasy sense that it’s on his account, rather than her queen’s. “I’m sorry we disturbed you.”
He has more questions, but they aren’t for her, and this would be a cruel time to ask them. “I’m fine here,” he assures her. “You should be with your queen.”
Luo Fumeng doesn’t eat with them that night. Wen Kexing sweeps in just when tensions seem to be rising, and ripples of relief and calm pass through the court in his wake. The conversation shifts from hushed, tense whispers to eager chatter about what the hunters have brought in for the meal. His appearance seems to send a signal that all is well, at least for now.
Zhou Zishu waits until they’ve sampled the first offerings, nuts mixed with dried fruits and accompanied by bowls of strong green tea, before he asks. “Whatever it is, will you tell me?”
Wen Kexing doesn’t look at him. For a moment, Zhou Zishu thinks he’ll pretend not to have heard.
Then he says quietly, “Not yet.”
Zhou Zishu doesn’t expect to find a gift outside their bower in the morning, with Luo Fumeng indisposed, but it’s there nonetheless. Either she’s feeling better, or more likely, she’s made her selections already and it’s one of the Arbora or Liu Qianqiao who are delivering them.
The tea bowls are carved from pale green jade, so fine they’re nearly translucent, and gold has been hammered into wafer-thin leaves for embellishment on the pot. He stares at the tea set for a moment, and then at the blanket folded neatly beside it, which looks thick and warm.
“Another one?” Chengling looks around him at the gifts, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Two! She must really like you.”
Luo Fumeng hardly knows him, but for a queen in her position, that barely matters. What’s important is that he’s fertile, and capable of leading the colony as first consort, which will in turn free Wen Kexing for an alliance with another court.
Zhou Zishu looks hard at the blanket for another moment, his gaze tracing the bright red blossoms that adorn it. Then he nudges it out of the entryway with his foot to join the growing pile of offerings, stooping to add the tea set to the collection.
The first gifts had been adornments, easy for him to display as a signal that he welcomed the courtship. These are more permanent, with an accompanying expectation that he’d make his home here, filling his bower with tokens of his queen’s esteem.
He goes in search of Wen Kexing, with Chengling trailing along after him to tell him everything he’s learned about the Ghost Valley caverns. They find Gu Xiang instead. She and Chengling greet one another with genuine affection, her wing curving behind him and his tail curling shyly around her wrist.
“I’m looking for the consorts’ bower,” Zhou Zishu tells her, guessing that’s where Wen Kexing will be if he isn’t with his queen. “Can you tell me which way it is?”
Gu Xiang frowns, looking perplexed. “Don’t you know? You sleep there. It’s back that way, behind you.”
Zhou Zishu pauses for a moment to take that in. “Wen Kexing?”
Gu Xiang’s spines ripple in discomfort. “Ah. He’s been staying with us in the queens’ bower. There’s plenty of room, we have a lot of space.”
She looks in the next moment as though she regrets saying that last, but Zhou Zishu had already known there weren’t many queens here. Or any at all, besides Luo Fumeng and Gu Xiang.
“It’s not inconvenient for his favorite?” Zhou Zishu asks casually. Liu Qianqiao is clearly the queen’s favorite, but he hasn’t seen anyone with Wen Kexing who behaves like a favored lover.
“He doesn’t have a favorite. Why are you asking?” Gu Xiang retorts, suspicious now.
That’s unusual, when competition for the elevated status that comes along with being the first consort’s favorite lover is often fierce. With his looks, Wen Kexing would be a prize even without his proximity to the ruling queen.
Gu Xiang seems too artless to lie, however, and Zhou Zishu can’t think of a reason she would. “Will you take me to the queens’ bower instead?” he asks politely.
“Ah,” Gu Xiang says again, but after a long moment of indecision, she finally says, “Only to the door. You shouldn’t go in on your own. It’s this way, close to the mineral pools. Follow me.”
Zhou Zishu wonders if her objection is because he’d disturb Luo Fumeng’s private bower and leave his scent behind, or because she thinks he’ll be ravished the moment he steps into a queen’s bower without an escort. After what he’d seen yesterday, he doesn’t think Luo Fumeng is up to much ravishing, even if they’d both been inclined.
Gu Xiang calls a greeting as they near the entrance to a large cave, one that’s been hollowed out into a smooth circle and carved with images of Raksuran queens in their Aeriat form. The carvings’ wings are spread wide so they join tip-to-tip with their neighbors, forming a long line of figures in a ring around the bower.
Gu Xiang tries to put herself between them and the cave’s entrance, but Zhou Zishu is taller than she is and can easily see past her into the bower. It’s lit by a ring of glowing spell-stones, and he can feel heat from the brazier-bowl seeping out into the tunnel.
Luo Fumeng sits on the stone floor, her white scales catching the light. Her jewelry is askew, and the bare walls of the cave carry her voice to them, muttering to herself as she rocks back and forth.
Wen Kexing rises from his crouch beside her at Gu Xiang’s call, and is with them in the next moment, ushering them back down the tunnel and away from the bower.
“How is she?” Zhou Zishu asks, too shocked by Luo Fumeng’s condition to pretend he isn’t concerned.
The tight expression on Wen Kexing’s face tells him all he needs to know. Wen Kexing makes a sound that could have been a laugh, if there were any mirth in it. “You’ve seen. It will pass. It always does.”
Zhou Zishu studies his face, deciding whether to press him for more. It’s Chengling who asks hesitantly, “So this has happened before?”
“A-Xiang,” Wen Kexing says instead of answering him. “Why are all of you here?”
She looks sideways at Zhou Zishu, her spines rippling uneasily. “Zhou Xu wanted to see you.”
Zhou Zishu rescues her by stepping forward, pulling Wen Kexing’s attention to himself. He looks tired and worn, and Zhou Zishu wonders if he’d slept at all last night, or if he and Liu Qianqiao had kept a vigil over their ailing queen.
“We’ll leave you to rest,” he says, and takes Chengling’s wrist to lead him away. He can feel Wen Kexing’s eyes following him as they go.
The Ghost Valley court sings that night. Zhou Zishu hears it first as a low, reverberating hum in the stones, a feeling of communion and peace. Chengling sits up in his alcove bed, eyes wide.
Each colony has their own song, a living legacy passed down through every member. This one feels alien to him, as strange and beautiful as the court itself. Voices rise gradually, treble notes joining in harmony before falling away again. The notes are often dissonant, leaving the chorus unresolved and incomplete.
Zhou Zishu had grown up in a colony-tree, surrounded by flowers and orchards and open sky. The ethereal music sung by the Four Seasons court had been expansive and light, floating away into the air.
It’s different here in the caverns. Voices echo through the tunnels, eerie and distorted, and individual notes seem to die out rather than fade away. A colony’s song reflects its community, and this one is full of sorrow and pain, heavy with the bittersweet ache of loss.
Chengling shivers. Zhou Zishu rises from the floor and goes to sit next to him, close enough to share warmth and stave off some of the loneliness they must both feel, so far from their homes.
Something in him understands this song. It’s the part of him that remembers a colony-tree crowded with Arbora and Aeriat, lively company and a bustling court, now gone forever. He wonders if any of those here share a bloodline with Luo Fumeng, or if there was some truth to Wen Kexing’s claim that this colony is a shelter for solitaries with no other court.
He hears a quiet sniffle, and closes his eyes to listen for individual voices in the chorus, giving Chengling some privacy for his grief.
The ruling queen is the backbone of any court, and her voice binds the song together. Zhou Zishu can’t pick out Luo Fumeng among the chorus, but he feels in his bones when Wen Kexing sings, threading through the rise and fall of other voices.
The song changes slowly when he joins in, the notes of fear and sadness lifting upward into something new. The story becomes about resilience and unity, rebuilding from the ashes, a single clear note of hope ringing out above them all. He can hear Gu Xiang then, high and fierce, and Liu Qianqiao, steady and strong. The song goes on and on, until it ends on a single chord, every voice in harmony.
Zhou Zishu opens his eyes. Chengling is curled up asleep in the alcove, tears drying on his cheeks. Zhou Zishu brushes them away with his sleeve, then rises and leaves the bower.
The court is attuned to one another now, a blanket of tranquility settled over the night. Just like every Raksura can feel the internal pull south toward the heart of the three worlds, everyone in this colony has oriented in the same direction after that song. It should have been toward Luo Fumeng, but he already knows who he’ll find outside the caverns, looking up past the mountains at the moon.
He sits next to Wen Kexing in silence, and they gaze together at the clouds that veil the stars. Eventually Wen Kexing asks, “Is it a different song than they sing where you come from?”
“Every song is different,” Zhou Zishu answers. “And there’s no one left to sing the song I know.”
Wen Kexing’s exhale is pained. “There’s no one left to sing any of our songs.” His voice is more distant than it should be when they’re sitting so close together. “That’s why we sing this one.”
Zhou Zishu reaches out to wrap his hand around Wen Kexing’s unresisting wrist. “Will you tell me now?” he asks, searching Wen Kexing’s exhausted face. “If I knew what was wrong, I might be able to help.”
Wen Kexing sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he still looks tired, but the faint smile he offers might be the most genuine expression Zhou Zishu has seen him wear. “If I tell you everything, you might leave,” he says sadly. “And I’m not ready for you to go yet.”
Zhou Zishu can’t make any promises, but he knows the counter for that. “I might choose to stay.”
Wen Kexing looks back up at the moon. His wrist is warm in Zhou Zishu’s grasp, body heat shared between them. “You didn’t come here looking for a queen,” he reminds both of them, and Zhou Zishu thinks of the untouched courtship gifts piled by the entrance to his bower. “You’re too rare a flower to wither away in this place.”
Zhou Zishu looks at him sharply, but Wen Kexing doesn’t react, even at the tightening of Zhou Zishu’s hand on his wrist. The mention of flowers could mean nothing, but he thinks of the belt, the robe, the blanket, and wonders whether Wen Kexing knows more than he’s said, and is whispering in Luo Fumeng’s ear. It’s a consort’s place, after all, to inform and advise the queen, and to have eyes and ears on every level of the court.
The silence and darkness around them allow Zhou Zishu to ask what he hadn’t dared to before. “Lao Wen. Do you know who I am?”
The corner of Wen Kexing’s mouth turns up slightly. “Since the moment I saw you.” Then he adds with false lightness, spoiling the moment, “A beauty beyond compare.”
Zhou Zishu can feel him sliding away, slippery and elusive, a fish unwilling to be caught. He’s retreated behind the mask he wears during the day, beyond Zhou Zishu’s ability to reach him.
“I didn’t know before that we’d put you out of your bower,” Zhou Zishu says after a pause. “I’m sure we could find somewhere else to sleep if you’d like to return.”
Wen Kexing stands, and the fragile connection between them breaks. “There are no consorts in this court,” he says, without looking at Zhou Zishu. “You might as well have it.”
There’s another attack on the colony the next day. Zhou Zishu is halfway to the nurseries to guard Chengling when he realizes that Luo Fumeng is still unwell, and possibly won’t be able to fight. As fierce as Gu Xiang is, she won’t have the experience to counter an assault.
Zhou Zishu shouldn’t have that kind of experience either, but pretending to be a sheltered consort isn’t as important as protecting the colony. He’ll deal with any fallout after he’s driven off their enemies. Ghost Valley is well-defended, but warriors alone are no match for a queen. At least he can give them a fighting chance.
Somehow it isn’t a surprise to see that Wen Kexing has had the same idea. He’s standing on one side of the gorge that leads to the caverns, sunlight gleaming against his black scales. Gu Xiang is at his side, and the warriors are arrayed behind them.
The other court stands on the opposite side in battle lines. Wen Kexing has them talking for now, but Zhou Zishu can sense the tension on both sides. He doesn’t think a parley will hold for long.
“Give us the fledgling, and we’ll leave,” calls a familiar voice, and shock goes down Zhou Zishu’s spine. If Han Ying is leading the warriors, then he knows which court has come for Zhang Chengling.
“If we had any fledglings you were looking for,” Wen Kexing replies, sounding entirely casual, “do you really think we would turn them over to you? This is an act of war.”
Zhou Zishu moves silently through the lines of warriors. Wen Kexing’s gaze cuts sideways to him for a moment when Zhou Zishu reaches his side, then returns to Han Ying.
“It doesn’t need to come to that,” Han Ying presses. His wings are held stiffly behind his back, but his spines are flat. He’s here out of duty to his court, not a thirst for a battle.
“A-Xu, these people seem to be concerned over your fledgling,” Wen Kexing remarks. “Do you think they’d look out for his well-being?”
“I know them,” Zhou Zishu says bluntly, low-voiced and urgent, sacrificing the last of his cover. “I know their tactics. I can fight.”
“What a coincidence,” Wen Kexing replies, and spreads his wings behind him. “So can I.”
He leaps from the cliff and the warriors follow him, falling into formation. It happens so swiftly that Han Ying’s warriors barely have time to take flight before Wen Kexing is on them, ruthless and efficient. Zhou Zishu darts between the ranks of warriors, faster than any of them, striking and retreating too quickly to be caught in an engagement. None of them are a match for him.
It will be bloodier for the Ghost Valley warriors, however, if he doesn't end this quickly. Zhou Zishu climbs into the air to gain height above the battle and circles once, calculating his aim, then drops into a steep dive.
Han Ying sees him at the last moment, but instead of bracing himself with claws and teeth to tear into Zhou Zishu’s belly, he rolls away and goes limp, tucking his wings against his back and letting Zhou Zishu pluck him out of the air. The momentum carries them into a roll, plunging them into the canyon before their wings snap open to stabilize them. Han Ying twists in his grip, tangling them together further, his eyes wide and shocked. “Zhou–”
There’s a scream of outrage above them, and a flash of black scales in the sunlight. Wen Kexing hits them like an avalanche, pulling Zhou Zishu away and coiling to strike, his disemboweling claws aimed at Han Ying’s belly.
“Wait!” Zhou Zishu’s tone is sharp enough for Wen Kexing to pause, however briefly. Han Ying takes the opportunity to push away, but wisely doesn’t try to flee. Wen Kexing’s prey reflex would likely overrule the momentary truce if he did, and a consort flies much faster than a warrior.
Han Ying acts quickly, flattening his spines in submission and calling out to his forces. “Stop!”
It throws the warriors on both sides into confusion. In the next moment, Wen Kexing has his teeth at Han Ying’s throat, which is enough to make those nearest them echo Han Ying with sharp cries of alarm.
To his credit, Han Ying’s voice is clear and steady when he calls the retreat, although Zhou Zishu can see him trembling with the effort of remaining still and unresisting in Wen Kexing’s hold. The warriors regroup and hesitate, shifting restlessly, but Han Ying calls to them again and they move away, flying slowly back through the gorge.
Zhou Zishu holds his breath. Wen Kexing’s claws are slick with blood, and there’s a fury in his eyes that isn’t quite rational. Zhou Zishu isn’t sure, even with their victory, that he won’t snap Han Ying’s neck. From Han Ying’s look when he meets Zhou Zishu’s eyes, he isn’t certain either.
“Don’t look at him,” Wen Kexing snarls at Han Ying, and several things belatedly fall into place in Zhou Zishu’s mind.
The Ghost Valley warriors hadn’t surrounded Wen Kexing on the cliff, and hadn’t tried to protect him when he’d leapt across the gorge. They hadn’t treated him like a first consort, too valuable to risk in a fight. They’d obeyed and followed him as they would a queen.
Zhou Zishu considers how he’d act in this situation with an enraged queen, whose instincts must be screaming to protect a consort. He hesitates for only a second, and then feigns a swoon, letting himself pitch slightly toward the canyon floor.
Wen Kexing drops Han Ying and catches him before he’s fallen more than a few lengths, his body curling around Zhou Zishu’s to ease his descent. Zhou Zishu makes himself a limp weight. If Wen Kexing’s arms are occupied with holding him, he can’t be sinking his claws into Han Ying.
“Bring him,” Wen Kexing snaps at the warriors. The viciousness in his tone is a sharp contrast to the careful way he cradles Zhou Zishu against his chest. Han Ying glides down into the gorge, escorted by the Ghost Valley warriors, and Zhou Zishu lets himself take a breath.
Gu Xiang tumbles out of the air to land beside them just as Wen Kexing gently sets Zhou Zishu down on the ground. “Why did you let them go?” she demands, every inch as aggressive as Wen Kexing had been a moment before.
As aggressive as he still is, based on the way he growls at her. Gu Xiang is unmoved, but every warrior around them, including Han Ying, goes instantly still.
“Did you want to chase them all the way out of the valley? We have their leader.” Wen Kexing’s tail lashes irritably toward Han Ying, and he narrows his eyes at Zhou Zishu. “I assume this is their leader.”
Zhou Zishu feels as though the ground is unsteady under him. He can’t tell whether Wen Kexing is angry at him for engaging with Han Ying, or at his dishonesty, or at the situation in general and merely seeking a target for his temper. “Yes,” he answers.
“I want to know why you’re here,” Wen Kexing says, turning to Han Ying. “And then I want you to carry a message back to your queen that your presence is unwelcome here, and we won’t be so lenient in the future.”
Zhou Zishu speaks before he can think better of it. “You can’t.” Wen Kexing hisses, but it’s not a genuine threat, and not nearly enough to deter him. “Lao Wen. You can’t send him back.”
“Do you want to keep him instead? Is he your favorite?” Wen Kexing looks more annoyed than jealous. Zhou Zishu keeps the answer to that question behind his teeth anyway. The situation won’t be helped by any admission regarding Han Ying.
“You know why,” Zhou Zishu says, low and level.
Wen Kexing looks mutinous, and then he hisses again at the assembled warriors, scattering them against the cliff face and onto boulders as they put distance between themselves and an angry consort. “Report to the queen. Send the hunters out for fresh kills. Double the patrols in case they’re foolish enough to return. A-Xiang, keep an eye on this one.”
Wen Kexing stalks away into the caverns, ignoring Han Ying, who now has a wary eye on Gu Xiang. Zhou Zishu glances at them and deems him safe enough for now. Wen Kexing has given orders that he’ll be released, and Gu Xiang won’t disobey him to kill their prisoner.
Now that he understands how this court functions, Zhou Zishu doesn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before. Gu Xiang, the warriors, the Arbora, they all treat Wen Kexing as their leader. All the strangeness surrounding Wen Kexing makes sense, given this new perspective. He isn’t acting as first consort at all. He’s acting as the ruling queen.
Wen Kexing launches himself into the air once they’re into the entrance hall, spiraling toward the upper caves along the gallery. When Zhou Zishu glides to a landing after him, he finds Wen Kexing in what looks like an unused bower, dropping with a splash into a cold pool to rinse the blood from his scales.
He doesn’t look at Zhou Zishu when he resurfaces, snapping his wings open to shed water as he rises from the pool. “Now you know our secret,” he says. “Don’t worry, we won’t kill you for it.”
The problem is that Zhou Zishu isn’t the only one who knows. Han Ying has seen enough to have put the pieces together as well, and Wen Kexing’s choices are to kill him or hope he keeps quiet, without any incentive to do so.
“You rule the Ghost Valley court,” Zhou Zishu says, wanting to put it plainly between them.
“Luo Fumeng is the ruling queen,” Wen Kexing says sharply, with a warning look that glances off Zhou Zishu and away again. “Gu Xiang will rule after her. I’m only holding it for her, in trust.”
It’s not a distinction that will matter to other Raksuran courts, if the news reaches them. “This colony will become a target if anyone else learns the queen isn’t well enough to rule. You only have one juvenile queen here, and one consort. You’ll be easy prey for a Fell flight, or another court.”
“That’s my concern, not yours,” Wen Kexing returns, but his body gives him away, his tail restless and a note of weariness in his voice. After a moment he says, “Luo-yi can rule. She isn’t always ill, she just gets confused sometimes. She was…unsettled, after the destruction of her colony.”
Zhou Zishu knows the way Fell influence can creep into the mind, turning Raksura into traitors to their own courts and subverting their wills. For Luo Fumeng to resist that corruption and free herself, she must be even stronger than he’d imagined.
“You can’t send Han Ying away from here,” Zhou Zishu says again, returning to the point. “If he tells other courts what he’s seen, you’ll be in danger.”
“Would you prefer I kill him?” The question is meant to make Zhou Zishu flinch, but it’s a clumsy barb, however cruel. The next one has better aim. “You know him. He didn’t fight you, not even a scratch. Was he your favorite, before you came here?”
In his tone is all the jealousy that had been absent before, the sweet, bitter venom of a question asked when the answer is already known. “Yes,” Zhou Zishu says evenly, and watches Wen Kexing’s bronze-banded claws flex in frustration.
Tension grows between them, pulling taut until Wen Kexing snaps it abruptly. “You decide what to do with him then,” he says, turning away to leave the bower. “His life is yours.”
He’s gone before Zhou Zishu can think of what else to say.
Han Ying rises when Zhou Zishu enters the cave he’s being held in. He’s in groundling form, either forced into it by Gu Xiang or deliberately as a sign of surrender. There are soldiers guarding the cave’s entrance, but Wen Kexing must have sent word ahead, because they let Zhou Zishu pass unchallenged.
“Tell me,” he orders, and Han Ying obeys as though Zhou Zishu hadn’t fled the Northern Reaches for another court, leaving chaos in his wake.
“There are rumors everywhere about magical artifacts that can preserve Raksuran colonies against the Fell. More colonies have fallen to Fell attacks, and others are under suspicion of Fell influence. Anyone could be controlled by them without knowing. The courts are desperate.” Han Ying pauses before confessing, “They believe the Mirror Lake colony had such an artifact before it fell, and that the only survivor must have it.”
Zhou Zishu remembers the earlier confrontation with the Five Lakes court, and Wen Kexing saying he’d known they might attack. If the rumors are everywhere, it’s possible that Wen Kexing knows about them, too. Yet he hasn’t pressed Chengling or Zhou Zishu, hasn’t even asked about an artifact which, if the stories can be believed, might protect his vulnerable court.
“Your orders are to retrieve this artifact?” Zhou Zishu surmises. The Northern Reaches wouldn’t want to let anything so powerful slip out of their reach.
Han Ying hesitates. “My orders were to retrieve the Mirror Lake fledgling,” he answers, and Zhou Zishu reads a wealth of information into those carefully-chosen words.
Stealing a fledgling, even one without the formal protection of a court, is a serious offense. It’s enough to make other courts take action, especially if they’re all secretly hoping to accomplish the same thing. Zhang Chengling himself has little value, apart from his bloodline. Stealing him, rather than whatever artifact he might be carrying, suggests that the true goal is to silence him.
“You were right,” Han Ying says suddenly, taking a step closer to Zhou Zishu. “About the corruption in the court. It’s grown worse since you left, we can all see it. The Fell have their hand in it, even if no one can prove it.” He halts again, visibly struggling against himself before he finishes, “I would have gone with you, if I’d known you were leaving. Others would, too.”
Zhou Zishu’s greatest advantages when making his escape from the court had been speed, stealth, and surprise. Even if he’d believed there were warriors loyal to him, they would only have slowed him down.
That’s unkind to say, however, in the face of Han Ying’s devotion.
“You haven’t been stolen,” Han Ying says hesitantly, not quite making it a question. “I could…”
He could do very little, as a captive inside the colony, but Zhou Zishu still has to fight a smile at the gesture. He believes that Han Ying would try to rescue him if he asked, and that feels like a gift he doesn’t deserve, one that’s been in front of him for seasons without him ever knowing it.
“I haven’t been stolen,” he assures Han Ying, before any misunderstandings arise. He has the feeling that Wen Kexing’s tolerance for misunderstandings on Han Ying’s account will be low. “I’m a guest of the court. They sheltered me when I came here with Zhang Chengling.”
“The fledgling?” Han Ying’s expression shifts to amazement. “Then he is here with you?”
“I’ve pledged to keep him safe,” Zhou Zishu answers, and Han Ying’s spines lower in an immediate show of submission. It’s enough to satisfy him that Han Ying won’t make an attempt to steal Chengling if he’s presented with the opportunity. He makes his decision then, and hopes that Wen Kexing will honor his own promise to leave Han Ying’s fate up to him.
“You can’t stay here,” he tells Han Ying, whose spines lift again in wordless protest. “If you don’t return, they’ll send even more warriors after you, and for Chengling. Tell them you’ve seen the colony, and there are no fledglings here. Gather those who would leave the court, and take them with you if you can. Bring them here as soon as you can without being followed. If you can’t leave safely, stay in the north, and I’ll come for you when I can.”
Han Ying’s spines ripple in discomfort. “I should stay with you,” he protests, reluctant.
“We’re both safer if you go.” Zhou Zishu hesitates briefly. He thinks of stepping forward and leaning in to nip the soft skin just below Han Ying’s ear, but this isn’t the place or time for that kind of reassurance. Instead he says, “One way or another, I’ll see you before the season’s end.”
Zhou Zishu speaks with one of the teachers watching over Chengling, and asks for tea to be brought to their bower. When he emerges from bathing briefly in the cold pool, he finds several pouches of dried leaves, each mixed with a different combination of flower petals, barks, and berries, but no pot of hot water.
Arbora are notoriously interfering, often delighting in schemes and well-intended conspiracies. Zhou Zishu looks at the pouches, then at the fine jade tea set, and sighs. It would be rude to call for someone to bring another pot when he has one here. It’s probably why the tea was left at the door so silently in the first place.
He puts water into the pot over the brazier-bowl. Then he shifts to groundling form and considers his clothing. He’s kept it reasonably clean, but their journey had been a long one, and he’d fled with only Chengling and the clothes he’d been wearing at Mirror Lake. After a long deliberation, he dresses in the blue silk robe and secures it with the embossed leather belt.
Then he steps out into the tunnel, stops the first member of the court he sees, and asks if Wen Kexing would join them for tea.
He has a moment to regret his choices when Wen Kexing’s eyes go immediately to his robe, his belt, and then the tea set in short order. A pleased smile begins to overtake the hard set of his mouth. Zhou Zishu had intended this as a peace offering, but he’s only willing to offer so much.
“Don’t look so happy,” he warns. “I only needed clean clothes and a tea pot.”
“Of course,” Wen Kexing agrees, not looking as though he’s heeded that warning in the slightest. “We’ve been negligent in our hospitality. You should want for nothing while you’re here.”
Zhou Zishu ignores this and settles on one side of the brazier, turning his attention to serving the tea.
Wen Kexing surprises him by reaching out to close his hand over Zhou Zishu’s wrist, halting his movement. “Please,” he requests, and takes over with the pot and leaves, stirring in sun-dried berries to sweeten the blend.
Gently-bred consorts are taught tea ceremonies from a young age, and Wen Kexing performs with the grace of long practice. Zhou Zishu watches his movements until Wen Kexing catches him at it and threatens him with a smile again, and then he turns his attention to correcting Chengling’s posture and table manners.
“There are things you should know,” Zhou Zishu says at last, directing the words to both Wen Kexing and Chengling. “Some I haven’t told you, and some I’ve only just found out.”
“From your favorite in the Northern Reaches?” Wen Kexing asks, too casually. There’s a caution in his tone, the threat of an insect ready to sting.
Chengling looks between them. Zhou Zishu says steadily, “My true name is Zhou Zishu. Before I was a guest at the Mirror Lake colony, I was born into the Four Seasons court. We lost our ruling queen and first consort when I was young, and our colony-tree seed was stolen. We were vulnerable, so I led our court to join with the Northern Reaches colony. There were others of my bloodline there, other consorts who’d left our court.”
There’s an off-note in Wen Kexing’s voice when he says, “I didn’t know the Four Seasons court had survived, after the colony-tree was abandoned.”
Zhou Zishu is silent for a moment before he replies. “It didn’t. There is corruption in the Northern Reaches colony. I’m the last surviving member of my court.”
No one speaks. Then Wen Kexing reaches out and wordlessly refills Zhou Zishu’s tea bowl, even though he’s hardly touched it. He appreciates the gesture, and takes a sip to steady himself for the rest of the confession.
“There are rumors that Mirror Lake held some means of purging Fell influence. That’s why those from Northern Reaches traveled so far south, and most likely why the Five Lakes court came.” He looks from Wen Kexing to Chengling. “They believe something was taken from Mirror Lake when the Fell attacked.”
Chengling looks back at him with big, dark eyes, his thoughts clear behind them. Zhou Zishu addresses Wen Kexing again before Chengling feels pressured into a confession of his own. “You deserve to know that if you continue to harbor us, it may put you in danger.”
Wen Kexing leans back slightly, turning his bowl in his hand. “Where would you go, if you left here? Where were you heading when you crossed into our territory?”
It’s not a comfortable question, because Zhou Zishu has nothing like a reasonable answer. “I would have looked for consorts of Chengling’s bloodline, and tried to place him with a court.”
Wen Kexing’s eyebrows prompt him for the rest of his plan, but the truth is that Zhou Zishu hadn’t made one. He’d never imagined he could live as a solitary, but he’d seen no other choice. Some part of him even believes he deserves exile, after the loss of his court.
Chengling rescues him with a tentative question. “What do you mean by corruption?”
Zhou Zishu exchanges a glance with Wen Kexing. There’s flint in the gaze that meets his, an anger and hard knowledge that he recognizes from his own experience.
“The Fell don’t only attack directly,” Zhou Zishu answers. “They can influence thoughts, induce forgetfulness, and take control of other minds. They can turn Raksura against one another, and poison a colony from within.”
“Raksura don’t need corruption to turn on one another.” It’s a harsh interjection, the tone as surprising as the words. Wen Kexing’s gaze is unfocused on the stone walls, his mouth curled into something scornful and bitter.
Zhou Zishu stares at him, surprised by the sudden shift in his mood. Wen Kexing stands, masked and remote, leaving his tea abandoned next to the brazier.
His voice is cold when he says, “The Fell are only an excuse.”
“Ah,” Chengling says when he goes to leave the bower the next morning. He stands there for so long that Zhou Zishu stops his meditation to find out what’s wrong.
There are two baskets piled high with clothes in the archway. The woven fabrics look soft and warm, a departure from the light silk of the robe he’d been given first. They’re dyed in colors of the sky, grays and blues and muted white, and there are layers of robes, tunics, trousers, and thick cloaks. Between the baskets is a small, open chest filled with jewelry.
Zhou Zishu hisses through his teeth. “Wen Kexing,” he growls, and steps over the baskets to handle this directly.
Chengling trails after him to the meeting hall, where Wen Kexing is conspicuously absent from the bustle of the morning meal. Zhou Zishu has just decided to try the queens’ bower next when a cry goes up from the direction of the main entrance, and the hall is suddenly filled by the biggest Raksura that Zhou Zishu has ever seen.
Line-grandfathers are rare, and he’s never seen one as old as this one must be. For reasons no one understands, some consorts simply fail to die in the span of their natural life. And as they age, they continue to grow.
This one dwarfs the startled Raksura that are cast into his shadow, some of whom leap up the walls in surprise as he circles above them. He’s hard to look at directly, shimmering with the magic that’s kept him alive for so long, and his growl causes the cavern around them to tremble with the vibrations.
Zhou Zishu puts himself in front of Chengling instinctively. The line-grandfather lands with the subtlety of an earthquake, jarring another tremor from the stone around them. He growls again, his eyes fixed on Zhou Zishu. Then his outline blurs further, and suddenly there’s a consort in groundling form dressed all in white, his eyes hard and flat.
“Is that the Mirror Lake fledgling?” he demands coldly. When Zhou Zishu doesn’t reply, he hisses in irritation. “Give him to me.”
Zhou Zishu feels Chengling’s hand curl in the fabric of his sleeve. It’s an unnecessary plea. Zhou Zishu has pledged to defend him against all threats, even when it’s a fight he can’t possibly win.
“I’m sorry,” he says evenly. “I will not.”
The line-grandfather growls again, and while it doesn’t shake the stones when he’s in this form, it’s still enough of a threat to make Zhou Zishu’s shoulders draw back, trying to flatten spines he doesn’t currently have. Every instinct screams at him to transform out of this fragile, soft-skinned shape, but the etiquette of his upbringing wins out.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” says the line-grandfather. “Turn him over, and we’ll speak no more of it.”
“I’m sorry,” Zhou Zishu says again, “but no.”
He almost doesn’t transform in time. The line-grandfather is a sudden blur of motion, huge and shockingly fast, one enormous clawed hand batting him aside like a broken reed. He crashes into the stone wall and barely gets his feet under him to rebound, his wings snapping open as he leaps back toward Chengling.
He realizes with a sinking heart that the line-grandfather is even stronger and swifter than he’d thought, dodging him without any effort and knocking him out of the air, slamming him into unyielding stone for a second time. None of the Raksura in the hall have come to his aid, but he supposes it’s actually a blessing that they haven’t turned on him outright. He can only just hold his own against the line-grandfather, and won’t last for long. He’d never stand against an entire colony.
He crashes into the wall for a third time, slower to rise afterward, and staggers grimly back toward Chengling. It’s difficult to tell whether the line-grandfather is impressed with his persistence, or just annoyed. The same massive hand swings down at him, claws extended, and he braces himself for an impact that somehow fails to come.
Wen Kexing falls on the line-grandfather snarling and hissing, claws out and teeth bared, a flurry of furious motion that’s only slightly more effective against the line-grandfather than the play-fighting of a fledgling. He only lands as many blows as he does through surprise, and then the line-grandfather catches him and flings him away with as little care as he’d shown Zhou Zishu.
Wen Kexing springs into the air, swiveling in mid-leap and diving onto the line-grandfather’s back, only to be thrown off when the line-grandfather shakes himself irritably and sends him rolling across the stone floor. The line-grandfather refocuses on Zhou Zishu, and takes a single step toward him before Wen Kexing hurls himself between them, wings flared wide.
Zhou Zishu readies himself to leap, but the line-grandfather, having grown impatient with them, kicks both legs out and sends Wen Kexing flying backward into him. They both crash into the wall yet again, and this time the impact is enough to stun them both into transforming.
The injuries are ten times worse in his groundling form, and for a moment Zhou Zishu can’t even take in a breath. The consort in white, having shifted as well, stalks up to them and looks down, face impassive.
“Wen Kexing,” he says, plainly unimpressed. “Why are you always such a pain?”
Wen Kexing, battered but still determined, bares his teeth again and hisses. Zhou Zishu clenches a fist in Wen Kexing’s silk tunic and wonders whether he has any chance of saving either one of them.
A rustle goes through the room, and Zhou Zishu drags his gaze up to see Luo Fumeng, supported by a worried-looking Liu Qianqiao. “Ye Baiyi,” she says, and holds out her hand.
The line-grandfather crosses to her in three swift paces, bracing her other side. His expression is unchanged, but his arm beneath hers is careful and gentle. “Brat,” he says without looking away from her, “come up to the queens’ bower with tea. The good kind, not that weak grass from the plains.”
“Boil yourself instead,” Wen Kexing snarls.
“And bring fresh meat,” the line-grandfather adds, unperturbed. “I’m hungry.”
“What happened to you?” Gu Xiang demands when she sees them. She’s draped with necklaces and bracelets of pale lavender jade, and seems to have been lounging in their bower waiting for them while picking through the contents of this morning’s jewelry chest.
“Ye Baiyi,” Chengling answers, half in question. He’s half-under Zhou Zishu, supporting him step-by-step as they move forward at roughly the speed of a tree slug.
Gu Xiang’s eyes go even wider. “You fought the line-grandfather? Are you crazy or stupid? Do you know how old he is?”
Zhou Zishu bites his tongue on the petulant reply that Wen Kexing had fought him as well, and certainly knows his age and ability better than Zhou Zishu. Chengling, staggering a little as they list toward the sleeping alcoves, asks, “Is he really your line-grandfather?”
“No. Yes. It’s complicated. Don’t sit there, it’s hard and you won’t get up, come to the hot spring pool. Do you have any healing herbs? You’re bruised all over!” Gu Xiang jumps up to assist Chengling in navigating toward the pools, taking most of Zhou ZIshu’s weight on her stronger frame.
“I’d thought none of the Raksura here were related by bloodline,” Zhou Zishu says. It’s something he’s grown more certain of over the past days, after seeing more of the court.
“That’s why it’s complicated,” Gu Xiang says impatiently. “Ye-qianbei is the founder of this colony, though. Why did you fight him? Where’s…?”
She breaks off abruptly, and Zhou Zishu wonders what she’d been about to call Wen Kexing instead of ‘the first consort.’
“With Luo Fumeng,” Zhou Zishu answers, and then groans embarrassingly when they set him down on the edge of the pool and every ache redoubles at once.
“He tried to steal me,” Chengling tells her earnestly.
Gu Xiang frowns at him, bristling. “That doesn’t make any sense. Who would want you?”
Everyone, Zhou Zishu thinks, and winces as something spasms in his back, setting off a cascade of sharp pains when he flinches.
“Luo-yi will sort it out,” Gu Xiang assures them. “Here, get in the pool, it will be good for you.”
Zhou Zishu sheds his clothes and slides into the water with a shuddering sigh. Gu Xiang has scooped in water from the cold pool with his emptied tea pot, so the temperature is just tolerable in his groundling form, enveloping him in heat without scalding him.
“Don’t burn yourself. You, keep adding water,” she orders Chengling, thrusting the tea pot in his direction.
Chengling submits to Gu Xiang without complaint, dipping the tea pot and pouring another stream of water into the pool. He’s obedient enough to make an excellent queen’s consort one day, while still being lively and curious, not cowed by a strong queen’s aggression.
Zhou Zishu catches himself wondering if Wen Kexing was ever submissive and obedient in his life, even when he was a fledgling. He can’t picture it.
“Why haven’t we met the line-grandfather before?” Chengling asks.
Gu Xiang’s shrugs, a movement that simulates the ripple of absent spines. “We don’t see him very often. He travels a lot. He gets sad being here sometimes. Everyone he used to know is dead.”
Neither of them seem to know what to say to that. Zhou Zishu hisses involuntarily in mixed relief and discomfort as the temperature rises, and Chengling hastily scoops another pot of cold water into the pool.
Zhou Zishu spares a thought for Wen Kexing, who must be in at least as much pain as he is, and likely receiving far less sympathy. It makes his mouth twitch into a smile, which hurts. Everything hurts.
“If he does try to steal you,” he tells Chengling, sobering, “I’ll stop him.”
Gu Xiang snorts. “You can’t even stand right now. How are you going to fight someone?”
Chengling perches on the edge of the pool and frets, avoiding Zhou Zishu’s gaze and fidgeting with the tea pot. Zhou Zishu has plenty of time right now, so he waits in the bliss of the hot spring until Chengling works up the nerve to say whatever’s on his mind.
“Before,” Chengling says finally. “You said your colony-tree seed had been stolen, and that made you vulnerable. Why?”
The Mirror Lake colony had been built into the cliffs on an island, carved into the rock face over the sea. Chengling might never have seen a colony-tree, being a consort too young to normally leave the safety of his court. Zhou Zishu sees the Four Seasons colony-tree behind his closed eyes, rising up to tower above the forest floor.
“A colony-tree is shaped by the Raksura who inhabit it,” he explains quietly. “They’re the size of mountains, and hundreds can live inside them, an entire court. The wood grows with the colony, and the branches are braided together to form platforms with orchards and gardens. Rain is channeled into waterfalls for drinking, and to feed the bathing pools.
“At the heart of every colony-tree is a seed. When the seed dies, or is removed from the tree, the tree will rot. Ours was taken in order to drive us out.”
He opens his eyes now, not wanting to revisit the memory of that vacant hollow. “Just as our court mourned the loss of our queens and consorts, our home itself pined away from grief.”
Ye Baiyi strides into the room later that evening, bringing Zhou Zishu to his feet in front of Chengling. Wen Kexing is right behind him, looking vexed but not genuinely worried. He must have been tended at least a little in the intervening hours, because the places his skin had scraped raw against the stone have been cleaned, and he smells of herbs.
“Line-grandfather,” Zhou Zishu says respectfully, still cautious.
“My descendants tell me you didn’t steal the fledgling,” says Ye Baiyi without preamble. “Half the inhabitants of the three worlds are looking for him now, claiming he’s been taken against his will.”
“What descendants?” Wen Kexing snaps irritably. Ye Baiyi ignores him.
“I brought him with me when I fled the Fell attack on the Mirror Lake colony,” Zhou Zishu answers calmly. “He’s in my care until I can deliver him to others of his bloodline.”
Ye Baiyi grunts. He casts a look over the baskets of clothes, the tea set, the blanket and knife by the door, the casket of jewelry open with its contents strewn across the floor by Gu Xiang. Zhou Zishu tries not to go hot with embarrassment at the mess. It’s more difficult when Ye Baiyi turns to quirk an eyebrow at Wen Kexing and asks, “Did you empty your bower to shower him in gifts?”
“This is my bower,” Wen Kexing hisses. “It’s much more pleasant without you in it.”
“It’s my bower too, brat,” Ye Baiyi replies. Zhou Zishu blinks, his stomach dropping at that reminder. Ye Baiyi is a consort of this court, even if he is an unusual one.
“You never use it,” Wen Kexing argues. “You hang from the ceiling of the entrance hall like a stormcloud over everyone’s heads.”
“That’s because I can’t sleep in here with all of your chatter.” Ye Baiyi turns his back on Wen Kexing, ignoring the way Wen Kexing immediately draws up to his full height at the insult. If he’d been in Aeriat form, Zhou Zishu thinks, his spines would have been standing on end.
“His sire had an alliance with a consort of my blood. As did yours,” Ye Baiyi adds, knocking Zhou Zishu’s breath from him again. “You’re one of Qin Huaizhang’s, aren’t you? I knew him when he was first taken by his queen. It’s obvious just by looking at you. Even this fool could tell you’d come from a good court.”
Zhou Zishu intervenes hastily, before Wen Kexing’s sharp indrawn breath can become a shout of outrage. “I didn’t realize. Please forgive me for mistaking your intention.”
“Don’t be so formal, it gives me a headache. If you’re looking after him, I won’t need to go to the trouble. He’ll be safer here than anywhere else anyway.” Ye Baiyi looks Chengling over. “He’s small to cause so much trouble.”
He looks at Zhou Zishu next, and in much the same way, flat and unimpressed. “So are you, and you’ve caused nearly as much. Are you even able to protect a fledgling?”
“Everyone is small, compared to you,” Wen Kexing hisses. He’s edged his way around Ye Baiyi to stand beside Zhou Zishu, and is now angling himself between them like a shield. “No one will dare harm them. I’ll keep both of them safe.”
Ye Baiyi snorts. “You’re like a daughter-queen who’s stolen her first consort. I’m going to sleep now,” he declares, ignoring the way Wen Kexing has stiffened again. “I’ve been flying for days. Make sure the hunters have killed something for me in the morning.”
Zhou Zishu grabs Wen Kexing by the wrist before he can do anything foolish, like launch himself at Ye Baiyi here in the middle of the bower. “Thank you, Ye-qianbei,” he says politely. Ye Baiyi snorts again, rolling his eyes at both of them, and strides out into the tunnel.
Wen Kexing stays rigid for a moment longer, and then sags, visibly exhausted. Zhou Zishu tugs him by the wrist, coaxing him further into the bower. “Stay here tonight. It’s your bower. There’s plenty of room.”
“That’s only because you’ve been sleeping on the floor,” Wen Kexing grumbles, but he doesn’t resist Zhou Zishu’s prodding. Zhou Zishu catches Chengling with his free hand and steers them both toward the sleeping alcoves. He means to put Chengling in his usual nest and Wen Kexing into another, but Chengling looks at him with big, longing eyes, and he gives in without a word.
Raksura don’t sleep alone, generally. Chengling is barely out of the nurseries, recently lost his entire family, and has been rattled for too many days now. Zhou Zishu won’t deny him the comfort of familiar scents and warmth.
He retrieves the embroidered blanket from the floor and adds it to the nest, pushing Wen Kexing toward the alcove and lifting Chengling in after him. Wen Kexing catches Zhou ZIshu’s wrist before he can take even a step away, and Chengling’s hand twists into his sleeve.
“Move over,” Zhou Zishu orders. He ought to take his usual place and guard Chengling, but he thinks of what Wen Kexing had said about Ye Baiyi sleeping in the entrance hall. No one would be able to get past him into the colony, and Zhou Zishu suspects that’s exactly the point.
His muscles still ache when he lies down in the next of blankets, but Chengling is a warm, soft comfort against his chest, and Wen Kexing’s fingers are still curled loosely around his wrist. Zhou Zishu doesn’t even remember closing his eyes before he falls into sleep.
Zhou Zishu wakes in the morning to Gu Xiang’s cheerful shouting. “Chengling, Ye-qianbei has eaten three grasseaters already and is still hungry. There’s blood everywhere, come and see.”
Chengling rolls from the alcove bed with a thump. Zhou Zishu doesn’t open his eyes to see, but he hears a scuffle and another thump that sounds like Chengling stumbling over himself and tripping before he’s properly awake yet.
“A-Xiang,” says a low voice near his ear, tickling the soft hair at his neck. “No queens in the consorts’ bower. Especially not so early.”
Gu Xiang huffs incredulously, but she leaves anyway, taking Chengling with her. There’s another scuffle at the entrance to the bower, and a groggy question from Chengling that Zhou Zishu only half-hears. His attention has refocused on the warm, heavy weight against his side.
Wen Kexing must have been awake already, or heard someone coming long before Gu Xiang had called for Chengling, because he’s shifted into Aeriat form. His scales rasp pleasantly against Zhou Zishu’s groundling skin, smooth and hard with the slightest rough edge. His tail is wrapped around Zhou Zishu’s waist.
There are sharp teeth very close to his throat. Zhou Zishu wonders if this is what it feels like to be taken by a queen, this sense of complete safety at the mercy of someone powerful and dangerous.
“Lao Wen,” he murmurs. “You didn’t have to wait for us to wake.”
The spade-shaped tip of Wen Kexing’s tail flicks dismissively against his side. “Who’s waiting? Maybe I didn’t want to get up either.”
Zhou Zishu starts to roll over, and stops at once when all of the bruises from the day before flare to life. He hisses in pain, and Wen Kexing rolls half-over him immediately, his eyes slitted. “A-Xu?”
“It’s nothing,” he says, and gathers himself to rise before he can let his aches and the weight of Wen Kexing’s body convince him to linger. He’s surprisingly hungry, either from the fight yesterday and his body’s healing, or from Gu Xiang’s mention of grasseaters. “Is there meat?”
“I’ll bring some for you.” Wen Kexing lets him go only when Zhou Zishu steadily pulls against him, untangling their limbs. “Are you sore? You should soak in the hot spring pool. I’ll get healing herbs for you, and tea.”
“Will you get anything else?” Zhou Zishu asks, before he can change his mind. It might be too soon for him to reveal what he’s guessed. Wen Kexing might retreat the way he does whenever Zhou Zishu comes too close to knowing him. Zhou Zishu has had enough of the pretense, however, now that he knows what it is.
Wen Kexing freezes, so briefly that Zhou Zishu almost misses it. “What else would you like? I’ve already told you I’ll bring you anything. You’re an honored guest.”
Zhou Zishu stretches into one long line, testing each muscle in turn and finding the twinges of complaint. He pretends not to notice the way Wen Kexing’s eyes follow him. Zhou Zishu already has Wen Kexing cornered, whether he knows it yet or not.
“Books?” Zhou Zishu suggests, making another guess. “A stone carving to decorate the bower? More jewels?”
He turns back to Wen Kexing, who is trapped now at the edge of the alcove, unmoving. “If you’re quick enough, you could claim they were already there this morning, and I just didn’t notice them.”
He doesn’t need to look at the entrance to the bower to know there’s nothing waiting for him today. There won’t be a gift this morning, because Wen Kexing has been here with him all night.
Zhou Zishu had been wrong before about who’s been courting him.
“Are you going to claim it’s on Luo Fumeng’s behalf?” he asks, when Wen Kexing still doesn’t respond. Wen Kexing doesn’t meet his eyes, and Zhou Zishu remembers what he’d said about the bower being empty. “I understand why now. If you’re acting as ruling queen, this court still needs a first consort.”
Wen Kexing laughs with forced lightness, a note that misses the mark. “Can’t I be courting you for other reasons than that?”
Zhou Zishu studies him as much as Wen Kexing will allow, still avoiding his gaze. “What do you really want, Lao Wen?”
It’s a step too far, and he knows it as soon as he sees the mask slip over Wen Kexing’s face. He’s ventured out along the length of a branch not yet ready to carry his weight. He can almost hear the sound of it breaking in the sharp rustle of Wen Kexing’s wings lifting as he stands.
“One of those grasseaters, before the old monster eats them all,” Wen Kexing replies, sliding past Zhou Zishu. “And tea. I’ll send some back, and look in on your silly fledgling to be sure he isn’t getting into trouble. Stay here and soak.”
Zhou Zishu considers trying again, but Wen Kexing has closed off from him. Calling his name again would only force him into playacting another false moment.
It doesn’t matter. He knows now, and while he hasn’t made any decisions, he also has time. There’s nowhere else for him to be right now. He can wait for Wen Kexing to come to him.
Zhou Zishu receives an invitation that afternoon to join Luo Fumeng for tea. Even a day ago, Zhou Zishu would have assumed a very different intent, but now he knows that Luo Fumeng hasn’t been courting him. He doesn’t know what she wants, but there’s less pressure when he dresses and styles his hair before their meeting. He’s joining her as a guest, not as a prospective consort.
Ye Baiyi is at her side in the queens’ bower, the two of them sitting on cushions arranged around the brazier-bowl and talking idly when Zhou Zishu pauses in the doorway. He’s glad that he hadn’t come in Aeriat form, as neither of them are shifted.
“Come in, don’t hover halfway,” Ye Baiyi says. He looks Zhou Zishu over, his lip half-curled. “You bruise like a ripe fruit.”
If he’s trying to goad Zhou Zishu into bristling, he’ll have to work harder at it. From Zhou Zishu’s perspective, coming out of a fight with a line-grandfather with only bruises and no broken bones is a considerable achievement.
He sinks to the cushion on the other side of Luo Fumeng. They’re still exchanging polite greetings when there’s a noise outside the bower, and Wen Kexing skids into view. He’s in Aeriat form, wings half-spread and spines raised. Luo Fumeng looks at him expectantly until he flattens his spines in apology and shifts abruptly into groundling form.
Ye Baiyi leans back on one arm and raises his eyebrows. “Little brat, did you think I was giving him another beating? Or that your queen was stealing him out from under you?”
“As if you could beat anyone,” Wen Kexing returns immediately, in spite of the obvious evidence on both of them that Ye Baiyi is entirely capable.
“Come in, A-Xing,” Luo Fumeng invites graciously. “Join us for tea. We were just going to discuss our guests’ stay here.”
If Wen Kexing had been in Aeriat form, his spines would have flattened again. It manifests instead as a sharp drop of his shoulders, his expression visibly unhappy. Zhou Zishu wonders if they’ve already had a discussion about this, and whether Wen Kexing knows his queen’s mind.
Luo Fumeng reaches for the tea pot once Wen Kexing has settled on a cushion, but he picks it up before she can, plucking it from the brazier-bowl in one deft, graceful movement. “Allow me,” he says, with a hint of his practiced charm. “It’s a consort’s duty.”
“Since when have you been dutiful?” Ye Baiyi asks. Wen Kexing glares at him, and makes a point of serving Zhou Zishu after Luo Fumeng. Ye Baiyi, unperturbed, reaches out his hand for the bowl, and Zhou Zishu feels bound by etiquette to offer it to him. Wen Kexing’s eyes narrow.
“Zhou Zishu.” Luo Fumeng is clearly skilled in the art of ignoring high-strung consorts, as she gives no sign she’s even noticed the tension. “The three of us have spoken, and we wish to offer you a formal place in our court. We understand you have none of your own, and would welcome you to a new home. However, there are some things you should know first.”
Zhou Zishu carefully sets down his tea. “I’m honored by your generosity.”
Luo Fumeng smiles a little. “It’s not so unusual for our colony. When Ye-qianbei founded this court, it was to provide a place for those who had no one else left, who had lost colonies or families to the Fell. Over the generations, we have done our best to honor that intent. Nearly everyone here was a wanderer, before Ye-qianbei found them and brought them here.”
Zhou Zishu glances at Wen Kexing, but he’s gazing past Luo Fumeng and won’t meet Zhou Zishu’s eyes. “I have no queens of my bloodline to ask for my return,” he says cautiously, “but Zhang Chengling may yet have family.”
“He is welcome to stay or to return to them as he chooses,” Luo Fumeng answers smoothly. “What you should both know is that the Fell are not the only reason Raksura have taken refuge in this court.”
Zhou Zishu goes still, and tries to choose his next words with care. “I’ve heard what happened to the Neon Palace court.”
“You’ve heard the official story of what happened to the Neon Palace court,” Luo Fumeng corrects. “The colony was not tainted by Fell corruption. It was other Raksura who betrayed us, out of greed for the wealth in our colony-tree. There are others here with similar stories. The powerful alliances don’t want to believe that Raksura could commit such crimes, so they turn their eyes away and claim Fell influence.”
Zhou Zishu is shocked into silence. Not because he doesn’t believe her story, but because he knows just how true it can be. “I’m sorry,” he says, entirely inadequate.
Luo Fumeng shakes out her soft spines, resettling them. “You need to know this, because it makes us a target. Too many Raksura here know who is really to blame for the loss of their courts, and the deaths of their colony-trees. If you remain, you’ll see more attacks, and eventually our luck may run out.”
Zhou Zishu doesn’t need to think about his answer before he speaks. “Then I will help you defend this colony, to make your luck last longer.”
Wen Kexing looks at him for the first time since they’ve begun talking. There’s a cautious, desperate hope in his eyes that squeezes at Zhou Zishu’s chest.
“Probably stupid,” Ye Baiyi remarks. “But you’re not bad in a fight. Wen Kexing, didn’t you say you were a dutiful consort? Stop staring uselessly and serve me another bowl of tea.”
“It’s your decision,” Zhou Zishu says, and sits back to wait. Across from him, Chengling has climbed onto Wen Kexing like a fledgling half his age and size, curled up in his Aeriat form to listen to them.
Chengling looks anxiously up at Wen Kexing as though his history might be written there on his face. “So most people here have lost their colonies like I did? Did it happen to you too?”
Zhou Zishu stirs, ready to intervene if the question is too personal, but Wen Kexing doesn’t flinch. “It happened when I was younger than you are now. I was the only survivor of the last royal clutch.”
“And Ye-qianbei found you and brought you here?” Chengling has a healthy fear of and fascination with Ye Baiyi, after their initial dramatic meeting. Zhou Zishu thinks that combination is likely the best he could hope for, although if Chengling starts copying Ye Baiyi the way he does Wen Kexing, Zhou Zishu might lose his sanity.
Wen Kexing rolls his shoulders back, resettling his spines. “Luo-yi found me. And I found A-Xiang when she was even smaller. None of us have other homes to return to, so we stay together here.”
Chengling’s expression shifts through several complicated emotions. “Because your trees are gone, too?”
Wen Kexing looks at Zhou Zishu, who steps in to help. “Not all Raksura live in colony-trees. Some live in caves, like your colony and Ghost Valley. Some live in the ruins of old cities.”
“But it’s better to have a colony-tree, right?” Chengling asks, twisting around a little to look at Wen Kexing and then back to Zhou Zishu.
“It’s different,” Zhou Zishu answers. He tries to keep his voice even, but his chest aches with grief for his lost home. “Not always better. It’s made those colonies targets for others who act out of greed and deceit.”
“But if we had one,” Chengling persists. Zhou Zishu doesn’t understand why he’s so focused on the idea. Perhaps he only misses his birth colony, and wishes their surroundings were more familiar. “And if it was somewhere far away, the greedy colonies wouldn’t know where to find us.”
“Chengling.” Wen Kexing’s brow furrows. He looks as confused as Zhou Zishu feels. “Are you unhappy here? You know A-Xu and I will keep you safe. Are you worried about the other courts?”
Privately, Zhou Zishu isn’t too worried about other courts. If the Five Lakes court returns, he doesn’t doubt that Ghost Valley will hold them off. Even the Northern Reaches court isn’t too great a threat. These caverns are too far south for them to bring all their warriors here to attack. Han Ying is intelligent and capable. He’ll bring any defectors here safely, hopefully well before the season’s end.
“Not worried.” Zhou Zishu can hear the careful way Chengling says the words, as if they aren’t quite right, but aren’t quite wrong either. Quickly he adds, “And I am happy here. I want to stay with Zhou Zishu, and with you, and A-Xiang. It’s only…”
Zhou Zishu thinks he knows what will come next, the confession that Chengling misses his cliffside home and sunlight, misses being close to the sky. He understands, even if he can’t change their circumstances.
Instead, Chengling shifts suddenly into groundling form, spilling off Wen Kexing to stand. There’s a pouch at his hip, held there by a long strap across his body. Zhou Zishu can’t remember seeing it before, but he remembers that when they’d been traveling, Chengling had always gone off alone to shift before coming back to sleep. Zhou Zishu had thought it was shyness, or the need for a moment of privacy.
Chengling lifts the strap from his shoulder and holds the pouch uncertainly. “I do have something,” he says in a rush. “I was supposed to keep it safe when the Fell attacked. I’ve been hiding it,” he admits, with a guilty look at Zhou Zishu. “I didn’t really know what it was.”
Wen Kexing leans forward a little with interest, but Zhou Zishu is careful not to move. “Chengling, you’re allowed to keep secrets, so long as they don’t do any harm. You don’t have to tell us if you’re not ready.”
“I am,” Chengling insists. “Only…I hope it’s not too late.”
He upends the pouch, and a single green pod falls out into his hand. At first Zhou Zishu doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, and then Wen Kexing’s breath draws in, sharp and startled.
“It’s a colony-tree seed, isn’t it?” Chengling asks, looking at Zhou Zishu for confirmation. “One that hasn’t been planted yet. I didn’t know until you told me the stories.”
Zhou Zishu has never seen a colony-tree seed when it’s still young and green. He thinks this probably is one, if Chengling was entrusted with it when the Fell arrived, but it’s Wen Kexing who says without any doubt, “Yes.”
“We could plant it,” Chengling says, eyes bright with excitement. “Couldn’t we? And then Ghost Valley could have a colony-tree too.”
“Colony-trees don’t grow overnight,” Wen Kexing points out. There’s a cautious note in his voice, but Zhou Zishu can hear the emotions buried underneath, the wonder and tentative hope. “It would take generations.”
Zhou Zishu looks at Chengling, who’s radiating happiness, and then at Wen Kexing. He thinks of the Ghost Valley court, who sing their grief and strength and hope for the future, and the way Wen Kexing leaves the caves to look up at the sky.
“Yes,” Zhou Zishu says simply. “It will.”
Chengling goes to tell Gu Xiang about the seed and discuss where they might plant it. Zhou Zishu stands by the pools after he leaves, and watches Wen Kexing prepare herbs to help them soak away their aches. It’s as graceful as when he served tea, each movement ingrained in muscle memory. Wen Kexing has been doing this since he was a fledgling in the nurseries.
“Are you going to make me guess?” he asks at last. He thinks Wen Kexing will feign innocence, making a show of wide eyes and confusion, but he only goes still. “About your court?” Zhou Zishu prompts, though he’s certain Wen Kexing already knows.
“Does it matter?” Wen Kexing asks, but Zhou Zishu can tell from the tremble in his hand that it does. Every consort born into an established court carries their lineage like another set of wings, and being nameless and courtless strips away some of the feeling of belonging, of home.
“There was a colony whose seed was stolen when I was still a fledgling,” Zhou Zishu says. “It was one of the first to fall. They’d made overtures before, for an alliance. We’d already agreed, and were only waiting for the terms to be set. When the Fell attacked, we didn’t know about it in time to offer aid.”
Wen Kexing’s breath hisses out of him in old pain. “Healer Valley,” he confesses, his eyes closing.
Zhou Zishu reaches out to circle his wrist. “I would have claimed you for my court long ago, if I’d known.”
It’s better that he hadn’t. Whatever hardships Wen Kexing had faced, hunted and exiled to these caverns, he hadn’t died in the Northern Reaches colony with the Four Seasons court. Zhou Zishu’s ignorance of him had kept him alive. He still wishes that so many things had been different.
“Are you sure?” Wen Kexing asks suddenly. His eyes fly open to fix on Zhou Zishu. “About staying.”
“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu says. “Don’t we have an alliance? Even without terms, I’ll honor it.”
Wen Kexing’s wrist twists in his grip, so that they’re holding onto each other now, each encircled. “A-Xu. You could go to any court. Don’t you want to be claimed by a queen?”
The corner of Zhou Zishu’s mouth lifts. “Haven’t I been?”
Wen Kexing doesn’t meet his eyes. Zhou Zishu lets go of his wrist and takes two steps away, toward the pools. Then he sways as if he’s lost his balance, pressing a hand to his bruised ribs, and lets himself start to fall.
Wen Kexing catches him before he’s even begun to crumble, hissing worry and irritation at him in equal measure. Zhou Zishu laughs at him and loops his arms around Wen Kexing’s neck, leaning against his chest until Wen Kexing scoops him up into his arms.
“What would I be missing?” he asks. “Status? We both know I’d be treated as first consort here. Clutches? We already have fledglings, and in this court we’ll have more. A scent marker? Lao Wen, have you left anyone to doubt that I’m yours?”
Wen Kexing looks at him with the same expression he had in the queens’ bower, afraid to hope.
“Don’t transform yet,” Zhou Zishu tells him, a warning before he shifts into groundling form himself, wings and tail and spines all melting away. Wen Kexing holds him reflexively tighter as his body mass changes, and then doesn’t let go.
Zhou Zishu feels the same way he had when they’d woken up together. Wen Kexing’s scales are warm and firm against him, and his body is so much stronger than Zhou Zishu’s when they’re in these forms. His claws are delicate points of pressure, careful not to pierce Zhou Zishu’s soft skin.
He’d thought he would have to be the one to initiate anything physical, but Wen Kexing slowly lowers his head to nip, so carefully, at Zhou Zishu’s neck. His teeth are sharp, deadly, and Zhou Zishu shivers at the feel of them pressed into his skin.
“Lao Wen,” he says, low-voiced, and it comes out as a growl of pleasure and demand. Wen Kexing bites him again, less careful this time, and Zhou Zishu threads his fingers between the sharp spines down the back of Wen Kexing’s neck to pull him closer.
Wen Kexing carries him across the bower and bears him down into one of the sleeping alcoves without Zhou Zishu having any memory of having moved there. His weight pins Zhou Zishu down to the nest of blankets, still fragrant with their mingled scent, and his wings mantle over Zhou Zishu like he’s been hunted and taken down as prey.
Zhou Zishu bites his throat hard, and his collar flanges, and his chest. He digs blunt fingers against Wen Kexing’s scales and rakes them down his back like claws. They writhe together messily, Wen Kexing’s growl reverberating through his bones, making him vibrate like a struck bell.
He doesn’t register exactly when Wen Kexing shifts, or how they untangle themselves from their clothes, which are twisted around them and trapped between their bodies. Their hands pull impatiently at fabric, at each other, with a need for closeness that eventually tips over into urgency. When Wen Kexing takes him, the sense of being surrounded and enveloped is nearly overwhelming. He feels cherished and protected and claimed.
After, Zhou Zishu strokes the silken fall of Wen Kexing’s hair and feels the ache in every muscle, deeper than the bruises left by fighting and more welcome. He can see the marks from his teeth scattered over Wen Kexing’s skin.
“So you’re accepting my courtship?” Wen Kexing asks. There’s lightness in his tone again, but it’s buoyant with contentment, rather than careless. “First consort of Ghost Valley?”
“First consort,” Zhou Zishu agrees. “And if you try to take another, I’ll break one of your wings.”
Wen Kexing laughs. Zhou Zishu feels it more than he hears it, Wen Kexing’s entire body shaking against his with joy. “How could I?” he teases. He raises his head to look down at Zhou Zishu, his eyes bright and happy. “I have everything I could want already here.”