by Cindy Pon
The sun was barely visible above the horizon when Zhong Ye made his way to Yokan’s study. The closer he got, the heavier his footsteps became. The summer morning was still cool and crisp. Despite this, his palms were clammy, and he felt dampness beneath his arms by the time he arrived. The alchemist never seemed to sleep these days, and he knew he wouldn’t be too early.
He entered without knocking, as they had forgone that formality a long time past. Yokan sat at the blackwood table, grinding something with an ebony mortar and pestle. The study smelled of ginger, both sweet and bitter. “You’re early,” Yokan said.
“I could come back.” Zhong Ye hadn’t even stepped across the threshold.
“No, no. Sit.”
Zhong Ye placed his books and journals on the table, then rubbed his palms against his robe.
“Do you have any questions before we start?” Yokan asked. When Zhong Ye shook his head, the alchemist went on. “I’d like you to prepare the concoction today.” He stood and scooped the herb he had been grinding into a glass jar.
Zhong Ye turned to his notes and began gathering the ingredients for the spell from all over the chamber. Yokan placed the large bronze bowl on the table for him. “You can ingest the empress root at any time before the ritual—as long as it’s within an hour.” He cut a third of a root into thin slices, the subtle almond fragrance filling the air.
Zhong Ye felt as if he were moving through mud. He mixed the ingredients and lit incense. Yokan pulled a single page from his sheaf of papers. “You’ll need to recite this aloud. Just repeat after me, understand?”
How had the foreigner written an incantation in Xian without his help?
“Light the concoction,” Yokan said.
He did what he was told, and it burst into sudden flames, emitting a thick, sickening odor. He then ate the sliced empress root. His reaction was different from the last time, as there were no wounds to heal. Within seconds his senses were heightened, the colors vibrant, the sounds more crisp. The root’s power reverberated through him, and his heart thumped like a drum.
“Guards!” Yokan shouted.
The panel slammed open, and Zhong Ye experienced a potent sense of déjà vu, the details were so similar: the emaciated, groveling prisoner; the oafish guard who shoved him to the floor; the other guards snickering in the doorway.
The prisoner shrank from Yokan, then turned pleading eyes to Zhong Ye. “Master! Spare my life, please! I only stole to feed my starving family. Just one bag of rice was all!” He banged his forehead against the ground.
“Enough!” Yokan proffered the small vial filled with green liquid. The prisoner’s eyes bulged, and Zhong Ye couldn’t take it.
Yokan snorted. “Don’t be soft, Zhong.” The guard yanked the prisoner’s head back. Yokan uncorked the vial and gripped the prisoner’s face with one hand, while he poured the liquid down his throat. “This won’t hurt a bit,” he cooed, then nodded to Zhong Ye. “Do it. Remember our agreement.”
Zhong Ye sank to his knees and pressed his fingers to each side of the man’s temples as he lay prone, writhing. Yokan began chanting, and Zhong Ye repeated the words, his throat parched, his voice croaking.
It started as warmth on his fingertips, quickly tightened and rose, until he had drawn the man’s dying spirit from his body. Sinuous and silver, it hovered in the air. Beautiful. He threw his head back and stared up at it, the words he repeated growing louder now, coming faster.
The man’s soul whirled, coalesced into a streak, and shot between Zhong Ye’s lips, slamming down his throat. He gasped. Heat erupted from his solar plexus, gathered, spreading in waves through his heart, emanating past his groin. He collapsed to the floor, convulsing with pleasure, the corpse cold and still beside him.
When Zhong Ye opened his eyes, he felt the essence of life surging through him. Suffused with energy, frantic with terror, he jumped to his feet.
Yokan sat at his usual place, staring at him. “How do you feel?”
“I ate his spirit!” Zhong Ye shouted, not realizing he had until the words pummeled from his mouth.
“Did you?” The alchemist smiled, then turned to write in his journal. “Explain.”
Zhong Ye resisted the urge to leap across the chamber and hit him. Instead, he took a step back and glanced down at the body. The prisoner had died curled up in the fetal position. Zhong Ye tried to look away but couldn’t.
“It was part of our bargain.” Yokan spoke in coaxing tones, as if he were addressing a child. “You will share your experience for study.” He sighed, then called for the guards. They came and dragged the corpse away.
“You didn’t tell me you ate their souls,” Zhong Ye said, his voice cracking.
Yokan scribbled another note. “I couldn’t influence your perception. What I experienced may not be what you experience.”
“I ate his soul.” Zhong Ye slumped down onto his stool.
“Tell me,” Yokan said.
Zhong Ye described all that he could remember, and Yokan kept writing for a long time after he was finished.
“And how do you feel now?” Yokan asked.
“Different.” He felt so potent and strong he could defeat an entire army bare-handed. “More alive.”
“The effects are undeniable. And cumulative.” Yokan closed his journal. “Be prepared to do this again soon.”
Zhong Ye jerked his head up. “No!”
“You say no now. Besides, it would be the perfect time to use that other spell I gave you.” The alchemist smiled and handed him a piece of parchment. “Here it is transcribed in its entirety. You won’t even need another slice of empress root for it to take.” He ran a palm across his silver charms and after a pause said, “It would please her, no?”
Zhong Ye’s scalp crawled. He would kill the alchemist if he ever spoke Silver Phoenix’s name aloud. “You never said I had to do this more than once.” But even as the words left his mouth, he was imagining feeling that incredible rush again. Craving it. He shook his head until it hurt, trying to obliterate the desire, the need.
“Don’t be foolish. Recording our experiences is a boon for posterity. The study is much more worthwhile from two perspectives,” Yokan said.
What had he gotten himself into? What frightened Zhong Ye more was the part of him that ached to try it again.
Silver Phoenix lay on his bed, her thick hair fanned like a peacock’s tail. “I don’t understand. How is it possible?”
Zhong Ye couldn’t believe it himself. “It was a spell from…The Book of Making.”
She furrowed her brow, her heart-shaped face still flushed. “I don’t know it. And I’ve studied it well.”
“You must have missed the appendix section on eunuchs,” he said, propping himself onto one elbow so he could see her better. The lanterns had burned low in the chamber, adding to the dreamlike quality.
She laughed. “That’s terrible!”
“My lovemaking?” He smiled down at her, filled with love, stirred once again by physical desire. He had almost forgotten it. “I’m wounded.” He drew slow circles around her navel with a finger.
But Silver Phoenix’s face grew serious. “You know I would love you the same? Without this.”
An unfamiliar lump rose to his throat, and he swallowed hard, as she ran her fingertips along the planes of his face, sweeping his cheekbones. “We could wed. Have children,” he said. Her full lips curved into the hint of a smile, and he rushed on. “I’m serious!”
Was it something she didn’t believe could happen? Or something she didn’t want? It felt as if his heart would hammer out of his chest until she laid a hand over it. “It would be an honor to be your wife, Zhong Ye.”
He grinned, couldn’t find the right words to say to her. But it didn’t matter, as she turned to him, pressing closer for a kiss.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dinner had consisted of creamy squash and potato soup, braised lamb, and stewed plums drizzled in honey and cream. Ai Ling felt overwhelmed and
exhausted as she returned to her bedchamber. She wanted to be alone.
But Nik trailed after her up the wide staircase. “The days are longer now that it’s summer. It’s my favorite season.”
She slowed her step. “Does it become hot?” she asked in broken Jiang.
He smiled. “I like the way you speak our language. It sounds different, more melodic.”
She delved into him to understand what he said. She hated feeling as if she were both deaf and mute, hated being unable to express herself. He was amused and hoped she would invite him into her bedchamber. She snapped back, flustered.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It can get quite warm. We often swim in the lake on the really hot days.” He stopped outside her wide bedchamber door. She stood with her back against it.
“Where do you sleep?” She spoke without thinking and grimaced.
Nik laughed. He was dressed in a sleeveless dark gray tunic that he wore over a cream shirt with wide sleeves. His gray trousers were tight, tapered to his legs, and she could tell that the clothing was of fine craftsmanship. She sneaked brief glances at his face. His eyes were large and deep-set, his nose pointed and sharp; he was peculiar and foreign. She blushed when she noticed him studying her back with interest. “My bedchamber is on the third floor, where Ah Na’s is. And my mother’s, too, when she deems us worthy of a visit.”
“It is a beautiful manor.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He unbuttoned the silver pearl at his neck, loosening his collar. “What is your brother’s business with my uncle?”
She was shocked by his boldness. “That is not for me to say.”
They stood for a few moments in silence. She wondered when he would be gracious enough to go. “I’m tired,” she finally said. “I want to rest.”
Disappointment flitted across his face. “Of course. Perhaps I can show you our gardens in the morning? Do you like flowers?”
She used her power again to understand his questions and felt his eagerness. “Yes. I like flowers,” she said with reluctance.
“Wonderful. After breakfast then.” He bowed, and she averted her face, then retreated into her bedchamber. She leaned against the back of the door for some time before her heart stopped racing.
Ai Ling found a ceramic tub in the bath chamber filled with hot water and thanked whoever had had the foresight to do this. She undressed after locking the doors and slipped into the smooth tub, sighing loudly. She scrubbed the feel and taste of the sea salt from her skin with a sponge, washed her hair in soap fragranced with sweet pea. When she finally climbed into bed limp and wrinkled from her long bath, Chen Yong had still not returned to the bedchamber adjoining hers. Master Deen had invited him to his study after dinner. She had hoped to see him, speak with him, but she finally fell asleep filled with regret.
Not even a morning meal of fresh bread slathered in preserved fruit and honey could lift Ai Ling’s spirits. She was told that Chen Yong had risen at dawn and was touring the manor grounds with Master Deen. She was ready to crawl back into bed when Nik grabbed her by the elbow in the domed entranceway to the reception hall.
“Are you ready for a tour of the gardens?”
She had forgotten her promise and could think of no excuse to decline. He grinned and offered his arm, which she had to take. They made their way across the manor, through the immense kitchen and toward the back garden. When they stepped outside, she was glad that she had come. The fresh air and sunshine revived her and cleared her mind.
The sky was cloudless and a pale blue. A light breeze carried the scent of roses. They meandered past hedges that towered over them and followed a graveled path that curved across sloping lawns.
“Do you keep gardens in Xia?” He strolled at a leisurely pace, and she sensed his contentment.
“We have courtyards. Not as much land as you have. There is so much”—she struggled for the right word—“place.”
Nik smiled. “We do have a lot of land. My family is fortunate.”
She used her power to understand him. Was it so wrong? She pulled back before she could hear a true innermost thought.
“Your family is small?” she asked.
“It is. Just my sister and mother. We had another uncle, but he died rather unexpectedly.”
“I am sorry.”
“Yes, that was difficult for my family. We are close. It sent my mother into the arms of a new lover and travel.”
“Your father?” she asked.
He seemed confused for a moment, then laughed. “No. My father and mother are not together. I haven’t seen him in three years. My mother took a new lover, a much younger lover.”
Ai Ling tried to wipe the shock from her face. A woman choosing a younger lover? Free of her husband? “Your ways are very different here,” she said.
He extended his long legs in front of him and rested the heels of his hands on the bench they had settled on. “Oh? How so? Tell me about Xia. Uncle has talked about it a few times, but not much. Now I understand why not.”
“I cannot say it well in Jiang.” She blushed.
“You’re speaking very well.”
“Women in Xia cannot choose lovers. They have one husband, and they stay with that husband.”
His light green eyes danced with amusement. “Really? That is different. So the man may choose his wife?”
“It is usually…done by the parents. But when men are older, they can choose other wives.”
He looked taken aback. “More than one wife?”
Ai Ling laughed at his stunned expression. “Yes.”
He stood and dusted off his trousers, then offered her a hand. She took it but let it drop once she stood. “You’ll have to tell me more,” he said.
“After you say more about Jiang customs,” she replied.
“All right.”
The rest of their stroll through the vast gardens was pleasant. Ai Ling paused by many unfamiliar flowers and asked Nik to name them: queen’s heart, angel breath, lover’s sorrow. She regretted not bringing her sketchbook. “Next time I will draw the flowers,” she said.
“You’re an artist?”
“A student. Learning.”
“I’d be happy to accompany you again tomorrow morning,” Nik said. “I draw as well.”
She pretended to be engrossed in studying a delicate purplish blue blossom that she had never seen before. “I think I can find them again.”
“And if I said I would like to come with you?”
She felt his gaze and straightened. They certainly were forward in this kingdom. “Maybe another time,” she said.
He nodded and offered his arm. She took it to be polite, and they walked back toward the white and gray stone manor.
Master Deen invited Ai Ling and Chen Yong on a two-hour journey to the city center of Seta a few days later. Peng joined them. Yen and Yam Head followed in a separate wagon loaded with merchandise. The plush carriage rolled over gentle slopes, past a small town tucked among them, through woods thick with trees. They clattered through another town with a massive temple built of bluish gray stone, similar in color to the cliffs that surrounded Jiang Dao.
Peng shouted a word to the driver, who stopped the carriage in the square, across from the temple. Peng pointed upward. “These stained glass windows are Deen masterpieces.”
The topmost facade of the temple was almost all glass and composed of four rectangular domed windows. They had arrived at the perfect time. The morning sunlight slanted over the jeweled panes, each depicting two figures.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“The major gods we worship,” Master Deen replied. “Sun and Harvest. Moon and Fertility. Love and Health. Faith and Piety.”
“Each major god is formed from two separate entities.” Peng held up two fingers, pressed together. “It’s why they are so powerful. The lesser gods are singular. Mateless.”
“Are they male and female pairings?” Chen Yong asked.
Peng smiled.
“No. Sun and Harvest are male, Moon and Fertility, female. The other two are a mix.”
Ai Ling gazed at the gigantic windows, and they seemed to glimmer with magic. She was especially drawn to Moon and Fertility, who were rendered in circular and oval panels of pale lavender, silver, and pearl. The Moon Goddess bore a wreath of gold stars across her brow. Her hair fell in cobalt waves. The Fertility Goddess’s silver hair was cropped, and her hand was clasped around a swelling belly. Ai Ling couldn’t distinguish where one goddess ended and the other began.
“They are magnificent, Master Deen,” she said, unable to look away.
“Who is your favorite?”
“Moon and Fertility.”
Master Deen nodded and closed his eyes. “I can still see her so clearly. And you, Chen Yong?”
They were crushed together near the carriage window again, for the view. She realized that her hand was on Chen Yong’s shoulder and that she was peering around him. Their faces were almost touching. She felt the warmth radiating from him, the slide of his muscles beneath her fingertips as he turned to his father.
“Love and Health,” Chen Yong said.
Master Deen chuckled. “A romantic. I worked long hours to achieve the exact deep shade of crimson for that piece.” He opened his eyes. “The technique to capture that color is now used by other craftsmen. I named it desire.”
Peng rapped on the carriage roof then, and they continued on their journey.
Master Deen leaned back, and Ai Ling thought he had fallen asleep. She almost jumped when he spoke again after a long silence. “The most difficult part of the process now is designing the pieces. I can’t see well enough to draw.”
“But you still design?” Chen Yong asked.
Deen smiled, a smile so like Chen Yong’s. “I can. Nik draws what I see in my mind’s eye. The glass panes of the piece are fitted between lead rods to create the picture. Nik glues a thick thread to his sketch, following where these rods would lie in the piece. I’m able to see it with my hands to judge if he’s captured the image right.” He twisted the carved ivory handle of the cane he was never without. “It’s worked so far. I’m afraid I won’t be creating any new colors, however.”
