Fury of the Phoenix

by Cindy Pon

  Zhong Ye wondered what he could do to change her mind.

  Returning to him late that evening, she slipped into his bedchamber ethereal as a goddess, her green gown luminous in the moonlight. She climbed onto the tall platform bed, and he said nothing as she pulled each comb and hairpin from her head, until her black hair fell down her back.

  She folded herself against him, draped an arm across his chest, and whispered about her day: how Mei Gui’s baby, Tang Er, was progressing, what visitors had come to see him, the jade ring carved with roses sent by the Emperor…. Soon after, she was asleep, her quiet breathing warm against his neck. He kept replaying their argument from earlier in the day. She stirred against him; he kissed her shoulder. She smiled, murmured something without waking, and he buried his face in her hair.

  Was it truly so wrong to want it all?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Master Deen had invited Chen Yong and Ai Ling to his studio. It was a twenty-minute walk from the manor. Deen led the way, using his ebony cane, refusing his son’s assistance. “I’ve walked this path countless times,” he said.

  Chen Yong, grinning, offered her his arm. They followed Deen down a gravel path lined with giant oak trees. The pungent scent of hyacinths perfumed the air. As they came around a bend, she glimpsed a meadow filled with them: explosions of fuchsia and violet.

  She paused, awed by the colors, seduced by the heady scent.

  Deen stopped as well. “The hyacinth is part of our family crest.” He smiled at Chen Yong. “It symbolizes serenity and beauty. What we hope to convey with our glasswork.”

  “What else is on the family crest?” Chen Yong asked. His hand, warm and reassuring, was covering hers. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to memorize the feeling. If only she could press it like a blossom between the pages of her sketchbook and keep it forever.

  “You’ll see.” Master Deen smiled.

  They soon arrived at a massive building, hewn from the same white and gray stone as the manor. There was a giant diamond-shaped stained glass above the wide double oak doors. Master Deen swept his arm overhead. “The Deen family crest,” he said.

  Chen Yong tilted his head back, his eyes narrowed slightly against the morning sunshine. “The oak tree for strength?” he asked.

  Deen clasped Chen Yong’s shoulder; his face lifted up, as if he could see it as well. “And longevity. The pomegranate symbolizes abundance, prosperity.”

  The backdrop of the crest was a deep golden orange, offsetting the rich hues of the hyacinth, oak tree, and pomegranate perfectly. “The pomegranate’s color is incredible,” said Ai Ling.

  “Come inside, and you’ll see how it’s done.” Deen pushed open the door for them.

  Both Chen Yong and Ai Ling stopped dead at the entrance of the studio. The rectangular building was gigantic, one large chamber with a high-pitched roof. Stained glass windows of all sizes and shapes lined the walls, throwing a rainbow of kaleidoscopic color below. More framed pieces of stained glass hung from the ceilings. The room was filled with dozens of enormous wooden worktables. People bustled around them. The studio smelled of wet pottery, fire, metals, and other scents that Ai Ling couldn’t place.

  She spotted Nik, bent over a table studying something intently. He was speaking to a man and woman beside him.

  “Let’s join Nik,” Deen said, certain that his nephew was there. “Could you lead us, son?”

  Chen Yong took his father by the arm, and Ai Ling felt his rush of conflicted feelings: pleasure and pride, caution and uncertainty.

  She followed the two men, both striding in similar fashion, shoulders squared and heads held high. She smiled. Ah Na had sent her personal tailor to Chen Yong and had Jiang clothing made for him. His gray trousers fitted perfectly and were tapered to the ankles, making him appear taller. He wore a deep blue shirt with a sleeveless silver tunic. Would he cut his hair short next? she wondered.

  Nik greeted his uncle and cousin politely but beamed when he saw her behind them. “Ai Ling! What a surprise. Welcome.”

  She nodded shyly at him.

  “Tell us about this piece, Nik,” Deen said.

  Glass panels were set in a huge wooden frame on the table.

  “This window was commissioned by the Arra family. The Lady Arra wanted a flower motif,” Nik said.

  “We decided on lilies and irises,” Deen interjected.

  “The glass has been cut; it’s all laid out. Now we’re finalizing colors.”

  “We create the colors with metal oxides, then fire them in the kiln,” Deen said. “It takes a lot of skill and experimentation. If the heat of the kiln is off by a few degrees, the colors might be something entirely unexpected.”

  Nik nodded. “It’s the most difficult part of the entire process. We’re mixing colors now.”

  A man approached their table with a white ceramic bowl, stirring its contents with a spoon.

  “This is a combination of copper oxide and vinegar. We’ll paint directly onto the glass….”

  Ai Ling, mesmerized, stared at the bowl. The white ceramic began to gleam, turning bronze as Nik’s voice droned on in the distance.

  A rank odor rose from the bronze bowl, and she almost gagged. The giant studio swirled around her, and steady chanting filled her ears. She realized that she was the one speaking in archaic Xian in Zhong Ye’s rich voice, her fingertips pressed to the temples of a man sprawled in front of her. He was on the brink of death, and she tried to cry out.

  Her voice grew hoarse. She flung her head up, her eyes rolled back, and when the dead man’s spirit rushed down her throat, it suffused her being with an intense wave of pleasure. The man’s life essence filled her, exploded through her veins, trickled from every pore.

  She shuddered and crashed against the side of a wooden table, tears streaming from her eyes. Jeweled glass glittered and flashed above her.

  “Ai Ling!” Chen Yong sounded very far away.

  She had no voice to answer him.

  Master Deen had called the family physician. Ai Ling had lied to him. It had been too warm in the studio, the smells overwhelming. She had simply fainted. She stayed in bed all day, with the windows flung open so she could enjoy the garden breeze. Both Chen Yong and Nik had visited her, separately.

  She gazed now into the gilded mirror hanging above the washbasin and barely recognized herself. Her coloring was sallow, and dark rings curved beneath her eyes. She splashed water on her face. Her head was heavy; her mind, compressed and robbed of space. She felt as if she couldn’t take a full breath or form a full thought.

  She tried to speak with Chen Yong at the morning meal, but he refused to meet her eyes. He left the dining hall without speaking a word to her, as if she hadn’t existed. She almost chased after him, but an inexplicable feeling of dread stopped her. Unsettled and hurt, she escaped to wander through the back gardens. Finding a bench beneath an orange tree, its blossoms scenting the warm summer air, she sat and hoped for birds to come near. If only she had brought some bread to share with them. She sketched a flower called firefly’s spiral, trying to clear her mind.

  She felt their presence like a tickle in her ear: Ah Na strolling arm in arm with Nik. They were far from her, beyond the rows of towering hedges, and Ai Ling instinctively threw her spirit toward them.

  “Uncle hasn’t mentioned anything to me yet. I don’t think Chen Yong has decided. But I’m certain he’s been offered the business, the manor. Everything,” Ah Na said. Ai Ling felt her annoyance, her disappointment.

  “That isn’t right. We are Uncle’s family. How can we even be sure Chen Yong is who he claims to be? For all we know, he’s an impostor after our fortune.” Anger and jealousy from Nik. He kicked at a rock along the garden path.

  “I don’t think Chen Yong is lying. Look at him. He’s too easy to read. And what impostor travels with an adopted sister?” Ah Na laughed, amused, feeling superior and a little mean.

  Ai Ling twitched, knowing she shouldn’t be intruding, but she did
n’t pull herself back. They were talking about her, about Chen Yong….

  “Ai Ling’s nice,” Nik said.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you trailing after her with your tail wagging and your tongue hanging out.”

  Nik laughed this time. “I wonder if she’ll take me as a lover?”

  Ah Na’s amusement was so strong it was a burst of light in Ai Ling’s mind. “Dear brother, she’s a virgin.” Ah Na shook her head, laughing. “I’m certain of it.”

  “A virgin!”

  Ai Ling cringed. Why were they discussing this? How could—She stopped sputtering and kept listening.

  “Did you not guess it? Wearing that chaste braid every day and those tunics that cover her from the earlobes down.” Ah Na chortled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “She explained a little about Xia culture, but no,” Nik said. “I thought she was just stringing me along, to amuse herself.”

  “You’re such a catch. Why waste your efforts on a strange foreign girl? Plenty of women would be happy to take you as a lover.”

  “I like Ai Ling,” Nik replied.

  “She looks like a milkmaid.”

  Ai Ling ground her fists against the stone bench. They were meandering away, toward a small pond. She rose and followed them, guided by the faint pull at her navel.

  “She’s beautiful. I like that she’s different. She’ll bed me soon enough.”

  Ai Ling paused in mid-step, hating the hotness she felt, the way it spread to her ears and down her neck.

  “Would you wager on it?” Ah Na asked.

  “I would. I wager I’ll have Ai Ling before you ensnare Chen Yong.”

  Ah Na stopped walking and faced her brother.

  “You take me for a fool? I’ve been watching you, too,” Nik said. “What are you conniving now?”

  Ah Na cleared her throat and resumed walking, her full skirt swaying at her ankles. “If I can’t be the heir to the family estate, I can at least be wed to the man who owns it.”

  It was Nik who stopped this time. “You jest. You would marry him?”

  Ah Na shrugged. “What’s wrong with the idea? Our fortune would stay within our family. Uncle would be pleased; he’s hinted as much to me.”

  “I thought you never wanted to wed, after seeing what happened to our own parents?”

  “It’s only a formality. A small sacrifice. It’s not as if I’d be bound to him. I can still take lovers if I chose and hold title of mistress to the estate.” Ah Na fussed with her hair. “Besides, he’s nice to look at.”

  Nik snorted. “Is Chen Yong interested?”

  Her laughter was throaty, sensuous. “Does he stand a chance?”

  “Probably not.”

  Ai Ling halted in her tracks again, her stomach cramping. She closed her eyes. The world had grown blurry around the edges. She’d known Ah Na was interested in Chen Yong but had had no inkling she planned to wed him. With Deen’s blessing? She sank to the ground and pressed her hot face into her thighs. Her world had spun upside down, and she didn’t know how to make it right again.

  She stayed there, curled up, until she was certain that Ah Na and Nik had returned to the manor. Her legs were numb when she rose. She stumbled a little as she wandered, not caring where she went. The sun was hot on her back. She entered a grove of trees. The branches were thick with leaves and blocked out the sunlight. A caw shook Ai Ling from her stupor.

  Her head snapped back. She didn’t see the crow until it spread its wings to pick at white feathers with its beak. The bird considered her with gleaming eyes and cawed again. She fell to her knees, hands scrambling for a rock. Her fingers clutched one, and she cast it into the tree, but it fell short. The crow hopped a little farther up the branch, its call sounding like harsh laughter.

  She ran, racing deep into the garden, between trees with dark, gnarled trunks. The branches turned into skeletal fingers, snatching at her braid, her tunic. She tripped and staggered forward, the twigs scraping her cheeks. Too winded to scream, she crashed into a clearing filled with tall stone sculptures and almost collided with two bloody figures. One was decapitated, snaking on the ground, grappling futilely for his lost head. The other appeared to have had the skin peeled from her face and her hair burned to wisps. She keened ceaselessly. The two figures morphed to four, then to eight.

  Zhong Ye appeared suddenly on one of the stones. He was naked, his entrails spilling from a wide slit in his abdomen. His head hung low, lanky hair obscuring his features. He lifted his chin, and his eyes met hers. But it wasn’t Zhong Ye. Ai Ling stared into her own face, and her choke turned into a sob.

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came.

  Zhong Ye’s entire life, his entire consciousness flooded her. Filled her. Brilliant. Potent. Vibrant. She fell to the ground, screaming. The tortured men and women who made up his spirit, his essence, and his memory crushed against her, through her, stealing her voice, her breath. She was deluged with the smell and taste of their blood, her blood, their burned flesh, and her flesh….

  It was almost dusk when Ai Ling woke, her cheek pressed against the damp grass. She sat up. She was in a small meadow, dotted with wildflowers. A tall hedge, the border of the garden, was to her left. No trees were in sight. She heard hurried footsteps on gravel, saw Nik enter the meadow from a gap in the hedge. He ran to her.

  “Ai Ling!” His relief was plain. “Where have you been? We’ve been scouring the entire grounds for you.”

  She rose unsteadily to her feet, and he caught her in his arms.

  “Are you all right?” He bent closer to look at her face.

  She tried to pull away but was too weak. He embraced her, and she punched him in the chest—in poor shuen form and without strength. He stepped back, unhurt, but surprised. A hot rage filled her. “I am not some girl to be bedded and wagered on!”

  “No,” he said, his green eyes wide.

  But she saw the guilty flush in his cheeks. She seized his spirit and forced him back across the meadow, moving so quickly that he stumbled. Her anger spread until it consumed her.

  Nik slapped his own face, and Ai Ling laughed. She forced him to hit his other cheek again and again. Hard enough to leave angry welts. His shock was turning to terror. Fear rolled from him, sharp and sour, was a dark knot in the pit of his stomach. She had never felt so powerful. She jerked his legs like a puppeteer until he was crushed against the tall hedge.

  “Ai Ling!” Chen Yong ran into the meadow. “Stop!”

  She released Nik’s spirit, and he collapsed to the ground.

  “Sorceress!” Nik scrambled to his feet and raced from the meadow before Chen Yong could reply.

  He glanced after his cousin, then turned toward her. Her mouth went dry when she saw his face. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I—I don’t know.” She stuttered.

  “We’ve been looking for you for more than an hour.” His jaw muscles flexed. He hadn’t shaved, and the new growth on his cheeks made him look older. Harsher. “Why did you possess him?”

  “I had to.” But the anger had seeped from her like ink from a cracked jar.

  “You had to make him hit himself?”

  She had no reply.

  “What did he do to deserve that? What’s happening to you, Ai Ling?”

  She clutched her arms around herself, trying to keep from trembling.

  “What have you been keeping from me?”

  “Nothing,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  He scrutinized her, and his glance was accusing. “I had a dream last night.”

  “No.” She wanted to run, to cover her ears, but stood frozen, as if spellbound.

  “It was—” He faltered. “It showed you removing his heart. Li Rong’s heart. When—when he died. And your blessed dagger turned black.”

  She felt faint and swayed on her feet. “It’s Zhong Ye! He’s everywhere! He’s trying to—” She knew she wasn’t making sense.

  “Is it true? Is that how the blade tur
ned black?”

  His anguish brought tears to her eyes. She dropped her gaze, nausea cramping her stomach.

  He lifted her chin with one hand. “Is it true?” The words came slower now, deliberate, each like a blow to her chest. “What did you do?”

  “I only wanted to bring him back. I know it was a mistake. I burned—” She felt his fury as if lightning had struck all around her, as if she were standing in the center of a tornado.

  “Bring him back how?”

  “Wi-with the Calling Ritual.”

  He shook his head, uncomprehending and impatient. Of course he wouldn’t know it. He had never read The Book of the Dead.

  “Were you using the dark arts?” he asked. Her lack of response was confirmation enough. “How could you? You risked his chance on reincarnation. You made his body unwhole!” His voice cracked. “I trusted you.”

  She reached for him, and he jumped back. “Chen Yong, let me explain—”

  But he had already whipped around and was walking away. He disappeared through the hedge, leaving behind his anger and grief, so palpable she could taste the bitterness in her mouth.

  Yokan was astounded when Zhong Ye told him about his betrothal. “Congratulations, good man! And you’ve the Emperor’s blessing, too?”

  “He indulged me. I think it amused him.” He would have been insulted if he hadn’t been so pleased. The Emperor had promised him an extravagant wedding and banquet, in exchange for all of the empress root from the next harvest.

  “You did find time for love then, despite our pursuits.” Yokan chuckled.

  Zhong Ye didn’t respond. He was flipping through the lunar calendars. He had both his star chart and Silver Phoenix’s in front of him. He had gone directly to the Emperor’s astrologer and had them drawn up in order to determine the most fortuitous day to wed. He found the date and shuffled back and forth between the charts.

  “Is something wrong?” Yokan asked.

  “The best date is in the eighth moon next year, the same month that the empress roots will be growing.”