The Knot of Forgetting

We lingered in the chamber for the span of a quarter-hour, wrestling with how to explain to Gongsun Yanshu the truth of what we had witnessed. There was no denying it—the cook was none other than Wan Ling, the legendary Lady Li herself. But from the visions we had seen, Yanshu’s love for her had gone far beyond ordinary bounds. If he were to ask us how his youthful pear-blossom bride had become a woman of seventy winters, how could we possibly answer? The question itself felt impossibly cruel.

Worse still was his frail condition. If we were to tell him outright that the wrinkled cook was Wan Ling, would he not collapse under the blow? Might he die right there on the spot? Such a death would be too pitiful to bear.

I voiced my worries, but Gongsun Bai waved them away. “Don’t trouble yourself. He is still the heir of Western Jin. He won’t crumble under so small a truth.” With that, he strode to the door, flung it open, and told Yanshu everything.

To our surprise, Yanshu’s face betrayed no shock at all. Instead, he nodded faintly, as if to say so it is.

“I knew it already,” he said softly. “Even if she has grown old, I would recognize her at a single glance.”

So it seemed I had underestimated the strength of a man’s heart. Perhaps I had mistaken him for weaker than he truly was.

I drew the silver pendant from my robes and held it out to him. “Here. This is yours.”

But Yanshu only looked at me with puzzled eyes. “What is this?” His gaze was pure, clear as a child’s, black and white without shadow.

“This is the bracelet you just gave me—the one Lady Li wore until the end.”

He took the pendant slowly, running a finger over the coarse engravings. “This… was from me? It looks familiar, but… I cannot remember.” The bewilderment in his face was no act.

A silent thunderbolt cracked across my heart. I looked to Gongsun Bai, and he looked back. Without a word, we stepped outside together.

I turned on him at once. “You see? You see? I told you we couldn’t just blurt it out. Now look—he’s shattered. He’s pretending nothing’s wrong, but inside he’s broken. His mind is gone. He can’t even recognize his own pendant anymore!”

Gongsun Bai hesitated, then said, “Or perhaps… perhaps it is dementia. Early, and cruel.”

We argued fruitlessly, neither of us able to decide. The matter was cut short when Shi Wen rushed in, breathless. “Gentlemen! Stop quarreling—our lord is stricken with sudden head pain! Come quickly!”

We ran back to find Yanshu writhing on the floor, clutching his head, veins bulging across his temple. His neck swelled thick as two fists, his body jerking against the ground. Gongsun Bai hurried to pin him down, keeping him from smashing his skull against the floor.

“Was he poisoned?” I demanded.

“No!” Shi Wen cried. “I have been with him all day. He has touched no stranger, no food nor drink unknown!”

Bai drew a slender needle from the bone of his jade fan and plunged it into Yanshu’s palm. At once, the convulsions stilled. Sweat poured down his face in heavy beads, though his body trembled faintly still.

Bai checked the needle. “No poison.”

Shi Wen suddenly shrieked and pointed. “His left eye! Look!”

We bent close. On the surface of Yanshu’s left eye, a red speck had bloomed, pulsing faintly like a living ember. It flickered several times, then vanished.

And with its disappearance, his pain eased. He slumped back, breathing raggedly. “My head… why does it hurt so much?” he murmured.

The silver pendant he had moments before clutched so tightly now lay discarded on the floor.

I stooped, picked it up, then turned to the corpse upon the mat. The woman’s body lay still, long cold. I pried open her left eyelid and searched the orb within—nothing.

Yet I remembered what I had seen in the illusion. Wan Ling’s left eye had held a black mole deep in the iris. But now, nothing remained.

Her identity returned to me—Wan Ling, the illusionist. And everything was clear.

“He is under illusion,” I declared.

Even calm Bai was shaken. “How could he have been caught in such a trap?”

I pointed at the vanished red speck. “That was the proof. Illusionists plant what is called an anchor. Harmless most of the time, but when the trigger is met, it ignites.”

“Save him, Master!” Shi Wen fell to his knees, banging his head desperately. Even Bai’s stern face showed strain.

“Is there a cure?”

I shook my head. “Not so easily. The ways of illusion are endless. To plant anchors and triggers like this—whoever cast it is stronger than I. I cannot undo it. But my master… perhaps he can.”

“Your master? Who is he?”

I told them briefly of Tu Xin, my teacher. His mastery of illusions, his skill above all others. To call him half-immortal was no exaggeration. But his identity could not be exposed. Reveal too much, and the world would drag him to a temple and bind him as a living idol. So I said only that he was a hermit of great power, often wandering in spirit, beyond my reach.

Shi Wen collapsed fully, sobbing.

Even Bai’s voice grew raw with grief. “Are we powerless, then? Must we watch him waste away?”

I frowned. “Why do you think he is dying?”

They both blinked.

I gestured toward Yanshu, now sprawled upon the bed. He was snoring loudly, drooling a little at the corner of his mouth. “Look at him. Does he look like a man in mortal peril? He sleeps like a child at festival.”

It was true. The agony had lasted but moments; now he slumbered deeply. I pried his left eye open again—the red mark was gone, the iris clear.

“When the anchor is triggered, it vanishes,” I explained.

“Then what was it that struck him?” Bai asked.

“Oblivion.” I tapped the pendant lying on the table. “This was the first thing erased. Wan Ling has cast a forgetting spell upon him.”

Bai’s eyes widened. “Forgetting?”

“Yes. Someone wanted him to forget her.”

And who else could it be but Wan Ling?

The spell itself was harmless. It bore no malice, save to strip away certain memories. The only consequence was the absence of recollection—a vague sense of familiarity when facing an old friend, dismissed as senility.

“Then why would Wan Ling do such a thing?” Bai pressed.

“Why?” I snorted. “Because Yanshu pursued her without rest. She grew weary, so she planted forgetting. Better he lose her face than plague her endlessly. A fierce woman fears only a persistent suitor.”

“… You do know much,” Bai muttered.

At that moment, the candle sputtered. A pop rang out, the flame splitting in two.

“You called it ‘anchors and joints.’ What does it mean, truly?” he asked.

“Have you heard of the Luban lock?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“It is an ancient craft. In one land, their bridges are built without nails. They cut sockets into one beam, and carve tongues into another. Fit together, they hold firm—this is ‘anchor and joint.’” I lifted the candle from its base, slid it out, then pressed it back. “Like this.”

“In illusion, the principle is the same. The anchor is the socket, planted in advance. The joint is the trigger. When the two meet—like straw to flame—the illusion bursts to life. I suspect Wan Ling’s chosen trigger was some rash act Yanshu might take for her sake. Therefore, she bound him with forgetting—to keep him from destroying himself in her name.”

The coarse pendant glimmered faintly in the trembling candlelight.

“The first thing erased was this token,” I said softly.

“Perhaps forgetting is not so cruel,” Bai answered at last. His gaze lingered on Yanshu, still snoring. “Wan Ling was always a variable. An uncontrollable variable. To forget her cleanly—perhaps that is the best ending he could have.”

I nodded. “So do I think.”