A Magic Steeped in Poison Read online

  I pick up the fallen object and my nail pierces the thin paper covering. Underneath, I feel something familiar—slender strands compacted into a solid block, emitting an earthy smell. A tea brick. I flip over the package, and the red seal leaps up at me in warning. The governor promised us that all the poisoned bricks have been seized, marked to be destroyed.

  I follow the sound of the footsteps on the roof, the dread in my stomach growing tighter with each step, turning from fear to anger. Anger at my mother’s death, at Shu’s constant pain.

  Rolling my shoulders back, a growl rises in my throat as the power of the courage tea moves through my body, encouraging my boldness. I shrug off my belongings and set them against the side of the warehouse. The tea brick, I crush in my hands. The pieces crumble to powder and scatter in a trail behind me as I push myself into a run. The anger feels good. It feels real, a welcome reprieve from my usual helplessness. My mind narrows down to a single point of focus: I cannot let them escape with the poison. Not when it means another girl might have to bury her mother.

  I fly around the corner, discarding all pretense at stealth. Only speed matters now.

  My eyes catch the dark blur moving through the air, landing in front of me not twenty steps away. Their back is to me and I don’t think; I close the distance in the span of two breaths and throw myself at them with all my fury.

  We fall to the ground, their balance thrown off by my weight. My hands grab for anything I can find, tightening around fabric, even as the impact of landing sends a wave of pain through my shoulder. They’re already moving, twisting under my grasp. I jab the thief under the ribs with my elbow, forcing a breath out in a whoosh. Knowledge gained from assisting my father in holding down grown men as he resets their bones.

  Too bad the thief is not one of Father’s patients, usually weak from illness or delirious from pain.

  They react swiftly, grabbing my right wrist and thrusting it in a direction it’s not meant to go. I howl and loosen my grasp. In one fluid motion, they’re up on two feet before I can even brush the hair from my eyes.

  I scramble less gracefully to my feet, too, and we assess one another. The moon shines bright above our heads, illuminating us both. Their body is lean, a head taller than me. Darkness obscures their features, a figure from a nightmare—a piece of wood covers the upper half of their face. Horns curve out from slashed, angry brows. They appear as the God of Demons, able to slice off the head of troublesome ghosts with one swipe of a broadsword.

  A mask, hiding the face of the terror stalking Dàxī.

  They pick up a sack that was dropped in our tussle and secure it over their shoulder with a knot. Their gaze burns from behind the mask, mouth settling into a hard line.

  Behind me is freedom, down to the docks where the warehouse workers receive their deliveries. They can steal one of the boats or disappear down the alleyway. The other way leads to the center of the village, with a greater likelihood of being caught by the patrols.

  They run at me and try to use brute force to knock me aside. But I duck down and barrel toward their legs, trying to throw them off-balance. They sidestep and push me out of the way, but I grab onto the sack as they pass, causing them to stumble.

  They whirl around and kick my knee. My leg crumples and I fall onto my arm, sending a searing pain down my left side. Another kick thrusts me down to the dirt. This thief knows exactly where to strike. I am no match.

  They try to leave again, but I flop onto my stomach and claw at their legs, forcing them to drag me behind. I can’t let them get away with the poison. I suck in a deep breath to scream, but before any sound comes out, a swift punch lands at my temple. I fall back, the pain exploding in my head like firecrackers.

  I try to stagger after them, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. My vision wavers in front of me, the buildings undulating like trees. Catching myself against the wall, I look up just in time to see a dark figure leap off a few stacked barrels and land on the rooftop.

  The thief disappears into the night, with no proof anyone was even here at all. Except for the blood seeping through my hair and the ringing, still echoing through my ears.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I walk—limping, my ankle and face throbbing in pain—until the barest hint of dawn peeks over the horizon, and a farmer passes me in his wagon. He gives me the once-over and offers me a spot in the back. I doze between bags of millet and rice, with a squawking duck for company. The duck remains outraged at the rough ride until we get to the town of Nánjiāng, which sits on the southern bank of the Jade River, several hours from Sù by horse. It would have taken most of the day if I’d had to walk.

  I sell my necklace at a pawnshop in order to afford the ferry ride to the capital. Another memory of my mother, gone. But it isn’t until I step on the boat that afternoon, jostled by the crowd, that a sudden pang of loneliness strikes me. In my corner of Sù province, I know all the villagers by face and most by name, and they know me. Here, I am no longer Dr. Zhang’s willful daughter. It’s like I’ve put on someone else’s face.

  I retreat to the back of the ferry and sit down, holding my belongings close. Around me, people laugh and mingle with one another. The air is filled with music from wandering musicians, playing for coin. But I remain anxious, afraid that Shu’s lies have not worked and I will be discovered before the ferry leaves the dock.

  I feel Father’s inevitable disapproval like a heaviness around my neck. He never understood me, even though we slept under the same roof. He would not have permitted me to leave for the competition. He would have found reason to discourage me from this foolish endeavor—I’m too young and untrained to travel alone, Shu is too sick to leave in the care of someone else, he would never leave the village because of his duty to his patients …

  A girl starts to dance in front of me, a welcome reprieve from my worries. The elegant sweeping gestures of her arms are accompanied by the sweet sound of her voice. Delighted claps begin in the crowd as they recognize “The Song of the Beggar Girl.”

  It is a story about mourning. An orphaned girl with no name. A city lost to war. She walks through the streets, hungry and alone.

  Emotions fill the faces of my fellow travelers as the strands of music weave around them. The dancer’s swaying movements, the gentle rocking of the boat, the longing of her words, all intermingle into a bitter taste at the back of my throat.

  My sister has always been the warm one, quick to smile from the moment she was born, whereas I am prickly and restless, more at home with plants than with people. I could tell the villagers tolerated my presence, but they loved Shu. She could have easily left me behind, surrounded by their adoration, yet she never forgot about me. She always shared what they gave her, defended me against their harsh words.

  It’s my turn to protect her now.

  I lower my head to my arms.

  The girl’s voice rises keenly above the crowd: “I have wandered so far from home…”

  “Here.” Something is thrust into my hand, and my eyes snap open to see a woman’s concerned face. She has a baby tucked contentedly against her, wrapped in thick fabric. The woman’s wide, dark eyes are kind.

  “If you eat something, your stomach might settle,” she says.

  I look down at what she gave me. A piece of dried pork, oily and red. When I bring it to my nose, the smell immediately makes my mouth water. I take a tentative bite, and the meat is both sweet and salty, with a great chew. Gnawing on it bit by bit distracts me from the mournful tune, gives me something to focus on until my head feels a little clearer.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, wiping the grease on my tunic. “It was delicious.”

  “First time on the ferry?” she asks, patting the baby rhythmically on the back.

  Without waiting for my response, she continues, “I remember my first time traveling to Jia. How overwhelming it was. The sheer number of people! I was embarrassed because I was sick over the railing so many times I could barely stand.”


  “You seem to be a practiced traveler now,” I tell her. There is something about her that reminds me of my mother. She, too, would have helped a stranger without hesitation.

  The woman smiles. “I was a girl newly married then. And unknown to me, what I thought was seasickness was actually due to being pregnant with this one’s brother.” Her gaze turns lovingly toward two people standing a few steps away, one tall, one short—a man and a boy, who looks to be around six years of age.

  “Now your children will grow up to be practiced travelers, too,” I say.

  She laughs. “Every spring we journey to Jia to sweep the tombs of my husband’s ancestors and visit those who have moved to the capital. But I’m happy my husband was posted to a provincial town, away from the politics of Jia. It is a simpler life. One I dream of for my son and daughter.”

  The capital city is where my parents met long ago. My mother returned to our village heavily pregnant, with a stranger at her side who will become her husband. Over the years she would mention the capital in passing. A wistful comment about the sound of the zither, an offhand remark on the perfume of the wisteria flowers that climbed the east wall of the palace.

  Shu and I used to ask her: Why can we not go back, Mama? We would sit on her lap and beg for more stories about the beauty of the capital. She would tell us there was nothing left for her there, not in comparison to our family. But our family crumbled without her holding us together, and I’m leaving now to save what remains.

  The woman kisses the wispy hair on the baby’s head with a look of contentment. The baby opens her tiny mouth to yawn, then nestles closer to her mother’s chest. This woman lives the life my father wants for me: to be satisfied with food on the table and a comfortable home, a husband who provides. Except my parents have seen the wonders of Jia and lived in its bustling depths, wanted nothing more than what waited for them back home, while I have only known our village and the surrounding countryside.

  The time on the ferry passes like a peculiar dream. My companion, Lifen, welcomes me as part of her family. I bounce her baby girl on my knee, pull the boy away from leaning too far over the railing. They refuse to accept any payment for the food and drink they share with me, and my heart is humbled by their kindness.

  On our route we pass several towns, picking up and depositing passengers. The journey is a boisterous affair, as the musicians continue to play and vendors sell their goods from baskets they carry on their backs or heads.

  At night, I lean against the railing and watch the stars swirl overhead. Don’t be deceived, my mother once told me. The stars are not as peaceful as they appear. The astronomers are tasked with deciphering their celestial travels, prophecies that predict the rise and ruin of great families and kingdoms. They burn with as much ferocity as our sun.

  “I used to dream of being a stargazer,” a voice interrupts my thoughts. Lifen’s husband, Official Yao, sits down heavily beside me on the deck and hands me a clay cup of millet wine. I sip it, and the earthy liquid burns through me, warming my chest. “Didn’t have the aptitude for it. Then I wanted to be a poet. Wrote soulful scribbles about the Banished Prince and his sequestered isle.”

  I laugh at this, imagining him younger and more solemn, brush in hand. “And?”

  “Life has a way of taking the wind out of our dreams sometimes,” he says, gazing not at me but at the flickering reflection of light on the water.

  The heat of the wine emboldens me to announce, “I’m not going to let it.”

  He laughs, full and relaxed, like he doesn’t believe me. When Lifen mentioned that her husband works for the government, I was wary of him at first. But even from our brief conversations, I realized quickly he is remarkably different from the governor who is in charge of my village.

  I shudder, thinking of Governor Wang. The formidable man whose black cloak always billowed around him like a dark cloud. The governor never asks; he only knows how to take, to demand, to squeeze until every last remnant can be wrung from the people in his jurisdiction. They say he dragged someone’s hound into the road and beat it to death, for all to see. They say he laughed as the creature howled, punishment for its owner’s inability to pay the month’s taxes.

  Governor Wang has taken a particular interest in my father over the years, as if he sees him as his nemesis. Often the villagers rely on my father to appeal to the officials for leniency when times are hard. He has seen for himself how the people have suffered, yet he is still obedient to the governor’s whims. Perhaps this is what makes it hard for me to understand my father. It is the most unforgivable kind of loyalty. Especially when, deep down, I know Governor Wang could have done more to stop the poisonings, and even deeper down, I sometimes suspect he is behind them.

  I sit there with Official Yao in companionable silence, sharing sips of millet wine, until my hands and cheeks feel warm and tingly.

  After the last drop is poured, we clink our cups together and empty them. He lets out a sigh. “The nice thing about getting old is you realize everything circles back on itself,” he says, with a dreamy lilt to his voice. “Things change, but they cycle back, too. The stars continue along their course, the cowherd is always reunited with the maiden. It’s comforting in a way. Makes it feel less lonely.”

  He pats my shoulder and stands, leaving me to my own thoughts.

  I stare out at the water. I have never thought of it until now, but he’s right. I am lonely, not just homesick. I’ve always felt this way, like I don’t belong in the village. Sometimes, late at night, when Shu is peacefully resting and sleep refuses to find me, twisted thoughts come for me instead. They take root and refuse to let go. They whisper terrible things—that my father wishes it were me, and not Shu, who had the sickness. That my family would be happier if I were gone.

  Father exists in a circle of his own imagining, each of us playing our roles of how a good doctor and his good daughters should behave. He always believed that if I only spoke the right words, acted the proper way, I wouldn’t bring trouble on our household again and again.

  Even when Mother was alive, even when I was happy in the gardens with my family, I always felt like I was orbiting them, occupying a similar space but charting my own invisible course, with no idea where it would take me.

  Maybe I’m about to find out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  With my mother’s shénnóng-shī chest on my back and my legs cramped from restless sleep aboard the ferry, I finally arrive to chaos at the west gate of the palace the next morning. I raced here after disembarking, with only a hurried goodbye to Lifen and her family. There was no time to even take in more than a glimpse or two of the city itself; I have to gain admittance to the palace before the time listed on the scroll, or the gate will be closed to me.

  People crowd the street near the gate, craning their necks for a better view. I feel the pulse of anticipation in my throat as the crowd carries me closer to the entrance. The guards wait at the door with a harassed-looking official of lower rank, who seems irritated that he was given this task. He admits only those who have an invitation in hand.

  It’s clear some of the shénnóng-shī are well-known in the capital: They accompany their apprentices to the gate, and even the official bows to them, allowing them to pass without requiring a look at their scrolls. Some in the crowd call out their names, cheering. My mother never saw this sort of recognition in the village, and it pains me to see how she could have been revered, instead of taken for granted.

  Change is slow, she used to say. The dowager empress recognized this. She was the one who elevated the shénnóng-shī in court, established it as a healing art alongside the physician’s branch. She encouraged learning from village apothecaries all the way to the highest-ranked imperial physician. The joining of traditions, old and new. But in our province, Shénnóng magic is still regarded with suspicion—especially if practiced by a woman.

  The official casts a cursory glance at my scroll before waving me in. Those of us admitted are crowded
into a small courtyard. I catch a glimpse of the palace through a door that has been left slightly ajar. A splash of greenery at the entry, ornamental shrubs and decorative trees. The polished sheen of a railing leading down a path. To come this far and be denied entrance … I cannot even consider that possibility.

  “If I could have your attention!” Another court official climbs onto a makeshift stage in the middle of the courtyard. “There are one hundred and ten shénnóng-shī recognized in the Book of Tea. To ensure you are indeed a shénnóng-tú under their tutelage and able to enter the palace, we will have you pass a simple test of your skills.”

  Murmurs spread through the crowd as we look at each other, uncertain.

  “If you will form a line,” the official calls out, “we will begin.”

  It does make sense to test for those who may have gotten the scroll through illicit means—such as myself. My palms grow damp. I try to wipe them on my tunic furtively.

  A short girl with a long braid coiled on top of her head bumps into me. She whispers an apology and a question. “What do you think they will be asking of us?”

  “I don’t know.” I stand on my tiptoes and strain to see. The competitors are lined up at a tent beside a second gate, and what happens inside is obscured from view.

  “Step aside,” one of the young men walking by says with disdain. He wears an umber tunic, with detailed embroidery in blue thread on the collar and sleeves someone must have toiled over for hours. “A pair of tŭ bāo zi.”

  I stare at him, seething at the insult. At the implication that we’re so poor, we must resort to eating dirt to sustain us.

  The girl next to me bristles in turn and hisses at him. “What did you say?” she demands.

  He only laughs. “The kitten from Yún thinks she has claws.”

  A quick glance at the guards standing at the perimeter reminds me not to start a fight, even as I would like nothing more than to push him into the mud where he belongs. I shuffle along next to the girl, head down.