Fury of the Phoenix (15 page)

They both were wearing trousers instead of their customary dresses. Silver Phoenix had a long green silk ribbon, wide as a scarf, draped across her shoulders. It was at least three times her height. She held the ribbon as she danced, twirling the material in intricate patterns above her head, then dipping so it swirled just above the cobblestones. Her body swayed to music that only she could hear, her face raised to the sunlight, her smile exuberant. The ribbon was alive, an extension of her. It never touched the ground.

Zhong Ye felt as though his breath had been knocked from him.

Mei Gui tried to imitate her handmaid, giggling as she did, her own pink ribbon dragging across the stones. She glanced up and saw him. “Master Zhong,” she said, stopping abruptly.

Silver Phoenix flicked her wrists so the long ribbon ends snapped neatly into her arms. She whispered to her mistress, and Mei Gui nodded, before retreating to her quarters. “Sit,” Silver Phoenix said, smiling coyly. She nodded at a bench nestled among rosebushes.

“As you wish,” he said, and obeyed. The red and yellow roses were flowering, their fragrance scenting the air.

She tucked a leg behind her and bowed so low he
found he was looking down at the top of her head. “I’ll dance for you,” she said. She rose and unfurled the ribbons, weaving them again through the air.

“But what if I want to dance
with
you?” he asked.

She laughed and looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “You’re not allowed to dance. You can only watch.”

Zhong Ye made a show of sitting on his hands, stilled like a statue.

Silver Phoenix nodded in approval, then backed away, her ribbons fluttering all the while. She bent forward, folding herself down like a swan, then arched her spine in a graceful line, until her head nearly touched the stones. She stretched her arms up, and the ribbons twirled above her like butterflies. She held the impossible position, painting the air with elegant strokes.

“You’re just showing off now.” Zhong Ye’s voice sounded thick to his own ears.

She flashed him a smile before rising in one fluid motion and springing across the courtyard, spinning in circles in midair, snapping her arms so her ribbon ends looped back toward his face each time, a caress.

Unable to sit any longer, Zhong Ye jumped up and vaulted in the air with her, mirroring the way she twisted, weightless. Her delighted laughter echoed off
the pavilions as she led him on a chase. He leaped with her for a full circle, before she stopped, flicking the ribbon so the ends glided onto his shoulders. Then she reeled him in.

They stared at each other, their chests rising and falling in rhythm, until Zhong Ye embraced her, crushing his mouth to hers. She clutched his arms, tucking herself against him, and the ribbon fell from his shoulders.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered.

She smiled, her eyes luminous. She led them back up the steps to Mei Gui’s quarters, but something on the ground caught her eye, and she bent to retrieve it. Cradling it in one palm, she examined it. “How curious,” she said.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A silver charm of some kind.”

It was the length of his thumb, curved like a scythe. He recognized it as one that had dangled from Yokan’s belt, and the blood drained from his face. “Give it to me!” His voice had gone hoarse.

“What is it?” She handed him the charm, fear flitting across her face.

It was impossible. With the exception of eunuchs, no men were allowed within the inner court. Yokan could not visit the concubines’ quarters. Zhong Ye turned away and ran.

Zhong Ye crashed into Yokan’s study and slammed the charm down on the table in front of him. “What is the meaning of this?” His question erupted as a growl.

Yokan straightened, unfazed. “My charm. I thought it was gone for good.” He picked it up and held it between bony fingers. “Where did you find it?”

“In front of Mei Gui’s quarters.” Zhong Ye’s insides had twisted into something ugly and unrecognizable.

“The concubine with child?” Yokan clipped the charm to his belt and smiled innocuously. “What’s her handmaid’s name again? The stunning one?”

Zhong Ye had the alchemist by the throat in an instant, nearly lifting him off the stool.

Yokan laid a finger on Zhong Ye’s wrist and tutted. “This is bad form, Zhong.” Yokan’s hand was icy, and Zhong Ye let go, stumbling back. He doubled over, sick to his stomach.

The alchemist adjusted his collar. “You’ve only shown me exactly how much you care for her,” he said.

Zhong Ye raised his eyes to meet those pale blue ones. What a stupid fool he’d been. Every action in his life had been deliberate, calculated. And he’d lost control when it mattered the most.

“You’ll try the immortality spell now, yes?” The
foreigner’s smile looked more like a grimace. He handed him a single piece of parchment. “You help me, and I’ll help you.”

Zhong Ye snatched the paper from him, his own face a smooth mask once more.

“Very good. We have an understanding.” Yokan wiggled his fingers, as if shooing a dog away. “Go. We’ll continue this tomorrow morning.”

Zhong Ye left Yokan’s study, closing the door quietly behind him. He had a vague impression of passing others—of eunuchs and concubines murmuring uncertain greetings—as he stormed through the palace.

He burst into his reception hall. Xiao Mao was cleaning, but one look at his master’s face, and the boy scuttled away without a word. Zhong Ye wanted to throttle someone, but the only person who deserved a thrashing was himself. He tore off his robe and attacked the dummies near the back of the chamber, beating them with his fists and feet until they crashed, broken, to the ground.

He stalked across the hall, bathed in sweat, his mind spinning and almost slipped on the parchment, the parchment Yokan had handed him. Zhong Ye fell into a chair and unrolled it. “Drawing the Jade Stem” was written in the alchemist’s spidery calligraphy across the top. Nine ingredients were required, as well as some blood
from the supplicant and something from the body of the proposed lover, a snippet of hair or nail clipping. Yokan had omitted the actual names of the ingredients, as well as the incantation itself. Instead, he’d included this: “A slice of empress root must be ingested for this spell to work. The effect will not last longer than a day, but it will be true. The supplicant will be whole during this time of enchantment, and all is possible. Give thanks and offerings to the Demons of Loss and the Guardians of Envy.”

All is possible.

Could he make a child with Silver Phoenix? Zhong Ye clutched his head. She hadn’t been part of his plans. Ingratiating himself to the Emperor, to the alchemist who held the Son of Heaven’s favor and knew the secret to eternal life: those endeavors made sense. Supporting and bringing honor to his family: these things made sense. But his love for her was as unexpected as pearls falling from the skies, yet so real and tangible, he felt as if he could cradle it in his hands.

The sheen of perspiration had dried, cooling against his skin, and he felt his muscles grow taut. He stood and stretched, shouting to Xiao Mao for a hot bath. Tomorrow morning would come soon enough. He just wanted to get it over with.

C
hen Yong was anxious. She could tell by the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders. It was obvious even without using her power. She wished she could make this easier for him somehow. He turned to her as the carriage rolled past sheep, orange trees, and gentle hills. “I’m grateful you’re with me,” he said. She touched his arm for the briefest moment and smiled. She was glad as well.

After three more days of travel, she finally caught a glimpse of their destination when the carriage rounded a bend. Chen Yong slid to her side, and they looked out the window together. She had never seen anything like it. The Deen manor was built of white and gray stone
with a massive arch over the main entrance. Above the arch was an enormous circular window, a sunburst in jeweled tones of red, indigo, and yellow. Stained glass. It was stunning.

“Mother of the heavens,” she murmured.

They drove through the lush gardens that surrounded the estate. She caught glimpses of roses in colors she had never imagined—oranges and deep pinks. There were unfamiliar flowers, too, and she was glad of her sketchbook so she could draw them. She was suddenly aware of Chen Yong, his shoulder pressed against her back, his excitement and nervousness. Laughing, she drew her spirit tight to herself and nudged him back. “You’re pushing me out the window,” she said, her voice unnaturally high in her ears.

Chen Yong scooted back and chuckled. “Sorry.”

Their caravan rumbled to a halt, and Yam Head hopped off the first wagon to help Yen direct the unloading of merchandise. She stepped from the carriage when Peng offered her a hand. They were in a courtyard with a cobbled floor. She glanced up, and the sunburst pattern was even more beautiful up close. The dark wooden door leading into the manor was also arched, mimicking the design of the front entranceway.

It opened, and several manservants stepped out,
dressed in black and white. A young man followed. He was as tall as Chen Yong, with light brown hair that reflected hints of gold in the sunshine. It was cut close to the head, like Peng’s. He approached the captain and grasped his hand. They spoke in Jiang, and Ai Ling understood only snippets—about travel, weather, and food. Toward the end of the conversation, the young man glanced their way. His eyes lingered on her, and she stared down at the ground, feeling foolish. Peng strolled over to introduce them.

“This is Nik, the nephew of Master Deen,” he said.

Nik extended his hand to Chen Yong, and she saw that his eyes were light green, the color of shallow seas. He studied Chen Yong with interest. “You’re here to meet my uncle?” he asked. That much she could understand.

Chen Yong nodded. “I believe he may have known me once.”

“My uncle was a diplomat in Xia for many years. But he returned before I was born. I doubt you could have known him?”

“Perhaps not,” Chen Yong replied. “But I would like to meet him still.”

“Of course. Any friend of Peng’s is a friend of ours,” Nik said. But there was a wariness in his tone as he assessed Chen Yong.

Chen Yong met his gaze, unconsciously squaring his shoulders, and they gauged each other for a long moment until Peng stepped forward and cleared his throat. Reminded of the task at hand, Nik nodded to the manservants, who proceeded to haul the various crates and chests through the massive doors. “We’ll look at the merchandise and settle costs later?”

Peng agreed.

They spoke frighteningly fast, but Ai Ling was able to understand some of what was said. She assumed the introductions were over until Nik turned to her and caught her hand, pressing his lips to her fingers. Her face flushed so hot she thought her hair would catch fire.

“Who is this beautiful woman?” he asked.

She snatched her hand away, then realized how rude she must appear. “My name is Ai Ling,” she said in Jiang, just as she’d been taught and had practiced so many times.

Nik broke into an easy smile. “She speaks the language! Wonderful.”

“Ai Ling is my sister,” Chen Yong said. “She wanted to travel with me, explore.”

“Ah Na will be delighted to meet you both.” Nik bowed to Ai Ling. He offered his arm, and there seemed to be no choice but for Ai Ling to rest her hand on it as
he guided them inside the manor. She wasn’t being vigilant, and his interest in her flared when she touched him. She snapped back, feeling the heat rise to her face again. Who was Ah Na? she wondered, to distract herself.

They followed Nik into a reception hall with a domed ceiling. Scenic views were painted directly on its curved surface: maidens frolicking in meadows filled with flowers and streams with majestic peacocks meandering on the banks. The stained glass threw a kaleidoscope of color onto the stone floors, and Ai Ling was transfixed by the glittering light until she heard a deep-throated laugh.

A young woman glided down the winding staircase. She was wearing a dress Ai Ling could never have imagined. It was tight-fitting and a luminous green on top, with a full skirt in a deeper forest green that must have been created from many layers. The sleeves hugged her arms to the elbow, but ended in cascades of cream lace. Her eyes held Ai Ling’s for a brief moment.

“You’ve brought guests this time, Peng?” She reached the bottom of the stairs and held out her hand. “Can we keep them if we like them?”

Peng kissed her fingers, chuckling as he straightened. “I don’t dabble in that type of trade, Miss Ah Na.”

So this was Ah Na.

“Where is Yen?” she asked. “Are things well?”

“They are.” Peng smiled. “He’s checking the merchandise. He sends his regards, of course.”

Ah Na turned to Chen Yong and extended her arm, a smile playing at the corners of her rouged lips. He bowed awkwardly and took her hand. Jealousy so strong that her stomach cramped swept through Ai Ling. Ah Na wore her honey-colored hair loose, and it fell in waves over her shoulders, perfectly framing her ivory face. Her eyes were a light green, like Nik’s.

“And you are?” she asked.

“Li Chen Yong.” He straightened but still held her hand. Ai Ling saw that Ah Na clasped his with her fingertips.

“My name is Wen Ai Ling,” she said.

Ah Na released Chen Yong. “Such long names you have. You are wed?” She flicked her catlike eyes from Ai Ling to Chen Yong.

“She’s his sister,” Nik said with a grin.

“Oh.” Ah Na brought her hands to her hips. The scent of lavender rose in the air. “You look nothing alike.”

“I am”—Chen Yong fumbled for the right word—“adopted.”

Ah Na’s shapely eyebrows lifted. “You’ve certainly brought an interesting lot to our manor, Peng.”

Peng laughed and offered her his arm, which she took. “Chen Yong is a friend. I thought your uncle might like to meet him.”

“I see,” Ah Na said. She bit her lower lip with small, perfect teeth. Ai Ling could almost hear her mind at work, whirring. “He’s taking his afternoon break in the reception room.” She led Peng down the grand hall, her heels clicking against the stone floor.

Nik offered his arm again, and Ai Ling wondered if she could go anywhere without being led like a donkey. She took it, so as not to appear rude, but not before discreetly making a face at Chen Yong, to show him what she thought about the entire matter. He looked distracted and was fidgeting with his collar. She felt her own palms dampen.

They followed Ah Na to a set of double doors. A manservant opened them for her, and she glided in with Peng. Chen Yong followed, while Nik escorted Ai Ling. The chamber was more intimate but still had a high ceiling, this one carved with a flower and leaf motif. Tall rectangular windows lined the opposite wall. These were accented with colorful geometric glass borders in cobalt, gold, and red. Bookshelves in a dark wood covered the entire wall at the far end of the chamber. A man sat in a high-backed plush chair
near a fire blazing in the grand stone hearth.

Something about Master Deen’s profile seemed familiar. He was the same age as her father, perhaps a few years older. His silver hair was cut close to his head, and he had a tall nose and a boldness in his features, even at his older age. “You’ve returned, Peng. With more beautiful things from Xia. You’ve brought tea for me? And date biscuits?”

Peng stepped forward as Master Deen rose, and they clasped hands. “All your favorites, my friend.”

Master Deen turned to them, his high brow furrowing in puzzlement for a moment. “And you’ve brought guests? Please sit. Be welcomed.”

Ai Ling sat next to Chen Yong on a long cushioned bench upholstered in a rose brocade, while Nik and Ah Na settled in high-backed chairs. Peng remained standing.

“Yes, I’ve brought two travelers from Xia. The young man believes he may…know you?” Peng nodded at Chen Yong.

Master Deen’s ease disappeared in an instant. She realized then that he was nearly blind. “Who?” His gaze was urgent, gliding over their faces, as if he could see them clearly. “An old friend? From Xia?”

“Not an old friend, Master Deen,” Chen Yong said,
his voice low and steady. “But perhaps someone you left behind?”

Master Deen rose from his chair, his full attention turned toward Chen Yong. “What is your name?”

“My mother named me Chen Yong.”

“Impossible.” Master Deen slumped back against the cushions as if he’d been punched. “It’s not possible,” he murmured.

Ah Na reached over to grasp her uncle’s hand. “What’s going on here?” Her tone was as cutting as the look she gave them. “Peng, what is the meaning of this?”

“Hush, Ah Na.” Master Deen patted his niece’s arm, his head lowered. As tightly as Ah Na gripped her uncle’s hand, it still shook visibly. “I never told anyone. The gods forgive me. But I left a son back in Xia.”

“What?” Ah Na and Nik exclaimed at the same time.

Chen Yong sat perfectly still. How Ai Ling wanted to touch him, to grab his hand in reassurance! Even with her spirit wound tight, she could sense emotions so strong and jumbled in that chamber it was as if someone had splattered buckets of colors across her mind. But it was Chen Yong’s hope and fear that she felt the most sharply.

“And this is he?” Ah Na asked.

“How can you be certain?” Nik demanded. “His name could be as common as Nik or Ah Na in Xia.”

“But only one was born in the Emperor’s palace,” Master Deen said. “By an imperial concubine.”

The color drained from Chen Yong’s face. Deen’s niece and nephew gaped at their uncle, speechless.

“Who raised you, Chen Yong?” Deen asked.

“I was adopted by the Li family.” His words were stilted now.

Deen swiped a palm across his cheek, rubbed his eyes. “And did you know you were born in the palace? Then smuggled out?”

“Yes.”

“By my old friend at court, an adviser to the Emperor.”

Ai Ling’s eyes stung, as she thought of her father and how much she missed him. She did squeeze Chen Yong’s arm then, and he clutched her hand for an instant, before dropping it. “I met Master Wen last autumn, and he told me his story.”

“Your story, Chen Yong.” Master Deen’s eyes were bright. “Did he tell you your father’s name?”

Chen Yong nodded. “You say it.” The request came in a choked whisper.

“Wai Sen,” Deen said. “It was the Xian name given to me by the Emperor.”

Chen Yong doubled over, covering his face with his hands.

“Chen Yong. My son. Forgive me. I should have returned for you.” Deen’s voice was soft. “I wrote to Master Wen many times but never heard back. I assumed the worst.”

Chen Yong did not lift his head, and although she could not see his face, she knew that he was fighting back tears.

Deen rose and approached them, stumbling once. Ah Na and Nik sprang to their feet, but Deen waved them away. He knelt before his son and touched his shoulder. “Your mother was beautiful,” he said in Xian. “I loved her.”

Chen Yong finally looked at his father. “My birth mother died, Master Deen.”

Poisoned by Zhong Ye.

It was a moment before Deen was able to compose himself. “It may be too much to ask for you to call me Father, but please call me just Deen at least.” He clasped Chen Yong’s shoulder. “Tell me.” Master Deen half turned. “What does he look like, Ah Na?”

The young woman considered Chen Yong, and Ai Ling felt his shock. He hadn’t realized his father was nearly blind. “He’s very handsome, Uncle. With a wide brow and a strong jaw—like yours.” She tilted her head and pursed her lips. Ai Ling knew she liked what she saw. “But he looks…different as well.”

“His hair is dark,” Master Deen said with certainty in his voice.

“Almost raven.”

“Your mother—” Deen choked and couldn’t continue.

Chen Yong rose and took him by the elbow, guiding him back to his chair by the fire.

Master Deen smiled up at him, through his tears. “If you could show our guests to their chambers, Ah Na.”

Ah Na rose elegantly, spreading her full skirt and lowering herself in a formal bow before him. “Of course, Uncle.”

“Chen Yong. Please stay. You must have as many questions as I do.” He nodded at the chair beside him, the one that Ah Na had occupied.

Chen Yong sat down, and his eyes found Ai Ling’s as she stood to leave. She simply nodded, her heart full, and smiled.

Somehow he returned it, the faintest curve of his mouth.

The sun was barely visible above the horizon when Zhong Ye made his way to Yokan’s study. The closer he got, the heavier his footsteps became. The summer morning was still cool and crisp. Despite this, his palms
were clammy, and he felt dampness beneath his arms by the time he arrived. The alchemist never seemed to sleep these days, and he knew he wouldn’t be too early.

He entered without knocking, as they had forgone that formality a long time past. Yokan sat at the blackwood table, grinding something with an ebony mortar and pestle. The study smelled of ginger, both sweet and bitter. “You’re early,” Yokan said.

“I could come back.” Zhong Ye hadn’t even stepped across the threshold.

“No, no. Sit.”

Zhong Ye placed his books and journals on the table, then rubbed his palms against his robe.

“Do you have any questions before we start?” Yokan asked. When Zhong Ye shook his head, the alchemist went on. “I’d like you to prepare the concoction today.” He stood and scooped the herb he had been grinding into a glass jar.