Authors: Cindy. Pon
Silver Phoenix (47 page)
Cindy Pon
She spat at him. Her aim was true, and the glob of saliva hit his cheek.
Zhong Ye did not flinch. “Still feisty, too, I see.” He grinned and ran one elegant forefinger across his cheek, wiping the saliva off his face, then licked the same finger with his tongue.
“And still sweet as well.”
“I’ve come for my father,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Indeed. He was the bait that lured you to me. He is safe—
the guest of honor at our wedding banquet this evening.”
“No,” she whispered.
“If you want to see your dear father alive, you will say yes, love,” Zhong Ye said.
He suddenly cast a look toward Chen Yong. “You have feelings for that mutt?” A small smile played on his mouth.
Ai Ling stared straight ahead, felt the color drain from her face. She refused to look at Chen Yong.
“Ah, but you waste your time. He has nothing to give you. He’s but a shell of a man.” Zhong Ye tutted his tongue.
“Why waste your affections on a half-breed?” He wandered over to Chen Yong, and stood before him, considering him coldly.
Ai Ling finally looked at Chen Yong. The cords of his neck were taut, his jaws clenched tight.
“Your mother was a whore.” Zhong Ye enunciated the words, and they hung heavy in the air, like a living thing.
“She rutted willingly with a foreigner, one of those pale 268
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barbarians from across the sea. Spread her legs like a bitch in heat.” Zhong Ye turned, walked a few steps forward.
He flicked a hand, and a faint image began to take shape beside him. It solidified into a woman, not much older than Ai Ling. She was regal, with a swanlike neck, her arms clasped before her within long silken sleeves. Her black hair was pulled to her nape and bejeweled. Her peach dress cascaded to the ground, and she seemed to fl oat.
Her complexion was as fine as porcelain, her large black eyes filled with a sadness beyond anything Ai Ling could grasp or describe. This young woman gazed at Chen Yong, who raised his head to meet her eyes. Ai Ling saw his face crumple for an instant, then change to stone in the next.
“I made sure your mother paid for her whorish ways. Poisoned ever so slowly; she lost her sight first, then the feeling in each limb.” Zhong Ye fl icked his hand again, and the figure blurred, wavered like a mirage on a scorching day. He pursed his lips and took a breath, and the image of Chen Yong’s mother swirled into his mouth in a fluid stream.
Zhong Ye’s eyes glittered with pleasure, triumph.
“It was painful. But less than what she deserved. Now her spirit is mine.”
Ai Ling felt hatred for this man consume her. She did not need to cast her spirit toward Chen Yong to feel the rage within him. Their eyes met—his face did not betray his thoughts or emotions.
A line of women glided into the room, their heads bowed, 269
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their gossamer sleeves flowing like petals on a spring breeze.
Zhong Ye took a few steps toward them and nodded with a satisfi ed smile.
“You arrived just in time, my pet,” he said over his shoulder. “The Emperor and his court are on progress at the Palace of Cerulean Sky. We are free to celebrate as the true rulers of this kingdom.”
Ai Ling felt a ghostly finger trace her throat, the scent of spiced cologne filling her nose, even as Zhong Ye stood apart from her. She struggled to suppress her panic and terror, struggled to suppress her desire to lash out with her own spirit. Could Zhong Ye sense her power? Ai Ling wound herself tight, tucked it far from this monstrosity. Surprise would be her best weapon.
“I expect a splendid banquet to celebrate this wedding.
Don’t harm yourself this time, love. Or your father dies.
And your mother. Even this half-breed mutt.” He cocked his head in Chen Yong’s direction. “Do we understand each other?”
She nodded, sucking on her lower lip, steadying herself with the taste of her own blood. She could not kill him now.
Her opportunity would come when they were alone. She swallowed hard.
“The handmaids will prepare you. It won’t be as traditional as most Xian families would like,” he said, laughing, “but what it lacks in decorum will be made up for in extravagance.”
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A handmaid dressed in a lavender silk sheath approached Ai Ling, placing a gentle hand on her arm. To her surprise, she could move now, and the servant guided her out of the hall and into the courtyard. She turned back. But Chen Yong and Zhong Ye had disappeared like apparitions. A line of handmaids dressed exactly alike, with their plaits coiled close to the tops of their heads, followed. The silver ornaments in their tresses made clinking sounds in the dusk air.
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The handmaid’s light touch never changed as she guided Ai Ling across the vast Palace grounds. They wound their way through arched doorways, past lush gardens and dramatic courtyards empty except for giant bronze urns as tall as she was. At last she was led into a hall and quickly ushered from the public sitting room into a private bedchamber.
A bed hidden behind red brocaded drapes dominated the room. The ceiling stretched high above them with bright red lanterns strung across it, suffusing everything in a festive glow—so opposite to the dark dread that threatened to smother her.
A lacquered vanity stood against one wall of the room, 272
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the top covered with countless jars of rouge, creams, powders, and perfumes. A round mirror set in rosewood hung above the vanity. Ai Ling caught a glimpse of a large tub in the bath chamber, and the subtle scent of jasmine drifted toward her.
The handmaid led her to the bed and drew back the heavy drapes. “May we undress you, majesty?”
For the first time since encountering Zhong Ye, Ai Ling let the shock show on her face. Majesty? She was mocking her.
“Zhong Ye is not an Emperor. And I am no Empress.”
The girl simply inclined.
“What’s your name?” Ai Ling asked.
“I am called Zhen Ni, mistress.”
Ai Ling was relieved that the girl had called her mistress.
Even if that seemed odd as well, it wasn’t nearly as bad as majesty.
“Zhen Ni, why does Zhong Ye act as if he’s the Emperor?”
The girl raised a pale face, then quickly lowered her head again. “Master Zhong is the Emperor’s most trusted adviser.”
Ai Ling touched her spirit lightly.
He’s worse when the Emperor is gone.
Fear surged through the girl.
One mistake and I’ll never win back his favor. He could kill me and
the Emperor would not care. . . .
Blinking, Ai Ling brought herself back.
“Please, mistress. If we could undress you.”
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Ai Ling allowed the handmaids to remove her clothes.
The bloodstain remained wet on her tunic but had begun to crust against her skin. Her wound had been right above her navel, yet the skin had healed without a mark. Fully naked, she shivered as cooling air curled from the high carved windows of the bedchamber. The handmaids surrounded her like a retinue, and she was led into the steaming bath chamber.
The tub was shaped like a half-gourd and hewn of dark wood. But as she stepped in, she saw that the inside was made of gold. The metal was warm and smooth beneath her feet.
White petals swirled on top of the steaming water. Ai Ling slipped under until her chin touched the top of it. She tried to cover her nakedness, grasped her jade pendant tight, as too many hands massaged her.
Her hair was lathered with soap that smelled of spring rain, citrus, and honey. One handmaid scrubbed the soles of her feet with a rough stone. Bumps prickled her skin.
She wasn’t used to this. She didn’t like it. Two handmaids filed her nails. It was like a dance, and she the reluctant partner.
She was relieved when Zhen Ni stretched out her hand.
Ai Ling took it. The stone floor felt cold against her pruned feet. She was patted dry with plush lavender towels. Then the four women rubbed a scented cream that smelled faintly of jasmine on her body.
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