by Cindy Pon
Ai Ling knelt by the bush nearest to the rising sun and began to dig with the wooden spade she had brought with her. It was sometime before she struck something hard. The square box she retrieved was dark with grit, and she rubbed her thumb over the carved side, revealing a lotus. The box was jade. Her hands trembled, and she struggled a little to lift the lid. It opened with a popping sound. Ai Ling placed the box on the ground, then wiped her hands on her trousers, not caring if she dirtied them.
A tortoiseshell comb decorated with plum blossoms lay nestled in a bed of lavender silk. She picked it up and brought it to her lips without thinking. It was the comb Silver Phoenix had dropped on that first evening she had spent with Zhong Ye. There was more, she knew. Ai Ling lifted the silk and removed a small square of yellowed parchment. Afraid the fragile paper would crumble, she unfolded it with care. She smelled jasmine, but it was so faint she wondered if she imagined it. She read the poem written in Zhong Ye’s assured hand, the calligraphy neat and concise, like a scholar’s:
The promise of an evening past
Without fragrant orchids and lilies wreathing
my chamber or pinned to your locks
Without the emeralds and pearls I wanted to bestow
on your slender wrists or exquisite throat
Instead only talk and laughter—
the warmth of your eyes and your hand
clasped in mine
The delicate scent of jasmine on your skin
You did not realize you left a gift behind
as we wandered to your quarters by moonlight
I await the day I can fasten this comb into
your thick hair again, love
Ai Ling returned the comb and poem to the jade box, then reached again into the ground for what she had come for. She dug with her fingers and finally freed the glass jar containing Zhong Ye’s last remains. Ai Ling would burn this, and he would finally be reincarnated, as the gods saw fitting. She almost returned the jade box to the ground but on a whim took it with her. She wanted to have something that had belonged to Silver Phoenix. And although she would never admit it aloud, something from Zhong Ye as well.
Their carriage clacked to a stop before the massive walls of the Deen manor in Gao Tung, and the driver began to unload their boxes. Her father pounded on the thick wooden door that had been plastered with new paper door gods, and it opened almost at once. Chen Yong greeted them, his grin so boyishly wide she laughed. Instinctively, even months after losing her power, she still tried to close herself at the sight of him.
“Master Wen, Ai Ling! Did you journey well?” Chen Yong clasped her father’s hand, then her own, holding it longer than was proper. He had cut his hair short, in the Jiang style. She flushed when her eyes rested on his mouth, her heart expanding until it felt as if it would burst. She dropped her gaze from his throat to his shoulders. That didn’t help. She felt his pull stronger now than ever, even without her power.
Her father cleared his throat, and Chen Yong released her hand, his face also coloring as he turned to lead them into the manor.
“The journey was a smooth one. We were honored to receive your father’s invitation,” Ai Ling’s father said as they followed Chen Yong through the expansive courtyards. She glimpsed a pond tucked behind pomegranate trees exploding with ruby fruit, and the air was thick with the sweet scent of gardenias. Chen Yong ushered them into spacious quarters, with bedchambers on either side of a reception hall. The walls were papered in pale sage and decorated with brush paintings of the four seasons.
“It’s incredible my father was able to buy a manor so close to my family. I’m still helping him settle in, but he acts as if he’d never left Xia.” Chen Yong’s contentment was obvious. He had written to Ai Ling immediately after he’d arrived home. His betrothal had been broken. “It wouldn’t be right,” he wrote, “as I’m in love with someone else.” She had pressed her lips to his signature the first time she had read it.
“Where is Wai Sen?” her father asked.
“My father is waiting for you in the main hall, Master Wen. He is anxious to see you.”
Ai Ling’s father shook his head in wonder. “Twenty years passed so quickly. I’m eager to see my old friend again.” He smiled at them, tapping his closed fan against his palm. “I saw the main hall at the other end of the courtyard. I’ll find my way back.”
Autumn sunshine filtered through the lattice panels. She could hear the slow trickling of a waterfall.
They were alone.
Chen Yong swept her into his arms, kissed her hair, then burrowed his face into her neck. “You smell amazing.” He drew back, his eyes taking on that golden glow that had always stolen her breath away. “I’ve missed you.”
This past month apart had been agony.
“I know,” she said.
He released her and laughed. “I see.”
“I meant—you know what I meant!” She felt foolish and tongue-tied. “I missed you more than anything.” The words seemed a mockery, too inadequate to express her feelings. Her world had dulled, as if it had been robbed of color and light without him.
“More than a missed meal?”
She grabbed his tunic and pulled him close, tipping her face so she could see into his eyes. “I would fast for you, Li Chen Yong.”
It was supposed to make him laugh, but although a faint smile touched his lips, the look he gave her was tender and serious. “That’s saying a lot, Wen Ai Ling.” He rested his forehead against hers, so their noses touched.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Come with me.” Chen Yong grasped her hand and led her into the courtyard. “I want to show you something.”
They strolled through the gardens, which were rich with gold and vermilion. She smelled the pungent sweetness of tuberose, and songbirds serenaded them from their perches in the plum trees. “Where are we going?” she finally asked.
He squeezed her hand and, grinning, winked. “You’ll see.”
They stopped before a grand hall. He slid the door open and let her enter first. There was one large chamber with dark wooden beams running the length of the ceiling. Eight worktables took up half the room’s space. The scent of wet sand and metal lingered in the air. Large clear glass lanterns hung from the ceiling.
Chen Yong waved his arm with a flourish. “Our own stained glass studio. Probably the first in Xia.” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “We’re still setting it up, but my father seems pleased by it.”
Ai Ling walked between the worktables, recognizing tools and materials from Master Deen’s workspace in Jiang Dao. “It’s wonderful. Have you made anything yet?”
“I have. My first stained glass project.” He stepped behind her and covered her eyes. “But it’s a surprise, a gift for you.”
She laughed as they walked like wooden puppets, his chest pressed against her back, until Chen Yong stopped. “Ready?” He dropped his hands. They were standing in front of a stained glass panel framed with silver birch wood. It was nearly the length of her arm, and it hung from the ceiling so that light from the lattice windows glimmered through the jeweled panes. Two silver bamboo stalks with leaves were set against a background of deep indigo and pale lavender. A round pearl moon and golden stars shone above the bamboo.
She lifted a hand and traced her fingertips above the glass, too afraid to touch it. “Chen Yong, you made this?”
“I did. Do you like it?” He was studying her intensely.
“It’s beautiful.” She kissed him. “Thank you,” she said, breathless when they finally drew apart.
Chen Yong leaned against one of the worktables, lacing his fingers through hers. “I designed it with my father’s help. Getting the colors right was the most difficult part.” He nodded at the panel. “This was my third attempt.”
She circled the stained glass, admiring it from different angles, and he followed her, their hands clasped.
“A belated birthday gift, Ai Ling. Bamboo for your strength.”
> She smiled up at him. “I thought it was oak for strength?”
“This one has Xian symbolism,” he said. “I remembered how the Moon and Fertility goddesses were your favorite. I mimicked the colors. And I always think of you when I see the night sky.”
As she always thought of him. “I love it, Chen Yong.”
He flushed with pleasure, and it took considerable restraint for her not to throw herself into his arms.
“I’m glad. The studio is fairly well stocked, but we still need more supplies and equipment from Jiang Dao.” He drew her to him and slid his hands down to her hips. “My father wants to travel back next spring. I want you to come with us.”
“What?”
The distinct song of an ardor bird filtered through the workshop windows, its notes passionate and sweet.
“You can have your own cabin this time,” he said.
“Well. No, then.”
Chen Yong threw back his head and laughed.
She blushed, resting her palms against his chest. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but what would people think? It wouldn’t be—”
“Proper?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Like this?” He bit her throat gently, then pressed his lips to the same spot.
“Chen Yong!” She pounded his shoulder with a fist, even as she leaned into him, her entire body responding.
“It’s not as if you haven’t already taken the journey—”
“But that was because I thought you were in danger,” she said.
“There’s no point in justifying something no one else can possibly understand. What happened to us was incredible, Ai Ling. What happened to you is incomprehensible. The people who would judge us already have.” His expression was intent, pensive. “Besides, do you really care what people think?”
“I care what my parents think,” she said after a pause.
Chen Yong nodded. Fascinated by the way the colors from the stained glass danced across his handsome face, she couldn’t look away from him. “My father is speaking to yours right now. He is saying that you and your family are always welcome at the Deen manor. This one and the one in Jiang Dao. Considering how your father saved my life, we’re almost like family.” He glanced around the studio. “There’s nowhere to sit in here. Let me show you the garden.”
They followed the ardor bird’s crisp melody along a stone path that led to a deep oval pool surrounded by dramatic rocks, the same pool that she had spied earlier. A secluded pavilion was nestled beyond the pomegranate trees, but Chen Yong went to the pond and sat on a flat stone, his back to the waterfall.
She stood in front of him, enjoying the sun’s warmth on her back. “It’s a beautiful manor.”
His eyes crinkled against the light, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. “I think it suits my father’s needs.” Silver and orange fish darted in the pond behind him, their mouths tasting the water’s surface.
“I want to go with you, Chen Yong.” She gazed down at him. “I do. But it would be selfish.”
“And if we were betrothed?” he asked in a low voice.
She backed away then, shrugging from his touch. “Are you—is your father asking for us to wed?” She suddenly felt faint, unsteady. “What does your mother say?”
“My mother was very upset when I broke the betrothal she had arranged.” Chen Yong rested his elbows on his thighs, then clasped his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “I explained to her my feelings for you. She finally relented, after accusing me of being a hopeless romantic.”
“And what does your father want?” Her mouth had gone dry. She needed to sit down.
“He wants what I want, Ai Ling. And I want what you want. I’m hoping that never being apart again…Is what you want, too?” He cleared his throat. “A day is too long. A month is intolerable.” He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes downcast.
“You cut your hair,” she whispered, not knowing what else to say.
“Only because it’s easier for when I’m working in the studio.” He sat motionless as she ran her fingers through his hair; it was soft and thick. She didn’t need her power to feel his desire and his love for her.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asked.
She laughed softly at the memory. “I liked you despite myself. You said you wanted a bride to sweep the front courtyard and spoon-feed you broth.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “You said it. And I agreed.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Her hands were still buried in his hair. His were gripping the stone’s edge, as if he were afraid she would bolt with any sudden movements.
“I’m not the same person you met that day, Ai Ling.”
Neither was she.
His expression took on that serious intensity so familiar to her. The one that always made her wonder what he was thinking. The one that she loved. “What does it mean for you to be betrothed?” he asked.
“You know what it means,” she whispered. “You’re speaking to a girl who ran from it. It means to wed and be kept in the inner quarters, embroidering slippers and making babies.” She dropped her hands and took a step back. She loved him—couldn’t possibly love anyone more—but the thought of being sequestered in the inner quarters for her remaining days was as oppressive and terrifying as a yoke around her neck.
He stood, and she was keenly aware of the hand’s width separating them. “It’s not what I’d expect from you if we were to wed one day,” he said. He lowered his head, as if the sun were too bright in his eyes. “How could I when I’ve seen you slay monsters? Be called on by Immortals? Sneak on a ship and sail to distant kingdoms? Go to the underworld to save my life?” He caught her fingers and studied her palm, as if he could decipher the future in the lines etched there. “It’d be as wrong as finding a phoenix and trapping her in a gilded cage. Or capturing a dragon. I want you by my side, Ai Ling, not tucked away and hidden somewhere.”
The waterfall splashed on behind them, and she drew his hand to her cheek, her heart beating too fast. He finally met her eyes and smiled. “Your parents could come?”
She hesitated, confused. “To our wedding?”
Chen Yong grinned wider. “I meant, to Jiang Dao.”
“I can’t keep up with you.” She laughed, feeling giddy and out of breath.
“I think you have that turned around.” He captured her single braid and ran a palm down its length, pulling her to him for a kiss.
Voices startled them apart.
“They must have wandered off for a stroll.” She heard her father say from somewhere up the path.
“Well, they’ll miss the midday meal then,” Master Deen replied, with a laugh.
“Ah, good,” she said, her lips tingling from their near kiss. “I’m hungry.”
“When aren’t you hungry?” He chuckled when she pinched his arm in retribution. Still, she couldn’t help laughing with him as he grasped her hand, and they went to greet their fathers beyond the pomegranate trees.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Kingdom of Xia is inspired by ancient China, but my stories do not take place in an actual place or time in Chinese history. Jiang Dao is completely fabricated and not based on any particular countries in Europe.
Several books were essential in my research for this novel: Daughter of Heaven, by Nigel Cawthorne; Chinese Junks on the Pacific, by Hans K. Van Tilburg; A Thousand Years of Stained Glass, by Catherine Brisac; and A Chinese Bestiary: Strange Creatures from the Guideways Through Mountains and Seas, edited and translated by Richard E. Strassberg. Also this website, http://people.reed.edu/~brashiek/scrolls.html, for fantastic information on Taizong’s hell.
My gratitude to my agent, Bill. And to my editor, Virginia: this novel is as much yours as it is mine. Thank you for pushing and challenging me as a writer, just enough so I could improve on my story and prose, but not so much that I needed to seek therapy! That storm and the kiss were written for you. Cupcakes and cookies to everyone at Gr
eenwillow Books, you are all wonderful!
Hugs to Malinda Lo and Megan Whalen Turner, two author friends who made 2010 especially fun and memorable for me. To the Brat Pack: Aaron, Amy, and Heather, I love all our lunches together and hilarious chitchats. And much gratitude to my old college roommate, Dr. Natalie Grunkemeier, who patiently and thoroughly answered random and weird medical questions from castration to goring to heart removal.
Thank you to my critique-group friends, who offer me encouragement, laughter, and insight: Tudy, Kirsten, Mark, Janice, Eveie, and John. Rich and Rachel, I miss you. Special thanks to Jean, my Chinese brush painting teacher, who is always there to guide and inspire. And to my fellow brush painting classmates, I look forward to both our art and your company each week.
To my online friends, so many of whom have become real-life friends: the debs, the inkies, the undies, and blueboarders! To my hedgies, who were there from the start. And a special bootay shake for my puglets, who are always there for me and gave advice on the hot smooch when I needed it. (Can you tell I like pet names?)
Last but not least, to my crazy little family, Mark, Sweet Pea, and Munchkin: I love you!
Please visit my website, cindypon.com, to find out more about my novels, my Chinese brush art, the books I read, and general ramblings. I adore comments and emails from readers! I hope you enjoyed reading Fury of the Phoenix as much as I enjoyed writing it.
About the Author
Cindy Pon is the author of Silver Phoenix, named one of the top ten fantasy novels for youth by Booklist. She lives with her husband and two children in San Diego, California.
www.cindypon.com
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Credits
Jacket art © 2011 Ali Smith Photography
Jacket design by Becky Terhune
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