She felt a writhing struggle for control from the Anatomist’s being. “Stop this sorcery, female,” he cried from somewhere deep. His mouth jerked open, and she felt him on the verge of shouting to the guards for help. Terrified, she clamped down, her spirit quivering from the effort, and stumbled back into the chamber. The door slid closed behind her, and she leaned against the wall to steady herself.
Chen Yong was dressed and standing by the bed.
“Help me dress my body. We have to find the flying chariot.”
Chen Yong turned to her naked form, saw that her head had dropped to her knees. “What did you do to her?”
“It’s me, Chen Yong. I’ve taken control of the Anatomist’s body.” She heard herself speak these words in the high-pitched rasp of the Anatomist. This was not going to be easy.
Chen Yong’s features tightened with suspicion. “What trick is this?”
She felt her heart, the Anatomist’s heart, quicken.
“We don’t have time to argue. We need to survive this—for Li Rong’s sake.”
Chen Yong blanched as if she had slapped him; then his expression hardened. He nodded.
There was no time for modesty. With Chen Yong’s help, she pulled on her tunic and trousers. Her body drooped and appeared asleep, her breathing slow and quiet. It was unnerving, like handling her own corpse. She sensed that Chen Yong felt even more uncomfortable than she did.
“Can you carry me?” she asked.
Chen Yong cradled her body in his arms.
The doors opened, and they walked with quiet steps to the green stone stairs. Chen Yong’s sword and their knapsacks were tucked in an alcove in the smooth wall. He slung her body over his shoulder so she dangled facedown, and grabbed the sword. He shrugged as if in apology.
Ai Ling took their knapsacks and knew with the Anatomist’s knowledge that they had not been searched. The Chief had no interest in their paltry possessions. She felt for the lump in her own knapsack and, touching its coolness through the worn material, hissed in relief.
They encountered no one on the second floor and quickly descended the steps. The Anatomist walked more slowly than she was used to, the joints feeling creaky, the body worn. But his senses were agile and alert. She knew that it was just after the second meal, when most of his tribe were taking the afternoon silence at home.
The first floor hall was empty. They approached the door they had walked through so naively just hours before. It slid open, and they stepped into the bright afternoon sunlight. The square was deserted.
“I can’t believe our fortune, that the door is not guarded,” Chen Yong said.
“They are a peaceful people. Outsiders are very rare. Protectors guard the Chief, but not the Hall of Reflection unless called.”
“You know all this?” The amazement in his voice was mixed with a suspicious caution.
“This way to the flying chariots,” she said. “I know everything the Anatomist knows—though it is like piecing together a jumbled puzzle to make sense of it.” Her spirit strained to keep the Anatomist suppressed, even as he writhed against its confines.
They walked down a pathway lined with trees bearing purple diamond-shaped fruit, past homes constructed of wood and stone with glass windowpanes in every shape imaginable, stained in all hues of the rainbow. With the entire tribe at rest, the valley was quiet.
Until the Sentry stepped from a side path and halted them.
The stench of rotten eggs, Ai Ling thought.
“Sentry Amber,” she said. She sensed the Anatomist cursing as she spoke. His spirit twisted against hers like a fly caught in rice glue. She kept her face composed, imagined the placid features she had seen on everyone in this city.
“Anatomist, where are you headed with this strange lot?” Sentry Amber hefted a shiny club over one shoulder. She had never seen such a weapon. It looked like it could put down a water buffalo with one good blow.
“Our newest acquisitions, courtesy of Archer. I was examining the male when the female became sick. We are headed to the Healer.” She spoke with authority, in a steady, strong voice. She felt a spasm shudder through his weak leg. Hold still, Ai Ling. Show no fear.
“But the Healer is that way.” The Sentry pointed with his club at a path they had just passed.
“Yes, but I need to go to the Herbist first, friend.” A pause as she scrambled. The Anatomist simply screeched now, in an attempt to deter her, hide information. “You think I have become that senile since my six hundred and eighth?” She pursed the Anatomist’s lips and arched his brows. Had it been too long a pause?
The sentry pulled his thin lips into the phantom of a smile. “Greet the Herbist for me. He gave me a good concoction for my last sunsickness—even if it tasted of baoli dung.”
She nodded and walked past him, feeling his stare on her back.
“Anatomist!”
She turned, trying to control her breathing. The Anatomist’s pulse, her pulse, palpitated in his throat. Somewhere deep within, she could hear him hiss and struggle, his horror bordering on madness. He managed to jerk his hand upward, and Ai Ling crushed down on his being like stone. She guided the hand up to rub the smooth chin, hoping it looked natural.
“Do you need help?” The sentry cocked his head in Chen Yong’s direction. Her own body rested in Chen Yong’s arms, seemingly fast asleep.
“You really do take me for senile, Amber. He is under a bind of obeyance.” She let the words fall naturally from the lips. There was no room for hesitation or error.
The sentry nodded, his expression unreadable, and strolled away. Suddenly a loud gong reverberated through the city. The breath caught in the Anatomist’s throat after Ai Ling grasped the meaning of it.
The Eight Chants of Returning.
The entire city would now break their afternoon silence to recite eight prayers before resuming the tasks of the day. The city would soon swarm back to life.
Chen Yong turned to her as the second gong rang, the powerful sound filling her with panic. She did not speak, but instead hurried toward the flying chariots. The Anatomist’s breath came in short gasps; his heart fluttered and skipped beats. She led Chen Yong upward, to a small landing notched in the side of a hill.
Three chariots, open sedans with huge silver wheels, sat on the smooth dirt. One was painted a deep eggplant and carved into the image of a bird, golden wings tucked to its sides. One bore the resemblance of a mouse, gleaming silver in the sunlight. The final chariot was hewn in the image of a dragon, rendered in azure and sea green—so like the sea dragon that had carried them to the mountain of the Immortals. This chariot was the Anatomist’s personal favorite. It had the reputation for traveling the fastest.
“The dragon,” she said, and felt the Anatomist shriek and rattle against her in rage. A third gong reverberated across the hillside.
“Now you have a taste of what it feels like to be enslaved,” she said aloud to his struggling spirit.
“What?” Chen Yong asked.
“Climb in, hurry!” She flung their knapsacks onto the chariot floor, then grimaced, remembering what she carried in her own. The image of Li Rong’s heart tumbling forth and unraveling from its cocoon flitted through her mind, seeped into the Anatomist’s. He mewed in terror.
Chen Yong opened a door on the side of the dragon and carefully placed her on the bench.
“How does this thing work?” He looked around with a puzzled expression.
“We wait for a good breeze and push the chariot over the ledge,” she replied.
“Are you mad?”
“It does fly. I’ll push, then leave his body.” She had to shout over the reverberations of the fourth gong. It had better fly.
Chen Yong’s surprise turned to worry. “Are you sure you can do this?”
“I’ve done it so far, haven’t I?” she said, more bluntly than she intended.