Silver Phoenix (34 page)

S I LV E R P H O E N I X

seized it, and began to move across his wounds. There was nothing to see or feel. Just this wisp she clung to, refused to release.

From a distance, as if watching from above, she saw her own limbs start to shake. Sweat beaded at her temples, but she felt ice cold within, frozen and empty.

Li Rong’s eyelids fluttered, revealing unseeing orbs beneath. An unnatural grunt escaped from between his pale lips, and then the jaws clenched. Even as she held on to the thin thread of his spirit, she could not truly enter his being.

She felt a touch on her wrist and saw Chen Yong crouched beside her. “Ai Ling. Don’t.”

She snatched her hand away as if scalded, and lost the grip she had on Li Rong. The wisp flitted off, slipped into the ether.

Li Rong was dead.

Black circles burst across her blurred vision. She stumbled away and slumped to the floor, not caring that the corpse of the monster was but a few arms’ lengths away. Sobs shook her. She lifted her head, and through the haze, saw Chen Yong crouched over his brother, holding one slack hand in both of his.

The Immortals didn’t care, she thought, the bitterness rising like bile in her throat. They sent us here. They knew this would happen. They let this happen.

She felt a light touch on her shoulder and jumped. A 189

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warmth zinged through her, easing her. The scent of honeysuckle filled her nose. She turned to find that the corpse of the decaying monster had vanished. A woman stood in its place.

“You have freed me,” the woman said.

The Lady in White.

Ai Ling scrambled to her feet. “My friend died. He—he was gored.” The tears came again, and she put her face in her hands. She felt the Lady stroke her hair. Something her mother used to do. The Lady lifted her chin with soothing fingers and touched the wetness on her cheeks. The tears dropped like glass into her palm.

“The Goddess of Records gave you a vial,” the woman said.

How did she know? Distrust mingled with the anger and grief, making her stomach clench. Ai Ling pulled the small vial from the hidden pocket within her tunic. The Lady in White carefully put the tears in the vial; they clinked like diamonds as they dropped.

“Consume them when you need strength. You will know when.”

Ai Ling nodded, not understanding and not caring. She turned and saw Chen Yong still with his brother, but looking toward her and the Lady.

“Can you bring Li Rong back?” Ai Ling asked.

She inclined her head. “The dead should stay dead,” she said.

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The Lady gazed down at her. She was as tall as the Goddess of Records. Her smooth porcelain skin made the jet black brows that much more dramatic. She wore her raven hair in two braids, looped on either side, with clear crystal jewels woven through the locks. A gossamer gown floated about her like a cloud, pale and white, revealing shimmers of blue with each graceful movement.

“But it was my fault.” Ai Ling wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “And she knew! The Goddess knew he would die, and she sent us here. Without warning—without . . .”

She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks, hiccupping.

“Li Rong chose his own course in life,” the Lady said.

Ai Ling turned toward Chen Yong, helplessness and grief smothering her breath. He was bent over Li Rong again.

She walked to them, the true friends she had made on this journey. She put a hand on Chen Yong’s shoulder, but he did not turn to look at her. He blamed her. She was certain of it.

“We can’t take him with us. We need to give him a proper funeral.” Chen Yong whispered, his face still turned to his brother.

“We need wood to make a pyre. There’s nothing here,” Ai Ling said.

“I can help,” the Lady in White said.

Chen Yong rose to his feet. “Thank you.”

“I will need your strength, young man.” She glided through the tower wall.

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“Will you prepare him?” Chen Yong finally asked, his voice low and hoarse.

The tears rushed into her eyes and stung her nostrils once more. He approached the smooth fissured wall, placed a hesitant hand on it. And vanished.

Ai Ling crouched over Li Rong’s body. She slammed her fists against the cold stone floor until her hands bled. Why did the gods allow evil men to live, and care nothing for the innocent? She could not believe he was gone, despite the pool of dark blood fanning beneath him. She reached out and stroked his face and smoothed his hair, intimate acts that she would never have dared were he still alive.

Finally she reached for his knapsack and searched through it, feeling intrusive. She selected his best tunic. It was made of gray silk with simple gold embroidering along the collar and sleeve edges. She unhooked his buttons with trembling fingers, lifting him to pull off his sleeves, cradling his head as she lay him back down. Sweat stung her eyes, and she swiped a bloodied hand across her face.

His wound exposed, Ai Ling saw the startling white of jagged rib bones and his shattered sternum. Nestled within, something glistened. His heart. Hope surged to her throat.

She could still bring him back. The Calling Ritual from
The
Book of the Dead
. She could try. She had to try.

“Forgive me, Li Rong. I will make it right again.”

She
had
to try.

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Ai Ling freed her dagger and reached into Li Rong’s gaping wound. Sharp bones scratched her arm. His heart was still warm, wet. Ai Ling felt removed from herself. She could not think about what she was doing. There was no choice.

She had no choice.

The heart shifted but would not pull free. She grasped it, took the dagger and made one cut. The hilt glowed blue, became as cold as ice. Ai Ling lifted the heart free. It was the size of her fist and lay like a sacrificial offering in her shaking hand. She needed to preserve it—one month to bring him back, with her own blood. Most other compo-nents were common. But the empress root was banned. She would fi nd it. She would not fail Li Rong.

Ai Ling closed her eyes, forcing her mind to see the page, to remember the words. She muttered them in a low voice, verses she didn’t understand. The heart turned ice cold, felt like heavy glass in her hand. She opened her eyes. It glowed slightly, but her blessed dagger had turned a dull black. Ai Ling frowned, sheathed the blade. She grabbed one of Li Rong’s cotton tunics and wrapped the heart carefully within its folds, then tucked the bundle in her knapsack.

Ai Ling poured water from her flask over her bloodied forearm and hands, watched it slide in red rivulets onto the ice white floor. She licked her cracked lips, tasting the salty mucus that ran from her nose, and wiped her face with a dampened rag cloth. She gently dressed Li Rong’s body, pulling the tunic over his head, holding his hand to guide 193

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the sleeves. After he was clothed, she wiped his face clean with tender care. She did the same with his hands.

His wound had already stained the new tunic, like a crimson flower blooming across his chest. But at least he would not be sent into the next world in the tunic he was slain in.

Chen Yong and the Lady appeared again within the tower, emerging like apparitions from the crystalline walls. “Thank you,” Chen Yong said simply.

Ai Ling could not look at him. She was out of breath and clutched her knapsack with tight fists. Chen Yong kneeled down and cradled his brother as if he were a child. His eyes were swollen and his nostrils red, but he no longer wept.

“The body will transport through the wall with you,” said the Lady.

Ai Ling walked to the gleaming wall and placed two timid fingertips on it. The tingling cold rushed through her, and she was outside on the black peak once more.

The Lady and Chen Yong had built a pyre on the rocky landing. A dark blue cloth was spread neatly on a wood platform, with black twigs and branches filling the space beneath.

“I couldn’t conjure much, under the circumstances,” the Lady spoke apologetically. “But it will be a proper funeral—

as best as we can make it.”

Chen Yong carefully laid Li Rong on the platform and arranged his arms alongside his body.

At the end of the platform was a small altar, with incense 194