The audience applauded, although with less enthusiasm than before. One woman quickly tossed the storyteller a coin, shouting out her request.
I did not hear it, lost in the memories which drifted over me. This tale had been one of my favorites as a child and I had often asked my mother to tell it to me. Closing my eyes, I could almost imagine myself lying in my bed of cinnamon-wood, my fingers grazing the soft white drapes that fluttered in the breeze. I had no need for a lamp as the stars glittered in the sky and the lanterns threw their pearly glow through my window.
I had loved this story, though its ending left me unsettled. One night, I had asked my mother, “Why did the emperor forget to bring rain to the mortals?”
“The emperor has many concerns and responsibilities; governing the realms above and below is no easy task. Each day he oversees countless petitions and requests.”
“But why did he punish the dragons for helping the mortals instead of thanking them?” I wanted to know.
Her hand had brushed my cheek, her cool touch soothing my restlessness. “Sleep, Little Star. It’s just a story,” she had said, evading my question with ease.
Only now did I understand that there was no satisfactory answer. At least none to avoid offending the Celestial Emperor.
The emperor’s task filled me with unease, like a thorn stabbing the underside of my heel. More so when I recalled Prince Yanxi’s admiration of the dragons, the tales I had heard of their benevolence. If the dragons were unwilling, could I fight them for their pearls? Could I even defeat one of them, much less four? This was a hopeless task, a thankless one—where success would come at the price of my honor, and my failure would be the death of me.
“Xingyin, what’s the matter?” Wenzhi’s question roused me from my thoughts.
“I’m tired,” I said, although I had no reason to be.
“Why don’t you sleep?” Liwei suggested, not looking up from his bowl. “It will take us a full day to get to the Changjiang by foot, even without stopping to rest.”
Since we had spoken in the Willow Song Pavilion, a coolness descended upon us. Had the words exchanged severed the lingering ties between us? Or was it the intimacy he had witnessed between Wenzhi and me? Whatever the cause, Liwei was unfailingly courteous but withdrawn. And while this was exactly what I had asked of him before, it left me hollow inside.
The innkeeper’s daughter came to clear our table. As she lifted each plate onto her tray with painstaking slowness, she stole furtive glances at Wenzhi and Liwei. Her eyes darted back and forth, back and forth, as though she could not decide who took her fancy more. Indeed, they had little competition in this place. Even garbed in plain robes, their auras muted, Wenzhi and Liwei had the same effect on mortal hearts as they did on immortal ones.
I stood up, eager to leave. Just sharing this meal with them had rubbed my nerves raw. “Where is my room?”
Wenzhi grimaced as he gestured to the floor above. “The inn is full. The three of us will have to share.” As he caught my horrified expression, he added, “You may have the bed, of course. I’m sure His Highness can do without one for a night.” A hint of mockery laced his voice.
“Indeed,” Liwei said coldly. “Though I intend to be present in the room nonetheless.”
Was that a warning? Was I reading too much in the edge of his tone? It mattered not. Even if this inn possessed the softest beds in the kingdom, a patch of damp grass would be preferable to suffering through a night as that.
“Ahh, I’m not tired after all.” I backed away from the table, coward that I was. “After eating so much, I’ll go for a walk. It’s my first time in a mortal village.”
Wenzhi’s stool scraped against the floor as he rose. “I’ll join you.”
I shook my head, smiling to take the sting out of my refusal. I wanted some time alone. And, for some reason, I did not want to go with Wenzhi and leave Liwei by himself.
I hurried through the inn, slipping out of its back entrance. This street was smaller than the one we had strolled through earlier, but no less lively. Several villagers watched the street performers as they spun plates on sticks or breathed out tongues of flame. I stopped to listen to an old man playing an er-hu, a two-stringed wooden fiddle. The plaintive melody suited my mood well. When it ended, I dropped a gold tael into his bowl, where it clinked against the copper coins.
Even at this late hour, children ran around, chasing barking dogs or crowding the stalls. Some carried insects and butterflies woven from dried grass, while others clutched sticks stacked with glossy balls of red sweets. Curious, I bought one for myself, crunching through the crisp candied shell to reach the tangy hawthorn berry within. As I licked the bits of sugar off my fingers, some villagers stared at me, perhaps wondering at my enthusiasm over the common treat. Had my mother liked this, too? I lifted my head to the skies, wishing I could ask her.