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Summer nights in the Ghost City are warm, restless things. The heat of the day wraps up each house in the city during the day, driving the residents into dormancy; it is only at night when the sun sets that the city unfolds itself once more to buzz with activity.
Even Hua Cheng is not unaffected by the energy that fills the city on these summer nights. Some nights he sets out from the city to pursue his own goals, and others he settles himself into his palace to wait out the sweltering heat. Tonight is not one of those nights.
There is a buzz beneath Hua Cheng’s skin that does not settle with the sun. With only a light red jacket on, he disguises himself as a young man and pulls his hair back into a loose tie.
The first place he stops in is the gambling hall.
The building, warm on the best of nights, is sweltering now, the air still and full of smoke and the heady scent of alcohol. It is one of the best places in the city to find entertainment when Hua Cheng is so inclined. The ever-unpredictable tides of luck nearly always make things interesting, even when Hua Cheng doesn’t take on a bet himself. It seems that tonight is one of those rare lazy nights, though. All of the ghosts in the hall are lounging indulgently, speaking in soft slow voices and sipping at their drinks as music filters desultorily through the throng. There is no blood sport to be found here tonight, only a relaxing evening.
On some other day that might be just what Hua Cheng wants, but now the atmosphere sticks to his skin like burrs.
He considers staying, offering up some reward for a challenge to make things interesting, but the idea holds little appeal. He slips back out just as quickly as he’d come.
Out on the streets, the heat of the day lingers and mixes with the smells of the city, but the presence of a breeze makes even the hot air feel livelier as it gently ruffles Hua Cheng’s loose hair and slips down the collar of his shirt.
The guise of a young man doesn’t make him invisible among the crowds, only less remarkable. The female ghosts occasionally call out to him and coo over his pretty face, and the vendors shout out their wares to him.
“Young Master, come join us for a while!”
“You there, Young Master, wouldn’t you like to buy a trinket?”
“Isn’t it a bit late for the Young Master to be out? Here, here, let me escort you back.”
Hua Cheng ignores each of them in turn. By now he is used to the kind of attention that comes with each of his disguises. He does not expect the deference that comes with being the terrifying Blood Rain; so long as he is treated with a degree of respect, he is content to let them shout what they wish.
He wanders from street to street as the lanterns are lit and the markets fill. It has the air of a festival, even without cause to celebrate. Hua Cheng is put in mind of the summer festivals in Xian Le of his childhood. They were not bad times, he supposes. He might snatch a bite or two of food from distracted vendors, and in the crowds, it was easy enough to lose his pursuers if someone did happen to notice his theft.
He wanders the stalls, but the wares on display don’t catch his attention, for all the shine. There are masks, jewelry, cloth, sandals, urns, and food of all sorts, from the grotesque to the mundane.
Even surrounded by the crowd, the itch under Hua Cheng’s skin doesn’t disappear. The air is still too hot, the streets too crowded. Hua Cheng turns towards the entrance to the city, brushing past the flow of ghosts with little care.
Near the gates, a little stall catches his attention enough to slow his pace. It’s only for a step or two, but the vendor, a spindly sort of ghost, is clearly an experienced sort of salesman. “Zongzi, Young Master! Would you like one?”
Despite himself, Hua Cheng stops to eye the leaf-wrapped bundles. It’s the sort of food more suited to a human festival than a ghost market. “What meat?”
“Only pork,” the ghost assures him, looking him over. Perhaps he takes Hua Cheng’s gentle features for a noble, delicate sort of spirit. Hua Cheng doesn’t bother to correct him.
“I’ll take two.”
“Of course, of course,” the vendor says, smiling with sharp teeth to have made a sale. Hua Cheng trades coin for two zongzi still tied closed. “Enjoy the summer, Young Master.”
Outside of the city, the road is nearly as busy as the inside. The road is thick with travelers coming in and out. Hua Cheng does not linger among them for long. As the road branches, he takes the less-traveled path, then again and again, until the sounds of the city fade behind him and he is walking alone.
The air is cooler out here, and the breeze stronger. The air plucks at Hua Cheng’s shirt and hair now, cooling his skin and the food he carries. It is not yet the height of summer, despite the heat; the plants along the road still show fresh growth and the flowers have not quite given way to a profusion of leaves. The breeze delivers a hint of the sweet perfume of wildflowers.
Hua Cheng picks away at the wrapping of the first zongzi as he leaves the path entirely, following the faint scent of flowers, following his whims and the itch underneath his skin.
He has always loved flowers, even before the Prince Crowned in Flowers ascended to the heavens. There was little beauty in the world for a child who was little better than a street urchin, especially not one so cursed as him, but even the wild weeds that flowered along the side of the road could be gentle and sweet, and they were there for anyone who might think to stop and appreciate them.
They never filled his belly or gave him a soft place to lay his head, but they left a soft spot open even as the rest of his heart hardened. Maybe it was inevitable that he came to revere the Crown Prince of Xian Le, a man with the delicate grace and fragrance of a flower, and the tenacity of those beautiful roadside weeds.
Hua Cheng finishes the first zongzi but tucks the second away into his sleeve. The undergrowth opens up before him, as he finds a tree and the bushes growing in its shade.
The flowers are familiar delicate things, many-petaled white blossoms that have not yet folded themselves shut with the onset of night. Hua Cheng has laid their like at the foot of more statues than he can count, over the years, when such statues were commonplace.
He plucks one and brings it to his face to take a breath of the clean scent. Then he reaches into his sleeve and pulls out the zongzi. It’s cooled by now.
Hua Cheng glances around him. The tree isn’t any sort of temple, but it’s the kind of place a weary traveler might stop to rest their head and relax while the sun is high. It will have to do.
He sets down the flower and the zongzi and bows his head over them. He has no incense, but he can pluck a single coin from his sleeve and place it beneath the steamed bun. Coin, flower, and food are all placed at the foot of the trunk for Hua Cheng to bow his head over, hands pressed together.
“It’s not much,” he says, “but may Your Highness please accept this humble meal.” In the gentle hush of the nighttime air, it’s easy to feel that his words are being carried away from him. Not up to the heavens, but whisked away to the forgotten corners of the earth where they might be needed.
It does more than anything else that night to settle the restless feeling in his heart. Tired now, Hua Cheng leans against the trunk of the tree and closes his eye, letting the cool breeze soothe him as the stars circle overhead.
Summer truly has come; the days are hot even before the sun reaches its height. It makes for pleasant nights, but uncomfortable days, especially those days when he’s traveling.
Today isn’t the hottest day Xie Lian has ever experienced, but it’s warm enough to be uncomfortable, and he’s only been walking for a few hours. He has no hat or umbrella to protect him from the light--at first, he uses his thin outer robe to cover his head and hair, but walking with his arms raised is tiring, especially as the day heats further.
He keeps walking until he sees a tree looming over the side of the road. His feet are dusty and the sun is high, and the shade of the tree is so inviting.
A little break can’t hurt, just until the sun has passed the height of its arc.
Xie Lian steps into the shade with a sigh. The difference is immediately apparent, as the warm press of the sun lifts away from his shoulders. The air barely stirs, but Xie Lian feels cooler already.
He goes to sit at the base of the tree, only to jerk away with a startled sound when his hand lands on something that squishes gently under his touch. Xie Lian lifts his hand, but rather than the mold or fungus he might have expected to see, there’s a little wrapped leaf. He might have mistaken it for an errant leaf, if not for the twisted tie holding the wrapping closed, for his hand had crushed the zongzi all out of shape.
Curious, Xie Lian picks the zongzi up, then glances around, as though something in the vicinity might tell him how a zongzi had been dropped on the side of the road.
There’s no one around. The nearest town is hours of walking away. Xie Lian looks at the ground where the zongzi sat, but there is only the withered remains of a flower from the nearby bushand a single coin.
Xie Lian picks up the coin and examines it. A lunch dropped by a fellow traveler, perhaps.
Cautiously he unwraps the food, but the rice and meat inside are surprisingly fresh-- not even a day old, by his guess. Xie Lian has eaten much worse.
An unexpected touch of luck, Xie Lian thinks with a hint of a smile. “Thank you for the meal,” he says into the tree, as he breaks off his first bite and waits for the heat of the day to pass.