What is your name?
She doesn’t speak in words as we do, but my query comes through to her. More images flash in my mind by way of answer. A glitter of brilliant silver, dazzling to behold. A gust of wind, stirring branches or providing an easy current for a pixiu to ride on.
Yin Feng, I think. That is your name. Silver Wind.
The pixiu bows again, and I remove my hand from her face, finding I am smiling. Li Wei and Zhang Jing are beside me, looking understandably puzzled by this silent exchange, not realizing the vast information I have just learned about our past—and, I suspect, our future.
What is happening? asks Li Wei.
A new beginning, I reply. A new beginning for all of us.
EPILOGUE
I AM AWAKE BEFORE my roommates, as usual, because I hear the servant in the hall. She sets down a pitcher of water and turns the crank that shakes our beds. One by one, the other girls awaken, yawning and stretching as they try to throw off the heaviness of sleep. Many are reluctant to leave their covers, for autumn is upon us and the room is cold.
Zhang Jing pulls the blankets around her like a hood, pouting when she sees my grin. Time to wake up, I tell her. Don’t worry—the sun will warm things soon. It’s not winter yet.
Since the pixius returned to our village two months ago, things have changed considerably. Before, I led a good life as a star apprentice among the artists. Now my life isn’t just good—it’s full of meaning. Until recently, I hadn’t realized there was a difference.
I don my blue robes, and Zhang Jing puts on her green ones. The fabric of hers is new, acquired from recent trade, and I confess I am a little bit jealous. We finish our hair and check each other over as usual and then head off to join the others for breakfast. The dining room is much more crowded these days, but we manage to find two spots together at one of the low tables. The Peacock Court has become not just a residence for artists but for students of agriculture as well, and at last those empty rooms are being put to use.
Breakfast is still fast and efficient. Everyone knows the last nice days of autumn will be ending soon, and the gardeners are anxious to go about their work for the day. They leave before the artists do, Zhang Jing going with them in a flurry of green. I wave, signing that I will see her later.
We artists finish our meals soon thereafter and then go to the workroom to touch up the record we started last night. That part of our lives hasn’t changed, though the content of what we paint certainly has. We no longer diligently record the amounts of metals we mine and send to the township—because we no longer give them anything. Metals are still pulled out as offerings to the pixius and for help in our fledgling trade with those few merchants who’ve been brave enough to come up the mountain passes. After the defeat of the township’s army, King Jianjun declared our village anathema, but the lure of our buried riches was enough to draw some daring souls out against his orders.