They climbed past the second floor and onto the third. Ai Ling sensed the sharp tip of the Archer’s sword behind her, its threat heavy, solid, even though it did not touch her once.
“Down this hall,” Archer said. The passageway looked the same as the first, only now all six walls were made of glass, allowing a view into a room that was bare except for two single beds on raised stilts, reminding her of Li Rong’s funeral pyre. Her throat tightened, the grief quickly replaced by fear. Would they seize her knapsack, rifle through the contents? She clutched the sack closer to her.
Chen Yong stepped into the chamber under Archer’s direction. Ai Ling wrinkled her nose at the scent of bitter medicinal herbs. Again, sunlight flooded the room from an open shaft in the middle, glancing off the six opaque walls of silver. Ai Ling realized that the glass only allowed oneway viewing, from the outside in, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. What did the Chief have planned for them, with the Anatomist’s help?
“Take off the clothes.” Archer waved his weapon nonchalantly at them.
Ai Ling didn’t move.
Archer extended his sword until the tip touched the hollow of her throat, his smooth face never changing expression.
Chen Yong nodded to her. She almost wanted to laugh, hysteria welling within her. But then he turned his broad back, put down his knapsack, and pulled off his tunic. Ai Ling spun around at the sight of his bare skin. Her face burned as she removed her own tunic. She glanced at Archer, and he waved his weapon to quicken her pace.
Ai Ling took off her trousers and folded both top and bottom neatly, placing them on one of the platform beds. She still had her undershirt and shorts on.
“Everything, female,” Archer said.
She peeled off her underclothing and climbed onto the edge of the bed, her back to Archer and Chen Yong. She brought her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around herself, unable to disguise the trembling of her limbs. Her teeth clacked in terror. Her entire body felt flushed, yet chilled from sweat; her heart pounded hard against her thigh.
“The Anatomist will come. Do as he says. We see everything.”
Archer picked up their knapsacks, and the silver doors slid shut behind him with a faint hiss. Ai Ling wanted to retch.
“Son of a rotten turtle. He took my sword,” Chen Yong said.
She had tucked her dagger in the pile of folded clothes. The Chief had said they would not be harmed. Archer had said he would help to get them home. But look where they were now.
“I’m sorry. . . .” She trailed off, unable to talk past the knot in her throat. She stared at her hunched reflection. Chen Yong’s bare back was visible behind her in the silver glass.
He didn’t reply. She breathed into her knees, not blaming him if he never spoke to her again.
“Can you . . . ?” Chen Yong finally said. She waited for him to finish his sentence but realized after a few moments he deliberately had not.
She snapped her head back to him. He half turned also, and tilted his head toward the doors, menacing with their gray reflection. Anyone could be watching. Anyone could be listening.
At that moment, the silver doors slid open and another one-armed man entered the room. This one was dressed in robes the color of agate. He was slender and slight, with the smooth face that seemed so prevalent. She assumed he was the Anatomist. He turned to them, the vertical eye intent on her, his two others scrutinizing Chen Yong. Ai Ling shivered, and she hugged her nakedness even closer.
“This is indeed a surprise. A real find by our Archer. We will learn much from studying you,” the Anatomist said in a singsong voice. He crossed the room with a strange gait, as if one leg was shorter than the other, and approached Chen Yong.
“The guards are outside. They see all.”
The Anatomist directed Chen Yong to the end of the hard bed. Ai Ling glimpsed the side view of his naked form in the reflection.
She shut her eyes and focused on the Anatomist, casting her spirit toward him, hoping to learn something—anything. They needed to escape, and fighting their way out was not an option. Not if they wanted to live. She felt the familiar tautness in her navel. She snapped into the Anatomist’s being. The clarity of his vision shocked her, the colors vibrant, the light filtered more pristinely than what she knew.
The Anatomist ran his fingers across Chen Yong’s scalp, massaging the skull. He twisted a strand of the hair and made a mental note of the color and texture. Through his eyes, Chen Yong’s hair was a mixture of bronzes, copper, and ebony. Fascinated, Ai Ling wanted him to linger there, but instead he tugged on Chen Yong’s earlobes and peered inside an ear.
The Xian male is tense. Not surprising. The pair will make good slaves—as well as their offspring. The Chief is much pleased. I must make careful illustrations of their sexual organs. Do they procreate the same as we do?
Ai Ling’s spirit recoiled, and she nearly snapped back within her own body.
The Anatomist worked his nimble fingers across Chen Yong’s wide shoulders and began tracing a line down the lumbars of his back. Chen Yong’s muscles tightened, became even more defined under the Anatomist’s touch; he rolled his shoulders, as if to shake off a fly.
The Anatomist gripped the back of his neck, with surprising strength. Ai Ling felt the cords of Chen Yong’s neck tense. “Cooperate. It will be unpleasant otherwise,” the Anatomist hissed in his ear.
She folded herself around the Anatomist’s spirit. She felt his confusion. He resisted, his arm slackened to his side, shocked into immobility at what was happening within his mind.
She could not fail. This was their only chance. She expanded her spirit and wrapped it around his. He continued to struggle, like a slippery fish caught in the binds of her net. Ai Ling held firm . . . until she had taken control of his physical body.
Startled by her own success, she stood frozen. Chen Yong cast a wary glance her way, his expression filled with loathing, danger.
“Get dressed,” she said brusquely in the Anatomist’s highpitched voice.
Chen Yong’s eyes locked with hers, gold flecked with dark green, the color even more stunning when seen with the Anatomist’s heightened vision. They narrowed, even as he reached for his clothing. She hastened toward the silver doors, trying to get used to walking with the shorter leg. A deformity he had had since birth—his history and experience were open to her in a jumble of noise composed of memories and thoughts. The doors slid aside to reveal six guards standing at attention. She looked down the hallway, trying to adjust to the brighter, more intense light and color. There were no other guards.
“Leave us. I need privacy,” she said. It took all her strength and willpower to speak with authority, not to tremble or shake. She gulped, feeling a small bone protrusion slide within the Anatomist’s throat.
A guard stepped forward. She knew it was the highestranking officer, Protector West. “We were told to guard the captives at all times, Anatomist.”
She made herself angry, drew the words and a snarl from the Anatomist. “You waste my time, West. Leave us.” Her captive’s heart beat faster. His spirit twitched. She felt a sheen of sweat begin to collect at his hairline.
“Archer gave specific instructions—”
“I am here on the direct order of the Chief.” She paused, to keep the tremor from the Anatomist’s throat. Slow, deep breath. “You abide by my requests, not the Archer’s.” It was true, she knew. The Anatomist held higher rank, though he would never have dismissed the guards. His furious screams were distant but shrill.
They stared into each other’s eyes, neither blinking. Ai Ling hid a trembling hand deep within the folds of the agate-colored robe, fought hard to breathe normally. Finally, after five heartbeats, West nodded. “Summon us if you need us.” He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, the other five Protectors marching in a precise line behind him.