Silver Phoenix (40 page)

Startled by her own success, she stood frozen. Chen Yong cast a wary glance her way, his expression fi lled with loath-ing, danger.

“Get dressed,” she said brusquely in the Anatomist’s high-pitched voice.

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Chen Yong’s eyes locked with hers, gold flecked with dark green, the color even more stunning when seen with the Anatomist’s heightened vision. They narrowed, even as he reached for his clothing. She hastened toward the silver doors, trying to get used to walking with the shorter leg. A deformity he had had since birth—his history and experience were open to her in a jumble of noise composed of memories and thoughts. The doors slid aside to reveal six guards standing at attention. She looked down the hallway, trying to adjust to the brighter, more intense light and color.

There were no other guards.

“Leave us. I need privacy,” she said. It took all her strength and willpower to speak with authority, not to tremble or shake. She gulped, feeling a small bone protrusion slide within the Anatomist’s throat.

A guard stepped forward. She knew it was the highest-ranking offi cer, Protector West. “We were told to guard the captives at all times, Anatomist.”

She made herself angry, drew the words and a snarl from the Anatomist. “You waste my time, West. Leave us.” Her captive’s heart beat faster. His spirit twitched. She felt a sheen of sweat begin to collect at his hairline.

“Archer gave specifi c instructions—”

“I am here on the direct order of the Chief.” She paused, to keep the tremor from the Anatomist’s throat. Slow, deep breath. “You abide by my requests, not the Archer’s.” It was true, she knew. The Anatomist held higher rank, though he 226

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would never have dismissed the guards. His furious screams were distant but shrill.

They stared into each other’s eyes, neither blinking.

Ai Ling hid a trembling hand deep within the folds of the agate-colored robe, fought hard to breathe normally.

Finally, after five heartbeats, West nodded. “Summon us if you need us.” He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, the other five Protectors marching in a precise line behind him.

She felt a writhing struggle for control from the Anatomist’s being. “Stop this sorcery, female,” he cried from somewhere deep. His mouth jerked open, and she felt him on the verge of shouting to the guards for help. Terrified, she clamped down, her spirit quivering from the effort, and stumbled back into the chamber. The door slid closed behind her, and she leaned against the wall to steady herself.

Chen Yong was dressed and standing by the bed.

“Help me dress my body. We have to find the flying chariot.”

Chen Yong turned to her naked form, saw that her head had dropped to her knees. “What did you do to her?”

“It’s me, Chen Yong. I’ve taken control of the Anatomist’s body.” She heard herself speak these words in the high-pitched rasp of the Anatomist. This was not going to be easy.

Chen Yong’s features tightened with suspicion. “What trick is this?”

She felt her heart, the Anatomist’s heart, quicken.

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“We don’t have time to argue. We need to survive this—

for Li Rong’s sake.”

Chen Yong blanched as if she had slapped him; then his expression hardened. He nodded.

There was no time for modesty. With Chen Yong’s help, she pulled on her tunic and trousers. Her body drooped and appeared asleep, her breathing slow and quiet. It was unnerving, like handling her own corpse. She sensed that Chen Yong felt even more uncomfortable than she did.

“Can you carry me?” she asked.

Chen Yong cradled her body in his arms.

The doors opened, and they walked with quiet steps to the green stone stairs. Chen Yong’s sword and their knapsacks were tucked in an alcove in the smooth wall. He slung her body over his shoulder so she dangled facedown, and grabbed the sword. He shrugged as if in apology.

Ai Ling took their knapsacks and knew with the Anatomist’s knowledge that they had not been searched. The Chief had no interest in their paltry possessions. She felt for the lump in her own knapsack and, touching its coolness through the worn material, hissed in relief.

They encountered no one on the second floor and quickly descended the steps. The Anatomist walked more slowly than she was used to, the joints feeling creaky, the body worn. But his senses were agile and alert. She knew that it was just after the second meal, when most of his tribe were taking the afternoon silence at home.

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The fi rst fl oor hall was empty. They approached the door they had walked through so naively just hours before. It slid open, and they stepped into the bright afternoon sunlight.

The square was deserted.

“I can’t believe our fortune, that the door is not guarded,”

Chen Yong said.

“They are a peaceful people. Outsiders are very rare.

Protectors guard the Chief, but not the Hall of Reflection unless called.”

“You know all this?” The amazement in his voice was mixed with a suspicious caution.

“This way to the flying chariots,” she said. “I know everything the Anatomist knows—though it is like piecing together a jumbled puzzle to make sense of it.” Her spirit strained to keep the Anatomist suppressed, even as he writhed against its confi nes.

They walked down a pathway lined with trees bearing purple diamond-shaped fruit, past homes constructed of wood and stone with glass windowpanes in every shape imaginable, stained in all hues of the rainbow. With the entire tribe at rest, the valley was quiet.

Until the Sentry stepped from a side path and halted them.

The stench of rotten eggs, Ai Ling thought.

“Sentry Amber,” she said. She sensed the Anatomist cursing as she spoke. His spirit twisted against hers like a fly caught in rice glue. She kept her face composed, imagined 229

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the placid features she had seen on everyone in this city.

“Anatomist, where are you headed with this strange lot?”

Sentry Amber hefted a shiny club over one shoulder. She had never seen such a weapon. It looked like it could put down a water buffalo with one good blow.

“Our newest acquisitions, courtesy of Archer. I was examining the male when the female became sick. We are headed to the Healer.” She spoke with authority, in a steady, strong voice. She felt a spasm shudder through his weak leg. Hold still, Ai Ling. Show no fear.

“But the Healer is that way.” The Sentry pointed with his club at a path they had just passed.

“Yes, but I need to go to the Herbist first, friend.” A pause as she scrambled. The Anatomist simply screeched now, in an attempt to deter her, hide information. “You think I have become that senile since my six hundred and eighth?” She pursed the Anatomist’s lips and arched his brows. Had it been too long a pause?

The sentry pulled his thin lips into the phantom of a smile.

“Greet the Herbist for me. He gave me a good concoction for my last sunsickness—even if it tasted of baoli dung.”

She nodded and walked past him, feeling his stare on her back.

“Anatomist!”

She turned, trying to control her breathing. The Anatomist’s pulse, her pulse, palpitated in his throat. Somewhere deep within, she could hear him hiss and struggle, his 230

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horror bordering on madness. He managed to jerk his hand upward, and Ai Ling crushed down on his being like stone.

She guided the hand up to rub the smooth chin, hoping it looked natural.

“Do you need help?” The sentry cocked his head in Chen Yong’s direction. Her own body rested in Chen Yong’s arms, seemingly fast asleep.

“You really do take me for senile, Amber. He is under a bind of obeyance.” She let the words fall naturally from the lips. There was no room for hesitation or error.

The sentry nodded, his expression unreadable, and strolled away. Suddenly a loud gong reverberated through the city.

The breath caught in the Anatomist’s throat after Ai Ling grasped the meaning of it.

The Eight Chants of Returning.

The entire city would now break their afternoon silence to recite eight prayers before resuming the tasks of the day.