She would make Zhong Ye pay. Ai Ling welcomed the grief and rage that coursed through her; hot, fresh, potent. She would kill him—or die herself.
17
The drummers beat a slow rhythm that filled her senses until her heart, the pulse in her throat, her breathing, seemed to mimic it—be captured by it. She gripped the empty vial in her hand. The attendants slowed and halted.
The banquet master helped her onto a carpet of gold cloth that shot a path to the wedding hall. Her feet would never touch the ground. She focused on the red dragons and phoenixes embroidered on the cloth as she took one small, painful step after another.
She heard the song girls, leading the way. Their song was now accompanied by flute and strings while the drummers thumped quietly. The hall hushed when she stepped inside.
She frantically searched the crowd for her father, for Chen Yong. She twisted this way and that until the banquet master gripped her hard by the elbow, pulling her forward so abruptly that she stumbled. The crowd was ten deep, and the curious faces of strangers blurred together.
A slight breeze shifted her veil as Zhong Ye stepped forward. She smelled his cologne. Fury swelled within her. She wound it tight around her spirit, steeled herself against him. He tied a golden sash into the double same-heart knot, then bent over her, fastening the other end to her hand. The moments of silence pounded against her ears.
“The bride and groom are one. The groom may examine his bride’s features,” the banquet master announced.
Zhong Ye lifted the veil, and Ai Ling saw her father and Chen Yong among the guests behind him. Their faces were pale, taut with worry. Tears rushed to her eyes. He raised her chin with two fingers, causing a stir among the crowd. Forced to look up, she tucked her spirit even deeper, using her anger as a shield. Would he kiss her? Bind her with sorcery? A trickle of sweat rolled down her back.
“Proceed to the altar and pay your respects to all those who have gone before.” The banquet master’s warm, strong voice resonated through the long hall.
Ai Ling felt a tug at her hand as Zhong Ye walked backward to the altar, leading her by the short sash as if she were on a leash. She followed him, stumbling once, the ornate wedding gown too heavy. He helped her kneel on the ivory step before the altar and knelt down beside her.
“Bow thrice to heaven,” the banquet master said.
She bowed three times, the breath crushed from her each time she bent forward in the stiff gown.
“Bow thrice to earth,” the banquet master intoned. Ai Ling bowed again.
“And bow three times to your ancestors, your father and your mother.” Her throat tightened. Mother did not even know her only child was about to wed. She wished that her father didn’t know either.
“Rise now, and drink from one cup as husband and wife,” the banquet master said.
A song girl approached with the nuptial cup—as big and deep as a noodle bowl, made of red enamel and inlaid with jewels. Ai Ling had never seen anything so elaborate, so gaudy. The song girl offered the cup to Zhong Ye, and he took it in both hands, forcing Ai Ling to stumble closer, pulled by the sash. He raised the ceremonial cup to his lips and sipped.
He offered the cup to her, and their fingers touched. Ai Ling took a deep breath, tried to steady her hand. She made sure her lips did not drink from the same place he had. The wine tasted thick and sweet, made her thirst for fresh water. The song girl took the ornate cup away. Zhong Ye reached for her knotted hand, and she clenched her teeth. His hand was as smooth as a child’s and cool against her own hot skin.
“They are wed! We celebrate now at the banquet. May no one go thirsty or hungry this night, as your happiness will only augment that of the bride and groom.”
The throng shouted congratulations three times in unison, the cheers thundering around the hall. Festive music and singing erupted again as Zhong Ye walked the goldclothed path and pulled Ai Ling, tripping, behind him. Ai Ling craned her neck, desperately searching the crowd for her father and Chen Yong. But hundreds of people swarmed around her, and she could not see them.
Zhong Ye led her to a massive banquet hall. The ceiling was higher than any Ai Ling had seen in the Palace. Red-and-gold lanterns cast bright light on a banquet table that stretched the entire length of the room. It was so long she could not make out the faces at the opposite end. Guards flanked the walls, still and silent.
Just as she approached her own carved seat, she saw that her father and Chen Yong had been seated to her immediate left. She rushed toward them, but Zhong Ye held her back. Her father looked so much older; the lines near his eyes, the creases on his brow. The tall table and elaborate chair seemed to swallow him. Their eyes met, and she nearly burst into tears. He half rose to his feet, but Chen Yong restrained him with one hand.
Chen Yong’s handsome face was dark with fury—so unlike him that it shocked her. Ai Ling gave a slight shake of her head. He saw and looked down. Please don’t do anything foolish, she thought. Please don’t.
The moment she and Zhong Ye were seated, the drums thundered to a crescendo, then ceased as servants presented each guest with the first dish of the wedding feast. Magnificent entrees presented in lacquered trays arrived one after the other. Fish, prawns, pheasant, and boar. Succulent roots, rare fruits, nuts, and tender vegetables. Ai Ling forced herself to eat. She lost count of how many dishes were brought.
Seated to her right, Zhong Ye ate with enthusiasm, washing the food down with one cup of wine followed by another. Perhaps he’d be too drunk to make a wife of her this evening. She stared at her bound hand, swallowing the bitter taste that had risen to her mouth, and listened to her groom banter with his colleagues.
The drunken din of the guests grew louder until the noise pounded within her head. She avoided looking at her father or Chen Yong, both completely silent, neither even pretending to eat. She scanned other faces; bleary, squinted eyes, mouths open for more wine, gaping with lecherous laughter. Her breaths came too quickly, and the room began to spin.
She pinched her thigh so hard her eyes teared. This was no time to faint. She needed to be strong—had to be strong. This was not the worst of it.
Before the last courses were served, Zhong Ye pulled Ai Ling to her feet. They walked down the length of the massive banquet table, receiving toasts from the guests. He spoke to them in a commanding voice, threw his head back and drank with each toast. She was silent, only pretending to sip from her wine cup. After over an hour, they finally returned to their chairs, Ai Ling tottering on numbed feet.
Finally a gong sounded, announcing the end of the wedding banquet. The banquet master rose from his seat. “The bride now leads her groom into her bedchamber!”
Ai Ling grabbed at Zhong Ye’s fingers. “Not them,” she said, barely audible above the noise.
He leaned closer. “What?”
“Not my father or Chen Yong.”
He cupped her face in one hand, and she didn’t flinch. “You’ve behaved so beautifully, love. Anything for you.”
Zhong Ye nodded, and four guards stepped forward. “Take Master Wen and Master Li back to their quarters. Secure them.”
Her father leaped to his feet. “We will go with Ai Ling!”
Chen Yong shoved the guards from her father. Airborne, he spun, fists flashing. But he was no match for Zhong Ye’s guards, who surrounded him from all sides.
“Daughter!” her father shouted.
Her chest seized. She drew a shuddering breath but did not look up as they were dragged away. She entered the bridal bedchamber backward, leading Zhong Ye by the sash. She felt the beating of many fans before she saw anything. The song girls were arranged in a semicircle, fanning the bed with graceful movements, as if in dance.