Fury of the Phoenix (22 page)

A
i Ling set forth to the Palace of Fragrant Dreams within two weeks of returning to the kingdom of Xia. Her father accompanied her and understood her urgency. Master Cao, one of the Emperor’s closest advisers and an old colleague of her father’s, received them as honored guests. Her father was visiting in the outer court, but she had especially requested entrance to the inner court, where the Emperor’s concubines resided.

As she crossed the courtyard, her embroidered slippers crunched over golden leaves, and she drew in the crisp scent of autumn. Chrysanthemums bloomed in vibrant reds and pinks, in bursts of bright orange. She walked along the various paths as if she’d had a map in
her mind. The palace had changed little in these last three centuries.

Memories, both hers and Zhong Ye’s, tangled and chaotic, haunted her. Her heart raced. She looked down, almost expecting to see the resplendent dress of an unwilling bride. Or the sapphire blue of an adviser’s robe. She paused before some rosebushes, barren now but for a few withered leaves. They couldn’t possibly be the same roses planted in front of Mei Gui’s old quarters, but the crescent-shaped stone bench, the one Zhong Ye had sat on as Silver Phoenix danced for him three centuries past, appeared the same.

Ai Ling knelt by the bush nearest to the rising sun and began to dig with the wooden spade she had brought with her. It was sometime before she struck something hard. The square box she retrieved was dark with grit, and she rubbed her thumb over the carved side, revealing a lotus. The box was jade. Her hands trembled, and she struggled a little to lift the lid. It opened with a popping sound. Ai Ling placed the box on the ground, then wiped her hands on her trousers, not caring if she dirtied them.

A tortoiseshell comb decorated with plum blossoms lay nestled in a bed of lavender silk. She picked it up and brought it to her lips without thinking. It was the
comb Silver Phoenix had dropped on that first evening she had spent with Zhong Ye. There was more, she knew. Ai Ling lifted the silk and removed a small square of yellowed parchment. Afraid the fragile paper would crumble, she unfolded it with care. She smelled jasmine, but it was so faint she wondered if she imagined it. She read the poem written in Zhong Ye’s assured hand, the calligraphy neat and concise, like a scholar’s:

Ai Ling returned the comb and poem to the jade box, then reached again into the ground for what she had
come for. She dug with her fingers and finally freed the glass jar containing Zhong Ye’s last remains. Ai Ling would burn this, and he would finally be reincarnated, as the gods saw fitting. She almost returned the jade box to the ground but on a whim took it with her. She wanted to have something that had belonged to Silver Phoenix. And although she would never admit it aloud, something from Zhong Ye as well.

Their carriage clacked to a stop before the massive walls of the Deen manor in Gao Tung, and the driver began to unload their boxes. Her father pounded on the thick wooden door that had been plastered with new paper door gods, and it opened almost at once. Chen Yong greeted them, his grin so boyishly wide she laughed. Instinctively, even months after losing her power, she still tried to close herself at the sight of him.

“Master Wen, Ai Ling! Did you journey well?” Chen Yong clasped her father’s hand, then her own, holding it longer than was proper. He had cut his hair short, in the Jiang style. She flushed when her eyes rested on his mouth, her heart expanding until it felt as if it would burst. She dropped her gaze from his throat to his shoulders. That didn’t help. She felt his pull stronger now than ever, even without her power.

Her father cleared his throat, and Chen Yong released her hand, his face also coloring as he turned to lead them into the manor.

“The journey was a smooth one. We were honored to receive your father’s invitation,” Ai Ling’s father said as they followed Chen Yong through the expansive courtyards. She glimpsed a pond tucked behind pomegranate trees exploding with ruby fruit, and the air was thick with the sweet scent of gardenias. Chen Yong ushered them into spacious quarters, with bedchambers on either side of a reception hall. The walls were papered in pale sage and decorated with brush paintings of the four seasons.

“It’s incredible my father was able to buy a manor so close to my family. I’m still helping him settle in, but he acts as if he’d never left Xia.” Chen Yong’s contentment was obvious. He had written to Ai Ling immediately after he’d arrived home. His betrothal had been broken. “It wouldn’t be right,” he wrote, “as I’m in love with someone else.” She had pressed her lips to his signature the first time she had read it.

“Where is Wai Sen?” her father asked.

“My father is waiting for you in the main hall, Master Wen. He is anxious to see you.”

Ai Ling’s father shook his head in wonder. “Twenty years passed so quickly. I’m eager to see my old friend
again.” He smiled at them, tapping his closed fan against his palm. “I saw the main hall at the other end of the courtyard. I’ll find my way back.”

Autumn sunshine filtered through the lattice panels. She could hear the slow trickling of a waterfall.

They were alone.

Chen Yong swept her into his arms, kissed her hair, then burrowed his face into her neck. “You smell amazing.” He drew back, his eyes taking on that golden glow that had always stolen her breath away. “I’ve missed you.”

This past month apart had been agony.

“I know,” she said.

He released her and laughed. “I see.”

“I meant—you know what I meant!” She felt foolish and tongue-tied. “I missed you more than anything.” The words seemed a mockery, too inadequate to express her feelings. Her world had dulled, as if it had been robbed of color and light without him.

“More than a missed meal?”

She grabbed his tunic and pulled him close, tipping her face so she could see into his eyes. “I would fast for you, Li Chen Yong.”

It was supposed to make him laugh, but although a faint smile touched his lips, the look he gave her was tender and serious. “That’s saying a lot, Wen Ai Ling.” He
rested his forehead against hers, so their noses touched.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Come with me.” Chen Yong grasped her hand and led her into the courtyard. “I want to show you something.”

They strolled through the gardens, which were rich with gold and vermilion. She smelled the pungent sweetness of tuberose, and songbirds serenaded them from their perches in the plum trees. “Where are we going?” she finally asked.

He squeezed her hand and, grinning, winked. “You’ll see.”

They stopped before a grand hall. He slid the door open and let her enter first. There was one large chamber with dark wooden beams running the length of the ceiling. Eight worktables took up half the room’s space. The scent of wet sand and metal lingered in the air. Large clear glass lanterns hung from the ceiling.

Chen Yong waved his arm with a flourish. “Our own stained glass studio. Probably the first in Xia.” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “We’re still setting it up, but my father seems pleased by it.”

Ai Ling walked between the worktables, recognizing tools and materials from Master Deen’s workspace in Jiang Dao. “It’s wonderful. Have you made anything yet?”

“I have. My first stained glass project.” He stepped behind her and covered her eyes. “But it’s a surprise, a gift for you.”

She laughed as they walked like wooden puppets, his chest pressed against her back, until Chen Yong stopped. “Ready?” He dropped his hands. They were standing in front of a stained glass panel framed with silver birch wood. It was nearly the length of her arm, and it hung from the ceiling so that light from the lattice windows glimmered through the jeweled panes. Two silver bamboo stalks with leaves were set against a background of deep indigo and pale lavender. A round pearl moon and golden stars shone above the bamboo.

She lifted a hand and traced her fingertips above the glass, too afraid to touch it. “Chen Yong, you made this?”

“I did. Do you like it?” He was studying her intensely.

“It’s beautiful.” She kissed him. “Thank you,” she said, breathless when they finally drew apart.

Chen Yong leaned against one of the worktables, lacing his fingers through hers. “I designed it with my father’s help. Getting the colors right was the most difficult part.” He nodded at the panel. “This was my third attempt.”

She circled the stained glass, admiring it from different angles, and he followed her, their hands clasped.

“A belated birthday gift, Ai Ling. Bamboo for your strength.”

She smiled up at him. “I thought it was oak for strength?”

“This one has Xian symbolism,” he said. “I remembered how the Moon and Fertility goddesses were your favorite. I mimicked the colors. And I always think of you when I see the night sky.”

As she always thought of him. “I love it, Chen Yong.”

He flushed with pleasure, and it took considerable restraint for her not to throw herself into his arms.

“I’m glad. The studio is fairly well stocked, but we still need more supplies and equipment from Jiang Dao.” He drew her to him and slid his hands down to her hips. “My father wants to travel back next spring. I want you to come with us.”

“What?”

The distinct song of an ardor bird filtered through the workshop windows, its notes passionate and sweet.

“You can have your own cabin this time,” he said.

“Well. No, then.”

Chen Yong threw back his head and laughed.

She blushed, resting her palms against his chest. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but what would people think? It wouldn’t be—”

“Proper?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Like this?” He bit her throat gently, then pressed his lips to the same spot.

“Chen Yong!” She pounded his shoulder with a fist, even as she leaned into him, her entire body responding.

“It’s not as if you haven’t already taken the journey—”

“But that was because I thought you were in danger,” she said.

“There’s no point in justifying something no one else can possibly understand. What happened to us was incredible, Ai Ling. What happened to you is incomprehensible. The people who would judge us already have.” His expression was intent, pensive. “Besides, do you really care what people think?”

“I care what my parents think,” she said after a pause.

Chen Yong nodded. Fascinated by the way the colors from the stained glass danced across his handsome face, she couldn’t look away from him. “My father is speaking to yours right now. He is saying that you and your family are always welcome at the Deen manor. This one and the one in Jiang Dao. Considering how your father saved my life, we’re almost like family.” He glanced around the studio. “There’s nowhere to sit in here. Let me show you the garden.”

They followed the ardor bird’s crisp melody along a stone path that led to a deep oval pool surrounded by
dramatic rocks, the same pool that she had spied earlier. A secluded pavilion was nestled beyond the pomegranate trees, but Chen Yong went to the pond and sat on a flat stone, his back to the waterfall.

She stood in front of him, enjoying the sun’s warmth on her back. “It’s a beautiful manor.”

His eyes crinkled against the light, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. “I think it suits my father’s needs.” Silver and orange fish darted in the pond behind him, their mouths tasting the water’s surface.

“I want to go with you, Chen Yong.” She gazed down at him. “I do. But it would be selfish.”

“And if we were betrothed?” he asked in a low voice.

She backed away then, shrugging from his touch. “Are you—is your father asking for us to wed?” She suddenly felt faint, unsteady. “What does your mother say?”

“My mother was very upset when I broke the betrothal she had arranged.” Chen Yong rested his elbows on his thighs, then clasped his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “I explained to her my feelings for you. She finally relented, after accusing me of being a hopeless romantic.”

“And what does your father want?” Her mouth had gone dry. She needed to sit down.

“He wants what I want, Ai Ling. And I want what you
want. I’m hoping that never being apart again…Is what you want, too?” He cleared his throat. “A day is too long. A month is intolerable.” He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes downcast.

“You cut your hair,” she whispered, not knowing what else to say.

“Only because it’s easier for when I’m working in the studio.” He sat motionless as she ran her fingers through his hair; it was soft and thick. She didn’t need her power to feel his desire and his love for her.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asked.

She laughed softly at the memory. “I liked you despite myself. You said you wanted a bride to sweep the front courtyard and spoon-feed you broth.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “You said it. And I agreed.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Her hands were still buried in his hair. His were gripping the stone’s edge, as if he were afraid she would bolt with any sudden movements.

“I’m not the same person you met that day, Ai Ling.”

Neither was she.

His expression took on that serious intensity so familiar to her. The one that always made her wonder what he was thinking. The one that she loved. “What
does it mean for you to be betrothed?” he asked.

“You know what it means,” she whispered. “You’re speaking to a girl who ran from it. It means to wed and be kept in the inner quarters, embroidering slippers and making babies.” She dropped her hands and took a step back. She loved him—couldn’t possibly love anyone more—but the thought of being sequestered in the inner quarters for her remaining days was as oppressive and terrifying as a yoke around her neck.