A few nterns had been lit in the lesser gardens. They illuminated the narrow paths like little isnds of light in a sea of bck. And in their luminance, the gray servant could see the leaves of vegetation both humble and royal. Here was a patch of lilies, enclosed by a row of white stones. There was a bed of radishes, their white flowers bare for the pleasure of the fireflies.

  This was the realm of Yin Yue of Ming. Never has the boy shunned a flower for its humble origins. Lotus or leek; both did he nurture with his hands.

  Yet the zongzhu could not be found upon the coiled path this night, and so did the gray servant turn for the narrow stream which flowed to the eastern pond. At first was there no sight of his master there. The waters were bck, the moon shrouded behind a mantle of clouds. From the northern peaks of Yuchi blew a chill wind, and the trees shuddered beneath dark skies. The wind pulled at the servant’s robes. White petals fell around him like ashes, adrift from the cherry trees.

  And then, as the moon peered through the parted veils, the ashen one sighted a lone figure by the riverbed. Caught in the moon’s sheen stood Ming-zongzhu, his head bent above the waters.

  With a ntern in hand, the servant wandered past the beds of green, treaded beneath plum trees yet to blossom, crossed the wooden bridge. His was a quiet step, as muted as the shadows cast by the moon’s pale light. When he saw the boy he now called his master, he hid his ntern behind his wide sleeve to dim the light, and stood at a distance to watch the youth’s narrow back.

  In the light of the day, swathed in the cloak of duties, encumbered with a hundred errands, drawn taut between a dozen concerns, the ashen one never hesitated to approach the younger Yin brother, the boy he had once clothed and fed with his own hands. But at night, the shadows were longer, the silence deeper, and Huijin of Ming decades older. Wearier.

  He did not come closer.

  In the moon’s light, the pond clucked with the whispers of the older brother’s ughter. The wooden bridge bore echoes of his sure gait. Once, the chestnut trees here had borne witness to a quiet mirth, to jests shared between mirrored smiles and light, unburdened breaths.

  But the boy who now stood by the river was not gege. And the ashen one knew that he had to walk to him, take his name in his mouth with forbearance, with lenience, with the tender lilt sculpted for a paper-thin spirit.

  Him. The younger brother Yin. The downfall of the te Ming-zongzhu.

  The ignorant, unfortunate murderer of his own older brother.

  With one slow breath, the ashen one broke the invisible shackles upon his feet. The voice which called to the young master was dry and soft, edged with admonition to come.

  “Ming-zongzhu.”

  The boy did not stir. Faced with no other ills than his own reflection, he seemed aloof, light, adrift in the moon’s light as if the winds could whisk him away to the Divine Realm at any moment. No flinch, no startled breath betrayed his acknowledgment of the older servant’s presence. And yet, he was not asleep where he stood. His mouth moved with soft, indiscernible whispers, spoken to a dark reflection in the waters. In the moon’s white sheen, the boy’s face seemed bleaker, his stature thinner; a forlorn soul, a denizen of the waters under Naihe bridge. And yet, as the servant drew nearer, and the light of his ntern found the riverbank reeds, Yin Yue woke from his stupor and turned.

  Confusion was written on his face as much as debauchery tainted his breath. He too reeked of wine.

  And yet, thought the servant to himself, you are here, while the other wastrel sleeps in his bed.

  He bowed his head with old and practiced courtesy. A bow of respect. Of resignation.

  Do not, he reminded himself before he dared to trust his own voice, do not wound him. A silent sutra was this, chanted day after day.

  He raised his ntern; not enough to burn the boy’s eyes with light, but enough to see the devastation upon his face.

  This, said the servant to his own heart, was the younger brother’s rightful punishment.

  “Yue’er.” A sigh followed. “Lu Yuxin looks for you. Again.”

  The boy turned to the stream; bent towards it as if he sought there a lost relic. His brows furrowed, though whether it was because he could not find what he sought or because he awaited an earful, the moon could not tell.

  “Oh.” Disappointment fell upon his face. Soft were they in the bleak light; soft as the lotus flowers adrift in the stream, as the moon’s own silver.

  “Oh?” The servant allowed himself the privilege of one raised brow. Oh, echoed he. You partake in excess wine, shun your duties, leave your letters unread, neglect every obligation presented to you, raise the temper of your brute shifu, and your answer to the many accounts of your own negligence is ‘oh?’

  The servant’s voice took on a hoarser edge, deadwood-dry. “Truly are some born privileged in this realm, Ming-zongzhu.”

  Yin Yue turned to offer his favored servant a soft smile, but the moon could offer no luster of her own. His mouth stiffened, impossible to tame.

  “I have been occupied, Huijin,” answered he. “And it’s te. Lu Yuxin can wait until daybreak before he torments me, can he not?”

  “Fortunately for you,” the ashen one told him, “he can. I have sent Yan-shidi to inform him that you are occupied with this day’s letters, which you will be in about half a shichen.”

  It might be too te for swordpy, said the gray eyes. It is not too te to exercise your penmanship.

  The boy’s face froze. “But,” began he, “but I can’t do that now. It is te, Huijin. Late, and I am -… occupied.” He straightened, his voice shrill as he folded his arms across his chest.

  “That’s right,” affirmed he. “Occupied! Oh, at least read the letters for me, Huijin. I can’t make pistil from petal about them either way.”

  Huijin set the ntern down and folded his hands within his sleeves so he could present his master a deep bow.

  “It is not a matter of ‘can’t,’” he answered. “Or ‘te’ or ‘early.’ It is a matter of ‘shall’ and ‘must,’ and it will be done in half a shichen. I have answered the letters which concern menial affairs and pced orders for supplies. What remains are three compints raised by Sergeant Jiachong, a letter from Cn Sheng, and a letter from a vilge head who reports about what might be the ghoul of a dog on their western fields.”

  The boy ughed. A shrill ughter was this, and like the moon’s own light, it gave no warmth. He threw his hands above his head and turned back to the waters again.

  “Yue’er.”

  The servant’s voice was like a noose around the neck. “I will sit with you. Answer the letters, Yue’er. Then may we discuss how you can approach Sergeant Jiachong.”

  The boy’s shoulders fell. His head drooped. With no radiance of his own, his voice was tight, fraught with pain.

  “Huijin, I don’t want to.” Then; “you don’t need me to answer them.”

  Ming-zongzhu’s mouth tightened in anticipation of rebuke. Once more did he turn his eye to the dark reflection in the water. Occupied, he reminded himself. He was occupied.

  Behind him, the ashen servant stood mute.

  “Do not want to?” wondered he. Which Heavenly Emperor has bestowed upon you the privilege to take such words into your mouth? Did your brother want this? Did he want his remains to lie in a sealed urn before he could see his thirtieth year?”

  Vile were the unsaid words upon his tongue, as sharp and poisonous as a cutthroat’s bde. “Who needs you at all?” his tongue beckoned him to speak.

  A vile tongue had he, knew the gray servant of Ming. A wench’s vile and noxious tongue. So had the sister of Curator He’s wife told him once. He could not remember what he had said to offend her, but he had watched his tongue ever since.

  “I am not the zongzhu, Yue’er.” This too, he knew, was a mistake to say. Old and wasted words, which would grant him old and predictable responses. But it was te. He could allow himself that one misstep.

  The cold wind rose as the young master sighed. He drew his arms around himself, and for a while did he not speak at all.

  Then;

  “I was talking to him.” Resigned, the boy turned for the path and stepped away from the water. It had no more comfort to offer him.

  I thought you might, thought the servant, woeful. For a while yet, he did not speak, could not will himself to speak. For he knew he would be obliged to ask, then bear the boy’s answers in stoic silence. But if he did not, what use would there be of him, the servant? No, if the boy needed an ear to listen to him before he could return to his duties, then Huijin would give it to him.

  “What did you tell him?” he asked.

  The boy touched his colr then, his throat tight, his voice choked. What did he speak of with his brother, the sun, the light which once bathed the realm in radiance? To the man who had died for his younger brother’s mistakes? Did he plead to be forgiven in the dark of the night? Did he offer a prayer of solemn respect? Did he beg to exchange pces with that better man? Was it counsel he hoped for?

  Did he confess to his fws; tell his brother that he could not do that which had been asked of him?

  Gibbous were the shadows on the boy’s face as he looked over his shoulder, for he dared not look at his servant. The moon’s strange light caught in his eyes, and what mischief hid there offered no warmth.

  “I told him we broke a whole shelf of jars in the wine celr.”

  And with this mishap confessed, Yin Yue let loose a bark of ughter and turned heel in wild flight.

  At this sudden cackle, the servant turned as if struck by a whip, and almost, almost did he reach for the scoundrel’s shoulder, his own patience brought to the very brink.

  “Yin Yue!”

  But his hand fell away, now as before. For where that hand had once held the child’s smaller one, where these hands had once caught him as he frolicked in the sun-warmed ponds, combed his hair, dressed him, held him as he cried, they now balked at such touch.

  A year and five moons had passed since the older brother’s death, and Huijin of Ming had not once touched his young master.

  Yin Yue was allowed to flee, and the ashen servant stared after him with embers of wrath and cold breaths of resignation.

  “Good,” said he. “Very well. Pray you do not run into Lu Yuxin.”

  Then, before the river, he conscripted himself to another errand;

  “I will clean the wine celr.”