by Cindy Pon
He then stood to his full height, the size of a child of five years, and strode away with such confidence one never would have guessed he could not see. Ai Ling drew another deep breath; was drained, but not in pain. She sat up, and the world spun momentarily.
“Silver Phoenix never loved you.” Gui Xin glided toward them. “I can’t believe you are such a romantic fool, Zhong Ye.”
Ai Ling’s heart lurched. She wanted to scream, run from him. She jabbed her nails into bloodied palms. He stood too near, unmoving.
“I’ve subjugated legions of demons, made them do my bidding. Your precious Silver Phoenix would be dead again, cast back into the underworld, if she hadn’t proven to be so…lucky.” Gui Xin paused in front of them, so close Ai Ling could see the individual gold threads of her sheath.
Zhong Ye tilted his head. “You talk too much.”
Ai Ling watched as if removed from her own self. She turned to see Chen Yong, surrounded by the faceless guards. He met her gaze.
She had led him into this. She would cry now, if she had the strength.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have targeted your true love.” Her melodic voice did not diminish her sarcasm. “Perhaps I should have aimed higher.”
A movement from the back of the chamber caught Ai Ling’s eye. The dagger Gui Xin had used to stab her rose into the air and flew like a silver streak toward Zhong Ye. Before she could grasp what was happening, the dagger erupted in a plume of dust a few feet from him.
“You surprise me, Gui Xin,” Zhong Ye said. His expression and stance had never changed. “You’re smarter than I thought…and more naive as well.”
He raised a hand. Two guards strode forward and caught Gui Xin by both arms, intent on dragging her out. The same guards who had been at her bidding just moments before. But two men were not enough. She thrashed on the floor. Two other guards grasped her by each leg, and hoisted her off the ground like a sow going to slaughter.
She writhed even then, in midair. A green sheen flared around her, and the guards let go, yelping. Ai Ling smelled burned flesh.
Gui Xin stood, smoothing her hands over her sheath. “Don’t be a fool, Zhong Ye. Reconsider.”
A green glow still rippled about her. The guards stood at a distance, wary.
“No.” Zhong Ye spoke in a quiet voice so filled with threat that Ai Ling shuddered. “Accept your fate, Gui Xin.”
“Like you accept yours?” Her smile was cutting.
The green glow suddenly evaporated with a faint buzz. Gui Xin’s head snapped back, and she gasped, the cords of her neck standing taut.
“Kill her,” he ordered the guards.
They picked her up and she was stiff, rigid as a plank. The room spun as her rabid screaming reverberated through the hall.
“Wait.” Zhong Ye raised one hand. Gui Xin had the sense to quiet herself.
“Don’t burn all of her.” Zhong Ye smiled coldly. “She can dwell forever with the restless spirits of the underworld.”
Gui Xin gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “I’ll meet you there, Zhong Ye. You cannot live forever.”
He waved the guards away, and turned from her without another glance. He kneeled down beside Ai Ling and caressed her cheek. She flinched. “My blind one healed you,” he said, pulling her to her feet.
She stared into gray eyes. His hair was black, streaked with silver and plaited in a long queue. His eyebrows were so light they were nearly indistinguishable on his pale face. She willed herself to hold his gaze. And a sense of recognition sent terror ricocheting through her. Zhong Ye released her with gentle hands.
“You finally return to me.” He paced across the hard floor without sound, the flaps of his ornate robe whispering with each step.
Ai Ling felt light-headed. She tried to raise her hand to touch her wound, but she couldn’t move. She was frozen in place—just as Gui Xin had been. Her heart thumped harder against her chest. She took a breath, felt hysteria welling within her. She looked toward Chen Yong, who stood rigid, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides. He was bound as well. She fought the urge to scream, to sob.
Zhong Ye slipped a hand inside his tunic, drawing out a long piece of red silk. A breast binder. He raised the fabric to his nose and breathed deep. “To think you hanged yourself with this on our wedding night, Silver Phoenix.” He fingered the delicate material. “I’ve waited over two centuries for you to come back to me, love.”
“My name is Ai Ling.”
He smiled. His brows lifted ever so slightly as he approached her, tucking the piece of fabric back into his robe. “Yes. And to think Master Wen brought you into this world. I nearly had him executed.” He chuckled.
“Fate amuses me. Who knew my worst enemy would be the one to bring my love back?” He raised his hand and stroked her cheek again. She jerked her head away, wanted to step back, but she could not move.
“You’re taller in this life. Not so womanly in shape. But still beautiful, if in a different way.” His hand glided down to her shoulder, the palm clasping the back of her neck. His fingers massaged the roots of her hair.
She didn’t realize her one braid had been freed until her hair floated around her face, settling against her neck and cascading across her chest. But Zhong Ye had not touched the ribbon that bound her hair. He had somehow loosened her braid without his hands. Ai Ling bit her lip until she tasted blood, mortified that she stood with her hair loose in front of Chen Yong and this stranger who spoke to her like a lover.
“Still beautiful indeed. And still untouched.” He smiled, pale lips drawn over perfect teeth. “Yes, I can sense it. You are pure. My fruit to pluck and taste.”
She spat at him. Her aim was true, and the glob of saliva hit his cheek.
Zhong Ye did not flinch. “Still feisty, too, I see.” He grinned and ran one elegant forefinger across his cheek, wiping the saliva off his face, then licked the same finger with his tongue.
“And still sweet as well.”
“I’ve come for my father,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Indeed. He was the bait that lured you to me. He is safe—the guest of honor at our wedding banquet this evening.”
“No,” she whispered.
“If you want to see your dear father alive, you will say yes, love,” Zhong Ye said.
He suddenly cast a look toward Chen Yong. “You have feelings for that mutt?” A small smile played on his mouth.
Ai Ling stared straight ahead, felt the color drain from her face. She refused to look at Chen Yong.
“Ah, but you waste your time. He has nothing to give you. He’s but a shell of a man.” Zhong Ye tutted his tongue. “Why waste your affections on a half-breed?” He wandered over to Chen Yong, and stood before him, considering him coldly.
Ai Ling finally looked at Chen Yong. The cords of his neck were taut, his jaws clenched tight.
“Your mother was a whore.” Zhong Ye enunciated the words, and they hung heavy in the air, like a living thing. “She rutted willingly with a foreigner, one of those pale barbarians from across the sea. Spread her legs like a bitch in heat.” Zhong Ye turned, walked a few steps forward.
He flicked a hand, and a faint image began to take shape beside him. It solidified into a woman, not much older than Ai Ling. She was regal, with a swanlike neck, her arms clasped before her within long silken sleeves. Her black hair was pulled to her nape and bejeweled. Her peach dress cascaded to the ground, and she seemed to float.
Her complexion was as fine as porcelain, her large black eyes filled with a sadness beyond anything Ai Ling could grasp or describe. This young woman gazed at Chen Yong, who raised his head to meet her eyes. Ai Ling saw his face crumple for an instant, then change to stone in the next.
“I made sure your mother paid for her whorish ways. Poisoned ever so slowly; she lost her sight first, then the feeling in each limb.” Zhong Ye flicked his hand again, and the figure blurred, wavered like a mirage on a scorching day. He pursed his lips and took a breath, and the image of C
hen Yong’s mother swirled into his mouth in a fluid stream. Zhong Ye’s eyes glittered with pleasure, triumph.
“It was painful. But less than what she deserved. Now her spirit is mine.”
Ai Ling felt hatred for this man consume her. She did not need to cast her spirit toward Chen Yong to feel the rage within him. Their eyes met—his face did not betray his thoughts or emotions.
A line of women glided into the room, their heads bowed, their gossamer sleeves flowing like petals on a spring breeze. Zhong Ye took a few steps toward them and nodded with a satisfied smile.
“You arrived just in time, my pet,” he said over his shoulder. “The Emperor and his court are on progress at the Palace of Cerulean Sky. We are free to celebrate as the true rulers of this kingdom.”
Ai Ling felt a ghostly finger trace her throat, the scent of spiced cologne filling her nose, even as Zhong Ye stood apart from her. She struggled to suppress her panic and terror, struggled to suppress her desire to lash out with her own spirit. Could Zhong Ye sense her power? Ai Ling wound herself tight, tucked it far from this monstrosity. Surprise would be her best weapon.
“I expect a splendid banquet to celebrate this wedding. Don’t harm yourself this time, love. Or your father dies. And your mother. Even this half-breed mutt.” He cocked his head in Chen Yong’s direction. “Do we understand each other?”
She nodded, sucking on her lower lip, steadying herself with the taste of her own blood. She could not kill him now. Her opportunity would come when they were alone. She swallowed hard.
“The handmaids will prepare you. It won’t be as traditional as most Xian families would like,” he said, laughing, “but what it lacks in decorum will be made up for in extravagance.”
A handmaid dressed in a lavender silk sheath approached Ai Ling, placing a gentle hand on her arm. To her surprise, she could move now, and the servant guided her out of the hall and into the courtyard. She turned back. But Chen Yong and Zhong Ye had disappeared like apparitions. A line of handmaids dressed exactly alike, with their plaits coiled close to the tops of their heads, followed. The silver ornaments in their tresses made clinking sounds in the dusk air.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The handmaid’s light touch never changed as she guided Ai Ling across the vast Palace grounds. They wound their way through arched doorways, past lush gardens and dramatic courtyards empty except for giant bronze urns as tall as she was. At last she was led into a hall and quickly ushered from the public sitting room into a private bedchamber. A bed hidden behind red brocaded drapes dominated the room. The ceiling stretched high above them with bright red lanterns strung across it, suffusing everything in a festive glow—so opposite to the dark dread that threatened to smother her.
A lacquered vanity stood against one wall of the room, the top covered with countless jars of rouge, creams, powders, and perfumes. A round mirror set in rosewood hung above the vanity. Ai Ling caught a glimpse of a large tub in the bath chamber, and the subtle scent of jasmine drifted toward her.
The handmaid led her to the bed and drew back the heavy drapes. “May we undress you, majesty?”
For the first time since encountering Zhong Ye, Ai Ling let the shock show on her face. Majesty? She was mocking her.
“Zhong Ye is not an Emperor. And I am no Empress.”
The girl simply inclined.
“What’s your name?” Ai Ling asked.
“I am called Zhen Ni, mistress.”
Ai Ling was relieved that the girl had called her mistress. Even if that seemed odd as well, it wasn’t nearly as bad as majesty.
“Zhen Ni, why does Zhong Ye act as if he’s the Emperor?”
The girl raised a pale face, then quickly lowered her head again. “Master Zhong is the Emperor’s most trusted adviser.”
Ai Ling touched her spirit lightly.
He’s worse when the Emperor is gone. Fear surged through the girl. One mistake and I’ll never win back his favor. He could kill me and the Emperor would not care….
Blinking, Ai Ling brought herself back.
“Please, mistress. If we could undress you.”
Ai Ling allowed the handmaids to remove her clothes. The bloodstain remained wet on her tunic but had begun to crust against her skin. Her wound had been right above her navel, yet the skin had healed without a mark. Fully naked, she shivered as cooling air curled from the high carved windows of the bedchamber. The handmaids surrounded her like a retinue, and she was led into the steaming bath chamber.
The tub was shaped like a half-gourd and hewn of dark wood. But as she stepped in, she saw that the inside was made of gold. The metal was warm and smooth beneath her feet.
White petals swirled on top of the steaming water. Ai Ling slipped under until her chin touched the top of it. She tried to cover her nakedness, grasped her jade pendant tight, as too many hands massaged her.
Her hair was lathered with soap that smelled of spring rain, citrus, and honey. One handmaid scrubbed the soles of her feet with a rough stone. Bumps prickled her skin. She wasn’t used to this. She didn’t like it. Two handmaids filed her nails. It was like a dance, and she the reluctant partner.
She was relieved when Zhen Ni stretched out her hand. Ai Ling took it. The stone floor felt cold against her pruned feet. She was patted dry with plush lavender towels. Then the four women rubbed a scented cream that smelled faintly of jasmine on her body.
“The bathwater was filled with jasmine flowers, too?” Ai Ling asked.
“It’s Master Zhong’s favorite scent on a woman.”
Ai Ling’s cheeks burned.
Zhen Ni threw a luxurious gold robe over her shoulders. She ran a carved wooden comb through her hair. Ai Ling watched the deft fingers of the handmaid as she twisted her tresses into loops, pinning jeweled flowers into them. Finally she placed a gold coronet on the top of her head, with a phoenix rising from the middle, clutching a ruby in one claw and a pearl in the other.
“We dust, then dress, her,” Zhen Ni said. “The makeup comes last.”
The other four handmaids nodded in unison, and Zhen Ni removed the gold robe from her shoulders, revealing her naked body again.
“Please stand, mistress, to be dusted.”
Ai Ling rose to her feet and raised her brows at Zhen Ni, not knowing what she meant.
“Mother-of-pearl, silver, and gold pounded into body powder, mistress. Also scented.” Zhen Ni nodded, and the four handmaids, each holding a porcelain bowl, proceeded to dust her entire body using large, soft brushes. Ai Ling shivered, sickened by the cloying scent of jasmine.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her coloring was not the pale ivory coveted by so many women, but a warm sun-kissed pink instead. Her arms and face had darkened from the days of travel; the bath had brought a glow to her cheeks. They flushed again, red hot, as she stared at her bare breasts. How much of herself would she have to sacrifice—could sacrifice—to defeat Zhong Ye? Was she even strong enough to conquer him?
She cast herself into the nearest handmaid, hoping to gather information. But the girl only thought about the end of the day, when she could return to her own quarters, away from the dangerous politics and intrigue. Another handmaid daydreamed of her lover, praying they wouldn’t be found out.
When the handmaids had finished, a scented sheen covered her entire body. She unclasped her necklace and slipped it into her knapsack on the bed. She sensed it could not help her now, and she could not risk it catching Zhong Ye’s attention. Her hand grazed the cold bundle that was Li Rong’s heart.
Had they rifled through her belongings? Ai Ling touched Zhen Ni’s spirit. The handmaid calmed herself by sweeping the floor. My mistress must look perfect for Master Zhong. The breast binder needs to be scented. Where are the wedding slippers? Panic swept through Zhen Ni, and Ai Ling pulled herself back quickly.
She reached for the glass vial hidden in her tunic. Her movement caught the handmaid’s attention.
“What’s that, mistress?”
&
nbsp; “A good-luck charm,” she said.
Zhen Ni wrung her hands. “Master Zhong would not allow it.”
Ai Ling clutched the vial. “It’s nothing, Zhen Ni. A trinket. I want to please him as much as you do.”
The handmaid’s tense shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Please make sure everything is moved to the bridal bedchamber for me,” Ai Ling said.
Zhen Ni inclined her head. “Yes, mistress.”
One of the handmaids retreated and returned with a red silk binder, identical to the one Zhong Ye had drawn from his tunic—the one Silver Phoenix had hung herself with. Was it the same one? What was she thinking when she had killed herself? Had Zhong Ye forced her to marry too?
Ai Ling raised both arms without being asked. Her scalp crawled as Zhen Ni bound her breasts with the fabric. She forced herself to be still, fought the urge to scream and slap the girl away. It was the custom for every virgin on her wedding night. A married woman was required to have her breasts tightly bound at all times, except within the privacy of her own bedchamber. The Book of Making, presented by her mother so long ago, had explained the ritual in detail.
She tried to draw a deep breath when Zhen Ni was finished, having wrapped the silken fabric around her chest with expertise. She couldn’t.
“You’ll adjust to it, mistress,” Zhen Ni said as if reading her thoughts. “The silk is forgiving.”
Zhen Ni helped her into a red silk undergarment, fastened it around her waist with a gold braided cord. Ai Ling gasped when she saw two handmaids approaching with the wedding gown. They carried the gold-and-red gown carefully between them.
“It may not fit perfectly. But we can make quick alterations,” Zhen Ni said.
Two handmaids stepped up behind Ai Ling, slipping the crimson-and-gold gown onto her bare shoulders. The weight of it surprised her, the material cool on her skin. Two golden phoenixes as well as the symbol for eternal happiness were embroidered across her chest. The handmaids moved in front of her, one standing and one kneeling, fastening with deft fingers the hidden clasps running down the center of the gown.
