Immortal

7

I spent the next morning exploring the buildings clustered around the main hall, connected by the pathways through the gardens. The flowers and trees were immaculately tended, the ponds filled with glistening carp. While there were fewer rooms than my home, each one was beautifully furnished. To the east were the God of War’s quarters, while the rooms in the west were vacant except for mine. The library, kitchens, and attendants’ quarters were situated in the north.

As for the South Courtyard—I headed there the first chance I got, surprised to find the place unguarded. The grounds were surrounded by a high wall, one without an entrance or window. Gilded stars, intricately carved with eight points, were set evenly in a single row. Peach-blossom trees towered from within the courtyard, their blooms clustered along the branches like rose-tinted clouds.

My pulse quickened, my senses stirred. Something vital lay within, something the god wanted to hide. An enemy’s secret could be a powerful weapon. I dug my fingers into the stone crevices, as slippery as half-thawed ice. Was this some magic to deter trespassers? I scrambled up a short way, clawing at the wall—but slipped, falling against the grass. A bruise darkened my knee, fortunately the worst of my injuries. From the pouch by my sash, I dug out a small porcelain jar and applied some of the ointment to the swollen flesh, a blend of aloe and pomegranate. As the ache eased, a memory drifted back of how the god had healed me before, though my wounds then had been far worse. How easy everything was for the immortals, with the effortless power they possessed.

As I studied the wall again, one of the gilded stars gleamed brighter like it was polished more often. I traced its carving, set a little deeper than the others. Was this for a key? When the God of War forbade me from this place, he’d touched a carved ornament by his waist, one that just might fit here if I could take it from him.

After dusting the soil from my robe, I headed to the library. There were no guards, just a pair of stone lions flanking the entrance, their bulbous eyes gleaming as I walked past them to enter the chamber. Wooden pillars stretched from the tiled floor to the ceiling, inscribed with the characters of a poem. Lanterns with colored tassels hung from the beams, low tables skirting the walls, each one stacked with paper, inkstones, and bamboo brushes. A painting mounted on black brocade hung in the middle of the room—an elaborate scene spanning palaces on clouds, pagodas on earth, mountains and waterfalls, phoenixes soaring in the skies. As a breeze darted through the windows, the delicate tinkling of a windchime broke the silence.

All around were wooden shelves crammed with books and scrolls, each promising a safe escape to magical realms, a glimpse into the mysteries of our world, excitement and wonder in their pages. This was wealth. Eternity would be well spent within these walls. My eyes darted around, unsure where to start, afraid to miss something. It would take more than my lifetime to read everything here . . . and I had days, at most, or as long as the red thread remained knotted around my wrist.

“Knowledge is one of the greatest weapons,”

my grandfather had told me. “Arm yourself well, for there are times words can reach where a sword cannot.”

I picked up a book from a nearby shelf, flicking through its pages before laying it aside. Then I reached for another, one of poetry. More followed, books piling on the tables around me. I almost resented the urgency of my search when all I wanted was to run my hands over each volume and slowly unravel its secrets. If only I had a month here, a year, a decade. If only this place did not belong to the God of War so I could admire it without feeling this spike of resentment.

I lingered over a book that detailed the magic of immortals known as Talents. Their powers intrigued me, aligned to the elements of Fire, Water, Earth, and Air, with some even possessing the ability to heal. The God of War must be skilled in Fire, my home still bearing the marks of his assault. According to the book, there were also several things that all immortals were able to do regardless of their Talent: flying on clouds, healing minor wounds, summoning small objects, and shielding themselves from harm.

The doors creaked open, as someone strode into the library. I looked up, expecting a guard or Weina, but it was the God of War in a robe of midnight brocade, his long hair gathered into a silver ring. His sword was slung across his back, it shouldn’t be a surprise that he carried it even in his own home. At the sight of me, he stilled—as I did at seeing him.

“I didn’t expect you to be here.”

I gestured at the books, feeling a little foolish given this was his home, his library.

“Why? Because you didn’t think I could read?”

he asked coolly.

It cut a little close to the truth. “I didn’t think you liked to read.”

He folded his arms as he leaned against a wooden pillar. “What did you imagine I liked to do?”

Fight. Hunt. Kill. I couldn’t say that aloud, my mind searching for a more suitable reply. As his gaze slid to the piles of books scattered around, a frown creased his face.

“I’ll put everything back,”

I said at once, flushing at my thoughtlessness.

“Do you know how?”

His question seemed almost a challenge, one that offered an opportunity. “Yes, if you’ll tell me how the collections are organized,”

I said quickly.

“By color.”

He plucked a book from a shelf, angling it to reveal a green streak at the base of its spine, then glanced at the tassels of the lanterns hanging above.

“What do the colors mean?”

This would make sifting through the texts much easier.

He nodded at the painting I’d admired when I entered. “Use that as the guide.”

Only now did I notice the tiny characters inscribed above each section in different colors. As I studied the details of a painted dragon, I asked, “Blue is for mythical creatures?”

“Mythical?”

A note of amusement rang in his tone.

“Of course they are real here,”

I corrected myself, wonder battling with fear. Dragons were revered by my people for their wisdom as much as their power, but they were still frightening to behold with their fangs and claws.

“Red is for warfare, yellow for poetry?”

As he nodded, I continued, staring at the illustration of a courting couple, “Violet would be for romance?”

His mouth thinned. “I don’t read all the books here. Some are for my guests.”

Guests? According to his attendants, the God of War had none. “If I were immortal, I would read everything here. Your library is beautiful.”

A long pause. “That is high praise, coming from you.”

His tone lightened, almost teasing. But I ignored it, refusing to be drawn in. “I give praise when it’s due.”

“Then it means something.”

He gestured at the shelves. “You may read anything you wish from here.”

I smiled as was expected, trying to remain unaffected by his generosity. “Can I take them with me to Tianxia?”

“Only if you promise to bring them back.”

The gravity in his voice struck me. Did he expect me to return? Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible, according to the rules of his realm. “Then it’s safer that I leave them here,”

I replied.

“Do you have everything you need?” he asked.

“Yes. Your attendants are most helpful. I am glad for the clothes, as I brought none with me.”

“They fit well.”

His gaze traveled over me as he reached out to straighten my sleeve. The embroidered birds fluttered their wings, one soaring through the gray silk.

I started, pulling away from him. The birds stilled at once, one frozen midflight. “How did you do that?”

“The finest garments here are crafted with magic,”

he said. “But only those with a strong lifeforce, the root of our power, can bring them to life.”

No wonder the birds had never moved for me. “I appreciate your generosity, Lord Zhangwei.”

He inclined his head. “If you need anything else, you have but to ask.”

The key to the South Courtyard? But his offer was a meaningless formality, just as I was his guest only at the command of his queen. My gaze strayed to his waist, the jade tablet that hung from it. This must be what I sought. Out of caution, I averted my eyes—inadvertently looking into his. I reminded myself, this was also a valuable opportunity to speak to the God of War, one high in the queen’s favor. An urge rose to ask him about the Shield of Rivers and Mountains, but I had to conceal my intent.

“Lord Zhangwei, I was wondering where you keep the tributes from your victories. The weapons for your soldiers, perhaps?”

“A curious question,”

he said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to learn more, to ensure my soldiers are adequately equipped.”

I held his gaze steadily. “After all, our soldiers fight for you too.”

“I keep no store of weapons here,”

he replied.

“But . . . you’re the God of War.”

“The soldiers serve Her Majesty, except for those who guard my home. Their weapons and armor are in the Palace of Radiant Light. Any tribute or trophies remain there too. I don’t do any of this for myself, but to protect my kingdom and those I care about.”

His loyalty to the immortal queen was known to all. My heart dipped that the shield was likely in Queen Caihong’s palace . . . but that didn’t mean there was nothing of use here. He might even be lying, to keep me in the dark.

“Your concern for your soldiers is admirable. Few rulers think of those who shed blood to keep them on their thrones.”

His words deepened with intensity like this mattered to him.

“Does Her Majesty think of the soldiers of Tianxia, too?”

I kept my tone soft to avoid a direct challenge, though my hands curled at my sides.

“We value their efforts to keep the Mortal Realm safe—”

“Then, why not support us a little more?”

I suppressed the urge to raise my voice. “The greatest threats to my people are those from your realm—immortals with ill intent, monsters like the Winged Devils, or the Wuxin from the past. Our own blades can’t harm them. Against such foes, Tianxia soldiers will fall like rice before the sickle.”

To my surprise, he nodded. “I have broached this with Her Majesty. However, she believes the time is not right; there is no imminent danger on the horizon. Rest assured that we are considering the matter.”

“We don’t know when danger will strike—isn’t it better to be prepared? Or does Her Majesty doubt our loyalty?”

I laughed in seeming disbelief. In all honesty, I didn’t want to hurt the immortals—I just wanted to be free of them. “Even with your weapons, we have no magic. We are no threat to you. All we want is a chance to defend ourselves, should the need arise.”

“Her Majesty desires your kingdom to prove its devotion before—”

“We have been loyal,”

I burst out, my temper slipping.

“The loss of the Divine Pearl Lotus is a grave matter,”

he reminded me somberly. “If it is found, it would alleviate some of Her Majesty’s unease.”

Half-promises that offered nothing of worth. Even if I surrendered the lotus, it would just turn the queen against us more because it would reveal my grandfather’s lies—and mine.

“Thank you for speaking on our behalf.”

I restrained myself from pushing further when his position was clear. While I wouldn’t thank him for anything he did for me, his support for my kingdom was another matter. It struck me then: the God of War could be either a dangerous enemy or a powerful ally. According to Weina, his voice carried the most weight with Queen Caihong. It didn’t mean I had to like him, but I should conceal my resentment. Such pretenses turned my stomach, but I couldn’t afford a rigid sense of honor when dealing with the immortals—they already had far too many advantages over us.

There are lies of necessity and those of malice. I would do this for my people, for my own survival.

Feeling his gaze on me again, I looked up into his face. There was a cut just above his eye—not deep, but bleeding a little. “You’re hurt.”

“I was training with the soldiers.”

“Who inflicted that on you? Did someone manage to best the God of War?”

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

His expression darkened. “How can you determine who won without watching the fight?”

There was an edge in his tone like he was irked at my assumption. I blanched, imagining his opponent’s wounds. “Why don’t you heal yourself?”

“A small matter,”

he said with a shrug. “There is a cost to magic. Every time we use it, it drains our energy. I’ve grown used to ignoring the things that don’t need to be healed.”

Yet he’d healed me without hesitation when we first met, the warmth of his magic knitting my torn flesh together. Something tightened around me, another strand of obligation that I must rip away. An inconvenience to be indebted to the one I was determined to hate. I wanted to use him, not to like him—though I had to feign one to achieve the other.

I pulled out my jar of ointment, offering it to him. “Apply a little to your face. Not everything has to be done by magic.”

He did not take it. “Why don’t you show me how to use it?”

Did he want me to serve him, or was this a game? As his mouth curved, I glared at him, tempted to refuse. But it would be ungracious after his hospitality.

I pulled out the stopper, the herbal fragrance soothing my nerves. Then I leaned toward him with deliberate measure to brush a thin layer of the ointment across his forehead—trying not to flinch from the feel of his cool skin, how the cream mingled with the dried blood.

“Thank you.”

His voice was a little rougher than usual.

Something stirred in my chest, something I forced to still. I looked around, seeing a weiqi board on a nearby table. “Do you play?”

“Would you like a game?”

he countered, his eyes alight.

I wrinkled my nose. “You’re the God of War; strategy is in your blood.”

While I had played often with my grandfather and Chengyin, I wouldn’t underestimate his talent in this game.

“I’ll offer a handicap and play the first move,”

he said, already moving toward the board.

I paused. “Nine stones might rebalance the odds—but only slightly.”

In reply, he held up three fingers.

“Nine,”

I repeated.

“Don’t you understand how negotiations work?”

“I state what I want; no less. You have many centuries of experience ahead of me in this game,”

I protested.

“Not centuries more.”

He sounded offended.

“This isn’t a game of chance but of skill and experience,”

I said firmly. “Or are you afraid I’ll win? Do you only play when there is no risk of losing?”

The corners of his mouth tightened. “Very well. Nine.”

I smiled, reminding myself that it didn’t matter if I lost, beyond the blow to my pride. But I couldn’t yield too easily. Someone like him would relish a challenge more—and I also didn’t want to appear a fool.

As we sat down by the board, he handed me a bowl of rounded white stones, then began placing the ones I’d negotiated from him along the star points.

“You may change them as you see fit,”

he said. “Though I think you’re not as unskilled as you’d have me believe.”

“Skill is one thing, but immortals have the advantage of age.”

“Age does not always bestow wisdom.”

Zhangwei picked up a black stone and placed it on the board. “While time allows one to accumulate knowledge, it’s what one does with it that sets them apart. It doesn’t matter how many years one studies if one remains closed to learning.”

In my realm, age mattered: Respect was yielded to an elder, and tolerance to the young. Maybe it was because the years etched their marks upon us—unlike the immortals, whom it left untouched. It was easier to disregard time when one did not suffer its scars.

“At least you have the chance to seek all the knowledge you wish,”

I argued. “Moreover, the endless years aren’t the only advantage you possess. You have magic, nor does illness touch you.”

“Do you envy us?”

he asked quietly.

A dangerous question. “These gifts make you more powerful than us, but not necessarily better.”

“Do you think your people are as capable as us?”

It wasn’t disbelief or condescension in his voice, but curiosity.

“I daresay our hearts and minds are as strong as yours,”

I said carefully. “Given the same opportunities, we’d be more than a match for your kind.”

“Would you wish to be immortal? To have these advantages?” he asked.

I studied his face, wondering if there might be something more sinister behind these questions. Who wouldn’t want to live forever with their loved ones, to never fear illness and death, to have the time to read every book ever written, to listen to music without end? To be beautiful, powerful, and eternal. But even as I envied their gifts, I did not want to become like them—jaded and careless, almost cruel in their callousness to those they deemed “less.”

What use was a gift if it wasn’t treasured? But I needed to guard myself not to reveal my ambition, my resentment of their kind.

I placed my piece on the board, no longer thinking about the game. “Maybe, if there was someone to share it with. Eternity might be lonely otherwise.”

A safe answer.

He set another piece on the board, laying an elaborate trap as I smothered a curse. “Are you lonely?”

At his question, the hollow in my chest gaped a little wider. “My grandfather is dead. I have no family left.”

He paused. “He was a good ruler.”

“He was a better grandfather.”

My voice thickened with emotion.

“Do you still grieve for him?”

“Of course. How long do immortals grieve for?”

I asked, a touch bitterly. “There is a hole in my heart. I don’t know if it will ever close or if anything will fill it—but I also don’t want it to. I want to miss him, to never forget.”

He reached out, brushing away a tear that I’d not known had fallen. His touch was unexpectedly gentle for one who wielded a sword with such violence.

“I am sorry. I hope you will find the peace you need.”

His words seeped into the silence between us, my cheek burning from his touch. Was he apologizing for my grief? The fear his people roused in us? Or how my grandfather had died: afraid for his life, his loved ones, and his kingdom? It shouldn’t matter, yet it did—a little—that he cared.

This felt too real, unsettling, and I sought safer ground. “Grandfather was loyal to Her Majesty. He served her to the best of his abilities.”

It was the truth, until he’d disobeyed her.

“Did he speak of the Divine Pearl Lotus to you?”

Inside, I stiffened, even as my brow puckered in seeming confusion. Had this all been an act? Was this why he’d sought my company? As I was trying to draw information from him, he was doing the same with me. A relief that he was ignorant about the lotus, that what he sought lay inside me. I resisted the urge to rub the scar, picking up another weiqi piece instead.

“Grandfather said the lotus was greatly treasured by Her Majesty. He guarded it with care but warned me that many desired it too.”

I stared into the god’s face, keeping my tone steady. “Why does the queen want it? What does the Divine Pearl Lotus do?”

“That is for Her Majesty to disclose,”

he replied shortly. “Do you share your grandfather’s loyalty?”

There was only one answer, if I wanted to live. I placed my next move, barely looking at the board, a chill crystalizing in my veins. The stakes of this game were higher than I’d thought—not the pieces on the board but those played with words. I needed to convince him of my loyalty, that I knew nothing of the missing lotus.

“Of course, I do.”

I spoke with as much sincerity as I could muster. “I remember my grandfather’s lessons. Tianxia is loyal to Her Majesty.”

A brief pause as he contemplated the board. “It’s not been an easy time for your kingdom or ours,”

he admitted. “We suffered great losses in the battle with the Wuxin. Her Majesty in particular, with the death of her husband. She has not recovered from her sorrow.”

My kingdom had suffered from it. “Have you served Her Majesty for long?” I asked.

“She is my queen. I am her loyal subject.”

“What if Her Majesty errs? What if she’s in the wrong?”

I smiled like it was a joke.

“Right or wrong is often a matter of perspective.”

“A villain’s defense,”

I scoffed.

“Or a hero’s excuse,”

he returned. “Which do you imagine in this case?”

“Neither.”

I would not be trapped.

We continued playing in silence. Words could be treacherous, as slippery as the riverbank, where one misplaced step could plunge you into waters too deep. Once spoken, they could not be forgotten, imbued with an unpredictable power that blurred fantasy and reality, spinning lies into truth. I had risked too much already.

He made his moves more swiftly now, moving to encircle territories and capture my stones with appalling ease. I played halfheartedly, neither attacking nor defending with care, instead studying his technique for another day. When our game was over, a frown creased his face. Was he disappointed? I’d been a poor opponent, but I’d also barely tried. One day I’d show him what I was capable of; he would learn not to underestimate me then. For now, it was safer that he did.

As I rose to leave, he glanced up at me. “I will be away tomorrow morning. Would you take your evening meal with me? Maybe we could play again?”

I did not want to eat with him, much less lose another game. But my wants could not always govern my actions; I had to think beyond myself to what my kingdom needed. I could refuse under the pretense of an excuse, remaining confined to my rooms. Or I could use this opportunity to learn what I needed, to cultivate a powerful relationship that might help my people. It was time to stop being afraid of the immortals—to see them as equals, whether as villains or allies. It was time we used them, rather than seeking their approval.

He drew back, his expression shuttering. “It’s an invitation, not a demand. If you prefer otherwise—”

“I would like to.”

My answer was wooden, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Till tomorrow.”

A shadow of a smile played on his lips as he turned away. At least with him gone tomorrow, I could explore his home in peace. I should be relieved at his absence, yet when he left the library, for some reason it felt a little empty.