Silver Phoenix

19

After days of constant travel, Ai Ling and her father finally pulled through the gates of their small town of Ahn Nan. There were tears in her father’s eyes as he hugged her mother fiercely.

Her mother swept Ai Ling into her arms. “I’m so thankful you are both home.”

Ai Ling let herself sink into her embrace. Mother, who had always appeared so strong to Ai Ling, felt frail.

Her mother waved them into the main hall. “I was worried to the bone about you. You’re as pigheaded as your father in so many ways.”

Her father laughed loudly—which brought youth back to his lined face. Her mother smiled, her body leaning toward his.

“I couldn’t marry Master Huang, Mother. And I couldn’t put you in the position to choose, either. I knew you wouldn’t let me go alone.”

Her father’s laughter ended abruptly. “Ai Ling told me he came and threatened you.”

“Yes. He wanted Ai Ling as a fourth wife to pay for the debt you owed,” her mother said.

Father slammed a closed fist into an open palm, anger coloring his face. “It was a lie.”

Her mother nodded, still as elegant as ever. “We knew. But there was no way for us to contest him. He brought the contract with your seal on it.” Her mother caressed Ai Ling’s face, her fingers felt rough against her cheek. “I was worried senseless, but I know you. I don’t fault you.”

Ai Ling grabbed her hand and kissed it. “I’m so sorry, Mother.”

“Don’t be. You brought your father back. And Master Huang didn’t bother me again. He died soon after you left.” Her mother’s voice lowered. “They think he was murdered.”

The Life Seeker. Ai Ling recalled the entrancing song of the woman in Lao Song’s restaurant; that first day away from home, so long ago. She knew she should feel pity or remorse for Master Huang’s passing. But she did not.

They sat down, and Ah Jiao brought in a tray of teacups for everyone. Ai Ling gasped in surprise and jumped to her feet to hug the servant. Her mother laughed with pleasure. “She returned without pay when she found out you had left.”

“You’ll be paid triple that for your devotion and loyalty, Ah Jiao,” Ai Ling’s father said.

Ah Jiao’s broad face colored, and she wrung her hands. “It’s so good to have you and Mistress Wen back, master.”

Ai Ling yelped as a gray blur streaked into the room, winding itself around her ankle.

“Taro!” She swept the purring cat into her lap, her heart filling with a bittersweet joy, unable to believe she was home at last. Five long weeks passed before Ai Ling received a letter from Chen Yong. She had refrained from writing herself, unsure of what she would say, afraid of all she wanted to say. The Li family was in mourning for the loss of Li Rong, but he would visit soon. Her father had promised to tell Chen Yong the story of his birth. Surprised, Ai Ling asked her father. But he refused to divulge anything, saying she would learn the story at the same time Chen Yong did.

Ai Ling read Chen Yong’s letter each day until she knew it by heart, the curves and lines of his calligraphy, the parchment folded and unfolded so many times it wore and softened beneath her fingers. On the promised day, Chen Yong arrived at the Wen manor in the early afternoon. Ai Ling ran to the door before the house servants could respond, stopping abruptly to slow her breath. She ran her hands over her green tunic, the color of new grass, embroidered with cherry blossoms, before pulling the heavy door open.

Chen Yong stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in elegant clothing, a formal robe in dark blue with silver embroidering and matching trousers. His face was clean shaven, his amber eyes clear. He seemed taller, his frame filling their doorway.

He smiled, the lines of his cheeks turned boyish, and Ai Ling resisted the urge to throw her arms around him. Instead she reached out her hand and he clasped it, his skin feeling warm and rough all at once against her damp palm.

“How was your journey?” she asked, her voice squeaking before she cleared her throat.

“Much easier than the last.” He released her hand too soon. “I had the luxury of a carriage this time. My father insisted.”

They stared at each other until Chen Yong grinned. “May I come in?”

She pulled the door open, blushing. “Mother and Father are waiting for you in the main hall.” They walked through the courtyard side by side, the autumn flowers in full bloom against the walls and within the stone urns, offering bursts of orange, gold, and red.

“Who cultivates the flowers?” Chen Yong asked, studying them with admiration.

“I do.” She could not refrain from smiling with pride. “It’s a task Mother passed on to me. Our courtyard is small, but I find peace here. I paint here often.”

“I can see why.”

She entered the main hall to find her mother and father standing beside the round tea table. Chen Yong made an informal bow. “Thank you for inviting me to your home, Master Wen, Lady Wen.”

Her mother stepped around the table to draw Chen Yong into an embrace. “I had hoped my husband would find you one day, to tell you your story.”

Two bright spots colored his cheekbones. Ai Ling sat down on one of the lacquered stools in an attempt to hide her astonishment. Her mother already knew Chen Yong’s history; that much was obvious. Why did no one ever tell her anything?

Their late midday meal consisted of fresh steamed fish—a luxury that was only served during New Year’s, usually—along with deep-fried squash from the garden coated in a rice-paste batter. Ah Jiao served small savory dishes of pickles and salted meats, along with a large crock of rice porridge simmered with sweet yams.

The conversation between them was lighthearted and easy, much to Ai Ling’s relief. After the meal, her father retired to his study, asking them to join him as soon as Chen Yong felt ready.

Ai Ling led Chen Yong to his bedchamber, a room they used for sewing. Overnight guests were a rarity in their household. He placed his knapsack on the low bed while she eased the lattice panels open to bring in the crisp autumn air.

“Would you like to rest awhile?” she asked.

He did not appear at all travel worn and seemed even more alert after the meal. Ai Ling felt the heaviness of her limbs and could have done with a nap herself.

“No, thank you. I’d like to see your father, if it’s not too soon?”

“He’s anticipated this meeting for weeks,” she said. They walked through the courtyard again, weaving between the potted chrysanthemums, gold leaves crunching beneath their footsteps. She veered onto a narrow pathway by the side of the house, and Chen Yong followed a step behind.

“I see why you found it hard to leave your family. It’s obvious you are close to your parents.”

“We aren’t traditional by any means. I’m an only child; my father did not take on any other wives.” One of the gnarled branches of the wisteria plant climbing up the manor wall caught her hair, and she jumped, startled.

“But your parents are content with each other. They love each other,” Chen Yong said, freeing the twig from her braid.

Flustered, Ai Ling’s hand flew to her hair. She half turned to find his gaze on her. “Yes, they do. They married for love.”

“I believe my parents love each other too—they grew to love each other. Their marriage was arranged before they turned three years.”

Joy filled her, to have him here, in her home. Safe. “That’s fortunate. I would not want a marriage without love,” she replied.

Chen Yong nodded, looked away.

They arrived at her father’s study, which had its own private garden and entrance. It was Ai Ling’s favorite part of the house, and she went there often, even when her father was not there.

They passed through the round moon gate and entered an intimate courtyard. Silver fish darted in a deep, clear pool. Two pine trees provided shade, and large rocks were arranged for casual seating and contemplation.

“How unexpected,” Chen Yong said, glancing around the small garden.

Ai Ling breathed in the pungent tang of pine. “Come, Father is waiting for us.”

It was not a big study; the room was bright and cozy. A long rectangular desk was set beneath the paneled windows, allowing whoever sat there a view of the tranquil garden. Two walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. The last wall had a low ancestor altar set against it. Her father had just lit new incense, and the subtle scent of sandalwood curled through the air.

Her father turned his wooden chair and smiled at his visitors. “Bring the stools. I’m afraid I don’t have anything more comfortable here.” Chen Yong pulled two wooden stools from under the large desk.

“Chen Yong, it’s so hard for me to believe you’re the same infant I smuggled out of Palace grounds.” Her father poured tea and offered a cup to each of them.

Ai Ling stared wide-eyed from Chen Yong to her father.

“How strange the fates of human lives,” her father said. “I feel you were destined to journey with my daughter to the Palace, so we could find each other again.”

“Master Wen, what do you remember about my mother . . . about that night?” Chen Yong’s eyes gleamed with emotion. Now it was her father who held the key to his past. Father took a sip from his wine cup and leaned back against his chair before beginning his story.

The sharp rap at the door startled me. I was unsure I even heard it, but there was no mistaking the three taps that followed after the pause. It was the signal. I never slept in a dark room in those days. I never truly slept during my last two years at the Palace. To be one of the Emperor’s most trusted advisers came at a price. Zhong Ye and I did not look square in the eyes. He despised me.

I pulled on a robe, hurried to the secret panel, and pressed the concealed button, a pearl clutched in the claws of a lion. The door opened. I hardly knew what to expect. Surely, Jin Lian would not come in person. Jin Lian was your mother’s name.

The pale face of her handmaid peered up at me. She held the lantern at shoulder level, in front of her, like a weapon. “My mistress said to come quickly.” Her voice trembled when she spoke.

My heart leaped in my throat. Had something gone wrong? I could only nod and follow her. I made sure to close the hidden panel behind me.

I knew my way to Jin Lian’s room but was impressed by the young handmaid’s assured steps back to the bedchamber. The passageway had many turns and could be confusing at the best of times. Of course, it was never used during the best of times.

Those corridors were constructed by the order of an Empress long gone. She was convinced everyone plotted against her, and she used the passageways to spy and scheme with her cohorts.

When we arrived outside your mother’s bedchamber, the girl drew aside so I could stand close to the door and listen with one ear. There was no noise, and then I heard the small cry of a baby. I can’t tell you how my pulse raced. I rapped on the door thrice, paused, and knocked once more.

The panel opened.

Jin Lian greeted me. Her face was swollen from crying, her nose rubbed raw. She held an infant in her arms. I knew right then you were Master Wai’s child.

I did not ask, and your mother didn’t need to explain. I had suspected the romance took place even as Zhong Ye plotted to ingratiate your mother with the Emperor—hoping to use her as another puppet to augment his influence and control.

The punishment would be death for everyone involved. I surveyed the room and saw the old midwife standing in the corner, looking calm and resolute. Impressive.

Your mother spoke in a quiet voice, her gaze never leaving your face. No one expected the babe so soon, not for four weeks yet, she said. She looked at me then. The tears coursed down her cheeks. She was even more beautiful than when she was dressed in her regal concubine clothing.

Her tears seemed to agitate you, as if a cord still connected your thoughts and feelings as one. She rocked you, could not stop brushing her lips against your brow and cheeks.

I asked for rice wine.

The handmaid returned within moments, bearing a cup and decanter on a lacquered tray. I gestured to the small round table, and she placed the tray on it. “It’s to help the baby sleep,” I explained. “It’s a boy,” she told me, and hugged you closer to her.

The old midwife approached me with a tiny gold spoon. I poured the wine and dipped the spoon into the cup.

Jin Lian coaxed you into drinking the wine. You scrunched up your face at the taste of it but took a couple spoonfuls at last. “I think he was tired already,” your mother whispered, gazing down at you.

I could only pray so. A wail at the wrong time, and we would all be dead. The midwife swaddled you in a thick silk blanket of imperial yellow. The irony was not lost on any of us.

I promised your mother I would do my best to smuggle you out of the Palace.

She turned to thank me, the pain and sorrow so bright in her eyes. Your mother was a stunning woman, Chen Yong, but her eyes were her most unforgettable feature.

“Do you have a plan?” I asked.

She did. The baby had come early. A stillbirth and deformed. Cremated and buried before defiling the presence of the Emperor, as according to custom.

I reached for you. There was no time. The only thing I could do was to take you and disappear as quickly as possible. The main gates were all guarded, and leaving the Palace at this early hour would surely garner suspicion. The guards would not allow me to leave with a baby in my arms, that much was certain.

For all the hidden passageways within the Palace, there was no secret way out of the Palace walls that I was aware of. I would have to leave from one of the gates—preferably guarded by someone I knew. There were advantages to having the Emperor’s ear. I wouldn’t be questioned if I acted with authority.

“May the Goddess of Mercy be with you,” I said to your mother.

She reached out an elegant hand to stay me when I turned toward the hidden panel. “His name is Chen Yong,” she said, and she removed a jade beaded bracelet from her wrist. She asked me to give it to you.

She swayed away from me then, and the midwife rushed toward her, her gnarled hands outstretched, as I stepped through the secret panel. You were asleep now in my arms, making small suckling noises. I’d never cradled a newborn before, and I clutched you close to me. Hong Yu led the way again with her bright lantern. The girl was smart. I hoped that she was truly loyal too.

Back within my bedchamber, I quickly changed and packed a bag. I wrote a brief note saying I had to hurry home to my mother’s sickbed, would return within two weeks. I stamped the letter with my seal and enclosed it in a leather tube.

I asked the handmaid to deliver it to my page to give to the Emperor the next morning. She took the sealed tube from me and disappeared into the secret passageway.

I gently placed you in a saddle pack I kept for traveling purposes. It served as a makeshift sling. I threw the travel bag over my back and slung the pack across my shoulder with care.

I managed to avoid the guards who patrolled the Palace through the night, being familiar with their routine. You were born under a full autumn moon, and its light shone as bright as midday. I was as easy to glimpse as a snow goose mired in mud. As I walked across the immense main quad of the Palace, I saw another dark figure. No one wandered the grounds alone at night.

I placed a hand on your back. I continued walking toward the royal stables, even as the figure darted, straight at me.

I paused beneath the shadow of the Palace wall. I could deal with anyone, even Zhong Ye. I had to. I murmured a prayer and kept a hand close to the hilt of my dagger.

The figure approached, but the face was hidden; I heard his voice before I saw his face. I could not have been more astonished.

It was Wai Sen. The Emperor had given your father his Xian name.

Your mother had sent Hei Po to tell him the news. He drew close, and there was no mistaking the pale yellow hair beneath the black cowl drawn over his head. He was a sharp man and had guessed I would be headed for the stables.

I told him your name.

“Chen Yong,” he repeated, his voice rough like an ink stick ground against stone.

He said he could leave the Palace the same night, take you with him to Jiang Dao. His whispers were urgent, earnest. He folded his tall frame over your sleeping form, and I saw the glint of tears in his eyes.

A newborn could never survive the long journey by ship, I told him.

He peered into the saddle pack one last time at your face. He clasped my shoulder and thanked me. He promised that he’d send word, that he’d return for you.

He turned abruptly and walked away in silence, his head bowed low.

“I later learned that your father left the Palace the next day. Both your mother and father were heartbroken to lose you, but there was no other way.” Ai Ling’s father looked at Chen Yong, sympathy softening his sharp features. He sat back in his chair. The soft trickling of water into the pond outside filled a long moment of silence.

Chen Yong reached inside his robe and pulled out a woman’s jade bracelet, made for a slender wrist. “I keep this near me, always. It was the only item I was delivered with, my father said.”

“Your father, Master Li.” Father nodded. “I was able to bring you to his estate with little trouble. The Goddess of Mercy heard my prayers, and you made not a sound as I rode out on my horse.”

Ai Ling imagined her father, unmarried, with a newborn jostling at his side, riding for his life and safety. She shook her head imperceptibly, unable to believe this tale, unable to believe how their lives wound so inextricably together. Is this why she felt she had always known Chen Yong? Why she had trusted him so easily from the start?

“What happened after you returned to the Palace, Master Wen?” Chen Yong asked.

Her father stared into his wine cup. “The Emperor took Jin Lian’s story of the deformed stillbirth at face value. He saw it as an ill omen. His attentions were diverted with the birth of a son by another concubine. Zhong Ye, however, was suspicious. He was enraged that his careful manipulations were for nothing.”

Her father’s kind face hardened as he spoke. “He had his spies root for information and pieced together the story as best he could. He was no fool, and probably surmised the truth. Zhong Ye convinced the Emperor to have me tried for treason—supposedly I had been plotting to poison him until he was so incapacitated, I could rule in his stead.

“There was no evidence, and the Emperor did not believe it truly. But Zhong Ye had his ear. He manipulated and cajoled, whereas I always gave my honest opinion and advice. It was he who was the puppeteer, but the Emperor could not acknowledge it. Zhong Ye had been the adviser even to the Emperor’s own father; how could he disregard him?”

Ai Ling remembered his gray eyes, and almost smelled his spiced cologne. Her heart raced, and she reached for her jade pendant.

“I was cast from court in disgrace, barely escaping execution. My own family refused me.” His expression was pained now, and Ai Ling’s throat tightened with fierce love for him.

“After this, I sent a letter to your father, Master Li. Only he knew the truth behind your birth. We decided it wouldn’t be safe to tell you your history, Chen Yong. Not as long as Zhong Ye lived. We were too fearful of how far he would go for vengeance.” Her father took another sip of wine. “I never corresponded with Master Li again, though I wondered about you all these years.”

Chen Yong glanced down at his hands. “I asked my father once, when I was thirteen years. He said he knew nothing, not even the person who delivered me to his doorstep. He died last year.”

Her father’s eyes widened. “Ah, I didn’t know. I am so sorry. He was a great colleague, and so kind. I knew you would be safe with him, that he would protect you.”

“A few months later a messenger arrived from Jiu Gong, carrying a letter from Master Tan. He didn’t know my father, but they shared a mutual acquaintance, who had spoken of me. He wondered if I was the same Chen Yong he knew of. I had to find out what he knew.” Chen Young rolled the jade beaded bracelet between his fingers, finally looked up to meet her father’s eyes.

“My life is indebted to you, Master Wen,” Chen Yong said, his voice steady as always. “But why—why did you risk your own life, your position at court, to save me?”

“How could I not help? You were an innocent newborn.”

“And did my birth father ever write?” Chen Yong asked after a pause.

Her father shook his head. “I suspect any letters addressed to me and sent to the Palace were confiscated and read.”

The disappointment showed so clearly on Chen Yong’s face. He tucked his mother’s jade bracelet back in his robe.

“Master Wen”—the uncertainty in his voice made him sound younger—“what else can you tell me about my mother and father?”

Ai Ling rose quietly and slipped out of the cozy study. She wanted to be alone—needed to prepare herself. Chen Yong was leaving the next day. When would she ever see him again?