Liwei had never mentioned a betrothal before, though I now understood his strange reaction to the princess’s name this morning. There were so many peach blossom rumors surrounding him, I had come to regard them with no more weight than the petals blown by the wind—forgotten once they landed on the ground. But that was not what I wanted to know now.
“What of the mortal’s fate? After he was gifted the elixir?” I probed, hoping she would not notice my keen interest. Perhaps I might glean some clue as to my father’s whereabouts.
Minyi frowned as she lifted a porcelain teapot onto the tray. Fragrant tendrils of jasmine wafted into my nostrils. “The mortal never ascended to the skies as an immortal. No one knows what became of him.” Her voice trailed off as she turned away abruptly.
I did not question her further. I was not surprised at Minyi’s reluctance to speak of my mother’s ascension. The punishment of the Moon Goddess was not a tale shared freely. Their Celestial Majesties did not appreciate being reminded of those who had displeased them.
I thanked Minyi, clutching the tray of food as I left the kitchen in a daze. The empress disliked me, believing me unworthy to be her son’s companion. I shuddered, imagining her spite if she ever discovered that my father had slain the sunbirds. I breathed deeply, trying to calm the churning in my stomach. My mother’s instincts had been right; the empress did bear my father a grudge. She would show us no mercy, she would snatch at the chance to destroy us. I would not let her, I resolved. Though I could do nothing now, except work as hard as I could, honing my skills and searching for a way to keep us all safe.
When I returned to Liwei’s room, I was relieved to find the empress had left, in no mood to feign respect and obedience. We ate in silence, neither of us inclined to idle chatter today. Minyi’s dumplings were beautifully made; plump with pork and leek, its skin fried to a crisp golden brown—yet they tasted as paper on my tongue.
“Xingyin, you look tired,” Liwei observed.
My hands flew to my cheeks, discreetly pinching the color back into them. He was the second person to have commented on my pallor this morning.
“I didn’t sleep well.” The excuse sounded limp even to my ears.
“Don’t take what my mother said to heart. She seems fierce, but she’s just overly concerned for me.”
I nodded woodenly, not trusting myself to speak. Lifting our books from the table, I waited for him by the doors.
He took the heavy stack from me. “I’ve told you that you don’t need to carry my things for me.”
“What would your mother say?” I asked.
“Don’t tell her,” he said, flashing me a conspiratorial grin.
I returned his smile, though I could not discard my unease. All morning I was unsettled, barely hearing the teachers’ lessons, earning myself a scowl from General Jianyun and a scolding from Teacher Daoming. And now, by the archery boards, I missed all my targets while training alongside Shuxiao.
She winced at a particularly bad shot, which left my arrow buried in the grass a foot from the board. “Xingyin, is there dust in your eyes?”
Before I could reply, General Jianyun stalked toward me, the hollows of his cheeks pulled taut. I had worn his patience out today. “Xingyin, have our practices become so easy that you no longer bother to exert yourself?”
I lowered my head, shame rising in me. General Jianyun was a diligent mentor to Liwei and me. While many of our teachers focused their efforts on the Crown Prince, he divided his attention equally between us.
Hearing the general’s raised tone, Liwei glanced over from where he was sparring with a soldier. He lunged forward, his sword outstretched—and with a few well-placed thrusts, won his match in moments. He then wasted no time in striding to my side, and while I was glad for his support, I did not want him to witness my humiliation.
General Jianyun plucked a leather bag from the weapons rack. “Let’s try something more challenging today. If you miss any, stay back for an extra hour of practice tonight.”
With that, he flung the contents of the bag into the air. Ten small clay discs shot out, each no larger than a loquat. “Hit them all!” he barked.
Before he finished speaking, I had shot down the first two. In the same breath, I nocked my next arrow and took down another three in rapid succession. Dropping to one knee, I shot two more that soared into the sky. The final three were almost out of sight. I positioned my arrow carefully to hit one, and then another. The last disc slipped beyond my sight. I closed my eyes, straining to listen through the silence. My mind was clear, devoid of thought. A faint flutter reached my ears, a whisper of wind. I released my arrow with a twang, the disc shattering into fragments.