"Morning light reveals the road, pcates the heart, banishes shadow,” said the poet Xu Zhen Xuan.

  After Ming-zongzhu’s te nighthunt, the young cultivator had to be pardoned his desire to sleep long into the day. After all, he had suffered a long and strenuous day. After all, he was very young, said the farmhands.

  His servant had risen much earlier, as servants are wont to do. He saw that the young zongzhu was treated to a bath, then eggs and steamed bread and porridge. No whip was id upon Yin Yue’s back that day.

  Huijin left the swordmaster to do as he pleased, and as the tiger’s bed stood empty before the morning fog had lifted from the rice paddies, his absence was a blessed windfall.

  Yin Yue had been counseled to settle his thoughts and his spirit, and to recite his cn’s gentle philosophies in silence. Thus was he left in peace. His servant, garbed in a coarse robe, combed his own hair before his own faded reflection in the waters of a dark bowl.

  Once he had served his master, Huijin had washed his hair in the river. The cold had not been kind to him, but even with no oils and no rice water, he drew his comb through his dark tresses like the winds swayed in the reeds, like the water ran in the brook.

  Yin Yue’s penchant for meditation was like his namesake; it waxed and waned. At present, he lingered in between. Like the moon at half-luminance, he sat in a correct posture, his back at ease, his breaths pcid and gentle. But a furrow between his brows betrayed a want of peace.

  His sleep had been poor. Even now were there scars of his exhaustion upon his face, the skin under his eyes too thin and bruised for a hale young man. And yet, though the vilge’s plight y heavy on his shoulders, though he had felt the chill of a resentful spirit and seen the gruesome sight of a sughtered sheep, there was little dread to discern on him. While sleep had eluded him, while he had woken up from a dream most foul, he had since shed his horror. But his thoughts returned to the spirit-beast again and again, beaten upon the whetstone of rumination, until he could no longer endure it. He opened his eyes with a sigh.

  When Huijin heard the sigh, he tied his damp hair with a hemp cord and passed the boy’s bed to part the blinds. Light fell into the chamber, joined with the quiet chirps of rks under their roof.

  He did not speak. What forbearance sleep had restored to him was seen in his soft demeanor and quiet courtesy towards the boy.

  And Yin Yue watched his servant, the man who had raised him and who had been a steadfast presence at his side through all these years. He wanted to break their silence, to ask what his Huijin thought about sheep and clover. But words would not find his mouth; did not stir his dead tongue. He knew he had to resolve the vilge’s plight, knew he had to bring peace to the farmsteads, and that he had to understand this spirit if he meant to send it.

  But he could not bring himself to speak of it. Gege’s cn and reputation was at stake, and all he could think of was the hard look his Huijin had given him when Qian Xuegang had left them, and Huijin’s wearied steps st night.

  Might be that Huijin feared the boy would spend his entire day in bed if left to his own whims. As he gazed upon the distant meadows and the beds of rich, tilled earth, he remarked, “the swallows fly high. It will be a warm day.” Then, “if you deem it wise, you can visit Qian Xuegang today, then speak with your shifu. And if Lu Yuxin has not yet rid the vilge of this spirit-beast, you may send for Ming cultivators.”

  A thin voice answered him. “Do you want to go home, Huijin?”

  Huijin’s neck tensed. It was not for him to be asked what he wants or prefers. Ill fitted was he to know what to do with such questions.

  They reminded him too much of gege, of the older brother’s gentle concern and considerate attentions. What did he want? He did not want to reminisce gege. Not in the light of day, before this verdant acreage. Not when his heart was as rotten as the wet and mold-eaten remains of a dead tree.

  He did not want to return to Cn Ming either.

  He folded his arms on the sill and watched pollen seeds fly on the winds. A walk. He yearned for a walk in solitude.

  “Sooner or ter shall we return there, Yin Yue. The spirit must be taken care of first.”

  The boy thinned his mouth, breath held. Still did he not want to breach the subject. Not of the spirit, not of Qian Xuegang. What did Yin Yue of Cn Ming want?

  That which he could never again earn for himself. But still did the fool strive for his folly.

  “Huijin?” he tried. He hesitated, shook his head, but found it too te to turn back. “I did not send the provisions to you because I wanted to hunt the spirit myself.”

  There was no answer to be had from Huijin. He stood with his back to the boy. Even when the boy’s voice was as thin as a reed, even when his spirit guttered like a candle in the wind, he did not turn. There it was again, the one fault in him gege had spoken of with fond shakes of his head.

  “The snowcd peaks of Bai Mao are warmer than your cold shoulder, A-jin,” he used to tease him. But to the younger brother, the te zongzhu had said but this, “if Huijin-ge has a fw, he does not understand it. If he understood it, he would not allow it.” And then had he asked little Yin Yue why the beetle needed its armor, and left the boy to wonder what a beetle had to do with the ashen one.

  The boy touched his own cheek in thought, his own smile one of sorrow. At least in this was his Huijin as he remembered him. He dried his eyes before he spoke, voice strained but composed.

  “I just wanted shifu to stop, you know?”

  And then, it seemed Fate decided to show a some leniency after all. Perhaps had Yin Yue’s mouth found the right key to fit the lock, because the cold lifted a little.

  When gege had yet lived, this hoarfrost had been a rare. In those days had there been a soft and boundless patience in the gray one, a quiet decorum to his demeanor on any day.

  Huijin did not turn, but at least he answered.

  “I know. But it is not for you to steer him or meddle with —,” he halted. No, he reminded himself. Yin Yue was Ming-zongzhu. Not just a boy of seventeen summers. He amended with, “not for you to end our disputes through low connivance. If you want him to obey, order him.”

  “I know,” said the boy, pained, “I should have— I just fear he would not listen. He is also my shifu.”

  He would not have listened to you, conceded Huijin. I hate him, he echoed to himself and smiled a smile as thin and light as the youthful cork tree leaves. It was a privilege to loathe a man with no shame or self-reproach. He knew he would not harm this man, nor seek a way to drive him from the cn. Lu Yuxin was too useful for that. And to vent his hatred through some vile act against him seemed too frightening to consider.

  No, he would not pave way for any harm to Lu Yuxin, but if Fate cast misfortune in his path, it would be a pleasure to see the man suffer. See him fall ill. Be skewered on someone else’s bde and drown in his own arrogance.

  “Yue’er.” The ashen one’s voice thawed. He came to sit by the boy’s bedside. “It is hard to be heard in this world.”

  Yin Yue looked at his servant’s back as he bowed his head in agreement. Hard was it indeed, for a boy who had been born a small cicada.

  “You are young,” said his gray servant. “Not yet of age. That too is held against you —,” he fell quiet, then sighed. “Let it be. It does us no good to stew in resentment. I think it would appease your shifu if you went on a nighthunt when the Ming cultivators arrive.”

  “I wish he listened to me,” Yin Yue broke in. “You know, like Elder Ya believes he does? Shifu takes care to heed me when others are near. Always careful to— to show himself obedient then. But his will is strong, Huijin. My words cannot reach him anymore than my sword can.”

  What a disgrace we were st night, thought Huijin. An utter disgrace, a ughingstock for the three realms. You are no more a cn zongzhu than a mouse is a regent. I am no cultivator. Lu Yuxin is not the loyal, obedient guardian Yin Zhaoyang had ordained him to be. Three chartans; street buskers in costumes.

  His neck reddened at the thought. But with this shame crept the dread of st night’s horrors, and it festered in the pit of his stomach.

  He told himself that he was at ease now, when the skies were bright and the boy safe.

  He had not been at ease st night. He could not remember when he st had been this terrified.

  No, he reminded himself, you can remember that very well.

  “He thinks he knows best,” he fred. “That does not befit — no. No, Yue’er, I said we would not have this conversation.” He rose from the bed. “Are you ready to visit this Qian Xuegang?”

  Whether the boy was ready or not, Huijin brought him his robe and sash. These days, the young Ming-zongzhu was obliged to dress himself, as was expected of any young man except the Emperor. But not many years had passed since Huijin had run after the boy to clothe him in small hanfus and soft boots.

  Yin Yue looked at his servant’s back again and thought that Lu Yuxin was not the sole man who believed he knew better than his cn zongzhu. He stood up, obedient, and dressed himself in a robe too coarse and boots too hard.

  “He does know better, Huijin,” he admitted. “At least he knows the sword and cultivation. No one in Cn Ming knows the sword better than he does. He’s belligerent and stubborn and does not fit the philosophies of Ming, but— I trust him, you know? I trust he knows spirits. And— and that he would even die to protect me. He would throw his life away for me like that. I know it. I wish— I wish he trusted me too.”

  Huijin’s eyes darkened, but he had no wish to sow strife between master and his guardian, and so kept his mouth shut. Yin Yue took this as an offer to vent his thoughts.

  “Perhaps he cannot. I am too young,” he told the green meadows as he peered out. “I wish— I wish he trusted you instead.”

  Huijin looked over his shoulder. Me? He shook his head. Men like Lu Yuxin trusted those whom they could respect. Best the man and leave him bloodied in the dust, then offer him a hand, and he might find it in him to be respectful.

  But do not wish upon him the misfortune of trust in a man who wishes him dead, Yin Yue, thought he to himself. I am not a virtuous man. Not a cultivator, not a daoist. No one expects me to be.

  “Speak to him, Yue’er,” he said rather. “Trust or not trust, he is both your master and your servant. And as a servant, he must obey. If he cannot obey, he must counsel you. What he did st night is unacceptable.”

  “Yes,” agreed Yin Yue, fretful, “but won’t you speak to him also, Huijin? I find he is more, uh, malleable when you have spoken to him.”

  “May I wait?” returned Huijin, “just for a day?”

  He betrayed himself, he knew, but what could he do? A day was not much to ask for. Gege would have given him a year.

  But to gege, he had never been a mere servant.

  Yin Yue’s face shattered. He hid his eyes and turned his back as he fastened his sword, then took care to strengthen his voice before he answered, “You are right, Huijin. How impatient I am. No, this won’t do. I am a fool to fear him.” Not even a minnow in the sea, but a weak little earthworm upon a fisherman’s hook, he thought. “I will speak to him,” he rallied. “Forget what I said. I must learn.”

  Huijin did not look his way as he dressed himself, but his voice was like the coat of a windstill pond.

  “Whatever else you are, Yue’er,” he murmured, “you are not a fool.

  Your fate would have been gentler by far, he thought, if you had been one.