Threads 280-Sea of Dreams 4

Ling Qi swallowed once. Even she knew there were many ways this story could go from a hundred hundred scraps of folktale and spirit knowledge.

“We would be happy to bring you your firewood, grandmother,” she called back, “if you offer the guarantee of your hospitality.”

Her response was a creaking laugh like wood splintering in extreme cold and the faint jingle of the bracelet wrapped around the wrist of the spirit’s arm as it withdrew. The dangling bangle was made of bones, little skulls and carved ribs.

“How forgetful I am. No harm shall be brought to you or your man, the dream scraps, or even that morsel of a tortoise, so long as you make no violation of guest right. Now, come along. I want to hear what such brave children are doing here.”

Zhengui, both of his heads, looked at her with some alarm, and she patted Gui’s head. The spirit had given her word. She was already more reasonable, if far more terrifying, than Bleak Skies Yearning.

Ling Qi held up an arm then stopping anyone from stepping forward. “This one apologies for the delay honored grandmother, but I am from a far away land. May I ask what things might violate guest right by your understanding?”

There was a sound of scraping wood, and in the darkness, Ling Qi briefly spotted the flash of a large, milky eye, squinting out. “A careful little poppet, aren’t you.”

“You would be the first to say so, Honored Grandmother,” Ling Qi said.

A creaky, rasping laugh, and the clack of metal teeth. “Harming your host. Damaging their property. Refusal to pay the favor owed for hospitality..”

There was the catch.

“What manner be such a favor?” Xuan Shi asked.

“Small things. Small favors. A gift. A service. A quest, perhaps, for young heroes, yes,” cackled the spirit, “but we can discuss things over the fire, can we not? Oh, yes.”

Ling Qi shared a look with Xuan Shi, who very slowly shook his head. She had to agree.

Kongyou harrumphed, alighting fairylike upon Xuan Shi’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t even be a tragedy, walking into that.”

“Grandmother, in this one’s land, it is polite to seal all contracts clear and true. For the warmth of thy hearth, perhaps this one can offer a gift. Mayhaps an art or a curio that might catch Grandmother’s eye?” Xuan Shi proposed.

“Polite lad, so polite, but such stiff youngsters. So stiff,” the giant thing in the hut mused.

Ling Qi stared into the void of ending which resided in that hut. A devouring cold that would snuff life, it was powerful, but there was too much humanity stretched like a skin over the absolute ice. It was a different sort of humanity than her master, but a humanity all the same, something like Xin, rather than the Hidden Moon.

“We only wish to be sure not to give offense,” Ling Qi countered calmly. “We are visitors. We will be speaking much with your people, Honored Grandmother. It is only wise that we learn to speak well.”

There was a deep inhalation of air, pulling at Ling Qi’s hair and dress. “Ah, Children of Jade, Dragonkin, that is what old Grydja smells.”

“You are not the Crone then,” Ling Qi concluded.

Hacking laughter. “Nay, nay, just a shard, a nail, a flake. Poppet, you should know the true End is not so chatty, aye?”

Xuan Shi glanced at her. Ling Qi didn’t quite catch his eye.

Once, while cultivating the Frozen Soul Serenade, she had asked her master about the deeper concept embedded in the art. Ending, the dissolution of all things, was the night which awaited when the sun and moon died and all things faded to dust. It was not a concept she dwelled upon. It was almost meaningless to a human like her, a distraction from the smaller but far more relevant endings which made up life.

“If that is what she is, I suppose not. But, Grandmother, my friend asked if you would accept a gift.”

“I suppose so. I suppose so,” whispered the hag. The milky eye peering through the doorway twitched to Xuan Shi, who grimaced at the pressure and the cold that formed ice on his robes and turned his breath to steam. “What can you offer, little carver? What pretty things can you offer an old woman?”

Xuan Shi considered for a time. Kongyou scratched the side of their nose disinterestedly, but Ling Qi saw that their attention never wandered from Xuan Shi’s face. Eventually, he turned over his hand, and there was a faint pop as something materialized in his palm, displacing air. “This one offers a fine little trinket, a work of the heart. This should satisfy more than any armament or finery. Such is the way of this tale, no?”

It was a jade figurine cut from a block of dark green that was nearly black. It depicted a stone jutting from the carved surf with three figures sitting on the rocks, a man and child in Xuan garb and a third incomplete figure, vaguely feminine with long wavy hair.

“DONE.”

Ling Qi did not get to look any further as the frost bitten claw reached out of the door in an eyeblink, snatching the relatively tiny carving from Xuan Shi’s hand with uncanny dexterity. He staggered as it pulled away, his hand flying to his chest, and Ling Qi felt heat and qi ripped out of him as well.

She caught his shoulder as he stumbled. “Xuan Shi, what was—?”

“My hearth is bought, little ones. On word and bond, you are safe and owe nothing. Now, come. Come and bring the firewood, dearies.”

Ling Qi shot the open door a look. “We should have negotiated more,” she muttered.

“There would be no gain without loss,” Xuan Shi contended. “Ah, it was but an idle fancy, a moon-granted dream. There will be other divinations.”

Kongyou stared at him and didn’t say a word.

“Heh, not so nice from the other side, eh, Qi?” Sixiang bumped her with an elbow.

“If Mr. Carver wants to pay, we should go,” Gui said, crossing the threshold.

Ling Qi took her hand off Xuan Shi’s shoulder where she had caught him. “Alright. It was your choice,” she acknowledged. “Let’s go see what we can learn.”

***

There was power in the words of spirits, power that she herself could emulate just a little. Power that made words mean what they said. She would call it Sincerity. Or perhaps Truth.

If it could be faked, she had never experienced it. That was the only reason she could bring herself to cross the grubby little yard even now because the yawning void of the doorway made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

She stood to the side, matching gazes with the beady chicken still pawing at the yard. The bird’s head bobbed as it scratched at the dirt then rose, twitching round to look at her. Xuan Shi crouched by the woodpile, gathering the promised firewood.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Heavy,” he grunted, weighing the third stick of wood in his hand, which trembled with the weight. Given that he was a cultivator in the same realm and stage as she, it certainly said something of the wood’s strange properties.

“Petrified,” she corrected, looking at the grayed grain.

“Qi-dense, as deathly the fathomless depths.”