I’d only seen the hall once. A few months ago during training, Ranne had marched us around the Dragon Circle, the avenue of halls that ringed the outer precinct of the Imperial Palace. Each hall had been carefully built at the compass position of the dragon it honored and was the home and workplace of the Dragoneye and apprentice. The Rat Dragon Hall was in the north-northwest of the circle, and although it wasn’t the biggest or the grandest, it was easily three times the size of my master’s house. We were not permitted inside any of the halls, but Ranne allowed us five minutes’ rest in the garden that marked the position of the Mirror Dragon Hall. Five hundred years ago it burned down; only the stone outline of the building remained embedded in the grass. Dillon and I had walked its perimeter and were amazed at the number of rooms.
Beside me, Chart closed his eyes, preparing for my words.
“Two gray stone statues of the Rat Dragon guard the gate,” I said, closing my own eyes to remember my brief glimpse of the hall. “They stand bigger than me and twice as wide. The one on the right holds the Dragoneye compass in its claws, the other cradles the three sacred scrolls. As you walk past them, their stone eyes follow you. Inside the gate, a courtyard made of matched dark cobbles leads to the—”
“I don’t know why you bother,” I heard Irsa say. I opened my eyes. She was in the doorway, briskly brushing down her skirt. “The freak doesn’t understand your words.” She smoothed the looped braid of her hair.
Chart and I exchanged glances. No doubt the miller’s man was going home happy.
“Sl . . . u . . . t,” Chart said loudly.
Irsa pulled her face into a mockery of Chart’s and mimicked his elongated sounds, unaware of the word within them. Chart rolled his eyes at me, his body thrashing against the floor in laughter. I grinned as Irsa backed away.
“Freak,” she said, her fingers making the ward-evil sign at Chart. She turned her attention to me. “Master said you were to go to him as soon as you returned,” she said, then added snidely, “although he wasn’t expecting you until the end of training time.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“Moon Garden. On the main viewing platform.” She smiled slyly. Irsa knew I was not allowed in the Moon Garden—my master had forbidden it. “He said as soon as you return.”
I grabbed the edge of the table and pulled myself upright. Should I obey my master’s ban on the Moon Garden, or obey his command to attend him immediately? He would not be pleased that I was home so early. Let alone the other news I had for him.
“Irsa, do your work,” Kuno said. “Stop wasting time or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”
Irsa gave me one last gloating look, then hurried into the dark passageway that connected the kitchen to the main house.
There was a saying in one of the earthier Dragoneye texts: A man on the horns of a dilemma ends up with his arse pricked. My master would find fault whether I went into the garden or I waited. Since there was no avoiding his displeasure, I would go to him. At least I would finally see the garden that had won him such fame.
“Tomorrow,” I said to Chart. He gave his slow smile.
I stepped over the threshold into the courtyard. To my left was the gray stone fence of the Moon Garden, its low metal gate etched with the shape of a leaping tiger. I headed over to it, the promise of my master’s anger dragging at my feet. There were many ways to tell the truth—I just needed to find one that would satisfy him. All that was visible over the gateway was a black pebble path leading to an impressive stacked slate wall. Along its face, a waterfall cascaded down a carefully haphazard run of ledges, pooling into a white marble bowl.
My master had designed the garden to symbolize female energy, and it was said that during a full moon, the garden was so beautiful it could rob a man of his essence. When I heard that, I wondered what would happen to a man robbed of his essence—would he become a woman, or would he become something else? Something like the Shadow Men of the court? Or something like me?
There was no latch on the gate. I traced the strong lines of the tiger on the metal for luck—or maybe for protection—then pushed against it until the gate swung open.
The black path was made of pebbles and seemed to move in front of me like a slow ripple of water. As I stepped onto it, I realized why; the stones had been laid in a subtle graduation of matte to polished that caught the sunlight. On either side, a flat expanse of sand had been raked into swirling patterns. I pushed the gate shut behind me and followed the path to the waterfall wall, my uneven steps sounding like the chink of coins in a pouch. The path diverged around the wall. I paused for a moment, listening. Underneath the sound of the waterfall splashing into the bowl was the muted hiss of more flowing water. No other sounds of physical movement. But deeper, in my mind, I felt the soft thrum of carefully contained power. I chose the left path and walked around the wall into the main garden.
It was a severe landscape: clusters of rocks on flat sand, swirling paths of black and white pebbles, and an intricate weaving of waterfalls, streams, and pools directing the thrumming energy to the wooden viewing platform. My master was kneeling in its center, as spare and severe as his surroundings. I lowered into a bow, watching for acknowledgment. He didn’t move. There were no signs of anger in the lean lines of his body. A shadow above made me flinch. I looked up, but there was nothing. No bird. No cloud. But the cramps and the pain in my hip had eased.
My master’s body stiffened. “What are you doing here?”