Ch. 026| Behind the Blackwood Door

When Lin Que returned to the Xuanzhao Sect, the sun had already tilted west.

The blue-robed back was a dozen paces ahead of him, making straight for the mountain gate. Lin Que did not follow too close; shouldering the basket of bought herbs, he mixed into the party of menials returning down the mountain and trailed at a distance.

Through the mountain gate, the blue-robed man did not head for the menial-chores court where outer-gate disciples lodged, nor for the guest quarters to rest. He passed several courtyard walls as one who knew the way well, and turned straight toward the vicinity of the Archive Hall.

Something moved in Lin Que's heart. He first delivered the herb basket to the pill hall and reported the shopping account, then—under cover of returning the pot and handing back the token—took the long way round and looked toward the Archive Hall from afar.

The blue-robed man stood at the foot of the Archive Hall's steps, speaking with a steward of managerial bearing. The steward bent his back, and as he led the way he even turned to offer a steadying hand—the courtesy paid a guest, not the manner shown a rogue. Skirting wide, Lin Que caught only half a line, "...the scrolls have already been readied upstairs for the Teacher," before the man went in at the hall door and was led up.

Lin Que lowered his eyes.

The black timber door that guarded the deep scrolls—an ordinary outer-gate disciple couldn't even reach the third floor. Yet this blue-robed man, an unfamiliar rogue, a steward led up personally. That the meridian-cutting hand's side had someone within the Archive Hall—this he'd already suspected in the market town below. But to watch with his own eyes as that hand was invited grandly up to the third floor through the front door, without even a pretense of cover, still made his chest sink.

They too were watching the thing behind that door.

Qinghe wanted him to find out how the Xuanzhao Breathing Art had been cut, and that answer was locked in the deep scrolls on the third floor. But if the meridian-cutter had tampered with that scroll first—or simply taken it away—then his door would have been waited for in vain.

---

Back at the menial-chores court that night, Fang Qi brought word again.

"That Senior Brother Chen of the West Court—they say his qi is full." Fang Qi, gnawing dry rations, said thickly. "His junior on watch went to fetch the ginseng broth today—the first thing he'll drink coming out. By my count, he'll break through the layer any day now."

The hand with which Lin Que ate paused.

Any day now.

The rubbing-paper of the ward in his robe grew heavier just then. The moment the unbinding talisman arrived, he'd have to get through that door ahead of Chen's breakthrough—but the unbinding talisman was still in Qinghe's hands down the mountain, and whether he'd be in time rested entirely on these few days.

---

The unbinding talisman arrived at midday on the third day.

A porter back from buying down the mountain found Lin Que at the gate of the menial-chores court, pressed an oil-paper roll into his hand, and left without much talk—the man Qinghe had entrusted was very proper.

Back in his room, Lin Que opened it. Inside the oil-paper was a finished unbinding talisman, and within the vermilion talisman-lines glimmered faintly another red—ink ground from red-scale sand, sealed into the hook of the final stroke. Beneath the talisman was pressed a small note in Qinghe's hand, only one line:

Lay it to the seam by the rubbing, flick back once; the ward rests one incense-stick. Past the hour it restores itself. Do not be greedy.

One incense-stick.

Lin Que put the unbinding talisman carefully away against his body. By Qinghe's ward-probing talisman, over these few days he'd felt out that the door's weakest window was the half-hour after the scroll-warden's midday meal, when the sun ran warmest—eyelids heaviest, the jade token driving weakest. But if a true-lineage senior sister like Bai Heng came up to retrieve a scroll, that window would vanish at once.

He had meant to wait for one more, steadiest day.

But he could wait no longer. The blue-robed man had already been led up to the third floor, and Chen would break through to the sixth layer tomorrow. Drag it out further, and the full copy might be tampered with by that hand first, and Chen might tumble into that seam first.

Tomorrow afternoon.

---

The next afternoon, Lin Que carried the oil pot up to the third floor.

The scroll-warden leaned against a pillar, his eyelids sinking and sinking, and, as in the times before, his chin nodded slowly toward his chest.

Lin Que filled the lamp oil, lamp by lamp, edging to the one nearest the black timber door. Trimming the wick, he swept the corner of his eye over the disciple—the drowse ran heavy, and the jade token in his sleeve that drove the ward had slackened its light to the faintest.

Now was the moment.

He set down the oil pot and drew from his robe the rubbing and the unbinding talisman. The point of heat beneath his left eye woke and followed the stretch of base-pattern along the lower edge of the frame—that seam, cut through and forcibly rejoined, was plain to see.

Following the rubbing, Lin Que laid the unbinding talisman over the seam. He pressed the pad of his finger to the hook of the final stroke and, by the line on Qinghe's note, flicked lightly against the force the ward had rejoined.

The ink-line sealed with red-scale sand on the talisman brightened soundlessly.

The ring of faint green light over the doorframe, as though a vital point had been pinched, dimmed first at the seam, then rested inch by inch.

From the black timber door came a very soft click.

Lin Que looked back at the scroll-warden—still dozing. He turned sideways, pushed the door open very softly, slipped in, and left it drawn to.

Behind the door was a narrow room, windowless, ranks of black timber scroll-racks standing against the walls, scrolls sorted and stacked upon them. A smell of aged paper and ink mingled with anti-moth medicine pressed down.

Lin Que dared not light a lamp; by the thread of daylight leaking through the door-crack, the point of heat beneath his left eye swept over rack after rack of scrolls.

What he sought was the Xuanzhao Breathing Art.

On the second rank of racks, he found it. A case of the Xuanzhao Breathing Art bound in green, thicker by several times than the entry scroll circulated in the outer gate—this was the full copy.

Lin Que drew it out and opened it in the light of the door-crack. He was no scholar of deep meaning, and the words he knew were few. But what these eyes sought lay beneath the words to begin with—the flaws hidden there, one after another.

That seam hidden at the root of the sixth layer in the entry scroll, he'd long grown familiar with—where the channel reached that threshold, a key aperture-stroke had been drawn out, forcibly cutting the mouth open. The opening and the closing of that break, these eyes traced plainly: which stroke had been taken, how that gash ought to be rejoined, all inscribed in that break.

Now, turning to the same section in the full copy, his eyes that singled out flaws swept across it—

They found not a trace of a seam. Where the channel reached that threshold, it was joined, it was through. This full copy was the Xuanzhao Breathing Art whole and entire, before any hand had tampered with it; the version handed to outer-gate disciples had been drawn out, from here, of one stroke. Drawn out so cunningly that the passages before and after still connected—and those who cultivated by it, reaching that threshold, could not push through; force it, and it was qi deviation.

Lin Que's left eye swept over the break where the stroke had been drawn out—it was the same hand as the meridian-cutting seam on the rubbing, as the break on Qinghe's family talisman.

He thought of Fang Qi's words—Chen would break through to the sixth layer tomorrow, and charge headlong into this flaw.

Unable to push through, it was qi deviation before a crowd, and the man was gone. And in all the Xuanzhao Sect, the only one who could see what he was charging into was Lin Que, alone. Save him, or not? Save Chen, and he'd have to reveal, before all those watching eyes, a skill he could by no means hide.

The answer he wanted was here: which stroke was missing, how it ought to be mended back—all of it on the full copy. Following the "whole" run of the full copy, mend the stroke drawn out of the entry scroll back in, and that threshold at the sixth layer could be pushed through. Only following the full copy was not enough—to truly mend that one stroke back in, he needed a living material that could draw the qi and fill the flaw. That thing, he did not yet have.

Even the sect's foundational orthodox transmission had been cut by a hand. The moment this thought rose, Lin Que pressed it back down at once. It ran deep; this was no time to probe it.

He drew the slip of thin paper from his robe, dabbed lamp-ash from a lamp's dregs on his fingertip, and by the thread of daylight leaking through the door-crack, swiftly took a rubbing, stroke by stroke, of the qi-channel run at that aperture of the sixth layer in the full copy. The lamp-ash was dry and dragging, and rushed rubbings smeared easily; he held his breath, but his hand was steady—getting in here had been no easy thing, and one stroke off in the rubbing meant a wasted trip, perhaps with no next chance.

Halfway through the rubbing, the scroll-warden outside the door suddenly grunted, and a chair-leg scraped the floor.

Lin Que pressed his whole body against the scroll-rack and held even his breath. That pried-open ward rested only one incense-stick, and the incense was more than half spent; to go out now was to run right into the moment the disciple woke.

Outside the door it was quiet for two breaths. The chair-scraping sound did not come again—he'd only turned over in a dream and sunk back into sleep.

Lin Que waited until the breathing had evened out again before finishing the rubbing of the latter stretch of the run. Done, he slid the Xuanzhao Breathing Art back into the second rank of racks in its original order.

As he slid it back, his left eye swept over the scroll-case—a very fresh crease on the cover, pressed over those few pages of the sixth layer; what had been turned was precisely these pages.

The blue-robed man had come a step ahead of him. What he'd turned was precisely those few pages of the sixth layer.

Lin Que understood at once what he'd come to do. This full copy was the original of the Xuanzhao Sect's founding orthodox transmission, locked in the deepest deep scrolls, untouchable by an ordinary outer-gate disciple in a lifetime—what the outer gate cultivated was another, separately issued version, with one stroke drawn out. That hand wanted the outer gate to fall at the sixth layer year after year, yet could not destroy this original of the sect; and how that one stroke ought to be mended back, in all the world only this one place still held the whole pattern to copy from. What it could do was send someone back from time to time to keep watch, guarding against anyone slipping into these deep scrolls and stealing that one stroke away.

And the one who truly slipped in, and could mend that one stroke back—he, Lin Que, was the very one that hand feared most.

His left eye swept along the racks again, to the neighboring shelf. That shelf held several cases of pill-formula records, and the topmost lay open—it was precisely the monthly-allotment pill formula, and on the stroke of one medicinal property was pressed, too, a very faint cut-mark.

He had seen with his own eyes at the pill hall that batch of monthly-allotment pills thinned by half a measure of potency. The root, it turned out, was locked here in the deep scrolls too.

From the stairwell outside came a footstep.

Lin Que's heart lifted. He slipped to the door and looked out through the crack—the scroll-warden still dozed against the pillar; the footsteps came up from the ground floor, climbing step by step toward the second.

No delaying further. Lin Que turned sideways out the door, pressed the hook of the unbinding talisman back with his hand, and let go of the pried-open ward—the ring of light on the frame brightened back inch by inch from the seam, and with a click the black timber door locked shut again.

He crouched and wiped the smear of lamp-ash off the lower edge of the frame with his sleeve-corner, then stepped back and watched the light wind around the door once, bright to the hair as before, before straightening.

He withdrew to the lamp, took up the oil pot, trimmed the wick, his expression as usual.

The one who'd come up was a copying disciple, an armful of scrolls in his hands, who glanced blearily at Lin Que and paid no mind to a lamp-oil menial.

Lin Que filled the last lamp and carried the pot downstairs, his pace neither fast nor slow, just as on any day he finished the oil and went down. The slip of thin paper in his robe, bearing the rubbing of the sixth-layer aperture, lay against his chest, scalding him until his heart clenched tight.

---

Down on the ground floor, a stir suddenly rose from the direction of the West Court.

Several disciples hurried toward the West Court carrying food boxes, passing word low among themselves:

"Senior Brother Chen's about to come out of seclusion—"

"Get the ginseng broth over, quick—the first moment he's out he'll break through the layer!"

Lin Que stood before the hall, and the hand with which he swept stopped.

This rubbing in his robe could mend back the seam Chen cultivated on. But to get this paper into Chen's hands, someone first had to believe that a newly entered menial disciple could understand the aperture of the Xuanzhao Breathing Art. Round it all came, and in the end, before others, he'd have to reveal these eyes that could see flaws.

Over at the West Court, the ginseng broth had been sent in.

That meditation-cell door, sealed a dozen days, was about to open.

【Ch. 026 End · the outer gate of the Xuanzhao Sect · the deep scrolls of the Archive Hall】