Chapter Text
Lan Xichen was not alarmed when a razor-sharp blade appeared below his chin, glinting in the darkness. In fact, he smiled. “Brother?”
The blade disappeared followed by the sound of the sword being sheathed.
“Why are you here?” Lan Zhan’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
“To help, Wangji, as your brother.”
“I will protect him with my life.”
Night creatures swarmed the sultry midnight forest, its shadows vibrating with sound and movement. The air was thick with the resinous scent of balsam and the mineral tang of river water.
Lan Zhan sighed wearily as he strode ahead wading through thick ferns in the direction of a moonlit rocky ridge which seemed to float above the tall red pines. He carried a load of wood topped with small sticks neatly bundled with a cord, demonstrating a characteristic orderliness. Less usual was the state of Lan Zhan’s clothing. His outer robe was missing and the torn white inner robe he wore glowed piebald in the moonlight around smears of mud and blood. This lapse in comportment signaled grave mental turmoil.
His brother had grounds to be concerned when he saw that Lan Zhan had lowered his standards of dress. In the Lan Clan, where immaculate attire was a requirement, Lan Zhan stood out as one who invariably and remarkably wore dazzling white robes.
Lan Xichen followed closely, not taking the bundle but supporting it underneath with his hands. He noticed Lan Zhan’s slightly jerky pace—weary yet agitated. It was clear he was running low on energy. Lan Xichen in turn walked with his usual catlike grace, despite the rough terrain. Sensing unusual energy in the forest, he manifested his flute. Although he touched the mouthpiece to his lips he did not play.
The trees thinned to a small clearing where a motionless figure lay next to the ashes of a fire; Wei Ying—covered with Lan Zhan’s robe. His face was as white as his covering, lacking any sign of its usual animation and that, along with the darkly shaded eye sockets, would have made it skull-like but for his bold black eyebrows.
Lan Xichen laid the fire, arranging the small sticks at the bottom and the larger pieces propped in a pyramid above. Lan Zhan checked on Wei Ying. Unaware of the softness of his gaze he gently tucked the edges of the robe around the motionless body.
Pointing his first two fingers toward the stacked wood, Lan Xichen activated his spiritual power with a graceful turn of the wrist causing flames to lick the kindling. He strode over and kneeled next to Lan Zhan, resting his long sensitive fingers on his wrist to take his pulses. He nodded, then took Wei Ying’s wrist. A fleeting look of surprise flashed across his face, and he exchanged glances with his brother.
From the qiankun bag tied at his waist Lan Xichen took out a rectangular three-compartment bamboo basket, pleasing in its rustic simplicity. Cultivators like the Lans often carried this extra-dimensional storage bag that held whatever they desired. They also could create a smaller pocket in their sleeve in which they carried smaller or more personal items, writing utensils, sometimes their swords or other spiritual instruments.
Lan Xichen set the basket where it could be lit by firelight and removed the lid exposing the contents of the shallow top compartment. Inside was a collection of small vials and neatly tied packets, each marked with a symbol. Selecting a turquoise vial with his long, elegant fingers, he uncorked it, a pungent herbal scent rising to his nostrils. Lan Zhan was carefully moving Wei Ying a little farther from the now roaring fire. Firelight flickered upon his pale face revealing dark smudges beneath his eyes and specks of dirt on his normally immaculate jaw.
“Wangji.” Lan Xichen always used his brother’s courtesy name. “Please.” He held out the vial. Lan Zhan’s eyes widened, he seized the vial, turning quickly toward Wei Ying. Lan Xichen blocked his hand. “Wangji, smell it.”
Lan Zhan made eye contact for the first time and lifted the vial to his nostrils. A look of consternation crossed his face. “This isn’t the right medicine for him.” Lan Xichen raised his eyebrows. “Ah,” Lan Zhan sighed. “Is there medicine for him?” His eyes pleaded as he absently tried to return the vial of medicine.
“There is.” Lan Xichen pushed back the hand holding the vial. “First, please drink that. All of it.” Lan Zhan raised the vial, quickly and precisely dashing the medicine into his mouth. With a slight grimace he swallowed the bitter fluid then staggered as he started to take a step. He took a loud whooping breath and doubled over with convulsive coughing. Lan Xichen steadied him, but Lan Zhan pushed his hand away gesturing emphatically toward Wei Ying as he continued to cough.
“Yes, Wangji,” Lan Xichen said patiently and selected another vial. Lifting Wei Ying’s limp shoulders, he tilted the drooping head back against his shoulder. As he dripped the contents of a brick-red vial into Wei Ying’s mouth, Lan Xichen watched to make sure he swallowed.
Arising effortlessly, he walked to Lan Zhan who was bent over with violent coughing. With percussive jabs of his first two fingers, he activated lung clearing pressure points on Lan Zhan’s chest. Finally, he spasmed and coughed up a gout of blood. Lan Xichen nodded, approving of this result.
“Rest now.” Lan Xichen took his brother’s arm, aiding him to sit on a log next to the fire. From his qiankun he took out a stack of navy cotton quilts, spreading one near the fire. After discarding the filthy robe covering Wei Ying, Lan Xichen picked him up to put him on the quilt next to the fire, rolling up another quilt to prop his head. He untied the sash holding a bloody rag to Wei Ying’s chest and inspected the chest wound, then firmly cocooned him in the warmth of another quilt. “This wound is clean, Wangji. You flushed it?”
Lan Zhan nodded. “I used my whole water bag.” He pointed at a spent water bag lying near the fire.
After taking his brother’s wrist to monitor the pulses, Lan Xichen touched the back of his hand against Lan Zhan’s forehead to check his temperature. He selected a green vial from the medicine basket, handing it over with a tiny bamboo spoon.
“For fever. Take one spoonful. Then you must drink water.” He held out a stoppered gourd. “Drink. I will fetch water.” Lan Xichen withdrew a water bag from the bottomless depths of his qiankun, picked up the one on the ground and strode purposefully into the dark toward a waterfall gleaming against the cliff face.
The dark night pulsed at edges of the firelight. Lan Zhan drained the gourd, oblivious to rustling and squeaks coming from the deep forest behind him. A light breeze swirled the smoke above the fire causing sparks to fly among the small cloud of moths hovering above it. Frogs from the nearby river croaked their summer song.
Silently Lan Xichen emerged from the dark woods carrying dripping water bags, startling his brother who automatically tightened his grip on the handle of his sword. Lan Xichen poured a small amount of water to freshen the empty flask. After shaking it and discarding the water, Lan Zhan held it out again to be filled. They had done this routine many times on night hunts.
“Continue drinking. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Lan Xichen filled a kettle with water. “It is necessary to replace the water lost from your body.” He created a makeshift spit with three long sticks, attached a hook and hung the kettle over the fire. Next, he took out a mat, spreading it on the ground to create a workspace. He lifted the tiered baskets making up his medicine kit—each one deeper than the one atop it—lining them up along the edge of the mat. Deftly he selected a collection of instruments and cloths, including a case of acupuncture needles, and arranged them on a towel.
“Let me see now.’’
Lan Xichen helped his brother remove his robes—careful not to jostle the wounded arm—leaving his upper body bare down to the waist. Lan Zhan swept his long black hair out of the way over his shoulder. On the opposite side an ugly gash seeping blood nearly bisected the curve of muscle near the shoulder. The back of his torso and arms were almost completely blanketed with black bruises. Lan Xichen examined the back of Lan Zhan’s head then his eyes for pupillary dilation.
“No concussion.” Examination complete, Lan Xichen covered his brother’s shoulders and began to grind a mixture of bark and herbs with a silver mortar and pestle. When the spout of the kettle emitted steam, he poured hot water into a bone bowl on top of the crushed herbs to steep. In a larger bowl he wetted a cloth using it to scrub his hands and nails.
“While I cleanse the wounds tell me what happened, Wangji.”
“Please clean and bandage his wound first, Xiongzhang. Please.”
“Of course, I was going to.”
Lan Xichen knelt next to Wei Ying and dripped the antiseptic herbal mixture into the arrow wound, let it sit for a moment, then tilted Wei Ying’s body to the side to drain the wound. When it was dry he swiftly sewed the edges of the wound together, dressed it, then covered him again. After once more cleansing his hands, he knelt next to Lan Zhan and dabbed around his brother’s wound with hot water.
Lan Zhan inhaled deeply. “Did you see him go over the cliff?” His voice was still hoarse.
“I caught a glance of him at the cliff but could not take my eyes off the attacking ghost puppets. After they were vanquished, my men told me you both had jumped. I looked at the foot of the cliff but there was no sign of you. I spotted Jiang Cheng returning to the battleground on his sword. I flew in the direction he had come from and found the plateau where I saw scuff marks left by a recent fight.”
He pressed the edges of the wound to open it. Lan Zhan gripped his sword handle in pain. “I see some threads from your clothing and dirt in the wound. I will need to open this up. Your arm must be secured so it doesn’t move.”
Lan Zhan laid down prone on the edge of Wei Ying’s quilt, wounded arm facing the fire. Lan Xichen tucked a rolled-up quilt under his shoulder to prop it up for easier access.
“Can you see, Xiongzhang?” Lan Zhan addressed Lan Xichen as Senior Brother, a traditional sign of respect.
“Yes.” Lan Xichen knelt. “This will hurt. Stick out your tongue.” He picked up a narrow-necked vial and administered three drops of a viscous fluid. “I need more cleaning liquid,” he muttered to himself, putting more herbs to steep. He placed a selection of tools into the herb infusion for cleansing.
Lan Zhan did his almost smile. “This reminds me of the time we were hunting, and I got slashed by that—”
“Feral pig.” Lan Xichen chuckled. “I bandaged your leg, and we went to an herbalist the next day.”
“Yes, the crazy one in the marsh.”
Lan Xichen had to use a blade in the gash where the flesh was partially sealed around a piece of cloth. Lan Zhan endured it silently—both brothers had beads of sweat on their foreheads.
Shaking his head he offered the painkiller to Lan Zhan, who took a deep breath and spurned the vial with a gesture. Lan Xichen chose a long thin needle from its case. Pulling aside the quilt draped on Lan Zhan’s back, he inserted the tip of the needle between his shoulder blades right on the spine. Lan Zhan became unnaturally still and eyed his brother from the corner of his eye.
“You had to do that?”
“Yes, I must debride the wound; I can’t let you move.”
Lan Zhan stared into the fire, his eyes dull with pain. “It was a set-up. They blamed Wei Ying for everything.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You heard them—completely unreasonable. Just like after Qiongqi Path.” Lan Zhan turned to look into the fire, remembering.
* * *
It was Lan Zhan’s idea to invite Wei Ying, now known as the Yiling patriarch, to attend the one-hundred-day ceremony for his nephew at the Jin clan’s residential complex, Jinlintai (Carp Tower). Jin Zixuan, the baby’s father and lineal heir to the Jin clan, enthusiastically endorsed this suggestion as he was well aware that his wife, Jiang Yanli, had been unhappy due to her brother’s rift with the main clans. She had not seen Wei Ying since before her marriage.
On the day that Wei Ying was to arrive at Jinlintai, rumors spread that a force of one hundred warriors led by an enemy of Wei Ying had gone to confront him. Jin Zixuan hurried to Qiongqi path to protect his brother-in-law.
Then came horrifying news: Jin Zixuan had been violently slain by
Wei Ying’s traveling companion Wen Ning. The warriors had ambushed the two travelers, pelting them with arrows. While protecting Wei Ying, Wen Ning attacked Jin Zixuan, mistakenly thinking he was part of the ambush.
Lan Zhan was filled with dread. He simmered with protective anger when he heard that despite being the target of the attack, Wei Ying was blamed for the entire incident. Lan Zhan’s idea to have his friend attend the ceremony to regain a modicum of acceptance in cultivator society resulted in disaster. I should have had the foresight to accompany him on this journey. If I had Jin Zixuan would not be dead, and Wei Ying would have attended the family gathering in peace.
As time went by the news worsened. He despaired when he heard that after Wen Ning surrendered himself to take responsibility for Jin Zixuan’s death, the rest of the Wens had been slaughtered. I must find Wei Ying.
He hastened to Wei Ying’s home in the Yiling Burial Grounds, only to find it deserted. Fortunately, he discovered little Wen Yuan, who was crumpled up in a ball, flushed with fever. He huffed a sigh of relief, glad that the boy hadn’t been killed with the rest of the Wens. He transported Ah Yuan to an herbalist and arranged for the boy to stay for treatment while he went to search for Wei Ying. Lan Zhan was aware that the herbalist recognized his clan insignia and allowed the man to assume that the boy was his offspring. It would provide an alias for Ah Yuan, a necessity when it was so dangerous to be a Wen.
While he was searching, Lan Zhan heard that a memorial ceremony was taking place at Nevernight City, attended by many cultivator clans. He hurried to the meeting, hoping that Wei Ying would not be there. The Jin clan leader Jin Guangshan was mourning his son’s death and Wei Ying was mourning the Wens killed while under his protection. Together these two would be a volatile combination. By the time Lan Zhan arrived it was as bad as he feared; Wei Ying had already been shot in the chest with an arrow and had returned fire, killing the man who shot him, inciting some of the other cultivators to violence. They cried vengeance against the Yiling patriarch.
* * *
“Xiongzhang, you saw our confrontation.” Wei Ying had challenged Lan Zhan, expecting betrayal and attacked with resentful spirits. To protect himself, Lan Zhan was forced to channel spiritual energy through his sword to repel the attack.
“I was able to persuade him to stop attacking me, but he was in a frenzy of grief. He kept playing his flute to bring more spirits against the attacking cultivators. I tried to protect him as much as possible.” Lan Zhan’s voice broke. “But he ran into the crowd when he heard his sister calling him. Somehow she had come to Nevernight looking for him.”
“And then the second flute,” Lan Xichen interjected.
* * *
Wei Ying was not playing his flute anymore, but to his dismay puppets were being created, the foulest sorcery, which took live people, stole their spiritual consciousness and made them mindless automatons.
The crowd was a mix of warriors defending against aggressive puppets, swirling black clouds of spirits, and those who were not only trying to kill the Yiling patriarch but to seize his ultimate spiritual weapon, the Yin Tiger Seal. Several times Lan Zhan maneuvered to protect his friend, but Wei Ying darted away to find his sister.
In between skirmishes, Lan Zhan searched through the roiling crowd. He was horrified to see Jiang Yanli stabbed to death, afraid of how Wei Ying would react. Then he spotted Wei Ying, alarmed to see he was balancing at the edge of the cliff. One of the combatants took advantage of Lan Zhan’s distraction and sunk a sword into his right arm. Hardly noticing the wound, he efficiently repelled the attack and used spiritual energy to block the pain. Fearing the worst he used qigong to swiftly launch himself toward Wei Ying, who stood a moment facing the fighting then leaned backwards to fall into the abyss.
Barely in time, Lan Zhan managed to catch Wei Ying’s hand. Unfortunately, he had used his right hand—the side of his wounded arm. He lay on the rocky edge, arm stretched as far as it could go holding his friend’s full weight. Fear coiled in his gut as rivulets of blood from the wound gushed down his arm, making his grasp slippery. He sensed someone come up beside him and, to his horror, they thrust a sword toward their linked hands. Lan Zhan looked up and shouted desperately. It was Jiang Chang, frantic with rage, stabbing and screaming that he wanted Wei Ying to die.
In a terrifying moment he would never forget, Lan Zhan felt Wei Ying’s hand jerk out of his grasp. Agonized, Lan Zhan screamed his name and stepped off the cliff, pursuing his plummeting friend as fast as he could, increasing his speed by propelling blasts of spiritual energy as they fell. By the time he reached Wei Ying and clasped him in his arms, their momentum was so accelerated that Lan Zhan was barely able to slow their fall in time to prevent a fatal crash at the foot of the cliff. He spun their bodies in the air so that Wei Ying landed on top of him and took the impact of their combined weight. The back of his head bounced against a soft layer of dust which helped cushion the fall. Nevertheless, the world spun around him. He lay for a while, shaking violently, his teeth chattering, arms clamped around Wei Ying’s limp body. Tears he did not know he shed streaked his face.
Sliding out from under Wei Ying’s comatose body, he wiped his cheeks and checked the top of the cliff for pursuit. Bracing Wei Ying against the cliffside, he stooped to lift him onto his back. Lan Zhan ascended into the sky riding his sword, keeping his friend’s body on his back by clutching his wrists with one hand and a leg with the other. The sounds of battle gradually faded into the rushing wind.
After a time, Lan Zhan spotted a plateau on the top of a mountain. He descended to the narrow strip of grass and loosened his grasp on Wei Ying’s wrists, cautiously lowering him to the ground. Suddenly he heard a scuffling noise from behind and he turned ready to fight.
Fury exploded in Lan Zhan’s heart, his sword Bichen already in hand. Jiang Cheng had pursued them and was taking running steps to slow down after an abrupt stop on the plateau behind them. Jiang Cheng brandished his sword, and Lan Zhan whirled to attack with deadly force.
“You would kill your brother?” Lan Zhan panted through gritted teeth.
“He killed my sister!” Tears glazed Jiang Cheng’s face and flew off his chin as he barely managed to evade ruthless swipes. “He lost control of his puppets, and they killed her.”
With a flurry of stabs and slashes Lan Zhan contemptuously disarmed and knocked him to the ground with an elbow and knee. Dazed, Jiang Cheng tried to rise but was pushed back down ferociously. “Kneel!” Lan Zhan snapped. He sheathed his sword with white-knuckled hands, his rage terrible. “I want to kill you, but your brother loves you.” With his eyebrows tilted in a vee of rage he slapped Jiang Cheng’s face and then backhanded him with tremendous force.
Blood poured from Jiang Cheng’s nose. His eyelids fluttered as he struggled to remain conscious.
“You fool! Wei Ying didn’t create the puppets,” Lan Zhan growled. “Go! Take care of your sister.” He stepped back, partially unsheathing his sword in threat.
Jiang Cheng flipped backwards and stood precariously on the edge of the mountain, his eyes black sinkholes as he stared at Lan Zhan. Abruptly he rose on his toes and jumped, flying down to retrieve his sword.
Wei Ying lay crumpled on the ground, unconscious. Lan Zhan examined the chest wound. It was shallow but still bleeding. He cut off the leg of his pants and folded it to pack against the wound, securing it with Wei Ying’s sash.
While checking his surroundings for any further pursuit, Lan Zhan noticed his own sleeve was saturated with blood. He cut off his other pant leg to bind across the nasty gash on his upper arm, knotting the bandage with an end between his teeth. Blood loss was slowed only temporarily. Unfortunately, the bandage slid down from his flexing muscles as he lifted Wei Ying onto his back. Blood dripped as they fled through the skies.
As they flew Lan Zhan used spiritual energy to block off the pain in his arm so he could persevere. However, his considerable powers were draining fast with the steadily dripping blood, and he knew he couldn’t fly much longer. Then, in the moonlight, he recognized Mount Muxi, where he and Wei Ying had battled Xuanwu, the Black Turtle of Slaughter in the beast’s den. The dense forest near the cave was rumored to be cursed and plagued with ghosts. Travelers would take a detour around the river valley to avoid this unlucky area. This made it a good place to shelter as they were unlikely to encounter anyone.
He remembered the area as teeming with wild magic. There was a persistent mist above the trees, metaphysical in origin, which would obscure smoke from a fire. Lan Zhan descended, turning to the back of a hill that rose next to the river. Among the thick stands of pines coating the valley between the hill and the rock-crusted ridge shone a glimmering white break in the trees, where he touched down.
With hands beyond numb and frozen, he released Wei Ying’s wrists to lower him to the ground. A fire was essential since they were both chilled to the bone from the winds of their flight and blood-loss. Wei Ying briefly became semi-conscious, alarming Lan Zhan with his chattering teeth, uncontrollable shivering, and moaning. He shed his blood-soaked outer robe to cover Wei Ying and tried to reposition the bandage over the wound on his arm.
By the time he returned with firewood, Wei Ying lay still. Next to the roaring fire, Lan Zhan lay down close behind his unconscious companion to share body heat. His exhaustion overwhelmed him, plunging him into deep sleep.
* * *
“Wei Ying was so cold . . .” Lan Zhan’s voice drifted off as he fainted from exhaustion and blood loss.
Lan Xichen continued to work on the arm. After scrubbing the wound with a brush, he sewed the gash together, applied antiseptic powder and bandaged the wound loosely. He removed the acupuncture needle embedded in Lan Zhan’s spine and applied ointment to the dark bruises on his back. Lan Xichen’s perfectionism wouldn’t allow him to leave his brother in an unkempt state, so he cleaned his face with a damp cloth and gestured an incantation to remove the worst of the stains from his clothing. Of course, Lan Zhan’s hair was perfect, as always. The charm carried by his silver hair ornament was particularly good. He left his brother lying prone next to Wei Ying and covered them both with a quilt.
Taking a moment to rest he poured hot water into a cup and sipped it. After draining the cup twice, he used the rest of the water in the kettle to cleanse his face and hands.
Refreshed, Lan Xichen circled meditatively around the camp watching eldritch flickering lights in the darkness; there was a sentience in the forest, an awakened consciousness. This could be beneficial to healing but it also would be attractive to large spiritual animals. As he paced, he played his flute to create a network of protection around the camp.
Soon predawn bird calls resonated through the pines. Lan Xichen echoed their song with his flute. He put water and millet in a pot to simmer, sprinkling it with herbs and fungus from the medicinal packets in his basket. Satisfied there was nothing more to do, he settled down cross legged to meditate.
Authors note: I know I’m not the only one who wishes Lan Zhan would take the leap!😊 Tell me what you think!