Silver Phoenix

17

The drummers beat a slow rhythm that filled her senses until her heart, the pulse in her throat, her breathing, seemed to mimic it—be captured by it. She gripped the empty vial in her hand. The attendants slowed and halted.

The banquet master helped her onto a carpet of gold cloth that shot a path to the wedding hall. Her feet would never touch the ground. She focused on the red dragons and phoenixes embroidered on the cloth as she took one small, painful step after another.

She heard the song girls, leading the way. Their song was now accompanied by flute and strings while the drummers thumped quietly. The hall hushed when she stepped inside.

She frantically searched the crowd for her father, for Chen Yong. She twisted this way and that until the banquet master gripped her hard by the elbow, pulling her forward so abruptly that she stumbled. The crowd was ten deep, and the curious faces of strangers blurred together.

A slight breeze shifted her veil as Zhong Ye stepped forward. She smelled his cologne. Fury swelled within her. She wound it tight around her spirit, steeled herself against him. He tied a golden sash into the double same-heart knot, then bent over her, fastening the other end to her hand. The moments of silence pounded against her ears.

“The bride and groom are one. The groom may examine his bride’s features,” the banquet master announced.

Zhong Ye lifted the veil, and Ai Ling saw her father and Chen Yong among the guests behind him. Their faces were pale, taut with worry. Tears rushed to her eyes. He raised her chin with two fingers, causing a stir among the crowd. Forced to look up, she tucked her spirit even deeper, using her anger as a shield. Would he kiss her? Bind her with sorcery? A trickle of sweat rolled down her back.

“Proceed to the altar and pay your respects to all those who have gone before.” The banquet master’s warm, strong voice resonated through the long hall.

Ai Ling felt a tug at her hand as Zhong Ye walked backward to the altar, leading her by the short sash as if she were on a leash. She followed him, stumbling once, the ornate wedding gown too heavy. He helped her kneel on the ivory step before the altar and knelt down beside her.

“Bow thrice to heaven,” the banquet master said.

She bowed three times, the breath crushed from her each time she bent forward in the stiff gown.

“Bow thrice to earth,” the banquet master intoned. Ai Ling bowed again.

“And bow three times to your ancestors, your father and your mother.” Her throat tightened. Mother did not even know her only child was about to wed. She wished that her father didn’t know either.

“Rise now, and drink from one cup as husband and wife,” the banquet master said.

A song girl approached with the nuptial cup—as big and deep as a noodle bowl, made of red enamel and inlaid with jewels. Ai Ling had never seen anything so elaborate, so gaudy. The song girl offered the cup to Zhong Ye, and he took it in both hands, forcing Ai Ling to stumble closer, pulled by the sash. He raised the ceremonial cup to his lips and sipped.

He offered the cup to her, and their fingers touched. Ai Ling took a deep breath, tried to steady her hand. She made sure her lips did not drink from the same place he had. The wine tasted thick and sweet, made her thirst for fresh water. The song girl took the ornate cup away. Zhong Ye reached for her knotted hand, and she clenched her teeth. His hand was as smooth as a child’s and cool against her own hot skin.

“They are wed! We celebrate now at the banquet. May no one go thirsty or hungry this night, as your happiness will only augment that of the bride and groom.”

The throng shouted congratulations three times in unison, the cheers thundering around the hall. Festive music and singing erupted again as Zhong Ye walked the goldclothed path and pulled Ai Ling, tripping, behind him. Ai Ling craned her neck, desperately searching the crowd for her father and Chen Yong. But hundreds of people swarmed around her, and she could not see them.

Zhong Ye led her to a massive banquet hall. The ceiling was higher than any Ai Ling had seen in the Palace. Red-and-gold lanterns cast bright light on a banquet table that stretched the entire length of the room. It was so long she could not make out the faces at the opposite end. Guards flanked the walls, still and silent.

Just as she approached her own carved seat, she saw that her father and Chen Yong had been seated to her immediate left. She rushed toward them, but Zhong Ye held her back. Her father looked so much older; the lines near his eyes, the creases on his brow. The tall table and elaborate chair seemed to swallow him. Their eyes met, and she nearly burst into tears. He half rose to his feet, but Chen Yong restrained him with one hand.

Chen Yong’s handsome face was dark with fury—so unlike him that it shocked her. Ai Ling gave a slight shake of her head. He saw and looked down. Please don’t do anything foolish, she thought. Please don’t.

The moment she and Zhong Ye were seated, the drums thundered to a crescendo, then ceased as servants presented each guest with the first dish of the wedding feast. Magnificent entrees presented in lacquered trays arrived one after the other. Fish, prawns, pheasant, and boar. Succulent roots, rare fruits, nuts, and tender vegetables. Ai Ling forced herself to eat. She lost count of how many dishes were brought.

Seated to her right, Zhong Ye ate with enthusiasm, washing the food down with one cup of wine followed by another. Perhaps he’d be too drunk to make a wife of her this evening. She stared at her bound hand, swallowing the bitter taste that had risen to her mouth, and listened to her groom banter with his colleagues.

The drunken din of the guests grew louder until the noise pounded within her head. She avoided looking at her father or Chen Yong, both completely silent, neither even pretending to eat. She scanned other faces; bleary, squinted eyes, mouths open for more wine, gaping with lecherous laughter. Her breaths came too quickly, and the room began to spin.

She pinched her thigh so hard her eyes teared. This was no time to faint. She needed to be strong—had to be strong. This was not the worst of it.

Before the last courses were served, Zhong Ye pulled Ai Ling to her feet. They walked down the length of the massive banquet table, receiving toasts from the guests. He spoke to them in a commanding voice, threw his head back and drank with each toast. She was silent, only pretending to sip from her wine cup. After over an hour, they finally returned to their chairs, Ai Ling tottering on numbed feet.

Finally a gong sounded, announcing the end of the wedding banquet. The banquet master rose from his seat. “The bride now leads her groom into her bedchamber!”

Ai Ling grabbed at Zhong Ye’s fingers. “Not them,” she said, barely audible above the noise.

He leaned closer. “What?”

“Not my father or Chen Yong.”

He cupped her face in one hand, and she didn’t flinch. “You’ve behaved so beautifully, love. Anything for you.”

Zhong Ye nodded, and four guards stepped forward. “Take Master Wen and Master Li back to their quarters. Secure them.”

Her father leaped to his feet. “We will go with Ai Ling!”

Chen Yong shoved the guards from her father. Airborne, he spun, fists flashing. But he was no match for Zhong Ye’s guards, who surrounded him from all sides.

“Daughter!” her father shouted.

Her chest seized. She drew a shuddering breath but did not look up as they were dragged away. She entered the bridal bedchamber backward, leading Zhong Ye by the sash. She felt the beating of many fans before she saw anything. The song girls were arranged in a semicircle, fanning the bed with graceful movements, as if in dance.

The gold brocaded curtains were drawn, the wide bed covered with cushions in satins and silks of deep plum and red, emerald green and sky blue. Crimson sheets embroidered with the dragon and phoenix motif were draped across the bed. The edges of the coverlet were sewn with the character for eternal happiness, woven between peaches, lotus, and pearls—all symbols of happiness or fertility.

The banquet master untied the same-heart sash. “Your heart is one,” he said, bowing.

The song girls parted. Zhong Ye offered a hand, which Ai Ling did not refuse, and helped her climb the carved steps into the massive bed. She knelt down, facing away from the door of the bedchamber and the crowd that had followed them in.

“The husband unbinds his wife’s hair out of love and service,” the banquet master chanted.

“He’ll unbind more than that tonight!” someone shouted, and everyone burst into rowdy laughter.

She closed her eyes.

Zhong Ye kneeled behind her. He pulled the first pin from her hair. Then another. Her locks began to unfurl across her shoulders. She kept her head bowed. Her cheeks burned. This was just the beginning. Her mind wandered to what she could remember of wedding rituals—all she had read in The Book of Making.

Zhong Ye’s fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. She steadied herself. Don’t react. Don’t give them the satisfaction. The song girls cast red and white flower petals on the bed; the banquet master threw grain. Her hair was entirely loose.

“Make her a woman tonight, Master Zhong!” The crowd cheered and laughed, whistled loudly and stomped their feet.

“May she be soft and pliable! She certainly looks it!”

Zhong Ye turned her around to face the crowd. She navigated across the bed on her knees. Her fury blazed, and she feared what she would say if she saw their faces . . . what she would do. She too had a role to play, for now.

The noise grew until Zhong Ye raised a hand. The hush that followed was immediate. “Thank you for joining us in this celebration, esteemed friends and family. . . .”

What family could he possibly have? He was an ancestor, ancient.

“I ask now to be alone with my bride,” Zhong Ye said.

The whistles and foot stomping began again. The crowd was in a frenzy. But the last of the ritual words had been spoken by the new groom, and the inebriated well-wishers retreated quickly, knowing there was more food and drink waiting for them in the banquet hall.

Six guards stayed behind, standing at attention. Zhong Ye waved a manicured hand. “Leave us. I hardly need your protection tonight.”

Zhong Ye was beside her, his long hands resting on his thighs. She did not move. He finally rose and inclined onto the thick cushions of the bed, resting casually on one elbow.

“We’re alone at last, love. I’ve waited for this night for so long. Too long.” He reached for her hand, brushed her fingers with his. His skin was smooth, flawless.

“I know how you’re feeling. But you will grow to love me, Ai Ling. Just as Silver Phoenix did.”

She blanched. Silver Phoenix could never have loved him.

He wanted her to meet his gaze. She refused, and he sighed.

“I became a eunuch when I was twenty years . . . centuries ago. Most were forced, sold, or bought. But I chose my path.”

Ai Ling swallowed hard. He wasn’t whole. A thin thread of hope wound through her.

He continued to stroke her fingers. His gaze was tangible; it touched her brow and traced her cheekbone and jaw, fluttered against her lips. He was attempting some sort of sorcery. The white rage within her crackled, expanded, grew taut again. She remained still.

“You’re more strong-willed than I realized, my pet. I shouldn’t be surprised.” He sounded amused. Perhaps even pleased. “You’re my match indeed. We’ll rule together through all the dynasties. We’ll always be here. Our love will last forever.”

He released her hand. Repulsed, she clutched them together. He was delusional—a madman.

“Come now, don’t play games. Look at me. Let me see the lovely face of my new bride.” She finally met his gaze with a defiant tilt of her head.

“Fiery eyes, just as I remembered them. You may have a different face, a different body, but yes, I do remember the spirit behind those eyes.”

He must have been handsome in his youth. His true youth. His strong cheekbones lent boldness to his face. But he lacked color now. His lips were wide, drawn thin. Whomever he may have been when he was born—that person no longer existed—was long gone. He climbed off the bed and moved to a low chest in the corner.

“Would you like some wine?” He poured himself a cup. She shook her head.

“Please stop kneeling at least, Ai Ling. I grow tired just looking at you.” He made his way to one of two woodcarved chairs in the room and sat down, stretching his long legs before him. “I’ll enjoy my wine here. You have the bed all to yourself.” He laughed.

Ai Ling did not argue. She stretched out her legs as well. Both feet were asleep and tingled painfully. She sank back into the pillows, bone weary.

She lost herself in the bright lanterns strung across the ceiling as she waited for his next move. Her mind kept returning to the drawings in The Book of Making. Not all of them involved . . . Her neck grew hot, and she wrenched her thoughts away.

If the man chose to talk, she would listen and rest—gather her strength and energy. It was not yet the right time to touch his spirit. He was too strong. She needed to distract him.

Zhong Ye poured himself a second cup of wine and downed it. “I remember the day so clearly. Not the pain, the pain is just a distant memory. But how does a man ever forget the moment his manhood is taken from him?” Zhong Ye rose and began pacing the room, making Ai Ling think of a caged creature, lithe and restless.

“I swore in writing and by word that I gave myself to the Emperor of my own volition.” He poured a third cup of wine, drank it in gulps. His pale face began to color. The more wine, the better, she thought.

“After all the paperwork, the talk, they took me into the back room to perform the ritual.” He stood by the side of the bed now, looking down on her. She felt exposed, regretted lying down, but met his gaze without wavering. Ai Ling did not want to hear his story. What would he try next?

Zhong Ye sat down on the edge of the bed. “They tied me down with leather straps. My arms. My legs. And gave me another piece of leather to bite down on.”

She heard a distant roar from the banquet hall. It surprised her. The crowd was celebrating still, probably more drunk than ever. Father. Chen Yong. O, Goddess of Mercy, let them be safe.

“They washed me with hot pepper water, to help numb the pain. But I think that was a ruse. The pain from that merely made the agony from the actual act seem less so.”

Music now, muted singing and drumbeats from afar.

“The remover gripped me in one hand. All of it. And I watched him raise the curved knife, cut everything away in one motion.” Zhong Ye stared into his wine cup.

“Why are you telling me this? Do you expect my sympathy?” Ai Ling spoke softly, controlling her voice. She did not show fear or anger—refused to show anything to him.

“I tell you, beloved wife, to demonstrate how far I will go to gain power. I risked everything to enter the Palace, worked my way up from latrine boy and kitchen sweeper to the Emperor’s most trusted confidant. Every Emperor’s trusted confidant. I have guided dynasties for enough centuries that the people do not even know me as a eunuch—do not realize what I sacrificed. . . .” He spoke in a quiet voice, too. Ai Ling tilted her face away, studied the carvings on the bedpost instead. Two golden cranes wound themselves among the blooming lotus flowers and buds.

“But power wasn’t enough for you. You had to go further than that.” She met his eyes now, and they widened in surprise.

“What do you know about any of it?” The tone of his voice changed, from honeyed warmth to hard-edged flint.

“What do I need to know? You’ve lived centuries. You say I’ll rule with you for more to come.” Her eyes burned from tiredness, from wanting to close and sleep for days. But did they betray all that she tried to contain within herself at this moment?

Rage.

Vengeance.

“Is it so strange that a man who has seized power should choose to keep it?” he asked.

“It’s wrong to live beyond the life that was given you.” Something within her spirit shifted. Ai Ling blinked, as if she heard the words she spoke from another’s mouth. Had she said these words to him before . . . in another life?

He gripped her chin so fast her breath caught. “I won’t argue about this with you again. And I won’t lose you either.”

Again? She twisted her face away.

“You don’t believe Silver Phoenix loved me.” He traced her lower lip with a finger. When he pulled his hand back, she saw a smudge of red on his fingertip. “You don’t remember.”

He removed her shoes, and the heat rose to her face when he touched her feet. “Would I wait over two centuries for you if she had not? When I can have anyone I choose?” He stroked her instep.

She refused to believe his lies.

“Don’t worry, Ai Ling. My manhood may be sitting in a jar, but I can still satisfy you in every way.” His hand slipped beneath the heavy wedding gown, stroking her calf. “I’ve gained considerable power in the dark arts and will be whole for you tonight.”

The heat that had blazed across her cheeks spread to her neck, down her chest. Terror seized her limbs, and Ai Ling clenched every muscle so she would not tremble. Of course he would consummate the marriage. Zhong Ye kissed her brow, her closed lids. She wished he were less gentle, less loving in his manner. It would make it easier for her. And quicker.

His mouth covered hers, and even though she had expected this, her back still arched from shock, and a small gasp rose from her, smothered by his kiss. He broke away and pulled her to her knees to face him.

Slowly, with great care and patience, Zhong Ye began to undo the hidden clasps of the wedding gown. His fingers were swift, and he was pushing the gown off her shoulders within heartbeats.

He stroked her bare arms and shoulders with both hands, ran his fingers along her collarbone. Her flesh pimpled at his touch. Ai Ling willed herself to stay still. He bent over again to kiss her, longer now, more deeply. She tasted the wine he had drunk as his arms encircled her and began to unravel her breast binder.

Her heart raced, but she was pliant beneath his hands and mouth. She coiled her spirit tighter—not yet; wait, wait. The red silk fell like shuddering wings to the bed. Zhong Ye drew back to take her in with those pale gray eyes, hungry now, bright with a heat she did not want to recognize.

He began to work the clasps of his own tunic. “Help me,” he said in a thick voice. She obeyed, bringing stiff fingers to the gold brocade, unclasping one hook while he undid three. He drew off the tunic, revealing a pale and toned form. Completely naked. It was not what she had expected so soon. The shock must have registered on her face as Zhong Ye smiled, amused.

“I can’t be that terrible, my wife. But if it pleases you, I can take on the form of anyone I choose.” His body blurred around the edges, wavered for moments—then Chen Yong kneeled before her, naked.

It was so convincing, her heart leaped. Longing and terror catapulted through her. She wanted to slap him, shove him away. Ai Ling fought not to collapse in surrender, fought for control. She looked up. His eyes stayed a pale gray. He smiled at her, and there was a glint in them, a cutting twist to the lips that she’d never seen on Chen Yong.

Ai Ling turned her head.

“I knew you’d prefer your husband to that mutt,” Zhong Ye whispered into her ear, his breath warm on her neck.

He was himself again, his silver-streaked head bent and pressed to her chest. She bit her lip when she felt his tongue on her breast. She fisted her hands, forced herself not to scream.

His hands were on her bare hips now, worked their way down until they cupped her buttocks. He pulled her closer to him, kissing her midsection, licking her navel. She wanted to cry, tear the hair from his head. Instead she reached down for his face.

Zhong Ye looked up, desire suffusing his pallid features.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He smiled and rose to his knees. Ai Ling wound her arms around his neck, clasped her hands at the nape of it. She opened herself up to him, opened herself up entirely. She kissed him deeply and released all the light that burned within her, letting it flow in a blinding rush into him.

He twitched slightly as their spirits met. She did not attempt to take control, but continued to fill him with her own unleashed being. She felt her lips through his, and his through her own.

All at once, it was as if hundreds of beings kissed her—all the souls Zhong Ye had stolen to keep himself alive. She heard a low moan, more within his mind than from his lips, which pressed on her mouth like hot coals. Sensing his distraction, the spirits worked as one to break free from their prison.

She folded her spirit over Zhong Ye’s.

He felt their frenzy, was suddenly aware of her presence. His mind roared in fury, with abrupt understanding. He tried to pull away, both body and spirit. She pressed herself to his bare chest, wrapped her arms about him more firmly, deepened her kiss. His mouth was slack now, his lips brittle and cold. He struggled for control, struggled to harness the souls clamoring against him. But he was powerless, his spirit bound within hers.

His body began to convulse, and a deep-throated scream reverberated inside him, between them. He tried to push her off, but he was too weak, trembling in her arms. He began to slip, his bare back slick with sweat, yet she clung to him. A white heat radiated from him until a blazing light filled the room, blinding even beneath her closed lids.

For a mere breath, the world hung motionless between them. Then she heard Zhong Ye speak in his own mind. Why?

“Because I loved you,” Ai Ling replied, in a voice not her own.

She felt herself lifted into the air from the force of hundreds of spirits passing. They slashed across her bare flesh in a thunderous roar before she fell back onto the bed.

Small lights danced across her vision, and the room came back to her in a slow blur. Zhong Ye was sprawled beneath her, emaciated, barely human, unrecognizable. She twisted away from him, her hand pressed to her mouth. His sunken eyes were open, staring up at the red-and-gold wedding lanterns. But no life flickered within them.

A soft sob fell from her bruised lips. She tottered and reeled before darkness smothered her consciousness.