Silver Phoenix (57 page)

A small breeze rustled the grass. It undulated like waves, carrying the scent of burned rice fields. Chen Yong studied her in his quiet way, something that had always made the heat rise in her cheeks. This time, she simply met his gaze.

“Why not?” he asked.

Ai Ling’s eyes swept across the fields, to the dusty road that had led her away from home so long ago. How could she explain her need to be alone? To contemplate their incredible journey—to try and make sense of it. “How do I tell them that the feel of dragon scales beneath my hands is more real to me than the embroidery I’m working on?”

She saw a flicker of understanding in Chen Yong’s face.

“They speak of betrothals, discuss bridal outfits and fertility recipes. Their life is nothing like my own.”

“You don’t wish to remarry?” Chen Yong asked.

This time, the heat did rise to her face. “Who wants a bride of such ill fortune?” Ai Ling turned and continued 331

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down the narrow path. “And you? Have your parents not arranged a betrothal yet?”

The silence lingered forever before his reply. “It’s too soon after Li Rong’s death.”

She released a breath, not realizing she had held it.

The grass gave way to slender birch trees, silver in the morning light. She stopped to arch her neck and look sky-ward; Chen Yong stood beside her and did the same. The sky was a deep indigo, reminding her of their chariot ride. A wild exhilaration radiated from her belly, expanded through her lungs and quickened the beating of her heart.

Ai Ling turned to Chen Yong, and realized only after he smiled at her that she grinned so widely her cheeks ached.

They strolled through the trees, until they reached a small meadow with a moss-covered knoll. A stone figure no more than waist high perched on top of the mound, like a strange ancient ruler from another realm.

“What’s that?” Chen Yong nodded toward the statue.

“I don’t know, really. I found him during my wanderings.”

She approached the rough-hewn figure, its lines smoothed by time, the crevices tinged green and brown. She ran her fingertips over the round head, bare except for deep grooves perhaps signifying hair. Her hands glided around the large, curved earlobes and generous nose.

“He’s my friend. I come here often, it’s a favorite place of mine.”

“You travel outside the town gates often?” he asked.

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Ai Ling pursed her lips, amused. “I can take care of myself.”

“And your . . . ?” He traced a fingertip over the moss on the statue.

Ai Ling dropped to her knees and began to pull items from her knapsack—a bowl, gold- and silver-foiled spirit money. “My ability grew stronger after what happened. . . .”

She did not want to speak Zhong Ye’s name. “I keep my spirit to myself; it’s too easy for me to hear others’ thoughts now, without some vigilance.”

Chen Yong kneeled beside her, and they filled the deep bronze bowl with spirit money—for Li Rong in his travels through the underworld. He brought his oval striker down against the flint, and after two strikes, a gold-foiled coin caught fire, curling around the edges. Soon the coins had turned into a small blaze. They remained kneeling, continued to feed the dancing fl ames with the foiled coins.

“I dream about him,” Chen Yong said in a low voice.

Ai Ling’s eyes snapped open. He was concentrating on the task of feeding the spirit money into the fi re.

“I did as well. Once.”

“Was he well?”

She nodded. “He was himself—laughing, jesting.”

“I know my mother blames me for his death. I blame myself, too.”

She reached over to touch his shoulder. “He ventured to that dark mountain because of me—my duty. If anyone is at fault, I am.”

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“It should have been me.”

Ai Ling leaned closer, not believing what she heard.

“Don’t you understand? I was in front of that wretched monster when his claws came down. If it had not made us switch positions . . .” Chen Yong punched the earth with a tight fi st.

“Please don’t think that. Li Rong wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt.” She withdrew her hand and stared into the fl ames.

“He is at peace,” Ai Ling said after a heavy silence.

Chen Yong attempted a smile. He placed the last of the spirit money in the bowl and sat back on his heels, straightening, pulling his broad shoulders back.

“I’ll be leaving in a few months, on a ship for Jiang Dao,”

he said.

Ai Ling could only stare. “Why?” she whispered.

“My father. I have to find him. I need to know if he’s alive.”

He held himself still as a statue, in a pose of worship—or sacrifi ce.

“You can’t even speak the language. They won’t accept you there. You are Xian.” She spoke more vehemently than she intended. But Jiang Dao, across the wide expanse of tur-bulent seas? No. Please no.

“And you believe I’m accepted here?”

His measured tone stopped her short. “I accept you. You are more Xian than anyone I know.”

His smile reached his eyes this time. “But you know me.

You simply see me as Chen Yong.”

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The sun climbed above the tree line, casting warm rays into their small meadow. Chen Yong’s dark brows drew together as he spoke. “My features betray me. Each day I’m reminded I am half foreign by how others react to me—that I am something different from them.”

“You’ll let others tell you who you are?” Ai Ling spoke boldly, refusing to understand.

“You don’t know how it is. I’ll never find acceptance from strangers—no matter where I go.” Chen Yong shifted, drawing his knees up, resting his arms on them. “Those letters my father wrote to Master Tan, he spoke of me in each one, wondered how I was, what I liked, if I was diligent in my studies, if I grew tall . . .” His voice caught.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said.

“I’ll return. My home is here. I’ll bring a gift for you.”

Was he so thickheaded that he refused to see? Surely he knew, could guess, her feelings for him? If she loosened her hold on her own spirit just a fraction, she could hear his thoughts, feel his emotions. But it would be wrong—an intrusion. She had already betrayed his trust. And Ai Ling knew the inevitable truth; his heart belonged elsewhere.

They watched in silence as the flames slowly burned the spirit money into cinders. She said a small prayer for Li Rong, who would never have blamed them, even if they were unable to forgive themselves. And a prayer for the innocent servant girl at the restaurant, whose spirit had been overtaken by the night-worm fi ends. Ai Ling watched 335

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as the last red ember flickered to darkness and saved her final prayer for Zhong Ye, the man who had held her father prisoner, coerced her to wed, and refused to die; the man who, she had discovered, loved her in his own twisted fash-ion, even as she was ending his life.

They ate a quiet meal on the knoll, sitting side by side, their backs pressed against the ancient carving. The meadow was a lush green, dotted along the edges with fallen leaves of crimson and gold. The scent of wet earth permeated the air.

Their food was cold, but fresh, the lotus paste buns sweet, the scallion flatbread thick and savory. The tea was lukewarm within the fl asks.

“Eating like this reminds me of our journey,” Chen Yong said.

“I come here often with a snack. I think about it a lot.”

“And by snack, do you mean two sweet buns, a thick slab of bread, and lots of dried pork?” He laughed before she could retort. But the sound of it lifted her own spirit, and she chuckled despite herself.

“I usually just have a fruit myself,” he said.

Ai Ling tossed a persimmon into his lap. “I’m sorry if you don’t know how to eat properly.”

He threw his head back and laughed again. She tried to capture the moment like a sketch within her mind, the feeling of his shoulder pressed against hers, the warmth of the autumn sun on their faces.

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Later, Ai Ling accompanied Chen Yong to the front gate.

Her parents had said their farewells in the main hall, inviting him to visit again.