Page 50 of A Song to Drown Rivers
“I know,” Zhengdan said, tossing her hair back. “I won’t go easy on him either.”
Fuchai’s smile widened. “How… interesting. In that case, why don’t you go and prepare? I’m sure we can find some spare armor for you, though it may be a bit loose.”
Some of the soldiers below had started to jeer, barely suppressed snickers and side-eyed remarks fluttering among them. The concubines whispered too, though some looked genuinely impressed, while others were gazing at Zhengdan with worry, as if certain this was the last time they’d see her in one piece.
I felt a dark spike of dread. As Zhengdan made her way past me, her spine straight as any trained soldier’s, I tried to summon her attention.Stop, I willed inside my head, clutching the edge ofmy seat and praying she could somehow hear me.You’re not thinking this through.
When our eyes met, she only winked and mouthed:Don’t worry. I can win this.
But that was exactly what I feared.
Zhengdan entered the ring transformed. Gone were the pretty butterfly hairpins, the pearls clutching her delicate throat. Her raven hair had been tucked neatly inside a bronze helmet just like the one her father had worn, her shoulders bolstered by thick padding, her body covered with shining plates that glowed like dragon scales beneath the sun. Even the lines of her face looked sharper as she took her place opposite General Ma, shifting into a fighting stance. She held a heavy sword in one hand, while her other hand was raised up, two fingers pointing to the general in a perfect straight line.
And in response, General Ma changed also. This whole time he had worn the somewhat bemused expression of one forced to fight a match that was barely worth winning. But now he must have recognized the certainty in Zhengdan’s movements, the familiar way she readied her weapon.
My palms were clammy in my lap. I could scarcely breathe.
No sooner than the gong sounded, Zhengdan charged. Her sword speared through the air, shooting toward the general’s throat. He swerved just in time, but it seemed more from muscle memory than strategy. His feet stumbled slightly, his heels digging into the dirt. There was a bewildered look on his face, a kind of stunned disbelief. That same look unfolded over many of the spectators sitting around me. The whispers died down; the only soundthat could be heard throughout the whole training ground was the sharp hiss of Zhengdan’s blade.
In action, she was so elegant. Beautiful. Her movements were fluid, like how water flows over rocks or how wind shifts through the trees. One strike bled into another, with no pauses or fumbles in between. I could have pictured her calling down red lightning with a flick of her wrist, leading a battalion of thousands into a war at the end of the world. This was her in her most natural state, doing what she truly wanted. Her footwork was unerringly certain, adjusting to the general’s blunt, broad swings with ease.
One blow. Another. She advanced across the dirt, pushing him farther and farther back, her sword a blur.
All eyes were on her. Even the heavens seemed to be watching.
The girl against the general. The Yue against the Wu.
“Who trained you?” General Ma called out, barely dodging her next swing.
“Nobody,” Zhengdan said. “I taught myself.”
Despite my apprehension, some part of me felt a great swell of pride. If she had never left our village, if she had listened to her mother and married one of those old, lifeless, drooping-eyed men, she would have been trapped there forever, a bird caught in a cage. Everything within her would have wilted until only her beauty remained.
But here, she was radiant. She glowed with every thrust of the sword, every twist of her torso. And she was merciless.
At the next opening, she lunged, her blade stopping a bare inch from the general’s throat. He froze. His sword clattered to the dust.
It was a reversal of the popular stories passed among the villagers. The beautiful girl with blood under her nails, who did not need saving from danger but was instead the danger itself.
She pressed the sword closer, close enough to slice skin if she wanted. And I knew how badly she wanted to. In my mind, I heard her voice like an echo:One day, I will raise a sword to his neck…I saw that violent impulse ride over her features now.
Before her, the general stood completely still, the tendons in his throat strained from the effort of resistance. His fear was palpable in the space between them.
“I won,” Zhengdan said loudly, firmly, and let her sword arm drop.
In the aftermath, nobody moved. General Ma stared down at his own fallen weapon, his empty hands, as if unsure what had happened. He was panting, blood flowing freely from the gash in his lips, his forehead drenched in sweat. At first his cheeks splotched red. Then, as the moment stretched on, some black, ugly emotion twisted through his features. It was quick—quick enough to go unnoticed. But my fingertips tingled with foreboding.
Slow claps cut through the quiet.
They came from Fuchai. He had stood up, the silky black furs of his coat billowing around him, his mouth stretched into a wolf’s grin. “That was quite the riveting performance,” he said. “Truly. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Following his lead, the other spectators burst into applause. It sounded like the furious beat of war drums after a battle, trembling through the rust-red dirt, signaling one side’s downfall. And Zhengdan stood in the victor’s position, her eyes turned to the heavens, as if hoping that somebody else was watching. The sun shone bright as a god’s eye; light showered over her.
Still, I could not stop myself from breaking out into a cold shudder.
I was warming my hands by the fire that night when Fuchai came into my chambers, a string of maids following close behind him. Each of them carried a lacquered box.
“What is this?” I asked, rising slowly, the silk of my robes trailing over my skin. I had freshened my powder earlier and slathered rose water over my neck, knowing he would come.
