Silver Phoenix

14

Ai Ling woke from a dreamless sleep. Bright sunlight shone through gossamer silks draped across the paper panels of two large windows, forcing her to squint for a few moments.

“Finally,” Chen Yong said, smiling. He sat at the low table, a calligraphy brush poised over a bound journal. He put down the brush on the ink stone and crossed the room in two strides to her pallet, an expression like relief on his face.

His closeness made her self-conscious. She rubbed her eyes with limbs still heavy from sleep. “Good morning,” she said.

“A peaceful afternoon to you,” he replied with a wry smile. “You slept for two days. We couldn’t wake you. I was beginning to worry.”

Two days? She shifted back on her pallet and glanced around the room. “Where’s Li Rong?” Her mind skewed the moment the words left her mouth, instantly followed by a spasm of grief. Chen Yong winced as if kicked in the chest. She covered her face with her hands, wishing she had not woken. Could one sleep anger and grief away?

Chen Yong touched her shoulder, and she dropped her hands; he rose and walked away from her, his movements stiff. “The Lady went out to gather fruit,” he said. “She brewed tea.”

Ai Ling crawled out of her warm nest, and Chen Yong passed her a cup. “Thank you,” she said, drawing the steam into her face, unable to meet his gaze.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” he said, staring into his own empty teacup.

“I can’t either. I’m so sorry.”

She hid her face until the intensity of his gaze forced her to look up. Chen Yong carried his grief in his eyes. The sunlight hit his face at angles that made him look foreign, exotic.

“It’s not your fault,” he said after a few moments.

She blinked several times, caught off guard.

“We knew it was a risk, and we chose to come with you,” he continued in a quiet voice.

“He shouldn’t have died,” she said.

“Who knows what the fates have planned?” He filled his cup from the delicate porcelain tea jug.

“You sound like one of those esoteric monks . . . or the goddesses.” Anger swelled within her, and she swallowed the sour taste in her mouth. The gods didn’t care. Her eyes found her knapsack leaning against the pallet. She fought the urge to go to it, rifle through the contents—make sure it was still there. One month. It was enough time.

“Perhaps the monks know of what they speak. And who are we to question the Immortals?” He leaned toward her, both palms open, accepting.

She turned from him. Chen Yong could never know, not until she succeeded. The Lady entered. Her white gossamer gown shimmered, offering glimpses of the colors of dawn—vermilion, pink, and gold. She smiled as she placed a tray of berries and apples before them.

“I hope they’re as sweet as the last batch.” She sat in one fluid motion, tucking her long legs beneath her. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the air.

Ai Ling became aware of the gnawing hunger in her stomach. But she had no desire to eat. “I’m not hungry,” she said, realizing only after that she sounded ungrateful, spoiled.

“You both need sustenance.” The Lady proffered the tray.

Ai Ling plucked a few dark berries from it with reluctance, and Chen Yong did the same. They ate the ripe berries at the same time. The sweet tang of juice exploded in her mouth, making her stomach growl in anticipation. She was starved.

The Lady offered slices of crisp green apples next, and they both ate in silence. Ai Ling kept her head down, painfully aware of Li Rong’s absence, missing his easy banter.

The Lady grasped prayer beads in one hand, her fingers gliding over the iridescent stones. Ai Ling could not read her serene face. “You will have to continue on your journey soon. You need to return to the mortal realm below.”

The clear jewels of her hairpin reflected light across the room. “It’s not a straight path from these peaks to your world. It is ever changing. There may be foe or friend on your journey. I am hoping you will find the latter to guide you.”

She put a small bundle wrapped in blue satin on the low table. “Some fruit to take with you. It is not as filling as rice or broth, but it will sustain you.”

“Thank you, Lady. Yours rival those from the Gardens of the Golden Palace,” Chen Yong said.

“They were grown with cuttings from that garden.”

Chen Yong and Ai Ling took time to wash their faces and rub their teeth with coarse salt. They put on fresh clothing before stepping outside.

Ai Ling’s breath caught. What had been a black peak had turned verdant green, alive with lush plant life. A clear brook bubbled outside the doorstep. The house perched high; clouds mingled with thick mist drifted below, jade crests jutting through them for as far as she could see.

The scent of wet earth filled her senses; she could almost see the spring buds unfurl, feel the velvet moss on stones. The hard knot of grief expanded in her chest. Li Rong was not here to witness this. He would not be there to finish their journey.

Ai Ling turned slowly to admire the landscape, more stunning than any painting. She would bring Li Rong back and make it right. It would be worth the risk.

“Follow the path,” the Lady said. She bowed before them, her palms raised at the chest and pressed together. “My gratitude for freeing me from my curse.” It did not take long for the opaque mist to envelop them, so thick she could not see her hand in front of her face. Chen Yong used a long branch as a walking stick, feeling for the dirt path.

“We could plunge to our deaths,” she said. “Or walk completely off the path.”

“Hold on to me. It can’t be like this for much longer,” he said, his voice a disembodied phantom. She reached out and touched his knapsack, moved her fingers to grip his shoulder. She shuffled forward with slow hesitant steps, trusting him to guide her.

The mist pressed against them like a living entity, making her chest feel constricted. It was difficult to breathe. She took comfort in the warmth of Chen Yong’s shoulder beneath her hand.

After what seemed like an endless time, the haze began to dissipate, revealing the side of a rocky cliff on their left and thick foliage to their right. Relieved to be able to see again, she looked back. There was no mist behind them, simply a wide, rutted path that rose slowly, instead of the steep one they had just descended.

“Chen Yong.” She squeezed his shoulder, then dropped her hand, realizing that she no longer needed his guidance.

He stopped and half turned to follow her gaze. “I know. We can’t return from where we came.”

They continued to descend the gentle slope until Chen Yong paused and flung one arm out to stop her. She drew up to his side, and he pressed a finger to his lips. He tilted his head as if he were listening for something.

The sound of faint laughter drifted up to her, and she tensed. Women laughing. Chen Yong cocked his head toward the noise, and they continued around the bend.

He stopped abruptly again and stepped behind a large pine tree. She followed his lead. Two women were bathing in a small pond. Water cascaded from jutting rocks above, filling the pool.

They splashed each other and laughed. They chattered in a language that Ai Ling almost knew, the words tugging at her from some distant memory that did not seem her own.

One woman was tall and sleek, her hair a dark auburn. Her features were not entirely Xian, with wide-set round eyes and a high nose. Her lips were dainty, the color of pink lotus; dappled sunshine glanced off the milky skin of her small breasts. Her companion’s skin tone was like wet sand, darker than any person Ai Ling had ever seen. Her eyes were wide, tilting upward; the mouth sensuous, full. Her breasts were ample and rested on her swollen, pregnant belly like ripe fruit.

Ai Ling’s ears grew hot. She could not believe she was spying on these women with Chen Yong by her side.

The darker-skinned woman swept back raven hair with one hand, the waves falling well past her shoulders. Ai Ling could not fathom how the two could reveal themselves with their hair unbound. Were they sisters? The tall woman brushed her tresses with an ivory comb; they giggled and chattered. Something about stone and sleep . . . or dreams?

Ai Ling pulled Chen Yong back with a hard tug. “What should we do?” she whispered. “We can’t spy on them like this. They’re naked!” The moment she said it, she regretted being so obvious. She almost stomped her foot in embarrassment.

Chen Yong grinned, his face boyish again, the tautness in his features softening. “It’s now that I miss my little brother the most. Li Rong would love this.”

Ai Ling’s mouth tilted upward, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. Then her nose stung with the onrush of tears. She reached out to grasp Chen Yong’s arm, reacting to the gleam of sorrow in his eyes, even as the smile lingered on the corners of his mouth.

He nodded, whether in acknowledgment of her comfort or to say he was fine, she didn’t know, and she dropped her hand.

The two women in the pond began singing.

“Perhaps they can help guide us back to our world,” she whispered.

“I can’t understand a word they’re saying. And I have the feeling they’ll be frightened by the sight of me,” Chen Yong said.

“Maybe if I approached them first.”

“We won’t be able to follow that path past them without being seen, besides,” he said.

She stepped from their hiding place. The women did not notice her, so she proceeded with deliberate steps toward the small pond, taking care along its muddy banks. The pregnant woman saw her first, and gasped. Her friend stopped singing at the same time.

Neither woman attempted to cover her nakedness, but instead they stared at Ai Ling with their mouths agape.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. My friend and I are lost. We need help.” Ai Ling spoke too loudly and wrung her hands.

The two women looked at each other, then back toward Ai Ling. They murmured between themselves, but Ai Ling caught at least one word: outsider. The pale woman pointed a slender hand toward the path. Go. Follow. Ai Ling could gather that much.

She felt a little doubtful. “Is that the way back to the Kingdom of Xia?” Both women furrowed their brows. Finally the pregnant one pointed again with emphasis to the path. Ai Ling pursed her lips, unsure if they knew the way or just wanted to be rid of her.

“My friend is behind that pine tree.” Ai Ling pointed to the large tree with the wide, gnarled trunk. “He’s a man, so—” She did not get a chance to finish the sentence. Both women let out loud shrieks.

They scrambled up the far bank of the pond, speaking rapidly to each other. She caught the words man, hide, and far. They vanished into a thicket of trees before she could utter a reply.

She understood modesty, but had not expected them to run screaming into the trees.

“I guess you can come out now,” she called.

She turned and found Chen Yong standing on the path.

“They must have understood the word ‘man.’” He chuckled, surprising her. “You understood their speech?”

Ai Ling lifted her shoulders. “Some words—but I seemed to get the gist of their conversation anyway.”

“They spoke in women’s tongue,” Chen Yong said.

She joined him on the path. “What do you mean, women’s tongue?”

“When I saw them in the pond, it brought to mind a place I had read about in The Book of Lands Beyond.”

Ai Ling nodded.

“There’s a passage about the Land of Women in the book.”

“You think we are in the Land of Women? But the darkerskinned one was with child,” she said.

“Yes, but—”

Chen Yong did not get a chance to continue before Ai Ling slapped her hands together. “But they become pregnant by bathing in the golden pond.”

He laughed. “Now you know why they ran off in such terror at the mention of a man.”

“If I had known . . . I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had realized.” She paused. “Other than not get into that pond.”

There was a breath before Chen Yong roared with laughter.

She laughed with him, her cheeks feeling hot, but she didn’t mind.

“And any male child never survived past three years. I remember that passage,” Chen Yong said.

“I cannot imagine a world without men. I envy the men in our society for their freedom at times. I often think that the rules favor your gender, yet it wouldn’t be the same without . . .” She trailed off, feeling foolish.

“The book also mentioned a Land of Men. Like you, I can’t imagine such a place.”

“No one would serve you tea or prepare your clothes each morning,” she teased.

“I know I’m very traditional in thought. But you have to believe that I value women for more than their roles within the inner quarters.” He struck the dirt path below them with his walking stick, then stopped and turned to her. “You’ve helped to open my eyes in many ways.”

She lifted her chin and smiled at him, somehow willing her face not to flush scarlet. They stopped at a stream to refill their flasks. They washed their hands and faces and sliced up the fruits the Lady in White had given them. Ai Ling nearly choked on the last bite of apple when she heard the trot of an animal approach. Chen Yong jumped to his feet, his sword drawn.

A man emerged, riding a white horse with red stripes like licks of flame on its flanks. Its mane was red as well, the color of the skies at dusk. Its wide eyes glinted gold in the sunlight.

The man had only one arm. As he drew closer, what she thought was a mark in his wide brow emerged as a third vertical eye.

A two-headed bird, vermilion and gold, perched on his shoulder. The heads sang to each other in crisp, sweet tones. The man pulled in the reins and stopped a short distance from them. She saw there was a bow strung across his back, and a scabbard rested against his hip. But he did not look anxious, and his hand did not move toward the sword hilt. She wondered how he used a bow with just one arm.

“You are lost,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question. His accent was strong, but the words came through clearly.

Chen Yong stepped forward, not lowering his weapon. “We’re from the Kingdom of Xia, trying to make our way back there,” he said.

“Xia.” The man pronounced their kingdom’s name differently, but it seemed he had heard of it. “You are Xian?” The voice was higher than what she was used to, his skin smooth like a young boy’s, the eyebrows thin and delicate.

“Can you guide us back?” she asked.

Chen Yong turned to her with a hard stare, a barely audible hiss escaping from his lips.

The man tilted his head. “To go back by foot is impossible,” he replied. “I have never encountered people of Xia. I have only heard tales from elders. We may find answers in my city. If you follow?”

Ai Ling nodded even as Chen Yong drew her aside, his gaze never leaving the strange man. “How do we know he speaks the truth?” he asked in a low voice.

“He appears willing to help . . . is civil. It’s a risk we have to take,” she said. “We could wander for years and never reach home.”

Chen Yong’s jaws were set in a rigid line, his reluctance to follow this stranger obvious. “Can you read his thoughts?”

Her eyes widened. “You jest.”

His silence was answer enough. She sighed, turned a fraction so her back was to the strange man on the horse, and flung her spirit toward him. She connected, sensed the anticipation from him. The chief will be much pleased.

“It’s fine. Just as I said.” Ai Ling strode over to the man. Stubbornness prevented her from glancing back to see if Chen Yong followed. Then he was by her side, his stare so intense she thought she felt the heat on her face. She dared not look at him.

The man doubled back onto the path they had already traveled. He kept his horse at a slow canter, so she and Chen Yong could keep the pace. No one spoke. The dense foliage they had passed earlier had changed to tall birch trees, their trunks glowing silver, the limbs and leaves towering above them.

Confused, Ai Ling glanced back. The pebbled path they had walked less than an hour earlier had turned to a narrow one covered in moss.

“I noticed it, too,” Chen Yong said. “The landscape is changing around us, in a way that shouldn’t be possible. I don’t think we could find the pond where the women bathed if we tried.”

How would they ever return from this strange world?

The quiet was soon broken by the triumphant trills of the two-headed bird as it took flight, leaving the perch that was its master’s shoulder.

“Where does your bird fly to?” Chen Yong asked, one hand shading his face as he gazed upward.

The one-armed man did not respond but pulled the bow from his back and rested it against his thigh. Ebony in color, the bow curved in a smooth elegant arc. He drew an arrow from his leather quiver—also black, with bright crimson feathers on the end. He notched the arrow with his one hand, drawing the bowstring taut with his mouth.

Ai Ling gaped. The arrow flew among the trees. Chen Yong stepped forward with his sword raised. The one-armed man jumped from his horse and into the woods, returning with something that resembled a hare, only its short fur was a pale lavender. His arrow jutted from the creature’s midsection.

“My bird hunts, as do I,” he said. He removed the arrow and slung the carcass into his saddlebag.

Ai Ling shivered.

Chen Yong rolled his shoulders before sheathing the sword. The stranger remounted his horse, and they continued on their journey.

The moss-covered path started to slope downward. Ai Ling’s legs ached. They had been walking for hours. She wondered what the one-armed man’s city was like. Did they take baths? What did they eat? The sun cast its heat on their backs. Ai Ling drank from her flask, grateful she had filled it at the stream earlier. The path continued steeply downward until it rounded a bend to a plateau and a lush valley opened up below them.

She drew in a breath of disbelief. A wide river wound its way through the center of the valley like a silk ribbon. Seven arched bridges spanned the river. Both pedestrians and riders on horses with flame red manes crossed the bridges, intent on the tasks of the day. All had but one arm, some protruding from the left, others from the right. Her arms prickled at the sight of so many of them.

The valley was surrounded by mountains, their round, blunted peaks forming shapes to incite the imagination. Ai Ling saw a tortoise, the side view of a hare, and a farmer’s woven hat. The pinnacles stretched endlessly into the horizon, making it seem there was no other city beyond the one nestled in the valley below—no other kingdom.

“Are there other cities near yours?” she asked.

Their guide glanced over his shoulder and stared at her with three unblinking eyes. “We fly our chariots, and the journey is long. This is the reason I believe you are far from Xia.”

Ai Ling’s stomach fluttered with unease. No matter how gentle his manner, she was not comfortable beneath his scrutiny.

They reached the edge of the plateau. Water from tiered rock pools cascaded down the valley wall, iridescent, catching hues of turquoise, gold, and green.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Ai Ling said.

Their guide’s smooth face betrayed just a hint of pride. “There is none like our stair lakes anywhere. The waters in these pools formed from melting snow. The limestone was smooth-shaped by eons of water flowing.”

He guided his horse to wide steps carved between the stair lakes. They were also hewn from pale limestone, but the steps were wide and not steep, allowing the horse to step down with an easy gait. It appeared the horse had navigated them many times before. Ai Ling and Chen Yong followed.

The city was well laid out, with paths paved in white quartz. Ai Ling was used to dirt and, at best, cobbled streets. They walked past a tower with a domed top, bejeweled and sparkling in the afternoon sun. Another building was constructed of hexagonal tiers, in a material that appeared silver and also reflected the sunlight. She counted thirteen floors.

Another structure was built right on the river, with five rotating arms dipping into the water, spinning endlessly.

“It’s a different world,” Chen Yong said.

The strangeness of the place overwhelmed her, the unfamiliar shapes of the buildings, the glint of unknown materials. The city was stunning, but completely foreign. As were these people. She ached for home.

“I know not what yours is like,” their guide said from atop his horse.

“We never asked your name,” Ai Ling said, feeling foolish for having forgotten the simplest etiquette.

“We do not give our names so readily. But you may give yours to the Chief if this is usual to you. My people call me Archer.”

They continued to follow Archer, passing others on horse and foot. Although no one betrayed surprise, Ai Ling felt their stares. The paths were lined with trees and plants, many bearing fruit. She saw an apple tree and a diamondshaped fruit the color of bitter melon, as well as dark orange berries that resembled cherries.

Their guide led them to the six-sided tiered building. It reminded her of the pagoda paintings she had seen in books at home. This one appeared much sleeker in its design, the sides so shiny they reflected her image. The door was hexagonal as well, made of a dark green stone.

Archer dismounted, petted the horse’s fiery mane, and whispered in its ear. The beast flicked its head as if in response to its master, who stepped up to the green door. It split open in the middle like a gaping mouth, receding into the shiny walls. Ai Ling could see her own reflection, her mouth round as a circle. She looked at Chen Yong’s image and felt better—he seemed just as astounded.

“Come. The Chief expects us. Crimson Tail brought news after her hunt.”

Utterly confused for a moment, Ai Ling finally realized he was referring to his bird. She ignored the hollow feeling in her stomach, blaming it on hunger, even as her throat clenched with doubt. Chen Yong followed her down a narrow hallway, his hand tight around his sword hilt.

The chamber Archer led them to was bright, although windowless. A giant shaft at the center flooded the room with natural light.

Another one-armed man, dressed in a dark blue tunic and leggings, walked toward them. His hair flowed from a thick topknot, unlike their guide, whose hair was shaved close to the head. Ai Ling could not stop looking at the man’s hair; she had no words to properly describe the red color, had nothing to compare it to. The man’s eyebrows were so light she initially thought he had none.

Archer bowed his head low.

“Your pet sent news.” Ai Ling stared at his lips. His voice sounded like a woman’s, yet he looked like a man, nearly as tall as Chen Yong, broad shouldered and muscular. The bird was perched on his shoulder. He raised his hand in a graceful gesture, each finger bejeweled with large rings, and it flew back to Archer, both heads twittering in excitement.

The Chief took a seat and indicated for his visitors to sit before him, on the floor. The smooth white stone was cold, but Ai Ling was glad to rest. A small sigh escaped her lips. It did not seem very welcoming, to have them huddle on the floor. She had to arch her neck to see the Chief’s face.

“Crimson Tail said you come from the Land of Xia?” The Chief looked down at them with three curious eyes. They were not the same color. The middle vertical one was a dark green, and the other eyes a clear, light blue.

“Yes. I’m called Chen Yong, and this is Ai Ling. We’re trying to make our way back home.”

The Chief nodded. “I have heard tales of your people, but did not know them to be true or false. It astounds me to see someone so different from ourselves.”

He nodded to Archer in approval. “You have done well bringing this species to us. Take them to the third floor and strip them. The Anatomist will examine them.”

The words had barely sunk in when Chen Yong jumped to his feet, his sword already sweeping an arc in the air. But the sharp blade Archer pressed to the back of Ai Ling’s neck halted him.

“Do not be a hero, Xian male. You are outnumbered.” The Chief’s lips curved into a smile, revealing sharp white teeth.

Armed guards marched into the room until they lined the six walls shoulder to shoulder. Garbed in red, they carried tall staffs with hooked blades at the tip. Each one had hair shorn short, like Archer.

“We will not harm you. We want to examine and learn.” The Chief rubbed the fingers of his hand in obvious pleasure; anticipation. “Take them away.” He flicked his hand in dismissal.

“Relinquish your weapon, Xian male. Fight, and the Xian female dies first,” Archer said. Ai Ling bit her lip at her own rashness and stupidity. They would not be in this predicament if she had listened to Chen Yong—but she had been too stubborn, sure she was right. Chen Yong handed over his sword, the cords of his neck taut. Archer cocked his head to the door and escorted by guards, they started down the long hallway.

“The stairs in the back. Go.”

Ai Ling followed Chen Yong, with Archer behind her. Her mind raced. They were surrounded by guards—how could they possibly escape? She wanted to beg for Chen Yong’s forgiveness, stomp her feet in anger and frustration at her own gullibility.

Chen Yong walked with his back straight and stiff, his hands doubled in fists by his sides. She wondered if she could enter Archer’s spirit to search for knowledge. But could she keep herself walking at the same time?

They climbed past the second floor and onto the third. Ai Ling sensed the sharp tip of the Archer’s sword behind her, its threat heavy, solid, even though it did not touch her once.

“Down this hall,” Archer said. The passageway looked the same as the first, only now all six walls were made of glass, allowing a view into a room that was bare except for two single beds on raised stilts, reminding her of Li Rong’s funeral pyre. Her throat tightened, the grief quickly replaced by fear. Would they seize her knapsack, rifle through the contents? She clutched the sack closer to her.

Chen Yong stepped into the chamber under Archer’s direction. Ai Ling wrinkled her nose at the scent of bitter medicinal herbs. Again, sunlight flooded the room from an open shaft in the middle, glancing off the six opaque walls of silver. Ai Ling realized that the glass only allowed oneway viewing, from the outside in, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. What did the Chief have planned for them, with the Anatomist’s help?

“Take off the clothes.” Archer waved his weapon nonchalantly at them.

Ai Ling didn’t move.

Archer extended his sword until the tip touched the hollow of her throat, his smooth face never changing expression.

Chen Yong nodded to her. She almost wanted to laugh, hysteria welling within her. But then he turned his broad back, put down his knapsack, and pulled off his tunic. Ai Ling spun around at the sight of his bare skin. Her face burned as she removed her own tunic. She glanced at Archer, and he waved his weapon to quicken her pace.

Ai Ling took off her trousers and folded both top and bottom neatly, placing them on one of the platform beds. She still had her undershirt and shorts on.

“Everything, female,” Archer said.

She peeled off her underclothing and climbed onto the edge of the bed, her back to Archer and Chen Yong. She brought her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around herself, unable to disguise the trembling of her limbs. Her teeth clacked in terror. Her entire body felt flushed, yet chilled from sweat; her heart pounded hard against her thigh.

“The Anatomist will come. Do as he says. We see everything.”

Archer picked up their knapsacks, and the silver doors slid shut behind him with a faint hiss. Ai Ling wanted to retch.

“Son of a rotten turtle. He took my sword,” Chen Yong said.

She had tucked her dagger in the pile of folded clothes. The Chief had said they would not be harmed. Archer had said he would help to get them home. But look where they were now.

“I’m sorry. . . .” She trailed off, unable to talk past the knot in her throat. She stared at her hunched reflection. Chen Yong’s bare back was visible behind her in the silver glass.

He didn’t reply. She breathed into her knees, not blaming him if he never spoke to her again.

“Can you . . . ?” Chen Yong finally said. She waited for him to finish his sentence but realized after a few moments he deliberately had not.

She snapped her head back to him. He half turned also, and tilted his head toward the doors, menacing with their gray reflection. Anyone could be watching. Anyone could be listening.

At that moment, the silver doors slid open and another one-armed man entered the room. This one was dressed in robes the color of agate. He was slender and slight, with the smooth face that seemed so prevalent. She assumed he was the Anatomist. He turned to them, the vertical eye intent on her, his two others scrutinizing Chen Yong. Ai Ling shivered, and she hugged her nakedness even closer.

“This is indeed a surprise. A real find by our Archer. We will learn much from studying you,” the Anatomist said in a singsong voice. He crossed the room with a strange gait, as if one leg was shorter than the other, and approached Chen Yong.

“The guards are outside. They see all.”

The Anatomist directed Chen Yong to the end of the hard bed. Ai Ling glimpsed the side view of his naked form in the reflection.

She shut her eyes and focused on the Anatomist, casting her spirit toward him, hoping to learn something—anything. They needed to escape, and fighting their way out was not an option. Not if they wanted to live. She felt the familiar tautness in her navel. She snapped into the Anatomist’s being. The clarity of his vision shocked her, the colors vibrant, the light filtered more pristinely than what she knew.

The Anatomist ran his fingers across Chen Yong’s scalp, massaging the skull. He twisted a strand of the hair and made a mental note of the color and texture. Through his eyes, Chen Yong’s hair was a mixture of bronzes, copper, and ebony. Fascinated, Ai Ling wanted him to linger there, but instead he tugged on Chen Yong’s earlobes and peered inside an ear.

The Xian male is tense. Not surprising. The pair will make good slaves—as well as their offspring. The Chief is much pleased. I must make careful illustrations of their sexual organs. Do they procreate the same as we do?

Ai Ling’s spirit recoiled, and she nearly snapped back within her own body.

The Anatomist worked his nimble fingers across Chen Yong’s wide shoulders and began tracing a line down the lumbars of his back. Chen Yong’s muscles tightened, became even more defined under the Anatomist’s touch; he rolled his shoulders, as if to shake off a fly.

The Anatomist gripped the back of his neck, with surprising strength. Ai Ling felt the cords of Chen Yong’s neck tense. “Cooperate. It will be unpleasant otherwise,” the Anatomist hissed in his ear.

She folded herself around the Anatomist’s spirit. She felt his confusion. He resisted, his arm slackened to his side, shocked into immobility at what was happening within his mind.

She could not fail. This was their only chance. She expanded her spirit and wrapped it around his. He continued to struggle, like a slippery fish caught in the binds of her net. Ai Ling held firm . . . until she had taken control of his physical body.

Startled by her own success, she stood frozen. Chen Yong cast a wary glance her way, his expression filled with loathing, danger.

“Get dressed,” she said brusquely in the Anatomist’s highpitched voice.

Chen Yong’s eyes locked with hers, gold flecked with dark green, the color even more stunning when seen with the Anatomist’s heightened vision. They narrowed, even as he reached for his clothing. She hastened toward the silver doors, trying to get used to walking with the shorter leg. A deformity he had had since birth—his history and experience were open to her in a jumble of noise composed of memories and thoughts. The doors slid aside to reveal six guards standing at attention. She looked down the hallway, trying to adjust to the brighter, more intense light and color. There were no other guards.

“Leave us. I need privacy,” she said. It took all her strength and willpower to speak with authority, not to tremble or shake. She gulped, feeling a small bone protrusion slide within the Anatomist’s throat.

A guard stepped forward. She knew it was the highestranking officer, Protector West. “We were told to guard the captives at all times, Anatomist.”

She made herself angry, drew the words and a snarl from the Anatomist. “You waste my time, West. Leave us.” Her captive’s heart beat faster. His spirit twitched. She felt a sheen of sweat begin to collect at his hairline.

“Archer gave specific instructions—”

“I am here on the direct order of the Chief.” She paused, to keep the tremor from the Anatomist’s throat. Slow, deep breath. “You abide by my requests, not the Archer’s.” It was true, she knew. The Anatomist held higher rank, though he would never have dismissed the guards. His furious screams were distant but shrill.

They stared into each other’s eyes, neither blinking. Ai Ling hid a trembling hand deep within the folds of the agate-colored robe, fought hard to breathe normally. Finally, after five heartbeats, West nodded. “Summon us if you need us.” He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, the other five Protectors marching in a precise line behind him.

She felt a writhing struggle for control from the Anatomist’s being. “Stop this sorcery, female,” he cried from somewhere deep. His mouth jerked open, and she felt him on the verge of shouting to the guards for help. Terrified, she clamped down, her spirit quivering from the effort, and stumbled back into the chamber. The door slid closed behind her, and she leaned against the wall to steady herself.

Chen Yong was dressed and standing by the bed.

“Help me dress my body. We have to find the flying chariot.”

Chen Yong turned to her naked form, saw that her head had dropped to her knees. “What did you do to her?”

“It’s me, Chen Yong. I’ve taken control of the Anatomist’s body.” She heard herself speak these words in the high-pitched rasp of the Anatomist. This was not going to be easy.

Chen Yong’s features tightened with suspicion. “What trick is this?”

She felt her heart, the Anatomist’s heart, quicken.

“We don’t have time to argue. We need to survive this—for Li Rong’s sake.”

Chen Yong blanched as if she had slapped him; then his expression hardened. He nodded.

There was no time for modesty. With Chen Yong’s help, she pulled on her tunic and trousers. Her body drooped and appeared asleep, her breathing slow and quiet. It was unnerving, like handling her own corpse. She sensed that Chen Yong felt even more uncomfortable than she did.

“Can you carry me?” she asked.

Chen Yong cradled her body in his arms.

The doors opened, and they walked with quiet steps to the green stone stairs. Chen Yong’s sword and their knapsacks were tucked in an alcove in the smooth wall. He slung her body over his shoulder so she dangled facedown, and grabbed the sword. He shrugged as if in apology.

Ai Ling took their knapsacks and knew with the Anatomist’s knowledge that they had not been searched. The Chief had no interest in their paltry possessions. She felt for the lump in her own knapsack and, touching its coolness through the worn material, hissed in relief.

They encountered no one on the second floor and quickly descended the steps. The Anatomist walked more slowly than she was used to, the joints feeling creaky, the body worn. But his senses were agile and alert. She knew that it was just after the second meal, when most of his tribe were taking the afternoon silence at home.

The first floor hall was empty. They approached the door they had walked through so naively just hours before. It slid open, and they stepped into the bright afternoon sunlight. The square was deserted.

“I can’t believe our fortune, that the door is not guarded,” Chen Yong said.

“They are a peaceful people. Outsiders are very rare. Protectors guard the Chief, but not the Hall of Reflection unless called.”

“You know all this?” The amazement in his voice was mixed with a suspicious caution.

“This way to the flying chariots,” she said. “I know everything the Anatomist knows—though it is like piecing together a jumbled puzzle to make sense of it.” Her spirit strained to keep the Anatomist suppressed, even as he writhed against its confines.

They walked down a pathway lined with trees bearing purple diamond-shaped fruit, past homes constructed of wood and stone with glass windowpanes in every shape imaginable, stained in all hues of the rainbow. With the entire tribe at rest, the valley was quiet.

Until the Sentry stepped from a side path and halted them.

The stench of rotten eggs, Ai Ling thought.

“Sentry Amber,” she said. She sensed the Anatomist cursing as she spoke. His spirit twisted against hers like a fly caught in rice glue. She kept her face composed, imagined the placid features she had seen on everyone in this city.

“Anatomist, where are you headed with this strange lot?” Sentry Amber hefted a shiny club over one shoulder. She had never seen such a weapon. It looked like it could put down a water buffalo with one good blow.

“Our newest acquisitions, courtesy of Archer. I was examining the male when the female became sick. We are headed to the Healer.” She spoke with authority, in a steady, strong voice. She felt a spasm shudder through his weak leg. Hold still, Ai Ling. Show no fear.

“But the Healer is that way.” The Sentry pointed with his club at a path they had just passed.

“Yes, but I need to go to the Herbist first, friend.” A pause as she scrambled. The Anatomist simply screeched now, in an attempt to deter her, hide information. “You think I have become that senile since my six hundred and eighth?” She pursed the Anatomist’s lips and arched his brows. Had it been too long a pause?

The sentry pulled his thin lips into the phantom of a smile. “Greet the Herbist for me. He gave me a good concoction for my last sunsickness—even if it tasted of baoli dung.”

She nodded and walked past him, feeling his stare on her back.

“Anatomist!”

She turned, trying to control her breathing. The Anatomist’s pulse, her pulse, palpitated in his throat. Somewhere deep within, she could hear him hiss and struggle, his horror bordering on madness. He managed to jerk his hand upward, and Ai Ling crushed down on his being like stone. She guided the hand up to rub the smooth chin, hoping it looked natural.

“Do you need help?” The sentry cocked his head in Chen Yong’s direction. Her own body rested in Chen Yong’s arms, seemingly fast asleep.

“You really do take me for senile, Amber. He is under a bind of obeyance.” She let the words fall naturally from the lips. There was no room for hesitation or error.

The sentry nodded, his expression unreadable, and strolled away. Suddenly a loud gong reverberated through the city. The breath caught in the Anatomist’s throat after Ai Ling grasped the meaning of it.

The Eight Chants of Returning.

The entire city would now break their afternoon silence to recite eight prayers before resuming the tasks of the day. The city would soon swarm back to life.

Chen Yong turned to her as the second gong rang, the powerful sound filling her with panic. She did not speak, but instead hurried toward the flying chariots. The Anatomist’s breath came in short gasps; his heart fluttered and skipped beats. She led Chen Yong upward, to a small landing notched in the side of a hill.

Three chariots, open sedans with huge silver wheels, sat on the smooth dirt. One was painted a deep eggplant and carved into the image of a bird, golden wings tucked to its sides. One bore the resemblance of a mouse, gleaming silver in the sunlight. The final chariot was hewn in the image of a dragon, rendered in azure and sea green—so like the sea dragon that had carried them to the mountain of the Immortals. This chariot was the Anatomist’s personal favorite. It had the reputation for traveling the fastest.

“The dragon,” she said, and felt the Anatomist shriek and rattle against her in rage. A third gong reverberated across the hillside.

“Now you have a taste of what it feels like to be enslaved,” she said aloud to his struggling spirit.

“What?” Chen Yong asked.

“Climb in, hurry!” She flung their knapsacks onto the chariot floor, then grimaced, remembering what she carried in her own. The image of Li Rong’s heart tumbling forth and unraveling from its cocoon flitted through her mind, seeped into the Anatomist’s. He mewed in terror.

Chen Yong opened a door on the side of the dragon and carefully placed her on the bench.

“How does this thing work?” He looked around with a puzzled expression.

“We wait for a good breeze and push the chariot over the ledge,” she replied.

“Are you mad?”

“It does fly. I’ll push, then leave his body.” She had to shout over the reverberations of the fourth gong. It had better fly.

Chen Yong’s surprise turned to worry. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“I’ve done it so far, haven’t I?” she said, more bluntly than she intended.

She limped to the rear of the chariot and started to push with all the strength of the one arm. The chariot was heavy for the Anatomist’s slight frame, and he could not run fast with the bad leg, but the large wheels sped up quickly, and very soon she was struggling to keep up.

The contraption raced off the edge of the landing and hovered for one frightening heartbeat. Ai Ling whispered a prayer, seeking aid from the Goddess of Mercy. And then a small breeze caught it and the chariot began to drift. The sound of the fifth gong echoed through the valley.

Chen Yong crouched over her body, a hand on her shoulder as if to keep her steady in the slightly rocking chariot. But his eyes were locked on the Anatomist. She needed to return to her body. A breeze swept through the valley and buffeted the chariot higher, out over a grove of strange fruit trees.

A thick arm snaked around the Anatomist’s neck, dragging him back. “Taking a trip? It is not authorized by the Chief.”

Ai Ling choked. The Anatomist choked. She wasn’t sure anymore. She released her hold on his being, cast herself out, and pulled along the invisible cord, riding a gentle zephyr toward the chariot.

There was a jarring snap, this time so violent she gasped. She gulped in short breaths. The world was dimmer, the colors dulled. But this sight was her own, this mind and this body her own.

“Ai Ling?” Chen Yong leaned over her, the sun catching the dark auburn of his hair. “Drink some water.” He cradled her head and lifted the flask to her mouth and cool spring water splashed on her lips and chin.

“I just need to catch my breath. . . .” Before she could finish, she lunged to the side of the chariot and retched over the edge. She collapsed against the chariot door, her arms draped over the side. Her head spun, and she forced her eyes shut.

The shrill screams of the Anatomist drifted to her on the wind. She opened her eyes to see him slumped against the bulk of Sentry Amber, jabbing a weak finger in their direction, his fury obvious even as the two figures dwindled to pinpricks.

“Will they follow us?” Chen Yong asked.

She shook her head, then immediately regretted it as the world tilted again. “We took the fastest chariot.”

Chen Yong knelt by her, wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders. “Lie down. You need to rest.”

About twice the length of an individual sedan and oblong in shape, the uncovered chariot held a wide bench at one end lined with plump cushions.

She let herself be led there and laid her head down on a cushion. It smelled of strange and pungent herbs, but she didn’t find it unpleasant. Chen Yong arranged the other cushions and draped a blanket over her. She smiled weakly, but he did not see it.

“The valley has disappeared already,” he said.

“You steer with your destination in mind,” Ai Ling muttered. “That’s how it works.” She shut her eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep.