He was not there. I scanned the room, holding my breath. He was at the far wall, reaching up to a shelf, his fingers feverishly flicking across the scroll boxes. I carefully uncurled and ran my fingers down my ribs, jumping as they hit the swollen heart of a bruise.
He pulled a box out of the stack. 'The Chronicle of Detra. That should describe it.'
He shook the roll of priceless paper from the wooden container. The box clattered onto the floor. In a few strides he was at the desk, the whole scroll unfurled across its length. In front of me was row upon row of cramped calligraphy
'What did Hian say, exactly?' he demanded.
'He said there was a precedent for replacing the Mirror Dragon Third with the Reverse Horse Dragon Second and that Ranne was wrong to have kept it from me.'
My master's face darkened at the shift of blame.
'He also said you were one of the best history-keepers and would know if it was so,' I added hurriedly
He eyed me for a moment then turned his attention back to the scroll. His index finger hovered above the words as he read. I stayed as still as I could, searching his pale drawn face for the flame of discovery
'The alternative form was in practice five hundred years ago, before we lost the Mirror Dragon,' he finally said. 'It has not been used since.'
'Does that mean I cannot use it, Master?' I whispered.
He held up his hand. 'Quiet.' He studied the scroll again. 'I cannot see any prohibition on its use.' He shook his head. 'No, there is no reversal of its standing. It has just not been used for five hundred years.' He looked across at me, a fierce light in his eyes. 'This is a good omen. It must be a good omen.'
I straightened in the chair, the new bruises aching as they stretched. 'I can already do the Reverse Horse Dragon Second, Master. All I need to do is practise the bridging forms,' I said.
'The way must be smoothed,' he muttered, rolling up the scroll. He pulled the bell cord. The door opened and Rilla appeared.
'Order a rickshaw — I must go to the Council,' he said to her.
He turned back to me. 'Go and practise. You know what is at stake.'
I crouched out of the chair into a low bow, unable to contain the smile on my face. The Reverse Horse Dragon Second was allowed. I still had a chance.
CHAPTER 3
A touch on my arm awoke me. I was sitting slumped against the wall next to my altar, my face pressed against the cold stone. I focused on the slim figure squatting beside me in the dim light.
Rilla.
'The master will rise soon,' she said softly
A spike of apprehension cleared my head. The red prayer candle in front of the death plaques had burned to a stump of wax, and the small offering bowl of fish and rice smelled of the hours gone by. I pushed myself upright, smoothing a crease in the sleeve of my ceremonial tunic.
'I shouldn't have slept.'
Rilla touched my tightly clubbed hair. 'Don't worry No one saw you.' She stood, stifling a yawn. 'The dawn bell will ring soon. Be quick if you wish to say goodbye to Chart.'
I nodded, massaging the chill from my face and neck. My master had made the smallest of the stone storerooms at the back of the house into a dormitory for his candidates. In these summer months it was a sanctuary of cool air, but it was a bitter cell in winter. I looked around the cramped room that had been home for four years: my bed, still in its roll against the wall; an old clothes press; the writing rest where I had kneeled for such long hours and studied; and a squat earthenware brazier topped by a pot I'd found on the rubbish pile. Such luxury compared to the salt farm. Was this the last time I would see it all? Or would I be back?
'I'll send one of the girls to tell you when the master is dressed,' Rilla said, pushing open the shutters that covered the narrow window.
'Thank you, Rilla.'
She paused at the door. 'Chart and I have been praying for your success, Eon. But know also, we will miss you.'
For a moment, her eyes met mine and I saw fear and worry in the sharpened lines of her face.
Then she smiled and left. If I failed today, would my master sell Rilla and Chart? Their service bonds were not even half paid; Chart had shown me Rilla's reckoning stick hidden behind a loose brick in the kitchen.
I crossed over to the brazier, my movement releasing the rich smell of the cleansing herbs on my skin. And me? If I failed, would I be returned to the salt farm? The memory of working in the choking dust made me cough and gag. I pressed my hands on my chest feeling for the flow of Hua, the life force. All I could feel was the fine silk of the ceremonial tunic and the unyielding flatness of my tight breast-band. My master had taught me the basics of tracing my Hua through the seven points of power, but it was a technique that took a lifetime to control. I turned my mind's-eye inwards, groping along the meridians. Finally, I located the blockage: in the base of my spine, the seat of fear. I breathed slowly until the rigid knot softened.
I kneeled on the stone floor and cleaned the ashes out of the body of the brazier. Something was stirring within me. A familiar dicker of awareness. It was during my Moon days that my shadow-self — Eona — darkened into strange thoughts and uneasy feelings. It seemed that while the ghost-maker's tea had eased yesterday's cramps and prevented the bleeding, il had not yet washed the shadows away I could not afford to let Eona come forward and bring her troubling desires into my mind. I pushed her away, concentrating on stacking twigs and small slivers of charcoal in the brazier. A strike of the inch stick, and the tinder sparked into life. I blew on the wavering flame until it caught and held, then angled the pot to check the water level. There was just enough to make the tea. Perhaps this dose would chase her away If I failed, my master would not need me as a boy.
I hunched a shoulder, trying to shrug off the unwelcome thought.
Then offer him a girl's body. It was in his eyes during the cleansing ritual.
No, that was not true! There had been nothing in my master's eyes during the ritual. He'd said the words, poured the fragrant water over my head, then left me to wash and oil myself. I had seen nothing in his eyes. I leaned over the pot, urging it to heat faster. A pinch of tea in my cup, then the near-boiled water, all mixed with a twig. I drank it in one, the sting of the heat and the foul taste driving out Eona's unsettling thoughts.
The sky through the window was brightening. I tucked the pouch into my trousers and brushed specks of ash and tea off the tunic. I had worn the rich garments during my vigil to honour my new-found ancestors. They were made from the softest material I had ever worn: a close silk weave in the rich red of the candidate. Twelve gold embroidered dragons were worked around the hemline of the tunic, and the sash ends were edged with gold tassels. The cloth was like oiled water against my skin and, when it moved, the sound was the wind's whisper. No wonder the nobles acted like gods: they'd captured the very elements in their robes. I pulled on the matching red leather slippers, flexing my feet at the unfamiliar confinement. They were edged in gold thread and had the same dragon design painted on the toes. What had all this finery cost my master?
I stood and practised a few steps of the first sequence, feeling for the difference in toe grip as I spun from the Rat Dragon First into the second form. The leather soles had greater slip than my old sandals; it could be treacherous on the hard-packed sand of the Dragon Arena. I spun again and again, adjusting my weight into the floor, enjoying the swirl of the silk tunic as it flared and settled around my body
The clang of the oven lid in the kitchen brought me to a halt. Kuno, banking the fires. It was close to dawn break and there was still much to do. I hurried over to the clothes press, digging under my folded work tunic for the scroll. After three months of snatched moments, I had finally finished it: a black ink painting of the roads and landscape around my master's house.
It was made up of scraps of mulberry paper from the paper-maker near the school; he'd allowed me to have the edges of the clean cuts and I'd stitched them together to make the roll.
The painting was in the style of the great Master Quidan — a long thin rendering that was meant to be opened in small sections for meditation upon the landscape. Would Chart like it?
I knew my artistry was poor, but perhaps it would help him imagine the world outside the kitchen. I fingered
