Silver Phoenix

by Cindy Pon

  Ai Ling lifted one hand and saw, edged along the wide sleeves, bands of dragons with fierce expressions staring at her. After fastening every clasp, the two handmaids retreated and Zhen Ni leaned in to button the stiff collar across her shoulder. Then she stepped back.

  It was as if they all waited for her approval. Ai Ling forced herself to look in the mirror. The blush that had colored her cheeks from the bath seemed muted against the expanse of gold and red that swathed her. She felt boxed in, claustrophobic from the weight of the formal gown. She stared into her own dark, slender eyes, and thought she looked too young to be dressed like this.

  Wasn’t this the fate of most girls?

  Ai Ling inclined her head. She couldn’t breathe. Despite Zhen Ni’s reassurances, the binding was not at all forgiving. Slowly she nodded to Zhen Ni’s reflection.

  “It fits near perfectly, mistress. True, the length of the gown doesn’t reach the top of your feet”—Zhen Ni bent down to tug the bottom band edged with silver symbols—“but it is hardly noticeable.”

  She stood again and regarded her with a pleased flush on her face.

  “Now we make up your face.” She put a gentle hand on Ai Ling’s arm and guided her to a chair before the black lacquered table.

  Ai Ling closed her eyes as Zhen Ni and another girl fluttered about her with brushes and pencils, lining her eyes and darkening her brows, rouging her lips and cheeks, dusting her entire face with scented, powdery plumes.

  She ignored the urge to sneeze and instead tried to cast her spirit toward her father. Could she find him? Somehow tell him she was all right? How far could she travel from her own body? She flung the cord beyond her quarters, but it wavered and dissipated.

  Chen Yong. Ai Ling pictured his face in her mind, felt her heartbeat quicken. The cord did not latch but brushed against his spirit, far away. How…Ling…at…help…

  She jumped when a light touch grazed her shoulder, her heart lurching from the faint scent of spiced cologne. Zhong Ye. She looked around. He wasn’t there. Every handmaid was busy putting away makeup and straightening the room. Zhong Ye had reached her somehow, reminded her of his power and presence. She shivered. Had he sensed her? Did he know?

  She turned to face the handmaids. “Thank you. Thank you all for this,” Ai Ling finally said.

  She had been transformed into a woman with a few strokes of pencil and brush. Her eyes were wider now, more potent. The pale powder on her face accentuated the rouge on her lips, making them more sensuous. Seductive.

  A handmaid approached her with slippers in her hand. “Your shoes, mistress.” She held up the pair to Ai Ling, as if for her inspection.

  The shoes were exquisite—slightly arched with a pointed toe and made of a rich crimson silk. Deep purple lotus flowers with golden leaves wound across the sides. At the center of each lotus bloom nestled a dainty emerald. Unopened buds in a pale pink blush peeped from among the blooms. The short heels were made of ivory.

  “I’m not sure if they’ll fit.” She nodded toward her long, narrow feet.

  Zhen Ni stooped down and slipped one shoe on her foot. Ai Ling winced as her toes jammed together. The handmaid struggled briefly. It fit. She did the same with the other slipper, then leaned back and smiled, obviously relieved.

  “She had smaller feet. I don’t believe she was as tall,” the handmaid said.

  “Who?” Ai Ling whispered, the hairs on her neck rising.

  “Silver Phoenix, mistress. These are her wedding gown and shoes.”

  Ai Ling wanted to retch.

  “Bring the veil,” Zhen Ni said. Pearls were sewn along the hem, which helped to weigh down the gossamer red silk. She could see through the material, but her vision was shrouded in a red haze. The edge of it brushed just past her collar.

  The loud bang of firecrackers from the courtyard startled her. Drums thumped and cymbals crashed outside, followed by the sound of many women in song. “The bridal sedan is here, mistress. Let us help you to your feet,” Zhen Ni said.

  Ai Ling felt a gentle hand on each elbow. She rose from the stool, then tottered on pinched toes. “I’m not sure if I can walk in these,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “We’ll help you to the sedan, mistress. You’ll not have to walk far.”

  This was true, Ai Ling thought wryly to herself. Being a new bride required much sitting, kneeling, and lying on one’s back. Firecrackers popped again. The acrid smell of the smoke infiltrated the chamber as Ai Ling took slow steps forward.

  They finally emerged into the open courtyard, where a red sedan with a sloping gilded roof awaited her. Men dressed in red with golden dragons embroidered on their tunics surrounded it. The entire courtyard was lit by giant red and pearl white lanterns, strung on the end of long wooden poles held by servant boys.

  The singers wore sky blue gowns with sheer embroidered sleeves flowing to the ground. The air swirled with color as their arms circled in unison.

  Ai Ling bit her lip as she was helped into the sedan. The taste of the berry rouge prompted her to lick her teeth. The gold bangles on her wrists tinkled as the attendants lifted the sedan and the procession made its way, she assumed, to the banquet hall. Both sides of the sedan were heavily curtained, and sounds came to her muffled.

  Ai Ling wished for more time, even if it were in this stuffy dark box, with the scent of her creams and body powder overpowering her senses. She uncorked the vial and placed it to her lips.

  The tiny crystal tears hit her tongue and melted into bitterness, grief, and anger in her mouth. The same feelings she felt the day they were collected—when Li Rong was slain. Her heart thudded against the breast binder. She clutched at the magnificent wedding gown and willed the attendants to move faster. To carry her with speed toward a fate she did not choose, but one she would accept in exchange for her father’s life. In exchange for Chen Yong’s.

  She would make Zhong Ye pay. Ai Ling welcomed the grief and rage that coursed through her; hot, fresh, potent. She would kill him—or die herself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The drummers beat a slow rhythm that filled her senses until her heart, the pulse in her throat, her breathing, seemed to mimic it—be captured by it. She gripped the empty vial in her hand. The attendants slowed and halted.

  The banquet master helped her onto a carpet of gold cloth that shot a path to the wedding hall. Her feet would never touch the ground. She focused on the red dragons and phoenixes embroidered on the cloth as she took one small, painful step after another.

  She heard the song girls, leading the way. Their song was now accompanied by flute and strings while the drummers thumped quietly. The hall hushed when she stepped inside. She frantically searched the crowd for her father, for Chen Yong. She twisted this way and that until the banquet master gripped her hard by the elbow, pulling her forward so abruptly that she stumbled. The crowd was ten deep, and the curious faces of strangers blurred together.

  A slight breeze shifted her veil as Zhong Ye stepped forward. She smelled his cologne. Fury swelled within her. She wound it tight around her spirit, steeled herself against him. He tied a golden sash into the double same-heart knot, then bent over her, fastening the other end to her hand. The moments of silence pounded against her ears.

  “The bride and groom are one. The groom may examine his bride’s features,” the banquet master announced.

  Zhong Ye lifted the veil, and Ai Ling saw her father and Chen Yong among the guests behind him. Their faces were pale, taut with worry. Tears rushed to her eyes. He raised her chin with two fingers, causing a stir among the crowd. Forced to look up, she tucked her spirit even deeper, using her anger as a shield. Would he kiss her? Bind her with sorcery? A trickle of sweat rolled down her back.

  “Proceed to the altar and pay your respects to all those who have gone before.” The banquet master’s warm, strong voice resonated through the long hall.

  Ai Ling felt a tug at her hand as Zhong Ye walked backward to the altar, leading her by the s
hort sash as if she were on a leash. She followed him, stumbling once, the ornate wedding gown too heavy. He helped her kneel on the ivory step before the altar and knelt down beside her.

  “Bow thrice to heaven,” the banquet master said.

  She bowed three times, the breath crushed from her each time she bent forward in the stiff gown.

  “Bow thrice to earth,” the banquet master intoned. Ai Ling bowed again.

  “And bow three times to your ancestors, your father and your mother.” Her throat tightened. Mother did not even know her only child was about to wed. She wished that her father didn’t know either.

  “Rise now, and drink from one cup as husband and wife,” the banquet master said.

  A song girl approached with the nuptial cup—as big and deep as a noodle bowl, made of red enamel and inlaid with jewels. Ai Ling had never seen anything so elaborate, so gaudy. The song girl offered the cup to Zhong Ye, and he took it in both hands, forcing Ai Ling to stumble closer, pulled by the sash. He raised the ceremonial cup to his lips and sipped.

  He offered the cup to her, and their fingers touched. Ai Ling took a deep breath, tried to steady her hand. She made sure her lips did not drink from the same place he had. The wine tasted thick and sweet, made her thirst for fresh water. The song girl took the ornate cup away. Zhong Ye reached for her knotted hand, and she clenched her teeth. His hand was as smooth as a child’s and cool against her own hot skin.

  “They are wed! We celebrate now at the banquet. May no one go thirsty or hungry this night, as your happiness will only augment that of the bride and groom.”

  The throng shouted congratulations three times in unison, the cheers thundering around the hall. Festive music and singing erupted again as Zhong Ye walked the gold-clothed path and pulled Ai Ling, tripping, behind him. Ai Ling craned her neck, desperately searching the crowd for her father and Chen Yong. But hundreds of people swarmed around her, and she could not see them.

  Zhong Ye led her to a massive banquet hall. The ceiling was higher than any Ai Ling had seen in the Palace. Red-and-gold lanterns cast bright light on a banquet table that stretched the entire length of the room. It was so long she could not make out the faces at the opposite end. Guards flanked the walls, still and silent.

  Just as she approached her own carved seat, she saw that her father and Chen Yong had been seated to her immediate left. She rushed toward them, but Zhong Ye held her back. Her father looked so much older; the lines near his eyes, the creases on his brow. The tall table and elaborate chair seemed to swallow him. Their eyes met, and she nearly burst into tears. He half rose to his feet, but Chen Yong restrained him with one hand.

  Chen Yong’s handsome face was dark with fury—so unlike him that it shocked her. Ai Ling gave a slight shake of her head. He saw and looked down. Please don’t do anything foolish, she thought. Please don’t.

  The moment she and Zhong Ye were seated, the drums thundered to a crescendo, then ceased as servants presented each guest with the first dish of the wedding feast. Magnificent entrees presented in lacquered trays arrived one after the other. Fish, prawns, pheasant, and boar. Succulent roots, rare fruits, nuts, and tender vegetables. Ai Ling forced herself to eat. She lost count of how many dishes were brought.

  Seated to her right, Zhong Ye ate with enthusiasm, washing the food down with one cup of wine followed by another. Perhaps he’d be too drunk to make a wife of her this evening. She stared at her bound hand, swallowing the bitter taste that had risen to her mouth, and listened to her groom banter with his colleagues.

  The drunken din of the guests grew louder until the noise pounded within her head. She avoided looking at her father or Chen Yong, both completely silent, neither even pretending to eat. She scanned other faces; bleary, squinted eyes, mouths open for more wine, gaping with lecherous laughter. Her breaths came too quickly, and the room began to spin.

  She pinched her thigh so hard her eyes teared. This was no time to faint. She needed to be strong—had to be strong. This was not the worst of it.

  Before the last courses were served, Zhong Ye pulled Ai Ling to her feet. They walked down the length of the massive banquet table, receiving toasts from the guests. He spoke to them in a commanding voice, threw his head back and drank with each toast. She was silent, only pretending to sip from her wine cup. After over an hour, they finally returned to their chairs, Ai Ling tottering on numbed feet.

  Finally a gong sounded, announcing the end of the wedding banquet. The banquet master rose from his seat. “The bride now leads her groom into her bedchamber!”

  Ai Ling grabbed at Zhong Ye’s fingers. “Not them,” she said, barely audible above the noise.

  He leaned closer. “What?”

  “Not my father or Chen Yong.”

  He cupped her face in one hand, and she didn’t flinch. “You’ve behaved so beautifully, love. Anything for you.”

  Zhong Ye nodded, and four guards stepped forward. “Take Master Wen and Master Li back to their quarters. Secure them.”

  Her father leaped to his feet. “We will go with Ai Ling!”

  Chen Yong shoved the guards from her father. Airborne, he spun, fists flashing. But he was no match for Zhong Ye’s guards, who surrounded him from all sides.

  “Daughter!” her father shouted.

  Her chest seized. She drew a shuddering breath but did not look up as they were dragged away.

  She entered the bridal bedchamber backward, leading Zhong Ye by the sash. She felt the beating of many fans before she saw anything. The song girls were arranged in a semicircle, fanning the bed with graceful movements, as if in dance.

  The gold brocaded curtains were drawn, the wide bed covered with cushions in satins and silks of deep plum and red, emerald green and sky blue. Crimson sheets embroidered with the dragon and phoenix motif were draped across the bed. The edges of the coverlet were sewn with the character for eternal happiness, woven between peaches, lotus, and pearls—all symbols of happiness or fertility.

  The banquet master untied the same-heart sash. “Your heart is one,” he said, bowing.

  The song girls parted. Zhong Ye offered a hand, which Ai Ling did not refuse, and helped her climb the carved steps into the massive bed. She knelt down, facing away from the door of the bedchamber and the crowd that had followed them in.

  “The husband unbinds his wife’s hair out of love and service,” the banquet master chanted.

  “He’ll unbind more than that tonight!” someone shouted, and everyone burst into rowdy laughter.

  She closed her eyes.

  Zhong Ye kneeled behind her. He pulled the first pin from her hair. Then another. Her locks began to unfurl across her shoulders. She kept her head bowed. Her cheeks burned. This was just the beginning. Her mind wandered to what she could remember of wedding rituals—all she had read in The Book of Making.

  Zhong Ye’s fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. She steadied herself. Don’t react. Don’t give them the satisfaction. The song girls cast red and white flower petals on the bed; the banquet master threw grain. Her hair was entirely loose.

  “Make her a woman tonight, Master Zhong!” The crowd cheered and laughed, whistled loudly and stomped their feet.

  “May she be soft and pliable! She certainly looks it!”

  Zhong Ye turned her around to face the crowd. She navigated across the bed on her knees. Her fury blazed, and she feared what she would say if she saw their faces…what she would do. She too had a role to play, for now.

  The noise grew until Zhong Ye raised a hand. The hush that followed was immediate. “Thank you for joining us in this celebration, esteemed friends and family….”

  What family could he possibly have? He was an ancestor, ancient.

  “I ask now to be alone with my bride,” Zhong Ye said.

  The whistles and foot stomping began again. The crowd was in a frenzy. But the last of the ritual words had been spoken by the new groom, and the inebriated well-wishers re
treated quickly, knowing there was more food and drink waiting for them in the banquet hall.

  Six guards stayed behind, standing at attention. Zhong Ye waved a manicured hand. “Leave us. I hardly need your protection tonight.”

  Zhong Ye was beside her, his long hands resting on his thighs. She did not move. He finally rose and inclined onto the thick cushions of the bed, resting casually on one elbow.

  “We’re alone at last, love. I’ve waited for this night for so long. Too long.” He reached for her hand, brushed her fingers with his. His skin was smooth, flawless.

  “I know how you’re feeling. But you will grow to love me, Ai Ling. Just as Silver Phoenix did.”

  She blanched. Silver Phoenix could never have loved him.

  He wanted her to meet his gaze. She refused, and he sighed.

  “I became a eunuch when I was twenty years…centuries ago. Most were forced, sold, or bought. But I chose my path.”

  Ai Ling swallowed hard. He wasn’t whole. A thin thread of hope wound through her.

  He continued to stroke her fingers. His gaze was tangible; it touched her brow and traced her cheekbone and jaw, fluttered against her lips. He was attempting some sort of sorcery. The white rage within her crackled, expanded, grew taut again. She remained still.

  “You’re more strong-willed than I realized, my pet. I shouldn’t be surprised.” He sounded amused. Perhaps even pleased. “You’re my match indeed. We’ll rule together through all the dynasties. We’ll always be here. Our love will last forever.”

  He released her hand. Repulsed, she clutched them together. He was delusional—a madman.

  “Come now, don’t play games. Look at me. Let me see the lovely face of my new bride.” She finally met his gaze with a defiant tilt of her head.

  “Fiery eyes, just as I remembered them. You may have a different face, a different body, but yes, I do remember the spirit behind those eyes.”

  He must have been handsome in his youth. His true youth. His strong cheekbones lent boldness to his face. But he lacked color now. His lips were wide, drawn thin. Whomever he may have been when he was born—that person no longer existed—was long gone. He climbed off the bed and moved to a low chest in the corner.