Fury of the Phoenix (10 page)

Silver Phoenix crossed her arms. “You’re just showing off now.”

“Yes, I am.” He jumped back onto his feet and kissed her on the lips, laughing.

She pursed her mouth, feigning annoyance. But her smile gave her away. “I didn’t know you practiced shuen.”

“Since I was thirteen years.”

She took his hand and pulled him past the plum trees to a small stream. He stopped and splashed water on his face.

“Are you good?” She handed him a cloth.

He laughed into the soft material. It smelled of roses, from Mei Gui’s wardrobe. “Not really. Those truly talented in shuen begin learning not long after they start walking.”

“You looked so powerful.”

Zhong Ye smiled as she laced her fingers through his again. “It helps to clear my mind.”

Silver Phoenix led him into the heart of the garden. Yellow, orange, and white lilies fluttered like butterflies at their feet. A brocaded blanket had been spread on the ground, and the air was thick with the peppery scent of wisteria. She sat and carefully adjusted her skirt. He lay down beside her, tucking his arms beneath his head. She set covered lacquered boxes on the blanket.

“Shuen, alchemy, poetry, and politics. Is there anything you can’t do?” she asked in a teasing tone.

He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. “I never made a good farm boy.” She smiled, but he suddenly couldn’t return it. He had meant it in jest, but it was a poor joke. His throat closed, and he glanced away.

“What’s wrong?”

“I ran away when I was eleven years. Worked, studied, apprenticed, became a palace eunuch.” He waved a hand. “All this. So I could become better than a farmer
and give my mother what she deserved in life.”

“You’re a filial son,” she said.

“Am I? Perhaps what they needed more was for me to be there to plow the fields.” He tried to picture his mother’s face. “I send coin back each month. But no letters. No one can read them.” He could remember only his mother’s eyes, light brown as a walnut shell. “I just wanted to escape. I haven’t seen them in
seven
years.”

Silver Phoenix bent over him, cupping his face with a cool hand. “We have each other now.”

He reached for her, fingers twining in her hair. She tasted of berries and sunshine. He finally broke away. “I’ll be taking a short trip soon,” he said.

She had curled against him but straightened up now. “To where?”

“Somewhere close. Just a quick journey, to gather a rare herb for Yokan.”

“Why do you have to go?” She plucked at her dress, pouting. “I don’t particularly care for that foreigner.”

He laughed. “He’s high in favor with the Emperor. And my working with him only augments my own status. It’s an honor that he chose me for this important task.”

“How long will you be gone?” She turned her face away, and the sunlight caught the rubies in her ears, a gift from him. “What herb are you searching for?”

“A week at most. No longer.”

“I’ll miss you,” she murmured against his lips, as the bees droned lazily above them.

Could this goddesslike woman actually care for him? Zhong Ye didn’t know if he could allow himself to believe it.

They had agreed that he should take the trip alone; the risk of others’ knowing the location of the empress root was too great.

“Can I trust you?” Yokan had asked. “The root can cure many—perhaps all—ailments. But it is useless to gain immortality without my spell.”

Zhong Ye had assured Yokan that he would return and bring the root if he were fortunate enough to find it. He was no fool. He wanted immortality, not good health. He only hoped that he was right about Mount Luwu’s location. The ancient temple had been built on the mountain now known as Brilliant Tears, not far from the palace. He should be able to journey there on horseback within three days.

He was thankful the weather was mild and he wouldn’t be traveling long or far. He strapped a spear to his back, its sharp tip palm length and made from pure gold. The metal was too soft to use as a weapon, but
The Book of
Bestiary
had claimed that gold was the only metal that could slay the Poison Eagle. Zhong Ye touched his belt, where his gold dagger was sheathed.

He had not ridden in a long time, but it returned naturally to him, and he patted the horse’s mane as they trotted through the massive city gates. He had decided not to say good-bye to Silver Phoenix that morning. She was already worried for him, despite all his assurances; it was as if she could sense the danger ahead. She had clung to him the last time they had seen each other, every part of her touching him.

He knew he was in love with her. But did she truly care for him? She had given him a silk handkerchief that he carried close to his heart. He would survive this so he could see her again and would return with his satchel filled with empress root.

Zhong Ye climbed the Mountain of Brilliant Tears in the late afternoon after three days of travel. He would search for the stream that started on the peak and flowed into the Zegeng River on the other side of the mountain. It was now called the River of Brilliant Tears.

The air chilled as the sun began to set. His horse snorted and slowed its pace. He reined in the beast and tied it to a dead pine. What had been a lush landscape
full of tall trees and foliage had begun to thin as they ascended. Brilliant Tears did not support plant life but was rich with metals and minerals.

Zhong Ye made a fire and huddled close to it, his body tensing each time he heard a noise. Once he heard what sounded like an infant’s cry echoing off the side of the mountain. He convinced himself it was his imagination. But his horse nickered nervously and tossed its mane.

He finally fell asleep with his back pressed against a withered pine, the gold-tipped spear across his thighs. His horse’s snort startled him awake. The fire had burned to flickering embers, and a sliver moon hung overhead. Zhong Ye winced, his neck and shoulders were stiff. He stood to stretch his arms and legs, then went to pat the horse. The animal was wide awake, agitated.

“We’ve a long climb tomorrow, friend. We both need sleep.”

At that moment a piercing wail shuddered through the night. The horse tried to bolt, straining against its rope.

“Settle down, settle down,” Zhong Ye whispered, as much for himself as for the horse. He stoked the fire and wondered how many hours it was before daybreak.

Somehow he managed to doze off again, and it was a misty and gray morning when he woke. The horse was grazing on wild grasses, more brown than green.
Zhong Ye ate some dried beef and mango slices, washed his meal down with water, and fed the horse two fresh apples.

There were no well-worn paths to follow up the Mountain of Brilliant Tears, although the desolate terrain was easy to navigate, the higher one climbed. It was said to be cursed, haunted by vengeful spirits that stole the souls of infants. The mountain was deserted, and he knew of no one who had ever climbed it.

The mist dissipated as they ascended. The smell of ash and burning wood permeated the air, although there was no indication of a fire, ancient or recent. Sunlight filtered through the skeletal limbs of dead trees, and the horse picked its way carefully up the black silt mountainside that was littered with dark rocks.

They reached a plateau just after dusk. Zhong Ye dismounted and investigated the ruins of a stone temple, not much bigger than his own reception hall, built to the god Luwu. Only the foundation remained. He climbed onto the crumbling rock and stepped gingerly toward a rectangular stone altar. It was as long as he was tall and two hand widths across.

He lit his small travel lantern and held it over the surface of the altar. Characters, more like rudimentary drawings than writing, were carved into the stone. The
words wrapped around three sides. On the fourth was a carving of the god Luwu himself, a man’s head on a tiger’s body, standing upright with claws extended. Zhong Ye dropped to his knees and counted nine tails on the god, one so faint he had to trace his fingertip over the shallow groove to be certain.

This was it. Just as
The Book of the Divine
had described. He jumped to his feet, thrilled, until he heard his horse’s hesitant whinny. Night was falling. Zhong Ye could hear the soft sounds of moving water in the distance. Was this the river he was searching for?

He fed the horse a few carrots and tied it to a large rock. He stroked its velvet nose, then left the animal snorting contentedly as he picked his way toward the sound of water. He held his spear in one hand and the small lantern in the other. The black silt landscape was disappearing into the darkness of night, and Zhong Ye stumbled into a shallow hole. Cursing, he dusted the dirt from his hands; he was grateful that the lantern hadn’t been extinguished when he dropped it. From then on, he navigated even more slowly. He would have plunged to his death if a rush of wind carrying the wet scent of water hadn’t hit his face. He knelt, holding his lantern in front of him. Its flame seemed no bigger than a firefly and did nothing to illuminate what was below. It was
impossible to gauge how wide or deep the crevice was or in what direction the water flowed. The moon’s thin smile from the previous evening had widened to a grimace and still afforded little light.

He would have to investigate again in the morning. He picked his way back toward his horse and exhaled a long sigh when he finally spotted the temple. He should have made a fire but wanted to ration the little bit of firewood he had gathered during the course of the day. Zhong Ye set his lantern on the altar and searched the sky for the mourning star. He’d been gone for almost two hours according to its position on the horizon.

A soft tittering, like a babe’s giggle. He spun on his heel, his spear drawn. A cold sweat gathered at his nape in the silence that followed. Was the horse asleep? Zhong Ye grabbed the lantern and vaulted from the temple’s foundation to run toward his horse. He skidded short, at first unable to comprehend the scene, faintly illuminated by the wan light. The rope that he had wound around the large rock snaked on the ground toward the horse’s skeleton, picked clean to the bones, only its hooves remaining. The monster had done such a thorough job the bones looked as if they had been bleached under a desert sun for weeks. Zhong Ye staggered and almost fell. Another giggle, and he whirled to thrust his spear in
the dark. “Come on,” he shouted to the night sky. “Come out and fight!”

Something swooped down, unseen wings fanning the scent of fresh kill. Zhong Ye stabbed upward, touching nothing. He turned in a tight circle, every muscle tense, knowing that he was an easy target. He scrambled back to the temple ruin and crouched against the rough altar, straining to hear any small noises. Swallowing the sick taste in his mouth, he stared wide-eyed into the darkness.

He didn’t move until daybreak. He hadn’t slept, and his lantern had burned out hours ago. The morning shrouded him in mist. He took a sip of water from his flask and forced himself to eat some salted biscuits.

As the weak sunlight began to disperse the fog, he returned to his horse’s skeleton. He crouched and scanned the dirt around it. The area was marked with hoofprints. No doubt the horse had tried to run, but he had clinched the poor creature’s fate when he tied it to the stone. A different set of prints caught his eye. They resembled tiger prints and appeared only near the skeleton. It became clear to Zhong Ye that the monster had attacked from the air, landing only when it was ready to feed. Perhaps the horse had saved him, satiating the Poison Eagle’s appetite. When would it be hungry again?

He began to gather his supplies—firewood, provisions, a jar filled with more lantern oil, a rope. He straightened and dusted off his tunic, his hand grazing over the pocket where he had tucked Silver Phoenix’s silk handkerchief. He pulled it out, and the subtle scent of jasmine permeated the air. He brought the fabric to his lips before tying it to the sash at his waist and heading back toward the river.

T
hey were taking the evening meal when a hoarse scream topside startled Ai Ling. Peng and Chen Yong leaped to their feet, and her eating sticks clattered to the table.

Everyone rushed out at once; but Peng stopped short, and Chen Yong paused beside him. She tucked herself behind Chen Yong’s back. The sun had just slipped below the horizon, casting the
Gliding Dragon
in an eerie gray. There were four crew members on deck, each transfixed by two naked figures writhing toward them. Both were rail thin; their black hair hung like kelp. Ai Ling could see the sharp edges of shoulder blades as they drew closer to the men, who stood frozen, mouths agape.

Ox took a timid step forward. “Mother? Is it truly you?”

The creature raised a white arm, fingers uncurling. Ox took another step. Ai Ling hissed, and her scalp crawled. There was a thump from the side of the ship, and something pale and wet crashed onto the deck. The thing held itself in fetal position, dark hair covering its face, before rising like a wave to its feet. It was getting too dark to see, but somehow Ai Ling knew who it was. She pushed her way between Peng and Chen Yong, even as Peng shoved her back, and a twinge of annoyance filled her that he should be so rough.

Suddenly, sobbing, Ox had fallen into the creature’s embrace.

“No!” Peng rushed forward. “Don’t let them touch you!”

Ox began to whimper. He shrank before Ai Ling’s eyes, his flesh growing white and puckered. The skin tightened on his face until his eyes bulged. A thin anemic thing, he slid to the deck.

“Sea Shifters! We need fire!” Peng shouted. “Yen!”

She could hear what Peng was saying, but the naked figures captured all her attention. Four of them now. Ashen and slender, some with seaweed clinging to their thighs. Curiously unmoved by Ox’s strange fate, she
stepped toward them. One figure looked so familiar. If only she could see his eyes. That smile…

“Bai Lan? Is there enough to eat at home?” Lao Er, another sailor, stood rigid, staring at the creature that Ox had mistaken for his mother. Now, noiseless, hand outstretched, the creature stepped over Ox. Ai Ling couldn’t turn her eyes away. The Sea Shifter spoke words it seemed only Lao Er could hear.

“I’m so sorry.” Lao Er opened his arms to welcome her. “I’ve missed you.” Nine, his eyes averted, lunged and grabbed Lao Er hard enough that he fell to the deck with an audible grunt. “Nine, that’s my wife!”

“No, it’s not!” Peng shouted. “They’ll kill you!”

Yen burst from the bridge with two lit torches in hand, their flames so strong that Ai Ling felt the heat. He tossed one to Chen Yong and, brandishing the torch, ran toward the closest creature.

“They fear only fire. Bring more torches. Burn them!” Peng ordered. Yen set fire to the naked woman’s dark head. Ear-rending shrieks and the stench of burning flesh and rancid shellfish filled the air.

Ai Ling threw her spirit at the Sea Shifters. She glided over them, but their spirits were slippery, as if encased in flowing water. She could gather nothing from them; there was nothing to latch on to.

“But my daughter—” Tien An protested. Xiao Hou had emerged from nowhere and clutched at his father’s trousers, his expression conflicted and uncertain.

Suddenly, the figure that had looked so familiar to Ai Ling moved into the torchlight. Entranced, she reached a hand to him. Although he was so thin that his ribs were defined ridges under almost translucent skin, Li Rong’s smile was still the same. He was naked, and embarrassed, she ducked her face for a brief moment. But his eyes compelled her to meet his gaze.

“Li Rong…I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Chen Yong made a choking noise beside her.

“Burn them!” Peng shouted. “Drive them back to the sea!” The bewildered crew moved in slow motion but dutifully raised their torches.

Li Rong was so close now that his entire face was lit by Chen Yong’s torch. She took a step toward him without realizing that she did so. He opened both arms to her, and she stumbled into him. “Forgive me.” She tasted the hot salt of her own tears.

“Of course, Ai Ling.”

She heard him say it, even though his lips never moved. His hand brushed her wet cheek. She gasped as coldness convulsed through her. “I forgive you.” His words were ice against her ear. He wrapped damp fingers around
her neck, and it was as if her spirit were plunged into a frigid sea.

A strong arm wound around her waist. Chen Yong pulled her against his chest, and she stifled a cry. He brandished the torch, a guttural sound escaping his lips, and she screamed. The Sea Shifter cowered, its unnatural shriek piercing the air.

“Go below deck.” Chen Yong shoved her toward the hatch. His amber eyes were wild with something she couldn’t identify.

“But—”

“Go!” he roared. Chen Yong raised his hand to push her again but froze at the last moment. As if he couldn’t bear to touch her.

Ai Ling fell back and pulled open the hatch. She staggered below, her throat full of tears, the scent of burned flesh and seaweed smothering her.

The screaming and shouting seemed to go on forever. Ai Ling lay on the hard berth, her knees drawn to her chest. Unable to stop shaking, she buried her face in her blanket and recited the mantra for protection first soundlessly and then aloud, stringing the words together like a silk cocoon.

Finally, unable to endure it any longer, she climbed the
steps and tried to push the hatch open. But it was locked from above. She pounded against it, the sound muted by the commotion on deck.

She returned to the berth and didn’t know how much time had passed when an eerie silence descended on the ship. The lantern had burned low. A scraping, and the door opened. Chen Yong, his face drawn, his eyes haunted, stood in the doorway.

Ai Ling sat up. “You’re not hurt?” She reached for him.

He entered the small cabin, filling the space, and sat down beside her. “We forced them all back to the sea.” He dropped his face into his hands and rubbed hard. “I can still hear the screaming in my head. Smell their burning flesh.”

“Goddess. It was awful,” she whispered, and touched his shoulder. Chen Yong flinched, and she snatched her hand back.

He raised his head and tried to smile. “We were fortunate Peng was familiar with sea lore. Sea Shifters I know nothing about.”

“Did he tell you more?”

“Yes. After they all were driven back, we met on the bridge.” He pressed his fists over his eyes. “We lost Da Yun.”

Da Yun. The large man they had fondly called Ox.
They had not spoken many words to each other, but he had always been kind to her.

“Peng said the Sea Shifters seek warmth from living humans. And they”—Chen Yong’s brow creased—“they take on the image of loved ones.”

She picked at her blanket with trembling fingers.

“You saw Li Rong?” Chen Yong’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

“I did.” She blinked away the tears.

He brushed the back of her hand. “He’s at peace now, Ai Ling.”

Was he? Or was Li Rong trapped in the underworld? Had she burned his heart in time?

She nodded, wiping her eyes. “Whom did you see?”

But he would not look at her and simply shook his head.

They buried Da Yun at sea the next morning. Peng and Da Yun’s closest friend, Lao Er, wrapped his pale and shrunken corpse in sky blue cloth as Yen recited prayers from
The Book of the Divine
. Ai Ling shuddered when the body slipped into the water. She imagined the Sea Shifters clutching at him now with spindly arms, triumphant, claiming him as their own.

The day was gray and cold, and remained so. The
crew took their midday meal in silence. She didn’t have an appetite, couldn’t forget the sight of Da Yun’s body sinking into the waves, of Li Rong wrapped in sky blue cloth on his funeral pyre.

“You should eat something,” Peng said. “You look exhausted.”

Her throat closed. Chen Yong touched her knee beneath the table. She looked at him in surprise, but he had already pulled his hand back.

“Are the Sea Shifters something you’ve encountered before?” she asked Peng.

The captain fiddled with a gold button on his shirt. He hadn’t shaved, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes. “No. It’s a tale we shared while drinking to try to spook one another.” Yen poured him more tea, and Peng thanked him by tapping a finger against the table. “I wasn’t even certain the fire would work. It was a risk to our ship, but the Sea Shifters were far more dangerous.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “Da Yun was the first crew member I’ve ever lost.”

“Chen Yong said they take on the image of a loved one,” Ai Ling said. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“According to lore. Yes.” Peng studied her, and she tucked her spirit close. “A loved one, living or dead.
They prey on guilt, on unspoken emotions, or the unresolved….”

They sat at the table without speaking for long moments, each lost in thought.

Everyone dispersed after the meal, and much of Lao Lu’s delicious food was left in the pot.

Ai Ling went up on deck. Several of the crew nodded somberly as she strolled the perimeter of the ship. The dampness seeped through her, and she drew in the salt air. The
Gliding Dragon
flew over the waters.

She stepped over Yam Head and Xiao Hou, who were sprawled on the deck, playing war with wooden sticks. “Wanna fish with us again when the winds drop, miss?” Yam Head asked.

She ruffled his hair. “We’ll see,” she said, although a chill crept down her spine. They were so vivid, these memories that were not hers, it felt as if she had lived them. Had she made them up? At the stern she wandered up the two flights of stairs to the top deck without thinking. It was her favorite place on the ship because of the quiet.

She almost turned around when she saw Chen Yong hunched on a stool, facing the sea, his head bowed over a book. Instead, she stood and watched him. She realized he was sketching and smiled. She knew that he studied
art as she did but had never seen any of his work. She took stealthy steps toward him, hoping to peek.

He turned when she was only a few paces away and closed the book, his mouth twitching into a half grin. Dark shadows curved beneath his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well either. “I was drawing,” he said.

“And I was trying to steal a glimpse.”

He smiled. “You’ve never shown me your sketchbook.”

“No.” She leaned against the railing, facing him. “I didn’t even know you had one.”

“I remembered our last journey together and you always sketching in yours. I packed one for this trip.”

“So—” She held out a hand.

Chen Yong gave her his sketchbook. “This means I’ll get to look through yours?”

“No promises,” she said. The book was bound in soft brown calfskin, luxurious to the touch. She ran her fingers over the cover before opening it. The
Gliding Dragon
’s masts, bridge, and stern were rendered in strong strokes. There was the same boldness in his drawings as in his calligraphy. Portraits of the crew, including an exact likeness of Yam Head, grinning mischievously from the page. She came across a profile of herself, chin tucked in one hand. She was drawn in delicate, careful lines, a dreamy look in her eyes.

“It’s me.” She glanced up, amazed.

“Oh.” Chen Yong stood. “I think you were looking out to sea.” He took the sketchbook and closed it.

“You’re very good,” she said.

“It’s only a hobby.” He fumbled, finally clasping the book behind his back. “Are you all right?”

She remembered the slow-rising terror; the shrieking and jumbled emotions pulsing across the massive ship. “I hadn’t seen the like since…our last journey together.”

“I know,” he said in a low voice.

“I couldn’t do anything to stop them. I tried.” At least until she was seduced by the image of Li Rong.

“I’m sorry for locking you below. I was worried. I—” He was studying her intently, as if she had changed somehow. As if he didn’t recognize her. “You always act with courage, Ai Ling.”

She remembered the frantic look in his eyes, the way his voice had reached through to her. She hadn’t felt courageous; she had felt lost. “You were the one who saved me.”

He blushed and dropped his gaze.

They climbed down the steps to the main deck together, without speaking. Awkward as wooden puppets.

Zhong Ye hiked back toward the sound of flowing water. His trip seemed shorter in the daylight. Still, when he came upon the edge of the deep gorge, it was a surprise. He dropped to his knees and leaned over, feeling a small gust of air from below. The crevice was no wider than the length of two men, and from what he could see, it both narrowed and widened as it wound its way down the mountain. The drop could kill him; he would have to climb down. He stood and scanned the skies, tilted his head to listen for any other sound besides the river below.

He decided to hike along the edge of the gorge and stopped when he saw the waterfall. A sheer rock face prevented him from climbing higher. The sun was directly overhead; the silt below glittered with gold and coppery flecks. The bottom of the gorge was much closer now but still not close enough to jump. And there was nothing to tie a rope to.

He ran his hand over the sharp black crystal of the crevice walls. The rocks were uneven, and he could find handholds; but one mistake, and he’d fall, an easy meal for the Poison Eagle. He left everything at the top, except for the spear that he strapped to his back, the lantern, newly filled with oil, his flask, and a few slices of dried beef. He secured the gold dagger at his waist.

Zhong Ye had done many things as a farm boy, but he had never climbed down the face of a rock wall. He prayed as he concentrated on finding one sturdy foothold after another and carefully navigated his way down the jagged wall. His arms began to burn, and his palms became slick. After what seemed like hours, he finally jumped and landed gracefully on his feet.

He went to the stream and drank deeply, then flung himself down on the damp dirt. In the next moment, when he opened his eyes, the day had darkened: he had fallen asleep. He cursed himself for his stupidity, then stood quickly and looked around. He could see or hear nothing except the waterfall.