On the sixth morning, an oily smell drifted from the north bridge. Pei Jing had eaten two ounces of crab marrow and four ounces of dried pork. He’d washed it down with eight ounces of cold water. He stood in the middle of the platform with one hand on the Cloud-Splitter.
Before he could begin, stone shook at the entrance to the bridge. Two men came out of the dark. Their boots dragged, and one breathed with a wet rattle.
Both wore the purple battle robes of Cloud Mist inner-court elders. The silver dragons on their sleeves were streaked with blood and ash.
The taller man wore his gray hair under an iron lotus crown. Two green flying swords bobbed beside his shoulders like unsteady wasps. Elder Feng, the Wind-Walking Sword.
The other wore a bronze cuirass. A little seven-tiered pagoda shook in his right hand. Cracks ran through its gems, which flickered yellow. Elder Lu, the Seven-Star Pagoda Warden. His left sleeve hung limp. A sword had torn away part of his shoulder.
Between them they had served the sect longer than most of their disciples had lived. Now they looked like men who’d crawled out of a fallen mine. Neither had brought the twenty-four disciples and four junior deacons they’d led into the hall.
