by Cindy Pon
I promised your mother I would do my best to smuggle you out of the Palace.
She turned to thank me, the pain and sorrow so bright in her eyes. Your mother was a stunning woman, Chen Yong, but her eyes were her most unforgettable feature.
“Do you have a plan?” I asked.
She did. The baby had come early. A stillbirth and deformed. Cremated and buried before defiling the presence of the Emperor, as according to custom.
I reached for you. There was no time. The only thing I could do was to take you and disappear as quickly as possible. The main gates were all guarded, and leaving the Palace at this early hour would surely garner suspicion. The guards would not allow me to leave with a baby in my arms, that much was certain.
For all the hidden passageways within the Palace, there was no secret way out of the Palace walls that I was aware of. I would have to leave from one of the gates—preferably guarded by someone I knew. There were advantages to having the Emperor’s ear. I wouldn’t be questioned if I acted with authority.
“May the Goddess of Mercy be with you,” I said to your mother.
She reached out an elegant hand to stay me when I turned toward the hidden panel. “His name is Chen Yong,” she said, and she removed a jade beaded bracelet from her wrist. She asked me to give it to you.
She swayed away from me then, and the midwife rushed toward her, her gnarled hands outstretched, as I stepped through the secret panel.
You were asleep now in my arms, making small suckling noises. I’d never cradled a newborn before, and I clutched you close to me. Hong Yu led the way again with her bright lantern. The girl was smart. I hoped that she was truly loyal too.
Back within my bedchamber, I quickly changed and packed a bag. I wrote a brief note saying I had to hurry home to my mother’s sickbed, would return within two weeks. I stamped the letter with my seal and enclosed it in a leather tube.
I asked the handmaid to deliver it to my page to give to the Emperor the next morning. She took the sealed tube from me and disappeared into the secret passageway.
I gently placed you in a saddle pack I kept for traveling purposes. It served as a makeshift sling. I threw the travel bag over my back and slung the pack across my shoulder with care.
I managed to avoid the guards who patrolled the Palace through the night, being familiar with their routine. You were born under a full autumn moon, and its light shone as bright as midday. I was as easy to glimpse as a snow goose mired in mud. As I walked across the immense main quad of the Palace, I saw another dark figure. No one wandered the grounds alone at night.
I placed a hand on your back. I continued walking toward the royal stables, even as the figure darted, straight at me.
I paused beneath the shadow of the Palace wall. I could deal with anyone, even Zhong Ye. I had to. I murmured a prayer and kept a hand close to the hilt of my dagger.
The figure approached, but the face was hidden; I heard his voice before I saw his face. I could not have been more astonished.
It was Wai Sen. The Emperor had given your father his Xian name.
Your mother had sent Hei Po to tell him the news. He drew close, and there was no mistaking the pale yellow hair beneath the black cowl drawn over his head. He was a sharp man and had guessed I would be headed for the stables.
I told him your name.
“Chen Yong,” he repeated, his voice rough like an ink stick ground against stone.
He said he could leave the Palace the same night, take you with him to Jiang Dao. His whispers were urgent, earnest. He folded his tall frame over your sleeping form, and I saw the glint of tears in his eyes.
A newborn could never survive the long journey by ship, I told him.
He peered into the saddle pack one last time at your face. He clasped my shoulder and thanked me. He promised that he’d send word, that he’d return for you.
He turned abruptly and walked away in silence, his head bowed low.
“I later learned that your father left the Palace the next day. Both your mother and father were heartbroken to lose you, but there was no other way.” Ai Ling’s father looked at Chen Yong, sympathy softening his sharp features. He sat back in his chair. The soft trickling of water into the pond outside filled a long moment of silence.
Chen Yong reached inside his robe and pulled out a woman’s jade bracelet, made for a slender wrist. “I keep this near me, always. It was the only item I was delivered with, my father said.”
“Your father, Master Li.” Father nodded. “I was able to bring you to his estate with little trouble. The Goddess of Mercy heard my prayers, and you made not a sound as I rode out on my horse.”
Ai Ling imagined her father, unmarried, with a newborn jostling at his side, riding for his life and safety. She shook her head imperceptibly, unable to believe this tale, unable to believe how their lives wound so inextricably together. Is this why she felt she had always known Chen Yong? Why she had trusted him so easily from the start?
“What happened after you returned to the Palace, Master Wen?” Chen Yong asked.
Her father stared into his wine cup. “The Emperor took Jin Lian’s story of the deformed stillbirth at face value. He saw it as an ill omen. His attentions were diverted with the birth of a son by another concubine. Zhong Ye, however, was suspicious. He was enraged that his careful manipulations were for nothing.”
Her father’s kind face hardened as he spoke. “He had his spies root for information and pieced together the story as best he could. He was no fool, and probably surmised the truth. Zhong Ye convinced the Emperor to have me tried for treason—supposedly I had been plotting to poison him until he was so incapacitated, I could rule in his stead.
“There was no evidence, and the Emperor did not believe it truly. But Zhong Ye had his ear. He manipulated and cajoled, whereas I always gave my honest opinion and advice. It was he who was the puppeteer, but the Emperor could not acknowledge it. Zhong Ye had been the adviser even to the Emperor’s own father; how could he disregard him?”
Ai Ling remembered his gray eyes, and almost smelled his spiced cologne. Her heart raced, and she reached for her jade pendant.
“I was cast from court in disgrace, barely escaping execution. My own family refused me.” His expression was pained now, and Ai Ling’s throat tightened with fierce love for him.
“After this, I sent a letter to your father, Master Li. Only he knew the truth behind your birth. We decided it wouldn’t be safe to tell you your history, Chen Yong. Not as long as Zhong Ye lived. We were too fearful of how far he would go for vengeance.” Her father took another sip of wine. “I never corresponded with Master Li again, though I wondered about you all these years.”
Chen Yong glanced down at his hands. “I asked my father once, when I was thirteen years. He said he knew nothing, not even the person who delivered me to his doorstep. He died last year.”
Her father’s eyes widened. “Ah, I didn’t know. I am so sorry. He was a great colleague, and so kind. I knew you would be safe with him, that he would protect you.”
“A few months later a messenger arrived from Jiu Gong, carrying a letter from Master Tan. He didn’t know my father, but they shared a mutual acquaintance, who had spoken of me. He wondered if I was the same Chen Yong he knew of. I had to find out what he knew.” Chen Young rolled the jade beaded bracelet between his fingers, finally looked up to meet her father’s eyes.
“My life is indebted to you, Master Wen,” Chen Yong said, his voice steady as always. “But why—why did you risk your own life, your position at court, to save me?”
“How could I not help? You were an innocent newborn.”
“And did my birth father ever write?” Chen Yong asked after a pause.
Her father shook his head. “I suspect any letters addressed to me and sent to the Palace were confiscated and read.”
The disappointment showed so clearly on Chen Yong’s face. He tucked his mother’s jade bracelet back in his robe.
“Master Wen”—the uncertainty in his voice made him sound younger—“what else can you tell me about my mother and father?”
Ai Ling rose quietly and slipped out of the cozy study. She wanted to be alone—needed to prepare herself. Chen Yong was leaving the next day. When would she ever see him again?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ai Ling tapped on Chen Yong’s bedchamber door at dawn. He was already dressed. She wasn’t surprised; he always rose early. His silk tunic was the color of wet sand.
They walked into the kitchen and pilfered red bean and lotus paste buns from the giant bamboo steamers. Ai Ling plucked out four buns with wooden eating sticks and wrapped them in a deep purple cloth for later. She also filled two flasks with hot tea and wrapped some salted pork with scallion flatbread in another muslin cloth. The persimmons in a cobalt bowl on the windowsill caught her eye. She grabbed two.
“Are we going far?” Chen Yong asked, laughing. Ai Ling responded by handing him the bundles and flasks to carry.
They passed her mother and father, taking tea in the main hall.
“You’re up early, Ai Ling.” Her mother smiled, her face beaming with pleasure.
Father sat beside her, with Taro nestled in his lap. “I’m sure Chen Yong and Ai Ling have much to catch up on.” He winked at his daughter as if they shared a secret. Ai Ling’s eyes widened in consternation.
“A peaceful morning to you.” Chen Yong bowed to her parents, saving Ai Ling from speaking.
“Enjoy your day together,” her mother said.
Her parents exchanged a glance. The twinkle in Father’s eyes and the small curve on Mother’s mouth were not lost on their daughter. Ai Ling spun on her heel and stepped from the main hall, before her parents did anything more to embarrass her.
The gravel in the courtyard crunched beneath their feet. Chen Yong pulled open the main door, and they slipped into the narrow alleyway, still damp and cold from the previous evening.
They strolled side by side toward the small gate of the town.
Ai Ling weighed her words before she broke their comfortable silence. “I’ve dreamed about her…Silver Phoenix.”
Chen Yong slowed his stride, turned to see her face. “What were the dreams about?”
“They’re hazy, unclear. I always wake with a sense of urgency.” With her hair damp from sweat, her heart galloping.
“You cannot draw meaning from them?”
She shook her head.
They walked past the rickety guardhouse, but a comment from the man on watch slowed her stride.
“Out early this morning, eh?” A dark, gaunt face peered from the hut. Ai Ling saw the familiar awe in his expression as his head bobbed in sudden recognition. “Mistress Wen! Out for another one of your strolls?” He cocked his head toward Chen Yong, then noticed her glare. “Enjoy yourself, miss.”
Chen Yong lifted one dark brow as they walked through the gates. “What was that about?”
“It’s been like this since I’ve returned. The town people consider me both martyr and oddity—someone they can gossip about at the markets.”
“What do they know of our journey?”
“Only that I wed a corrupt adviser to the Emperor, and that he died on our wedding night.”
“You’ve not spoken of what happened to anyone?” Chen Yong tilted his face to her, and she looked him square in the eyes.
“I’ve spoken to Father and Mother about it some. But who else can I tell? No one would understand, or believe me.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” Chen Yong said.
Ai Ling led him down a less traveled path, barely the width of a palm, winding between tall golden wild grass which reached beyond their knees. “It is fine,” she said and realized how terse she sounded. She drew a breath and turned, causing Chen Yong to nearly collide into her.
“They treat me with reverence, smile from a distance. The older women who knew me before my journey are kind. Their daughters, the few who are unmarried, try to befriend me, but”—Ai Ling gave her head a slight shake, feeling her single braid sweep against her back—“but I’m not interested.”
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 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.
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 flames 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 fire.
“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.”
“It should have been me.”
Ai Ling leaned closer, not believing what she heard.
“Don’t you understand? I was in front of t
hat wretched monster when his claws came down. If it had not made us switch positions…” Chen Yong punched the earth with a tight fist.
“Please don’t think that. Li Rong wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt.” She withdrew her hand and stared into the flames.
“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 sacrifice.
“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 turbulent 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.”
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.”