Silver Phoenix (45 page)

“Perhaps we should rest at an inn. Gather our strength,”

Chen Yong ventured as they stared at the endless wall.

She pressed on. Something told her it was time, that lingering would not be an advantage at this point.

“I think they’re waiting for us.” Her scalp prickled at her own words.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I’m drawn there, Chen Yong.”

They turned another corner. She felt no fear, only a sense of resignation mingled with determination.

They finally arrived at the back entrance. The moon-shaped gate was demure compared to the main entrance, a few hand spans taller than their heads, its edges set with a thick band of carved ivory.

Ai Ling approached the gate and touched the elaborate carving. It was wider than her hand. She saw etched peonies, magnolia, jasmine, and plum blossoms. She traced one finger across a long-legged bird perched among chrysanthemums and butterflies. She recognized it as a phoenix, but it did not look like the actual red-breasted pair she had seen wandering in the Immortals’ garden.

Magnificent bronze lions stood on either side of the door, perched on ebony stones. Chen Yong examined them with 256

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a cautious air. “I almost expect them to move,” he said with a wry smile, reminding her of their experience approaching the gate of the Golden Palace.

“I guess I’ll knock,” she said.

Chen Yong moved to stand beside her, his posture relaxed, his expression confi dent.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, her hand poised midair.

He looked down at her with surprise. “I think we’ve finally made it, Ai Ling. The enemy may lie within, but perhaps our loved ones do as well.”

She brought her hand against the door with a hard rap.

But it barely made a sound. “No one will hear us.”

The gate swung open just as she uttered the words. A girl of no more than fourteen years stood in front of them—

a servant, according to the two braids coiled in circles on either side of her head. But she was dressed more elaborately than anyone Ai Ling had ever seen. Her sage green robes were embroidered with gold and silk thread designs.

Pearls nestled within her ebony locks, and a delicate gold fi ligree circled her brow.

The handmaid inclined her head. “Please enter.”

They walked together into the Palace grounds. The afternoon light gleamed off the gold tiles of the sloping roofs.

They were in an intimate courtyard filled with the fragrant scent of gardenias—reminding Ai Ling instantly of her mother. Birds flitted from branch to branch. She saw 257

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a golden-haired cat leap into the tree, then heard the pan-icked fl utter of wings.

“I have come to see Zhong Ye,” Ai Ling said. Her throat tightened at speaking his name aloud.

“Master Zhong is occupied. I’ll take you to a waiting place,” the girl replied.

There was no choice but to follow her. They walked along a stone-paved path past the largest building in the courtyard, only to emerge into another. This one was empty but for a pond in the middle and huge bronze urns flank-ing all four corners. They wove from one courtyard to the next, from one garden filled with fruit trees to another filled with gilded cages containing singing birds. Ai Ling felt lost within the labyrinth of buildings, but the sense that she was being drawn in grew stronger.

She breathed deeply, and a quiet calm stilled her mind.

Chen Yong walked beside her, his long strides full of power and grace. She wanted to touch his hand, to reassure him, to reassure herself.

He turned to her, and the corner of his mouth rose in the hint of a smile.

They finally stopped before a building more opulent than the rest. The paneled doors were red and gilded with golden phoenixes. Jade pillars flanked the entryway, and red lanterns in the shape of peonies were strung above, waiting to be lit at nightfall.

The handmaid climbed the three steps and gestured for 258

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them to enter the hall with an elegant flourish of her hand.

Ai Ling stepped inside, and Chen Yong followed. The girl began closing the paneled doors behind them. Ai Ling glanced back, and all calm fled as anxiety pooled like tar in her stomach.

“She merely gives us privacy.” A woman spoke from within the deeper recesses of the room. Her voice was lyrical, lilting. A woman from the North.

Ai Ling walked forward, aware of the dampness under her arms. Afternoon sun filtered in from carved panels along the ceiling, lighting the space minimally.

Suddenly lanterns flared and lit the entire hall, illuminating a raised dais at one end. A woman sat on a magnificent seat, so massive her feet did not reach the floor. Yet she sat as if she belonged there, and Ai Ling believed it.

She had slender eyes in the classic, exalted shape. Delicate eyebrows stretched over them like wings. Her dainty mouth was rouged bloodred, and her skin was as pale as alabaster.

She was attired in a golden silk sheath; purple wisterias bloomed on her dress, with the symbol for longevity embroidered among the flowers in dark silver. She wore jade bracelets on her wrists, and a large, clear stone ring on one slender fi nger. A black headdress decorated with pearls and rubies rested against her brow; her ebony hair was parted in the middle and swept neatly away from her face.

She must be the empress. But Ai Ling did not fall on her 259

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knees, as etiquette would dictate—restrained by a sense of suspicion and her own pride. Chen Yong stood tall beside her, and she gathered courage from him.

“I had to see you with my own eyes.” The woman spoke regally, in a soft tone, making the lilt of her regional dialect sound even more exotic. Her face remained expressionless and imperial.

Ai Ling did not know what she meant.

“I am called Ai Ling. I’ve come to take my father, Master Wen, home.”

The Empress regarded Chen Yong with a slight tilt of her head. “And you’ve brought your friend, I see. Jin Lian’s son.

How the dead come back to haunt us.”

The color drained from Chen Yong’s face. He stiffened. Ai Ling could almost feel his anger and confusion.

“You’re not much to look at in this life, Silver Phoenix.”

The coy smile on her rouged lips deepened. “Too tall and lanky. Pity. You were breathtaking. Stunning.”

The hairs on the back of Ai Ling’s neck stood on end.

Zhong Ye’s jealous consort. She tried to cast her spirit toward the woman, but she slammed against a dark energy. The cord snapped back, and she fought not to double over.

“We shall take leave if you cannot help us,” Ai Ling said after a moment, clenching her trembling hands. She turned only to discover a wall of armed guards behind them.

Chen Yong saw them the same moment she did, and his face hardened, one hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

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Ai Ling shook her head. There were at least fifty of them.

How did they appear without so much as a sound? They wore gold helmets obscuring their faces, with only dark slits for eyes.

She turned back to the woman on the golden throne but was met with the same coy smile.

“I’ve tried to kill you many times. Even sent a demon to possess a man to deflower you. I know my master would never take you used.” The woman rose. The golden sheath of her dress whispered, hugged her hips.

“You surprised me each time you managed to live.” She glided toward Ai Ling without seeming to touch the ground, closing the long distance within two drawn breaths.

“I always knew that only I could finish the task.” With one fluid motion, she dipped an elegant hand into her sleeve, withdrew a dagger, and plunged it into Ai Ling’s stomach.

Ai Ling gasped, the sharp pain causing her to lean forward. She groped at the other woman’s hand, held it. Ai Ling stared into her eyes and found no pupils, just infinite black pools reflecting her own pale face. She tried to delve into her spirit again, but could not summon the strength.

“Ai Ling!” She was aware of Chen Yong leaping toward her, only to be pulled back by a faceless guard.

The blade pulsed through her. She started to fall—her attacker cradled her like a loving mother. “Not so difficult to kill, after all.” The woman twisted the dagger, her face lighting with pleasure.

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