Immortal

5

The escort to the Immortal Realm was late, a discourtesy that was hardly surprising. A few courtiers exchanged impatient glances—their disdain for me evident in such looks, their shallow bows and increasingly brazen demands for lands and titles, anything they might grasp while the soil was still loose over my grandfather’s grave. They would never have provoked Grandfather so, but a girl they had all but written off?

I was fair game.

They didn’t care that my health had improved, that I was able to withstand a full day in court without flagging when I couldn’t bear half a day of lessons before. They wanted me to be weak, it suited them to pretend nothing had changed, that I’d never recovered from the poisoning. On the surface, I looked the same—my skin more pale than radiant, eyes the color of ink, a heart-shaped face framed by black hair that curled at the ends. A few stared at the lock of white hair left by the waters of death, then looked aside like it made them uneasy. I should have tucked it away, as I did most days. But none knew how my chest pulsed with new warmth, or the way I woke feeling rested each morning, ready for whatever the day might bring . . . rather than being afraid I couldn’t keep up.

I took nothing for granted, haunted by the times when the simplest things were a struggle. I went on long walks, grateful when I did not tire. Some evenings, I trained with Captain Li of the night patrol, learning the basics of weaponry and combat. While I’d hidden the sword the God of War gave me, it was now strapped to my side. No one seemed to notice it; perhaps it was enchanted that way. I’d never be a warrior, but I would grasp any chance to strengthen myself. Life felt new, alive with possibilities—more precious because I’d come so close to losing it. If only Grandfather were here. But all the wishing in the world would not turn back time, it wouldn’t restore what had been lost.

“We wish you good health, Your Ladyship,”

someone called out from behind me.

I turned to see the crowd of people that had come to send me off—not the nobles or courtiers who were obligated to be there, but those who’d traveled from the towns and villages. They stood a distance away, behind the line of soldiers. I smiled at them, feeling lighter than I had in weeks.

As I strode toward them, Minister Dao moved into my path. “Your Ladyship, you should wait here in case the immortal escort arrives.”

His authoritative manner annoyed me. “If the immortal escort is late, they cannot fault me for not being where they expect.”

Turning back to the crowd, I greeted them warmly. “Thank you for your well wishes. My health is much improved.”

“We prayed every day for your recovery,”

a woman told me, a sleeping baby slung against her back with a broad piece of cloth.

“And now we pray for Your Ladyship’s safe return from the skies,”

a stout man dressed in the fine robes of a merchant chimed in.

“Don’t let the immortals keep you in the heavens,”

an old man said with a grin, blackened gaps where his teeth should be.

“I’ll be too much trouble for them.”

I returned his smile, but it faded as I took in his tattered clothes, the gauntness of his face. “Is everything well at home?”

The man’s body sagged as he bowed. “A poor harvest in our village. Our crops were devoured by a plague of locusts.”

He added slowly, “I came to petition for aid, but was told Your Ladyship would be away and didn’t have the time to see me.”

A knot hardened within as I looked toward the ministers. “Who knew of this?”

Minister Guo’s scowl was swiftly smoothed away. “A small matter, Your Ladyship. We didn’t want to trouble you before your visit—”

“Starvation is never a small matter.”

My voice tightened with repressed anger. “Minister Hu, open our reserves to send rice and other supplies.”

The old man clasped his hands and bowed again, blinking away the brightness in his eyes. His gratitude did not lessen the burden that fell over me, knowing they’d suffered. More than a fleeting whim of mercy, the well-being of my people was my responsibility. As I stared at the faces around me, my mind drifted back to my grandfather.

“What do you see?”

he’d asked me once, holding up a silver tael as our carriage rumbled over the uneven path. He liked to visit the villages when he had time, and sometimes he’d bring me along.

“Silver,”

I replied with little interest.

His smile hadn’t reached his eyes. “For those in need, this is food on the table, life-saving medicine, a roof over a child’s head. Those who have enough often forget those in need—not because they’re unkind—but because it makes them uneasy, evoking guilt that they have so much while others, nothing. Life is inherently unfair.”

He had placed the tael into my hand, folding my fingers over it. “A piece of silver can change a person’s life, while it will do nothing sitting in a miser’s purse.”

Filled with remorse at my earlier callousness, I tried to give it back. “Don’t give it to me, Grandfather. Use it for something worthwhile.”

“Why don’t you?”

he had admonished me gently. “It’s our burden and our blessing to be in a position to help.”

I’d been tempted to give the silver to the first beggar I saw on the street, a young man with a smooth stump where his right hand should be. But there were so many—their hungry, hopeful faces tearing at my conscience. Using the silver, I had bought bread and fruit that I handed to them, along with the leftover coins.

Even now I could recall the light in their eyes as I’d pressed the food into their hands, the tenderness that had kindled—alongside the guilt. How I’d wanted to help them all and yet there were so many . . . children, even. I’d emptied my purse that night and still it was far from enough.

A lesson I never forgot, one my grandfather had intended I learn that night—to walk among the suffering, to know their pain rather than sitting in the throne room surrounded by privilege, shrouded in ignorance. Life might be easier but far less meaningful.

I straightened, fighting back the prickling in my eyes, afraid the others would see. And I wondered too, if this might be part of the problem between the immortals and us. Not that they were inherently cruel or vicious, but that they didn’t understand our suffering because they so rarely walked among us or troubled themselves to learn more.

My heart was heavy as I bid farewell to the people, heading back to wait for the immortal escort. The wind stirred, teasing the hem of my robe. Silver phoenixes were embroidered on the white brocade, the sleeves encrusted with a border of seed pearls, my sash fringed with jade beads. I clasped my cold hands together, trying to warm them. I didn’t want to go to the Immortal Realm, I didn’t want to face the Queen of the Golden Desert, to swear my allegiance when all I wanted was for us to be free of them. But neither could I challenge her rashly, for fear of the misery she could inflict on us. I had to tread carefully, using my time in the skies to forge a path toward our freedom—impossible though it seemed.

On the horizon, a cloud appeared, its muted glow akin to a glittering breath. Finally, the escort had arrived. As the cloud swept closer, gasps rose from those watching its descent.

The God of War rode upon the cloud. He was not wearing his armor, but a gray robe embroidered with a pattern of pagodas and cypresses in gold thread. His great sword was strapped to his back—maybe he slept with it too. My insides tightened at the sight of him. I’d have preferred anyone else; the journey would be less nerve-wracking.

I bowed formally to greet him, resenting the deference he was due. “We are honored by your presence. However, doesn’t the God of War have more pressing matters to attend to than to serve as a mortal’s escort?”

My smile concealed the sting in my words.

He stared back at me stonily. “I do my queen’s bidding. The Winged Devils have been trespassing more frequently of late.”

His gaze fell upon the sword by my waist. “The Lady of Tianxia’s safety is of paramount importance.”

“Yet you are late,”

I couldn’t help remarking.

His eyebrows arched. “Are you displeased?”

“I wouldn’t dare,”

I replied smoothly. “Any mortal should be grateful for the honor of your company.”

“Such kind words.”

His smile was cold, as though he could see through my facade. “The Lady of Tianxia’s grace is apparent to all.”

As I glared at him, Chengyin smothered a laugh. From the side, Aunt Shou’s eyes bored into me, a silent rebuke for my behavior. For some reckless reason, the God of War stoked my temper rather than my fear—but it would do no good to spar with him before the court.

I addressed the waiting courtiers. “Honored Ministers, in my absence Minister Guo, Minister Dao and Minister Hu will review the petitions, while Lord Chengyin will assume the role of First Advisor, providing the final judgment in all rulings.”

The courtiers bowed as they intoned, “We hear and obey. Long live the Lady of Tianxia, may she rule for a hundred years.”

Despite their words, their backs were stiff, their expressions sour. Such evident unease assured me of my decision. Minister Guo and Minister Dao were rivals. Given my precarious position, it was wiser to not favor any faction at court. Let them plot against each other rather than me. Chengyin would also ensure that my interests were protected, and he was only doing this as a favor.

He came forward, dressed in the dark-red robes of court, his black hat set with a piece of jade. Lowering his voice, he said, “Choosing sworn enemies to work together will ensure little will be agreed on while you’re away.”

“Maybe they’ll leave the kingdom intact then, rather than carving it up among themselves,”

I replied. “I leave you to oversee matters, to ensure those that need attention aren’t neglected. And keep watch in case of any unforeseen alliances.”

Chengyin sighed in mock despair. “You’ve just ensured my workload will be the heaviest.”

“Thank you, my friend,”

I said quietly.

He grinned at me. “Bring back a bottle of wine from the immortals as compensation and all will be forgiven. I hear they brew the finest wines.”

“I’ll bring two, and hide them from Aunt Shou,”

I promised, trying not to laugh.

The God of War was studying our exchange, his eyes narrowed. Did he think we were speaking of him? “We must leave now,”

he said abruptly.

For one with endless time at his disposal, he was impatient. As I stared at the cloud beneath his feet—pearl-white and petal-soft—I frowned. “Is this safe? It seems far too frail. Why not a chariot or flying mount?”

Even walking would be preferable, if one could ascend to the skies that way.

“The clouds we travel on are enchanted. No harm will come to you while I’m here.”

A pause as the god’s gaze flicked to me. “Now that I know your preference, I’ll ensure we travel differently next time.”

Was that a promise or a threat? I stared at his impassive face, deciding it was likely the latter. Holding my breath, I stepped upon the cloud, relieved to find it solid beneath my feet, cool tendrils coiling around my ankles. As the god raised his hand, the wind swept us into the skies. My fingers curled as I glanced down, my head swimming. From up high, my home appeared no more than a pile of stone, forests shrinking to patches of moss, rivers dwindling to slivers of thread. Overwhelmed by the endless horizons, the vast emptiness beneath, I caught myself leaning toward the god. Silence fell over us but for the thud of my heart, the rush of air as it surged against my face. I peeked down again, glimpsing the red marble wall that snaked around Tianxia like a trail of blood. Mist cloaked the borders beyond, concealing it from sight—was it part of the magic that shrouded our kingdom?

The higher we soared, the more violently my stomach churned. As the cloud swerved, avoiding a flock of birds, I stumbled, treading upon the god’s foot. His arm ringed my shoulders to steady me, his touch ice-cold. At once, I pulled away, thinking of how he’d slain the Winged Devils and how easily he could kill me should he choose.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No.”

I smiled tightly, leashing my emotions. Alone at night was when I unraveled, though even then I pressed a fist to my mouth to stifle my grief.

He tilted his head to one side. “Yet your smile is false.”

“You don’t know me well enough to judge that.”

“We don’t need familiarity to sense falseness,”

he replied.

“Do you really want to hear a mortal’s thoughts?”

I asked sharply.

“All you will tell me, and more.”

He examined my face, adding, “You seem surprised.”

“It doesn’t fit with what I’ve heard of you.”

“They also say I have skin the color of blood, fangs for teeth, and that I carry a polearm taller than a cypress,”

he scoffed. “Don’t just choose the stories you want to believe.”

The way he spoke . . . for some reason, I flushed. A ridiculous impulse; he should feel ashamed for what he’d done.

“Did you accomplish all you’d wished during this month? Your grandfather’s funeral?” he asked.

I remembered how Grandfather had looked in the coffin, the hollow in my heart when his body was lowered into the earth. Unable to speak, I nodded in reply.

“I know you’re grieving,”

the god said quietly. “I know what it’s like having part of your heart wrenched away—how hard it is to pretend life is normal when your world has fallen apart.”

Was he confiding in me? Or trying to learn my mind, to test my loyalty to the queen? “Why are you telling me this?”

I asked cautiously.

He shrugged. “Because I’m tired of you looking at me the way you do.”

“How should I look at you? My grandfather died because of you,”

I couldn’t help saying, though it was rash, unwise. A little unfair.

His mouth drew into a thin line. “We did not kill him, nor was it in our power to heal him either.”

“Would you have saved him if you could?”

Why did I ask?

“Yes.”

Against my judgment, his answer moved me. I stared at him, trying to uncover the lie in his words, but found none. Unsure of what to say, I fell silent, unable to shake the unwanted revelation that he might not be as heartless as I wanted to believe.

Our cloud approached a peak of blue-white stone rising from the glistening sands. In the distance, a mansion of dark wood and gleaming stone sprawled over the grounds, tucked within groves of bamboo and flowering gardens.

“Is this Her Majesty’s palace?” I asked.

“No,”

he replied. “Intruders tried to break into the Palace of Radiant Light earlier today, causing my delay. Queen Caihong commanded that you are to remain in my house for now, until the palace is secure. Accidents here can have dire consequences for mortals.”

“Why not send a messenger to delay my departure?”

I demanded, forgetting to soften my tone.

“Her Majesty wanted to keep you close, in case of other attacks—whether here or in Tianxia. While your palace is guarded, the rest of your kingdom is not. She could summon you at any moment.”

“I am at Her Majesty’s disposal,”

I said tersely. “Can I send word to my people? I don’t want them to worry at my absence.”

“I will send a messenger.”

His gaze was piercing. “If you wish to return, I won’t hold you here against your will.”

I wanted to go home, but this was a rare chance that I’d be stupid to cast away. The Shield of Rivers and Mountains was here, maybe even in the God of War’s home. And if it wasn’t, I might be able to learn where it was instead of returning empty-handed.

“Will I be safe in your home?”

I asked, as though considering my decision.

The god’s eyes flashed. Had I slighted his honor? If he was this easily offended, it was fortunate he couldn’t read my mind.

“Do you think I brought you here to harm you?”

His voice was low, like he was holding his anger in check.

“I meant safe from these other dangers. If you wanted me dead, you’d have killed me before.”

“You should be more careful with your life,”

he chided me. “Just because someone didn’t kill you yesterday is no assurance they won’t today. Alliances change, priorities shift, intentions are thwarted with ease.”

I quashed a spurt of fear. “I value my life greatly. If you prefer that I not stay with you—”

He made an impatient sound. “It was advice, no more. You are overly careless with your safety. Rest assured, no one has ever invaded my home. You will be safe there—as long as you obey me, and do nothing to endanger yourself.”

I nodded, even though the commanding way he spoke made me grit my teeth, even though I had no intention of obeying him.

“Give me your hand,”

the God of War said abruptly.

Instinctively, I tucked it behind my back. “Why?”

He held out a strand of red thread with a gold bead in the middle. “Mortals are not allowed into the Immortal Realm. Her Majesty summons the rulers of Tianxia to visit her for the pledge of fealty, so an exception is made as part of our agreement with the Celestial Kingdom—but only once in a mortal’s lifetime. While you are in our realm, you are our guest, and your actions are our responsibility to bear. Once your time here ends, the bracelet unravels.”

“What happens if a mortal stays beyond that?”

I was curious about these rules set in place to keep us out. Maybe the Celestial Emperor was concerned at the precedent this might set if every mortal under his domain wished to visit him.

“They die,”

he said flatly. “There are no exceptions, and neither Queen Caihong nor I can do anything to prevent this.”

He knotted the string around my wrist, but not tight enough to cause discomfort. As his fingers brushed my skin, our eyes met—a shiver running through me.

I drew away at once, raising my chin. “Then it’s fortunate that I don’t intend to stay.”