Three days later when he was able to leave a hospital bed, Booker was brought before a tribunal. He was still barely capable of walking, so his arms were wrapped around the shoulders of two guards and they more or less carried him to the trial, the pendant of jade hanging around his neck. He hadn’t let go of it once since the duel.

Five of the Sect’s six honored Instructors had gathered in a small room to pass judgment on his disobedience. The duel with Zheng Bai had already spread throughout the Sect as a wild myth, but the matter of him leaving the Sect at all, defying the terms of his previous punishment, was an insult to those above him in the Sect’s hierarchy.

They sat at a long table flanked by guards. Only Graysky’s seat was empty.

“Well…” Greenmoon said, breaking the silence. “I suppose the question is, are we mad, or are we impressed?”

“Procedure, Greenmoon, procedure.” Whined a short, balding man who almost vanished into his robes. This was Instructor Thunderhymn, a small man with a large name. He had been a cultivation genius as a boy – and never developed much beyond that. “The boy stands accused of serious crimes. Shouldn’t we begin by discussing them?”

“More to the point, the purpose of the council is to judge these crimes, not opine on whether they happen to be impressive.” Instructor Frostwind pointed out, covering his mouth with a fan. Frostwind was a tall man with a waterfall of white hair cast down around his shoulders, and a thin tapering white goatee. Of all the Instructors he was known as the best actual teacher.

Well those don’t sound like good votes. Booker thought, casting his eyes over the row of Instructors. Only the enigmatic Eastlight was even looking his way – the others were all watching the expressions around the table, trying to read their fellow Instructors. It looks like this boils down to politics. If the worst comes to pass, I have the authority seal from the higher Sect.

Heh…

In retrospect, that guy… he saw right through me, didn’t he? ‘A firework killed this cultivating beast’ – I really had no idea what I was doing then.

“I think whether crimes are impressive is entirely the point of justice.” Eastlight added, airily refusing the logic of her comrades. “An impressive enough crime can build an empire, lift a code of laws, and declare itself legal, no? Surely we cannot pretend power is of no interest to us who sit here? I thought this Sect prided itself on uplifting talented youth.”

“Talent is not on trial, dear Eastlight.” Thunderhymn said with raspy impatience. “He broke the Sect’s clear orders. Surely, there must be punishment, or there might as well be no Sect at all.”

There was an almost silent clearing of the throat from the end of the table. Instructor Stoneblood was older than even Frostwind or Greenmoon, the most senior of the council. At her age, she was beginning to shrink away, wrinkles obscuring her face, and she kept herself tightly wrapped in many-layered robes to hold out the chill. The silence that accompanied her small cough was enough to show the respect she commanded.

“I am of two minds.” She said deliberately. “On one side of the scale, we have talent. The thing our Sect is a shrine to, no? We are a temple of youth and talent…” Her words were somewhat wistful, lingering a moment before adding… “But the law is also the law. Its power lies in the fact it does not bend to the whims of students. Without the law, how will we shepherd our talented youths? And is this one on trial today – the strange contradiction we all see before us, a cripple who slew a cultivator – a threat to our laws, more than a talent to be raised up?”

Thunderhymn snorted. “There’s no future in him. He managed a miracle against a half-trained, rejected student, yes…”

“A cultivator.” Greenmoon insisted. “Could any of us claim we were ready to face a cultivator, any cultivator, when we were novices?”

“The tricks he used aren’t the miracles you prop them up to be.” Frostwind weighed in. “I’ve personally examined the… crude explosive devices he strapped to his arms.”

“That’s strange, Frostwind.” But as soon as he entered the fray, Eastlight bore down upon him, clear animosity sparking between the two. “I recall not long ago you saying that any technique that works, works, and that is the only and final judgment. You were quite firm back then.”

Frostwind frowned. “This is hardly a technique. For that matter, is this… low tactic… something we want to spread among the masses? Imagine if our students were at risk of being torn apart by mortals armed with such weapons.”

So there it is…

He’ll probably vote to have me killed no matter what, not because of my supposed ‘crime’ but because he wants to preserve the order of cultivators dominating mortals.

“I concur.” Thunderhymn said. “Besides the matter of justice, surely we must acknowledge, this school is dedicated to cultivation. Letting this boy disrupt the natural order… Greenmoon, you’ve been silent so far, but I know what you’re scheming. If we drop the matter you and Eastlight will try to lift him up to the status of a full disciple next, no?”

So the one focused on rules and procedure admits it’s not really the matter in front of him he’s judging, but the political airs…

“Mm. I have been silent, perhaps, because I feel the boy’s accomplishments speak for themselves. Are you forgetting this is not just a genius of combat who slew a cultivator – whatever tricks were employed, that much is enough to crown him a talent of his generation – but also the very alchemist who brought us a new refinement technique?” Greenmoon delivered his rebuttal with an air of patient disbelief, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How many fields must the boy be talented in before we deem him worth investing in? Already, he’s done more to aid this Sect than any of his class.”

“He stole those refinement secrets, and you know it!” Thunderhymn shouted out, incensed. “We should see this as exactly what it is – another example of this lawless creature displaying the utmost scorn and disrespect for his elders. Ping took him out of pity for his crippled condition, and how did he repay his master?”

“I would appreciate evidence of such claims. Don’t forget, you would also be accusing me…”

God these people… they really don’t like each other at all.

Last, he looked to Stoneblood. She was the deciding vote here – Greenmoon would support him simply because he had a stake in this, and Eastlight seemed to genuinely support him for his talents.

To his surprise he saw Stoneblood looking back. Her gaze was patient, and held the faintest hint of martial intent, a skin-crawling note of steel in her nearly-blind eyes.

“I do not see love for the Mantis Sect in his eyes. If anything, I see calculation, cunning.” She finally concluded. “Therefor–”

The doors behind Booker swung open, interrupting her before he could reach for the seal of authority. Graysky had finally arrived. Booker was surprised, too, by how the old man looked. Far from the sickened exhaustion of someone who’d vanished for three days after being fed a laxative – what Booker could only assume was a life-changing experience – Graysky looked…

Happy.

He made his way over to his seat without a word, sitting down calmly. “Brothers and sisters, elders and juniors, I apologize for my absence. I’ve been… deep in thought.”

“Graysky, you’re the one who had this boy branded a cripple, no? At that time, what was your assessment of him?” Thunderhymn butted in, clearly seeking support to seal Booker’s fate.

“Oh, my assessment?” Graysky echoed. Something in his tone was slightly off, lackadaisical, like he was barely tethered to the earth. “I think I didn’t like his face. Some silly reason like that.”

“Ah.” Easthymn said awkwardly. “Well, in any case then, I believe we were about to render judgment.”

“One moment, if you will. I won’t take up long but I have something to say on this matter.” Graysky interrupted. “I hope we can all afford a little time to consider such a crucial decision. It goes to the heart of what I’ve been thinking on.”

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For once… Booker had absolutely no read at all.

He truly did not know what to make of Graysky’s strange behavior and distant affect.

“We can afford a little time.” Greenmoon immediately spoke up in support, seeing perhaps a sliver of a chance to tie the table out and end this in stalemate.

“Thank you. Then, I suppose I should begin with a question… What exactly was his crime? He rushed to a hospital to aid the sick and the dying. We can surely discard this entirely as a crime; if anything it must be recorded as an act of merit. And in that same vein, we must forget about claiming he violated the will of the Sect. Ultimately, we sent aid to that same hospital, did we not? What was his crime then – arriving first?”

Thunderhymn looked utterly taken off-guard, far from the grinning expression he’d worn when Graysky had first appeared and he assumed an ally to his cause was arriving. He spat out – “He was DIRECTLY INSTRUCTED to remain within the Sect! Graysky, you cannot – you cannot be saying there’s no crime in defying our direct instructions!”

“Did it benefit us, in any way? Did his remaining at the Sect tilt any scale, overturn any mathematics, was it all necessary to us? Because his presence in that hospital saved lives, I am told. I am even informed he identified the source of the contagion. Surely we can agree that the health and safety of the city is a grave concern? Had we known then, how vital he would be to the effort to save those people…”

“Drug addicts and scum.” Thunderhymn grumbled.

“Those people.” Graysky softly repeated. “Surely if we had known, we would have sent him ourselves, no?”

“That is a preposterous position to take.” Frostwind objected. “Students cannot simply assume they know better than their teachers. That is why they are students.”

“And we always have our students best intentions and prospects in mind, of course.” Graysky agreed. “Our entire existence is to shepherd them, protect them, and guide them. You will agree with that I assume?”

Holy shit…

I think I did this. That pill was supposed to make you purge your demons, and…

It sure looks like we have a whole new Graysky.

Frostwind sighed, and said, “I will concede this point only because you strike unfairly at the core of our teachings. Yes, we exist to teach.”

Graysky smiled gently. “But let us take this boy in front of us, this student. What has his experience with our temple to learning been? Have we lifted him up? Because when I look back on our record of him, what I see is the overwhelming presence of punishment. He has been branded a failure when clearly he has much talent. He has been branded a killer when he acted in self-defense. He has rushed to the city’s aid, and been branded some… scoundrel, seeking to undermine us? I do not imagine those whose lives he has saved are anything but grateful to the Sect, to us, for sending them help in dire times. How can we say he has weakened our grip – if indeed that is what we are most concerned with preserving – when he has so clearly upheld it?”

“This is irrelevant. A rule was broken, and the punishment set defied. There must be consequences.” Thunderhymn hissed.

“There have been.” Graysky said. “Terrible consequences, again and again. He has been forced to fight for his life without aid or safety. He has been branded a cripple. Time and time again, when he interacts with our system of justice, he is punished and only punished. There must be consequences, as you say, yes, but is there such a thing as too much?”

He turned towards Stoneblood. “Elder Sister, you looked into his eyes and saw cunning, calculation, a mind regarding us as an opponent. But what else would you ask him to see us as? Perhaps he sees truthfully, for if our ‘justice’ can only ever punish, and never protect, is it not natural that he would come to see us as the hand that holds the whip, the manacle, the brand?”

Booker was simply and totally off-guard. The painkillers they had been feeding him made his mind slightly slow and cloudy, and he truly had no idea where Graysky intended to go with this.

He was helping Booker, yes – but he hadn’t actually swayed a single vote yet.

“Ridiculous. You cannot blame a smith when poor metal makes a poor sword. It is not our fault a student goes awry, but their failure to adhere to our teachings–” Thunderhymn tried to counter.

Graysky intercepted smoothly. “Ah, but so much has been said of him and so little of us, the elders, that we risk totally obscuring the relation between the two – he sees us as an opponent, yes, precisely because he is an excellent student. Because that is how we have taught him to survive.”

Thunderhymn truly did not have a response for that.

“So what we have then, is a wayward student we have treated only with the harshest aspect of our authority. And while he did indeed break his curfew, the only reason we can find to condemn doing so is that, perhaps, he was too eager. He assumed to know what was best, yes, but in truth we cannot even disagree, because we all see he was correct in his judgment, and yet we declare a punishment anew. And why? Because he assumed authority before his time? Or the deeper reason… Because he did not act with sufficient fear of us.”

“Fear of our authority, which is the Sect’s bedrock and strength.” Frostwind said in a tone that was as clear as the gleam along a knife’s edge. “Yes, you have described his crime correctly – assuming authority he did not have – but you have not convinced me to forgive it.”

“You will either find that capacity or you will not. Regardless, the problem will continue, for I am not speaking about this one boy. The same things I have said of him are true for countless students within our Sect, who we have held under a rule of fear. Yet at the same time – these exact apprentices must someday replace us. Even now, they must dream of doing so, but they conceal those ambitions from us. We know this – we all know this – for we were them, once, doing the exact same. We too knew instinctively what we endeavor now to forget – we were only allowed to ascend because we performed fear for our masters, and assured them we would never be a threat.”

“You–” Thunderhymn’s mouth hung open, and then he shot from his chair. “You have gone senile, you old fool! You are coming dangerously close – no, you ARE accusing the Sect of corruption.”

“I am only saying there are three manners of student within this school. Those that fear us deeply, those that pretend to be in the first camp while dreaming of the day they replace us, and those that are openly eager for the freedom of authority we enjoy, openly vying to become our next generation.” Graysky held up a finger. “Why then am I accusing the Sect of anything, to say I prefer the last and most honest sort? They are the ones who will make decisions we can judge for their merits, who show us the bare nature of their mind and their capacity to lead. Yet we inflict the lash upon them instead of praising them. We demand, in short, that they become or learn to disguise themselves as fearful. But neither do we let the fearful lead. You have surely seen many students who you simply discarded, for lacking the spine necessary, the strength necessary. Who then shall be our inheritors?”

Eastlight laughed, covering her mouth quickly.

“Then say it and be done.” Frostwind demanded through clenched teeth.

“Very well.” Graysky rose from his seat.

Holy fuck. Booker thought. He might actually get himself thrown out from the Sect. No, if he goes too far, they might kill him.

“My fellow daoists, we are not too old to change, and we are not too far gone. We have shown open favoritism for the duplicitous. We have shown nothing but contempt for the meek, and hostility towards the honest, demanding then a sort of two-faced subservience, as befits a slave rather than a cultivator. And if we confront ourselves, if we are honest about the game we played to arrive at our positions, then surely we can find the honesty to admit that we are the inheritors, that we were the duplicitous, that we have acted in the favor of duplicity not because it is a virtue or a strength but because we favor those who share our image.”

“ENOUGH!” Stoneblood roared. Martial intent flooded the room, and Booker nearly crumbled to the ground, weakened as he was. One by one the other Instructors lit up the auras, filling the air with such a violent pressure that the guards holding Booker up began to stumble, and Graysky, the focus of their anger, slowly sank into his seat.

“This has gone beyond the matter at hand, and into the realms of absurdity.” Stoneblood pronounced, each word delivered with a carefully restrained anger. “Graysky, you have dragged delicate issues that should be kept among the members of this council out before prying eyes. The boy can be released, as we clearly lack the votes to reach a decision on this subject. Your silence – all of you – will be the price you pay for having overhead this small dispute.” Her eyes raked over the guards, who Booker felt flinch back.

“I apologize – I only knew that I had to speak my thoughts aloud.’ Graysky conceded. Then his eyes turned to Booker. “Good luck.”

Booker couldn’t say it back – not a single one of the Instructors except Eastlight, who was clearly trying not to laugh, was happy how this had gone.

But for what little it was worth, as he was being led away, Booker glanced back and caught Graysky’s eyes.

Good luck to you too. It would be a shame if this was the best and last thing you did.

As the doors closed behind him, Booker was led back to the infirmary, where the crippled nurses took over and guided him into bed. He laid on the clean linen sheets and closed his eyes, his cheek smeared into a hard pillow as sleep crept quickly through his mind.

Sometimes…

Sometimes it was good to forget the politics and conflicts that surrounded him, and sleep well, without any worries for tomorrow.

He reached up and ran the fingers of his left hand along the pendant of jade that hung around his neck, tracing the warped surfaces as tiny runes flickered below the glossed green stone.

Tomorrow was another day.

And the pendant held the shattered fragments of a second book, an incomplete copy of the green book’s brother tome.

In the quiet hours, when the nurses left him alone, Booker took out a small writing brush that he awkwardly held in his left hand, and wrote on a tablet of reeds. Every line, every brushstroke, required absolute focus.

Slowly, under the light of the moon and an oil lamp, he walked the path of creating his first talisman.