#we'll se

In the daylight hours, numerous officials, guards, and guests can be seen, vast courtyards echo with the sounds of practice swords, the gardens are overflowing with court ladies, their colorful robes matching the blossoms. In the nighttime hours, the servants rush and scurry across the six courtyards and twelve palaces, their lamps bobbing unsteadily in the darkness, like a sparkle of fireflies descending on a meadow in bloom.

No court official, who carelessly sets his feet onto the stone steps, knows how many hours it takes to scrub them each night. No member of the inner court, who will lounge in the early morning with ten fragile bowls of delicate snacks, knows how early the kitchen fires must be stoked. No guard, stationed in front of the ornamental shields, knows what oils make them shine in such a way, or how many servants it takes to remove them from the wall, then mount them again once polished.

The little Emperor, not so little any more, knows all this and more.

The Immortal Mountain City is his home. It moves and breathes around him, protecting him from the storms. The rhythm of its heartbeat is intimately familiar, and Wei Ying knows each thud as he knows the surface of his own flesh. The work simultaneously begins on the two thousand steps leading to the Five Phoenix Gate, the East and West gates, and the north-facing courtyards. The southern palaces and the courtyards are next, and the work steadily moves inward, until his own Iron Palm Palace, renamed Jade Sword Palace by his mother, is seen to last. It takes six servants to remove the gold shields from the Iron Palm Palace square, two to properly shine them, then six again to mount them in their proper place. Four hours and sixty-two servants are needed to scrub the two thousand steps leading to the Five Phoenix Gate. And the kitchens, cleaned continuously throughout the day and night, never actually allow their fires to go dark. When Wei Ying thinks of the eternal flame, of the warmth that never extinguishes, he thinks of the bright maze of the Immortal Mountain kitchens, loud and hot, saturated with the scents of pork fried with mushrooms, minced pumpkin buns, and duck soup.

But long gone are days when the little Emperor could sneak into the kitchens, poorly disguised in his sworn brother’s robes, and have the cooks pretend they did not know him. When he could sprawl underneath their work tables, flour dusting his borrowed robes, and wait for a hand to reach down, pushing a lotus mooncake into his sticky palm. Seventeen years old, with his eighteenth birthday only days away, he can no longer claim a child’s ignorance, or depend upon indulgence. The Immortal Mountain City is his home, as much a part of him as his own beating heart, but it had grown smaller in the past few years, and it is about to grow smaller still.

A clatter to his left startles him, and he reflexively hides the wine jar into the folds of his robe. The moon is bright, all the more so from the rooftops of the Mental Cultivation Palace, and Wei Ying only now considers his escape route. The roof of the Six Fans Pavilion, empty and shuttered since his father’s death, can be easily reached from here. Running across its tiles will wake no one. But from there, his only path back will cut across the South Lakes courtyard, and if Wei Ying breathes anywhere near Granny Wen’s herbs, she will know. He is not sure how, but she always knows.

Another clatter follows the first, and a soft whine follows it, a sound Wei Ying would recognize anywhere in the world.

“What are you doing?” he says, “Do you want to fall to your death?”

Nie HuaiSang resembles an exotic bird out of its natural habitat. The cold night breeze is pulling his silk robes every which way, and his perfectly arranged hair is already a tangled mess. Wei Ying is barefoot; his toes are intimate with each crack in the walls, with every tile laid down between his palace and the three main gates. HuaiSang is still wearing shoes; he is sliding over the roof tiles like a drunk deer trapped on a frozen lake, his face scrunched up in concentration.

“You took the wine,” he wails softly, both arms stretched out for balance, inching along the bowed peak.

Wei Ying would not worry if HuaiSang was sober; for all his whining and claims of incompetence, the Emperor’s Royal Companion has the reflexes of a cat, and probably twice as many lives. But they had drank quite a bit already, and even his own head is beginning to swim.

He goes to fetch him, and is unsurprised when HuaiSang dramatically swoons into his arms, nearly propelling them both off the roof.

“I am rescued!” he exclaims, draping himself over Wei Ying’s shoulder, “What an honor, what an adventure! I am to be envied by every maiden in the Empire! Oh, to be held so closely by the noble and exalted Emperor, the Son of Heaven, the magnificent Venom Blossom--“

“Crimson Blossom,” Wei Ying says, lowering him down, “and that was my granduncle.”

HuaiSang tangles in his robes and sits down hard, “Was it? The Serene Golden Lotus?”

“That was my mother,” Wei Ying says, passing the jar over into HuaiSang’s hands.

“Too many titles,” HuaiSang grumbles, peering into the wine.

Wei Ying hums in response. The wine had made him melancholy, and the mention of his mother does not lift his mood. He sprawls along the curved peak, settling his head on HuaiSang’s lap. Below them, lights of the lanterns bob steadily across the courtyard. Above them, the moon is so bright that its light has overshadowed the stars.  

It is just another birthday. Another seven day festival filled with obligations, meetings, crowded rooms, sect politics, hunts and competitions, and endless, tedious ceremonies. He had hoped, for this birthday at least, that he would be allowed to leave the Immortal Mountain and descend into YiLing. Although he has never done so, he can picture in his mind all the streets decorated with lanterns and colored ribbons, the songs spilling from the bright doors of the winehouses, the smells of Sichuan peppercorns, fennel, and black cardamom.

It is his birthday. The seven day festival is being held in his honor. It seems so unfair that he never gets to enjoy it.

HuaiSang pokes him in the cheek, “Hey. What is wrong with you? What are you making that face for? I came out here, braving certain death in this bitter, miserable cold to serve at the Emperor’s pleasure, and what do I get? This sour face. If I wanted miserable company I would have gone looking for A-Cheng.”

“Looking for who?” a voice comes from the darkness.

HuaiSang yelps, jerking around, and Wei Ying suddenly finds himself sliding off the peak and down the slippery tiles. He scrambles for HuaiSang’s robes, grabbing fistfuls of silk, but HuaiSang is drunk and has not anchored himself well. For a few breathless moments they are both about to meet the cobblestones below, then a hand is snatching the cloth of his sleeve, roughly pulling him back up.

Safely anchored at the peak again, Wei Ying snickers, then laughs, exhilaration vibrating in his throat. Two assassination attempts a month for the last six years, but he was almost done in by a slippery roof. He does not know why the idea is so funny, but he cannot help and picture the dignified Imperial annals, their golden script reading “Wei WuXian, the fourth Emperor of the Shan Dynasty, died falling off a roof. The Divine Judgment regrets to proclaim that this Emperor was a moron.”

Two centuries of rulers. Leave it to him to end the dynasty by breaking his own fool neck.

He laughs so hard that he is gasping for breath, tears pouring down his face, his stomach muscles quivering from mirth.

When he can finally breathe without wheezing, he looks up, and has to bite his tongue not to start all over again. Jiang Cheng looks furious. To be fair, he looks furious almost all the time, but his eyes are usually trying to murder something off to the side, something that is not the Divine Ruler of the Shan Empire. This time however, if his eyes could actually kill, Wei Ying thinks that the Divine Ruler of the Shan Empire would not stand a chance.

He grins brightly, and tugs on a wide purple sleeve.

“I knew you would change your mind. HuaiSang, give me the jar. Is there any left?”

“I am not here to drink,” Jiang Chang says stiffly, trying to pull his sleeve out of Wei Ying’s grip, “You-- what if there was another assassination attempt? What if you lost your balance and I was not here to catch you?”

“Then I suppose I would die,” Wei Ying says brightly, and regrets it when Jiang Cheng flinches.

He tugs harder on the sleeve, nearly pulling the outer robe off the boy’s shoulder, “Sit. Sit down. Your Emperor is ordering you to sit and relax.”

For a few moments Jiang Cheng looks as if he may kick him off the roof, regardless of consequences. Then he jerks his sleeve out of Wei Ying’s grip and sits down stiffly. He is all hard lines across his shoulders, hair that was tightly bound now ruffled by the wind, and Wei Ying cannot help but compare him to a brightly colored carrion bird, perpetually watchful, and unhappy with its lot in life.

“Shidi,” he whines, leaning his head on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder, “Are you angry? You cannot be angry with me, it is almost my birthday.”

Jiang Cheng shakes him off.

“This one would not dare,” he says coldly.

“Uh-oh,” HuaiSang says, then hiccups, immediately dissolving into drunken giggles.

Wei Ying pouts, “I will tell shijie you are being mean.”

“Not before I tell her you were running across the palace roof again.”

Wei Ying has to admit that he has stepped into that one all on his own. He thinks for a few seconds, his half-drunken mind not moving too swiftly, then grins.

“I will tell Wen Qing you are being mean.”

“You--“ Jiang Cheng sputters, “I-- what do I care what she thinks?”

HuaiSang snorts, and Jiang Cheng leans over Wei Ying’s shoulder, eyes flashing, “Do you have something to say?”

HuaiSang flutters his eyelashes, “I said nothing. I know nothing. I am only here for the wine.”

He holds up the jar as proof, and Wei Ying snatches it out of his hand.

HuaiSang squawks, “Hey! Give that back!”

They clumsily wrestle over the jar until Jiang Cheng snaps, pries it out of Wei Ying’s hands, and forces them to sit on either side of him. Wei Ying sticks out his tongue at HuaiSang over Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. HuaiSang tries to slap the back of his head when Jiang Cheng is not looking. Jiang Cheng finally takes a drink because at this point, he needs one.

Wei Ying grins. Mission accomplished.

HuaiSang starts drunkenly prattling on about some paint that can only be found in LanLing, and how the color is far superior to any paint found in YiLing. Wei Ying makes the pretense of half-listening, but the paint, a constant focus of HuaiSang’s drunk conversation for the past month, is already en route to the Immortal Mountain. Jiang Cheng lets him tuck his feet under the folds of his robes to keep them from freezing. Snuggling back into his cloak, Wei Ying sighs deeply, the earlier melancholy gone for the time being.

He knows they cannot stay long. HuaiSang can sleep all day if he chooses, but the Emperor’s first council meeting of the day is only hours away, and Jiang Cheng will be starting drills even earlier, before the sky even has a chance to lighten in the east. There will be no cozy mid-morning or mid-afternoon nap either. Eleven sects and thirty-six clans are due to arrive in the next two days, and the Divine Ruler of the Shan Empire has a thousand and one details to decide before any of them show.