Waves

The garden gate creaked on its ancient hinges as Yunhua pushed it open, the scent of thawing stone and damp moss greeting her like an old warning. Dawn had barely spread pale light across the courtyard; frost still glinted along the worn flagstones. She drew in a steady breath, settling the scroll she carried at her hip and smoothing the creases of her patched coat. It was early—even for her own habit of punctuality—but this morning's appointment with Lady Sairen felt less like courtesy and more like inevitability.

As Yunhua stepped between the stone pillars, she spotted Sairen already waiting: tall, perfect, draped in dove-gray silks that caught the faint light and shimmered with ghost-white threads. The lady's hair was pinned high, loops of plum-colored coils held in place by jade combs that whispered a muted promise whenever she moved. Sairen turned at the gate's creak, her expression as unreadable as carved porcelain. Yunhua bowed her head in greeting.

"Good morning," Yunhua said, voice low, eyes cast downward.

"Good morning," Sairen replied, voice smooth as oiled paper, yet carrying enough weight to make Yunhua's pulse tap once in her throat. "I trust you did not wait long?"

"Not long," Yunhua answered.

"Then let us walk." Without another word, Sairen slipped past Yunhua through the garden and onto the narrow path that curved around the eastern wall. Yunhua followed, careful to keep a measured distance—close enough to be heard, far enough to preserve her own calm.

They moved beneath the skeletal branches of early ash and cherry, where buds had yet to bloom. Frost lingered on every leaf, melting in tiny rivulets that shimmered in the pale morning. The air was silent except for the soft snap of twigs beneath their shoes.

After a stretch, Sairen paused beside a low hedge of winter jasmine. She tilted her head, eyes tracking Yunhua's gaze. "You chose this path for its solitude," she observed, "but also for something else."

Yunhua nodded once. "Fewer ears."

"A wise choice," Sairen said. She turned then, stepping closer so that the fragrant blooms brushed Yunhua's sleeve. "And yet, I suspect you did not come here merely to avoid hearing gossip."

Yunhua pressed her lips together, unwilling to admit that even here, beneath frost-touched flowers, her thoughts were crowded by rumors—of western delegates bristling at Sairen's attention to her, of instructors whispering that Yunhua had become a pawn in a dangerous game. She was tired of hiding. Yet she was not ready to reveal her own intentions.

Sairen's gaze softened imperceptibly. "Today, I do not wish to speak of politics." She gestured to a stone bench carved with curling vines. "Sit with me."

With a single step, Sairen slipped onto the bench. Yunhua hesitated only a moment before perching at its far end, keeping her back straight, her hands folded in her lap.

"You carry a scroll," Sairen noted, eyes drifting to the rolled parchment tucked at Yunhua's hip. "What have you brought?"

Yunhua's fingers drifted to the ribbon binding her scroll. It contained notes she had meant to share with Master Irel: amendments to tincture ratios, observations of frostroot potency. She slipped it free, resting it across her knees. "Herbal records," she said. "Nothing you need concern yourself with."

Sairen inclined her head. "Perhaps." She paused, studying the faint bluish script along the scroll's edge. "Or perhaps you wish to show me... something else."

Yunhua drew in a breath, the morning air crisp in her lungs. "It is a matter of accuracy," she said, meeting Sairen's eyes. "Mistakes could cost lives."

The directness startled Sairen into a slight smile. "You are always precise." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. "And always cautious."

Yunhua shifted, uncomfortable under Sairen's steady appraisal. "Caution serves me better than haste."

"And yet I have been told you're reckless," Sairen murmured.

Yunhua's brow furrowed. "In what way?"

Sairen's gaze drifted to the distant granite ramparts. "In your willingness to speak frankly to me. To stand beside me in public. That is not cautious."

Yunhua met her gaze. "Better I speak truth than word-weave empty flattery."

Sairen considered her, as though tasting the edges of an unfamiliar spice. Then she leaned back, the bench creaking under her weight. "You have a fire inside you, Yunhua. Not anger. Not fear. A fire that burns clear."

Yunhua swallowed. No one had ever described her that way. Not her instructors, nor her fellow apprentices.

"Tell me," Sairen said softly, voice dropping, "what you would do if this place were yours to shape."

The question hung, weighty as winter stones. Yunhua closed her eyes, breathing steady. She pictured empire maps, herbalist registers, windows open to mountain winds. She pictured the Northern Passes—crags of ice and black pine—her mother's lullaby echoing there. And then she pictured this garden, frost-tipped and silent, where she had nearly let herself forget who she was.

"If it were mine," she began, voice quiet, "I would bring the old ways back. Teach the scholars to speak them again. Heal the outlying villages with knowledge instead of empty promises. Let bloodlines mingle without fear. Let people know that heritage is not shame."

Sairen nodded slowly. "And you would need allies."

Yunhua opened her eyes. "I would choose them carefully."

Sairen smiled—an expression without warmth, yet not without understanding. "That," she said, "sounds a lot like politics."

Yunhua dared a half-smile. "Perhaps."

Sairen drew in a breath, as though steeling herself. "Politics and healing are two halves of the same art. One tends to bodies, the other to societies. Both require precision. Both can kill if handled poorly."

Yunhua watched Sairen's face in the pale light, seeing the flicker of something like regret behind those calm eyes. "You speak from experience."

Sairen's gaze drifted to the frost-touched jasmine. "I do." She stood quietly, as though deciding tonight was not the moment for further confession. "We should return. The garden will freeze completely if left."

Yunhua rose as well, smoothing her sleeves. "Thank you—for listening."

Sairen offered a small bow. "Thank you—for speaking."

Together they retraced their steps, the silence between them now less an absence and more a shared beat.

---

That afternoon, Yunhua lingered in the infirmary longer than usual. She organized pressed lavender and brittle rose petals by color, by potency, by ease of application. Each envelope she tied felt heavier than the last. She worked in silence, head down, letting the routine cloak her swirling thoughts.

"Yunhua?" Master Irel's voice called softly from across the mortar and pestle. "Have you forgotten the tincture for marrowlanes?"

Yunhua paused, scanning the rows of labeled jars. "No, Master. It's next to the bruisewort, under 'B.'" She pointed, surprised at her own steadiness.

Irel nodded. "Thank you." He returned to his grinding, humming a faint tune her mother once taught her too.

Alone again, Yunhua closed her eyes. This morning's conversation kept replaying in her mind—Sairen's words about shaping society, about alliances, about politics as an extension of healing. She had always thought politics was a blade at her throat. Now it felt more like an extension of her own two hands.

---

That evening, the bell tolled once—then twice, gathering apprentices for a nightly council. Yunhua left the infirmary and made her way down the corridor. Torches flared along the walls, casting dancing amber shadows on the stone. Students clustered in groups, murmuring, faces flushed with speculation. When she passed, some made way, recognizing that her place was already determined by something beyond rank.

In the council chamber—a vaulted room lined with oak benches—Yunhua found Sairen waiting. The lady's silks gleamed in torchlight, and her combs glinted like starlight in her hair. This time, Sairen sat at the head of one of the bench rows, alone, hands resting on her lap.

Yunhua bowed, sliding into the bench beside her with a silent beckoning from the woman. A murmur rose among the apprentices, but no one dared speak.

Sairen turned to face everyone, standing close enough that Yunhua smelled sandalwood and something sharper beneath it—a spice she couldn't name. "Today," Sairen said, voice carrying over the hush, "we will talk about security."

The apprentices straightened, expecting a lecture on guard rotations or treaty negotiations. Yunhua's curiosity prickled.

"Specifically," Sairen continued, "the security of knowledge."

A ripple of surprise passed through the students.

"The East," Sairen said, "has a tradition of secret guilds—scribe-healers who guarded herbal lore as sacred trust. Over time, as power consolidated, that knowledge was hoarded by the elite. Nearly lost. Here, in this outpost, we have a chance to restore something broader."

She spoke with calm authority, weaving stories of old guilds, of clandestine gatherings under moonlight, exchanging recipes for cures that crossed bloodlines. Yunhua recognized whispered fragments of those legends—the songs her mother sang to her as a child. She sat forward, emboldened by the memory.

Sairen's eyes met hers. "I would like to propose the founding of such a guild here. One that acknowledges your heritage and the contributions of every healer, regardless of birth. One that binds our community with oaths of openness and respect."

Murmurs swelled. Some students looked startled; others intrigued. Yunhua's heart hammered. This was more than politics.

A young apprentice whispered to her neighbor: "She must mean that girl."

The neighbor's eyes widened. Yunhua felt the weight of every gaze upon her. She swallowed.

Sairen raised a hand, silencing the chamber. "I want to hear your thoughts, Master Irel's apprentices—especially from you, Yunhua."

All eyes turned to her. She could see curiosity mingled with skepticism. Some wondered why Sairen singled her out. Others wondered if she dared speak.

Yunhua inhaled, recalling Sairen's words this morning about fire, about forming alliances, about shaping societies like gardens. She exhaled slowly.

"If we bind knowledge by secrecy," she began, "we risk suffocating it. But if we share it only with those around, we nourish understanding." She met Sairen's gaze. "On my part I could help catalog every remedy we have—teach apprentices from all regions, hold open forums at dawn in the greenhouse. We would learn far faster than we hoard. Only with sharing our knowledge we can move forward and strengthen bonds."

Silence followed. Then Master Irel, seated at the back, nodded once. The other apprentices began to murmur in agreement.

Sairen's lips curved in a small, genuine smile—the first Yunhua had seen. "Very well," she said. "We will begin discussing this in detail tomorrow at first light. Prepare yourselves."

As the council disbanded, Yunhua rose and bowed to Sairen. The applause that followed felt foreign, thrilling, and she realized with a jolt that she had stepped into a new role—no longer just a healer, no longer just a student, but a catalyst.

---

Late that night, Yunhua sat at her window with a cup of jasmine tea. Moonlight washed over the courtyard below. In the distance, the hush of night guards shifting on patrol drifted upward. It was the quietest she had felt in weeks—and the most alive.

She thought of Sairen: her calm authority, her unexpected openness, the way she revealed just enough to draw Yunhua out. She thought of the morning's promise to anyone who would join the guild: people beyond the outpost, connected by shared knowledge and shared heritage.

And she thought of Rowan. They had not exchanged a word since Sairen's council address. Rowan's absence weighed on her. In another life, she might have sought Rowan's counsel. Their bond, strained though it was, had almost been a constant in her life.

But tonight, Yunhua felt a new constancy—a path she had chosen, one lit by memory and ambition, guided by a woman who knew both the sweetness of roots and the sharpness of power.

She lifted her cup in a quiet salute to the moonlit courtyard.

"For tomorrow," she whispered. "For the shape of intent."