His sixty-fourth practice year had begun shortly before he entered Xiao’s tomb. Pei Jing stopped on the third step, just above the water. He took off his boots one at a time and squeezed the black water out of them. Then he tied the ankle cords again. If he left the leather soaked, he’d be walking on blisters before he made it through the outer halls.
The vault behind him had been noisy enough to cover his steps. Here, every grain of grit sounded loud under his boots. The ceiling was low. Eight-sided pillars held up a gray limestone arch, and the air smelled of pine resin, dust, and old whetstone oil.
The woman at the top of the steps hadn’t moved. Under her hood he saw high cheekbones and steady gray eyes. He remembered those eyes from the stairs at Grand Desolation Pavilion. Ye Qinghan had worn a silver hairpin and carried a brass lens that day. Here she wore plain blue traveling clothes, and her thumb rested on the mouth of a wooden sheath bound in white silk.
He left his hands where she could see them. She took in his soaked trousers and the cleaver across his back. Her eyes lingered on his forearms. He had just climbed off the back of a bronze guard, and his hands weren’t shaking.
