by Cindy Pon
She ran with Chen Yong at her heels, the sound of her heart and breath thundering in her ears. The alleyway was narrow and dark. She ran blind, hoping to come to the end of the passageway and an open street. A gray stone wall, a little taller than Chen Yong, blocked their path. They were trapped. She turned to find fiends shuffling toward them, all hissing her name.
“Climb the wall, I’ll help you,” Chen Yong said.
He lifted her, and her hands searched for a hold among the rough stones. She pulled herself up as Chen Yong boosted her by the feet from below. She perched on the top of the wall, the width of it no more than her foot. She reached down to Chen Yong. The demons swarmed around him, tongues lolling and arms outstretched.
He looked up at her with an unreadable expression. “Run,” he said.
“Take my hand.” She stretched toward him, and their hands clasped just as the wretched creatures fell upon him.
Ai Ling watched with horror as his amber eyes began to fade to white. His tongue emerged from his mouth, and his face distorted. She hurtled into his being with fury and felt the onslaught of the evil that flooded his spirit. She fought against it, whirling through him in a blinding rage, destroying the seeping filth of the night worms’ tainted touch.
I can’t lose you, was her only tangible thought. She held on to it as she fought. She saw nothing, only felt the blazing heat of her spirit as it coursed through his. Finally, sensing a balance return, she saw through him; she squatted on the wall, their fingers twined together, her face pallid and tight.
In a rage of violence not his own, Chen Yong knocked the demons to the ground. She snapped back into her own body. Gasping, the world spun, and she gripped the narrow wall with both hands. Chen Yong stood below her, head bent, looking at the bodies around him. They were themselves again, and all lay unconscious on the ground. The servant girl bled profusely from her gaping throat.
Chen Yong stooped down and leaned his ear over her face. He placed a hand on her breast and lifted an ashen face. “She’s dead,” he said.
His clear eyes filled her with relief, although they were dark with sorrow. They were his eyes. Did he realize what had happened? She could do nothing but shake her head—another innocent life lost because of her. She spoke a prayer under her breath.
“Let’s go this way,” she said. “I can see the main street from here.” Her insides felt twisted, her chest heavy as she dropped down clumsily on the other side of the wall.
Chen Yong climbed over the stone wall with ease, and they returned to the main street. Her legs were shaking; she was barely able to walk.
“They were night-worm fiends,” she said.
Chen Yong stopped and regarded her. “I was trying to think if I’ve come across them in any of my readings.” He shook his head in obvious admiration. “You win.”
“It’s from The Book of the Dead,” she said.
“I was never allowed to read it.”
She knew most of the text by heart.
“The initial curse was set by someone powerful. I don’t recall the passing of the evil through touch in my readings. That was something new.”
Chen Yong stood in the crowd, the people moving past him like water against a stone. He shielded and protected her with his body.
“But you were stronger,” he said. “I felt you within me fighting. I had no willpower against it. I would have been one of them within a moment’s time.”
So he knew.
“How did you do it?” he asked.
She looked down at her hands, smudged with grime. Tears began to well in her eyes. They were her friends. And now Li Rong was dead, and she had put Chen Yong in danger again.
Chen Yong guided her to a stone bench. They had walked into a lush open garden within one of the massive town squares without Ai Ling noticing. The ebony stone of the bench was inlaid with gold plum blossoms around its edge. She traced the curved lines with one finger. Only in the Emperor’s city. Anywhere else, and the people would have scraped off the gold with their pocketknives.
“I’m thinking of Li Rong,” she finally mustered through tears.
Chen Yong nodded. “I miss my brother more than I can express. It’s a pain I’ve never known—not even—” He stopped abruptly.
Not even compared to losing your first love, she thought.
“I can’t lose you too,” she said.
Chen Yong turned so she could see his face. “You won’t.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the sunlight filter through the trees, the air scented with earth and the subtle perfume of roses.
“We can pay tribute to Li Rong when this is over,” he said in a quiet voice, breaking the silence.
Ai Ling looked away, feeling her stomach clench. Chen Yong would forgive her. Once he saw Li Rong again. “We should go to the Palace,” she said, too abruptly.
“But how? They won’t admit just anyone. The walls are too tall to climb. No way in but through the main gate.”
“There’s a back gate. The one leading to the inner chambers and living quarters of the Emperor,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Father told me,” she said.
“Do you know anything else about the Palace layout? Its routines?”
Ai Ling sighed. “No.” She scuffed the ground with her worn shoe. “I didn’t plan on sneaking in.”
Chen Yong cocked his head. The color had returned to his face. She remembered the filmy white that had glazed over his eyes, and shuddered.
“I thought we’d knock…and ask to be let in,” she said.
He threw his head back and laughed. She smiled, even though he laughed at her expense.
“I was thinking too much like a man.” He grinned, then his face grew serious. “But we’d walk straight into the hands of the enemy.”
Ai Ling’s fingers made star shapes now, triangle after triangle on the stone bench. “I think that’s what I need to do. Walk into the hands of the enemy.”
“You’re the leader, Ai Ling. I just try to stay alive.” He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes.
“I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “I would never have come this far.”
“You’ve returned the favor more than once.”
She rose, feeling weary and drained. What wouldn’t she give to be home right now with Taro curled in her lap and her mother sipping a cup of tea across from her? But being home would not make things right again.
They walked north. The midday crowd thinned as the sun grew hotter and people in the packed taverns and restaurants escaped the heat. If she thought Qing He was big, the Emperor’s city must have been ten times its size, the Palace secured within its heart, nestled in the inner city of Huang Long.
They finally saw the massive moon-shaped gate of the Palace of Fragrant Dreams after what seemed like a half-day of walking. Sentries guarded either side of the gate, but their post was so high up she could not see anything except moving shadows within the observation decks. No one was down below to indicate how a person could enter.
Ai Ling scanned the wall. It stretched on for as far as she could see in both directions. “This way,” she finally said, turning right and walking along the expanse of stone.
They hugged the wall of the Palace, and rounded yet another corner after a long stretch of walking. Her legs ached, and her chafed feet felt on fire.
“Perhaps we should rest at an inn. Gather our strength,” Chen Yong ventured as they stared at the endless wall.
She pressed on. Something told her it was time, that lingering would not be an advantage at this point.
“I think they’re waiting for us.” Her scalp prickled at her own words.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But I’m drawn there, Chen Yong.”
They turned another corner. She felt no fear, only a sense of resignation mingled with determination.
They finally arrived at the back entrance. The moon-shape
d gate was demure compared to the main entrance, a few hand spans taller than their heads, its edges set with a thick band of carved ivory.
Ai Ling approached the gate and touched the elaborate carving. It was wider than her hand. She saw etched peonies, magnolia, jasmine, and plum blossoms. She traced one finger across a long-legged bird perched among chrysanthemums and butterflies. She recognized it as a phoenix, but it did not look like the actual red-breasted pair she had seen wandering in the Immortals’ garden.
Magnificent bronze lions stood on either side of the door, perched on ebony stones. Chen Yong examined them with a cautious air. “I almost expect them to move,” he said with a wry smile, reminding her of their experience approaching the gate of the Golden Palace.
“I guess I’ll knock,” she said.
Chen Yong moved to stand beside her, his posture relaxed, his expression confident.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, her hand poised midair.
He looked down at her with surprise. “I think we’ve finally made it, Ai Ling. The enemy may lie within, but perhaps our loved ones do as well.”
She brought her hand against the door with a hard rap. But it barely made a sound. “No one will hear us.”
The gate swung open just as she uttered the words. A girl of no more than fourteen years stood in front of them—a servant, according to the two braids coiled in circles on either side of her head. But she was dressed more elaborately than anyone Ai Ling had ever seen. Her sage green robes were embroidered with gold and silk thread designs. Pearls nestled within her ebony locks, and a delicate gold filigree circled her brow.
The handmaid inclined her head. “Please enter.”
They walked together into the Palace grounds. The afternoon light gleamed off the gold tiles of the sloping roofs. They were in an intimate courtyard filled with the fragrant scent of gardenias—reminding Ai Ling instantly of her mother. Birds flitted from branch to branch. She saw a golden-haired cat leap into the tree, then heard the panicked flutter of wings.
“I have come to see Zhong Ye,” Ai Ling said. Her throat tightened at speaking his name aloud.
“Master Zhong is occupied. I’ll take you to a waiting place,” the girl replied.
There was no choice but to follow her. They walked along a stone-paved path past the largest building in the courtyard, only to emerge into another. This one was empty but for a pond in the middle and huge bronze urns flanking all four corners. They wove from one courtyard to the next, from one garden filled with fruit trees to another filled with gilded cages containing singing birds. Ai Ling felt lost within the labyrinth of buildings, but the sense that she was being drawn in grew stronger.
She breathed deeply, and a quiet calm stilled her mind. Chen Yong walked beside her, his long strides full of power and grace. She wanted to touch his hand, to reassure him, to reassure herself.
He turned to her, and the corner of his mouth rose in the hint of a smile.
They finally stopped before a building more opulent than the rest. The paneled doors were red and gilded with golden phoenixes. Jade pillars flanked the entryway, and red lanterns in the shape of peonies were strung above, waiting to be lit at nightfall.
The handmaid climbed the three steps and gestured for them to enter the hall with an elegant flourish of her hand. Ai Ling stepped inside, and Chen Yong followed. The girl began closing the paneled doors behind them. Ai Ling glanced back, and all calm fled as anxiety pooled like tar in her stomach.
“She merely gives us privacy.” A woman spoke from within the deeper recesses of the room. Her voice was lyrical, lilting. A woman from the North.
Ai Ling walked forward, aware of the dampness under her arms. Afternoon sun filtered in from carved panels along the ceiling, lighting the space minimally.
Suddenly lanterns flared and lit the entire hall, illuminating a raised dais at one end. A woman sat on a magnificent seat, so massive her feet did not reach the floor. Yet she sat as if she belonged there, and Ai Ling believed it.
She had slender eyes in the classic, exalted shape. Delicate eyebrows stretched over them like wings. Her dainty mouth was rouged bloodred, and her skin was as pale as alabaster.
She was attired in a golden silk sheath; purple wisterias bloomed on her dress, with the symbol for longevity embroidered among the flowers in dark silver. She wore jade bracelets on her wrists, and a large, clear stone ring on one slender finger. A black headdress decorated with pearls and rubies rested against her brow; her ebony hair was parted in the middle and swept neatly away from her face.
She must be the empress. But Ai Ling did not fall on her knees, as etiquette would dictate—restrained by a sense of suspicion and her own pride. Chen Yong stood tall beside her, and she gathered courage from him.
“I had to see you with my own eyes.” The woman spoke regally, in a soft tone, making the lilt of her regional dialect sound even more exotic. Her face remained expressionless and imperial.
Ai Ling did not know what she meant.
“I am called Ai Ling. I’ve come to take my father, Master Wen, home.”
The Empress regarded Chen Yong with a slight tilt of her head. “And you’ve brought your friend, I see. Jin Lian’s son. How the dead come back to haunt us.”
The color drained from Chen Yong’s face. He stiffened. Ai Ling could almost feel his anger and confusion.
“You’re not much to look at in this life, Silver Phoenix.” The coy smile on her rouged lips deepened. “Too tall and lanky. Pity. You were breathtaking. Stunning.”
The hairs on the back of Ai Ling’s neck stood on end. Zhong Ye’s jealous consort. She tried to cast her spirit toward the woman, but she slammed against a dark energy. The cord snapped back, and she fought not to double over.
“We shall take leave if you cannot help us,” Ai Ling said after a moment, clenching her trembling hands. She turned only to discover a wall of armed guards behind them.
Chen Yong saw them the same moment she did, and his face hardened, one hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Ai Ling shook her head. There were at least fifty of them. How did they appear without so much as a sound? They wore gold helmets obscuring their faces, with only dark slits for eyes.
She turned back to the woman on the golden throne but was met with the same coy smile.
“I’ve tried to kill you many times. Even sent a demon to possess a man to deflower you. I know my master would never take you used.” The woman rose. The golden sheath of her dress whispered, hugged her hips.
“You surprised me each time you managed to live.” She glided toward Ai Ling without seeming to touch the ground, closing the long distance within two drawn breaths.
“I always knew that only I could finish the task.” With one fluid motion, she dipped an elegant hand into her sleeve, withdrew a dagger, and plunged it into Ai Ling’s stomach.
Ai Ling gasped, the sharp pain causing her to lean forward. She groped at the other woman’s hand, held it. Ai Ling stared into her eyes and found no pupils, just infinite black pools reflecting her own pale face. She tried to delve into her spirit again, but could not summon the strength.
“Ai Ling!” She was aware of Chen Yong leaping toward her, only to be pulled back by a faceless guard.
The blade pulsed through her. She started to fall—her attacker cradled her like a loving mother. “Not so difficult to kill, after all.” The woman twisted the dagger, her face lighting with pleasure.
Heat flared in Ai Ling’s pendant. The woman, encased in a blinding white blaze, was lifted and flung to the back of the room. She landed with a hard thud against the throne, the dagger skidding across the stone floor.
“You pathetic little newt!” she screamed in a shrill voice. “You can’t hurt me.”
Ai Ling fell to her knees, and the room grew bright and bleary around the edges. Pain seared through her gut. She began to tremble, feeling both hot and cold.
“Why was I not invited to the festivities?” A rich male voice echoed through t
he hall.
Ai Ling saw him through a long tunnel. A lone figure in the doorway. She could see nothing but him, the smallest detail illuminated as if he were immersed in a shaft of sunlight.
He wore a deep slate robe with gold trim around the collar and sleeves. He walked to her with command and authority, and Ai Ling blinked, willing herself to stay conscious. He stood a hand width away from her. Her eyesight wavered, the elaborate gold embroidering on the edge of his robe blurring. She smelled the faint scent of spiced cologne.
“What games do you play, Gui Xin? You thought you could dispose of my true love right beneath my nose?” He looked over his shoulder at the woman who rose to her feet, apparently unhurt.
“Silver Phoenix was weak. She was no love match for you,” Gui Xin said.
“Heal her.” Ai Ling heard the annoyance in his voice. Her head ached from a dull ringing in her ears. She clutched at her wound, felt the sticky warmth of blood between her fingers.
“You were nothing beyond a temporary consort,” he said. “You think too highly of yourself.”
“I learned from the best,” the woman replied in her lilting voice. “Do you truly believe I spent the last century merely pleasing you in the bedchamber? Embroidering?”
Gui Xin laughed.
Someone crouched close to Ai Ling, gently shifted her arm to place a hand across her stomach. A searing heat erupted at the touch. She gasped and felt her entire being shudder violently against the cold floor.
“Ai Ling!” Chen Yong. A clatter of steel and plate reverberated through the hall.
“Stay back, fool. He heals her,” the other man said.
Ai Ling watched through tear-filled eyes as the small head bent over her stomach. The child nodded in satisfaction. He had no eyes; the sockets were filled with dark sapphire stones. She realized then that this was no child, but a person of short stature. He smiled at her, the sapphires glittering in the lantern light.