劍問蒼天 - 第225章 傷口 - 翰墨軒

Canglan Mountain, Dazhu Peak.

Deep in the night, all was still. Only the sound of bamboo waves came drifting on the wind from afar, echoing softly through the dark sky. The lamps had long since gone out, and the disciples of Dazhu Peak were all at rest. Only behind the Hall of Quiet Cultivation did a single lamp still burn, flickering alone in the darkness.

The night wind blew gently, carrying a touch of chill through the half-open window with a faint moan, and set the flame of the lamp on the table in the middle of the room swaying, so that it flared and dimmed by turns.

A pale hand reached over and shielded the flame. The light steadied at once and began to shine clear again. Su Wan sat lazily by the table. The night was deep, yet she had no desire for sleep.

Outside, the wind kept blowing, tapping softly against door and window from time to time. Su Wan rose and walked slowly to the window, but she did not close it at once; instead she gazed out.

The vault of heaven was black as ink. It was the darkest hour.

She listened intently, but in that deep-night wind there was no sound she wished to hear.

A faint, bitter smile crossed Su Wan's face. She quietly closed the window and turned back to the table. Neither she nor Tian Buhui cared for luxury, and there were few things in this bedroom. On the table now there was nothing but a cloth bundle and a small round mirror.

She took up the mirror, and after a moment a woman of dignified beauty appeared in it—hair like clouds, skin like a maiden's, without a single line. She and Tian Buhui had cultivated as a couple for several hundred years to attain such a level, and so her face never aged.

She looked for a long while, then sighed softly, set the little mirror aside, and drew over the cloth bundle at the other end of the table. She opened it.

Inside were only the commonest things: needles and thread, a piece of cloth, scissors, a powder puff—the sort of things any ordinary housewife in the mortal world would keep, to make clothes for her husband and children. Su Wan took up the cloth, threaded her needle, and by the light of the lamp began to sew with great care.

But as she sewed, beneath the glow of the candle her gaze grew distant, as though her mind were elsewhere, wandering among thoughts she could not name, and her stitches slowed. Just then the wind outside seemed suddenly to rise; with a wail it swept past and struck the window she had just shut, flinging it open again.

A blast of cold air rushed in, and almost in the same instant the little candle flame on the table was blown out.

"Ah!"

With a soft cry, Su Wan frowned in the darkness. A sharp sting came at her fingertip. That a cultivator of her attainment should be pricked by a tiny sewing needle—even she found it a little ridiculous. Yet somehow, in that pitch-dark room, with the bleak night wind blowing over her, her heart grew heavy and sorrowful, as though a great stone were lodged in her chest.

She sighed, laid down the cloth and needle, and went to the window. The view beyond was as it had always been—only the husband who had once stood beside her to watch it, countless times, had been gone a long while now.

When day broke, perhaps she should send Daren and the others down the mountain to search again. Waiting like this was no solution.

As the thought passed through Su Wan's mind, Tian Buhui's face flitted before her eyes, and worry clenched at her heart.

The night was at its deepest.

She gazed at the night sky for a long time, lips trembling faintly as though she were murmuring something. At last she lowered her head in silence, gave a long, quiet sigh, and closed the window.

Outside, the wind seemed to blow sharper still.

Mount Huqi, the Palace of the Nether King.

At this same deep hour, there were others who could not sleep—though perhaps their hearts were of another temper altogether.