“Ren?” Her question was a delicate, quivering butterfly. “Ren! Honey, Ren is here!”

She threw her arms up around his shoulders and squeezed. A bigger pair of arms wrapped around the both of them, then two more sets of arms around their waists as the twins squealed and cried. He stroked their heads, and their soft, fine hair–so like his mother’s and unlike his own which was coarse, curly and wild like father’s.

Ren thought he’d already shed all the tears he had, but he was proven wrong.

Eventually, his father shook his head and guided them all inside, but he couldn’t manage to separate the desperate mother from her son. He gave up and settled the little ones on a bench by a table across from Ren.

The man was still gaunt, and grey had started to invade his dark goatee and speckle his full head of hair, but his skin had more color to it now and Ren could barely detect the tremble that had taken over his limbs. Good, the medicine was working.

The twins were bigger now, coming up past his waist. Mako’s hair was cut short in the style of their father, and Asana had strips of fabric braided into hers like ribbons. It was then that Ren noticed the tiny servants’ uniforms hanging over the back of a bare wooden chair. Were the Osirus really putting them to work?

He shouldn’t be surprised. Somehow he’d imagined that they’d still get to live like children, to play, to be free of cares as he had been at their age. But fate was crueler than that.

The most damning evidence was the one thing he was trying not to notice, the tattoo on each of their necks—a ring of script encircling the Osirus’ bladed raven. Their mark of indenture.

Slavery was strictly illegal in the Republic of Ardus, but Ren had a hard time telling the difference between that and the indenture contracts that were becoming more and more popular to settle debts.

Though he supposed the fact that each of his family members had a roof, a bed, and didn’t look starved was evidence that there was some difference.

“Mom, I’m real, you can let go now.” He wasn’t sure if he really wanted her to let him go, but he had to tell them about Irah.

She pulled back and took a long look at him, noting his clothes, the bruise on his collar bone, and finally tracing a hand across his cheek. “You’ve been hurt, and crying, what happened? Are you okay Ren-ji?”

She always called him that when she was worrying over him. He’d never thought he could miss hearing it this much.

“I’m fine. I found a place to stay, and I work for room and board. Still looking for something that pays… But that’s not what I’m here to talk about.” He realized the package was still in his hands. It had somehow grown heavier.

They must have heard something in his voice, because they all stared attentively–even the twins quit their fidgeting.

“Uncle Irah- He-” Ren’s voice caught in his throat. He glanced at his siblings. “Uncle is no longer with us. He’s sailing the Great River now.”

His father’s jaw clenched, and his mother’s eyes watered. Asana and Mako looked at each other, holding hands, knuckles white.

“I saw him today, right before… He gave me this.” He handed the package and bundle of papers to his mother.

Her sharp eyes darted across the letter before she handed it all back to him. “This is for you, sweetheart. Even if it wasn’t, there isn’t anything we could do with it. Whatever you do, don’t sell it.”

“Did he have a message for us?” his father asked.

Ren thought back. “Well, he was talking about you at the end. Said he owed you, and he was sad not to be able to help or say goodbye.”

“Stupid man,” his mother said, “On his deathbed and he’s worried about ancient business and guilting himself over not saying goodbye? The old fool.”

Ren’s father stood. “If I know one thing about Irah, it’s that he wouldn’t want us crying.”

They danced and laughed and told stories about old Irah, his uncle by life-debt. In spite of what his father had said, there were tears. But it wasn’t long before the little ones’ eyes started to droop and Ren scooped them up and put them in their beds.

He stayed a little longer. Listening to his mother’s passionate accounts of the butterflies she’d noticed that summer in the market, he found it hard to imagine he’d ever been annoyed by her obsession with the critters. Weathering the inevitable interrogation by his parents, he did his best not to lie while still painting a picture of his life that would leave them smiling.

It was time to leave. They all had work to do in the morning, after all.

Everything almost felt normal until reality hit him with the first breath of cool night air.

***

Dear Ren,

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

How many years has it been? They all seem to slip away like sand through my fingers. But those moments we shared sparkle like gems as I look back upon the twisting paths my life has taken.

You may not understand this, but since I never had children of my own it is those moments we shared that bring my mind back to life, even as the River reclaims me. These past years I have often wondered what you are doing now, how tall you are, whether you have followed in my footsteps and become a vagabond with the ladies (or men, there are many places I have visited where such things are not frowned upon).

I think about your parents, who are as siblings to me, and your sister and brother, and even Ryu—if he is still alive. But I never forget the look you have in your eyes when I share my stories. It’s like you’re there with me, sharing the joy and the pain. You have the spirit of an adventurer Ren. I hope the River leads you to far shores and secret places. The Republic is a small land full of small minds and the world is vast and more beautiful than you can yet imagine.

The predicament your family is in is tragic. There is no use denying it. But if I have learned anything these past centuries, it is that all things come and go. And someday you will look back on this time and see how it forged the man you are to become.

Ren wiped a tear from his eye, afraid of ruining the letter.

He’d never known that Irah viewed him as a son. His whole life he’d been an outsider, a foreign kid, and a failure in so many ways—though his parents would never say it. What kind of boy lost every fight? What kind of boy came home bruised and half drowned and made his mother cry?

But Uncle Irah had believed in him.

Though I have lived a very long time, it is only now that my mind finally feels old. It must be something about how cultivation slows the aging of the body. (I sometimes wonder about the connection between the body and the mind)

What is left to me now is to pass down what is most precious to my heart. I have recorded techniques and meditations that shaped my journey all these years.

I cannot be there to guide you through breakthroughs, or martial techniques. As such, all I can offer you is a broken path. You will have to fill in the blanks, should the opportunities arise. Remember that the path of cultivation is about more than power and martial arts. It is a window into the infinite beauty and mysteries that bind this world together.

I hope you will find what I offer to be of value. If you start now, you will be able to create a very strong foundation for your cultivation, should you choose that path.

I know not where the River will lead you. You may choose to stay a mortal, and I wouldn’t blame you. The path of a cultivator is dangerous, and consumes many. I’ve seen countless men and women die in their pursuit of power, and of those who survived, many were twisted beyond recognition.

I am not your parent, but all the same, I love you. I hope you will cling to your humanity no matter what.

The first technique is something you can use even without control of your dantian. I call it “Wind Tickles the Leaves”. It is a technique that doesn’t require direct manipulation of Qi. A special kind of cultivation I call Soul cultivation. It is something that will grow with you if you keep it up.

The remainder of the techniques will require a specific level of cultivation and will only be readable once you have achieved the requisite advancement. I advise that you try to find a master to help you with those, if possible. It saddens me that I will not be the one to guide you.

I cannot teach you how to hear the voice of the wind. But I can teach you how to speak to it. You will find a Ney—a type of flute from the west—that I discovered on my travels, and a song I adapted from a ceremony held by the people of that land whose name I can hardly pronounce, let alone spell. The name of the song is Sapling Song of the Autumn Breeze. I designed the song to go together with the technique. I will leave the rest for you to discover.

I had dreamed that someday you would travel with me and we would see the far corners of this great world together. I hope you will follow your own call to adventure and remember me fondly.

Know that I will be watching from wherever the River takes my soul. You are never alone.

Your Loving Uncle,

Irah Windsong

Even in death, Uncle Irah’s sense of humor could not be suppressed. The stack of paper underneath the letter had a title page that read Broken Path in ornate script.

Ren chuckled, running his hands over the letters before turning to the next page. The notes on the Wind Tickles the Leaves technique were detailed and seemed to predict his questions even as they arose.

He spent the next few days breathing and visualizing between chores at the inn. It was fun at first. His whole life he’d longed to have access to a manual or secret technique of any kind. Just like in the stories.

But the price he’d paid for this manual left the whole thing bittersweet. Not to mention, after the first couple hours of sitting and visualizing fields and threads of energy, he was dreadfully bored. He’d often catch himself fantasizing about Sitara’s long legs—another avenue of thought that wasn’t without its own pain—or taking mental journeys across the seas.

He tried to use the drifting cloud meditation that Uncle Irah had taught him. Each thought was a cloud in the wind, simply passing by. It helped a little, but after the third day he was ready to put his head through a wall.

That was when he noticed the note scribbled in the corner of the page.

“Try doing an activity while practicing once you’ve got the visualization down. Let your breathing flow naturally.”

So he went downstairs and started washing dishes.

Gradually all the other notes his uncle had filled the margins with—which at first had seemed utter nonsense—made a bit more sense.

********

Norn heard the splash of water in the kitchen and rushed back as soon as she’d taken table seven’s order. That damn boy was making a mess of things again.

She charged through the swinging door, mouth open, ready to lay into him, and froze.

What was she seeing? He wasn’t banging the dishes. There wasn’t a single broken bowl at his feet. His movements were slow and smooth, but somehow he wasn’t going too slow. She couldn’t find a single thing to critici- correct. That’s right. She just wanted him to learn to do a good job, and she was so good at teaching that this was the result.

Her shoulders relaxed and she returned to the tavern hall to check on table eight, dodging past Garam and his shit-eating, told-you-so grin.

Their drinks were getting low and she had work to do. Finally, she could stop worrying about the urchin and focus on her job. He didn’t need her babysitting anymore.

For some reason, the corners of her lips turned down at that thought.