Silver Phoenix

20

Ai Ling tapped on Chen Yong’s bedchamber door at dawn. He was already dressed. She wasn’t surprised; he always rose early. His silk tunic was the color of wet sand.

They walked into the kitchen and pilfered red bean and lotus paste buns from the giant bamboo steamers. Ai Ling plucked out four buns with wooden eating sticks and wrapped them in a deep purple cloth for later. She also filled two flasks with hot tea and wrapped some salted pork with scallion flatbread in another muslin cloth. The persimmons in a cobalt bowl on the windowsill caught her eye. She grabbed two.

“Are we going far?” Chen Yong asked, laughing. Ai Ling responded by handing him the bundles and flasks to carry.

They passed her mother and father, taking tea in the main hall.

“You’re up early, Ai Ling.” Her mother smiled, her face beaming with pleasure.

Father sat beside her, with Taro nestled in his lap. “I’m sure Chen Yong and Ai Ling have much to catch up on.” He winked at his daughter as if they shared a secret. Ai Ling’s eyes widened in consternation.

“A peaceful morning to you.” Chen Yong bowed to her parents, saving Ai Ling from speaking.

“Enjoy your day together,” her mother said.

Her parents exchanged a glance. The twinkle in Father’s eyes and the small curve on Mother’s mouth were not lost on their daughter. Ai Ling spun on her heel and stepped from the main hall, before her parents did anything more to embarrass her.

The gravel in the courtyard crunched beneath their feet. Chen Yong pulled open the main door, and they slipped into the narrow alleyway, still damp and cold from the previous evening.

They strolled side by side toward the small gate of the town.

Ai Ling weighed her words before she broke their comfortable silence. “I’ve dreamed about her . . . Silver Phoenix.”

Chen Yong slowed his stride, turned to see her face. “What were the dreams about?”

“They’re hazy, unclear. I always wake with a sense of urgency.” With her hair damp from sweat, her heart galloping.

“You cannot draw meaning from them?”

She shook her head.

They walked past the rickety guardhouse, but a comment from the man on watch slowed her stride.

“Out early this morning, eh?” A dark, gaunt face peered from the hut. Ai Ling saw the familiar awe in his expression as his head bobbed in sudden recognition. “Mistress Wen! Out for another one of your strolls?” He cocked his head toward Chen Yong, then noticed her glare. “Enjoy yourself, miss.”

Chen Yong lifted one dark brow as they walked through the gates. “What was that about?”

“It’s been like this since I’ve returned. The town people consider me both martyr and oddity—someone they can gossip about at the markets.”

“What do they know of our journey?”

“Only that I wed a corrupt adviser to the Emperor, and that he died on our wedding night.”

“You’ve not spoken of what happened to anyone?” Chen Yong tilted his face to her, and she looked him square in the eyes.

“I’ve spoken to Father and Mother about it some. But who else can I tell? No one would understand, or believe me.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Chen Yong said.

Ai Ling led him down a less traveled path, barely the width of a palm, winding between tall golden wild grass which reached beyond their knees. “It is fine,” she said and realized how terse she sounded. She drew a breath and turned, causing Chen Yong to nearly collide into her.

“They treat me with reverence, smile from a distance. The older women who knew me before my journey are kind. Their daughters, the few who are unmarried, try to befriend me, but”—Ai Ling gave her head a slight shake, feeling her single braid sweep against her back—“but I’m not interested.”

A small breeze rustled the grass. It undulated like waves, carrying the scent of burned rice fields. Chen Yong studied her in his quiet way, something that had always made the heat rise in her cheeks. This time, she simply met his gaze.

“Why not?” he asked.

Ai Ling’s eyes swept across the fields, to the dusty road that had led her away from home so long ago. How could she explain her need to be alone? To contemplate their incredible journey—to try and make sense of it. “How do I tell them that the feel of dragon scales beneath my hands is more real to me than the embroidery I’m working on?”

She saw a flicker of understanding in Chen Yong’s face. “They speak of betrothals, discuss bridal outfits and fertility recipes. Their life is nothing like my own.”

“You don’t wish to remarry?” Chen Yong asked.

This time, the heat did rise to her face. “Who wants a bride of such ill fortune?” Ai Ling turned and continued down the narrow path. “And you? Have your parents not arranged a betrothal yet?”

The silence lingered forever before his reply. “It’s too soon after Li Rong’s death.”

She released a breath, not realizing she had held it.

The grass gave way to slender birch trees, silver in the morning light. She stopped to arch her neck and look skyward; Chen Yong stood beside her and did the same. The sky was a deep indigo, reminding her of their chariot ride. A wild exhilaration radiated from her belly, expanded through her lungs and quickened the beating of her heart.

Ai Ling turned to Chen Yong, and realized only after he smiled at her that she grinned so widely her cheeks ached. They strolled through the trees, until they reached a small meadow with a moss-covered knoll. A stone figure no more than waist high perched on top of the mound, like a strange ancient ruler from another realm.

“What’s that?” Chen Yong nodded toward the statue.

“I don’t know, really. I found him during my wanderings.” She approached the rough-hewn figure, its lines smoothed by time, the crevices tinged green and brown. She ran her fingertips over the round head, bare except for deep grooves perhaps signifying hair. Her hands glided around the large, curved earlobes and generous nose.

“He’s my friend. I come here often, it’s a favorite place of mine.”

“You travel outside the town gates often?” he asked.

Ai Ling pursed her lips, amused. “I can take care of myself.”

“And your . . . ?” He traced a fingertip over the moss on the statue.

Ai Ling dropped to her knees and began to pull items from her knapsack—a bowl, gold- and silver-foiled spirit money. “My ability grew stronger after what happened. . . .”She did not want to speak Zhong Ye’s name. “I keep my spirit to myself; it’s too easy for me to hear others’ thoughts now, without some vigilance.”

Chen Yong kneeled beside her, and they filled the deep bronze bowl with spirit money—for Li Rong in his travels through the underworld. He brought his oval striker down against the flint, and after two strikes, a gold-foiled coin caught fire, curling around the edges. Soon the coins had turned into a small blaze. They remained kneeling, continued to feed the dancing flames with the foiled coins.

“I dream about him,” Chen Yong said in a low voice.

Ai Ling’s eyes snapped open. He was concentrating on the task of feeding the spirit money into the fire.

“I did as well. Once.”

“Was he well?”

She nodded. “He was himself—laughing, jesting.”

“I know my mother blames me for his death. I blame myself, too.”

She reached over to touch his shoulder. “He ventured to that dark mountain because of me—my duty. If anyone is at fault, I am.”

“It should have been me.”

Ai Ling leaned closer, not believing what she heard.

“Don’t you understand? I was in front of that wretched monster when his claws came down. If it had not made us switch positions . . .” Chen Yong punched the earth with a tight fist.

“Please don’t think that. Li Rong wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt.” She withdrew her hand and stared into the flames.

“He is at peace,” Ai Ling said after a heavy silence.

Chen Yong attempted a smile. He placed the last of the spirit money in the bowl and sat back on his heels, straightening, pulling his broad shoulders back.

“I’ll be leaving in a few months, on a ship for Jiang Dao,” he said.

Ai Ling could only stare. “Why?” she whispered.

“My father. I have to find him. I need to know if he’s alive.” He held himself still as a statue, in a pose of worship—or sacrifice.

“You can’t even speak the language. They won’t accept you there. You are Xian.” She spoke more vehemently than she intended. But Jiang Dao, across the wide expanse of turbulent seas? No. Please no.

“And you believe I’m accepted here?”

His measured tone stopped her short. “I accept you. You are more Xian than anyone I know.”

His smile reached his eyes this time. “But you know me. You simply see me as Chen Yong.”

The sun climbed above the tree line, casting warm rays into their small meadow. Chen Yong’s dark brows drew together as he spoke. “My features betray me. Each day I’m reminded I am half foreign by how others react to me—that I am something different from them.”

“You’ll let others tell you who you are?” Ai Ling spoke boldly, refusing to understand.

“You don’t know how it is. I’ll never find acceptance from strangers—no matter where I go.” Chen Yong shifted, drawing his knees up, resting his arms on them. “Those letters my father wrote to Master Tan, he spoke of me in each one, wondered how I was, what I liked, if I was diligent in my studies, if I grew tall . . .” His voice caught.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said.

“I’ll return. My home is here. I’ll bring a gift for you.”

Was he so thickheaded that he refused to see? Surely he knew, could guess, her feelings for him? If she loosened her hold on her own spirit just a fraction, she could hear his thoughts, feel his emotions. But it would be wrong—an intrusion. She had already betrayed his trust. And Ai Ling knew the inevitable truth; his heart belonged elsewhere.

They watched in silence as the flames slowly burned the spirit money into cinders. She said a small prayer for Li Rong, who would never have blamed them, even if they were unable to forgive themselves. And a prayer for the innocent servant girl at the restaurant, whose spirit had been overtaken by the night-worm fiends. Ai Ling watched as the last red ember flickered to darkness and saved her final prayer for Zhong Ye, the man who had held her father prisoner, coerced her to wed, and refused to die; the man who, she had discovered, loved her in his own twisted fashion, even as she was ending his life.

They ate a quiet meal on the knoll, sitting side by side, their backs pressed against the ancient carving. The meadow was a lush green, dotted along the edges with fallen leaves of crimson and gold. The scent of wet earth permeated the air.

Their food was cold, but fresh, the lotus paste buns sweet, the scallion flatbread thick and savory. The tea was lukewarm within the flasks.

“Eating like this reminds me of our journey,” Chen Yong said.

“I come here often with a snack. I think about it a lot.”

“And by snack, do you mean two sweet buns, a thick slab of bread, and lots of dried pork?” He laughed before she could retort. But the sound of it lifted her own spirit, and she chuckled despite herself.

“I usually just have a fruit myself,” he said.

Ai Ling tossed a persimmon into his lap. “I’m sorry if you don’t know how to eat properly.”

He threw his head back and laughed again. She tried to capture the moment like a sketch within her mind, the feeling of his shoulder pressed against hers, the warmth of the autumn sun on their faces.

Later, Ai Ling accompanied Chen Yong to the front gate. Her parents had said their farewells in the main hall, inviting him to visit again.

“What will you do now?” Chen Yong looked down at her as the birds trilled above them.

“Wed and have six children,” she said with a wry smile.

Chen Yong laughed. “I don’t think so. You were not meant to remain cloistered within the inner quarters.”

“No, probably not. Perhaps I’ll travel.”

His eyes widened, then he grinned. “I don’t doubt your capability to travel the world—and beyond.”

He extended his hand and she took it, did not pull back as he drew her to him in an embrace. She wound her arms tight around his back and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. He smelled of soap; the faint scent of sandalwood lingered in his clothing. She stepped back before he did. Ai Ling realized then she would be willing to leave her home, her family, everything, to be by his side—and the revelation stunned her.

“I’ll expect my gift,” she managed.

Chen Yong smiled and stepped through the door. He half turned to wave once, his golden eyes shadowed in the dying light—those eyes which were so strange to her at first, now as familiar as her own. Ai Ling struggled to keep her spirit anchored.

Look back again, she thought, and I will follow you.

Instead Ai Ling watched him walk away, with easy grace, until he turned the corner. She shut the heavy wooden door behind her and leaned against it, her chest tight with all the words she had not said, the tears hot upon her cheeks.

It was not until Taro came to wrap himself around her calf, purring a husky song, that she allowed herself to be led back to the house, lit brightly now against the twilight.