In amazement, Bingmei saw Quion’s feet find little ledges to support his weight. He gazed off to the right, where a little knob of rock protruded from the cliffside. Holding firm with his left hand, he grabbed the rope from his mouth. Bingmei gazed at him in surprise as he formed a loop and a knot with one hand and his teeth. He then attached the loop around the knob and jerked on the rope, testing the strength. His whole body trembled with the effort, and he grunted, but he kept tugging until he was satisfied the rock would support him.
As Quion continued his climb, the Qiangdao leader shouted in outrage and threw a rock down from above. The rock slammed into his shoulder, and the young man began to slide down the rope, catching himself by squeezing it harder.
Jiaohua hurled an insult up at the Qiangdao. “You plague sore! Spread your pox down here!” He looked at Bingmei fiercely. “Get away!” he seethed.
“Not without Quion,” she said with determination, staring at him.
The Qiangdao flung another rock down, but it struck the pack instead of him. Quion slid down the rope a ways before he managed to stop himself. She saw tears of pain coming out of his eyes. He gripped the rope, shuddering, still high over their heads.
“Lower, lad! Lower!” Jiaohua said.
Quion sniffled and slid down until his boot reached Jiaohua’s upraised palms. A rock plummeted toward Jiaohua’s head, but he sidestepped, and it crashed and shattered against the stones at his feet.
Quion released the rope, and the two men went sprawling against the rugged patches of ground and shrub. Bingmei hopped over to help Quion stand. His hands were smeared with blood and were red from the burns of the rope, but he was alive. She hugged him with gratitude and then helped him rise.
Jiaohua shook off the dirt. He glanced at Quion with a look of respect. “Well done, lad. Now let’s get off this cursed mountain before something else tries to kill us.”
By the time they reached the palace at Sajinau, the air was thick with smoke. Chaos reigned. Some palace guards rushed them, mistaking them for Qiangdao because of their clothing, but Jiaohua was able to convince them of his identity.
“What’s going on?” Jiaohua asked the armored soldier. The man had a gash on his forehead but otherwise looked healthy.
“The lower city is taken,” said the soldier, looking miserable. “Prince Juexin opened the walls of the palace to the townsfolk. The Qiangdao rule the streets.”
“Where is General Tzu?”
The soldier shook his head. “I don’t know. I think he’s with the prince.”
A loud gong sounded, and the soldier lost color. “It’s time to fight. Take what men you have and go to the courtyard to defend the palace!”
Jiaohua nodded, and Damanhur drew his sword. They entered the palace from the side gardens and found the populace of Sajinau cringing and huddling in fear inside. Families were gathered together, many weeping. The reek of their sadness and terror was overwhelming.
“This way,” Jiaohua said, directing them to a side corridor. At the end, he pulled a rug away, revealing a golden grate on the floor. He bent down to pull it up. “Down!” he snapped. “Quickly!”
The group dropped down into the concealed passage. Jiaohua left one of his Jingcha above to conceal the way. The tunnel was narrow and small and very dark. It smelled of must and earth.
Jiaohua pulled on Bingmei’s sleeve. “No matter what happens, we must get you out of here safely. The palace staff do not even know of these tunnels, or they would be clogged right now with people trying to escape. This way. Be silent. Bao Damanhur, protect her with your life.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Damanhur asked.
“Of course I am! You won’t make it out of this palace without my help.”
“Then show us the way,” Damanhur said.
“I will.” He shot a glance at Bingmei. “This tunnel leads by the courtyard. The water from the courtyard drains here during the rainy season. It may be raining blood on us today, but it’s the only way out.”
“Very well. Let’s go,” Bingmei said. She clutched Quion’s arm, so grateful he had survived the experience on the cliff. His pack still rattled a little as he walked, but they’d done their best to stifle the sound.
The bigger men had to crouch in the tunnel, but Bingmei walked upright. The scent of worry filled the tight space. It was hard to understand how Sajinau had fallen so quickly. But she remembered all the soldiers training in the courtyard when she’d arrived. There would be a bloody battle. Or perhaps Echion would loose the killing fog on the populace? He’d already used it on the poor men and women in the watchtowers.
If the fog came for them, they’d be stuck in the tunnels, unable to escape. They had to get out.
After traveling some distance, she saw strips of light ahead. These were the grates Jiaohua had warned her about, the ones that connected to the courtyards. She saw the strips of sunlight streaming through the openings, revealing the slick, dark liquid pooling on the stones of the path.
Echion’s voice.
Her blood froze in an instant.
Jiaohua paused at one of the grates, cocking his head to one side. “Who is that?” he muttered.
Bingmei frowned at him. “That’s Echion.”
“He’s in the courtyard?” Jiaohua said, perplexed.
“Can we see what’s going on up there?” Damanhur asked angrily.
“This way,” Jiaohua replied. “There are grates we can see from at the edge of the courtyard. Hurry.”
They marched quickly, the banging from the pans growing louder. Quion winced and used his hand to silence some of the noise. One of the Jingcha glared at him and reached out as if to rip the pack from him, but he’d stopped the noise. Bingmei patted his shoulder to reassure him. The tunnel branched off in two directions, and Jiaohua turned left. They came to a place where the tunnel floor began to rise, but the ceiling remained the same height. A row of grates came into view at eye level. There was enough room for all of them to find a place to view from. The grates themselves were narrow rectangles, wide enough to see through but not big enough to squeeze through. They were intended for rainwater.
Bingmei looked out and saw a pair of old scuffed boots in front of her. Shifting slightly, she saw a row of Qiangdao standing along the edge of the wall. Between the boots, she could see the interior of the courtyard.
Prince Rowen sat before Echion, who stood at the base of the steps leading up to the palace. His rancid, horrible stench trickled through the grate and into her nose. But she didn’t need her nose to tell it was him. He stood in the same majestic form she’d seen rise from his desiccated body in Fusang, but this time he was heavily armored in an ancient style. Her heart quailed with pain. The prince was kneeling in forced submission.
Echion wore some ancient armor that was dark silver and wreathed in ivy-like designs intermingled with the symbols of dragons. The armor itself reminded her of dragon scales. He towered over Rowen, his pale hair gleaming in the sun, a braided crown around his head. His gaze was imperious, his look defiant and proud.
“This is my city, my land, my empire,” Echion said with bold, strong words. “I am the sword of justice. I am the judge who condemns the guilty to die, princeling. Your brother is a traitor, and I condemn him as such. I have brought him so he might be executed for his crimes.”
“Can we not bargain?” said Juexin.
She couldn’t see him, but she imagined him standing on the steps. His voice came from that direction. She pressed her forehead against the slats of the grate, trying to spy him, but she could not. Looking back, she stared at Rowen, her heart panging with dread.
At that moment, he turned his head as if looking at her. Could he see her through the grate? Did he know she was near?
She smelled a flicker of him, of that flowery scent that had told her he was fond of her, but it was overpowered by the horrid stench of Echion and his murders.
“Bargain?” Echion said with contempt. “But what do you have that I
could want? This is my city. I built these walls myself. The gate opened to me because they recognized me as their rightful master. Not you. I will not slay your people if they will accept their fate as our slaves. If not . . . the fog will rid me of your defiance. It is mine to command. So what is there to bargain for, princeling? I declare your brother is guilty of treason. And I will execute him as your weak-willed father should have done years ago. It is my will. It is my right.” He drew his sword, which had glyphs fashioned into it. It seemed to crackle with energy.
Bingmei’s heart felt as if it would burst. Would she have to watch him murder Rowen?
“Lower your head, you faithless boy,” Echion said to Rowen. “That I might strike it from your shoulders.”
Rowen did lean forward, dropping his head, exposing his neck.
“Wait!” Juexin cried out.
Echion sneered up at him, his pale lips cold and snarling. “You’ve pled for his life already, princeling.”
Juexin stepped into view, clad in armor covered in bloodstains. He’d already fought bravely to defend the city. And he’d failed. His people cowered inside the palace. How many soldiers did he have left? Sajinau had been the strongest of the kingdoms, and yet Echion had toppled it effortlessly.
What hope did the rest of them have?
“I would trade places with him,” Juexin said, his voice thick.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Intercession
Bingmei could not believe what she’d heard, but there was no mistaking the smell that wafted down to her. It was a perfume of sincerity, compassion, and regret, powerful enough together to temporarily overpower Echion’s stench. It came through the slats in the grate, stinging Bingmei’s eyes, filling her with grief and admiration.
And guilt.
“An exchange of fates?” said the Dragon of Night with a sardonic chuckle. “How noble. And pointless.”
“Do you think I would ever serve you willingly?” replied Juexin. “You say this is your kingdom, but it belongs to my father. Whatever right you had to it ended long ago.”
“Bold words. Wrong, but bold.”
“Brother, no,” said Rowen, looking up at Juexin in horror. Bingmei could sense the emotions colliding inside him. He’d not expected this. He’d expected to die. He did not wish to be saved at such a price.
“Oh, if he wants to take your place, by all means, let him!” said Echion triumphantly. “If he thinks that sacrificing himself will alter the verdict, he’s gravely mistaken. A life for a life. That is just.”
“I will do it,” Juexin said, coming down the remainder of the steps. From her angle, Bingmei caught a brief glimpse of Kunmia, Marenqo, and Mieshi standing in a group on the steps. Her heart twisted at the look on Kunmia’s face. Her master rarely ever allowed emotion to play on her features, but her look was one of concern and dread.
“No,” Rowen moaned, shaking his head. He was in agony. Bingmei’s own heart throbbed in commiseration. She’d asked Juexin if, had the situation been reversed, he would have sacrificed himself. What had her question set in motion? The compassion she smelled from Juexin mingled with fear and dread. The emotions were so complex, so powerful, they sapped her strength. Jiaohua and the others were equally fixed on the scene, unable to tear their eyes away.
Juexin knelt by his brother, his face haggard and weary. He probably hadn’t slept. He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Why?” Rowen said in grief.
“I promised Father,” he answered simply, his voice thick. “And he would have done the same for you.” His lips firmed. “Go.”
Rowen looked at his brother, tears in his eyes. There was a moment of shared anguish between them, one that tore down years of built-up resentment. Juexin pulled his brother up beside him. Again the smell of Juexin overpowered the stench of murder. It was rich and commanding, like a feast swelling atop a table. So many flavors, so many scents.
“Go, Brother,” he said, glaring at Echion in defiance.
Bingmei’s fingers slipped through the slats in the grate, squeezing them hard. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her grief was overwhelming, but it was mixed with respect and honor for the prince she’d scorned. Rowen bowed his head in defeat and walked the way his brother had come, trudging up the steps as if an impossible burden were lashed to his back.
The two men faced each other.
“You think to defeat me, boy?” Echion asked in a low, threatening voice. He still gripped his great sword in one hand. His pale hair was tousled by a sudden breeze.
Juexin’s hands were clenched. His lips quivered with suppressed emotion. “I am a man of my word,” he said, his voice thick. Gasps filled the courtyard as he dropped to his knees before his enemy, lowering his head and exposing his neck.
It happened so quickly, the sudden blur of movement, the sword coming down. Bingmei squeezed her eyes shut, but she heard the sound of the head as it landed on the stones. It was an awful sound. One that would haunt her dreams.
“So am I,” answered Echion with a savage sneer in the sound. Gasps of shock and horror could be heard, as well as a few grunted chuckles from the Qiangdao observing the execution. Then Echion said mockingly to the corpse, “Serve me here or in my Grave Kingdom. It matters very little which you choose.”
The horror of the moment made Bingmei want to shrivel in despair. Such an enemy could not be defeated. His power and knowledge and sheer age surpassed any resources they had. Her fingers were still hooked in the slats, her head bowed in reverence.
And then she felt the pull of the Phoenix Blade. Once again, it yanked her from her body. Death’s compulsion was so strong, she couldn’t resist it. The wrenching feeling drew her up through the grate, and she was suddenly aware, in her spirit form, of standing in the courtyard. Everything was awash in streaks of gray. It felt like her head had been plunged into a bucket of ice water.
Echion was there still, but behind him loomed the black dragon she’d seen at Fusang. Its power rippled, and its smokelike wings folded across its back. A low hissing growl came from it.
Bingmei.
Cowering in terror at the monstrosity, it took her a moment to see him. Prince Juexin, standing above his corpse, traces of golden light coming from his hair and his eyes. He saw her.
Bingmei, save us.
They came as thoughts more than words. His eyes implored her, and his hand reached out to her in supplication. And then she saw something tear him away—the claws of the dragon just barely visible through the black mist it rode in on. Like a piece of gossamer, he was snatched. He was being carried to the east, toward the mountains.
Toward the Death Wall.
She longed to pursue him, to save him, but she felt tethered to her body.
A man was crossing the courtyard toward Echion. Muxidi. Could he see her? Sense her? His face grim and determined, he held the Phoenix Blade. Anguish and grief shook her heart. She wanted to run, to hide. How could she feel so much more strongly in this state? It amazed her that her body, if anything, muted the strength of her feelings.
Echion turned and faced the newcomer, frowning with impatience.
“Where is she, Muxidi?” he asked with growing anger.
“She’s here. Right now,” answered the Qiangdao. He pointed at her.
Echion turned his head, his eyes bulging with rage. The dragon huffed, and bits of fog came out of its snout.
Bingmei felt terror freeze her, and then she recognized a familiar smell—the warm cinnamon porridge of Kunmia’s regard for her. Kunmia Suun launched herself at Echion, the glyphs on her staff glowing as the wood struck him in the face.
No!
A wrenching feeling twisted in Bingmei’s stomach, and she awoke with a gasp. She’d collapsed against the wall, her fingers still gripping the metal grid.
“Someone’s down there!” called a voice from above.
Jiaohua was shaking her shoulders, trying to revive her. The pinpricks of pain came with harsh intensity up her legs, down her ar
ms. She lacked the strength to unclench her fingers from the metal, but Damanhur pried them off for her.
Someone yanked the grate open, and an arm plunged down into the dark, groping at them. Jiaohua pulled Bingmei away. Her legs wouldn’t work, and she struggled to breathe. Her chest felt like ice. Damanhur grabbed the arm and yanked it hard, smashing their would-be attacker’s body against the stones above.
“Go! Go!” Jiaohua seethed. Quion grabbed her legs while Jiaohua hooked his hands beneath her arms, and they toted her back down the tunnel.
Bingmei’s eyes were no longer used to the dark, and she felt dizzy and disoriented as they fled through the tunnels. Her heart panged with the knowledge that her master was facing the enemy. Kunmia had faced him once before while his power was still returning. He was even stronger now.
“How far is it?” Damanhur asked worriedly.
“Not far, but the exit may be guarded already,” Jiaohua said. “He’s anticipated us all along. We might have to fight our way out.”
As they turned another corner, Bingmei began to reconnect with her body. Her fingers still didn’t work, but she was trying to move them. The coldness inside her was all-consuming. She felt her teeth rattling. Kunmia couldn’t die too. That wasn’t possible. She could defeat anyone, couldn’t she?
“Hurry!” Jiaohua grunted.
She sensed the presence of the Phoenix Blade enter the tunnels. There was no disguising its power, its luring magic.
“He’s coming,” she said in a choked voice.
“Can you run?” Jiaohua asked her.
“I can try,” she said.
“Set her down, boy,” Jiaohua snapped.
Quion obeyed. Bingmei felt herself wobble, but she felt steady enough when she gripped Quion’s arm. They took a few steps and then broke into a run, but the sword was coming closer at a rapid rate. Muxidi was running too, and he was faster.
Another turn, another intersection. Still they pressed on. Bingmei would never have found her way on her own. She was hopelessly lost, but the Jingcha knew the tunnels. Light appeared ahead, finally, and they saw a metal gate. It looked out on a mess of foliage, but light from outside snaked through the growth.
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