Silver Phoenix

13

Ai Ling sat up and rubbed her face, embarrassed to be the last one to rise.

“A peaceful morning.” Chen Yong smiled. The dust of travel had been scrubbed from his face, his thick hair bound in a topknot wet and dark. Had he bathed in the river? He wore a new tunic, slate gray embroidered with hints of cerulean along the collar and sleeves.

“There’s hot goat’s milk for your morning meal, along with sticky rice balls with sweetened taro, rice porridge with pickled vegetables and salted pork, and the most amazing fruit you’ve ever tasted.” Li Rong waved his arm in a flourish toward a lacquered tray laden with food at the end of her bed.

“We couldn’t wait for you,” Chen Yong said, although he didn’t sound apologetic. She didn’t mind. She wouldn’t have waited either.

She scooted to the end of the bed and picked up a sticky rice ball and bit into it. Sweet things first. The chewy taro paste within had just the right hint of sugar. “Mmm,” she managed with her mouth full.

“I’d be twice my size if I lived here,” Li Rong said.

Ai Ling had another sticky rice ball already stuffed in her mouth. She washed it down with a sip of tea, and then realized both brothers were watching her. She gripped the teacup tight in her hands, not knowing how to express her jumbled thoughts and feelings. “I’m truly grateful you journey with me.”

“This Zhong Ye who has captured your father must be defeated. Besides . . .” Chen Yong waited for her to raise her face before he continued. “I feel as if our fates are somehow intertwined. I’ve felt it from the moment I saw you lying on the edge of that lake . . . and when we met again at the noodle house.”

She looked away. She felt connected to Chen Yong unlike anyone else she had ever known. Was it because he had saved her life? Or because she had slipped into his spirit? She only nodded, for fear she would squeak if she spoke.

“The Immortals are probably pulling the strings,” Chen Yong said.

“We have control over many things, Chen Yong, but not an individual’s fate. That falls within the patterns of life itself. How one’s path crosses or misses another’s is beyond our control,” the Goddess of Records said.

They turned to find the Immortal at the bottom of the pavilion steps. They leaped to their feet, the young men bowing low.

“But I thought you said I was chosen, Lady, to defeat Zhong Ye,” Ai Ling said. She spoke without thought, and felt foolish for speaking as she would to her companions. She felt even more awkward with her mussed hair.

The Goddess smiled with all three faces. She waved one pale hand, indicating that they should sit. “It wasn’t so much that you were chosen for the task, Ai Ling. But rather, you volunteered for it—more than two centuries past—while you dwelled in the underworld, waiting to enter your next life. This life.”

Ai Ling closed her mouth after she realized it had dropped open. She turned to Chen Yong and he blinked, looking as surprised as she felt. Apparently, rashness transcended lifetimes.

“Two centuries?” she finally managed.

“It is an unusually long time in the underworld. I think your former incarnation was biding her time, gathering her strength,” the Goddess said.

The phoenixes emerged from behind a flowering hedge and ambled toward the pavilion. The Goddess sat down gracefully on a jade step. “The sea dragon will take you to the Mountain of Eternal Prayer. It hovers in the clouds, between your realm and ours. This is where the Lady in White resides.”

She stretched long fingers toward the two birds. Ai Ling saw that her fingernails were perfectly manicured, and that she wore pointed gold finger covers over the last fingers of her right hands. The Immortal leaned forward, the lavender silk of her gown cascading around her feet like liquid, and fed the birds purple berries, which had magically appeared in two palms. The stiff collars of the gown showed off her graceful necks, the material embroidered with a thousand blooming chrysanthemums. “The sea dragon awaits outside the gates, when you are ready. May good fortune keep you.” She shimmered out of view.

“We should go. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I would prefer not to arrive at night,” Ai Ling said finally.

Chen Yong and Li Rong nodded in solemn agreement.

They gathered their belongings and wound their way past the pagoda where they had first met the Goddess of Records. No one was seated at the long table. They walked past the magnificent trees that had greeted them when they entered the gardens. The sun shone as brightly as before, the sky bluer than ever. Ai Ling glanced over her shoulder, feeling a heaviness as she walked closer to the red door. Why had her previous incarnation—she almost laughed at the thought—given herself to such a task? Should she take the word of the Goddess? She was in danger, and so were her friends.

Li Rong walked beside her, and Chen Yong strode a little ahead, as he always seemed to. “Thank you again for coming with me,” she said.

His expression was serious. Then the boyish mischief returned and he grinned widely. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Imagine the stories I can tell, the women I can impress after this fantastic adventure.”

Ai Ling smiled. Li Rong could make even the task of sending someone to his grave feel lighthearted.

With a soft touch, Chen Yong pushed the massive red doors open. The sea dragon was waiting, stretched out to its full length. Its beautiful green, blue, and turquoise scales were dazzling in the sun. Ai Ling walked with lighter steps, as if she too had cloud wisps clinging to her feet. She approached the creature first, and it bowed its head, inviting her to climb onto its back. Li Rong and Chen Yong climbed on behind her.

The dragon ran on its short muscular legs, then bounded into the air, riding the winds. The blue of the heavens spanned forever.

“I hope it isn’t too far away,” Ai Ling said, not knowing if Li Rong, sitting with his hands on her waist, could hear her with the wind singing in their ears.

She looked down and saw nothing but a thick bank of storm clouds. She glanced behind, in search of the Mountain of Heavenly Peace, but encountered only sky. She would never walk in the Immortals’ gardens again. The thought brought regret tinged with relief.

She could not say how long they traveled, but the next thing she knew, she woke with her cheek pressed to the spine of the dragon and a crick in her neck. She had fallen asleep, and the weight of Li Rong’s head on her back told her he had done the same. Ai Ling slowly straightened and glanced behind her. Li Rong opened his eyes, yawning. Chen Yong’s hands rested on his brother’s shoulders as he scanned the skyline, alert.

The dragon began descending through the bank of ominous clouds. The air turned cold and dank, and she shivered. After a long moment, they emerged below the clouds, and she saw a jagged mountain. It appeared to drift in midair, composed only of rocks the color of tar. She had never seen a black mountain peak before—devoid of any living thing.

The Lady in White lived on this barren pile of sawtoothed rock? Where was her palace? Not even a small hut graced the summit. Her stomach knotted with anxiety, and she leaned back into Li Rong, seeking comfort. His grip around her waist tightened just a fraction, as if he sensed her fear—or felt his own. The warmth of his hands calmed her, and she smiled, grateful for his company.

Picking up speed, the dragon flew to the flat peak, the only even terrain on the entire mountain, and landed with a gentle glide. Ai Ling climbed off its back and stroked its sleek side in gratitude.

Chen Yong and Li Rong dismounted. The dragon bowed its head low before leaping into the air and disappearing within the dark clouds. They were silent for a moment, their faces turned to the sky. Ai Ling wrapped her arms around herself. She wished the dragon had stayed.

“Where’s this Lady we seek?” Li Rong said aloud what they all wondered. The air was damp with drizzle, and it was difficult to gauge the time of day.

“Look there,” Chen Yong said, pointing, his body tense.

Ai Ling followed his gaze and saw that the light mist that swirled about seemed to leave a wide circular space empty before them. She squinted; something wavered, a sheen of white. She blinked, and the illusion was lost.

“I can’t see anything,” Li Rong said.

“There’s something here, hidden from view,” Chen Yong said.

Ai Ling walked toward the empty space, through the mist spiraling at its edges. A wall shimmered again, rounded and smooth like that of a tower, reflecting her image. She paused, stunned. Her figure warped and vanished. She reached out and walked to where she had seen her image. Her fingers touched cold, smooth stone.

“Ai Ling!” Chen Yong’s voice was tight with warning.

She jerked her hand back. Clear crystal crackled where she had touched. The cracks spread like fissured ice, thrusting upward and around, until a giant tower glimmered before them. The tower’s thick quartz wall was both clear and milky, revealing nothing within.

She turned back to her friends, lightheaded from fright. Li Rong let out a long whistle.

“I see no way to enter,” Chen Yong said.

He withdrew his sword and began to walk the circumference. Ai Ling pressed a hand to her breast as he disappeared around the curve of the shimmering tower. She drew a long breath when he reappeared from the other side, after too many heartbeats.

“I counted nearly three hundred strides. I saw no windows or doors, no way of entering the tower.”

“I don’t understand,” Ai Ling said.

She laid tentative fingers on the sleek wall again. And the next moment, a surge of cold rushed from her fingertips through her entire body; everything flickered, and she was within the tower.

The stench assaulted her. A monster loomed over Ai Ling, the smell of death pluming from its gaping mouth. She fought to remain standing, not to crouch and heave the contents of her stomach. The thing turned its sunken eye on her, black and circular, like a wound in its head. Fetid arms hung to the ground and ended in sharp black claws.

She realized then that it was composed of corpses—arms and legs jutted from the top of its head instead of hair. Its naked mass was formed of human torsos, more limbs, and worse, heads and sagging faces. Some of the eyes were so decomposed only empty sockets peered from a putrefied skull. Ai Ling barely reached its knee, which bulged with human spines and sharp shoulder blades.

The monster lurched and turned to face her fully. She tried to step back, but her limbs failed; tried to scream, but found no voice.

Chen Yong materialized facing her, right below the thing, his sword gripped in one hand.

“Behind you!” Her voice sounded muted, her need to warn him dislodging the words from her clenched throat.

He bounded to her side in an instant, his face distorted by the stench that assailed him. “Mother of the heavens,” Chen Yong breathed when he saw the monster.

Li Rong appeared on the opposite side of the tower. He drew his sword and looked at Chen Yong and Ai Ling with wide-eyed terror. The monster took no notice, his eye boring down at her and Chen Yong. It dragged its black claws on the crystalline floor, making a horrific screeching noise. Ai Ling saw that the stone floor was etched with deep grooves.

“Stand back!” Chen Yong yelled. He vaulted forward, slashing his sword into the monster, cutting through a face and torso with flaccid breasts. The beast roared, a deep boom, and its cadaverous arm swept down like falling timber, but Chen Yong had already twisted away. They now formed a triangle around the beast.

Ai Ling stepped back, her knees shaking. A familiar warmth gathered against her breast, and she looked down to see the glowing jade pendant. It flickered, grew hot, and a white blaze enveloped the monster. Please let it kill the thing.

The monster continued its attack, oblivious to the bright light surrounding its body. The heat around her throat cooled. She looked down. The pendant had dimmed; the intense glow faded from around the monster. Ai Ling’s heart dropped to the hollows of her stomach. How could it fail her now, when she needed its powers the most? She reached for the dagger tied to her waist and pulled it from the sheath, gripping the hilt too tight. She wanted to throw it but didn’t trust her aim.

Li Rong crept up behind the monster. He slashed a trunklike leg with his sword. The beast roared again and turned toward him.

Chen Yong sprang, leapt off one decomposed heel, and stabbed the back of a thigh. He let the blade sink in, and he dangled like an acrobat from the hilt. The monster thrashed and lurched toward Ai Ling. She managed a small step backward, her entire body trembling. Chen Yong landed light on his feet, like a feline.

The beast blinked its black eye once, and in the next moment, she was behind the monster, where Li Rong had stood. They had switched places. She saw Li Rong where she had been. His eyebrows climbed so high from shock they nearly met his hairline.

“Its eye, it blinked . . . ,” Ai Ling said, knowing she made little sense.

“Curses on the Devil’s daughter,” Chen Yong said.

Li Rong stood in a fighting stance before the beast, legs wide, both hands gripping his raised sword.

The beast thrust its claws at Li Rong. His blade met one with a resonating clang. He rushed forward and between the sweeping arms. He plunged his blade into its pale shin, then sprinted back to the side of the tower opposite Chen Yong and Ai Ling.

“Ai Ling, touch the wall!” Chen Yong shouted, his voice sounding too far away.

She laid both hands on the stone, and her fingers tingled with cold—but that was all. They were trapped.

The beast had turned its eye back to Chen Yong and her. Chen Yong jumped away from Ai Ling, making himself the target by brandishing his sword. The monster stomped after him. Cornered, Chen Yong attempted to dodge the creature’s claws as he slashed.

“Watch out!” Li Rong shouted. He ran toward the back of the monster, his sword extended.

Chen Yong crouched low against the wall as the creature lifted its arm high, ready to strike. It blinked its sunken eye once. The hunkered figure of Chen Yong vanished, to be replaced by Li Rong, upright, exposed, with his sword raised. Frantic, he lunged forward.

The monster’s sharp claws crushed down, puncturing Li Rong through his chest. Li Rong’s dark eyes widened with shock, and his mouth slackened. Then his head lolled forward, and his sword clattered to the scarred stone floor.

Ai Ling screamed.

“Little brother!” Chen Yong roared.

Chen Yong attacked the back of the beast in a fury. Over and over he raised his powerful arms and hacked at its dead flesh. Ai Ling watched, helpless, as the monster turned toward Chen Yong. Li Rong slumped over, almost as if he were resting in the monster’s palm.

Ai Ling threw a searching cord out to Li Rong but could grasp hold of nothing to anchor herself. Utter rage erupted within her as she ran after the beast. It lunged toward Chen Yong, not bothering to shake Li Rong from one hand as it thrust with the other.

Ai Ling stabbed her dagger at a rotting ankle, an elbow sprouted from the wound. The hilt glowed bright blue beneath her fingers, shockingly cold to the touch. She withdrew the blade and plunged again as deep as she could in its thick calf, but the monster continued to lumber forward. Desperate, she placed one hand on the creature and leaped inside. There was no spirit, merely a deep pit of furor.

She saw Chen Yong through its eyes. His features hazed, his body was outlined in a blurred red. The need to seek and kill overwhelmed her. Then to absorb. The beast flicked one hand in impatience, flinging Li Rong’s body across the tower. Kill. Absorb. Grow. They were not spoken words, but amorphous images forming ideas. The thoughts thudded with each beat of its booming heart. That was how she found it. A large lump composed of dead hearts, drumming an inhuman rhythm.

Her spirit surged. She concentrated on the immense cadaverous heart, focused her grief and ire. What she could heal, she could also destroy. Her spirit whirled around it in a frenzy.

The heart erupted and splattered.

The beast howled once before it fell to its knees. It toppled, nearly pinning Chen Yong beneath its rotten bulk. She snapped back into her own body, woozy, her head bent over the cold floor, her trembling hands barely able to hold herself up.

Strong arms pulled Ai Ling to her feet. “Are you all right?” Chen Yong asked. He took her dagger, still clutched in one hand, and sheathed it for her.

She shook her head. “Li Rong . . .”

She crumpled against him, and he held her. Frustrated by her own weakness, she shoved herself from him and staggered toward Li Rong. He lay like a broken puppet, arms flung out, legs askew. Blood had pooled around him. His eyes were closed, his face ashen and taut.

She laid her hands on him, above where the claw had gored his sternum. The wound was ragged, wider than her palm. She tried to enter his body but could find nothing to grasp. Tears blinded her, spilled hot against her cheeks. But then she felt it—something was still there—barely clinging, just about to let go. She lunged for it with her own spirit, seized it, and began to move across his wounds. There was nothing to see or feel. Just this wisp she clung to, refused to release.

From a distance, as if watching from above, she saw her own limbs start to shake. Sweat beaded at her temples, but she felt ice cold within, frozen and empty.

Li Rong’s eyelids fluttered, revealing unseeing orbs beneath. An unnatural grunt escaped from between his pale lips, and then the jaws clenched. Even as she held on to the thin thread of his spirit, she could not truly enter his being.

She felt a touch on her wrist and saw Chen Yong crouched beside her. “Ai Ling. Don’t.”

She snatched her hand away as if scalded, and lost the grip she had on Li Rong. The wisp flitted off, slipped into the ether.

Li Rong was dead.

Black circles burst across her blurred vision. She stumbled away and slumped to the floor, not caring that the corpse of the monster was but a few arms’ lengths away. Sobs shook her. She lifted her head, and through the haze, saw Chen Yong crouched over his brother, holding one slack hand in both of his.

The Immortals didn’t care, she thought, the bitterness rising like bile in her throat. They sent us here. They knew this would happen. They let this happen.

She felt a light touch on her shoulder and jumped. A warmth zinged through her, easing her. The scent of honeysuckle filled her nose. She turned to find that the corpse of the decaying monster had vanished. A woman stood in its place.

“You have freed me,” the woman said.

The Lady in White.

Ai Ling scrambled to her feet. “My friend died. He—he was gored.” The tears came again, and she put her face in her hands. She felt the Lady stroke her hair. Something her mother used to do. The Lady lifted her chin with soothing fingers and touched the wetness on her cheeks. The tears dropped like glass into her palm.

“The Goddess of Records gave you a vial,” the woman said.

How did she know? Distrust mingled with the anger and grief, making her stomach clench. Ai Ling pulled the small vial from the hidden pocket within her tunic. The Lady in White carefully put the tears in the vial; they clinked like diamonds as they dropped.

“Consume them when you need strength. You will know when.”

Ai Ling nodded, not understanding and not caring. She turned and saw Chen Yong still with his brother, but looking toward her and the Lady.

“Can you bring Li Rong back?” Ai Ling asked.

She inclined her head. “The dead should stay dead,” she said.

The Lady gazed down at her. She was as tall as the Goddess of Records. Her smooth porcelain skin made the jet black brows that much more dramatic. She wore her raven hair in two braids, looped on either side, with clear crystal jewels woven through the locks. A gossamer gown floated about her like a cloud, pale and white, revealing shimmers of blue with each graceful movement.

“But it was my fault.” Ai Ling wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “And she knew! The Goddess knew he would die, and she sent us here. Without warning—without . . .” She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks, hiccupping.

“Li Rong chose his own course in life,” the Lady said.

Ai Ling turned toward Chen Yong, helplessness and grief smothering her breath. He was bent over Li Rong again. She walked to them, the true friends she had made on this journey. She put a hand on Chen Yong’s shoulder, but he did not turn to look at her. He blamed her. She was certain of it.

“We can’t take him with us. We need to give him a proper funeral.” Chen Yong whispered, his face still turned to his brother.

“We need wood to make a pyre. There’s nothing here,” Ai Ling said.

“I can help,” the Lady in White said.

Chen Yong rose to his feet. “Thank you.”

“I will need your strength, young man.” She glided through the tower wall.

“Will you prepare him?” Chen Yong finally asked, his voice low and hoarse.

The tears rushed into her eyes and stung her nostrils once more. He approached the smooth fissured wall, placed a hesitant hand on it. And vanished. Ai Ling crouched over Li Rong’s body. She slammed her fists against the cold stone floor until her hands bled. Why did the gods allow evil men to live, and care nothing for the innocent? She could not believe he was gone, despite the pool of dark blood fanning beneath him. She reached out and stroked his face and smoothed his hair, intimate acts that she would never have dared were he still alive.

Finally she reached for his knapsack and searched through it, feeling intrusive. She selected his best tunic. It was made of gray silk with simple gold embroidering along the collar and sleeve edges. She unhooked his buttons with trembling fingers, lifting him to pull off his sleeves, cradling his head as she lay him back down. Sweat stung her eyes, and she swiped a bloodied hand across her face.

His wound exposed, Ai Ling saw the startling white of jagged rib bones and his shattered sternum. Nestled within, something glistened. His heart. Hope surged to her throat. She could still bring him back. The Calling Ritual from The Book of the Dead. She could try. She had to try.

“Forgive me, Li Rong. I will make it right again.”

She had to try.

Ai Ling freed her dagger and reached into Li Rong’s gaping wound. Sharp bones scratched her arm. His heart was still warm, wet. Ai Ling felt removed from herself. She could not think about what she was doing. There was no choice. She had no choice.

The heart shifted but would not pull free. She grasped it, took the dagger and made one cut. The hilt glowed blue, became as cold as ice. Ai Ling lifted the heart free. It was the size of her fist and lay like a sacrificial offering in her shaking hand. She needed to preserve it—one month to bring him back, with her own blood. Most other components were common. But the empress root was banned. She would find it. She would not fail Li Rong.

Ai Ling closed her eyes, forcing her mind to see the page, to remember the words. She muttered them in a low voice, verses she didn’t understand. The heart turned ice cold, felt like heavy glass in her hand. She opened her eyes. It glowed slightly, but her blessed dagger had turned a dull black. Ai Ling frowned, sheathed the blade. She grabbed one of Li Rong’s cotton tunics and wrapped the heart carefully within its folds, then tucked the bundle in her knapsack.

Ai Ling poured water from her flask over her bloodied forearm and hands, watched it slide in red rivulets onto the ice white floor. She licked her cracked lips, tasting the salty mucus that ran from her nose, and wiped her face with a dampened rag cloth. She gently dressed Li Rong’s body, pulling the tunic over his head, holding his hand to guide the sleeves. After he was clothed, she wiped his face clean with tender care. She did the same with his hands.

His wound had already stained the new tunic, like a crimson flower blooming across his chest. But at least he would not be sent into the next world in the tunic he was slain in.

Chen Yong and the Lady appeared again within the tower, emerging like apparitions from the crystalline walls. “Thank you,” Chen Yong said simply.

Ai Ling could not look at him. She was out of breath and clutched her knapsack with tight fists. Chen Yong kneeled down and cradled his brother as if he were a child. His eyes were swollen and his nostrils red, but he no longer wept.

“The body will transport through the wall with you,” said the Lady.

Ai Ling walked to the gleaming wall and placed two timid fingertips on it. The tingling cold rushed through her, and she was outside on the black peak once more.

The Lady and Chen Yong had built a pyre on the rocky landing. A dark blue cloth was spread neatly on a wood platform, with black twigs and branches filling the space beneath.

“I couldn’t conjure much, under the circumstances,” the Lady spoke apologetically. “But it will be a proper funeral—as best as we can make it.”

Chen Yong carefully laid Li Rong on the platform and arranged his arms alongside his body.

At the end of the platform was a small altar, with incense burning and a pile of spirit money—gold and silver-foiled coins. The flame from one white candle flickered in the wind. “I am unable to conjure food,” the Lady said. Was she a goddess as well?

Ai Ling carefully searched through her knapsack and pulled out a packet of nuts and dried mango, given to her by Master Tan so long ago. She also found the last two strips of dried beef, Li Rong’s favorite.

“I can offer these,” she said.

“And I have rice wine,” Chen Yong said. He placed a finely carved gourd on the altar.

The Lady began chanting the song of mourning in a singsong voice as Chen Yong bent down and started the fire. He looked up at Ai Ling. “Help me.”

She joined him and fed the spirit money into a bronze bowl. The embers fluttered around them. There was a chill in the air and the skies were overcast, the day darker and colder than before. She did not know how much time had passed, how long they had been on the mountain.

She felt again Li Rong’s reassuring touch when they had first descended on this mountain. No, he shouldn’t be dead. Not when someone like Zhong Ye lived. She would bring him back—even if she needed to use the dark arts to do it. Li Rong had died because of her. She would do anything.

The Lady’s chanting was soothing and hypnotic. She clapped her hands at certain points, swaying like a delicate orchid. “The body wears to sand,” she sang. “Yet the teaching of goodness will always linger. . . .”

The spirit money burned bright, and then dimmed to a few points of glowing red.

“Place his belongings at his feet. It is time,” the Lady said. She gently laid a yellow cloth over Li Rong’s face and placed a sky blue one over his body. She touched the platform, and the black sticks beneath roared into bright flames.

They crackled, spread, and illuminated Li Rong’s face, making him appear lifelike again. Soon the flames engulfed him. Ai Ling and Chen Yong stepped back from the pyre as the wind blew across the barren mountaintop, feeding the fire.

She caught glimpses of him still. He shimmered and wavered until he was lost, and she turned her face away.

Chen Yong stood beside her, their shoulders touching. She looked toward the Lady, who faced them, standing close to the fire, unaffected by its heat. Their eyes locked, and her arms prickled despite the roaring flames. The Lady’s gaze pierced through her. Ai Ling looked back to the pyre, willing her face to betray nothing.

A low wail erupted from Chen Yong as he fell to his knees. He hugged himself and banged his brow against the ground, the keening never stopping. It flooded her with grief. She too collapsed to her knees, allowed her sorrow to voice itself in a piercing cry. She banged her brow against the black rock of the mountain, giving herself to physical pain until her vision swirled with orange flames.

They remained prostrate until the fire burned itself out, until darkness fell and a sickle moon shimmered down on them. The air was frigid. The stars were distant, indifferent—so unlike the sky that had comforted Ai Ling the evening before, when she had bathed in the Scarlet River.

“It was a proper funeral for a hero,” the Lady said.

Suspicion coiled within Ai Ling. Why hadn’t the Immortals prevented this?

“Are you a goddess, Lady?” Ai Ling asked, her voice quiet.

“It’s been so long that I’ve been held captive—I do not know anymore. Come, you can rest in my sanctuary tonight.”

Ai Ling recalled the Lady’s light touch on her shoulder, the warmth of her healing mingled with the scent of delicate honeysuckle. She knew the Lady was good, but a part of her did not know if she could ever fully trust her or the Immortals again. Not now.

The Lady in White led them down a path through jagged black rocks, a path that had not been there when they first alighted on the mountain. The ice tower was gone, and in its stead, a white circle hewn into the ground gleamed in the moonlight.

The Lady’s gown emanated a silver sheen that made it easy for Ai Ling and Chen Yong to follow her. She led them to a small, simple hut built into the side of the mountain. A pine tree the same height as Chen Yong grew by the wooden door. Wild honeysuckle nestled beneath the window ledges. Their hostess pushed the door open, and they followed her inside.

The small room was rectangular in shape, cozy for one person and crowded for three. The wooden beams above were high, allowing for the Lady’s tall stature. A square lacquered table dominated the room, and a lantern sat on it, a bamboo pattern etched in the glass. Two other lanterns hung from the high beams, casting a warm glow.

“I regret I have no food to offer. But there is a well at the back of the house, and its water is refreshing. I do believe I have a jug of wine hidden somewhere, if you’d like,” the Lady said. She looked like she needed neither refreshment nor rest. Incredible, if she had been held captive as long as she claimed. Unease curled around the edges of Ai Ling’s grieving heart. Perhaps they had been used by the Immortals to rescue this woman.

“It would warm me up, I think,” Ai Ling said. She had never drunk wine.

The Lady glided to a small bamboo bureau in the corner. She returned bearing a round tray with two wine cups and a jug. She filled both cups. “I wish I had more to offer for your act of bravery.”

She kneeled, handing a cup first to Chen Yong, then to Ai Ling, her back curved. Embarrassed, Ai Ling quickly took the cup and sipped without thinking. The liquid cut a hot path down her throat, easing the coldness within her belly and the bitter ache of her chest.

“Who held you captive, Lady?” Ai Ling tried to keep the tone of her voice respectful, rather than accusing.

Chen Yong raised his head from his wine cup and met her eyes with an inscrutable look. Ai Ling pursed her lips—she never knew how he felt or what he thought—and turned her full attention to the Lady.

“My twin brother,” she said in a quiet melodic voice that brought to mind lute strings plucked beneath a full moon.

Ai Ling gasped. She took another sip of the wine, welcoming the searing heat that filled her, slowly numbing her anger, her pain.

The Lady turned to gaze out the window, her face filled with sorrow. “I was well loved by my father, educated, encouraged to learn and travel, treated as if I were a son. My twin brother was intelligent and talented in his own right. I know not why the jealousy burned so deep within him; it ate away at him, tainted his spirit. . . .”

Her porcelain face flushed with color. “We were never close while growing up, so I had no inkling of his resentment toward me. There were just the two of us. Mother died when we were but six years.

“It was only when Father died ten years later that I understood how deeply my brother despised me. He locked me within my quarters, refusing me the right to visitors, turning away friends as well as suitors.”

The Lady remained on her knees, her back straight, turning her face from Chen Yong to Ai Ling as she told the story.

“After two years of imprisonment in my own home, I escaped. I traveled as far away as I could, until I reached the summit of this mountain. And it was here I made my home. For years I stayed here alone, the mist and stars as my companions, the birds and pine rodents as my friends.”

“But your brother found you?” Ai Ling asked.

“He appeared on this summit five years later, unrecognizable. I looked into his face and saw nothing of my twin. He ranted and raved about how I was favored by my father—but the truth was, I was treated as an equal to him, never more.

“And as he spoke and paced, my beautiful mountain darkened, the leaves blackened and shriveled, the life bled away. He raised his arms, and a crystal tower thrust upward from the peak. He stripped me of flesh and body and imprisoned my spirit within those walls.”

The Lady finally bowed her head, her hair ornaments clinking like chimes. “That was more than a thousand years ago,” she said.

“A thousand?” Ai Ling breathed.

“He had given himself to the dark arts. He conjured the monster you slew to hold me captive in the tower and prevent rescue or escape. My home, this mountain, has been under an enchantment.” She surveyed the room. “It’s as if time stood still.”

“That is an incredible tale, Lady. I’m glad we were able to help free you.”

Ai Ling’s jaws tightened. “What about Li Rong?” She spoke too loudly.

His eyes were wet when they met hers. She regretted her callousness, felt her lower lip tremble at having caused him more pain.

Rash, stupid girl.

“Li Rong died performing a good deed,” Chen Yong finally managed in a husky voice.

Ai Ling felt even more wretched. Surely Chen Yong blamed her for Li Rong’s death, as much as she blamed herself.

Later, Chen Yong and the Lady retreated into the night to fetch water from the well. It was cool and refreshing; Ai Ling drank two cups. Without bothering to change her clothing or wash, she climbed beneath the thick blankets on one of the pallets the Lady had laid down and immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.