“Who tortured you?” I ask.
“Men working for the chancellor,” he says, closing his eyes.
I lean my forehead against the iron bars, letting the coldness sink into my skin, a painful point of focus. Of course it was the chancellor; he must be the one behind the scenes, feigning loyalty to the princess, while working against her alongside the Banished Prince.
“I heard him speaking about his plans, about the general. Admitting that he was the one who poisoned the emperor. I guess he figured I was not a risk any longer.” Wenyi tries to laugh but ends up coughing instead. Blood blooms against his sleeve, leaving smears against the fabric.
His eyes glint in the dim light, catching my own. “The princess … You have to get word to her, a warning.”
Wenyi fumbles in his clothes, pulling out two folded squares of paper. He crawls toward me again, this time reaching just far enough so they touch my fingertips. I tuck them carefully into the pouch in my sash, making sure they’re secure.
“One letter is from my family. It outlines all the atrocities the General of K?iláng has committed in Lǜzhou in order to gain power. My mother owns the teahouse in the town of Ràohé on the border between Lǜzhou and Yún … the second letter is for her.” He hesitates. “Let her know what happened to me … please?”
“I’ll … I’ll try to reach them. Teahouse. Town of Ràohé,” I repeat back. “If you are the one who survives, I am Dr. Zhang’s daughter, of Xīnyì village. Get word to my family that I am not a traitor.”
Wenyi nods. “Dr. Zhang. Xīnyì village.”
And then his expression changes to one of burning intensity. He clears his throat before asking, “Did you poison the court? I heard the guards say the marquis and the Esteemed Qian were among those who were killed.”
My throat constricts. Even if the Esteemed Qian was an arrogant fool who had me thrown out of the competition, I would not have wished for him such a painful end.
“No,” I respond wryly. “It is contrary to the art of Shénnóng and to the physician’s path … ‘I do not stoop to poison.’”
Wenyi gives me a weak grin, recognizing his own words. “There are a few things I have to tell you,” he continues, speaking through his pain, even though he must be in agony. I wish I had something to ease it even slightly. “I suspect that with Shao soon to be instated as the court shénnóng-shī, his loyalty will shift to support the chancellor. His family is too enmeshed in the court for him to risk going against Chancellor Zhou. Do not trust him.
“And beware of Hánxiá Academy,” he warns me. “When I left Yěli?, it was rumored their loyalties were changing, that they were unhappy with the recent restrictions imposed by the emperor regarding their access to the tribute teas. But the monks at Yěli? may still assist you, if you bring them my letter and my name—”
I shake my head. “Don’t say that. I will beg the princess to find you a physician. I will convince her to see you for herself. Same with your family, your hometown. You will see them again.”
He stares at me for a long while, before giving me a small nod. “He tried to speak on my behalf…，” Wenyi murmurs quietly, almost as if to himself.
“Who?”
“The son of the Banished Prince,” he says. “I thought I may have heard his voice…”
His words trail off as his eyes flutter closed.
“Wenyi?” I whisper urgently. “Wenyi!”
I try to reach through the bars in order to touch him, but he’s too far away. I stare at his body until I can see the rise and fall of his chest, to ensure that he is still breathing, before my fingers slowly let go of the bars.
* * *
I jerk awake, realizing I slipped into sleep. Exhaustion still tugs at my eyelids, trying to coax them shut, but the scent of something familiar tingles my nose.
The sound of dice and the guards’ conversation has stilled. I strain to hear something, anything, but there is no sign of another presence in the next room. But then I notice, in the flickering light cast by the torches, that there is movement.
A long, dark shadow, cast along the wall. Coming closer.
My mind stills. Perhaps the chancellor has decided that leaving me alive even through to morning is too much of a risk. I grab the pot, the only thing I can use to defend myself, even as a foul smell emanates from the open spout.
The figure that steps into view is dressed in black, moving so fast I’m uncertain if perhaps I’m still dreaming. They smell of incense and burnt wood. The cell door opens, the lock dropping to the ground with a clatter. I retreat back, the pot still held in front of me. I wonder if I should swing at the body or dump the contents on the head.