by Cindy Pon
“A wraiths’ month so soon again?”
Zhong Ye glanced up briefly. “It’s true, the double-moon month usually occurs every two to three years. This is rare, but it has happened before.” He paused to read the royal astrologer’s notes. “According to this, the double full moons will be only seen in the Eastern Hemisphere next year.”
“How unusual,” Yokan murmured. “And fortunate for us. It shouldn’t be an issue. I was thinking we would harvest at the end of the month this time, so the roots may grow to their full size.” The alchemist squinted at him, as if he were studying a live beetle pinned to a board.
“It makes sense,” Zhong Ye said, his own expression bland. Was Yokan planning to come with him? If so, how could he talk him out of it?
“Do you think there will be another Poison Eagle guarding the harvest?” Yokan replaced a book onto the shelf.
“Or perhaps the same one.” Zhong Ye didn’t know for certain. But the danger might deter the alchemist.
Yokan sat back down and flicked a wrist before picking up his quill. “I don’t believe your future bride cares for me.”
The pages before Zhong Ye blurred, and he forced himself to take three full breaths before saying, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”
The alchemist smiled and regarded him with flat eyes. “Yes. And hasn’t it worked out well for us both?”
“Your eyes, they’re changing color.” Silver Phoenix pressed closer, her face hovering over his.
He closed his eyes and kissed her. “I don’t know what you mean.” They had lost color with each soul he had eaten; the change was barely perceptible. But of course Silver Phoenix would notice.
“They’ve always been dark brown, like the earth after a rain.” She cupped his face, forcing their eyes to meet. His heart pounded faster, with guilt and desire. He wondered if she could feel it. “They’re becoming lighter.”
“You can barely see in here,” he said. Two lanterns shimmered dimly in the far corners of his bedchamber. He trailed his fingers down her back. “And if so, it’s probably from the love spell.”
She sat up. He reached for her, but she spun away in one fluid motion, like the graceful dancer that she was. She climbed from his bed and pulled on a brocaded robe.
“I’ve always loved the color of your eyes. I hope it wears off soon.” She leaned over and kissed him. “I must return to my mistress.” She opened the secret door panel in his bedchamber and slipped into the passageway.
Zhong Ye sat up and buried his face in his hands. How much longer could he keep the truth from her?
Zhong Ye had drunk too much wine. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so foolish. Tang Er’s one-month celebration was a success. The entire court now knew of the Emperor’s regard for Mei Gui, as she was given her own throne beside his, with the Empress flanking his other side. The older woman couldn’t wipe the sour look from her face.
Silver Phoenix stayed near her mistress the entire evening, her flowing celadon dress accentuating every curve of her body. Zhong Ye studied his love discreetly, but as the night wore on, and as he drank more wine, his stares became blatant. She caught his eye twice, a hint of a smile on the corners of her mouth, before turning her attention back to her mistress.
The full moon perched just above the rooftops of the palace, and he paused on his way back to his quarters to admire it. An autumn breeze swept through the courtyard, and the fallen leaves skittered against the cobblestone like withered souls. The edge of the moon blurred. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision.
His quarters were dark, and he cursed, wishing that Xiao Mao had lit a lantern for him. He stumbled into the reception hall and tensed, the hairs on his arms rising. Something was wrong. He pulled the dagger from his waist in one swift motion.
Zhong Ye heard the intruder jump at him but could see nothing in the darkness. The assassin jabbed a weapon, tearing his tunic and slicing his arm. The wound burned instantly. Poison! The stinging snapped Zhong Ye to full alertness. He twisted away, thrusting his dagger toward the sound of the man’s shifting feet. A loud grunt, and the intruder slumped to the ground.
Zhong Ye was crouching over the body, wrenching his weapon free, when someone else grabbed him from behind in a chokehold. He couldn’t breathe, and his head began to spin. Suddenly a lantern flared at the hall entrance. He threw a backfisted punch and heard the sickening crunch of the assassin’s nose. The bastard groaned but only tightened his grip.
“Zhong!” Silver Phoenix cried from behind him.
He would have shouted if he could, would have told her to run. His attacker tried to twist him around to face her, but Zhong Ye planted his feet and wrenched him in the other direction. Then the assassin loosened his hold and slit Zhong Ye’s throat.
Zhong Ye woke to Silver Phoenix’s sobbing over him, her silk dress pressed against his neck. Her eyes widened when they met his. He tried to speak but gagged on the taste of blood, thick in his throat.
“I—I thought you were dead,” she managed to stutter.
He struggled to sit up, pushing her hand away. Her dress was soaked crimson. He coughed, splattering more blood on himself and her. “Water,” he gurgled.
Silver Phoenix quickly gave him a cup, and he rinsed his mouth and spit on the floor.
“Are you all right?” he asked. The words came in croaks. He ran his eyes over her, searching for injuries. His throat burned.
“Me?” She laughed through her tears. “Stay still. The royal physician is on his way.”
He glanced around the hall, blazing now with light. The assassins were gone.
“The guards hauled them away,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
“What happened?”
“I bashed my lantern against his head,” she said. “It knocked him out, but not before—” She lowered her face for a moment. “I was trying to stop the blood when Xiao Mao arrived. I sent him to get the physician and guards.”
Interesting that the physician was not yet here. Had he been bribed to stay away?
He reached over to clasp her hand. Their fingers were sticky with his blood. “Did the assassins live?”
“I believe so.”
“They must be kept alive, so I can interrogate them.” He took another sip of water and swallowed, his throat feeling bruised.
Silver Phoenix began wiping his neck with a damp cloth. He tried to jerk away, but she steadied him. “You’ve stopped bleeding. There’s only a scar where he had cut you.”
Zhong Ye gingerly touched his throat. A jagged scab ran from ear to ear.
“How is it possible?” she whispered, staring into his eyes. “You should be dead.”
His temples throbbed, and he could not meet her gaze.
“The immortality spell—you’re still doing the ritual?”
“Yes.”
“Are you using the dark arts?” she whispered.
“What do you know of it?” he rasped.
“I’m not a learned scholar. But I know that such a thing cannot be achieved without cost.”
Valor and sacrifice—those were the costs. “I would be dead now if it weren’t for the immortality spell. Would you have preferred that?” He spit out the words, knowing how cruel he sounded, unable to stop himself.
Silver Phoenix covered her face, her shoulders shaking. “I was so afraid I had lost you.”
Zhong Ye pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, love.”
“Promise me you’ll stop,” she murmured against his ear, and he felt her hot tears on his cheek. “It saved you, I know. But it’s wrong. Please stop.”
“I’ll stop,” he whispered, and held her until she was no longer trembling.
Finally, it was the eighth moon and a week before their wedding banquet. The Emperor was on progress and wouldn’t be back for another month yet, after the harvest of empress roots.
Zhong Ye had risen late that morning. Silver Phoenix had been spending her nights with hi
m since Mei Gui was also on progress with her son, Tang Er, whom the Emperor doted on. He realized when he kissed her good-bye that they would be sharing quarters permanently after the wedding, and he grinned at the thought.
“You look like you’ve sneaked a forbidden treat,” she said, teasing.
“Better. I stole a kiss from you.” He leaned in for another, and she whirled away, laughing.
“I’m late in meeting the royal chef to discuss our banquet menu. You’ll look at it before we decide?”
“Bring a copy to me, love.” Zhong Ye was now within the Emperor’s inner circle as one of his most trusted advisers, and the palace was abuzz over the arrival of his and Silver Phoenix’s lavish wedding banquet.
She spun on the tips of her toes, the pink silk panels of her gown fluttering like butterfly wings. “And you’ll be closeted with that alchemist all day?”
“I’ll try to leave early.” He watched as she flitted away. Zhong Ye couldn’t fathom how he had become so fortunate. His thoughts were filled with her and their future together as he walked through the palace grounds. He would request bigger quarters, one that could allow for a family. He’d ask when he gave the Emperor the precious empress roots.
Yokan wasn’t there when he entered the study. He’d been gone more often in the past month, making short forays into the countryside to collect the herbs native to Xia. But he’d left a note: “A prisoner is waiting. You can do this alone. Be sure to record everything.”
Zhong Ye had promised Silver Phoenix he’d stop. And he hadn’t. But he would, today. He paused, read Yokan’s words again. How could this one last time hurt?
He crumpled the paper and threw it in the bronze bowl, already set out for him. This would be his thirteenth time, and each time he had required less of the empress root, as the immortality spell grew stronger within him, accumulated. Yokan had left him a small, thinly sliced portion. It would be the first time he’d have to kill the prisoner himself. He held up the vial of poison, the green liquid catching the sunlight streaming through the study’s lattice windows. It was painless, the alchemist had assured him.
The guards brought the prisoner early. This one was older, in his fifties by the looks of him. His shorn hair was a shock of white, his bedraggled beard tinged with gray. Prison life had not been kind to him. “Leave us,” Zhong Ye said.
He lit the concoction in the bronze bowl. He could never quite pinpoint the odor, but today, he realized it was death: ancient graves with the dead already dust, recent corpses, swollen and ripe beneath the sun. It was all this.
The old man didn’t speak, did not beg for his life. But he shook so violently it was hard for Zhong Ye to grip his face. “This won’t hurt at all,” he cooed, sounding exactly like Yokan. It wasn’t until he forced the prisoner’s mouth open that he saw that his tongue had been cut out. He poured the poison into his mouth, and the prisoner dropped to the ground. Zhong Ye placed his fingertips at the man’s temples, beginning to recite the words of the incantation he knew by heart.
The rush was stronger every time; the pleasure bordered on pain. Almost intolerable. Fully divine. Zhong Ye lost himself in the feeling, and the world ceased to exist.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chen Yong wasn’t at the morning meal. Neither was Ah Na. Nik sat at the table in uncharacteristic silence, casting wary glances Ai Ling’s way. Ai Ling, tasting nothing, went through the motions of eating. As soon as she could, she bolted and flung her senses wide. Chen Yong was by the fountain with Ah Na. Determined to speak with him, she began walking toward them.
She stopped midway there, hidden behind the maze of tall hedges. It was a cloudless day, and the air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. Ah Na was walking back to the manor.
Ai Ling burst into the courtyard. Chen Yong, sitting on the edge of the marble fountain, was staring at the cascading water flowing from urns propped high by statues. He lifted his head surprised. “Ai Ling,” he said, for the briefest moment glad to see her. Then his features hardened, and his expression crushed the breath from her.
Her spirit, tightly wound, thrummed. She held herself away from Chen Yong’s brightness and his thoughts, even though she ached to know exactly what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She approached, and he remained hunched over the water like a statue himself. She touched his shoulder. “Chen Yong?”
His eyes were shadowed, his face strained.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“I don’t know if I can ever forgive you.”
She couldn’t find her voice but instead stared into the fountain as well. Their reflections wavered, distorted in the water.
“I’ve been thinking about Deen—my father’s offer to me. To stay in Jiang and inherit the estate.”
Which parent would he oblige? The only mother he’d ever known in Xia or his birth father in Jiang? Neither involved a future with her.
“And you would marry Ah Na?” she blurted.
“What?”
“I heard Ah Na and Nik talking. She would have you as her husband.” Her heart hurt so much she wanted to curl up, make herself smaller and smaller until she disappeared. Until she couldn’t feel. Instead, she blathered on, as if saying these things would exorcise her pain. “It would be perfect. Your father would be delighted by the union. The family fortune would remain within the family.”
“You eavesdropped on them, too?” He shook his head in disbelief. Or disgust.
She lifted her chin. “It was the only way I could understand what they were saying.”
“But they weren’t talking to you,” Chen Yong said.
If her pain was a wound, she was gouging her fingers into it. “They were talking about us,” she replied.
He met her eyes, and what had once been so familiar to her was unreadable. He had closed himself to her. “What you did to Nik yesterday…it feels like I don’t even know you anymore.”
She fought her gathering tears. She was losing him. Perhaps had already lost him. “Will you stay here? In Jiang?”
He rose to his feet. “I must go meet with my father.” His voice was low, tired.
“Chen Yong, wait!”
But he was already walking away. In desperation, she flung her spirit toward him, allowed herself to anchor and latch. What was he thinking? What had he decided?
He was trying hard to control his emotions. Anger choked him. The sense of betrayal was something solid pressed against his chest. Yet it took every fraction of his willpower to keep walking, not to turn back to her. Because beneath all the jumbled emotions—
Ai Ling gasped as she felt something slip from her, slither toward Chen Yong. She snapped back within herself, confused and feeling an inexplicable sense of dread. Chen Yong disappeared into the maze of hedges. She didn’t follow.
Ai Ling was relieved when Chen Yong didn’t come to dinner or the morning meal the following day. Relieved, too, when Nik averted his face and did not speak with her. Seeing him, she only felt shame and regret for what she had done. Ah Na was also quiet. Had Nik told her what had happened? He must have. Had he told his uncle? Master Deen appeared the same, kind but alert. He knew something was amiss.
She retreated to her bedchamber, flung the windows wide open, and stared out into the expanse of rolling hills, beautiful and foreign. She had never felt so alone.
A soft knock. She was hopeful for a moment that it was Chen Yong, but then sensed Peng standing outside. She had not seen him since he had come to ask for the details of her wedding night with Zhong Ye. That seemed months ago, instead of days.
“Come in.”
He ran his fingers through his short black hair, newly cut, and grinned at her. His smile disappeared after a moment. “What’s wrong?”
“Chen Yong and I had a fight,” she said in a quiet voice, so it wouldn’t tremble.
“A lover’s quarrel?” He teased. When she didn’t respond, he sat beside her. “What happened?”
“Deen is offering Chen Yong the estate,” sh
e said.
“Yes. Deen regards him as a son.”
“And Ah Na would like to have him as her husband.”
Peng’s eyes widened; then he laughed. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It makes sense in a way, but surely Chen Yong wouldn’t—”
Another knock. Ai Ling gave Peng a puzzled look. “It’s Ah Na.”
“How do—” he began, but then stopped short.
She pulled the door open. Ah Na was dressed in a tight bodice of bronze satin with a flowing silk skirt a shade lighter. Her thick hair was pulled back, pinned with several bejeweled hair clips. She was undeniably beautiful. Ai Ling wanted to shut the door in her face.
“Have you seen Chen Yong?” she asked. She gripped the folds of her skirt, wrinkling the fabric.
Not wanting to sense anything from him, Ai Ling had closed herself to him entirely after their last meeting. His disappointment and anger were too painful. But now she opened herself up and didn’t like what she gathered: his presence, dimmed, but nothing more. “He’s—I think he’s in his bedchamber.”
“We’ve knocked several times. He doesn’t answer, and I assumed he wasn’t in,” Ah Na said. “Although it’s locked and he was never given the key.”
Ai Ling threw one glance at Peng, and they bounded to the bath chamber connecting the two rooms. She burst into Chen Yong’s bedchamber. He was lying on his bed, in the same clothes he had worn when she saw him. His arms were at his sides, and he was as still as death.
“Chen Yong!” She ran to him and touched his shoulder, then shook him in her panic. She stroked his cheek. “He’s so cold.” Helpless, she turned to Peng.
Peng was beside her, and Ah Na hovered behind him. He placed a hand on Chen Yong’s brow, then leaned close over his face. “His breath is shallow. Who was the last to see him?”
“I—I saw him in the garden yesterday morning,” Ai Ling said.
“As did I,” Ah Na replied. “Uncle met with him before the midday meal, but he didn’t come down to eat.”
Ai Ling had skipped that meal as well, to avoid seeing Chen Yong.
