by Cindy Pon
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 burning and a pile of spirit money—gold and silver-foiled coins. The flame from one white candle flickered in the wind. “I am unable to conjure food,” the Lady said. Was she a goddess as well?
Ai Ling carefully searched through her knapsack and pulled out a packet of nuts and dried mango, given to her by Master Tan so long ago. She also found the last two strips of dried beef, Li Rong’s favorite.
“I can offer these,” she said.
“And I have rice wine,” Chen Yong said. He placed a finely carved gourd on the altar.
The Lady began chanting the song of mourning in a singsong voice as Chen Yong bent down and started the fire. He looked up at Ai Ling. “Help me.”
She joined him and fed the spirit money into a bronze bowl. The embers fluttered around them. There was a chill in the air and the skies were overcast, the day darker and colder than before. She did not know how much time had passed, how long they had been on the mountain.
She felt again Li Rong’s reassuring touch when they had first descended on this mountain. No, he shouldn’t be dead. Not when someone like Zhong Ye lived. She would bring him back—even if she needed to use the dark arts to do it. Li Rong had died because of her. She would do anything.
The Lady’s chanting was soothing and hypnotic. She clapped her hands at certain points, swaying like a delicate orchid. “The body wears to sand,” she sang. “Yet the teaching of goodness will always linger….”
The spirit money burned bright, and then dimmed to a few points of glowing red.
“Place his belongings at his feet. It is time,” the Lady said. She gently laid a yellow cloth over Li Rong’s face and placed a sky blue one over his body. She touched the platform, and the black sticks beneath roared into bright flames.
They crackled, spread, and illuminated Li Rong’s face, making him appear lifelike again. Soon the flames engulfed him. Ai Ling and Chen Yong stepped back from the pyre as the wind blew across the barren mountaintop, feeding the fire.
She caught glimpses of him still. He shimmered and wavered until he was lost, and she turned her face away.
Chen Yong stood beside her, their shoulders touching. She looked toward the Lady, who faced them, standing close to the fire, unaffected by its heat. Their eyes locked, and her arms prickled despite the roaring flames. The Lady’s gaze pierced through her. Ai Ling looked back to the pyre, willing her face to betray nothing.
A low wail erupted from Chen Yong as he fell to his knees. He hugged himself and banged his brow against the ground, the keening never stopping. It flooded her with grief. She too collapsed to her knees, allowed her sorrow to voice itself in a piercing cry. She banged her brow against the black rock of the mountain, giving herself to physical pain until her vision swirled with orange flames.
They remained prostrate until the fire burned itself out, until darkness fell and a sickle moon shimmered down on them. The air was frigid. The stars were distant, indifferent—so unlike the sky that had comforted Ai Ling the evening before, when she had bathed in the Scarlet River.
“It was a proper funeral for a hero,” the Lady said.
Suspicion coiled within Ai Ling. Why hadn’t the Immortals prevented this?
“Are you a goddess, Lady?” Ai Ling asked, her voice quiet.
“It’s been so long that I’ve been held captive—I do not know anymore. Come, you can rest in my sanctuary tonight.”
Ai Ling recalled the Lady’s light touch on her shoulder, the warmth of her healing mingled with the scent of delicate honeysuckle. She knew the Lady was good, but a part of her did not know if she could ever fully trust her or the Immortals again. Not now.
The Lady in White led them down a path through jagged black rocks, a path that had not been there when they first alighted on the mountain. The ice tower was gone, and in its stead, a white circle hewn into the ground gleamed in the moonlight.
The Lady’s gown emanated a silver sheen that made it easy for Ai Ling and Chen Yong to follow her. She led them to a small, simple hut built into the side of the mountain. A pine tree the same height as Chen Yong grew by the wooden door. Wild honeysuckle nestled beneath the window ledges. Their hostess pushed the door open, and they followed her inside.
The small room was rectangular in shape, cozy for one person and crowded for three. The wooden beams above were high, allowing for the Lady’s tall stature. A square lacquered table dominated the room, and a lantern sat on it, a bamboo pattern etched in the glass. Two other lanterns hung from the high beams, casting a warm glow.
“I regret I have no food to offer. But there is a well at the back of the house, and its water is refreshing. I do believe I have a jug of wine hidden somewhere, if you’d like,” the Lady said. She looked like she needed neither refreshment nor rest. Incredible, if she had been held captive as long as she claimed. Unease curled around the edges of Ai Ling’s grieving heart. Perhaps they had been used by the Immortals to rescue this woman.
“It would warm me up, I think,” Ai Ling said. She had never drunk wine.
The Lady glided to a small bamboo bureau in the corner. She returned bearing a round tray with two wine cups and a jug. She filled both cups. “I wish I had more to offer for your act of bravery.”
She kneeled, handing a cup first to Chen Yong, then to Ai Ling, her back curved. Embarrassed, Ai Ling quickly took the cup and sipped without thinking. The liquid cut a hot path down her throat, easing the coldness within her belly and the bitter ache of her chest.
“Who held you captive, Lady?” Ai Ling tried to keep the tone of her voice respectful, rather than accusing.
Chen Yong raised his head from his wine cup and met her eyes with an inscrutable look. Ai Ling pursed her lips—she never knew how he felt or what he thought—and turned her full attention to the Lady.
“My twin brother,” she said in a quiet melodic voice that brought to mind lute strings plucked beneath a full moon.
Ai Ling gasped. She took another sip of the wine, welcoming the searing heat that filled her, slowly numbing her anger, her pain.
The Lady turned to gaze out the window, her face filled with sorrow. “I was well loved by my father, educated, encouraged to learn and travel, treated as if I were a son. My twin brother was intelligent and talented in his own right. I know not why the jealousy burned so deep within him; it ate away at him, tainted his spirit….”
Her porcelain face flushed with color. “We were never close while growing up, so I had no inkling of his resentment toward me. There were just the two of us. Mother died when we were but six years.
“It was only when Father died ten years later that I understood how deeply my brother despised me. He locked me within my quarters, refusing me the right to visitors, turning away friends as well as suitors.”
The Lady remained on her knees, her back straight, turning her face from Chen Yong to Ai Ling as she told the story.
“After two years of imprisonment in my own home, I escaped. I traveled as far away as I could, until I reached the summit of this mountain. And it was here I made my home. For years I stayed here alone, the mist and stars as my companions, the birds and pine rodents as my friends.”
“But your brother found you?” Ai Ling asked.
“He appeared on this summit five years later, unrecognizable. I looked into his face and saw nothing of my twin. He ranted and raved about how I was favored by my father—but the truth was, I was treated as an equal to him, never more.
“And as he spoke and paced, my beautiful mountain darkened, the
leaves blackened and shriveled, the life bled away. He raised his arms, and a crystal tower thrust upward from the peak. He stripped me of flesh and body and imprisoned my spirit within those walls.”
The Lady finally bowed her head, her hair ornaments clinking like chimes. “That was more than a thousand years ago,” she said.
“A thousand?” Ai Ling breathed.
“He had given himself to the dark arts. He conjured the monster you slew to hold me captive in the tower and prevent rescue or escape. My home, this mountain, has been under an enchantment.” She surveyed the room. “It’s as if time stood still.”
“That is an incredible tale, Lady. I’m glad we were able to help free you.”
Ai Ling’s jaws tightened. “What about Li Rong?” She spoke too loudly.
His eyes were wet when they met hers. She regretted her callousness, felt her lower lip tremble at having caused him more pain.
Rash, stupid girl.
“Li Rong died performing a good deed,” Chen Yong finally managed in a husky voice.
Ai Ling felt even more wretched. Surely Chen Yong blamed her for Li Rong’s death, as much as she blamed herself.
Later, Chen Yong and the Lady retreated into the night to fetch water from the well. It was cool and refreshing; Ai Ling drank two cups. Without bothering to change her clothing or wash, she climbed beneath the thick blankets on one of the pallets the Lady had laid down and immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ai Ling woke from a dreamless sleep. Bright sunlight shone through gossamer silks draped across the paper panels of two large windows, forcing her to squint for a few moments.
“Finally,” Chen Yong said, smiling. He sat at the low table, a calligraphy brush poised over a bound journal. He put down the brush on the ink stone and crossed the room in two strides to her pallet, an expression like relief on his face.
His closeness made her self-conscious. She rubbed her eyes with limbs still heavy from sleep. “Good morning,” she said.
“A peaceful afternoon to you,” he replied with a wry smile. “You slept for two days. We couldn’t wake you. I was beginning to worry.”
Two days? She shifted back on her pallet and glanced around the room. “Where’s Li Rong?” Her mind skewed the moment the words left her mouth, instantly followed by a spasm of grief. Chen Yong winced as if kicked in the chest. She covered her face with her hands, wishing she had not woken. Could one sleep anger and grief away?
Chen Yong touched her shoulder, and she dropped her hands; he rose and walked away from her, his movements stiff. “The Lady went out to gather fruit,” he said. “She brewed tea.”
Ai Ling crawled out of her warm nest, and Chen Yong passed her a cup. “Thank you,” she said, drawing the steam into her face, unable to meet his gaze.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” he said, staring into his own empty teacup.
“I can’t either. I’m so sorry.”
She hid her face until the intensity of his gaze forced her to look up. Chen Yong carried his grief in his eyes. The sunlight hit his face at angles that made him look foreign, exotic.
“It’s not your fault,” he said after a few moments.
She blinked several times, caught off guard.
“We knew it was a risk, and we chose to come with you,” he continued in a quiet voice.
“He shouldn’t have died,” she said.
“Who knows what the fates have planned?” He filled his cup from the delicate porcelain tea jug.
“You sound like one of those esoteric monks…or the goddesses.” Anger swelled within her, and she swallowed the sour taste in her mouth. The gods didn’t care. Her eyes found her knapsack leaning against the pallet. She fought the urge to go to it, rifle through the contents—make sure it was still there. One month. It was enough time.
“Perhaps the monks know of what they speak. And who are we to question the Immortals?” He leaned toward her, both palms open, accepting.
She turned from him. Chen Yong could never know, not until she succeeded. The Lady entered. Her white gossamer gown shimmered, offering glimpses of the colors of dawn—vermilion, pink, and gold. She smiled as she placed a tray of berries and apples before them.
“I hope they’re as sweet as the last batch.” She sat in one fluid motion, tucking her long legs beneath her. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the air.
Ai Ling became aware of the gnawing hunger in her stomach. But she had no desire to eat. “I’m not hungry,” she said, realizing only after that she sounded ungrateful, spoiled.
“You both need sustenance.” The Lady proffered the tray.
Ai Ling plucked a few dark berries from it with reluctance, and Chen Yong did the same. They ate the ripe berries at the same time. The sweet tang of juice exploded in her mouth, making her stomach growl in anticipation. She was starved.
The Lady offered slices of crisp green apples next, and they both ate in silence. Ai Ling kept her head down, painfully aware of Li Rong’s absence, missing his easy banter.
The Lady grasped prayer beads in one hand, her fingers gliding over the iridescent stones. Ai Ling could not read her serene face. “You will have to continue on your journey soon. You need to return to the mortal realm below.”
The clear jewels of her hairpin reflected light across the room. “It’s not a straight path from these peaks to your world. It is ever changing. There may be foe or friend on your journey. I am hoping you will find the latter to guide you.”
She put a small bundle wrapped in blue satin on the low table. “Some fruit to take with you. It is not as filling as rice or broth, but it will sustain you.”
“Thank you, Lady. Yours rival those from the Gardens of the Golden Palace,” Chen Yong said.
“They were grown with cuttings from that garden.”
Chen Yong and Ai Ling took time to wash their faces and rub their teeth with coarse salt. They put on fresh clothing before stepping outside.
Ai Ling’s breath caught. What had been a black peak had turned verdant green, alive with lush plant life. A clear brook bubbled outside the doorstep. The house perched high; clouds mingled with thick mist drifted below, jade crests jutting through them for as far as she could see.
The scent of wet earth filled her senses; she could almost see the spring buds unfurl, feel the velvet moss on stones. The hard knot of grief expanded in her chest. Li Rong was not here to witness this. He would not be there to finish their journey.
Ai Ling turned slowly to admire the landscape, more stunning than any painting. She would bring Li Rong back and make it right. It would be worth the risk.
“Follow the path,” the Lady said. She bowed before them, her palms raised at the chest and pressed together. “My gratitude for freeing me from my curse.”
It did not take long for the opaque mist to envelop them, so thick she could not see her hand in front of her face. Chen Yong used a long branch as a walking stick, feeling for the dirt path.
“We could plunge to our deaths,” she said. “Or walk completely off the path.”
“Hold on to me. It can’t be like this for much longer,” he said, his voice a disembodied phantom. She reached out and touched his knapsack, moved her fingers to grip his shoulder. She shuffled forward with slow hesitant steps, trusting him to guide her.
The mist pressed against them like a living entity, making her chest feel constricted. It was difficult to breathe. She took comfort in the warmth of Chen Yong’s shoulder beneath her hand.
After what seemed like an endless time, the haze began to dissipate, revealing the side of a rocky cliff on their left and thick foliage to their right. Relieved to be able to see again, she looked back. There was no mist behind them, simply a wide, rutted path that rose slowly, instead of the steep one they had just descended.
“Chen Yong.” She squeezed his shoulder, then dropped her hand, realizing that she no longer needed his guidance.
He stopped and half turned to fo
llow her gaze. “I know. We can’t return from where we came.”
They continued to descend the gentle slope until Chen Yong paused and flung one arm out to stop her. She drew up to his side, and he pressed a finger to his lips. He tilted his head as if he were listening for something.
The sound of faint laughter drifted up to her, and she tensed. Women laughing. Chen Yong cocked his head toward the noise, and they continued around the bend.
He stopped abruptly again and stepped behind a large pine tree. She followed his lead. Two women were bathing in a small pond. Water cascaded from jutting rocks above, filling the pool.
They splashed each other and laughed. They chattered in a language that Ai Ling almost knew, the words tugging at her from some distant memory that did not seem her own.
One woman was tall and sleek, her hair a dark auburn. Her features were not entirely Xian, with wide-set round eyes and a high nose. Her lips were dainty, the color of pink lotus; dappled sunshine glanced off the milky skin of her small breasts. Her companion’s skin tone was like wet sand, darker than any person Ai Ling had ever seen. Her eyes were wide, tilting upward; the mouth sensuous, full. Her breasts were ample and rested on her swollen, pregnant belly like ripe fruit.
Ai Ling’s ears grew hot. She could not believe she was spying on these women with Chen Yong by her side.
The darker-skinned woman swept back raven hair with one hand, the waves falling well past her shoulders. Ai Ling could not fathom how the two could reveal themselves with their hair unbound. Were they sisters? The tall woman brushed her tresses with an ivory comb; they giggled and chattered. Something about stone and sleep…or dreams?
Ai Ling pulled Chen Yong back with a hard tug. “What should we do?” she whispered. “We can’t spy on them like this. They’re naked!” The moment she said it, she regretted being so obvious. She almost stomped her foot in embarrassment.
Chen Yong grinned, his face boyish again, the tautness in his features softening. “It’s now that I miss my little brother the most. Li Rong would love this.”