Immortal

2

The stillness of the forest was startling after the chaos of the palace. Above, the trees loomed like shadows of giants, blanketing the night. The darkness was eased only by the curve of the moon, the lantern of the skies.

I was crying, my tears soaking through Chengyin’s robe. Tonight, the pillars of my life had vanished as though the earth had split apart and swallowed them whole. All that was left were fragments I was trying to pick my way through: heir to an uncertain throne, descendant of the dead.

I missed my grandfather—a bitter realization dawning, that I would miss him for the rest of my days. For so long, I had leaned on him, and now I was truly alone. It didn’t feel right leaving his body behind, though we had no choice then. If we’d been caught, everything my grandfather had sacrificed would be in vain. The moment I returned home, I would prepare the offerings that would pave his journey to the afterlife, build him a great tomb, and lay his memorial tablet with our ancestors.

A drawn breath slid from me. At last, the effects of the Divine Pearl Lotus were wearing off; I could move a little. But what use was this now?

“He’s gone,”

I whispered brokenly, my heart brittle with pain. If I said it again, would it hurt less?

“I’m sorry,”

Chengyin said quietly, shifting me upon his back. “I will miss him. He was stern but always fair. Kind too, especially to those less fortunate.”

“We all loved him.”

Aunt Shou’s eyes were red, her voice raw with weeping.

“Grandfather is dead . . . because of me.”

Such heaviness sank over me, my grief bound with guilt.

“You can’t blame yourself for being poisoned, you might as well blame the Divine Pearl Lotus for flowering,”

Aunt Shou said fiercely. “Your grandfather didn’t do this because of you, but because he loved you.”

I closed my eyes, unable to stop my tears. Aunt Shou stroked my head, brushing the lock of silvery hair from my face—the one some recoiled from, the mark of the waters of death. Most days, I preferred to tuck it beneath the rest of my hair to hide it, but nothing mattered anymore.

“I know it hurts. It will take time. Though the pain won’t ever go away, it does get easier.”

Her eyes were haunted, as whenever she thought of her daughter.

“Does it still hurt when you think of her?”

I asked haltingly.

“Every day,”

she admitted. “But it would hurt more if I didn’t. And I’m fortunate to have another child.”

She took Chengyin’s hand, brushing her thumb across it.

Grandfather used to hold my hand that way, during those feverish nights when I’d been clasped in the poison’s grip. “If only I could trade my life for yours,”

he’d whisper when he thought I couldn’t hear.

And now he’d found a way.

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest. It would be easy to spiral into despair, festering in anger and regret—but I would not waste the life Grandfather had secured for me.

Live a good life . . . I want no regrets for you.

His last words were a comfort, except the thoughts in my mind were not those he’d have wished. I would find my peace after I’d secured our dream for Tianxia, after I made those who’d wronged him pay.

Yet a small voice inside me whispered that the immortals were not wholly to blame. My grandfather stole the lotus, and his heart was already weak when he faced them. They hadn’t killed him . . . though it was easier to blame them, easier to hate than to bear the unadulterated sorrow. Still, his fear of them had caused his death; they weren’t without guilt. A god’s anger was far more dangerous than a mortal’s, capable of inflicting far greater suffering. It shouldn’t be this way; such power should be used to protect the weak instead of to harm them.

The immortals might not have been Grandfather’s enemy, but they were mine. I did not possess my grandfather’s calm temperament, his steady patience and devotion—only broken once through his love for me. Despite the misgivings of the court, he’d raised me to rule, entrusting the kingdom he loved into my hands. Our dreams were the same: for Tianxia to be released from the immortals’ service, to bring down the walls that kept us in—yet our minds followed different paths.

What the gods did not give us, I would take.

My fingers curled, my strength returning in a rush, like falling headlong into a lake. My body tingled, my senses alive, the fog in my mind clearing. Something burned in my chest, searing against my skin. I rubbed it to find a hard ridge the size of a coin—a pale scar, newly formed. What did this mean? Had the lotus bonded with me?

Chengyin’s pace was slowing; he was tired after bearing my weight all this while. I tapped his shoulder. “You don’t have to carry me anymore. I can walk.”

When he lowered me down, I weaved on my feet. Aunt Shou caught my arm to steady me, her gaze searching. “How do you feel?”

“I’m all right, Aunt Shou.”

I paused, trying to decipher these changes. It was like a shell around me had broken, and I was just beginning to emerge. The fatigue, the cold, my aches, were gone. This should have been a moment of joy and relief, but it was rife with bitterness. I would trade it all back for my grandfather, but death struck no bargains once its victory was sealed.

“Liyen, what do you want to do now?”

Chengyin asked. “Rest here a while, or head to the wall?”

I straightened, raising my head. “We must go on. We can’t risk being found yet.”

I wanted to delay the moment when I had to face the immortals, not just because of the lotus but until I could safely leash my anger and grief.

“Will we be safe by the wall?”

Chengyin wondered. “There are only a few guards posted there.”

What need was there for guards when none could get in or out?

“Maybe that’s why Grandfather told us to go there,”

I replied.

We made our way as quickly as we could, and for once I did not fall behind. A gift, but at what price? In the distance, the wall towered, the red stone flecked with gold. If the heart of Tianxia was Kunlun Mountain, the wall was its body, fitted to the contours of our lands. It was said to be crafted by the immortals, for who else could have polished the stone until it shimmered like copper, enchanted to withstand any weapon, attack, or attempt to scale it. Nor was there any hope of tunneling beneath, for the magic of the wall seemed to extend into the very foundations of the earth—cleaving us from the rest of the Mortal Realm. The only way it could be brought down was if the immortals chose to do so.

Grandfather had told me the wall was built to conceal us from the outside world, to protect us from those who desired our secrets. But I was starting to believe it was also to keep us in.

It was quiet here, not even a single guard present. Were they all asleep? Had they become lax in their duties, dulled by peace? Shrines were built along part of the wall, the largest of which was painted bright ochre, the roof tiles gilded. A small statue carved in the supposed likeness of the God of War was housed within, wielding a spear in one hand and a sword in the other. While all gods were immortals, only those worshiped by the mortals were deemed a “god.”

The God of War was revered by those who strove to excel in his arts, warriors praying for his favor before any battle or skirmish. Offerings had been laid out of roasted meats, fruit, and small cakes. Before it lay a brass burner crammed with incense sticks, wisps of smoke spiraling to the heavens. The God of War reaped the finest of offerings, for the fear of death opened the purse strings of even the tightest miser.

The statues in the temples seemed so cold and distant, but as a child, it had comforted me to reach for them in times of need—when there were fears and wishes I dared not share with another.

“Do you pray, Aunt Shou?”

I asked numbly.

“Not since my daughter died.”

She gestured toward the shrines, her lip curling. “The gods ignore these humble, well-intentioned offerings, those desperate for their favor. It is the slights to their pride that snare their attention, causing them to strike us with misfortune.”

She faced me as she continued, “It was not prayers that saved you today but your grandfather’s sacrifice, his bravery in defying the immortals’ wishes. They would have killed him, had his heart not given out first.”

My chest clenched, her words resonating. “They didn’t deserve Grandfather’s devotion. Why do we still serve them, all these years after the war?”

Aunt Shou sighed, shaking her head. “Who will dare refuse? The immortals are selfish, showing little compassion or mercy when we falter—as they did with your grandfather today. They terrify, demand, and bend us to their will.”

“Devotion should be earned, not demanded,”

I said bitterly.

“Yes, my child,”

she said sadly. “But it’s far easier to demand it than to earn it.”

Aunt Shou led us toward a small building, the tiles chipped, paint peeling from the walls. Yet the courtyard was newly swept, sacks of provisions stacked within.

“I hope we don’t have to stay too long. I must see to Grandfather’s burial. The court will be in chaos.”

Already the burdens of duty weighed a little heavier. Though I’d been the heir, I had not liked thinking of ascending the throne, imagining my grandfather’s death.

“We’ll stay as long as we need to. As your grandfather said, we must be sure the lotus has bonded with you,”

Aunt Shou advised.

I touched the scar that had formed, the intensity of the heat mellowing to a soothing warmth. “I think it has.”

Chengyin was staring at the skies, frowning as he gestured to me. A fragrance wafted in the air, sickly sweet with a sourish undertone like rotted plums. It was growing darker, like the moon had been swallowed—unease prickling across the back of my neck. Had the immortals found us? Tall forms appeared on the horizon, drawing closer with the velvet steps of a cat. Their faces were like ours, though I recoiled from the sharp points of their teeth and the waxy sheen of their skin. Claws arched from their fingers, and small gray wings flared from their backs, something bright shining from their foreheads like a yellowish gem.

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

A tremor broke my tone.

“Why are you here, Lady of Tianxia?”

one of them asked patronizingly, a glint in its eyes. “Are you fleeing from your new mistress?”

The title jarred . . . as did the realization that they knew who I was. Terror surged, even as their contempt seared me. “Our land is under the protection of the Queen of the Golden Desert,”

I declared. “Leave now.”

Bold words, yet meaningless when we had little means of defending ourselves against such beings. We were a kingdom of warriors, trained to serve—yet mortal blades could not shed immortal blood, whether god or monster. The queen was reluctant to arm us with the tools that could wound them too, relinquishing just a few weapons to us, barely enough to outfit a single troop. Grandfather had given a dagger to me and a sword to Chengyin, and I never imagined I’d see them used.

“What is the Queen of the Golden Desert’s protection worth? Where are her soldiers?”

The creatures grinned as they closed around us at a languid pace. No need for haste when we were trapped.

Chengyin moved in front of Aunt Shou, his sword drawn. My hand shook as I grasped my dagger. I was no warrior—unable to train as rigorously as the others in my childhood, with neither the appetite nor inclination for battle, the sight of blood turning my stomach. Life in the palace surrounded by guards and attendants had draped me in an illusion of safety—one that had been swiftly ripped away tonight.

The creatures glided closer. Five, when one would have sufficed to end us. Light flickered in their eyes, the stones in their foreheads—was it the excitement of the hunt? The prey within their grasp?

Something sparked inside me. It wasn’t over yet.

I dove down, snatching up a handful of soil, then flung it into the faces of the monsters. A screeching erupted, their wings flapping wildly.

“Run!”

I yelled to Chengyin and Aunt Shou.

We raced back toward the forest, hoping to lose them there. These creatures could outpace us at any moment. In the distance, moonlight glinted over the roof tiles of the shrines. A rash idea flashed through my mind.

It is the slights to their pride that snare their attention.

I turned sharply, running toward the shrines as fast as I could. The monsters were gaining on me, one swiping at my legs with its claws. As I stumbled, I collided with the incense burner by the God of War’s shrine. It teetered, then crashed onto its side—incense scattering like twigs, ash spilling like powder.

My insides twisted. This was the best and worst one to ruin. Dangerous, to summon the God of War—but choices were sparse when faced with imminent death. Yet the god didn’t know I possessed the lotus they sought, and he wouldn’t kill me without cause. As the Lady of Tianxia, I could claim the immortals’ protection. Wasn’t this why we served them?

I lunged toward the offerings laid out by a devout follower. As one of the monsters leapt at me, I swung aside at the last moment—the creature losing balance and crashing into the plates of food. Cakes crumbled, pears rolling away as the cups tipped over, spilling wine upon the earth.

Claws curled around my wrist, nails digging into my flesh. Blood oozed, leaking into the soil, forming a paste with the ash. As the creature’s lips parted, a tongue slid out, the shade of a ripe bruise. A scream erupted from my throat, shrill with fear. Chengyin fought his way toward me, hacking at the monsters, but he was too far away. I was trembling as I raised my dagger, slashing wildly at the one that held me, but it struck my arm aside with ease.

“Halt, or the old woman dies.”

A sibilant hiss. I turned to find one of the monsters holding Aunt Shou, a claw pressed to the vein in her neck.

I froze at once. “What do you want from us?”

A taunting laugh from the one who’d seized me. “Relinquish your weapons. Come with us; don’t struggle, and you’ll be safe. Fight back, and we’ll dine on mortal flesh tonight.”

The urge to retch crested. A hateful thing, this helplessness—to be at the mercy of these creatures. Could I trust them? I didn’t want to; my instincts screaming, but was there a choice?

As I began to nod, Chengyin shouted, “No, Liyen! Don’t believe them.”

The monster beside him snarled, striking the side of his head. As he cried out, rage flooded me. With a burst of newfound strength, I swung my dagger at the creature restraining me, driving the blade into its neck. The skin gave way to a quivering softness, rust-hued blood oozing forth.

Monsters bleed as mortals do.

The thought gave me heart, even as the sight sickened me. As its hold on my wrist slackened, I tore free—but another grabbed me around the waist, lifting me until my head swam.

“You’ll pay for that,”

it rasped.

I kicked wildly, trying to yank free. Grandfather hadn’t saved me to be killed by these vicious beings. But they stilled abruptly, their heads darting up.

Fire carved the skies, seething and hissing. A blazing bolt hurtled down, plunging into the monster. Its shriek was like the shattering of glass, a hole gaping where its chest had once been—ragged flesh, quivering and wet. I wrenched away, my body slamming against the ground, the breath knocked from my chest. The creature collapsed on the ground beside me, its blood muddying the soil.

The heavens blazed, molten flame now raining upon us. I crouched down, shielding my head with my arms—but nothing struck me. All around, the wind billowed stronger, tearing my hair from its coils. Loud cracks ruptured the air as shafts of crimson light speared the ground, caging the monsters. Above, a cloud swept from the skies, bearing a single figure upon it clad in black armor, a sword of white jade and gold slung over his shoulder.

The God of War.