Huijin halted in his stride, stunned. Then, before he could dwell on the boy’s absurd cim, he chased after him.

  “Yue’er!” he cried. “Calm yourself. Yue’er, that’s enough!”

  Fast as he was on his feet, it did not take long for him to catch Ming-zongzhu’s wrist.

  “Don’t let them see you like this!” he barked. “What has possessed you now?”

  Yin Yue near fell over his own feet. His face was a mask of terror when he looked upon his servant. Then, reminded of his duty, he hid his dread beneath what might have been taken for composure, had his mouth not quivered. “What do you mean, possessed me?”

  Huijin threw the boy’s wrist away with rather more force than was needful, but there was no wrath to find on him, only stark bewilderment and the trepidation of a man who feared witnesses to some act of impropriety. His gray eyes scoured the pastures.

  “Compose yourself and speak,” he demanded. “Why did you run? What do you mean, Qian Xuegang lied?”

  Yin Yue’s face softened to bnk astonishment. He parted his mouth and closed it again, and from his long silence to judge, it seemed that not only had he no good cause for his accusation, but it had not occurred to him that his gray servant could have believed the white-haired ndowner.

  As the spring weather was fickle, so too was Ming-zongzhu’s temper. A change came upon him. Where the winds of haste had billowed a moment ago, so did clouds now gather on the horizon, their gales stale and thick with distress. He writhed, mute and dumb, then bit his cheek and tore at his robes until the seams threatened to yield. No expnation availed him.

  “What do you mean?” he asked at st. “I ran because he is a liar — … because he is dangerous, Huijin. And he lied. What he told us was not true. It must be so, because — because…”

  Why, indeed? All was veiled. And yet, Yin Yue thought he could see the shadows of truth there in the damp, dark fog. He reached for some shimmer of light; some slight reason for his unfounded cim as he breached the dark surface of his distress like a man almost drowned.

  “Because of clover, Huijin! Why would the sheep long for clover?”

  Huijin’s voice thinned as his brows creased in concerned disbelief.

  “Is that all?”

  Yin Yue threw out his sleeves. His anguish shone through his fractured, ivory mask of calm.

  “Huijin!” he whined. “Don’t tell me you believed that absurd tale of his!”

  Huijin drew a deeper breath to quiet the gusts of confused thoughts and unease in his breast. Any other man, be it a master, a father or older brother, would have dismissed these wild cims when he saw that the boy could not argue for them. Any other man would have decred him a fool and scolded him for his excess. But Huijin lowered his head and mused on the boy’s absurdities and indecision. A quiet creature was he, and stern with Yin Zhaoyang’s younger brother. He did not intrigue or entertain; had few qualities aside his own diligence to make him desirable company. But he had always, beyond fault, given careful consideration to the boy’s whims and needs. No matter how absurd the tantrum, no matter how odd the whim, he would strive to find rhyme and reason in Yin Yue’s behavior.

  Now, like a servant might hold up an ornamental belt to see how it fits the robe, so did he fit the boy’s strange cims to his own impressions of Qian Xuegang. Had he believed the ndowner? He had to confess that he had. No faults had he found in the man’s tale; no pieces that had not fitted the whole. Had he ached as he listened, for that which he had lost himself? Had the mere sight of that porcein crane cut him? Had the te Ming-zongzhu’s name cwed his heart to shreds?

  All of that had been so. But, he asked himself now, did you find Qian Xuegang sincere, even as the man y his shameful tale bare under the skies?

  And here, his answer was no. He had no reason to doubt the ndowner, clover or not. But even then could he not accept the man as sincere.

  With a frown, he beckoned the boy to the nearest mulberry tree and bade him sit in the shade.

  “Enough tantrums, Yue’er,” he said. “Sit down and gather your thoughts. Tell me exactly why you deem this man a liar.”

  Yin Yue fell against the tree as if his cords had been cut. He bent his head and hid his face and his shame from the world, and found that his heart pounded behind his eyes. His thoughts were scattered like ashes upon the winds. He did not wish to think. He did not wish to justify himself. Had gege been here, he would have believed his little brother without reservation, he knew. Why did Huijin question him so?

  “There is — the wound, you know? The old wound on his arm,” he tried. “He lied about that.”

  Huijin leaned against the tree, and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. But where he had been fearful before; where the promise of evil spirits had haunted him, he now stood with a fierce, almost feral set of his jaw. Qian Xuegang was no ghoul from the Netherworld. He bled. And if he was a threat, then he would be a threat the ashen one could understand.

  “That’s so,” he conceded. But that had been a part of the lie before the ndowner confessed to the dismal truth.

  And yet.

  The man’s very demeanor, even as he professed to grieve his lost friend’s fate not half a ké ago, still seemed —

  Farcical, offered the ashen one to himself. But was that true? Was his judgment not too vicious? Too unjust?

  “Yin Yue, you pick at straws,” he sighed. “But I have never seen you like this before. You are not uncouth with strangers. Turn your thoughts; don’t try to look for fws in his tale. Tell me why you loathe him.”

  Why indeed? Yin Yue thought, and thought, and still could he not find a reason to fault the man; no justification for his own enmity. He pulled at his hair and stared at the grass between his knees.

  “I — I don’t know!” he cried. “He is not just a man, Huijin! He has a deplorable character. I know it. But I cannot tell you why. He is — he is lower than ants, lower than earthworms!”

  This was not good enough. Huijin was not the boy’s shifu; not Ming-zongzhu’s tutor. He had never been appointed to any formal title. And yet he demanded, “How is he deplorable? What is it with him that rankles you? His voice? His manners? I need words, Yin Yue. Think.”

  You need words, thought the servant. A zongzhu must, above all, know how to speak.

  Yin Yue fell quiet, brow strained. What words could he use? Had it been the man’s demeanor? The lilt of his silver tongue? Had there been some veiled lie betrayed in the changes of his face, or the hands he had rested on his back? What could he say, when no words could avail him? If no reason could suffice, then any reason had to suffice.

  “He has a liar’s eyes,” he whispered.

  Huijin sat down in the shade and swallowed his own disappointment. ‘Am I too much like Lu Yuxin?’ he asked of the skies.

  All of sudden, Yin Yue turned to him and dried his cheeks. His hands hunted his servant’s wrist, but then he drew them back as if burned and pleaded, “you believe me, don’t you? Huijin? Huijin?”

  Huijin-ge, begged his eyes.

  Huijin turned from him and closed his eyes to better hear the wind in the leaves; the murmurs in grass. With his eyes shut and his face pained, he answered, “I do, Yue’er. I would not ask if I did not.”

  At that, Yin Yue buckled under his own gratitude. No strength had he to rise, so he rested his brow in the grass in quiet deference. So wretched was he, so relieved, that he thought he would be gd to die for this man.

  “Good,” he stuttered. “Good. I am not mad, Huijin. I have not lost my senses, I haven’t.” His assurance bore the lilt of a question.

  Huijin scoffed with dry amusement, bereaved of any true mirth. When have I ever not believed you, wretched boy, he wondered to himself. That is the curse you cast. I believed you; believed you could do no harm. Gege believed in you.

  Look where that faith led us.

  “I told you this before, Yue’er,” he said with a chalk-like calm, “you are not a fool.”

  Your spirit is like paper; it soaks up all kind of inks and spills.

  “I still do not understand you. No matter. You can not throw such tantrums again. Do you understand me? It does not become Ming-zongzhu.”

  To that, Yin Yue said no more than the mulberry tree; breathed no louder than the pale shade. Lu Yuxin believes that I am a fool, he did not say. Nor did he say that which was closest to his heart; I believe that I am a fool.

  “I apologize, Huijin. I did not mean to.”

  “You doubt this man?” resumed the gray one, “you find him false? Then speak to him with tact; rouse no suspicion. You do not show your temper and you do not run away. Do you not understand that if he is the threat you think, he will see your fear and use it against us? Lu Yuxin is not me. Your cultivators are not me. If Ming-zongzhu tells them to beware a man, they will want answers. No one sees your heart, so learn to paint words on what you feel.”

  “I do — I see, Huijin-ge, I know. It is just so difficult. I can’t.”

  “Practice,” answered Huijin as if he had not heard. “No need to answer me now. Consider, find words for your thoughts. Deliver them with confidence.” He loosened his pouch and offered the broken crane. “Keep this. If you think the man is unworthy of the crane, keep it for now.”

  I took it for you, he did not say.

  “I know,” blurted Yin Yue. “I — I will practice.” I can’t, he echoed to himself. There and then, he forfeited his promise. What reason was there to hold onto that which he could never master? He took the crane token and peered at his servant, his eyes warm with the moon’s dew. And wonder wakened in them, held aloft by admiration. No better man was there in this realm, he thought to himself, than his gege’s gray confidant.

  But Huijin was blind to the warmth in the boy’s eyes. He neither saw nor heard, and when he at st opened his own, his eyes were ever pensive and withdrawn. As he rose to stand, he thought to offer the boy his hand, then remembered how the boy had shoved him away the night they had come upon the dead sheep. His hand closed to a fist.

  “What do you deem best to do now, Ming-zongzhu?” he asked.

  “Learn about the clover,” faltered Yin Yue. “We must — we need to learn why the sheep ate clover even as it was dying. It is significant. Do you agree it is significant, Huijin?”

  “I—,” the servant hesitated.

  Yin Yue hurried to reason, “It is the one mystery Qian Xuegang did not speak of. So he cannot lie about it, because he does not know. So it has to be significant.”

  At that, Huijin’s face changed. A strange, vacant look clouded it.

  “You know,” he began, uncertain, “the two disciples of Chen Luoyang ate a lot when they returned. More than their day’s share. Asked the cook for more. I told the servants to be generous; I thought the two children had starved on the road.”

  Yin Yue stood up, his brows arched, eyes wide.

  Huijin shook his head. Could the clover here be poisonous, a herb that roused ravenous, mad hunger? But while disciples as young as those two could be fools, why in the Jade Emperor’s name would they eat clover from the pastures?

  Then, he remembered the night he touched Lu Yuxin’s bde. A shadow of anguish and hunger had he felt then. His gaze fell down to his hand with a frown.

  “Yue,’er,” he said, “this is beyond me. I think you had best speak to Lu Yuxin.”

  “Yes, but,” persisted Yin Yue, “a hound that hunts sheep, a dying sheep that spent the st of her strength to feed. Two disciples who returned starved — what is the common thread, Huijin?”

  “It is hunger, Yue’er,” said Huijin quietly, “ravenous hunger. I think — when I touched Lu Yuxin’s sword st night, I think I felt an echo of the same mad need.”

  “That’s it!” cried Yin Yue. “That’s it, Huijin! That is why Qian Xuegang is a —,” he remembered himself and lowered his voice, “that is why he is a liar. The spirit-beast must have been born of starvation! He starved his brother Shang Hansheng to death!”

  “I still insist we send for Ming cultivators,” answered Huijin. Neither agreement nor disapproval could be read from him. “Unless that shifu of yours has acted on another of his whims, thrown all caution to the winds and hunted down the spirit. But — before we send for cultivators, we can,— ” he hesitated, “we can examine the cottage of Shang Hansheng, if you deem it right.”

  Here was Yin Yue’s face at once a field for two sentiments at war. Fear emerged, its army as vast as the ranks of Cn Mao, its generals many and renowned. There was the fear of the unknown, fear of the spirit, fear of Qian Xuegang the liar, who might await them in the night. Yet were there also those lieutenants of lesser yang; fear of failure, fear of disappointment. Above all, he feared that he had been mistaken. That he was mad.

  Behold then the enemy ranks; the army of excitement. Here was Ming-zongzhu’s chance to make his Huijin proud, to show his mettle and quiet the doubts of Lu Yuxin, to honor his te brother’s name!

  “We should, but — oh, we must all agree. Lu Yuxin must agree that this is wise,” he decided, “or it shall be too perilous, right?”

  “We shall not head into the wilds if he refuses to follow, Yue’er.”

  “Yes, that is more succinct,” agreed Yin Yue. “I should have said that.”

  “Nor will we head there at night,” warned Huijin, “our purpose here was to investigate, then wait until the Ming cultivators arrive. If you want to join the hunt as Ming-zongzhu, you shall do it under their protection.”

  Yin Yue frowned. Want to nighthunt? In his youthful folly, he had many desires. Admiration he desired. Adoration. Wine. Quiet days in his garden. For his dragon lily to bloom.

  He had never wished to join a nighthunt.

  “But, while we consider our next steps,” seethed the ashen one to the grass, “we do not even know where your shifu is.”

  “Then shall we wait for him?” tried Yin Yue.

  Huijin looked his way with an unspoken rebuke. And why not, Yin Yue, why do we not know where he is? This cannot be allowed.

  One day, he thought, the man’s reckless pursuits and obstinacy will harm you.

  That thought was a stab of cold beneath his ribs.

  “At the farmstead,” he decided. “He must appear sooner or ter.”