“But it was my fault.” Ai Ling wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “And she knew! The Goddess knew he would die, and she sent us here. Without warning—without . . .” She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks, hiccupping.
“Li Rong chose his own course in life,” the Lady said.
Ai Ling turned toward Chen Yong, helplessness and grief smothering her breath. He was bent over Li Rong again. She walked to them, the true friends she had made on this journey. She put a hand on Chen Yong’s shoulder, but he did not turn to look at her. He blamed her. She was certain of it.
“We can’t take him with us. We need to give him a proper funeral.” Chen Yong whispered, his face still turned to his brother.
“We need wood to make a pyre. There’s nothing here,” Ai Ling said.
“I can help,” the Lady in White said.
Chen Yong rose to his feet. “Thank you.”
“I will need your strength, young man.” She glided through the tower wall.
“Will you prepare him?” Chen Yong finally asked, his voice low and hoarse.
The tears rushed into her eyes and stung her nostrils once more. He approached the smooth fissured wall, placed a hesitant hand on it. And vanished. Ai Ling crouched over Li Rong’s body. She slammed her fists against the cold stone floor until her hands bled. Why did the gods allow evil men to live, and care nothing for the innocent? She could not believe he was gone, despite the pool of dark blood fanning beneath him. She reached out and stroked his face and smoothed his hair, intimate acts that she would never have dared were he still alive.
Finally she reached for his knapsack and searched through it, feeling intrusive. She selected his best tunic. It was made of gray silk with simple gold embroidering along the collar and sleeve edges. She unhooked his buttons with trembling fingers, lifting him to pull off his sleeves, cradling his head as she lay him back down. Sweat stung her eyes, and she swiped a bloodied hand across her face.
His wound exposed, Ai Ling saw the startling white of jagged rib bones and his shattered sternum. Nestled within, something glistened. His heart. Hope surged to her throat. She could still bring him back. The Calling Ritual from The Book of the Dead. She could try. She had to try.
“Forgive me, Li Rong. I will make it right again.”
She had to try.
Ai Ling freed her dagger and reached into Li Rong’s gaping wound. Sharp bones scratched her arm. His heart was still warm, wet. Ai Ling felt removed from herself. She could not think about what she was doing. There was no choice. She had no choice.
The heart shifted but would not pull free. She grasped it, took the dagger and made one cut. The hilt glowed blue, became as cold as ice. Ai Ling lifted the heart free. It was the size of her fist and lay like a sacrificial offering in her shaking hand. She needed to preserve it—one month to bring him back, with her own blood. Most other components were common. But the empress root was banned. She would find it. She would not fail Li Rong.
Ai Ling closed her eyes, forcing her mind to see the page, to remember the words. She muttered them in a low voice, verses she didn’t understand. The heart turned ice cold, felt like heavy glass in her hand. She opened her eyes. It glowed slightly, but her blessed dagger had turned a dull black. Ai Ling frowned, sheathed the blade. She grabbed one of Li Rong’s cotton tunics and wrapped the heart carefully within its folds, then tucked the bundle in her knapsack.
Ai Ling poured water from her flask over her bloodied forearm and hands, watched it slide in red rivulets onto the ice white floor. She licked her cracked lips, tasting the salty mucus that ran from her nose, and wiped her face with a dampened rag cloth. She gently dressed Li Rong’s body, pulling the tunic over his head, holding his hand to guide the sleeves. After he was clothed, she wiped his face clean with tender care. She did the same with his hands.
His wound had already stained the new tunic, like a crimson flower blooming across his chest. But at least he would not be sent into the next world in the tunic he was slain in.
Chen Yong and the Lady appeared again within the tower, emerging like apparitions from the crystalline walls. “Thank you,” Chen Yong said simply.
Ai Ling could not look at him. She was out of breath and clutched her knapsack with tight fists. Chen Yong kneeled down and cradled his brother as if he were a child. His eyes were swollen and his nostrils red, but he no longer wept.
“The body will transport through the wall with you,” said the Lady.
Ai Ling walked to the gleaming wall and placed two timid fingertips on it. The tingling cold rushed through her, and she was outside on the black peak once more.
The Lady and Chen Yong had built a pyre on the rocky landing. A dark blue cloth was spread neatly on a wood platform, with black twigs and branches filling the space beneath.
“I couldn’t conjure much, under the circumstances,” the Lady spoke apologetically. “But it will be a proper funeral—as best as we can make it.”
Chen Yong carefully laid Li Rong on the platform and arranged his arms alongside his body.
At the end of the platform was a small altar, with incense burning and a pile of spirit money—gold and silver-foiled coins. The flame from one white candle flickered in the wind. “I am unable to conjure food,” the Lady said. Was she a goddess as well?
Ai Ling carefully searched through her knapsack and pulled out a packet of nuts and dried mango, given to her by Master Tan so long ago. She also found the last two strips of dried beef, Li Rong’s favorite.
“I can offer these,” she said.
“And I have rice wine,” Chen Yong said. He placed a finely carved gourd on the altar.
The Lady began chanting the song of mourning in a singsong voice as Chen Yong bent down and started the fire. He looked up at Ai Ling. “Help me.”
She joined him and fed the spirit money into a bronze bowl. The embers fluttered around them. There was a chill in the air and the skies were overcast, the day darker and colder than before. She did not know how much time had passed, how long they had been on the mountain.
She felt again Li Rong’s reassuring touch when they had first descended on this mountain. No, he shouldn’t be dead. Not when someone like Zhong Ye lived. She would bring him back—even if she needed to use the dark arts to do it. Li Rong had died because of her. She would do anything.
The Lady’s chanting was soothing and hypnotic. She clapped her hands at certain points, swaying like a delicate orchid. “The body wears to sand,” she sang. “Yet the teaching of goodness will always linger. . . .”
The spirit money burned bright, and then dimmed to a few points of glowing red.
“Place his belongings at his feet. It is time,” the Lady said. She gently laid a yellow cloth over Li Rong’s face and placed a sky blue one over his body. She touched the platform, and the black sticks beneath roared into bright flames.
They crackled, spread, and illuminated Li Rong’s face, making him appear lifelike again. Soon the flames engulfed him. Ai Ling and Chen Yong stepped back from the pyre as the wind blew across the barren mountaintop, feeding the fire.
She caught glimpses of him still. He shimmered and wavered until he was lost, and she turned her face away.
Chen Yong stood beside her, their shoulders touching. She looked toward the Lady, who faced them, standing close to the fire, unaffected by its heat. Their eyes locked, and her arms prickled despite the roaring flames. The Lady’s gaze pierced through her. Ai Ling looked back to the pyre, willing her face to betray nothing.
A low wail erupted from Chen Yong as he fell to his knees. He hugged himself and banged his brow against the ground, the keening never stopping. It flooded her with grief. She too collapsed to her knees, allowed her sorrow to voice itself in a piercing cry. She banged her brow against the black rock of the mountain, giving herself to physical pain until her vision swirled with orange flames.