When Huijin returned to the Ban farmstead, the skies were strewn with stars and a cold wind blew across the pastures. The farmhands had retired to sleep when his soft steeps were heard on the wooden stars at long st, and when the door parted for him, his demeanor was pcid and his eyes lowered before the swordmaster who awaited him there.

  He had no wish to meet the man’s eye, and his voice betrayed no residue from their earlier quarrel.

  “May I?” he asked.

  A wearied man met him. Though Lu Yuxin kept his back straight, he could not will the furrows away from his sallow face. His small sigh was tinted with relief.

  He did not apologize as he drew back from the door, nor did he reassure him or scold him for his long absence, but said, “you were right.”

  Huijin looked over his shoulder, faint astonishment on his brow.

  “I did not see it then,” Lu Yuxin murmured, “but you were right. I have since escaped the mist; I trust your judgment about Yin Yue.”

  Huijin scoured the older man’s face for mockery, his mouth for deceit, his eyes for derision. But all he found was a blunted gaze like a rusted sword.

  How his bewilderment unfolded! His brows arched, his mouth parted as if he meant to speak, yet his voice eluded him. And then, in the beat of a heart, pain tightened his face. It was the pain worn by a beggar who expected to be spat on and found instead a hand offered to him. But even that pain was brief; awash in the ashes that ever coated his spirit in a gray mist. He gave no other acknowledgment than a bow of his head.

  Lu Yuxin mirrored the bow and averted his eyes. He eyed the door and rested his hand upon the frame, a little forlorn. And left to himself, the Red Tiger of Ming touched his brow, closed his eyes, and weighted what their efforts had brought them. Another dawn; another day to come. Once more would they wake, toil and suffer in vain as they awaited their end.

  Too long had his sword rested in her scabbard, concluded Lu Yuxin. He headed down the stairs to let his steel drink of starlight.

  As the door shut behind him, Huijin returned to his master and ward. He had not come empty-handed, for he was not foolish enough to think the boy would have eaten in his absence. So he had brought with him a pot of chicken and scallion soup, millet cakes and tea. The soup no longer steamed; the kitchen had been dark and the coals had no longer smoldered. He lighted a candle for the tea and rested the pot above it.

  Yin Yue sat in his bed, swathed in a pin quilt. A smaller candle burned by his bed, and in that dim light, fit only for fireflies, his eyes seemed as bck as the night sky, the candle’s fme reflected in his empty gaze.

  But though he was te to stir, he turned a soft and lost look upon his servant. And when he pleaded for leniency, he did so with one word alone, carried upon a voice so frayed it was a mere whisper.

  “Huijin.”

  Ever in the shadows, Silver Moon, Huijin thought as he brought the soup to his master.

  “You have not eaten at all, have you?”

  Yin Yue shook his head. He held the bowl with both hands, then looked between the broth and his servant, his unspoken question written on his brow. When did you st eat? Ashamed, he confessed his obstinacy, “No. But— I slept.”

  Huijin did not scold him. “Eat as we speak then, Yue’er.”

  Yin Yue made a face. Why should he eat, he wondered, when his gege y in an urn and would never again relish the taste of food? But since he wanted to please his Huijin, he raised the spoon to his mouth.

  At his bedside, Huijin picked at his own sleeve, his pale cheeks hidden by his hair. How was it that Lu Yuxin had not mocked him, he wondered to himself. How could that man have made his concessions with such sincerity?

  For it was hard, he found, to accept that this Red Tiger had Yin Yue’s best interest at heart. He demanded more from the boy than the boy could give. He wanted to mold him into some paragon of glory. Lu Yuxin was mercenary; after gege’s death, the man had taken to issue commands he had no right to give. He imposed where he was neither needed nor wanted, did what he willed and conspired behind the boy’s back. In the end, he was still the same rogue brigand he had been before gege had found him.

  Since such a man could never cim Cn Ming for himself by right, it was not so far-fetched to suspect that he’d like to use Ming-zongzhu as his puppet.

  Red Brigand of Ming. How could he then be sincere?

  And so, Huijin found he had thought himself into a knot again. He saw that his resentful suspicions contradicted each other. Which was it? Did Lu Yuxin mean to raise a paragon of glory, another Yin Zhaoyang, or a puppet?

  He ran a hand over his face. Would that gege had been here to scold him in his warm manner; to tell him to think less, or at least think straight. What did he invent conspiracies and crooked suspicions for? Why conjure three vilins of Lu Yuxin who could not even agree on their own vile intentions?

  But there was no gege here, only this shadow of a younger brother.

  “Yue’er,” he said, “you trust Lu Yuxin.”

  The boy dried his chin with his white sleeve.

  “Gege did,” he answered.

  Gege is not here, beat Huijin's treacherous heart. His hand touched his sash where the jade charm no longer hung.

  “He did,” he admitted.

  Gege trusted you as well, he did not say.

  But worse yet, he trusted me.

  “But do you trust him, Yue’er?”

  Yin Yue fell quiet. He burrowed deeper into his quit. What he knew of Lu Yuxin, he did not know how to describe; no more that he could say why he loathed Qian Xuegang or what he knew of his ashen servant. His knowledge was not to be tamed by mere words; no more than a flower’s name could capture her beauty.

  “I do,” he faltered, “I trust him, Huijin. He would not betray us. But — it does not mean I trust all of him.”

  “What do you mean?” came from the ashen one.

  Yin Yue choked a little on his unsaid words. He wished to defend Lu Yuxin, wished to sing praises of the man who had embraced him as if Yin Yue was a mere downtrodden child and not a murderer. But how could he speak of the man’s virtues when he knew about their earlier quarrel? As zongzhu, he ought rise to the occasion. He should call Lu Yuxin here and have the two mean speak until their resentment was washed away in mutual understanding.

  But he could not. He dared not.

  “Forget it,” sighed Huijin when the silence had sted long enough. “You need not answer. If that man means you well, I will endure him to my st day.”

  “He thinks he means me well,” piped Yin Yue, “but he is not as clever as you are, Huijin.”

  Huijin answered with a scoff. Had Lu Yuxin not succeeded where he had blundered? Did this Red Tiger not have strong cultivation, a deeper knowledge of unsent spirits? He had not needed to depend on crooked charades and surmises; With Qian Xuegang, Lu Yuxin’s ways had been sharp and succinct.

  But so be it. He could learn, and learn fast. Even from men like Lu Yuxin.

  He stood up to serve Yin Yue his tea and millet cakes. While he did not touch the wearied boy on the bed; did not even pat his shoulder, his voice was soft and bereft of reproach. It was the voice of the boy’s old servant on those gray days when he had been too wearied to py with the younger brother; on those days where he had worked himself to the bone while gege’s affairs had taken their zongzhu on long journeys.

  “You were long gone,” said Yin Yue between mouthfuls, “where were you, Huijin?”

  “I will tell you,” Huijin told him as he dusted the boy’s robe. “But first, let us speak of Caodi. We have learned a little about the spirit beast’s resentment, and we have understood enough of Qian Xuegang’s character to consider him a threat. So I must ask you, as Ming-zongzhu, what do you think ought be done now?”

  Yin Yue raised his tense shoulders. What would gege have wanted, he wondered. What answer could make you think well of me again?

  His answer left much to be desired, “I want the spirit to be id to rest and I want Qian Xuegang to answer for his crimes, Huijin.” He hesitated, then added, “And I want to see Shang Hansheng’s home.”

  “That might be dangerous,” Huijin reminded him. “Shall we ask the cultivators of Ming to meet us on the road, then bring them with us? That way, Qian Xuegang will think we left to hunt the spirit, and his suspicions won’t be raised.”

  The boy’s shoulders rose higher. He tried his best to justify his reluctance, though his words were like his thoughts; unshaped.

  “Might be. I just — perhaps should the Ming cultivators defend the vilge instead? We could head south, so Qian Xuegang believes we went to hunt his bears? I — ah-…”

  Then, at st, the truth broke loose, “I don’t want them to be harmed, Huijin. I don’t want to send another Chen Luoyang to his grave.”

  Huijin’s mouth thinned. His chest clenched at the thought of more deaths, but what he thought was this; Yin Yue’s life was still worth more than that of Ming cultivators. He knew their voices and faces, all as one. Some of them took well to him, some treated him with disdain. But he had never made close friends with them. How could he? He was not a cultivator. He had never belonged among them.

  He found he needed to think before he answered. He had done what he promised; had heard the boy’s wishes. But to follow them blindly, neither he nor Lu Yuxin could agree to.

  "Then I will discuss this with your shifu,” he said. “I do not promise that we will agree, but if it will not put you in harm’s way, it can be done. Lu Yuxin is confident he can defeat this spirit.”

  “I could make talismans too,” offered Yin Yue. “Gege taught me that at least.”

  Huijin ate two millet cakes as he walked about the chamber. Took a little tea. Left the best chicken meat for the boy and contented himself with the broth. He did not sit down to eat, but such was his habit; he drifted from chore to chore and errand to errand like a shadow, wilted and thinned more for each day but did not falter.

  “Make them,” he agreed. “I will find Lu Yuxin.”

  “Yes, but — Huijin?” Yin Yue’s eyes followed him. You have pecked at your food, Huijin. Barely have you wet your throat with tea.

  “You won’t be long, will you?”

  Huijin had the grace to not ask whether Ming-zongzhu, soon to be a man, was scared. For one breath did his heart waver, and he wished the boy was a small child once more; wished himself back to the days when gege yet lived and the boy was so small he could take him into his arms and hold him until he fell asleep.

  In the end, he shook his head and left.