Fury of the Phoenix (3 page)

He was sprawled naked on the massive bed. Sumptuous brocades hung from the ceiling along its sides, and star-shaped brass lanterns cast a warm, muted glow around the chamber. Two concubines pressed themselves against the Emperor, each seeking his attention. He was no longer in his prime, but still strong, virile. He pushed both women off and smiled, his eyes heavy-lidded from drink and pleasure.

“Congratulations, Zhong Ye. You’ve caught my attention, and I hope I wasn’t wrong to promote you.”

Zhong Ye fell to his knees, pressing his brow to the ornate rug. “I am honored, Your Majesty.”

“As well you should be. Remind me, boy, whereabouts did you start? I hadn’t seen you until this past year.”

He kept his head pressed to the ground. “As latrine boy, Your Majesty.”

The Emperor barked a laugh. “Latrine boy! Well done! Perhaps one day you can rise high enough to clean the Son of Heaven’s shit.” A deep chortle and
the resounding sound of flesh being slapped. “Rise,” the Emperor said.

Zhong Ye leaped to his feet. One of the concubines was pouting, rubbing her full hip. He could smell the Emperor’s deep musk of pine, citrus, and sweat. Zhong Ye didn’t let his nostrils flare, kept his face a neutral mask.

“I’m bored with my favorites. Find me a new girl.” Unabashed in his nakedness, he leaned back into the cushions. “Someone special.”

Zhong Ye bowed, never letting his eyes stray from the Emperor’s face.

“You’re cockless.” The Emperor sneered. “Can I trust you to still have good taste in women?”

Zhong Ye bowed deeper. “You won’t be disappointed, Your Majesty.”

Zhong Ye flew through the corridors, out into the night air, heart pounding hard against his chest. This was his chance, his opportunity presented so soon. He couldn’t make a mistake. His mind raced, thinking of all the concubines he knew, the new ones, the young ones, some barely fifteen years. The older ones, at nineteen or twenty, more refined, confident. More womanly.

He burst into the bedchamber of one of the concubines, Mei Gui. She sat at her dressing table, a handmaid
behind her, brushing her long hair. Both women turned to him with wide eyes.

The quarters were small; she was a low-ranking concubine, unlikely to ever cross paths with the Emperor. Still, the women had decorated the chamber with deep purples and opulent greens. The faint scent of roses filled the chamber.

Mei Gui stood. “Master Zhong.” Her voice was small, trailed off. News of his promotion had already spread among the concubines, just as he had orchestrated.

“Strip.”

Her mouth formed a circle.

“The Emperor is asking for a new lover tonight. Let me see you!”

The handmaid quickly drew her mistress’s robe from her shoulders and folded it over a slender arm. Zhong Ye met her eyes for a brief moment, before she dropped her gaze to the floor. Distracted, he shook himself.

“Arms raised.” He gestured with an impatient hand for her to turn.

Mei Gui had been clutching herself, covering her breasts. At his command, her porcelain face paled even more. She stretched her arms and rotated: it was almost comical. She was nearly eighteen years. Her eyes were light brown, slender and tilted slightly upward. Her face
flushed with embarrassment, and the color spread to her neck, down to her chest. Alluring.

“When was your last monthly letting?”

Her mouth dropped again.

“Two weeks past, Master Zhong,” the handmaid said. “She is ripe.”

Mei Gui’s handmaid was petite, curvaceous, with wide-set eyes in a heart-shaped face. Stunning, really. Why hadn’t she been chosen as a concubine?

“Your mistress is a virgin?”

Mei Gui nodded. At least she knew that much.

“Has she been taught?” He directed the question at the handmaid.

“Yes, master.”

He narrowed his eyes and deliberately said nothing.

“By me, sir. I was a song girl before I entered the palace.”

No wonder. A used girl, not worthy of the Emperor.

“Taught well then, I hope. If Mei Gui gains the Emperor’s favor, we shall rise in status with her.”

Zhong Ye grabbed the robe from the handmaid and threw it back on Mei Gui. “What are you called?” he asked the handmaid in a brisk tone.

“Silver Phoenix, master.” She bowed elegantly, bringing to mind an orchid swaying in the breeze.

A
i Ling followed Chen Yong through a cramped passageway into the galley, which was bigger than she would have guessed, with a large rectangular dining table and crooked stools scattered around it. The cook, a gaunt man with a sun-wizened face, offered her a hot brew of sweetened ginger. She sipped the drink, grimacing at the spiciness of the root, and avoided Chen Yong’s eyes. His anger and bewilderment were as sharp as the ginger.

“Let me show you to the cabin,” Chen Yong said finally, when she was done.

She trailed behind him. Yen was just leaving, carrying a large stack of books. He nodded to them without speaking. The cabin had been cleared of his belongings.

“What are you doing here?” Chen Yong asked, before he even shut the door.

“I dreamed of Li Rong,” she blurted.

He sat down on a small stool. “What?”

“He came to me and said—told me to travel with you.”

“But why?” His features were hard, guarded; his amber eyes, dark.

“He said you were in danger.” She knew how ridiculous she sounded, how superstitious.

“You came because of a dream?”

“It felt real. I was worried for you!” She wanted to kick the stool, remembering how terrified she had been for Chen Yong when she had woken. The dread had crushed her for days, really until she had touched his spirit this morning.

His expression softened. “Did he appear…well?”

“He did.”

Chen Yong turned his face away. It still hurt her, too, to think of his brother.

“Your parents let you come?”

She clasped her hands and stared at the bare wall behind him. “I left them a letter.”

“They’ll be sick with worry,” he said. “This journey is long and dangerous. No place for—”

“A girl?” She let herself become angry, so she couldn’t
feel anything else. “You seem to forget our last journey together.” Her tone was sharp. This wasn’t at all how she had imagined their reunion would be.

Chen Yong winced, but it was fleeting. He stood, and there was no space in the cabin to back away. “I’d feel responsible if anything happened to you.” His voice was low.

He was close enough for her to smell the faint lemon scent of his skin. “It was my choice to come. If you’re somehow in danger, I…” she stammered, not knowing how to finish.

The corner of his mouth twitched, though he would not meet her eyes. He wasn’t pleased to see her. She was a burden.

He tilted his head as if remembering something. “I never wrote you the name of the ship that I would be traveling on.”

“No. Li Rong told me in my dream,” she said. “The
Gliding Dragon,
and the day that you would sail.”

Captain Peng was already seated at the head of the table when they returned to the galley. Yen sat to his right, and Lao Lu, the cook, was beside the pilot. The rest of the crew had eaten earlier.

The captain rose to his feet, and the other two men
followed suit. “Ah, our guests have arrived. How are you feeling, Ai Ling?” He pulled out the stool to his right. She touched him with her power and gathered nothing but amusement again. Feeling a little embarrassed, she walked to the table on rubbery legs and managed to sit down without incident. Chen Yong sat beside her.

“Lao Lu has prepared steamed fish and stewed beef along with chicken soup. A celebration for smooth winds thus far.” He raised his wine cup.

Lao Lu was a good cook, to judge by the mouthwatering scents that rose from the bowls and plates. Ai Ling searched for tea and, finding none, lifted her wine cup as well. She sipped when the men did, felt the unfamiliar taste of the wine cut a quick path to her stomach.

She kept sneaking glances at the captain as she ate. His hands were well groomed, tan from the sun. His clothes were impeccable. Peng caught her eye, and she hid her face in her soup bowl. The broth was warm, and it soothed her. It reminded her of home.

“Have you studied Jiang as your brother has?” Captain Peng asked.

Ai Ling swallowed too fast and put her bowl down. “No.”

“You’ll take lessons in Jiang with us each morning then.” Peng wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief.
“After your assigned tasks.” He leaned forward, and both Ai Ling and Chen Yong straightened on their stools. “I don’t mean to be harsh, but I run a disciplined ship. It would set a poor example if you did nothing after sneaking aboard.”

She pulled her shoulders back. “I understand.”

The merriment in Peng’s dark eyes didn’t reach his mouth. “You’ll help on deck each morning at dawn. And anything Lao Lu requires of you in the galley. The emptying of the chamber pots”—he sat back in the only proper chair at the table—“has already been assigned to one of the boys.”

Chen Yong ducked his head to hide a smile, and she nearly crossed her arms in a show of indignation but refused to give either man the satisfaction. “Certainly.”

“You may join us after finishing your tasks,” Peng said.

“Do you all speak Jiang?” She looked from Yen to Lao Lu.

The reticent pilot nodded, and Lao Lu shrugged his thin shoulders. “Enough to get by, miss. I can haggle for a better price at the markets.”

“One hour each morning,” Peng said, as if the matter were settled. “What can you teach me in return?” He raised a dark brow, and Ai Ling looked away. She could sense his mirth and began reciting a poem about plum blossoms in the snow in her mind.

“I can offer to teach shuen,” said Chen Yong.

“Shuen. Really?” Yen leaned forward, interested in the conversation for the first time.

Chen Yong poured the pilot more wine. “My family is known for its ability in the art.”

“That seems a more than fair exchange,” Peng said, lifting his cup. “And what about you, Ai Ling? Will you learn shuen with us?”

“Why not?” Then, remembering she was supposed to be Chen Yong’s sister, she added, “My father only taught my brothers.” She wouldn’t be intimidated; she had chosen to come on this journey. Peng toasted her and smiled.

Ai Ling prepared for bed in the small latrine. It was so cramped she could barely turn around. The smell was already too strong; what would it be like after two months? She hurriedly rubbed coarse salt over her teeth, wet her washcloth with water, and wiped her face and neck. She yearned for a bath.

She leaned into the sway of the ship as she shuffled back down the passageway and almost convinced herself that she was becoming used to it. She pushed the rough cabin door open and caught sight of Chen Yong’s bare back. He was stretching his arms over his head, and
the wavering light flickered across the taut muscles of his shoulders and biceps. She froze.

Chen Yong quickly crouched and retrieved his sleep tunic from his trunk. “Knock next time?” His expression was unreadable as he pulled the garment on.

Ai Ling nodded.

“Could you close the door?”

She stared at it in surprise, then shut it.

He crossed his arms as he surveyed the tiny cabin. “I could sleep on the floor.” The double berth was barely wide enough for two, but it took up most of the cabin. There was a small gap beside it. She didn’t think he could lie flat in the narrow wedge of floor between the bed and the wall.

“No. We can share,” she said. She climbed onto the right side of the berth, which was pushed flush against a wall, and lay down, drawing her soft blanket from home up to her chin. She smelled the familiar scent and was grateful.

Chen Yong snuffed the lantern and eased into bed beside her. Her entire body flushed. Their shoulders just touched, and his arm pressed warmly against hers. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest in the dark.

“Do you truly believe I’m in danger?” he asked.

“The dream was so real. I woke with a strong sense of
urgency. I had to come.” Her words sounded thin. Why
had
she come? “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shifted, his thigh brushing hers. The air seemed to crackle between them, and he tensed, became dead still. “We need to be vigilant then.”

Ai Ling felt light-headed.

“Your power can help warn us of any danger?”

She turned a hot cheek toward his voice.

“Is it the same as before?” he asked.

“Stronger,” she whispered. “Too strong.”

He was silent for so long she began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. “A peaceful evening,” he finally said.

She almost laughed but sensed he had wanted to say more. The unspoken words hung between them. She wished she knew what they were as she wound herself tight, away from the brightness of his spirit. “A peaceful evening,” she murmured.

She stared wide-eyed into the dark, trying to draw deep breaths to slow her hammering heart. Chen Yong’s breathing matched her own. She closed her eyes, and the image of his bare back bloomed beneath her lids.

Dear goddess.

She prayed to the Goddess of Serenity for sleep, and in answer the ship rocked and Chen Yong was thrown against her, pinning her to the wall.

He cursed.

She blinked; a gasp caught in her throat.

He edged from her as the ship rolled the other way. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

They didn’t speak another word that night, although she remained awake for a long time after.

Somehow Ai Ling did finally fall asleep. When she woke, she was lying in the exact same position, her hands folded over her stomach and her arm still touching Chen Yong’s. There was no way of telling if day had arrived. But footsteps in the passageway outside and the shutting of doors let her know that the crew had already risen.

She wondered if Chen Yong had woken. “Is it day yet?” he asked in a thick voice, answering her question.

“The crew seems to be up,” she whispered for some reason.

He slipped off the bed, and the cabin door opened, letting in dim light from the lanterns in the corridor. He brought a lantern into their cabin in exchange for the extinguished one hanging in the corner, then grabbed some clothes from his trunk.

“I’ll change in the latrine,” he said.

She sighed as he closed the door behind him. This
would take some getting used to. She dressed in peach-colored trousers and tunic, long sleeved to protect her from the sun and sea salt. She loosened and brushed her hair, running the wooden comb through it again and again. Her mind wandered, and she heard a crew member ask in the galley if they’d be given more dried beef for breakfast. She felt his hunger and became aware of her own. To clear her mind she recited a stanza of poetry, her favorite one about a lotus in bloom on a deep pond.

Eventually she eased the narrow door open and peeked outside. It was quiet. Chen Yong and Captain Peng were still eating in the galley when she arrived. Lao Lu filled a bowl with hot soy milk for her and was about to place a steamed bun on a chipped plate when Peng raised a hand. “She’s late,” he said. “We’ll go directly into lessons in Jiang after your tasks, Ai Ling.”

She gulped the soy milk, telling herself her face felt hot from the steam rising from the bowl. It was past dawn when she climbed onto the deck. Tendrils of mist were just beginning to wither, and the air was cold and damp against her skin. Xiao Hou was pushing a wide flat broom across the wet deck. “We’ve already scrubbed the deck,” he said.

Sailors stood below each of the three masts, wrangling with lines. They shouted at one another, synchronizing
their motions as they set the enormous sails. Xiao Hou followed her gaze. “My pa said he’d teach me when I’m bigger.”

She returned his toothy grin, his cheeks rounded with obvious pride. “I’ll be on time tomorrow.” Her stomach growled in reprimand. It wouldn’t do to be denied another meal.

The boy showed her how to push the broom toward the sides of the ship, then left her to the task. The Sea of Seven Stars spanned forever. It seemed nothing existed in this world except the ship and the endless water. Ai Ling paused when she finished her task to admire the view. The sunrise had cast the clouds in a deep golden pink. I’ve always wanted to travel, explore the world, she thought, then blinked. It was as if the notion had dropped into her head from the ether.
Had she?
Her scalp tingled.

Xiao Hou scuttled back and took the long-handled broom, startling her. He scanned the deck and finally nodded in approval. “Not bad for a first go,” he said.

She smiled. “Am I dismissed?”

He cocked his head, in a gesture that reminded her entirely of her cat Taro. She almost expected his ear to twitch. “I s’pose. See you tomorrow, miss.”

She bowed. “At dawn.”

She climbed below deck and returned to the galley. Only Peng and Chen Yong, both engrossed in books, remained at the large table. Peng barely glanced up when she entered. “Done? Lao Lu was kind enough to wash up for you today. So we can begin our lesson.”

She turned to the cook and smiled gratefully. He gave a curt nod. Ai Ling tried to catch Chen Yong’s eye, but he didn’t acknowledge her. He had not spoken to her since their brief exchange that morning.

Peng asked Lao Lu to bring a pot of hot tea. “Chen Yong is advanced in his knowledge of the language. We can converse during our free time. It’s important you understand elementary phrases at least.” He unbuttoned the silver clasps on his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.

Lao Lu returned with tea, along with a small tray holding a long white feather, a corked ceramic pot, and sheaths of thick parchment. Captain Peng picked up the feather and uncorked the ceramic pot. “The Jiang don’t use calligraphy brushes to write. They use quills.” He dipped the feather into the ink. “Their language is formed by twenty-eight letters, strung together to make words.”

He scratched in a neat hand on the thick parchment. “This means a peaceful morning.”

Ai Ling stared at the small scribbles stacked next to one another and furrowed her brow.

Peng pronounced the phrase for her, enunciating slowly. “You say it,” he told her. He spoke the phrase again, and she watched his lips purse together, heard the strange rolling sound of his tongue.

She tried to repeat it.

A smile flitted across his mouth; then he cleared his throat. “The roll of the tongue is the hardest to learn. We don’t speak like this in Xian.”