It could be, if what has happened to Fei is real, Elder Lian says.
An apprentice leans on a rack of scrolls in the back of the room, causing them to fall with a clatter. It is out of everyone else’s eyesight, and I jump, startled by the noise.
Elder Chen smiles when he sees what made me flinch. I’d say what’s happened to her is real. And if the rest is as well . . . this could change much.
My patience is rapidly disappearing, and I’m itching to know what he means. I’m grateful that he believes us, that the others here have accepted us for the time being, but now that we’re out of immediate danger, I am growing restless. Zhang Jing is not here. Based on what Li Wei has said, the odds seem good she may have been rounded up with the others being forced to work in the mines. The thought of my sister captured and terrified nauseates me. I worry also about what will happen if they learn her sight is diminished. If they want to empty the mines as quickly as possible, they’re only going to want to keep the healthiest workers. I can’t abandon her and keep myself in this safety.
But the old habits of respecting my master are hard to shake off. And although I shift restlessly from foot to foot, wanting to go out and fight the soldiers, I force myself to wait patiently as Elder Chen gets up and walks to the other side of the room. Along with the scrolls, there are stacks and stacks of what look like old records. The amount of information stored in here rivals the library up in the school.
What is this place? Li Wei asks.
It is our emergency storage facility, to preserve our history, Elder Lian says, her eyes flicking to Elder Chen as he continues searching for something in the documents. In case something happens to the school, we keep copies of important documents as well as one record from each week down here. Admittedly, I don’t think any of its builders envisioned some catastrophe like this.
Elder Chen makes his way over to us, one of the scrolls in hand. He gives it to another apprentice, who kneels on the floor and spreads it open flat so we can read it. The illustrations practically jump from the page. Whoever made them was a fine artist. It is a scroll about mythical animals, a copy of the one he showed me that day in the library. There are dragons, phoenixes, and more, but it is the creature on the top of the page that he points to.
The pixiu, he says.
And as he makes the sign, I suddenly see how it derived from the one Nuan used.
I study the illustration. At a glance, the creature looks like some variant of a lion—another animal I’ve never seen in real life—complete with a mane. But closer examination reveals the head to have some similarities to that of a dragon, and there is a broad, sturdy nature to the creature’s back that reminds me of a horse’s. Then, of course, there are the feathered wings, which make it completely unlike a lion.
Beside me, Li Wei has grown excited. It’s like the story my mother used to tell, isn’t it? That the pixius made all hearing disappear when they went to sleep, so that they would have peace and quiet.
We know that’s not true, I say, thinking it would be a cruel thing for one creature to do to another. It’s the metals that deprive us of our senses.