Before dawn, the tide struck the Western Horn and threw spray eighty feet up the cliff. Pei Jing stood at the wet edge in sharkskin trousers. Pale lines from old wounds crossed his chest. The Cloud-Splitter hung from an oiled hide harness on his back. At his hip, a waterproof pouch held the Black Mountain Whetstone and twelve old armor-piercing needles for the dive. He’d left the other twenty-four in the bracer at the cave. He wanted to see how the old stock held up after a dive in salt water. If the runes stayed clear, he would try firing one in a sheltered pool.
He drew three deep breaths. On the fourth, his chest went still.
Turtle Breathing. He’d learned it under the cold falls of Mist Peak. After years of practice he could let it take hold without thinking through each step. His pulse slowed from forty-eight to thirty, twenty, twelve, then six. The surface of his skin cooled until it gave off little more warmth than the water.
He stepped off feet first. The cold closed over him, cutting away the sound of wind. Under the breaking waves, he called up Earth qi. The weight of his bones pulled him through the foam.
