My King of Flowers

CHAPTER THREE

The rain always sent shooting pain through her leg. It’d been like this since childhood when she first woke up screaming in a thunderstorm. As an adult, though, Yinuo simply groaned awake, carefully pushing herself from her bed and tracing her thigh with her fingertips—the pressure nearly enough to ease the pain as she grimaced. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten to her room, the early morning darkness causing her vision to struggle to adjust.

Slowly, she tried to stand, reaching for the crutch at the side of her bed. It had been weeks since she last required its support, but today, the sharp flare reminded her of her dependency. Yinuo chided herself, suspecting it was the two falls the day prior that had aggravated her condition. The crutch bore her brother Ruijian’s trademark. Crafted only from the finest sandalwood, a material favored for its durability and exquisite grain. He’s spent hours smoothing it to perfection and applying the layers of lustrous lacquer that Yinuo could feel even in her tender grasp. The top was cushioned with down and wrapped in red silk, a luxurious touch ensuring comfort with every use. It was one of the first gifts he had crafted for her, a symbol of care she turned to whenever the rains came or the pain resurfaced.

She never believed she would live with pain when she was a child, but there it was as she stumbled in the dark for her medicine on the desk across the hall. Carefully, she aimed for the desk when a sharp throb seized her leg, and she fell with a clash against the floor. A pounding of feet came rushing towards the room.

“Jiejie!” Mingdan called. “Are you all right?” Yinuo curled up, rubbing her upper thigh and cursing the intense ache spreading through her leg. She squinted her eyes shut and took some calming breaths before Mingdan’s hand offered her the medicine she desired.

“What are you doing up so early?” she asked him.

“I have yet to retire for the evening,” he confessed. Mingdan’s room was the closest to hers, and he’d responded when she’d fallen before.

“Thank you,” she replied, accepting the willow bark. He then gently assisted her, taking her arm to help her into a nearby chair. The room filled with the sound of steady rain, punctuated by the occasional crack of lightning. Mingdan moved to the candles, lighting them before turning back to face her, his lips pursed and brow furrowed with concern.

“Should I summon the physician?” he asked.

“No, it’s the same old pain, Mingdan. It’ll clear up when the storm’s passed.”

He put the back of his thumb to his lips, not satisfied with her answer but unsure on how to proceed. “Should I alert mother?”

Again, she shook her head. “I’ll be okay. Mingdan, go get some rest.”

He shook his head. “Yinuo...” he started, but stopped shaking his head. “Fine, I’ll abide by your wishes.” Mingdan wore a white tunic, its billowing sleeves tapering gracefully to his wrists, cinched at the waist by a simple belt decorated with golden thread in an ornate interlocking design. Simplistic yet refined. Mingdan kept his hair in a neat style, swept up and away from his angular jaw, held in place by a silver hairpiece that gleamed in the warm candle’s hue. Yinuo’s gaze lingered on his hands, covered in streaks of black ink matching the wear beneath his reflective, rich brown eyes. Mingdan always did have such reflective and kind eyes. Without a word, he stepped out, only to return promptly, balancing a tome, an inkwell, a brush, and a scroll. With these in hand, he made himself comfortable at her desk and started reviewing the classic text.

“I’m okay, Mingdan,” she said to him.

“En,” he replied, “I merely remain nearby, should you require my presence. Besides, this riddle is perplexing me, and I think better with company.”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re up. You never were someone who could stop until you’ve found a solution,” she said. He continued to focus on the tome, not answering her. Yinuo carefully tested the weight of her leg on the floor and, taking up Ruijian’s crutch, stood slowly and limped back to bed. She threw the covers over herself, watching Mingdan illuminated by the warm candlelight at the desk. He would never admit it, but Yinuo knew he worried the most for her, really, enough for everyone. Any task he faced was done so with meticulous research and preparation.

However, he was also the quietest of her brothers, expressing himself more through the written word than speech. His brilliant mind had been apparent since childhood, and the family had supported his pursuit of knowledge in every way—except for allowing him to leave for formal tutelage. Yinuo saw this in the subtle fidget of his leg, his yearning for the mountains described in his books, the histories, and the places beyond their reach. She knew if he ever left to seek a wise shifu who could expand his horizons beyond the court, he might never return, ensnared by the allure of a distant city or the majesty of an ancient riverfront. And so, Mingdan remained, his intellect bound within the pages of his texts, living vicariously through the stories of others instead of roaming the vast world he longed to see.

Yinuo called to him. “When do you take your exams?”

“Soon, jiejie,” he replied, turning a page, but never breaking contact for her.

“Do you think you’ll get a good score?”

“It is my intent,” he replied.

“Go someplace far away, Mingdan, and write to me everyday of the wonders you see along the way. That would make me happy.”

He smiled, “My position will be here, close to father and eldest brother.”

“No, you could go anywhere you wanted with your score. Why stay here, brother?”

“You’re here,” he supplied.

Yinuo rolled her eyes, “And what if, when I’m married, I am sent someplace far away? Wouldn’t there be no excuse for you to stay?”

His eyes never left the page as he spoke. “You’re raising this topic as a diversion from your discomfort. The medicine should take effect shortly. By the way, Danbei mentioned you’ve brought him a gift.”

“Do not change the subject, little brother! Think on it, please.”

He relented with a sigh. “Only for you, Yinuo. However, did you really leave yesterday to fetch a gift?

“Yes, for Miss Lei,” Yinuo said, then panicked. “The gift! Mingdan, you must help me find it!”

“Where did you have it last?” he asked.

“At the archery range! Oh no, we have to find it! It’s precious, and if I lose the gift, it’ll all be for naught!” Yinuo tried to stand but started to fall when Mingdan jutted from his desk, just in time to prevent it. He didn’t ask if she was all right or rebuke her desire to find the gift. He simply saw the determination in his sister’s eyes.

“En,” he replied, sliding her crutch beneath her arm. He lifted her shoes from their stand and helped her put them on. Then, he held the door aloft as she passed through.

Together, Mingdan and Yinuo walked towards the archery field, Mingdan carrying a lantern he had left outside her room. This early in the morning, the vast estate of the Yans was deserted, a complex of multiple buildings and various rooms, all enclosed by a masoned wall, resembling a small fortress. The considerable size a daunting thought, Mingdan entertained as he accompanied his ailing sister hastening to the training grounds. They darted from cover to cover, seeking protection from the rain, until they noticed a warm light emanating from an outer building—a place both Mingdan and Yinuo knew was supposed to be empty.

Mingdan covered his lantern, dimming the light, and pulled his sister to his side. They saw two shadows within the window conversing in low tones.

“Are you sure she saidDehai?” A man spoke through the storm. Yinuo didn’t recognize the voice, and before she could ask Mingdan, he had her pressed up against the side of the window with her mouth covered. Mingdan listened intently, carefully maneuvering them to avoid being spotted, all the while assessing the intentions of the men whose forms were only partially visible, obscured by a screen that cast their shadows.

The response of the other, was too low to hear, and interrupted by a slam of hands against a table. “Do not tell anyone what you know!” the man hissed.

Again, silence, but the only person she had told was Danbei. Who would be interested in a mere servant? She tried to peer into the room, but Mingdan’s grip held her stationed in place.

“We will look into this. It is too soon to make rash decisions,” the man said.

Mingdan swore under his breath as the door creaked open unexpectedly, swiftly pulling his sister into the shadows to conceal them. His hand remained firmly over her mouth, silencing any gasps of fear, while his eyes tracked the ominous figure meticulously. It wasn’t just the suddenness of the movement that chilled Yinuo to the bone—it was the figure itself. A man, if one could call him that, draped in a black cape that fluttered like the wings of a night creature, his face obscured by a large-brimmed hat that cast his features into eerie darkness. As he prowled the outer wall with an unsettling grace, his presence seemed to slice through the stormy air. For a moment, his silhouette paused, as if sensing their watchful eyes, before he vanished into the night.

“Why would they care about, Dehai?” she asked stunned, faltering as the last of her strength left her legs, and quickly her brother responded by gently lowering her to her knees.

“Stay here,” Mingdan ordered his sister, but she clutched his hands, her eyes filled with pleading.

“No, Mingdan, don’t go.”

“You’ll only hinder me with your bad leg. Remain here; I shall return shortly.”

“What are you going to do! Please, Mingdan!”

He gave her a smile and a pit formed at the bottom of her stomach. Without a word, he slipped from her grasp, leaving her to the cold and pain around her.

A boom of thunder brought her back to her childhood, when the rain smacked her face as the horse beneath her bucked and reared against her tiny taps. “Go horse!” She shouted into the tempest, her voice barely rising above the howling wind. “Go, we must save him! Go!” She pleaded again and again for the horse to move, but it labored through the rain, trudging at it’s own pace. Fear gripped her so tightly she wasn’t sure she could endure the pain constricting her chest. She cried out, begging, “Please, horse!”

A crack of lightning spooked the horse, and in the next moment, she found herself sprawled in the mud, the horse rearing above her. She rolled away just in time to dodge its smashing hooves and picked herself up, watching as it galloped off into the night. Yinuo struggled to her feet, each step a battle, as her injured leg protested every movement, her determination the only fuel driving her forward into a blind run.

Reaching the execution grounds, she was panting, dragging her leg, as the cold mingled with the sweat on her brow. Her small form dwarfed by the imposing white stone walls and gravel path, towering so high, she could see only the storm clouds churning above. She ran blindly down the corridors until she reached an iron gate, which, to her dismay, was not open as expected. Desperation lending her strength, she threw her shoulder against the door, pounding with all her might until the guards, taking pity on her, finally pushed it open for her to pass.

There, at the base of the massive stairs, she saw the platform, with blood and hay scattered everywhere. The crowd’s presence and the sickening beat of drums reverberated off the walls. Little Yinuo elbowed her way through, her small frame jostled by indifferent bodies. “Dehai!” she screamed, unable to see the platform due to her stature. Surrounded by a blur of tunics and angry faces, she struggled through—a tiny voice in a crowd of silks and rain, unheard.

Then, a loud crash, the crowd’s cheers, and a speck of red on her cheek became her entire world.

“Dehai is dead.”

As lightning cleaved the sky once more, its fleeting brilliance forced Yinuo to confront the relentless downpour, prompting her to brush away the solitary droplet from her cheek. Kneeling there, drenched and numb, she lost track of time as the memory of the execution seared itself into her consciousness. “Dehai is dead. Dehai is dead. Dehai is dead.” The words echoed like a haunting refrain, grounding her in the sorrow that remained.

She’d lost her best friend. She’d failed to save him. And no matter how much her family attempted to absolve her of blame, insisting it wasn’t her fault, that a child could not take responsibility for what had happened—she did. If she did not acknowledge, “Dehai is dead,” she would tempt herself into believing in a falsehood, a hope that would only leave her tortured as the truth progressed. But it did not stop her from wishing and praying to anyone who would listen that she’d be with her king of flowers again.