What had happened on Jade Balance Peak, Jiang Chen could tell no one.
Matters of tormenting choice lie in the heart, and the closer one is to a person, the harder it grows to speak of them.
Having written down that question, Jiang Chen felt much easier. Not that his inner conflict was resolved, but some things, once confided, seemed to shed a measure of their weight.
Jiang Chen set down the brush, and the envelope folded shut on its own, becoming once more a little cloud crane that circled the courtyard three times before piercing the sky and flying off.
For such a secret art, Jiang Chen truly did feel a flicker of envy. Had he mastered it too, he could keep in touch with Du Hu at any time — he wondered how that tiger was faring in the Nine River Black Armor. Letters were inconvenient in the army, and since he had left, there had been no word of him at all.
...
"Hold the sword steady, and plant your steps true."
In the courtyard, Jiang Chen was teaching Tang Dun and Jiang An'an to practice the sword.
A big figure and a little figure, holding a big sword and a little sword, stood properly and at attention.
Of course, to spare herself any injury, Jiang An'an's was a wooden sword.
"A sword can cut on the bias, but it is precisely then that your posture must be true. First learn the upright, hallowed sword; only then can you master every form."
What Jiang Chen spoke was all hard-won experience of his own. In swordsmanship at least, he fully possessed the skill of the extraordinary. To coach mortal swordwork was like peering down from a high vantage.
"The sword has two edges: it can wound another, and it can wound yourself. So first conquer the self, then conquer the foe. The first 'conquer' is to rein in and gather; the second 'conquer' is to break and strike through."
Even as he taught, Jiang Chen was also summing up himself — honing his sword heart, rounding out his Dao heart.
There is a saying that the writing betrays the writer. It is not that one can read a person's beauty or ugliness, good or evil, from his hand, but rather that from the way a script is written, one can see whether that person holds stillness, whether he has sunk his heart down, and what framework he keeps.
The same holds true for swordsmanship.
Little An'an had no mean talent; a set of basic sword forms she now wielded with no little flair.
On the other hand, Tang Dun gave Jiang Chen a pleasant surprise. The fellow's fundamentals were solid, only that no one had taught him in his early years, and he had gone somewhat astray, with poor habits in his forms. After Jiang Chen corrected them a little, he showed himself not inconsiderable at once.
After half an hour, Jiang Chen declared a rest.
An'an was still young; one must not force growth. Yet the stubborn little lass refused to stop, and so long as Tang Dun did not stop, neither would she. So Jiang Chen could only arrange for the two of them on equal footing — though, of course, once Tang Dun got home, he would certainly add extra training on his own.
In the chill of winter, Fine sweat beads stood on An'an's brow.
Jiang Chen had already boiled hot water and laid out the bath bucket. He fetched out a change of clothes and let An'an take them and bathe in her room by herself.
Tang Dun, meanwhile, ducked straight into the kitchen.
Such a quantity of training meant little to him; it was the extra drills Jiang Chen set him privately that were the real hardship.
As a bachelor well into years, cooking was an indispensable skill. His skill in it was, admittedly, no great thing — a shade above a common fly-speck eatery, except that his soup was brewed quite well.
He had been in Maple City some time now, and he had taken charge of meals for the Jiang siblings; on the days they did not dine out, it was he who cooked.
Jiang Chen idled a while, then went into the kitchen and surveyed it this way and that with an inspector's eye.
Then he said to Tang Dun, who was slicing meat: "Today I'll show my hand — give An'an a little surprise."
"Master Jiang..." Tang Dun's face showed his difficulty.
The last time Jiang Chen gave a "surprise," he had actually made Jiang An'an cry with the eating of it. Honest man that he was, Tang Dun dared not offend the master, yet could not bear to wrong An'an. For the moment he was caught between two hard places.
"What's the matter?" Jiang Chen said, quite dissatisfied. "Just look at you — your knife work doesn't even pass muster."
He had a look around, lifted up the two-jin osmanthus fish Tang Dun had bought, took up a porcelain plate, then grabbed another kitchen knife and swept it through the air in a few quick strokes.
Blade-light flashed. Slivers of fish fell in a floating sheet. From head to tail, every slice was near-equal in thickness, almost without a single deviation. The knife work was truly fine.
Jiang Chen sheathed the knife and cast Tang Dun a fairly self-satisfied glance.
Tang Dun, being honest after all, said: "This osmanthus fish, I'd meant to make it steamed whole..."
"Cough." Jiang Chen said: "Once sliced, the flavor takes more easily."
Tang Dun looked at the platter, and said, troubled: "You also burst the fish's gall. When the gall bursts, the fish can't be eaten — it will be very bitter."
"Why didn't you say so earlier?" Jiang Chen grew a little annoyed.
Tang Dun was left speechless, mouthing nothing.
"I'll go see whether An'an has finished her bath."
There was little joy in bullying an honest man. Jiang Chen patted his bottom and went off.
...
At supper, Jiang An'an, dressed neat and tidy, sat by the table.
Both Jiang Chen and Tang Dun had sat down, yet An'an kept turning her head to look at the kitchen.
"What are you looking at?" Jiang Chen tapped the rim of the bowl with his chopsticks.
"Is there another fish?" Jiang An'an asked.
Where food was concerned, she held an extraordinary stubbornness.
Tang Dun was about to speak when Jiang Chen preempted him: "The fish ran away."
Jiang An'an was greatly astonished: "How did the fish run away?"
"Go and ask the fish."
"But didn't the fish already run away?"
"That's right, the fish ran away." Jiang Chen reached over and turned An'an's face back. "Eat."
Jiang An'an gaped for a long while, her mind in a tangle.
...
After supper, Tang Dun cleared the dishes, and Jiang Chen pulled An'an into the study for homework.
Because the daylight hours were given to martial practice, the evening had to make up for bookwork.
Cultivation is a long road, and a cultivator spends more time struggling against himself, fighting the loneliness of that long road. Without a strong enough heart, one cannot support a long journey. And broad knowledge can fill out the heart.
Little An'an actually studied quite well; since she no longer had to sit mock examinations for pay, she ranked among the top in every test.
Ye Qingyu's reply arrived just then.
An'an widened her eyes, watching the little cloud crane circle a few times outside the window and land on Jiang Chen's hand.
"What a pretty little bird!"
"This kind of bird is called a cloud crane." Jiang Chen explained even as he unfolded the letter the crane had become —
In answer to Daoist friend Jiang's question:
Since you know it to be a wrong thing, what rightness can there be in it?
The signature was once more Cloud-drift Green Rain.
Jiang Chen felt suddenly as if a light had been shed on his heart.
It is as they say: the one within the game is lost, the onlooker sees all. Sometimes a very simple matter entangles the one caught in it, and he cannot free himself. Let another touch a single line, and it is as if he has been bathed in enlightenment.
His inner contradiction dissolved to nothing.
His tone lightened a measure, and he took the chance to teach An'an: "You see this little cloud crane turn into a letter; once your brother writes his reply, it will turn back into a little cloud crane and fly away. Such is the wonder of the Dao arts. You must press on in your cultivation."
That little cloud crane was truly lovable, and it pierced An'an's heart. She nodded earnestly.
Jiang Chen took up the cloud brush and replied:
These are words of true counsel! They shed light on my heart; you may be counted a teacher on a single line.
Jiang Chen was about to set down the brush when An'an spoke up beside him: "Brother, who are you writing to?"
"An elder sister."
"Write a line for me too — ask after her health."
Jiang Chen glanced at her, knowing well that she had taken a fancy to the other's cloud crane.
But how could the secret arts of the Lingxiao Pavilion be lightly passed on?
Jiang Chen did not expose her, and went on writing:
Also, my little sister, having seen the letter, asks me to send her regards, and her wishes for your wellbeing.
An'an nudged Jiang Chen again: "She has a signature."
Jiang Chen thought a moment, then added his signature at the foot: Little Jiang Beneath the Maple.
The cloud letter folded shut, and turned again into a little crane.
Jiang An'an seized it and played with it fondly for a good while, and only with a careless slip of hand let it go. The little cloud crane flew out the window, its lovely figure vanishing into the night sky.
That night, it would surely wander, too, into An'an's dreams.