Silver Phoenix

by Cindy Pon

  Chen Yong nodded to her. She almost wanted to laugh, hysteria welling within her. But then he turned his broad back, put down his knapsack, and pulled off his tunic. Ai Ling spun around at the sight of his bare skin. Her face burned as she removed her own tunic. She glanced at Archer, and he waved his weapon to quicken her pace.

  Ai Ling took off her trousers and folded both top and bottom neatly, placing them on one of the platform beds. She still had her undershirt and shorts on.

  “Everything, female,” Archer said.

  She peeled off her underclothing and climbed onto the edge of the bed, her back to Archer and Chen Yong. She brought her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around herself, unable to disguise the trembling of her limbs. Her teeth clacked in terror. Her entire body felt flushed, yet chilled from sweat; her heart pounded hard against her thigh. “The Anatomist will come. Do as he says. We see everything.”

  Archer picked up their knapsacks, and the silver doors slid shut behind him with a faint hiss. Ai Ling wanted to retch.

  “Son of a rotten turtle. He took my sword,” Chen Yong said.

  She had tucked her dagger in the pile of folded clothes. The Chief had said they would not be harmed. Archer had said he would help to get them home. But look where they were now.

  “I’m sorry….” She trailed off, unable to talk past the knot in her throat. She stared at her hunched reflection. Chen Yong’s bare back was visible behind her in the silver glass.

  He didn’t reply. She breathed into her knees, not blaming him if he never spoke to her again.

  “Can you…?” Chen Yong finally said. She waited for him to finish his sentence but realized after a few moments he deliberately had not.

  She snapped her head back to him. He half turned also, and tilted his head toward the doors, menacing with their gray reflection. Anyone could be watching. Anyone could be listening.

  At that moment, the silver doors slid open and another one-armed man entered the room. This one was dressed in robes the color of agate. He was slender and slight, with the smooth face that seemed so prevalent. She assumed he was the Anatomist. He turned to them, the vertical eye intent on her, his two others scrutinizing Chen Yong. Ai Ling shivered, and she hugged her nakedness even closer.

  “This is indeed a surprise. A real find by our Archer. We will learn much from studying you,” the Anatomist said in a singsong voice. He crossed the room with a strange gait, as if one leg was shorter than the other, and approached Chen Yong.

  “The guards are outside. They see all.”

  The Anatomist directed Chen Yong to the end of the hard bed. Ai Ling glimpsed the side view of his naked form in the reflection.

  She shut her eyes and focused on the Anatomist, casting her spirit toward him, hoping to learn something—anything. They needed to escape, and fighting their way out was not an option. Not if they wanted to live. She felt the familiar tautness in her navel. She snapped into the Anatomist’s being. The clarity of his vision shocked her, the colors vibrant, the light filtered more pristinely than what she knew.

  The Anatomist ran his fingers across Chen Yong’s scalp, massaging the skull. He twisted a strand of the hair and made a mental note of the color and texture. Through his eyes, Chen Yong’s hair was a mixture of bronzes, copper, and ebony. Fascinated, Ai Ling wanted him to linger there, but instead he tugged on Chen Yong’s earlobes and peered inside an ear.

  The Xian male is tense. Not surprising. The pair will make good slaves—as well as their offspring. The Chief is much pleased. I must make careful illustrations of their sexual organs. Do they procreate the same as we do?

  Ai Ling’s spirit recoiled, and she nearly snapped back within her own body.

  The Anatomist worked his nimble fingers across Chen Yong’s wide shoulders and began tracing a line down the lumbars of his back. Chen Yong’s muscles tightened, became even more defined under the Anatomist’s touch; he rolled his shoulders, as if to shake off a fly.

  The Anatomist gripped the back of his neck, with surprising strength. Ai Ling felt the cords of Chen Yong’s neck tense. “Cooperate. It will be unpleasant otherwise,” the Anatomist hissed in his ear.

  She folded herself around the Anatomist’s spirit. She felt his confusion. He resisted, his arm slackened to his side, shocked into immobility at what was happening within his mind.

  She could not fail. This was their only chance. She expanded her spirit and wrapped it around his. He continued to struggle, like a slippery fish caught in the binds of her net. Ai Ling held firm…until she had taken control of his physical body.

  Startled by her own success, she stood frozen. Chen Yong cast a wary glance her way, his expression filled with loathing, danger.

  “Get dressed,” she said brusquely in the Anatomist’s high-pitched voice.

  Chen Yong’s eyes locked with hers, gold flecked with dark green, the color even more stunning when seen with the Anatomist’s heightened vision. They narrowed, even as he reached for his clothing. She hastened toward the silver doors, trying to get used to walking with the shorter leg. A deformity he had had since birth—his history and experience were open to her in a jumble of noise composed of memories and thoughts. The doors slid aside to reveal six guards standing at attention. She looked down the hallway, trying to adjust to the brighter, more intense light and color. There were no other guards.

  “Leave us. I need privacy,” she said. It took all her strength and willpower to speak with authority, not to tremble or shake. She gulped, feeling a small bone protrusion slide within the Anatomist’s throat.

  A guard stepped forward. She knew it was the highest-ranking officer, Protector West. “We were told to guard the captives at all times, Anatomist.”

  She made herself angry, drew the words and a snarl from the Anatomist. “You waste my time, West. Leave us.” Her captive’s heart beat faster. His spirit twitched. She felt a sheen of sweat begin to collect at his hairline.

  “Archer gave specific instructions—”

  “I am here on the direct order of the Chief.” She paused, to keep the tremor from the Anatomist’s throat. Slow, deep breath. “You abide by my requests, not the Archer’s.” It was true, she knew. The Anatomist held higher rank, though he would never have dismissed the guards. His furious screams were distant but shrill.

  They stared into each other’s eyes, neither blinking. Ai Ling hid a trembling hand deep within the folds of the agate-colored robe, fought hard to breathe normally. Finally, after five heartbeats, West nodded. “Summon us if you need us.” He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, the other five Protectors marching in a precise line behind him.

  She felt a writhing struggle for control from the Anatomist’s being. “Stop this sorcery, female,” he cried from somewhere deep. His mouth jerked open, and she felt him on the verge of shouting to the guards for help. Terrified, she clamped down, her spirit quivering from the effort, and stumbled back into the chamber. The door slid closed behind her, and she leaned against the wall to steady herself.

  Chen Yong was dressed and standing by the bed.

  “Help me dress my body. We have to find the flying chariot.”

  Chen Yong turned to her naked form, saw that her head had dropped to her knees. “What did you do to her?”

  “It’s me, Chen Yong. I’ve taken control of the Anatomist’s body.” She heard herself speak these words in the high-pitched rasp of the Anatomist. This was not going to be easy.

  Chen Yong’s features tightened with suspicion. “What trick is this?”

  She felt her heart, the Anatomist’s heart, quicken.

  “We don’t have time to argue. We need to survive this—for Li Rong’s sake.”

  Chen Yong blanched as if she had slapped him; then his expression hardened. He nodded.

  There was no time for modesty. With Chen Yong’s help, she pulled on her tunic and trousers. Her body drooped and appeared asleep, her breathing slow and quiet. It was unnerving, like handling her own corpse. She
sensed that Chen Yong felt even more uncomfortable than she did.

  “Can you carry me?” she asked.

  Chen Yong cradled her body in his arms.

  The doors opened, and they walked with quiet steps to the green stone stairs. Chen Yong’s sword and their knapsacks were tucked in an alcove in the smooth wall. He slung her body over his shoulder so she dangled facedown, and grabbed the sword. He shrugged as if in apology.

  Ai Ling took their knapsacks and knew with the Anatomist’s knowledge that they had not been searched. The Chief had no interest in their paltry possessions. She felt for the lump in her own knapsack and, touching its coolness through the worn material, hissed in relief.

  They encountered no one on the second floor and quickly descended the steps. The Anatomist walked more slowly than she was used to, the joints feeling creaky, the body worn. But his senses were agile and alert. She knew that it was just after the second meal, when most of his tribe were taking the afternoon silence at home.

  The first floor hall was empty. They approached the door they had walked through so naively just hours before. It slid open, and they stepped into the bright afternoon sunlight. The square was deserted.

  “I can’t believe our fortune, that the door is not guarded,” Chen Yong said.

  “They are a peaceful people. Outsiders are very rare. Protectors guard the Chief, but not the Hall of Reflection unless called.”

  “You know all this?” The amazement in his voice was mixed with a suspicious caution.

  “This way to the flying chariots,” she said. “I know everything the Anatomist knows—though it is like piecing together a jumbled puzzle to make sense of it.” Her spirit strained to keep the Anatomist suppressed, even as he writhed against its confines.

  They walked down a pathway lined with trees bearing purple diamond-shaped fruit, past homes constructed of wood and stone with glass windowpanes in every shape imaginable, stained in all hues of the rainbow. With the entire tribe at rest, the valley was quiet.

  Until the Sentry stepped from a side path and halted them.

  The stench of rotten eggs, Ai Ling thought.

  “Sentry Amber,” she said. She sensed the Anatomist cursing as she spoke. His spirit twisted against hers like a fly caught in rice glue. She kept her face composed, imagined the placid features she had seen on everyone in this city.

  “Anatomist, where are you headed with this strange lot?” Sentry Amber hefted a shiny club over one shoulder. She had never seen such a weapon. It looked like it could put down a water buffalo with one good blow.

  “Our newest acquisitions, courtesy of Archer. I was examining the male when the female became sick. We are headed to the Healer.” She spoke with authority, in a steady, strong voice. She felt a spasm shudder through his weak leg. Hold still, Ai Ling. Show no fear.

  “But the Healer is that way.” The Sentry pointed with his club at a path they had just passed.

  “Yes, but I need to go to the Herbist first, friend.” A pause as she scrambled. The Anatomist simply screeched now, in an attempt to deter her, hide information. “You think I have become that senile since my six hundred and eighth?” She pursed the Anatomist’s lips and arched his brows. Had it been too long a pause?

  The sentry pulled his thin lips into the phantom of a smile. “Greet the Herbist for me. He gave me a good concoction for my last sunsickness—even if it tasted of baoli dung.”

  She nodded and walked past him, feeling his stare on her back.

  “Anatomist!”

  She turned, trying to control her breathing. The Anatomist’s pulse, her pulse, palpitated in his throat. Somewhere deep within, she could hear him hiss and struggle, his horror bordering on madness. He managed to jerk his hand upward, and Ai Ling crushed down on his being like stone. She guided the hand up to rub the smooth chin, hoping it looked natural.

  “Do you need help?” The sentry cocked his head in Chen Yong’s direction. Her own body rested in Chen Yong’s arms, seemingly fast asleep.

  “You really do take me for senile, Amber. He is under a bind of obeyance.” She let the words fall naturally from the lips. There was no room for hesitation or error.

  The sentry nodded, his expression unreadable, and strolled away. Suddenly a loud gong reverberated through the city. The breath caught in the Anatomist’s throat after Ai Ling grasped the meaning of it.

  The Eight Chants of Returning.

  The entire city would now break their afternoon silence to recite eight prayers before resuming the tasks of the day. The city would soon swarm back to life.

  Chen Yong turned to her as the second gong rang, the powerful sound filling her with panic. She did not speak, but instead hurried toward the flying chariots. The Anatomist’s breath came in short gasps; his heart fluttered and skipped beats. She led Chen Yong upward, to a small landing notched in the side of a hill.

  Three chariots, open sedans with huge silver wheels, sat on the smooth dirt. One was painted a deep eggplant and carved into the image of a bird, golden wings tucked to its sides. One bore the resemblance of a mouse, gleaming silver in the sunlight. The final chariot was hewn in the image of a dragon, rendered in azure and sea green—so like the sea dragon that had carried them to the mountain of the Immortals. This chariot was the Anatomist’s personal favorite. It had the reputation for traveling the fastest.

  “The dragon,” she said, and felt the Anatomist shriek and rattle against her in rage. A third gong reverberated across the hillside.

  “Now you have a taste of what it feels like to be enslaved,” she said aloud to his struggling spirit.

  “What?” Chen Yong asked.

  “Climb in, hurry!” She flung their knapsacks onto the chariot floor, then grimaced, remembering what she carried in her own. The image of Li Rong’s heart tumbling forth and unraveling from its cocoon flitted through her mind, seeped into the Anatomist’s. He mewed in terror.

  Chen Yong opened a door on the side of the dragon and carefully placed her on the bench.

  “How does this thing work?” He looked around with a puzzled expression.

  “We wait for a good breeze and push the chariot over the ledge,” she replied.

  “Are you mad?”

  “It does fly. I’ll push, then leave his body.” She had to shout over the reverberations of the fourth gong. It had better fly.

  Chen Yong’s surprise turned to worry. “Are you sure you can do this?”

  “I’ve done it so far, haven’t I?” she said, more bluntly than she intended.

  She limped to the rear of the chariot and started to push with all the strength of the one arm. The chariot was heavy for the Anatomist’s slight frame, and he could not run fast with the bad leg, but the large wheels sped up quickly, and very soon she was struggling to keep up.

  The contraption raced off the edge of the landing and hovered for one frightening heartbeat. Ai Ling whispered a prayer, seeking aid from the Goddess of Mercy. And then a small breeze caught it and the chariot began to drift. The sound of the fifth gong echoed through the valley.

  Chen Yong crouched over her body, a hand on her shoulder as if to keep her steady in the slightly rocking chariot. But his eyes were locked on the Anatomist. She needed to return to her body. A breeze swept through the valley and buffeted the chariot higher, out over a grove of strange fruit trees.

  A thick arm snaked around the Anatomist’s neck, dragging him back. “Taking a trip? It is not authorized by the Chief.”

  Ai Ling choked. The Anatomist choked. She wasn’t sure anymore. She released her hold on his being, cast herself out, and pulled along the invisible cord, riding a gentle zephyr toward the chariot.

  There was a jarring snap, this time so violent she gasped. She gulped in short breaths. The world was dimmer, the colors dulled. But this sight was her own, this mind and this body her own.

  “Ai Ling?” Chen Yong leaned over her, the sun catching the dark auburn of his hair. “Drink some water.” He cradled her head and lifted the fla
sk to her mouth and cool spring water splashed on her lips and chin.

  “I just need to catch my breath….” Before she could finish, she lunged to the side of the chariot and retched over the edge. She collapsed against the chariot door, her arms draped over the side. Her head spun, and she forced her eyes shut.

  The shrill screams of the Anatomist drifted to her on the wind. She opened her eyes to see him slumped against the bulk of Sentry Amber, jabbing a weak finger in their direction, his fury obvious even as the two figures dwindled to pinpricks.

  “Will they follow us?” Chen Yong asked.

  She shook her head, then immediately regretted it as the world tilted again. “We took the fastest chariot.”

  Chen Yong knelt by her, wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders. “Lie down. You need to rest.”

  About twice the length of an individual sedan and oblong in shape, the uncovered chariot held a wide bench at one end lined with plump cushions.

  She let herself be led there and laid her head down on a cushion. It smelled of strange and pungent herbs, but she didn’t find it unpleasant. Chen Yong arranged the other cushions and draped a blanket over her. She smiled weakly, but he did not see it.

  “The valley has disappeared already,” he said.

  “You steer with your destination in mind,” Ai Ling muttered. “That’s how it works.” She shut her eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ai Ling woke to find Chen Yong steering the pivot as if he’d done it many times before. She pulled herself into a sitting position and stretched. Her stomach churned, but her head did not spin like before.

  The chariot flew gently above misty peaks. The scenery rushed past them at an unnatural speed—so fast that she could not look for long, even though the chariot itself did not seem to be racing, merely gliding on a soft breeze.

  “Before I met you, I would not have thought steering a chariot with my mind possible. But now I think, what do I know?” Chen Yong turned and managed a wan, tired smile. “Are you feeling better? I don’t know how long you slept, but it seemed a long time.”