A Magic Steeped in Poison Page 3

  “You’re from Yún province?” I murmur, making conversation so I do not put my fist through that arrogant face. I know little about Yún, other than that women who are from there usually wear their hair in a long braid, over the shoulder or pinned in a coil on their head.

  She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “I’m actually from the ‘dirt-poor’ plateaus of Kallah.” I notice her warm copper complexion, a sign that she spends more time under the sun than the shade.

  “I’m Ning. Of the ‘backward’ Sù province.”

  “I’m Lian. Tigress of the North.” She snarls, then her ferocity dissolves into giggles. I laugh, too, glad I’m not the only competitor who has traveled from afar to attend the competition.

  It isn’t long before we find ourselves at the front of the line. I duck under the lifted door of the tent first. Inside, a man in an official-looking robe sits behind a desk, a guard standing on either side. On the wall above his head unfurls the banner of Dàxī and the great length of the imperial dragon.

  “Show us your belongings.” The official gestures, and the guards advance.

  “Wait!” I try to protest, but they lift the box off my back and take the sack that holds the few items I own.

  “We must do this to ensure the safety of the royal family,” the official continues, with an uninterested flatness to his voice.

  “Surely this must be too much.” I gather my clump of clothing in my arms while they continue to rummage through my personal garments. My face burns as I hastily shove everything back into the sack. “Is everyone so paranoid in the capital?”

  The younger guard gives me a curious look. “Have you not heard the news? There has been an increase in assassination attempts in the past month. Someone even dared to attack the princess in broad daylight at the Spring Festival!”

  “You!” the official’s voice booms. “We do not speak to the participants.”

  “Apologies.” The guard ducks his head and drops to one knee.

  The official mumbles something that does not sound too friendly under his breath and waves at the other guard to open my mother’s shénnóng-shī box. My stomach twists at the thought of another person handling this most precious possession, but I cannot refuse a representative of the emperor.

  The beautifully carved redwood chest is lacquered to a shine and gleams even in the low light of the tent. The lid is held in place with a leather strap, which opens to reveal nine compartments. Three on either side of the largest compartment in the center, then two long compartments above and below. The long compartments house my mother’s porcelain teacups and bamboo utensils, while the smaller compartments contain an assortment of ingredients.

  “Where did you learn your art?” the official asks, checking a scroll that must contain details on the names inscribed in the Book of Tea.

  “I am apprentice to my mother, Wu Yiting. She is the shénnóng-shī of Xīnyì village of Sù province.” The only thing that will allow me to pass this test is the distance of my village from Jia, and the fact that my sister is too young to have been named as my mother’s official shénnóng-tú.

  “We’ll see if that’s true” is the only thing the official says as he picks up one of the teacups and examines it with a critical eye. “We have already sent a few impostors to the city dungeons for impersonating a shénnóng-tú. A serious crime.”

  I wring my hands, waiting for my ruse to be discovered.

  He opens one of the jars and peers at the substance, pinching the petals within and smelling the residue on his fingertips. “Tell me what this is.”

  “Honeysuckle,” I reply.

  So begins a careful examination of each item in the box. I answer the best I know how, naming each ingredient as a flower or an herb. Sù is an agricultural province, with fertile land suitable for growing rice, but our climate is not ideal for the more valuable types of tea that thrive in the highlands. Instead, my mother sourced different types of flowers to accent the tea and provide flavor, and used their medicinal natures to treat seasonal illnesses.

  The official furrows his brow when he pulls out something green, rolling it between his fingers. A fresh bloom. White buds in clusters. I almost gasp, and bite my tongue in order to keep still.

  “And this?” He holds it up to his eye, analyzing the blossoms.

  “That’s a pomelo flower.” I hope he doesn’t hear the quiver in my voice. “Known for its pungent scent.”

  Just the few buds in his fingers fill the small space with an almost overwhelming floral perfume. I don’t know how the bloom I left undisturbed in Sù followed me all the way to the capital, but somehow I think it must be my mother watching over me still.

  The official eyes me, then drops the flower back into the box. “I believe you are who you say you are.” I let out a sigh of relief as he stamps my invitation with a royal seal.

  “Second Guard Chen?” The young man immediately stands to attention. “Mark this case with her name and take it to the competitors’ storeroom.”

  “Yes, sir.” He bows and tries to tug the box away from my hands.

  I protest again, my fingers unwilling to let go. I would rather wear rags to the competition than have to give the box to a stranger.

  “We will keep your items safe,” the official says with disinterest. “There is too high of a risk of poison for everyone to bring their possessions into the palace.”

  “But … my teacups…,” I say feebly, and let go of the box.

  “Follow him before I change my mind,” the official warns with a shake of his head. “I have too many people to question today.”

  I bow and scurry after the guard, my belly seizing.

  “Don’t worry,” the guard carrying my box whispers to me when the tent flap falls closed behind us. “I’ll make sure it’s kept safe.”

  And then the gates open before me, and I am ushered through.

  * * *

  The palace is a vision, an incredible sight to behold. I blink several times to make sure it is real. It is even grander than the great houses I glimpsed from the ferry when we approached the capital. Lacquered pillars too large for me to put my arms around hold up sweeping rooftops of purple tile. I can hardly distinguish the feelings of fear, excitement, and awe churning within me as we shuffle behind the guards. They grumble at us if we linger too long in one spot, but there is so much to marvel at.

  A rock garden, arranged in perfect symmetry.

  A glimmering koi pond, flickers of orange, white, and gold beneath the rippling surface.

  Dainty, dark-branched cherry trees covered in shimmering pink and white flowers.

  The heady scents of blossoms and incense swirl through the air of the outdoor pavilions we are guided through. We follow the guards through dizzying turns on wooden bridges and stone platforms until we reach our residences. The young women, only eleven of us, are all to be housed in the same place. The majority of the competitors are men, and many of them are older, on the cusp of being able to attend the shénnóng-shī trials at Hánxiá Academy at the age of twenty-six. I’m happy to see that Lian has also been admitted to the palace, and we both quickly choose to room together.

  The stern-faced guard instructs us to remain in this wing of the palace for the duration of the competition. No wandering about the halls and getting in the way of palace servants, no cavorting with court officials to gain insight into the preferences of the judges, no sneaking out the back gate to illicitly obtain expensive ingredients.

  Within the residence, each wall is lined with art of wondrous detail. Scrolls of calligraphy hang alongside elaborate paintings of serene bamboo forests or ladies posing gracefully beside orchids. Decorative walls of shelves, housing fragile vases or wood carvings. Even the incense burners are works of art—statues of monkeys in various poses.

  I touch a woodprint gingerly, marveling at the detail captured in the tiny eye of a hummingbird. Lian shakes out her blankets beside me, and the embroidered flowers that trail from one edge of the silk
coverlet to the other catch my eye with their vivid colors. A lump rises in my throat when I am reminded of Shu. She loves to embroider, spending hours carefully tucking each stitch in place to form petals like these. She should be in the bed next to me, talking about everything we’ve seen and everything we’ve yet to experience.

  We’re not given much time to settle before we are called to the hallway in front of our pavilion. When the mid-hour gong strikes, two servant girls lead us to the first part of the competition. After passing through another maze of hallways and courtyards, we arrive at a splendid building with black stone pillars carved with an aquatic motif. Fish leap from underwater palaces and crabs scuttle around and around in patterns dazzling to the eye. The doors are the height of two men, and they open into a large chamber. The walls are covered in wood panels, which must be expensive to maintain in the humidity of the capital.

  Raised platforms to the right and left are already lined with tables and occupied by seated guests. Murmurs and whispered names rise around me, speculating on the identity of the judges who have been selected to oversee the competition. At the far end of the room there is a dais, with two men seated in that place of prominence, and an empty seat in the middle waiting for one final occupant.

  “Who are those officials?” I whisper to Lian as we are jostled in the crowd. We hook our arms in order not to be separated in the crowd of competitors, who are all pushing their way forward for a better view. Our feet slide on the wood floors, polished to a gleaming shine.

  “The one to the left is the Minister of Rites, Song Ling,” she says. From the little I know of the court, I’m aware that this is one of the highest-ranked men in the kingdom. The four ministers oversee the Court of Officials, who advise the emperor on the governance of Dàxī.

  “The one to the right is the Esteemed Qian.” This name I recognize from one of Mother’s lessons: He was the shénnóng-shī who the dowager empress recognized when she was the regent. His silver hair and long, flowing beard make him look like one of the philosophers from the classic tales. “The princess must have called him back from the academy to attend the competition. Last I heard from my mentor, he had gone to Yěliŭ to study some ancient texts.”

  I’d assumed that Lian, because she is from a more distant province like me, would be less attuned to the politics of the court. But it appears my new friend also has connections in the palace. Before I can ask any other questions, the heralds call for quiet, and we kneel.

  Minister Song stands to speak. “Greetings to the shénnóng-tú of our great empire. You are part of our celebrations to honor the late Dowager Empress Wuyang and her legacy. The High Lady regarded the art of tea with great respect. It is present in our culture, in our ancestry. It is a gift from the gods themselves.”

  The minister drones on about the virtues of tea until my legs grow numb from kneeling. Finally, we are told to rise.

  “Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ying-Zhen!” the herald cries out.

  The princess walks in through the side door, her posture erect, her movements composed. Her handmaiden follows at her side, hand on the hilt of her sword. I remember the words of the guard, about the assassination attempts that trail this young woman, and I shiver.

  Even though the princess’s ceremonial robe must be heavy on her shoulders, she does not give any indication of straining under its weight. The robe is colored a shade of purple so dark it is almost black. As she moves, it sways behind her, and the threads shimmer and ripple, revealing mountain peaks and winding rivers in silver thread. She wears the kingdom on her back.

  When she turns to face us, I can see how her skin glows like a pearl, even from a distance. Her mouth is a bright spot of red, like a flower petal. She settles into the chair between the minister and the shénnóng-shī and speaks:

  “I look forward to what you have to present to us.” Even while sitting, the voice of the princess carries over the hall, with the confidence of one who knows she will be listened to. “The competition will commence this evening in the Courtyard of Promising Future. As the Ascending Emperor once said, farmers are the backbone of the country, and our food sustains the soul. Each of you will be assigned a dish from your province. I would like you to brew a tea that is the perfect accompaniment to your dish.

  “But—” Those lips curve into a smile. “We endeavor to make each test as fair as possible. All of you will receive three silver yuan and two hours in the market to purchase your teas and additives. Those found to have spent more than the allotted amount or who do not return in time will be disqualified.”

  Grumbles run through the crowd, no doubt from those with the money to purchase the more expensive teas that could have gained a foothold over others.

  “The first test will be open to the public, so all can witness the beauty of the art of Shénnóng.” Her keen gaze sweeps over us, and the underlying message is clear: I trust you will not disappoint me.

  The princess stands to take her leave. She is regal, poised, intimidating, older than her nineteen years.

  “Glory to the princess!” one of the heralds calls out, his voice ringing down the length of the hall like a gong.

  “Glory to the princess!” Those seated raise their cups in a salute. Those of us who are standing kneel and bow instead, touching our foreheads to the ground, remaining so until she leaves the room.

  The competition has begun.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We are led directly to the kitchens to begin preparations at once. Steward Yang is a stern-faced woman, with her dark, gray-threaded hair pulled back into a severe bun. She examines our group with an unimpressed sniffle.

  “The imperial kitchens have served princes and high officials from faraway lands.” She waves two servants over, each holding a basket filled with red tokens. “Do not embarrass the products of my kitchen.”

  One after another, tokens are pulled out, each carved with our name and the dish we are to complement. Eager hands dart forward to receive them.

  My dish is sticky rice dumpling—a simple peasant’s dish and one of my favorites. Glutinous rice stuffed with peanuts, wrapped in bamboo leaves, and steamed. It is something farmers can carry around with them for lunch, tied to their sashes with string.

  “Rice cake?” Lian scoffs as she shows me her token. “How typical.”

  “Do you have an issue with your assignment?” The steward descends on us menacingly, and Lian squeaks out a negative. The two of us scurry away before she can exact her punishment.

  Outside the entrance to the kitchens, Lian starts listing an assortment of regional cuisines the kitchens could have picked from Kallah, and it’s enough to make my stomach growl. Fish cooked in a spicy and sour sauce, sweet milk batter grilled on a stick, duck with honey rubbed all over its skin and roasted to a golden brown.

  She must have sounded passionate enough that even the guard standing by the door chimes in: “I prefer pòsū myself. Fried crispy, filled with ham and sugar.” He closes his eyes, like he’s savoring the taste of it in his mind. “Sounds like home.”

  Lian looks delighted. “I thought I’d met all the people from Kallah in the palace.”

  The young man beams back, flashing white teeth. “I only transferred here a few months ago.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, brother.” Lian touches her hand to her chest and bows. The guard bows in turn, mirroring her stance.

  The sound of the mid-hour gong ripples through the air, reminding us of the urgency of our task. With a quick goodbye to Lian’s new acquaintance, we hurry to catch up with the other competitors.

  The city opens to us when we are let out of the palace. Lian navigates through the street confidently, braid swinging, and I follow. We end up in a market when she finally slows her brisk walk.

  I take in the lively energy around me, to invigorate myself for the trial ahead. Ladies sashay by with long flowing dresses, their servants following closely behind, carrying their purchases. We pass by fabric shops, with beautiful bolts of
silk and cotton lined up for sale. I furtively touch a few of the fabrics, just to experience the luxurious feel of them against my skin, so different from the homespun materials I am used to. Another narrow street seems to contain only small shops with an assortment of inks and brushes for calligraphy and painting. A part of me longs to stare at them for a while, to take in the sweeping curves and assertive strokes on the scrolls or the landscapes with the wisps of cloud on top of sharp peaks, the boats made of bamboo sailing serenely by.

  Drinking all this in, I could see Shu everywhere. She would have loved that light green outfit worn by a young noblewoman perusing a brush stall, the color reminiscent of the first buds of spring. Instead of lingering by the calligraphy shop, her interest would have been in the embroidery stretched over frames, depicting cranes perched on top of thick boughs of white pine. She would have marveled over the shimmer of the feathers and the tiny details of the pine needles. I am determined to one day bring her here, so that she can see it for herself.

  I turn my head away from a stall selling embroidered flowers and realize I’ve lost Lian in the crowd, and a sudden panic grips me.

  I’m alone, in this massive city.

  The silver pieces weigh heavily in the pouch hidden in my skirt. It is the most money I have ever had on me, and I remember Father’s lectures about the capital being full of thieves and degenerates, looking to take advantage of young women. But I take in a deep breath and force my racing heart to settle. I got to Jia on my own, and I can prove to those boys and myself I am not some tŭ bāo zi from Sù.

  I walk past residences with imposing gates and try not to gawk at the ornate rafters that hold up their rooftops. Passing through a small stone gate, I enter a market consisting of different fruit vendors. Large baskets sit stacked high with mounds of fruit: pink-skinned dragon fruit, golden kumquats, green and purple plums. The scents of the fruits ripening in the warm afternoon sun is intoxicating, and one of them may be the ingredient I’m looking for to complement my dish.