Silver Phoenix (18 page)

Goddess of Mercy, had it only been five days since she left home?

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Cindy Pon

The sun descended, streaking the sky with ribbons of vermilion. There was no farmstead in sight. Lush terraced fields reflected the light. The fields had collected recent rains, and the crops grew from pools tinted rose, gold, and green. Ai Ling followed the muddied path beneath these terraces.

Her legs ached and her worn cloth shoes chafed her feet.

What wouldn’t she sacrifice for a hot bath and meal. The comfort of the inn—for that spare room with the hard bed was a luxury in her tired mind now—and the extravagant meal at midday seemed a distant memory.

She needed to rest. A tree stump on the side of the road provided seating, and Ai Ling wondered how many other travelers had used it for this purpose. She unraveled one of the packets Master Tan’s chef had prepared, revealing strips of dried squid. She chewed on a piece along with a salted biscuit, then retrieved the last of her sugared walnuts.

They reminded her of Chen Yong. She kicked at a rock near her foot, annoyed at herself for thinking of him again.

She kicked another rock in anger at him, for abandoning her so unceremoniously. Ai Ling winced and rubbed her foot, cursing her own foolishness.

She washed the rest of her dry meal down with cold tea from her fl ask before rising to continue on her journey.

The sun slipped lower, half hidden behind the hilltop, slowly draining the world of color. She was taking another swig of tea when she saw a shape farther down the path. A man. Not within earshot, but definitely a man. He stood 90

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unmoving in the middle of the road. There was something familiar about him, and her arms prickled as if a cold breeze had blown through her.

Ai Ling stood frozen, didn’t want to walk toward him.

Even as she hesitated, the distance between them folded like a silk scarf, and she was face-to-face with him.

Chen Yong.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

The voice was hollow. Before she could react, he grabbed her by the wrist. He drew her spirit toward him, and Ai Ling plunged into an endless void, without life and warmth. It drew her in like a whirlpool. Her spirit fought to stay within her body. But this thing was strong. Too strong.

Ai Ling stared into its eyes, and they weren’t the amber eyes of Chen Yong. They were flat and opaque—swirling emptiness. The thing smiled as it continued to tug on her spirit, pulling her slowly now as if sucking through a reed dipped into a pond. She tried to wrench her wrist away but couldn’t even twitch one fi nger.

A sudden slash of silver arced behind the demon, and its head thudded on the dirt beside her. Vile green curdled from the stump where the head had rested. Chen Yong stood behind his own headless image. She managed a small shake of her head, and a soft wheeze escaped her lips. Was this another demonic imposter? Chen Yong raised his sword and slashed the demon’s hand with one stroke.

The fingers still held her in a death grip. Frantic, Ai Ling 91

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shook her arm, her entire body shaking. She sank to her knees, crouching over Chen Yong’s decapitated head. It spoke. “It’s futile to fight, Ai Ling.” The head began to laugh, even as rancid curd frothed from its lips. She choked on the scream lodged in her clenched throat.

Ai Ling hunched over, rocking in terror.

The sword sank and split the high brow in half. The head cracked open like a rotten melon. Ai Ling covered her mouth as the curdlike substance bubbled onto the ground. It stank of vomit. She jerked a hand over her nose, trying not to retch, trying to suppress her hysteria. The body toppled forward. She scrabbled back on her knees, still caught by its fingers, shuddering as she tried to wrench her captured wrist free.

Chen Yong kneeled beside her, steadied her arm and worked to unclasp the clawed hand. Ai Ling flung her spirit toward him in panic—it was the only way she could be sure. She felt the familiar tightness within her navel, the snap as she entered his being. She saw herself through his eyes, stricken and pale, felt her slick trembling hand in his own firm grip. Concern mingled with relief within him.

His stoic expression concealed the gallop of his heart, the furor surging through his limbs.
Thank the Goddess of Mercy,
she’s safe.

She pulled back, the relief so overwhelming she wanted to throw her arms around him. Instead she struggled unsteadily to her feet.

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“Are you all right?” he asked.

He seemed to ask that often.

Ai Ling willed her wobbling knees not to cave. She drew a ragged breath. “How . . .” She didn’t know what to ask.

“I left the city the next day. That night, I made camp in the open. When I finally slept, I was plagued with horrific dreams.” He still clasped her with a strong hand, and she regretted it when he let go. “I woke in the morning and knew something had been near. I could feel it moving away.

I followed it.”

Chen Yong looked down at the decapitated head, split in the middle, each half’s mouth pulled in a grotesque grin.

He considered it with horrified disgust. “Is that what I look like?”

Ai Ling wiped a sleeve over her face. “Why is this happening?”

“Let’s move away from here—this thing. Do you need help?” he asked.

She nodded, wanting his touch. He sheathed his sword and offered his arm. Ai Ling rested her fingers on the crook of his elbow, feeling self-conscious and grateful.

“Your necklace was glowing,” Chen Yong said.

She looked down at the jade pendant. It still held a wan light, so dim she thought she imagined it. “I think it protects me,” she said.

He studied the pendant, dull now, his face betraying nothing.

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They walked at a slow but steady pace. Neither spoke for a long time. She waited for her fingers to stop trembling, for her heart to stop fluttering against her throat. Chen Yong, in turn, scanned the horizon, often stopping to listen to the drone of insects and the rustle of grass and leaves.

Ai Ling concentrated on the steady feel of Chen Yong’s arm beneath her hand. She forced her thoughts toward the mundane, pruning the plum tree in their courtyard, recit-ing poetry with her father. She suddenly remembered the bundle of letters she carried.

“I met with Master Tan again today. He wanted to apologize and—”

They turned at the same time toward the sound of galloping hooves approaching. It was near dark, and she could not clearly see the figure sitting astride the tall horse. Chen Yong stepped protectively in front of her, his sword raised. Her hand gripped the hilt of her dagger, her pulse racing. What now? She fought the panic that threatened to deluge her, the scent of it trickling from her pores, making her nostrils fl are.

“Old brother!” A young man reined in the animal and smoothed its mane in an attempt to calm it.

“Li Rong?” Chen Yong asked, his dark brows drawn together, a hint of mistrust shadowing his face. His sword remained raised.

“Goddess of Mercy, did you pass the dead man on the road?” the young man asked. “Feng nearly threw me off in his fright.”

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“It was no man. But it used my image,” Chen Yong said.

The young man dismounted in one fluid motion. He held the reins in one hand with the other arm thrown out wide.

Chen Yong hesitated, but Li Rong stepped forward to clasp him in a hug, ignoring the raised sword.

“What happened?” Li Rong asked. The horse snorted, and Ai Ling approached to stroke its neck. It nickered, seemed to calm under her touch.

“The gates of the underworld have been flung open, it seems,” Chen Yong said. His voice was grim when he finished his tale.

“It’s the stuff of ghost tales and nightmares,” Li Rong said.

He paused to pull something from his travel satchel. He lit a small gilded lantern as the stars began to glimmer in the sky.

“Is it truly you, little brother?”

“Could this world possibly endure two of me?” Li Rong grinned. Ai Ling guessed him to be her age—seventeen years. He stood slightly taller than she did and was attired in dark gray riding clothes, the long-sleeved tunic hugging his chest with billowing trouser legs below. The lantern illuminated his mischievous expression as he cocked his head at his brother.