“You really want to know the truth that badly, Fourth Miss Song?” Cui Muyuan lifted an eyebrow and smiled.
Song Yihuan kept her voice steady. “If I fall into your hands I won’t live long anyway. I’d rather die with my eyes open.”
Cui slouched against the carriage wall, fingers playing with the crumpled human-skin mask in his hand. “Fine. You’ll get your clear death. As you say, I am a Beidi. I came to the Yu Kingdom with a mission. Your mother had terrible luck—she saw what she shouldn’t have seen, heard what she shouldn’t have heard.”
“Killing her was to silence her, of course. Just like your poor little brother. Funny how mother and son share the same fate.”
He lowered his voice and laughed, a thin cruelty sparking in his eyes.
Song Yihuan clenched her fists so hard her knuckles paled. She fought to keep her expression even, but the flash of fury in her gaze did not escape him.
“Angry, are we? Bitter? You’re the fish on the chopping block now; we’re the knives. We’re the winners.”
Cui’s laughter was bright and unrepentant. “Want another secret? The Yu Kingdom has been under our control for a long time. Toppling this dynasty will be like blinking. As for your precious husband, Ji Lingchuan—he’ll end up as a corpse.”
“What so-called war god of Yu?” he mocked. “In my eyes he’s nothing but a puppet, a fool played for sport. Hahaha!”
“I spit on that,” Song Yihuan said, voice cold and scornful. “You Beidi cowards won’t face the Yu army honorably — you rely on dirty tricks. Heaven sees all; you will not succeed.”
“Ji Lingchuan is Yu’s war god, blessed by heaven. No matter how many tricks you use, you’ll fail. It’s you who will be crushed, not Yu.”
Cui’s pleasant mask slipped away. He wiped dampness from his face and the warm smile curdled into cold calculation. His slitted eyes gleamed with murder. “If Fourth Miss Song is so ungrateful, don’t blame us for being ruthless.”
Song Nanxin, who had been listening, rolled her eyes. “What are you two arguing for? She’s nothing to us. We aren’t on the same side.”
The carriage did not stop at the pavilion ten li outside the capital as Ji Lingchuan had said it would; it kept racing north. Song Yihuan felt her chest drop. She didn’t fear Song Nanxin—she knew the girl’s intellect didn’t match hers, and certainly not Ji Lingchuan’s. The real danger had always been the stranger at Song Nanxin’s side: Cui Muyuan.
She had suspected Song Nanxin wouldn’t meekly follow the plan. She’d been right. They would never set her down at the pavilion as arranged. And this conspicuous carriage—clearly they would switch conveyances somewhere along the way.
When the carriage slipped into the trees of Old Jun Mountain outside the capital, it stopped.
Song Nanxin pushed a dagger forward. “Get down. Don’t try anything. With Cui Muyuan here, you can’t run.”
Song Yihuan lifted her skirts like a woman resigned to insult and slid from the carriage, watched closely by Song Nanxin and Cui.
Once on the ground she stole a quick look around. Just as she’d guessed, another carriage—plain, ordinary, the kind a commoner would use—was hidden in the woods. In a crowd it would be indistinguishable. They had planned this.
Or perhaps Cui had foreseen that Song Nanxin’s return to the Marquisate would be dangerous and had prepared contingency plans in advance.
Noticing something in her face, Cui smiled. “Surprised? Fourth Miss Song, you’re not the only clever one in this world.”
Song Yihuan smoothed her features. “It’s not surprising. Cui Taizhu—clever as a fox, adept at faking his death—can surely avoid capture when he wants.”
Song Nanxin shoved her roughly. “Enough talk. Get in!”
A chirp of birds came suddenly to Song Yihuan’s ear. Instinct made her lunge aside. A muffled grunt followed.
She’d barely steadied herself against the wheel when she turned and saw an arrow had pierced Song Nanxin’s right shoulder. Disbelief froze her for a breath. Before she could do anything, another arrow screamed low and struck Song Yihuan’s other shoulder, pinning her to the carriage.
The arrowwork was ghostlike—precise and sudden. Ji Lingchuan had arrived.
The first volley stunned Song Nanxin and Cui, and two arrows found their mark in Song Nanxin before either could react. Cui hadn’t even noticed when the first arrow flew.
Song Nanxin went limp, unconscious.
More arrows screamed toward Cui, aimed for vital points.
Cui’s face tightened. He spun, seized Song Yihuan by the wrists and shoved her before him like a human shield. “Ji Shizi,” he called to the ridge beyond, “if you value your beloved and your child, stop firing!”
The arrows thudded into books and into the grass around the carriage. The horses panicked and tossed their heads, neighing.
Cui thought holding Song Yihuan hostage would give him bargaining power. The bowfire faltered for a heartbeat—and then returned, weaving into the air like a net and bearing down on them in dense waves.
Cui’s brow creased. He pressed his thumb against the tender spot at Song Yihuan’s throat as he dodged arrows from all directions. Forced to abandon the carriage and the spare horses hidden in the trees, he turned and ran uphill.
While dodging arrows he blew a whistle from his lips. It sounded unlike anything in the Yu Kingdom—raw and piercing, a tone that seemed to cut through canopy and sky.
The trees answered. Black-clad figures burst from the undergrowth and sprang down to intercept the armored guards climbing after them.
Song Yihuan watched the sudden tide of reinforcements with a chill. The Beidi had worked within the capital for years—how many hidden cells had they placed? If they wanted to, they could topple a kingdom. Perhaps these reinforcements would trouble Ji Lingchuan.
The mountain cover shielded much of the rain of arrows. With Cui’s summoned men engaging Ji’s guards, the volley from below slowed and then stopped altogether.
Forced to flee, Song Yihuan tasted only wind, the rasp of breath, and the pounding of her own heart. Then, out of the dark, a black arrow sailed true—raking across her cheek and, at a strange angle, burying itself in Cui Muyuan’s shoulder.