I knelt on the stone floor and cleaned the ashes out of the body of the brazier. Something was stirring within me. A familiar flicker of awareness. It was during my moon days that my shadow-self—Eona—darkened into strange thoughts and uneasy feelings. It seemed that while the ghost maker’s tea had eased yesterday’s cramps and prevented the bleeding, it had not yet washed the shadows away. I could not afford to let Eona come forward and bring her troubling desires into my mind. I pushed her away, concentrating on stacking twigs and small slivers of charcoal in the brazier. A strike of the inch-stick, and the tinder sparked into life. I blew on the wavering flame until it caught and held, then angled the pot to check the water level. There was just enough to make the tea. Perhaps this dose would chase her away.
If I failed, my master would not need me as a boy.
I tried to shake off the unwelcome thought.
Then offer him a girl’s body. It was in his eyes during the cleansing ritual.
No, that was not true! There had been nothing in my master’s eyes during the ritual. He’d said the words, poured the fragrant water over my head, then left me to wash and oil myself. I had seen nothing in his eyes. I leaned over the pot, urging it to heat faster.
A pinch of tea in my cup, then the near-boiled water, all mixed with a twig. I drank it in one swallow, the sting of the heat and the foul taste driving out Eona’s unsettling thoughts.
The sky through the window was brightening. I fastened the tea pouch inside my trouser waistband and brushed specks of ash off the ceremonial tunic. I had worn the rich garments during my vigil to honor my newfound ancestors. It was the softest material I had ever worn, a close silk weave in the vibrant red of the candidate. Twelve gold embroidered dragons were worked around the hemline of the tunic, and the sash ends were edged with gold tassels. The cloth was like oiled water against my skin and, when it moved, the sound was the wind’s whisper. No wonder the nobles acted like gods; they’d captured the very elements in their robes. I pulled on the matching red leather slippers, flexing my feet at the unfamiliar confinement. They were edged in gold thread and had the same dragon design painted on the toes. What had all this finery cost my master? I stood and practiced a few steps of the first sequence, feeling for the difference in toe grip as I spun from the Rat Dragon First into the second form. The leather soles had greater slip than my old sandals; it could be treacherous on the hard-packed sand of the Dragon Arena. I spun again and again, adjusting my weight into the floor, enjoying the swirl of the silk tunic as it flared and settled around my body.
The clang of the oven lid in the kitchens brought me to a halt. Kuno, banking the fires. It was close to dawn break and there was still much to do. I hurried over to the clothespress, digging under my folded work tunic for the scroll. After three months of snatched moments, I had finally finished it: a black ink painting of the roads and landscape around my master’s house. It was made up of scraps of mulberry paper from the paper maker near the school; he’d allowed me to have the edges of the clean cuts and I’d stitched them together to make the roll. The painting was in the style of the great Master Quidan—a long, thin rendering that was meant to be opened in small sections for meditation upon the landscape. Would Chart like it? I knew my artistry was poor, but perhaps it would help him imagine the world outside the kitchen. I fingered the plain wooden sticks fixed to the ends. I would miss describing our neighborhood to him and laughing at his wicked comments.
The small inner courtyard was quiet. I tucked the scroll into my sleeve and stood for a moment in the doorway, the soft morning air and stillness moving through me like a meditation. Should I chance calling the Rat Dragon? One last look before the ceremony? Maybe this time he would acknowledge me. I took a deep breath, narrowing my mind’s eye to the north-northwest. A shimmering outline of the dragon formed, a hint of the huge horselike head and snake-shaped body. Then the edges of the vision began to fray.
My legs buckled as a hollowing drain dragged at my consciousness. I snatched all of my self back, falling painfully onto my knees. I had never felt anything like it before. Panting, I leaned against the doorframe and turned my attention inward, clumsily tracing the flow of my Hua. There didn’t seem to be any damage, and my strength was already returning. Maybe it had happened because the Rat Dragon was ascending today. I took a few deep breaths, then pulled myself upright and headed slowly toward the kitchen. At least the strange mind-sight that had brought me to this day was still within me. Whether that meant anything to the Rat Dragon would soon be made clear.
At the kitchen door, I slipped off my shoes, then stepped inside. Kuno was standing over the stoves, stirring my master’s morning soup. The smell of the rich broth and steaming buns made my stomach pinch. I licked my lips, remembering the piece of bread hidden in my room.
“Eon?” Chart peered around the leg of the preparation table. He rolled his eyes at my finery. “Little . . . Lord.”
Kuno sniffed at me as I brushed past him to squat painfully beside Chart.
“There’ll be hell to pay if he dirties those new robes of yours,” Kuno said. He stamped across the kitchen and disappeared into the dry-goods pantry.
Chart twisted closer to me. He touched the bottom of the tunic. “So soft . . . like a girl’s bottom.”
“How would you know?” I scoffed.
“Know more . . . than you.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Maids think . . . poor Chart . . . doesn’t know what he’s doing.”