Silver Phoenix

by Cindy Pon

  Silver Phoenix

  Beyond the Kingdom of Xia

  Cindy Pon

  For my wai gong, who taught me the importance of journal keeping

  and told me fantastic tales.

  For my wai po, whom I never met,

  but whose slender fingers I inherited.

  I miss you both.

  Contents

  Prologue

  The eunuchs said the windows were ceiling height to allow…

  Chapter One

  The book lay heavy in Ai Ling’s lap, so massive…

  Chapter Two

  Life slowed in Father’s absence. There were no more lessons,…

  Chapter Three

  Ai Ling traveled onward through the night, guided by the…

  Chapter Four

  Ai Ling awoke to the sound of twigs crackling on…

  Chapter Five

  It was midday. Ai Ling wiped the sweat from her…

  Chapter Six

  Ai Ling woke on the hard ground. She looked around,…

  Chapter Seven

  Ai Ling climbed down the narrow stairs. She found Bao…

  Chapter Eight

  Ai Ling walked at a brisk pace, already wondering where…

  Chapter Nine

  Ai Ling woke with a start and sat straight up.

  Chapter Ten

  Lao Pan’s cave was at least two hours’ walk behind…

  Chapter Eleven

  Ai Ling woke before daybreak, stirred by violent dreams. It…

  Chapter Twelve

  The jagged peak towered over them, obscuring half the sky.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ai Ling sat up and rubbed her face, embarrassed to…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ai Ling woke from a dreamless sleep. Bright sunlight shone…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ai Ling woke to find Chen Yong steering the pivot…

  Chapter Sixteen

  The handmaid’s light touch never changed as she guided Ai…

  Chapter Seventeen

  The drummers beat a slow rhythm that filled her senses…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ai Ling dreamed of Li Rong. They sat in the…

  Chapter Nineteen

  After days of constant travel, Ai Ling and her father…

  Chapter Twenty

  Ai Ling tapped on Chen Yong’s bedchamber door at dawn.

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  In the Kingdom of Xia, within the Palace of Fragrant Dreams, nineteen years past

  The eunuchs said the windows were ceiling height to allow the concubines their privacy, but Jin Lian knew it was also a way to keep them trapped. These quarters had walls taller than any courtyard tree. No one could survive the drop to the other side. Not that any concubine in possession of her wits would ever attempt to escape the Palace—or her duties to the Emperor.

  Jin Lian pushed the tray of rice porridge and pickled cucumbers away. The ache in her swollen belly robbed her of any appetite. Her devoted handmaid, Hong Yu, eased her onto the platform bed, one firm hand beneath her elbow. The girl rearranged the silk drapes to encourage air flow. But the night was hot and still.

  Jin Lian found it impossible to get comfortable in her expansive nest littered with plump cushions and tangled sheets. She curled onto her side and clutched the gold-brocaded coverlet in sweaty fists. Hong Yu, her brow knitted with worry, fanned her with rapid movements. Jin Lian attempted a smile, but failed.

  Instead she concentrated on her breathing, as Royal Physician Wu had advised. Hong Yu offered cool jasmine tea and wiped her brow with a cold cloth scented with mint and cucumber. The smell soothed Jin Lian, until another pain seized her stomach and radiated across her lower back.

  She grabbed the girl’s hand. “Please ask Hei Po to come—” Unable to continue, Jin Lian closed her eyes to the pain. Time spiraled away from her. She was aware of nothing beyond the ragged sound of her own breath.

  Then cool hands pressed upon her fiery belly, gently on top and along the sides. “He’s in good position, dropped low, ready to enter this world, mistress,” Hei Po said. “He arrives early.”

  Four weeks early.

  Jin Lian did not open her eyes. She’d recognize her old nursemaid’s voice anywhere. Her breath came in short bursts now, but she managed, “You said he.”

  “Merely a guess, child. It will be time to push soon.”

  Hei Po motioned to Hong Yu. “Girl, prepare the water as I instructed.” The handmaid scrambled, as if afraid the baby would drop out at that very moment.

  The pressure became unbearable. Jin Lian heard herself moan and gasp, unable to control the physical responses of her body. Improper. Unladylike. She should be embarrassed. These inner thoughts trickled, became muted.

  Hei Po stroked her hand. “The pain brings your baby into this world. Just breathe and push when the moment comes.” The midwife’s words tumbled against her ear.

  Jin Lian did not know how much time passed. The agony washed over her now in waves.

  “It’s time,” Hei Po said.

  Hong Yu stood behind the midwife. When had she returned?

  “Bear down when you feel another constriction, Xiao Lian,” Hei Po said. The childhood pet name surprised Jin Lian, comforted her.

  She pushed. She felt the baby twist. Felt it move through her body. Emerge. There was a tremendous sense of release. An insistent wail filled the room. Jin Lian’s heart swelled and ached all at once.

  “Is it a girl or a boy?” Jin Lian finally found her weak voice.

  Her chest seized when she saw the expression on Hei Po’s face. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “No, he’s perfect.”

  A boy.

  His hair was light brown, with a golden tint under the blazing lanterns. Blood thundered in her ears. He opened his swollen eyes, as if sensing her. They were golden, too, tinged with a dark tea green.

  He was one of mixed blood, half Xian and half foreign. Not the Emperor’s son.

  What have we done?

  Jin Lian sobbed as she clutched her son. But she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of crying long. Master Zhong checked on her progress daily, anticipating the birth of a son—the Emperor’s son. He kept spies everywhere. She needed to act fast if she wanted her baby to live.

  “Hei Po, stay within my quarters. No one expected the babe to arrive this early. No one can know.”

  The gray-haired woman nodded. Her wizened face betrayed nothing. Jin Lian knew she tested her old nursemaid’s loyalty. Hei Po could be killed for aiding her in this deception. But this was the woman who had brought her into the world with loving hands, who had cared for her as a child. Who could Jin Lian trust if not her dear beloved Hei Po?

  “Hong Yu, find Master Wen.”

  Despite her youth, Hong Yu knew enough of Palace intrigue to understand the danger. Could Jin Lian trust this girl with her son’s life? With her own? She had no choice.

  The handmaid scrambled to the door.

  “No. Not that way.”

  Jin Lian pressed one of the lotuses carved upon the intricate camphor-wood headboard. A hidden door eased open by her side. “Through here. Keep straight, you’ll pass three openings before you make a right on the fourth. This will take you into Master Wen’s quarters. Knock once, pause, then knock three more times at the passage door. Bring a lantern.”

  The secret panel shut behind Hong Yu without a noise.

  The babe’s face screwed up. He was intent on wailing again, as if he felt his mother’s anxiety. She guided him to her breast. His head wobbled as he nudged his pink face against her chest. He found her nipple and began t
o suckle, making small contented noises as he nursed.

  Hot tears fell on his chubby arm, unhindered. Jin Lian knew this was the last time she would hold him, stroke his smooth cheeks, and breathe in his sweet scent. Assuming either of them survived the night.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The book lay heavy in Ai Ling’s lap, so massive it covered her thighs. She pressed her knees together, for fear the tome would crash to the ground otherwise. Bound in a brocaded cover of rich crimson, characters embroidered in gold read The Book of Making. She didn’t want to open it.

  “Take a look.” Mother inclined her head. Black hair spilled over her shoulders in thick cascades, and the subtle scent of gardenia oil drifted with her every movement. Ai Ling rarely saw her mother’s hair loose. She looked beautiful.

  Ai Ling let the book fall open to a random page. Her face flushed at what she saw—a man and woman stark naked, their limbs entwined. THE DANCE OF THE CRANES was printed neatly above in black ink.

  “Mother…” She could not bring herself to meet her mother’s gaze.

  “Keep looking, Ai Ling. This book is informative, with all the things you need to know about the bedchamber and what it takes to pleasure your husband.”

  Her mother put a gentle hand over hers. Ai Ling had always admired her mother’s slender fingers, so deft in embroidering and playing the lute.

  “It’s soon time for you to wed. It’s been one year since your monthly letting began.” Her mother flipped the pages, and more nude figures filled Ai Ling’s vision. “It tells you how to gauge your most fertile days, which positions are best—”

  “But you didn’t have me until you were twenty-four years!” Ai Ling wanted to slam the book shut, even as she was riveted to the drawings on the page. The only color came from the lotus pink of the woman’s lips and the tips of her breasts.

  “I married late, my heart.” Ai Ling’s mother stroked her hair, tucked a strand behind her ear. “It wasn’t that your father and I didn’t try. We lost one before we were blessed with you. He was born still—without spirit.”

  She could have had an older brother. Her mother’s light brown eyes were bright with remembered sorrow.

  “I didn’t know,” Ai Ling whispered.

  “Now you understand what a true joy you are to us.” She touched Ai Ling’s cheek. “Keep the book. Look through it. I’ll visit in the evenings before bed so we can talk.” Her mother rose, stepped delicately from the platform bed, and bade her a peaceful night.

  Ai Ling remained sitting with the book in her lap. Its weight on her legs did not compare to the thoughts which weighed on her heart. After a few moments, she rose, placed The Book of Making on her writing desk, blew out the lantern, and slipped into bed.

  Rest did not come quickly that night. When she finally drifted into slumber, her dreams were of couples etched in black, moving in jerky motions, passive smiles painted upon their faces, an emptiness within their eyes.

  Ai Ling jostled against the plush silk cushions of the sedan seat. Father had hired it for the occasion. She had suspected her parents’ intention when Mother shared The Book of Making last month, but she wasn’t prepared for a betrothal so soon. She would be given away, traded off like cattle, fortunate to see her parents perhaps once a year—if her future mother-in-law allowed it.

  Her empty stomach turned. She wished she wasn’t alone, being presented as if royalty, under just as much scrutiny. What would her betrothed look like? With her luck, he’d have squinted eyes and not reach past her chin.

  Despite it being in the tenth moon, the days were still hot. She fanned herself, feeling stifled, wishing protocol allowed her to draw aside the heavy drapes. Muffled shouts from vendors offering their wares reached her ears. Ai Ling peeled back the corner of the drape and peered out, spying a cobbler bellowing from his stand. A mother pulled her toddler son by the hand past the sedan, promising a candied fruit if he behaved. Ai Ling was whisked down the main street and allowed the curtain to drop once more, isolating her in a hot muted red.

  The sedan stopped too soon. She wasn’t ready. She brushed a nervous hand over her hair, where Mother had placed the delicate jade hairpin from her betrothed among the coils piled on her head. She had always worn braids until today. As a married woman, she would never be able to wear loose braids again. Her stomach clenched, and she fisted her hands tight to gather courage.

  “Mistress Wen arrives!” shouted a deep sonorous voice.

  Ai Ling wilted against the cushions. They had hired a master of ceremony? The Goddess of Mercy help her.

  The curtains were swept aside, exposing her to the harsh light of midday. She blinked a few times and saw her mother and father, along with, she assumed, Master Wong, Lady Wong, and her betrothed, Liao Kang.

  The master of ceremony, a rotund man with a fringe of hair circling his scalp and plump red cheeks, bowed low with surprising grace and proffered one hand. She took it and stepped into the empty street. She dared not look around but wondered if they had somehow cleared the area. She walked past her parents and immediately went to Lady Wong, her future mother-in-law, as protocol dictated.

  The petite woman raised one arm, clad in a lavender silk sleeve banded in gold. Ai Ling took the woman’s cool hand and pressed it to her lowered brow.

  Not a bad-looking girl. Good hips.

  Her stomach seized as if someone had hurled a rock at her middle. She nearly reeled but managed to remain standing. Ai Ling lifted her head in shock, felt the blood drain from her face; but no one else indicated they had heard Lady Wong’s comment.

  Lady Wong regarded her with calculation. A palpable sense of disdain poured toward Ai Ling. The woman flicked her gaze up, then down.

  Too tall.

  She heard it as if it were spoken aloud, but Lady Wong’s rouged lips remained pursed, never moved. Her future mother-in-law inclined her head, and Ai Ling quickly dropped her hand. The tightness within her immediately eased. Had she heard the woman’s thoughts?

  She fought to quell her trembling as Liao Kang stepped forward and extended his hand. He was a bamboo of a boy, the barely green type, with large almond eyes in a pale face. Would this boy see her hair unbound on their wedding night? Her mind flitted to The Book of Making. Heat suffused Ai Ling’s cheeks. She took his hand, feeling the damp of her own palm, and allowed him to lead her into the restaurant.

  The three-storied restaurant opened into a lush courtyard filled with orchids and fruit trees. Liao Kang led her to a round lacquered table with six matching chairs. He stepped to the space across from her. They remained standing, waiting for their parents. The men seated themselves first, next to each other, followed by their wives, also side by side.

  The master of ceremony stood behind their table, announcing in his deep voice the names of both families and the betrothed, wishing them fortune, marital joy, and seven sons in seven years. After what seemed like an hour, the plump man bowed and retreated. Only then did Ai Ling and Liao Kang seat themselves. The server immediately placed the first dish on the table, cold cuts of beef tongue, pig ears, salted silver river fish, and marinated quail eggs. Ai Ling’s mouth felt dry, as if stuffed with raw silk.

  She sipped on the cool tea and pretended to eat.

  It was after much laughter and reminiscing, when a contented silence fell between the two men, that Lady Wong spoke. “We want to make sure that Ai Ling is a good match for our Liao Kang. He is a sensitive, intelligent boy—our baby.”

  Ai Ling caught the smile about to break on her lips. She sneaked a glance at Liao Kang, but he was intent upon pushing the meatball pearls on his plate with his silver eating sticks.

  “I’m concerned about your family’s reputation, Master Wen.” Lady Wong’s pleasant tone did not match the menace of her words. “My husband withheld information from me when we accepted Ai Ling as a daughter-in-law.” She cast a cutting glance at her husband. “Weren’t you thrown out of the Emperor’s court in disgrace?”

  Master Wong slammed his wine cup o
n the table. Hot anger rose within her, and she looked toward her father. But he appeared unmoved by the accusation.

  “I served the Emperor well, Lady Wong. For many years.”

  The woman sniffed. Master Wong lifted an open hand to his wife in appeasement. “Dear wife, Liao Kang and Ai Ling are betrothed. We’re almost family. Master Wen and I are longtime colleagues and friends; we couldn’t possibly find a better match for our son.”

  Her defiant look made her husband sigh too loudly. “The final decision is up to Liao Kang,” Lady Wong said.

  The server placed a deep dish of sizzling scallops before them, bowed, and retreated.

  “The food is delicious. If only I knew the recipes,” her mother finally said after an awkward silence.

  “Our chef’s dishes are far superior,” Lady Wong replied, actually turning up her nose.

  “You’ve come a long way, Lao Wong, from eating rice porridge and pickles at every meal,” Ai Ling’s father said, patting his old colleague on the back. But Master Wong stared at his dessert, a strained smile on his face.

  Avoiding her father’s eyes, Master Wong waved a server over. “More chilled wine here!”

  Liao Kang had not spoken a word during the entire meal. Now his mother looked at him expectantly. After prodding the chilled yam in sweetened mare’s milk without taking one bite, he dropped a piece of sky blue satin on the table, took his mother’s waiting hand, and escorted her out of the restaurant.

  Ai Ling’s face grew hot, then cold. A gift of gold was given, usually a bracelet or ring, in acceptance of the girl chosen. The piece of discarded satin meant the very opposite. She did not doubt that Lady Wong had orchestrated this public refusal.