They remained prostrate until the fire burned itself out, until darkness fell and a sickle moon shimmered down on them. The air was frigid. The stars were distant, indifferent—so unlike the sky that had comforted Ai Ling the evening before, when she had bathed in the Scarlet River.
“It was a proper funeral for a hero,” the Lady said.
Suspicion coiled within Ai Ling. Why hadn’t the Immortals prevented this?
“Are you a goddess, Lady?” Ai Ling asked, her voice quiet.
“It’s been so long that I’ve been held captive—I do not know anymore. Come, you can rest in my sanctuary tonight.”
Ai Ling recalled the Lady’s light touch on her shoulder, the warmth of her healing mingled with the scent of delicate honeysuckle. She knew the Lady was good, but a part of her did not know if she could ever fully trust her or the Immortals again. Not now.
The Lady in White led them down a path through jagged black rocks, a path that had not been there when they first alighted on the mountain. The ice tower was gone, and in its stead, a white circle hewn into the ground gleamed in the moonlight.
The Lady’s gown emanated a silver sheen that made it easy for Ai Ling and Chen Yong to follow her. She led them to a small, simple hut built into the side of the mountain. A pine tree the same height as Chen Yong grew by the wooden door. Wild honeysuckle nestled beneath the window ledges. Their hostess pushed the door open, and they followed her inside.
The small room was rectangular in shape, cozy for one person and crowded for three. The wooden beams above were high, allowing for the Lady’s tall stature. A square lacquered table dominated the room, and a lantern sat on it, a bamboo pattern etched in the glass. Two other lanterns hung from the high beams, casting a warm glow.
“I regret I have no food to offer. But there is a well at the back of the house, and its water is refreshing. I do believe I have a jug of wine hidden somewhere, if you’d like,” the Lady said. She looked like she needed neither refreshment nor rest. Incredible, if she had been held captive as long as she claimed. Unease curled around the edges of Ai Ling’s grieving heart. Perhaps they had been used by the Immortals to rescue this woman.
“It would warm me up, I think,” Ai Ling said. She had never drunk wine.
The Lady glided to a small bamboo bureau in the corner. She returned bearing a round tray with two wine cups and a jug. She filled both cups. “I wish I had more to offer for your act of bravery.”
She kneeled, handing a cup first to Chen Yong, then to Ai Ling, her back curved. Embarrassed, Ai Ling quickly took the cup and sipped without thinking. The liquid cut a hot path down her throat, easing the coldness within her belly and the bitter ache of her chest.
“Who held you captive, Lady?” Ai Ling tried to keep the tone of her voice respectful, rather than accusing.
Chen Yong raised his head from his wine cup and met her eyes with an inscrutable look. Ai Ling pursed her lips—she never knew how he felt or what he thought—and turned her full attention to the Lady.
“My twin brother,” she said in a quiet melodic voice that brought to mind lute strings plucked beneath a full moon.
Ai Ling gasped. She took another sip of the wine, welcoming the searing heat that filled her, slowly numbing her anger, her pain.
The Lady turned to gaze out the window, her face filled with sorrow. “I was well loved by my father, educated, encouraged to learn and travel, treated as if I were a son. My twin brother was intelligent and talented in his own right. I know not why the jealousy burned so deep within him; it ate away at him, tainted his spirit. . . .”
Her porcelain face flushed with color. “We were never close while growing up, so I had no inkling of his resentment toward me. There were just the two of us. Mother died when we were but six years.
“It was only when Father died ten years later that I understood how deeply my brother despised me. He locked me within my quarters, refusing me the right to visitors, turning away friends as well as suitors.”
The Lady remained on her knees, her back straight, turning her face from Chen Yong to Ai Ling as she told the story.
“After two years of imprisonment in my own home, I escaped. I traveled as far away as I could, until I reached the summit of this mountain. And it was here I made my home. For years I stayed here alone, the mist and stars as my companions, the birds and pine rodents as my friends.”
“But your brother found you?” Ai Ling asked.
“He appeared on this summit five years later, unrecognizable. I looked into his face and saw nothing of my twin. He ranted and raved about how I was favored by my father—but the truth was, I was treated as an equal to him, never more.
“And as he spoke and paced, my beautiful mountain darkened, the leaves blackened and shriveled, the life bled away. He raised his arms, and a crystal tower thrust upward from the peak. He stripped me of flesh and body and imprisoned my spirit within those walls.”
The Lady finally bowed her head, her hair ornaments clinking like chimes. “That was more than a thousand years ago,” she said.
“A thousand?” Ai Ling breathed.
“He had given himself to the dark arts. He conjured the monster you slew to hold me captive in the tower and prevent rescue or escape. My home, this mountain, has been under an enchantment.” She surveyed the room. “It’s as if time stood still.”
“That is an incredible tale, Lady. I’m glad we were able to help free you.”
Ai Ling’s jaws tightened. “What about Li Rong?” She spoke too loudly.
His eyes were wet when they met hers. She regretted her callousness, felt her lower lip tremble at having caused him more pain.
Rash, stupid girl.
“Li Rong died performing a good deed,” Chen Yong finally managed in a husky voice.
Ai Ling felt even more wretched. Surely Chen Yong blamed her for Li Rong’s death, as much as she blamed herself.
Later, Chen Yong and the Lady retreated into the night to fetch water from the well. It was cool and refreshing; Ai Ling drank two cups. Without bothering to change her clothing or wash, she climbed beneath the thick blankets on one of the pallets the Lady had laid down and immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.
14
Ai Ling woke from a dreamless sleep. Bright sunlight shone through gossamer silks draped across the paper panels of two large windows, forcing her to squint for a few moments.
“Finally,” Chen Yong said, smiling. He sat at the low table, a calligraphy brush poised over a bound journal. He put down the brush on the ink stone and crossed the room in two strides to her pallet, an expression like relief on his face.
His closeness made her self-conscious. She rubbed her eyes with limbs still heavy from sleep. “Good morning,” she said.
“A peaceful afternoon to you,” he replied with a wry smile. “You slept for two days. We couldn’t wake you. I was beginning to worry.”
Two days? She shifted back on her pallet and glanced around the room. “Where’s Li Rong?” Her mind skewed the moment the words left her mouth, instantly followed by a spasm of grief. Chen Yong winced as if kicked in the chest. She covered her face with her hands, wishing she had not woken. Could one sleep anger and grief away?
Chen Yong touched her shoulder, and she dropped her hands; he rose and walked away from her, his movements stiff. “The Lady went out to gather fruit,” he said. “She brewed tea.”
Ai Ling crawled out of her warm nest, and Chen Yong passed her a cup. “Thank you,” she said, drawing the steam into her face, unable to meet his gaze.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” he said, staring into his own empty teacup.
“I can’t either. I’m so sorry.”