“It’s for you,” he said, when I made no move to take it.
I stared at the paper. My face looked back at me, a remarkable likeness, gazing into the distance as my fingers rested on the flute. My hands trembled as I took the picture from him.
“You draw very well,” I said softly. “Though you don’t need to do this every time I play for you. It may not be a duty, but neither is it an exchange.”
“How else might I compensate for my shortcomings?” he asked with a straight face. “After all, I have so many.”
I laughed, recalling our earlier conversation. “Just this one, then.”
He smiled. “Good night, Xingyin.”
I rose to my feet and bade him good night. As I shut the doors behind me, I found Liwei still bent over his desk, his brush in his hand. My heart filled with an inexplicable warmth as I turned away to stare into the sky above.
In the clear and cloudless night, the moon was dazzling, its light unhindered. As I walked to my room across the courtyard, its radiance lit my way, brighter than a string of lanterns.
7
I slipped into my new life, the days morphing into weeks. Each morning, we had our lessons in the Chamber of Reflection, while in the afternoons we trained with the Celestial Army. My mind was opened to new worlds and knowledge, but it was the training on the field which stirred me most. I learned to wield a sword proficiently—to slash and thrust, block and parry—although my abilities still trailed behind Liwei’s. Eager to catch up, I studied the fighting techniques late into the night, repeating the moves in the quiet of my room until they came as easily to me as grasping my chopsticks or forming a note on my flute.
Sometimes I wondered, why did I feel such exhilaration when an arrow struck true? Or when an opponent was brought down by a well-placed blow? Was it because I had been so weak before, that I now rejoiced in my newfound strength? Or had this urge—this desire to win—always run in my veins?
The prospect of training my powers filled me with both excitement and dread. As a child I had fantasized about summoning firebolts and flying through the skies. But after the disastrous consequences of my first brush with magic, I would have been glad to never touch it again. Liwei would have excused me, yet an immortal without magic was like a tiger without claws. We might be physically strong, but we might as well be mortal. If I ever wanted to help my mother, I had to embrace my power. And though it frightened me, a part of me hungered for this, too.
Our instructor, Teacher Daoming, was the guardian of the Imperial Treasury and its hoard of enchanted artifacts. She only ever seemed to wear robes of dull gray, her black hair coiled into a tight bun from which silver pins protruded like a fantail. Her wide eyes were the hue of almonds, and her pale skin was unmarred by lines from either frown or smile.
I had no magical training, whereas Liwei had already progressed to advanced enchantments. For the first few weeks, all Teacher Daoming allowed me to do was meditate—with sparse instructions to keep my eyes closed, my mind empty, and my spirit “as calm as a windless dawn.” I approached these exercises with enthusiasm at first, anticipating the discovery of some hidden power or enlightenment—but soon became bored with sitting cross-legged on the floor for hours on end. Whenever Teacher Daoming saw so much as a wrinkle appear in my brow or a quiver in my leg, she smacked my arm with her fan, snapping such vague things as:
“Clear your mind of distraction!”
“Focus on the awareness of your energy!”
“Seek the light through the dark!”
I would grit my teeth in mounting frustration, swallowing my ire as I imagined Liwei summoning bolts of flame while I was sitting here getting hit with a fan.
Meditating, for me, was particularly exasperating. In archery the goal was clear, the results, instantaneous. I knew what to do to improve and how I might get there. Whereas meditation was a nebulous, mysterious thing. A path with endless winding destinations, where you might spend hours wandering and end up just where you started.
One day, while I was sitting as still as I could and trying not to doze off, a shadow fell over me. I lifted my eyelids a crack, to find Teacher Daoming standing there.
“If you’re worrying about whether you’re doing it right, then you’re not,” she sighed.
My eyes flew open. “I’m not very good at this,” I admitted. “Besides, how will meditating help? All it does is make me fall asleep.”
Teacher Daoming shook her head as she sank down beside me. “Ah, Xingyin. Calming your mind is a crucial skill that extends even beyond magic. You are impatient, rash, passionate in your endeavors. You, more than anyone, need to learn how to untether your mind from your feelings. Steady your thoughts and observe, before you plunge ahead. When emotions cloud us, disaster soon follows.”