“Don’t know.” He stood a few paces away. It was the Captain, the man with a patch of purple birthmark covering half of his face, who always did the Emperor’s bidding.
Waves of relief washed over me. I struggled to rise, but I was too weak. More determined, I pushed against the ground and hoisted myself up. I fell sideways. Panting, I steadied myself again and continued to struggle. But no matter how hard I tried, my knees would not straighten.
I could not stand.
I scratched my kneecaps. Nothing. I pinched my leg and twisted the skin hard. Nothing. I dug my fingernails into my skin. Nothing but a long, bloody trail on my leg.
I wanted to cry. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Let me help you.” He stepped closer.
“No.” I clenched my hands together. “May I borrow your sword?”
“A guard never parts with his sword.”
“Then stab me.” I pointed to my legs. “I cannot feel anything.”
He frowned. “It’s probably bad blood.”
“Bad blood?”
“You’ll never walk again.”
I glared at him. A sword man should be allowed to use only his sword, not words. Who did he think he was? Only a callous killer, that’s all he was.
“I’ll show you.” He took his dagger from his boot, squatted before me, and struck my kneecap with the end of the hilt.
I should have felt pain, and my leg should have responded.
But nothing. No pain. No response.
“See? Bad blood.”
I covered my face with my hands. He said something more, but I did not understand. A thought sprouted in my mind like a malicious weed. Unuttered, tenacious, and shapeless, it rooted in my head and grew bitter fruits of destruction.
I was a cripple.
Furiously, I clawed my skin and beat my legs.
“If your bad blood travels to your heart, you will not see the full moon this month,” he said. He sounded like he cared for me, but his voice was cold as usual.
“Go away.”
“I’ll give you a clean cut.” He put his hand on his sword. “You don’t need to be afraid.”
“Go away!”
“You must decide fast.”
I would rather die than live as a cripple. With all the strength I could muster, I dragged myself to the edge of the garden. The stones on the ground rubbed against my raw skin, but I could not feel it. I continued to crawl. Finally, I sat in a corner and buried my head in my sleeves.
So quiet. Like death. I closed my eyes. Would I see Father soon? “I ruined everything,” I would confess when we met. “You were wrong about me.”
I drifted into sleep. When I awoke, night had descended. But there was no light from a candle or a lantern nearby. I looked around. I was alone, curled up in the corner like a forgotten cat.
A pair of arms lifted me. Bewildered, I raised my head. My hand swept a chiseled jaw.
“Pheasant?”
“There you are.” It was him. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing here?”
His familiar voice almost drove me to tears. “I can’t walk,” I said.
He settled me against his chest. “Let’s get out of here.”
His arms were strong, his skin warm, and his heart beat steadily against my chest. I clung to him like a cicada grasping its leafy home.
He passed a dark building, moving gingerly, and turned right toward an entrance to another garden. Once we entered it, he crossed a bridge.
“Where is everyone?” I whispered. It was quiet. We were alone. I liked that.
“At the other side of the garden with Taizi.” He looked around the small area surrounded by many trees. “They’re burying the flutist.”
“And you?” I touched his arm.
“I’m fine.”
But his pace was slower than usual. “You lost consciousness.”
“That’s nothing.”
“Did he forgive you?”
He nodded, and we did not speak for a while.
“You shouldn’t have said that to the Emperor, Pheasant.”
He shook his head and walked toward a stone bench. Then he put me down and put a finger to his lips. There were faint lights coming from my left. Some murmurs drifted to my ears. The night was so quiet, I could hear someone reciting the end of a burial text nearby.
Finally, voices urged the heir to return to his bedchamber. Their footsteps rose and soon faded. I leaned against the tree next to the bench and stared at the sky, where a round moon hung like a shattered plate. A sprawling branch over my head poked my shoulder. I sat still, recalling what the Captain had told me. I was a cripple, broken, like a table without legs, an abomination, like the heir.
I felt the bench’s hard surface against me. “The Captain recommended he cut off my legs. He said it was bad blood.”
“What?” He lowered himself to the ground to stay at my eye level, looking stiff.
I turned to Pheasant. The pale moonlight draped on his head like a luminescent net. “I can’t walk.”
He turned his face away from me. “He must be crazy,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Don’t listen to him.”
“What if he’s right?”