Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

I decided to walk into the Crossed’s camp with no sword, no shield, and no plan, which by now you’ll recognize as roughly my entire method for everything.

Everyone told me not to.

That’s fair; it was a stupid idea.

Bai Qing pointed out, correctly, that a hundred people with blades who believe your gentleness is getting their families killed are not a crowd you want to be unarmed in the middle of.

Xue Ningzhi pointed out, more coldly, that if the strongest being alive walks into an armed camp and one nervous boy puts a knife in him, the belief-stream does interesting things, and none of them are good.

Yun Shu didn’t tell me not to go.

My partner has never wasted her breath telling me not to do the thing I’ve already decided to do.

She just said, ”Take Tao Tao. He won’t lift a hand while she’s standing there. And you’re not going to be able to say the thing that needs saying. She might.”

So it was the two of us who walked up the road to the Crossed, unarmed, in the open, in the middle of the afternoon so nobody could pretend it was an ambush.

The most powerful being that has ever lived and a girl who founds gentle movements, walking into a camp of people who’d decided we were the reason their children were dying, carrying nothing.

I want to tell you what the camp was like, because it matters, and because the easy version of this story — the one where the sword-people are villains — is a lie, and I’ve promised you I won’t tell you those.

They were not monsters.

That’s the whole thing.

They were the most ordinary people in the world.

There was a woman mending a coat.

There were two men arguing about firewood.

There was somebody’s grandmother stirring a pot, and the smell of it was the smell of every camp I’ve ever been in, ours included.

These were not cruel people who had chosen cruelty.

These were grieving people who had gotten tired of losing, and had picked up the only thing anybody had ever offered them that made the losing stop, and I understood, walking through them, that if my own town had burned and my own people had died forty feet from a strong man who wouldn’t move, I might be mending a coat in this exact camp.

That’s the part nobody tells you about the people on the other side of the line.

They are not the other kind of person.

They’re you, standing where the ground broke differently.

— • —

Ma Jun came out to meet us.

Fifteen.

I have to keep saying it because I kept forgetting it, looking at him.

He carried himself like a man of fifty who has buried everyone he loves, which, near enough, he had.

There was a terrible steadiness in him — not rage, I could have talked to rage.

Grief that has gone all the way cold and turned into purpose, which is the hardest thing in the world to reach, because it doesn’t want to be comforted.

It’s already made its peace.

That’s what’s so frightening about it.

He was gentle with us.

That was the worst part, exactly as it had been the worst part when he was gentle with Tao Tao in Chapter — well.

When he broke her heart the first time.

”Sister Tao,” he said, and bowed to her, properly, the way she’d taught him.

”Teacher.”

That one was to me, and it went into me like a blade, because I was his teacher, or one of them, and he’d learned the doorkeeper’s art from us and then unlearned it, and here he was calling me teacher with a sword on his hip that we’d sworn the art would never carry again.

”You shouldn’t have come. But I’m glad you’re safe. Will you eat?”

And we sat down in the camp of the people who thought we were killing their children, and they fed us, because they were decent people, and that is the true horror of this entire war and I need you to sit in it with me the way I had to.

I didn’t try to win.

I want that on the record, because it was the single hardest thing I did that whole terrible day, harder than the gate at Cairnhold.

Every part of me wanted to argue him back to us — I had speeches, I always have speeches — and I understood, sitting there, that a speech was exactly the wrong weapon, that this boy had heard every beautiful thing anyone could say about mercy while he watched a man die on a bridge, and that one more beautiful thing from the strongest being alive would only prove the woman’s point: it’s easy to be gentle when nothing can touch you.

So I didn’t tell him he was wrong.

Because — and this is the thing I could not get around, the thing I still can’t — he wasn’t, entirely.

The blade works.

The towns he guarded didn’t burn.

He said so, plainly, without heat: ”You hold doors and the columns come round the back and kill everyone anyway. I put steel in the column and it doesn’t come. That’s not philosophy, Teacher. That’s just what happened. Which of us has more living people behind him this month?”

And I had no answer, because his count was probably higher than mine, that month, and we both knew it.

So I said the only true thing I had.

I said: ”I didn’t come to tell you you’re wrong. I came to keep the door open.”

I looked at him, at the cold-grief steadiness of him, at the sword.

”You were mine. You still are. Whatever you think you’ve become, there’s a fire, and there’s a bowl at it with your name on it, and there always will be, and I’ll fight anybody who says otherwise, including you.”

That’s all.

”I’m not here to win. I’m here so you know the way back exists, for the day you want it. And I’ll walk out now, and I won’t come with an army, and I won’t come with the First Author to unwrite you, because you get to choose this, in the light, freely, forever. That’s the whole thing we are. Even when it costs us you.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Something moved behind the cold, once, and went still again.

”That’s a beautiful thing to say,” he said, finally, and not unkindly.

”My teacher on the bridge said beautiful things too.”

He stood.

”We ride tonight. There’s a Forgetter cell moving on the river towns — a big one, with the poison-doctrine, going door to door. We had it from a good source. We’re going to stop them before they reach the children.”

He looked down at me, fifteen and certain and lost.

”You could hold a door for those children. I’m going to make sure they never need one. I think that’s better. I think, someday, you’ll think so too.”

And they rode out that night, and Tao Tao and I sat in that camp not knowing that Ma Jun’s good source was Grand Archivist Lu, and that we had just watched a boy ride off to do the one thing that would break everything.

— • —

Because there was no Forgetter cell.

I’ll tell it plainly.

The intelligence was Lu’s, fed to the Crossed through three careful hands so it would look clean.

And what was actually moving on the river road that night was a column of refugees — three hundred people who had fled the burned country to the north, and who, somewhere on that long grieving road, had met the Forgetters and been offered the mercy, and had said yes.

They had chosen to set it down.

To forget the burned towns and the dead children and the unbearable weight, and walk on light.

Some of them carried the door-shower’s mark now; some of them were spreading it, offering the same forgetting to the river towns ahead, which is the enemy’s work, which is real, which is the thing the movement exists to stand against.

And that is exactly why it was the perfect target.

Because they were both things at once.

They were spreading oblivion — the enemy’s gospel, moving toward children — and they were three hundred grieving refugees who had lost everything and taken the only relief anyone gave them.

A sword cannot hold both of those at the same time.

A sword has to pick.

Enemy, or not enemy.

And in the dark, riding hard, believing they were racing to save a town full of children from a poison-cell, the Crossed picked enemy.

I’m not going to describe it.

I told you I wouldn’t decorate these and I especially won’t decorate this.

They stopped the column on the river road.

And when it was over, three hundred grieving people who had chosen to forget their dead were dead themselves, and the Crossed stood in the dark among them realizing, one by one, slower and slower, what the column had actually been.

Ma Jun found the boy after.

There was a child — nine, maybe ten — who’d hidden in the reeds when it started, the way children do, the way he had once hidden in reeds while soldiers took his whole world apart.

And when it was over the boy came out, because the quiet drew him the way quiet always draws the ones left behind, and he walked out into the middle of it and found his mother, who had chosen to forget her first child so she could keep walking, and who was now gone past any forgetting or remembering at all.

And the boy looked up.

And he looked at Ma Jun — at the sword, at the blood on it, at the fifteen-year-old commander of the men who had just made him an orphan — and Ma Jun told me later, much later, at a fire, in a voice I will never forget, that he knew that look.

He knew it from the inside.

It was the exact look he had given the Empire soldier who stood over his own burned town four years ago.

The look that says you are the thing that ends worlds.

You are the thing I will spend my whole life becoming strong enough to stop.

He had set out to kill the people who make orphans.

And a child was looking at him the way you look at the people who make orphans.

Because he was one now.

That was the arithmetic that broke Ma Jun in the reeds of the river road, the same arithmetic that had broken Lu once and hardened him instead: that the road where you take up the sword against the thing that hurt you runs, if you follow it far enough, directly back to becoming the thing that hurt you.

Lu had walked that road to its end and made his cold peace there.

And Ma Jun, fifteen, standing in the blood of three hundred grieving people with a child’s eyes on him, saw the whole length of the road at once, all the way to Lu at the end of it, and understood he was already a long way down it.

— • —

Xue Ningzhi confirmed the rest, because of course it was her who put it together, tracing the false intelligence back through its three clean hands to the one dirty one.

”He fed it to them,” she said, and even she was pale, my chessmaster, who is pale about nothing.

”Lu. He chose that column on purpose. He knew exactly what it was — grieving refugees who’d taken the mercy, spreading it toward children, the one target that is genuinely both the enemy and a crowd of victims. He picked the murkiest, most unbearable target on the map and he handed it to a fifteen-year-old boy dressed up as a clean kill.”

She sat down slowly.

”He didn’t want them to lose, Lin Bo. Losing would have been survivable. He wanted them to win — to win a battle that turned out, in the morning light, to be a massacre of the grieving. Because there is no faster way in the world to turn a disagreement into a hatred than to make one side commit an atrocity the other side can never forgive.”

DING, said the Scroll, and it came slow and cold, and it did not have an engagement line at the bottom, and that told me more than the words did.

I have counted the dead on the river road, talent.

Three hundred and eleven. I have their names, because I always have the names; it’s the one thing I have never been able to stop doing.

They chose to forget. That was their right; we swore it was their right; we have fought this entire war for the right of grieving people to choose in the light. And they are dead for the enemy’s gospel and dead as three hundred grieving mothers and fathers, and both of those are true, and I do not know how to write a world where both of those are true.

He did not do this to kill them, talent. He did this to make your two halves unable to look at each other ever again.

And I fear he has done it.

I sat in the dark with the number 311 and a boy with a child’s eyes on him and a hundred grieving swords that had just been turned, by a very patient old man, into the one weapon that could finish us — not the enemy’s, but ours, turned in his hand and pointed at our own heart.

The doorkeepers were going to hear about the river road by morning.

And when they did, they were going to look at the Crossed and see, at last, exactly what Lu had spent a month building for them to see: not people who disagreed.

Monsters.

And a world split into two halves that hate each other is a world that will never, ever remember as one, not if it lives ten thousand years — which meant that up at the top of the sky, in the dark, over a door that had been shut for a thousand years, a single ember that had flickered once was about to be asked to survive the coldest wind yet.