Silver Phoenix

15

Ai Ling woke to find Chen Yong steering the pivot as if he’d done it many times before. She pulled herself into a sitting position and stretched. Her stomach churned, but her head did not spin like before.

The chariot flew gently above misty peaks. The scenery rushed past them at an unnatural speed—so fast that she could not look for long, even though the chariot itself did not seem to be racing, merely gliding on a soft breeze.

“Before I met you, I would not have thought steering a chariot with my mind possible. But now I think, what do I know?” Chen Yong turned and managed a wan, tired smile. “Are you feeling better? I don’t know how long you slept, but it seemed a long time.”

He sat down next to her and pulled something from his knapsack. “Let’s eat. We need strength.”

Her stomach grumbled. What she would not give for a large bowl of broth with hand-pulled noodles or steamed dumplings or cabbage and braised pork meatballs. . . .

Chen Yong handed her two biscuits and strips of dried squid. She gnawed on the squid, savoring the flavor. She wolfed down the biscuits, despite their stale blandness.

“If only we had some tea.” They spoke at the same time. Their eyes met in surprise, and they laughed.

“It’s good to see you eat. I’d be worried if you ever lost your appetite,” he said, dusting his hands of crumbs.

“Why do I feel like I should take offense to that?” Ai Ling laughed at the uncertain expression that flitted across his handsome features. She rummaged through her own knapsack, careful to keep her face composed, and pulled out an apple. Chen Yong sliced it with a small knife. But she was no longer hungry, and he ate the crisp fruit alone.

“I’ve been thinking of nothing but the Palace while you slept,” Chen Yong said.

“The Palace.” Would she have enough strength to defeat Zhong Ye and save her father?

“It was the destination in my mind as I steered,” he said, scanning the horizon.

The light faded fast, as if the day fled from them. The night deepened and a full moon rose. They discovered the chariot had a strong light in the front, illuminating their way. Ai Ling leaned over to investigate and discovered two round orbs embedded in the woodwork, forming the dragon’s eyes. She touched one eye with cautious fingertips. It was neither cool nor hot.

The interior of the chariot itself had the same orb carved into the woodwork of the floor panel. This light glowed softly and looked like a moon, rising large and full over carved hills and trees.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” She traced her finger around it.

“The one-armed tribe was known for their mechanical and building skills. That much I remember from The Book of Lands Beyond,” Chen Yong said. There was a short pause in which only the sound of the wind rushing by filled the space around them.

She let out a breath that turned into a small hiss. “You’re right. They are both female and male—it explains their high voices and smooth faces.”

After all they had encountered, this realization still stunned her. They had visited a land, been captured by a people she thought to be story and myth. It was one thing to believe the Immortals were real—but people so different from themselves?

“You saved us,” Chen Yong said in a quiet voice. “What you did was beyond my comprehension. I don’t know how you took control of his body, much less acted like him so convincingly. I wasn’t even sure myself it was you.”

“I did what I had to do. I went into his mind and saw him thinking of . . . experiments he wanted to perform.” She looked down at her hands. She sounded like a monster herself. Some sort of demon. “I think my ability has grown stronger. I’ve seen through the eyes of the undead—the demon that carried your image . . . and the corpse monster . . . I killed it from within.”

“Within?”

“I went inside it to kill it.”

“Mother of the Heavens, I thought you slew it with the blessed dagger. It’s amazing, Ai Ling. It’s frightening. . . .” Chen Yong trailed off.

She clasped her knees to her chest. “I wish I knew more. I just go. I didn’t know I could take over the Anatomist’s body until I tried. I was terrified and couldn’t think of another way to escape.”

She shook her head. “Li Rong was right when he called it spiritual rape,” she whispered, her voice catching.

Chen Yong touched her wrist. Startled by his contact, her skin tingled.

“You saved our lives, Ai Ling. Thank the Goddess for your gift.”

She tried to smile, grateful for his kind words, but could not manage it.

She stood and looked out at the world far below. She could see trees and mountain peaks, lit by the moon—like ink washes she’d done for evening landscapes. The air was cold this high up, and the stars shone and glimmered. Ai Ling pulled on an extra tunic and tucked herself back on the bench, trying to find constellations she was familiar with in the night sky.

She must have drifted to sleep again. The glare of daylight beneath her closed lids roused her. She peered, squinting, and saw Chen Yong still guiding the chariot.

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, rubbing her face. It did not feel like long enough.

“The chariot seems to hasten the passing of time. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours,” he said.

“You should get some rest, too.”

Chen Yong sat down next to her on the cushioned bench. “I don’t think I could fall asleep even if I tried,” he said. He stared at the pivot before them. “I don’t believe the chariot even needs steering, once the destination is set. It helped to keep my mind occupied.”

Ai Ling studied him. He appeared exhausted, his grief etched in the tense line of his jaw. He put his face in his hands, allowing his shoulders to fall forward as if in defeat. She wanted to draw him into her arms, cradle him as he had cradled her. But she did not move.

“If you’re to help me save my father—and perhaps find your mother, I think you should try to rest,” she said.

“I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, Ai Ling. Given the nature of the creatures we’ve been fighting. Zhong Ye will be the strongest foe of all, the most powerful in the dark arts.”

“I can’t do this alone.”

Chen Yong lifted his head and met her gaze. “I think you can.”

“I’m glad you believe so.” She clutched a cushion to her chest. “I’m not so certain.”

“You haven’t seen yourself, Ai Ling. You’re quick-witted and brave. You’re strong.”

She dropped her chin, her face tingling with pleasure. “And stubborn. And rash.”

Chen Yong leaned back and laughed. “Even so, I’ll be there at your side until the end.”

Ai Ling did not fear he would abandon her. Not now. But a small part of her wondered if she was being selfish, especially after the loss of Li Rong. The thought of him brought back both intense grief and anger. What had she done in her former life to inherit this terrible task? Li Rong was dead, and Chen Yong risked his own life for her. No one else would be hurt—not her father, not Chen Yong. She would end this.

She rose and peered over the side of the flying chariot. Nothing but infinite cerulean blue with wisps of clouds below. She let the wind brush past her. It soothed her. She was glad they were nowhere, because to be somewhere would mean fighting for their lives again. She was glad to be alone with Chen Yong.

His eyes were closed. A wild, intense feeling filled her, shuddered through her. Ai Ling turned from him, fought the urge to crouch close and see the rise and fall of his chest. Did he dream? She remembered the girl of his dreams, felt again his aching loss.

She did not notice the chariot’s descent until the clouds that had been beneath surrounded them. The chariot glided faster now as it flew downward, and the daylight faded once again too soon, the remains of the full moon revealing a vast sea below. Ai Ling drank from her flask and nibbled on some dried mango.

She sat down next to Chen Yong, gathering his warmth, even though their bodies did not touch. She slept with her knapsack hugged tight against her, Li Rong’s heart pressed against her own.

She dreamed of home, of sweeping the main hall and eating a celebratory feast for the new year. They toasted one another with wine and laughter. Then she sat at her mother’s dressing mirror as her mother brushed her hair. The face reflected before her was not recognizable. The mirror showed a beautiful woman, with her own features, but painted with expert care. Her mother slowly wound her hair up above her head in elaborate loops, before placing a wedding veil over her face.

No.

A gentle thud jolted her from her dreams. The sun had risen. They were on the ground. Chen Yong sat up beside her. They were outside the tall walls of a city—there was no one about. She looked up and saw that watch towers spanned its entire length. She caught Chen Yong’s eye. Was this the Emperor’s city?

Chen Yong stepped out of the chariot, his belongings slung across his back and his sword at his side.

“I hate to leave this chariot,” she said.

Chen Yong smiled and nodded to a grove behind them. They pushed the dragon chariot among the trees. It was hidden from the path along the city wall, but not as well as she would have liked.

They set out to find a gate. The city was massive, vast beyond her comprehension. They walked for more than an hour, following the edge of the mud-colored wall, before they came upon a grand entrance.

Thick black stone doors were pushed back, and a golden dragon, extended to full length, claws splayed like daggers, graced each one. An imposing ebony sign hung above the grand gate, with the characters HUANG LONG carved in gold. She touched Chen Yong’s elbow.

“The City of the Yellow Dragon,” she whispered. This was where they would find the Palace of Fragrant Dreams, the main residence of the Emperor.

“The chariot did not fail us,” Chen Yong said.

They joined a throng of people on foot, astride their horses, or hidden behind silk drapes in sedans, all waiting to filter through the massive main gate.

The line moved quickly. Many people were waved past by the sentry at the gate while other guardsmen looked on.

Just ahead of them, a peasant in a faded tunic and trousers handed over a scroll. The sentry unfurled it. He read its contents and pushed back the peasant’s straw hat to scrutinize his face. The peasant’s shoulders curled forward, his hands clasped tightly together. The sentry waved him away, denying entry.

Chen Yong leaned close to her. “Let me speak for us,” he whispered.

Ai Ling opened her mouth to retort that she had a voice of her own, then closed it again. For her to speak would certainly draw attention to them. A young woman outside the inner quarters stayed mute, unless spoken to.

It was soon their turn. She felt the weariness in her muscles and joints, the dust on her clothes and the travel grime on her skin. The guard studied Chen Yong’s face and then looked at hers just as intently. She knew they were not a pleasant sight.

“What business do you have in the Emperor’s city?” he asked, his voice surprisingly deep.

“I come to prepare for the imperial examinations. This is my wife.”

The guard raised his brows, and Ai Ling hoped she did not raise her own. Why hadn’t he told her? She looped one arm around his and squeezed it with her other hand. Curse the rotten turtle egg for surprising her like this.

“So fortunate to marry before you even make rank? And you a foreigner besides?” Ai Ling felt Chen Yong’s arm tense, but refrained from casting herself into the sentry’s spirit. Not yet.

“She was promised to me at birth. I’m fortunate indeed,” Chen Yong said, and took her hand.

The blood rushed to her face, and she looked down at her feet.

“And so newly wed she does not wear her hair up?” The guard was close enough that she smelled the tobacco on his breath. She pressed her chin lower.

“My wife is from the country and lax in her ways. I have promised her a handmaid who will fix her hair each morning, once I pass the exams and receive an official appointment,” Chen Yong said.

He spoke with such ease that she almost believed him.

“Good luck on the examinations then. Move on.” The guard waved and did not bother to give either of them another glance. They walked through the gate under the curious eyes of the other sentries standing guard.

“Don’t pull your hand away,” Chen Yong said softly when they were out of earshot. She knew enough not to look back, but she pinched his arm as punishment. He chuckled under his breath as they walked hand in hand down the main street of the Emperor’s city.

The architecture of the city was elaborate. Each building rose at least three stories tall, with pillars carved of alabaster, jasper, and jade. The roof tiles were all gilded in gold. The main street was lined with merchant stores, selling everything from embroidered silk bedding to tailored clothing, cookware supplies, spices, wines, and sweets. The wide, tree-flanked cobbled street was mobbed with people. Not as impressive as the quartz walkways of the One-Armed Tribe, but certainly better than any Xian town she had visited.

A few restaurants were interspersed between the specialty merchant shops. Ai Ling’s mouth watered from the scent of roasted duck. Chen Yong released her hand, and her heart dropped with it as he pulled away.

“Let’s eat first,” he said. “The smell of that duck is torture.”

They pushed their way toward the origin of the delicious aroma, and wandered down a small side street. Tucked in the middle was a cramped one-story restaurant, looking as if it fought for its space between two tall buildings. There was no name plaque outside the establishment.

Ai Ling and Chen Yong stepped into the dark interior. The restaurant was small, and surprisingly empty considering the tantalizing scent that had drawn them both. Fewer than a dozen wooden tables took up the tiny space, with a dark blue curtain draped between the dining area and the kitchen behind it.

“Goddess of Mercy, I need to eat,” Ai Ling said, sliding into a wooden chair near the kitchen. They’d be served faster, she reasoned.

Chen Yong grinned at her. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a hot meal.” He sat down across from her and put his knapsack on the floor. “Order as much as you like. My treat.”

Ai Ling clapped her hands with glee, and Chen Yong laughed.

“It’s the least I deserve after the shock of playing your wife without so much as a kiss or warning,” she said.

Two bright points of color appeared on Chen Yong’s cheekbones, barely noticeable in the dim light. Ai Ling smiled, amused that she had made him blush for once.

“It worked, didn’t it? We would have had too many questions otherwise,” he said.

A girl brought them hot tea.

“A plate of the roast duck, steamed dumplings, spicy noodles with beef gravy, pickled cucumbers, stewed tongue and eggs if you have them, cold please, and sticky rice pearls, too,” Ai Ling said, before the server girl could open her mouth. “I don’t know what he wants.” Ai Ling nodded toward Chen Yong.

“I’m not sure I have enough coins to order anything more,” he said, laughing.

Ai Ling was about to retort but couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“I’ll have fresh steamed fish, if you have it, and bean curd with shrimp and snow peas,” he said.

“We are close to the sea and have fresh seafood delivered daily, sir.” The servant girl nodded before she hurried away to the kitchen with their order.

“We never ate much seafood. It was difficult to get, not to mention expensive. But always a treat,” Ai Ling said.

“I guess I grew up spoiled. My family had at least one seafood dish with every meal,” he said.

Ai Ling glanced at the other patrons in the small restaurant. There was a stocky man drinking wine and trying various small dishes near the entrance, and at another table close by two men slurped large bowls of noodles. Her hunger worsened.

Another patron was just entering. He blocked the doorway, the sunlight from behind him obscuring his features. He raised one hand and pointed at her. The hair on her arms stood on end.

“Ai Ling,” he hissed.

“Chen Yong,” she said, in warning.

He did not rise from the chair, but his eyes were alert and dangerous.

The figure stepped from the doorway, and the lanterns in the small restaurant revealed his form. His white tongue lolled out past his chin, the ashen lips drawn back showing jagged teeth. Instead of hair, milk white strands thicker than noodles writhed on his head. It took a second for Ai Ling to realize that each strand was alive, with tiny gaping maws. A keening came from the hundreds of open mouths. Her teeth ached from it.

Night-worm fiends! Her mind quickly flew to The Book of the Dead.

The man dining with his friend was the only other patron facing the front entrance. He shrieked and scooted back in his chair too quickly, tipping backward in a heap.

The stocky man eating by himself rose in confusion. “Son of a cursed bitch, what’s—” He never finished his sentence as the thing lurched from behind and laid a hand on his shoulder.

The man’s eyes grew wide as they turned a filmy white, his black pupils disappearing. His lips drew back as jagged teeth erupted from his gums and his tongue fell from his mouth, widening and lengthening at the same time, until it licked his own chin. Worms sprouted instantaneously from his entire head, undulating and hissing as they grew to their full length.

“Ai Ling,” he hissed.

The metamorphosis was complete in mere breaths. The man who had fallen on the floor whimpered and struggled to rise. His friend tried to help him to his feet.

But both creatures covered the space between them in two jerky strides, each laying a hand on one of the men. Ai Ling didn’t need to see what would happen next. She jumped from her chair and saw Chen Yong do the same, with his sword drawn.

“Through the kitchen,” she yelled.

She dashed through the curtained door, only to be greeted by the hissing of her name. Their servant girl. She crouched by the cutting table, blocking their way to the back entry. Ai Ling cast a quick glance around and saw two others, stumbling toward them.

“Step back!” Chen Yong pushed past her and slashed the servant girl in the neck with his sword. The pale worms on her head spat with fury. But the girl did not falter, and she extended her hand toward Chen Yong.

The other two closed in on Ai Ling, hands outstretched, hissing her name.

She felt the crackle in her hair as all three demons were enveloped in a blinding light and flung against the kitchen wall. Ai Ling clutched her jade pendant, burning in her palm.

“Go!” she shouted.

She threw the back door open and jumped into the small alleyway that ran behind the restaurant. The stench of rotten cabbage filled her nose. She looked back past Chen Yong to see the three demons from the dining room stagger after them. She splashed through a puddle of rancid water and slipped, reeling backward. Chen Yong caught her and pushed her upright again, thrusting her forward.

She ran with Chen Yong at her heels, the sound of her heart and breath thundering in her ears. The alleyway was narrow and dark. She ran blind, hoping to come to the end of the passageway and an open street. A gray stone wall, a little taller than Chen Yong, blocked their path. They were trapped. She turned to find fiends shuffling toward them, all hissing her name.

“Climb the wall, I’ll help you,” Chen Yong said.

He lifted her, and her hands searched for a hold among the rough stones. She pulled herself up as Chen Yong boosted her by the feet from below. She perched on the top of the wall, the width of it no more than her foot. She reached down to Chen Yong. The demons swarmed around him, tongues lolling and arms outstretched.

He looked up at her with an unreadable expression. “Run,” he said.

“Take my hand.” She stretched toward him, and their hands clasped just as the wretched creatures fell upon him.

Ai Ling watched with horror as his amber eyes began to fade to white. His tongue emerged from his mouth, and his face distorted. She hurtled into his being with fury and felt the onslaught of the evil that flooded his spirit. She fought against it, whirling through him in a blinding rage, destroying the seeping filth of the night worms’ tainted touch.

I can’t lose you, was her only tangible thought. She held on to it as she fought. She saw nothing, only felt the blazing heat of her spirit as it coursed through his. Finally, sensing a balance return, she saw through him; she squatted on the wall, their fingers twined together, her face pallid and tight.

In a rage of violence not his own, Chen Yong knocked the demons to the ground. She snapped back into her own body. Gasping, the world spun, and she gripped the narrow wall with both hands. Chen Yong stood below her, head bent, looking at the bodies around him. They were themselves again, and all lay unconscious on the ground. The servant girl bled profusely from her gaping throat.

Chen Yong stooped down and leaned his ear over her face. He placed a hand on her breast and lifted an ashen face. “She’s dead,” he said.

His clear eyes filled her with relief, although they were dark with sorrow. They were his eyes. Did he realize what had happened? She could do nothing but shake her head—another innocent life lost because of her. She spoke a prayer under her breath.

“Let’s go this way,” she said. “I can see the main street from here.” Her insides felt twisted, her chest heavy as she dropped down clumsily on the other side of the wall.

Chen Yong climbed over the stone wall with ease, and they returned to the main street. Her legs were shaking; she was barely able to walk.

“They were night-worm fiends,” she said.

Chen Yong stopped and regarded her. “I was trying to think if I’ve come across them in any of my readings.” He shook his head in obvious admiration. “You win.”

“It’s from The Book of the Dead,” she said.

“I was never allowed to read it.”

She knew most of the text by heart.

“The initial curse was set by someone powerful. I don’t recall the passing of the evil through touch in my readings. That was something new.”

Chen Yong stood in the crowd, the people moving past him like water against a stone. He shielded and protected her with his body.

“But you were stronger,” he said. “I felt you within me fighting. I had no willpower against it. I would have been one of them within a moment’s time.”

So he knew.

“How did you do it?” he asked.

She looked down at her hands, smudged with grime. Tears began to well in her eyes. They were her friends. And now Li Rong was dead, and she had put Chen Yong in danger again.

Chen Yong guided her to a stone bench. They had walked into a lush open garden within one of the massive town squares without Ai Ling noticing. The ebony stone of the bench was inlaid with gold plum blossoms around its edge. She traced the curved lines with one finger. Only in the Emperor’s city. Anywhere else, and the people would have scraped off the gold with their pocketknives.

“I’m thinking of Li Rong,” she finally mustered through tears.

Chen Yong nodded. “I miss my brother more than I can express. It’s a pain I’ve never known—not even—” He stopped abruptly.

Not even compared to losing your first love, she thought.

“I can’t lose you too,” she said.

Chen Yong turned so she could see his face. “You won’t.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the sunlight filter through the trees, the air scented with earth and the subtle perfume of roses.

“We can pay tribute to Li Rong when this is over,” he said in a quiet voice, breaking the silence.

Ai Ling looked away, feeling her stomach clench. Chen Yong would forgive her. Once he saw Li Rong again. “We should go to the Palace,” she said, too abruptly.

“But how? They won’t admit just anyone. The walls are too tall to climb. No way in but through the main gate.”

“There’s a back gate. The one leading to the inner chambers and living quarters of the Emperor,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Father told me,” she said.

“Do you know anything else about the Palace layout? Its routines?”

Ai Ling sighed. “No.” She scuffed the ground with her worn shoe. “I didn’t plan on sneaking in.”

Chen Yong cocked his head. The color had returned to his face. She remembered the filmy white that had glazed over his eyes, and shuddered.

“I thought we’d knock . . . and ask to be let in,” she said.

He threw his head back and laughed. She smiled, even though he laughed at her expense.

“I was thinking too much like a man.” He grinned, then his face grew serious. “But we’d walk straight into the hands of the enemy.”

Ai Ling’s fingers made star shapes now, triangle after triangle on the stone bench. “I think that’s what I need to do. Walk into the hands of the enemy.”

“You’re the leader, Ai Ling. I just try to stay alive.” He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “I would never have come this far.”

“You’ve returned the favor more than once.”

She rose, feeling weary and drained. What wouldn’t she give to be home right now with Taro curled in her lap and her mother sipping a cup of tea across from her? But being home would not make things right again. They walked north. The midday crowd thinned as the sun grew hotter and people in the packed taverns and restaurants escaped the heat. If she thought Qing He was big, the Emperor’s city must have been ten times its size, the Palace secured within its heart, nestled in the inner city of Huang Long.

They finally saw the massive moon-shaped gate of the Palace of Fragrant Dreams after what seemed like a halfday of walking. Sentries guarded either side of the gate, but their post was so high up she could not see anything except moving shadows within the observation decks. No one was down below to indicate how a person could enter.

Ai Ling scanned the wall. It stretched on for as far as she could see in both directions. “This way,” she finally said, turning right and walking along the expanse of stone.

They hugged the wall of the Palace, and rounded yet another corner after a long stretch of walking. Her legs ached, and her chafed feet felt on fire.

“Perhaps we should rest at an inn. Gather our strength,” Chen Yong ventured as they stared at the endless wall.

She pressed on. Something told her it was time, that lingering would not be an advantage at this point.

“I think they’re waiting for us.” Her scalp prickled at her own words.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I’m drawn there, Chen Yong.”

They turned another corner. She felt no fear, only a sense of resignation mingled with determination.

They finally arrived at the back entrance. The moonshaped gate was demure compared to the main entrance, a few hand spans taller than their heads, its edges set with a thick band of carved ivory.

Ai Ling approached the gate and touched the elaborate carving. It was wider than her hand. She saw etched peonies, magnolia, jasmine, and plum blossoms. She traced one finger across a long-legged bird perched among chrysanthemums and butterflies. She recognized it as a phoenix, but it did not look like the actual red-breasted pair she had seen wandering in the Immortals’ garden.

Magnificent bronze lions stood on either side of the door, perched on ebony stones. Chen Yong examined them with a cautious air. “I almost expect them to move,” he said with a wry smile, reminding her of their experience approaching the gate of the Golden Palace.

“I guess I’ll knock,” she said.

Chen Yong moved to stand beside her, his posture relaxed, his expression confident.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, her hand poised midair.

He looked down at her with surprise. “I think we’ve finally made it, Ai Ling. The enemy may lie within, but perhaps our loved ones do as well.”

She brought her hand against the door with a hard rap. But it barely made a sound. “No one will hear us.”

The gate swung open just as she uttered the words. A girl of no more than fourteen years stood in front of them—a servant, according to the two braids coiled in circles on either side of her head. But she was dressed more elaborately than anyone Ai Ling had ever seen. Her sage green robes were embroidered with gold and silk thread designs. Pearls nestled within her ebony locks, and a delicate gold filigree circled her brow.

The handmaid inclined her head. “Please enter.”

They walked together into the Palace grounds. The afternoon light gleamed off the gold tiles of the sloping roofs. They were in an intimate courtyard filled with the fragrant scent of gardenias—reminding Ai Ling instantly of her mother. Birds flitted from branch to branch. She saw a golden-haired cat leap into the tree, then heard the panicked flutter of wings.

“I have come to see Zhong Ye,” Ai Ling said. Her throat tightened at speaking his name aloud.

“Master Zhong is occupied. I’ll take you to a waiting place,” the girl replied.

There was no choice but to follow her. They walked along a stone-paved path past the largest building in the courtyard, only to emerge into another. This one was empty but for a pond in the middle and huge bronze urns flanking all four corners. They wove from one courtyard to the next, from one garden filled with fruit trees to another filled with gilded cages containing singing birds. Ai Ling felt lost within the labyrinth of buildings, but the sense that she was being drawn in grew stronger.

She breathed deeply, and a quiet calm stilled her mind. Chen Yong walked beside her, his long strides full of power and grace. She wanted to touch his hand, to reassure him, to reassure herself.

He turned to her, and the corner of his mouth rose in the hint of a smile.

They finally stopped before a building more opulent than the rest. The paneled doors were red and gilded with golden phoenixes. Jade pillars flanked the entryway, and red lanterns in the shape of peonies were strung above, waiting to be lit at nightfall.

The handmaid climbed the three steps and gestured for them to enter the hall with an elegant flourish of her hand. Ai Ling stepped inside, and Chen Yong followed. The girl began closing the paneled doors behind them. Ai Ling glanced back, and all calm fled as anxiety pooled like tar in her stomach.

“She merely gives us privacy.” A woman spoke from within the deeper recesses of the room. Her voice was lyrical, lilting. A woman from the North.

Ai Ling walked forward, aware of the dampness under her arms. Afternoon sun filtered in from carved panels along the ceiling, lighting the space minimally.

Suddenly lanterns flared and lit the entire hall, illuminating a raised dais at one end. A woman sat on a magnificent seat, so massive her feet did not reach the floor. Yet she sat as if she belonged there, and Ai Ling believed it.

She had slender eyes in the classic, exalted shape. Delicate eyebrows stretched over them like wings. Her dainty mouth was rouged bloodred, and her skin was as pale as alabaster.

She was attired in a golden silk sheath; purple wisterias bloomed on her dress, with the symbol for longevity embroidered among the flowers in dark silver. She wore jade bracelets on her wrists, and a large, clear stone ring on one slender finger. A black headdress decorated with pearls and rubies rested against her brow; her ebony hair was parted in the middle and swept neatly away from her face.

She must be the empress. But Ai Ling did not fall on her knees, as etiquette would dictate—restrained by a sense of suspicion and her own pride. Chen Yong stood tall beside her, and she gathered courage from him.

“I had to see you with my own eyes.” The woman spoke regally, in a soft tone, making the lilt of her regional dialect sound even more exotic. Her face remained expressionless and imperial.

Ai Ling did not know what she meant.

“I am called Ai Ling. I’ve come to take my father, Master Wen, home.”

The Empress regarded Chen Yong with a slight tilt of her head. “And you’ve brought your friend, I see. Jin Lian’s son. How the dead come back to haunt us.”

The color drained from Chen Yong’s face. He stiffened. Ai Ling could almost feel his anger and confusion.

“You’re not much to look at in this life, Silver Phoenix.” The coy smile on her rouged lips deepened. “Too tall and lanky. Pity. You were breathtaking. Stunning.”

The hairs on the back of Ai Ling’s neck stood on end. Zhong Ye’s jealous consort. She tried to cast her spirit toward the woman, but she slammed against a dark energy. The cord snapped back, and she fought not to double over.

“We shall take leave if you cannot help us,” Ai Ling said after a moment, clenching her trembling hands. She turned only to discover a wall of armed guards behind them.

Chen Yong saw them the same moment she did, and his face hardened, one hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Ai Ling shook her head. There were at least fifty of them. How did they appear without so much as a sound? They wore gold helmets obscuring their faces, with only dark slits for eyes.

She turned back to the woman on the golden throne but was met with the same coy smile.

“I’ve tried to kill you many times. Even sent a demon to possess a man to deflower you. I know my master would never take you used.” The woman rose. The golden sheath of her dress whispered, hugged her hips.

“You surprised me each time you managed to live.” She glided toward Ai Ling without seeming to touch the ground, closing the long distance within two drawn breaths.

“I always knew that only I could finish the task.” With one fluid motion, she dipped an elegant hand into her sleeve, withdrew a dagger, and plunged it into Ai Ling’s stomach.

Ai Ling gasped, the sharp pain causing her to lean forward. She groped at the other woman’s hand, held it. Ai Ling stared into her eyes and found no pupils, just infinite black pools reflecting her own pale face. She tried to delve into her spirit again, but could not summon the strength.

“Ai Ling!” She was aware of Chen Yong leaping toward her, only to be pulled back by a faceless guard.

The blade pulsed through her. She started to fall—her attacker cradled her like a loving mother. “Not so difficult to kill, after all.” The woman twisted the dagger, her face lighting with pleasure.

Heat flared in Ai Ling’s pendant. The woman, encased in a blinding white blaze, was lifted and flung to the back of the room. She landed with a hard thud against the throne, the dagger skidding across the stone floor.

“You pathetic little newt!” she screamed in a shrill voice. “You can’t hurt me.”

Ai Ling fell to her knees, and the room grew bright and bleary around the edges. Pain seared through her gut. She began to tremble, feeling both hot and cold.

“Why was I not invited to the festivities?” A rich male voice echoed through the hall.

Ai Ling saw him through a long tunnel. A lone figure in the doorway. She could see nothing but him, the smallest detail illuminated as if he were immersed in a shaft of sunlight.

He wore a deep slate robe with gold trim around the collar and sleeves. He walked to her with command and authority, and Ai Ling blinked, willing herself to stay conscious. He stood a hand width away from her. Her eyesight wavered, the elaborate gold embroidering on the edge of his robe blurring. She smelled the faint scent of spiced cologne.

“What games do you play, Gui Xin? You thought you could dispose of my true love right beneath my nose?” He looked over his shoulder at the woman who rose to her feet, apparently unhurt.

“Silver Phoenix was weak. She was no love match for you,” Gui Xin said.

“Heal her.” Ai Ling heard the annoyance in his voice. Her head ached from a dull ringing in her ears. She clutched at her wound, felt the sticky warmth of blood between her fingers.

“You were nothing beyond a temporary consort,” he said. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“I learned from the best,” the woman replied in her lilting voice. “Do you truly believe I spent the last century merely pleasing you in the bedchamber? Embroidering?”

Gui Xin laughed.

Someone crouched close to Ai Ling, gently shifted her arm to place a hand across her stomach. A searing heat erupted at the touch. She gasped and felt her entire being shudder violently against the cold floor.

“Ai Ling!” Chen Yong. A clatter of steel and plate reverberated through the hall.

“Stay back, fool. He heals her,” the other man said.

Ai Ling watched through tear-filled eyes as the small head bent over her stomach. The child nodded in satisfaction. He had no eyes; the sockets were filled with dark sapphire stones. She realized then that this was no child, but a person of short stature. He smiled at her, the sapphires glittering in the lantern light.

He then stood to his full height, the size of a child of five years, and strode away with such confidence one never would have guessed he could not see. Ai Ling drew another deep breath; was drained, but not in pain. She sat up, and the world spun momentarily.

“Silver Phoenix never loved you.” Gui Xin glided toward them. “I can’t believe you are such a romantic fool, Zhong Ye.”

Ai Ling’s heart lurched. She wanted to scream, run from him. She jabbed her nails into bloodied palms. He stood too near, unmoving.

“I’ve subjugated legions of demons, made them do my bidding. Your precious Silver Phoenix would be dead again, cast back into the underworld, if she hadn’t proven to be so . . . lucky.” Gui Xin paused in front of them, so close Ai Ling could see the individual gold threads of her sheath.

Zhong Ye tilted his head. “You talk too much.”

Ai Ling watched as if removed from her own self. She turned to see Chen Yong, surrounded by the faceless guards. He met her gaze.

She had led him into this. She would cry now, if she had the strength.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have targeted your true love.” Her melodic voice did not diminish her sarcasm. “Perhaps I should have aimed higher.”

A movement from the back of the chamber caught Ai Ling’s eye. The dagger Gui Xin had used to stab her rose into the air and flew like a silver streak toward Zhong Ye. Before she could grasp what was happening, the dagger erupted in a plume of dust a few feet from him.

“You surprise me, Gui Xin,” Zhong Ye said. His expression and stance had never changed. “You’re smarter than I thought . . . and more naive as well.”

He raised a hand. Two guards strode forward and caught Gui Xin by both arms, intent on dragging her out. The same guards who had been at her bidding just moments before. But two men were not enough. She thrashed on the floor. Two other guards grasped her by each leg, and hoisted her off the ground like a sow going to slaughter.

She writhed even then, in midair. A green sheen flared around her, and the guards let go, yelping. Ai Ling smelled burned flesh.

Gui Xin stood, smoothing her hands over her sheath. “Don’t be a fool, Zhong Ye. Reconsider.”

A green glow still rippled about her. The guards stood at a distance, wary.

“No.” Zhong Ye spoke in a quiet voice so filled with threat that Ai Ling shuddered. “Accept your fate, Gui Xin.”

“Like you accept yours?” Her smile was cutting.

The green glow suddenly evaporated with a faint buzz. Gui Xin’s head snapped back, and she gasped, the cords of her neck standing taut.

“Kill her,” he ordered the guards.

They picked her up and she was stiff, rigid as a plank. The room spun as her rabid screaming reverberated through the hall.

“Wait.” Zhong Ye raised one hand. Gui Xin had the sense to quiet herself.

“Don’t burn all of her.” Zhong Ye smiled coldly. “She can dwell forever with the restless spirits of the underworld.”

Gui Xin gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “I’ll meet you there, Zhong Ye. You cannot live forever.”

He waved the guards away, and turned from her without another glance. He kneeled down beside Ai Ling and caressed her cheek. She flinched. “My blind one healed you,” he said, pulling her to her feet.

She stared into gray eyes. His hair was black, streaked with silver and plaited in a long queue. His eyebrows were so light they were nearly indistinguishable on his pale face. She willed herself to hold his gaze. And a sense of recognition sent terror ricocheting through her. Zhong Ye released her with gentle hands.

“You finally return to me.” He paced across the hard floor without sound, the flaps of his ornate robe whispering with each step.

Ai Ling felt light-headed. She tried to raise her hand to touch her wound, but she couldn’t move. She was frozen in place—just as Gui Xin had been. Her heart thumped harder against her chest. She took a breath, felt hysteria welling within her. She looked toward Chen Yong, who stood rigid, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides. He was bound as well. She fought the urge to scream, to sob.

Zhong Ye slipped a hand inside his tunic, drawing out a long piece of red silk. A breast binder. He raised the fabric to his nose and breathed deep. “To think you hanged yourself with this on our wedding night, Silver Phoenix.” He fingered the delicate material. “I’ve waited over two centuries for you to come back to me, love.”

“My name is Ai Ling.”

He smiled. His brows lifted ever so slightly as he approached her, tucking the piece of fabric back into his robe. “Yes. And to think Master Wen brought you into this world. I nearly had him executed.” He chuckled.

“Fate amuses me. Who knew my worst enemy would be the one to bring my love back?” He raised his hand and stroked her cheek again. She jerked her head away, wanted to step back, but she could not move.

“You’re taller in this life. Not so womanly in shape. But still beautiful, if in a different way.” His hand glided down to her shoulder, the palm clasping the back of her neck. His fingers massaged the roots of her hair.

She didn’t realize her one braid had been freed until her hair floated around her face, settling against her neck and cascading across her chest. But Zhong Ye had not touched the ribbon that bound her hair. He had somehow loosened her braid without his hands. Ai Ling bit her lip until she tasted blood, mortified that she stood with her hair loose in front of Chen Yong and this stranger who spoke to her like a lover.

“Still beautiful indeed. And still untouched.” He smiled, pale lips drawn over perfect teeth. “Yes, I can sense it. You are pure. My fruit to pluck and taste.”

She spat at him. Her aim was true, and the glob of saliva hit his cheek.

Zhong Ye did not flinch. “Still feisty, too, I see.” He grinned and ran one elegant forefinger across his cheek, wiping the saliva off his face, then licked the same finger with his tongue.

“And still sweet as well.”

“I’ve come for my father,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Indeed. He was the bait that lured you to me. He is safe—the guest of honor at our wedding banquet this evening.”

“No,” she whispered.

“If you want to see your dear father alive, you will say yes, love,” Zhong Ye said.

He suddenly cast a look toward Chen Yong. “You have feelings for that mutt?” A small smile played on his mouth.

Ai Ling stared straight ahead, felt the color drain from her face. She refused to look at Chen Yong.

“Ah, but you waste your time. He has nothing to give you. He’s but a shell of a man.” Zhong Ye tutted his tongue. “Why waste your affections on a half-breed?” He wandered over to Chen Yong, and stood before him, considering him coldly.

Ai Ling finally looked at Chen Yong. The cords of his neck were taut, his jaws clenched tight.

“Your mother was a whore.” Zhong Ye enunciated the words, and they hung heavy in the air, like a living thing. “She rutted willingly with a foreigner, one of those pale barbarians from across the sea. Spread her legs like a bitch in heat.” Zhong Ye turned, walked a few steps forward.

He flicked a hand, and a faint image began to take shape beside him. It solidified into a woman, not much older than Ai Ling. She was regal, with a swanlike neck, her arms clasped before her within long silken sleeves. Her black hair was pulled to her nape and bejeweled. Her peach dress cascaded to the ground, and she seemed to float.

Her complexion was as fine as porcelain, her large black eyes filled with a sadness beyond anything Ai Ling could grasp or describe. This young woman gazed at Chen Yong, who raised his head to meet her eyes. Ai Ling saw his face crumple for an instant, then change to stone in the next.

“I made sure your mother paid for her whorish ways. Poisoned ever so slowly; she lost her sight first, then the feeling in each limb.” Zhong Ye flicked his hand again, and the figure blurred, wavered like a mirage on a scorching day. He pursed his lips and took a breath, and the image of Chen Yong’s mother swirled into his mouth in a fluid stream. Zhong Ye’s eyes glittered with pleasure, triumph.

“It was painful. But less than what she deserved. Now her spirit is mine.”

Ai Ling felt hatred for this man consume her. She did not need to cast her spirit toward Chen Yong to feel the rage within him. Their eyes met—his face did not betray his thoughts or emotions.

A line of women glided into the room, their heads bowed, their gossamer sleeves flowing like petals on a spring breeze. Zhong Ye took a few steps toward them and nodded with a satisfied smile.

“You arrived just in time, my pet,” he said over his shoulder. “The Emperor and his court are on progress at the Palace of Cerulean Sky. We are free to celebrate as the true rulers of this kingdom.”

Ai Ling felt a ghostly finger trace her throat, the scent of spiced cologne filling her nose, even as Zhong Ye stood apart from her. She struggled to suppress her panic and terror, struggled to suppress her desire to lash out with her own spirit. Could Zhong Ye sense her power? Ai Ling wound herself tight, tucked it far from this monstrosity. Surprise would be her best weapon.

“I expect a splendid banquet to celebrate this wedding. Don’t harm yourself this time, love. Or your father dies. And your mother. Even this half-breed mutt.” He cocked his head in Chen Yong’s direction. “Do we understand each other?”

She nodded, sucking on her lower lip, steadying herself with the taste of her own blood. She could not kill him now. Her opportunity would come when they were alone. She swallowed hard.

“The handmaids will prepare you. It won’t be as traditional as most Xian families would like,” he said, laughing, “but what it lacks in decorum will be made up for in extravagance.”

A handmaid dressed in a lavender silk sheath approached Ai Ling, placing a gentle hand on her arm. To her surprise, she could move now, and the servant guided her out of the hall and into the courtyard. She turned back. But Chen Yong and Zhong Ye had disappeared like apparitions. A line of handmaids dressed exactly alike, with their plaits coiled close to the tops of their heads, followed. The silver ornaments in their tresses made clinking sounds in the dusk air.