Chapter 8: Yan Jingyi's Blade

Chuhe did not sleep that night, and neither did Hanjue.

They lay in the straw with their backs to each other until the first grey light came through the slats.

"I will not order you," Chuhe said into the quiet. "Not ever. Not for this, not for anything."

"Why?"

"Because if you can't say no, then you can't really say yes."

Hanjue was silent.

When he spoke it was very small.

"I said yes every time. I meant it every time."

"I know you think so."

"I do not think. I know." Hanjue sat up, and his hair slid forward over his face. "You are angry."

"I'm not angry at you."

"Then what is it?"

Chuhe didn't have a word for it.

He took the sword from the corner, handed it to Hanjue, and said, "Teach me the next part of the stance."

Hanjue taught him all day, and said nothing else about it.

Two days later the whole sect stood on the Ridge in a ring.

The black stone sat in its hollow behind them, with a split down the middle where the blade had left it.

Elder Pei had a chair of honor under a blue canopy.

Yan Jingyi stood at the center of the ring in his white and blue.

He held a long sword, and his braid was pinned up out of the way.

He looked like a painting of a swordsman.

Chuhe stood across from him with a borrowed training coat, and the Founding Blade hanging in his hand.

"Begin," said Pei.

Yan moved.

He was much faster than Chuhe had expected.

The first cut would have taken Chuhe's ear if he hadn't dropped his weight and let it pass over his head.

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