Fury of the Phoenix (9 page)

He leaned back, no longer hungry. He poured himself more wine.

“Twelve years. That’s so young.” He studied unabashedly the delicate arch of her brows, the curve of her cheek, and the line of her neck.

“No younger than some of the concubines who enter the palace. We’re deemed ready when we begin our monthly letting.” She met his eyes. “How many years are you?”

“I entered the palace at sixteen years. This is my second year.”

“Only eighteen?” she asked. “You act ten years older.”

He laughed. “My youth isn’t an advantage at the Emperor’s court. Better if I appear older than my true age.”

“What happened to your hands?” She touched one of his fingers. His knuckles were thick with scabs, and he flinched.

“Nothing.” He smiled.

Silver Phoenix considered him as if she could read his thoughts, then finally tapped her wine cup with the tip of her finger. He filled it for her. “Do you miss your family?” she asked.

The question surprised him. It had been seven years since he’d left their small farm. His father, muscular and stoic. His mother, looking older than her years from working day in and out, year round. From rearing five children. She had been the prettiest girl in their village. But Zhong Ye had only glimpsed her beauty fleetingly when she smiled, a rarity. His siblings, with whom he had to fight for food at every meal. “There was no future there.” What would be the point of missing them? He could never return.

She nodded. “I tried my best to convince my parents to keep me, did everything I could to be useful, so I could stay. But I was a third daughter.”

She didn’t need to explain further. Her parents sold her to a brothel when she turned twelve years, and once sold, she might as well have been dead to them. They sat in silence for long moments, as she pushed the food around on her plate.

He leaned across the table and reached for her free hand. “We can be friends to each other? That is almost like family?”

Her lips parted, and she looked at him with shining eyes. Finally, she smiled. And Zhong Ye gazed at her, losing himself, until she squeezed his fingers. Only then did he remember to smile back.

He woke the next morning with a tremendous headache. Swinging his legs to the side of the platform bed, he cursed and covered his face with both hands. They had talked into the early-morning hours, until Silver Phoenix had realized the time. He had walked her back to her small quarters then. He remembered the feel of her hand in his as if he were still holding it. He opened his palm. Had they truly meandered through the silent palace holding hands?

Zhong Ye shook his head at the preposterousness of it, then winced. He’d need a tonic before he went to court. The sun indicated it was at least midday. He cursed
again. Court had already assembled, if not dispersed. Xiao Mao was crouched outside his quarters, playing with a cricket in a bamboo cage. He jumped to his feet and bowed.

Zhong Ye blocked the sun with an arm. “The herbal tonic to help ease headaches—”

“From overdrinking, master! Right away.”

Zhong Ye cringed at Xiao Mao’s loud enthusiasm but couldn’t muster the energy to reprimand him. Besides, the boy was halfway to the herbalist by now. He returned to the relative darkness of his reception hall. The table was still stacked with half-eaten dishes from the previous evening. Something on the floor caught his attention: a tortoiseshell comb decorated with plum blossoms. He brought it to his nose, breathed in.

He was startled by the abrupt slam of the door panel. Carrying a small covered bowl, Xiao Mao scrambled in. Zhong Ye tucked the comb into his robe and accepted the drink. He scrunched his face at the bitterness of the brew but felt steadier even as he took the second sip. “Be truthful, did you forget to deliver my message to Silver Phoenix?”

The boy shook his head like a dog ridding itself of fleas. “No, master. I delivered it direct to her, word for
word, as you told me. I waited for her reply, and she said, ‘I’ll pretend I never heard this.’”

Zhong Ye swallowed too fast and choked. He looked at Xiao Mao and knew the boy wasn’t lying, then burst into laughter as the rest of the tonic sloshed to the floor.

A
i Ling was preparing for bed when she heard thumping from above. Curious, she went to investigate. No longer full, the moon looked as if someone had smudged a portion of it away in a sketch. Thin wisps of cloud drifted past. The sea wasn’t especially rough, but she still had to do the awkward hip-jutting dance that came so naturally to her now as she moved across the deck. She found most of the crew near the ship’s bow, huddled in a circle around a lantern. Yam Head, a wide grin on his face, was banging on a drum. He stopped when he saw her. He was outside the group, with his back turned to the men.

“Ho! Ai Ling’s here. Join us,” Nine said. Nine was nicknamed thus because he was the ninth of fourteen
siblings. He was a hard worker and always friendly and jovial. “We’ve just convinced Chen Yong to play.”

“What are you playing?” she asked.

“Pass the flower. Only we don’t have a flower, so we’re using the captain’s fancy handkerchief.” Nine waved a square of silver fabric in the air. She had seen it tucked in Peng’s tunic pocket earlier that day.

“I don’t drink,” she said.

“Come join us anyway.” Peng smiled. “You’re part of the crew.”

Ai Ling sat cross-legged beside him. Yam Head immediately began beating his drum again. Nine passed the silk handkerchief to his right. It circled twice, and when the drum stopped, Chen Yong was left holding it. The men slapped their hands on the deck, laughing and shouting. Lao Lu poured liquor from a cobalt jug, filling a cup to the rim.

“Bottoms up!”

Grinning, Chen Yong swept up his sleeves with a flourish before raising the wine cup. Then he tipped his head back and drank. The crew clapped with approval.

“Give us a song, Chen Yong!”

“No, recite a poem!”

“Let’s ask for truth. The man’s too closemouthed for his own good!”

This was followed by a grumble of agreement.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Chen Yong spun the wine cup against the deck with one hand, his cheeks flushed. “You’ll get no truths from me,” he said, smiling.

“Ha!” Nine whacked him on the back. “Is this one even capable of lying?”

“Truth or another drink,” Yen said. Even the usually reserved pilot had a glint of mirth in his eyes.

Chen Yong slammed the cup in front of Lao Lu, who filled it again. He drank, and the drumbeats picked up once more. The handkerchief circled the group three times. To her dismay, the drum stopped just as she was ready to toss it to Peng.

The crew roared.

“But I don’t drink,” she said.

“Just one sip.” Peng chuckled.

The cook dribbled a drop of liquor into the same cup that Chen Yong had used. She blushed, raised the cup to her lips, and sipped cautiously. The men banged their palms in unison against the deck. The liquor was clear, different, and much stronger than the rice wine she’d had a few times. It burned her mouth and cut a hot path down her throat. She managed not to choke.

“Truth from Ai Ling?”

“No! A dance from the fair maiden!”

She laughed.

“How about a kiss?” Nine said teasingly.

“No,” Chen Yong said. The finality of his tone pierced through the raucous merriment.

“Oh, come now, big brother. Just here.” Nine tapped his cheek. “Innocent and harmless.”

Chen Yong bowed his head, his face an even deeper red than before.

“Let Ai Ling decide,” Peng said. He slanted her a glance, his amusement obvious.

She smacked the cup down in front of Lao Lu.

“Ho! She won’t even give you a peck on the cheek, Nine!”

The crew guffawed. Lao Lu dribbled another sip into her cup, and she drank, grimacing.

The game continued on for some rounds. Peng sang a sea ditty for the crew, Lao Lu juggled three potatoes, and Yen recited a beautiful poem about the Moon Goddess, surprising Ai Ling with the rich tenor of his voice.

Dark clouds gathered, and the night deepened. The crew’s rowdy teasing faded into the distance. Ai Ling licked her lips. The taste of the liquor stirred a faraway memory.

Suddenly blackness closed in around her. She was
crouched at a small desk littered with scrolls and text. She was so weary she could barely hold her head up. Her hand shook a little as she wrote with her calligraphy brush. Only a few more pages, and she would be done for the night.

Clutching a wine flask shaped like a gourd, her mentor crashed into the tiny study.

“Not surprised you’re still up.” He fell into the chair beside her, sighing loudly. He reeked of liquor, and the stench seemed to singe her nostrils.

“I’ve taught you for only two years, and you already know almost everything I do, boy.”

He poked her shoulder with one finger. “You’ll go far in life, Zhong Ye. You’re smart an’ ambitious.” His words slurred together. “Just don’t be stupid; don’t become addicted.” The scholar waved his wine flask in the air. “Never become a drunk like me!” He shoved it under her nose. “Try it!”

She shook her head. She was barely thirteen years and had never drunk wine. Her mentor pressed it to her lips. “Drink once and never drink again.” He tilted the flask, and she was forced to gulp. It was foul, and she gagged.

The drumming reached a crescendo before stopping. Ai Ling, woozy, blinked. The handkerchief was in Chen
Yong’s lap again. Disoriented, she jammed her fists into the deck.

“Truth this time! You can’t escape it twice!”

“Yah! Do you have a sweetheart at home?”

She felt Chen Yong glance toward her, a glance too quick for her to catch.

“I’m betrothed,” he said.

“Betrothed!”

“What’s she look like? Do you keep a portrait of her?”

Her stomach cramped. She wondered if someone could become physically ill from jealousy.

“No,” Chen Yong said.

“Is she as pretty as your sister here?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?” Da Yun, nicknamed Ox for his size and strength, punched Tien An in the arm.

“No,” Chen Yong said without hesitation.

She looked up in surprise, but he was staring into the wine cup. Peng snorted, and the crew burst into laughter.

“At least the man’s honest.” Nine nudged Chen Yong’s shoulder, chortling.

Lightning flashed, electrifying the air. The masts towered like giants, the sails their billowing capes, and the hairs on Ai Ling’s arms stood on end.

“I think the festivities are over,” Peng said. “A storm’s
coming. I can smell it.” The captain rose, and his men jumped to their feet.

Peng gave instructions to his crew, then nodded to Ai Ling and Chen Yong. “Return to your cabin. It’s going to be a rough night.”

They had experienced other storms during their journey, but this was something else altogether. It was as if the Queen Empress of Heaven herself had picked up the
Gliding Dragon
and now shook it with all her might. The winds were violent; the waves, monstrous. Ai Ling managed to prepare for bed, bruising her arms and legs twice before crawling onto the berth. She had rolled the thin blanket against her side when Chen Yong returned from changing.

The ship groaned and rocked across the sea. She and Chen Yong lay side by side like stiff corpses. She imagined the
Gliding Dragon
splitting in half and sinking into the depths. The storm was so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. It was impossible to sleep. She had no inkling of how much time passed. Minutes? Hours?

Chen Yong’s arm sneaked above the flimsy boundary, brushing against her. He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. Thunder quaked like an angry god, rattling her teeth, and she shot straight up. The
ship careened precariously and she flew into Chen Yong.

He had barely managed to stay in the berth by flinging a fist against the wall. Now, like a crazy pendulum, the ship was rolling to the other side. Chen Yong threw his arms around her, tightening them across her lower back. “I’ve got you,” he said.

She shouldn’t have, couldn’t have heard him above the storm. But she did. She shivered when his lips brushed her ear.

In the next instant, the ship pitched again, and they were flipped off the berth. She landed on her back in the narrow wedge between the bed and the wall, with Chen Yong on top, his hands caught beneath her. Her breath was knocked from her. The ship continued to lurch from side to side, but they were pinned securely in the tight space.

She could feel his heart beating wildly against hers. “You’ve got me?” she tried to shout above the racket.

“Well.” He dipped his head to speak into her ear. “I am still here, am I not?”

It was as dark as a tomb, but she could see him as clearly as if they were lying beneath the midday sun. He was grinning, his golden eyes crinkled at the corners. She heard it in his voice. He eased his hands from beneath her and propped himself up by the elbows.

“You’re heavy,” she said. She couldn’t bring herself to ask him to get off. She was light-headed from the fall, from the feeling of the entire length of his body pressed against hers.

He was quiet for a few moments, his breath hot and uneven on the hollow of her neck. “I don’t think it’s safe in bed.”

The wind howled.

Ai Ling snorted, then dissolved into giggles. There was a brief pause before Chen Yong started laughing with her.

A loud pounding at their door made them jump, banging heads. “Ow!” they exclaimed at the same time.

“Chen Yong!” Peng thumped on the door harder. “Ai Ling!”

Chen Yong carefully extricated himself and rose. The door slammed open, and light flooded the cabin. She put her head down and lay still.

“Are you two all right?” Peng asked. She couldn’t see him, but his voice sounded tired and tense.

“Mostly,” Chen Yong replied, rubbing his head.

“There’s a grip set into the wall by the berth. I’d hold on to it and each other for the remainder of the night.”

Chen Yong nodded.

“The worst of the storm is over, and the ship survived
well.” Peng handed his lantern to Chen Yong. He was soaking wet and dripping onto the floor. She could smell the rain and sea, the musk of wet wood. “Get some sleep.”

Ai Ling lurched to her feet as Peng pulled the door closed. Chen Yong raised the lantern, and they saw a carved grip set into her side of the bed. She hadn’t noticed it before.

“I’ll sleep on your side and hold the grip,” Chen Yong said.

“And you’ve got me?”

He laughed, his eyes glowing in the lantern light. “I’ve got you.”

Ai Ling woke the next morning with his arm wrapped around her shoulder. She was on her side, her face burrowed against his chest, her own arm flung across his waist.

The ship’s rocking was once again gentle.

And although fast asleep, Chen Yong was clutching the grip with one tight fist.

Zhong Ye was tired of Yokan’s study, tired of
The Book of the Dead
. How much longer before they could unravel the location of the empress root? Remembering something, he reached for the almanac.

Yokan lifted his head from his scroll.

“I think we’re due soon for a double moon on the lunar calendar,” Zhong Ye said.

“What?”

“When the full moon appears twice within the same month.”

“Yes. Wraiths’ month, we call it in Paan. When the dead come out to roam. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“‘Wait for the extra moon then dark again.’ From the riddle we read. A double-moon month.” Zhong Ye flipped through the pages of the almanac. “And the next will be in the fourth moon, two months following this one.”

“Well done, Zhong! But this means our time is even more limited. ‘This heaven-sent root only for a month shall grow, Nurtured in warm climes, by its own soft glow,’” Yokan read back to Zhong Ye what he already knew by heart.

“The Poison Eagle is not listed in
The Book of Bestiary
. Are you certain the empress root grows only somewhere in Xia?” Squinting at the list of common and rare birds in the book already open on the blackwood table, Zhong Ye rubbed his brow with one hand.

“Have you tried searching in the nonavian sections?” His expression caused Yokan to shrug. “It’s worth a try.”

Zhong Ye flipped through
The Book of Bestiary
and began reading from the beasts section. “By the demons you were right!” he exclaimed. “‘Only capable of flight during the month of the extra moon, the Poison Eagle emits the cry of a small infant and will peck the flesh off the bones of man. The creature is tiger-size and is said to devour all, including hair and nails. He dwells on Mount Luwu near the Zegeng River.’” Zhong Ye jumped off his stool and began pacing around the large table. “No mention of the empress root, but I’m certain this is the creature that guards it!”

“Have you heard of Mount Luwu?” Yokan asked.

“The name sounds familiar. I believe he was an ancient god…” Zhong Ye ran to one of the shelves and pulled out
The Book of the Divine
. “We’ll find the location of Mount Luwu in here, I’d wager on it.”

Zhong Ye was early for his meeting with Silver Phoenix. He turned a slow circle in the meadow tucked within the Garden of Tranquility. The plum trees were just beginning to bloom, their delicate scent carried on a soft spring breeze. Zhong Ye lifted his face to the sun and stretched his arms overhead, grinning. He was alone. It had been so long since he’d had time to himself.

He began a meditation exercise to clear his mind and
then limbered up with stretches, before going into some basic techniques of shuen. He flowed from one stance to the next, oblivious of all but his form.

He finally stopped. His breathing came too fast, and his heart thudded hard against his chest. Zhong Ye was about to remove his tunic when a flutter of color caught his eye. Silver Phoenix was leaning against a plum tree, a pink sleeve raised to hide her nose and mouth. But he could tell she was smiling.

“How long have you been there?” he asked.

“For some time,” she said, gliding toward him.

He took a deep drink from his water flask. She tilted her head for a kiss, her black eyes like a cat’s against the sunlight. He somersaulted, flipped onto his hands, and walked on them, circling her.