Immortal

16

In the distance, Tianxia gleamed like a jewel amid the clouds—the violet mountains and glittering rivers, the red wall that snaked around the land. When the qilin alighted a short distance from my home, I slid down from its back. Such lightness swept over me at the feel of the earth beneath my feet, at the glimpse of the dark green tiles of home. Despite the wonders in the realm of immortals, nothing could compare to this fullness in my heart, the one of belonging.

“Thank you.”

I hugged the qilin tightly, wishing I knew its name. I would have died but for the creature’s compassion.

I released it, expecting the qilin to take flight again—but it followed me as I walked. Its presence comforted me, but once the God of War subdued the attack on the queen’s palace, he would come here. He seemed to mistrust the qilin, and I wouldn’t endanger the creature.

“I wish you could stay, but it won’t be safe here. Don’t you want to go home?”

I asked, sensing it could understand me.

The qilin bent to nuzzle my hand, its weight pushing me back a step. Then it straightened, springing into the air. Its wings flared wide as the qilin soared gracefully through the heavens. I stared after it until dusk crept up around me, the first glimmers of starlight peeking through the darkening skies.

Alone now, I pressed a hand to my chest. The scar was still there, no longer aglow, bearing no trace of the God of War’s dagger. Just the blood remained, which I wiped away, but what he’d done could not be erased. The Divine Pearl Lotus pulsed within me with its familiar warmth, a fierce gladness seizing me at the immortal’s failure to take it.

I inhaled deeply, shifting my mind to more immediate matters. What welcome would I receive? There would be questions, some I couldn’t answer—the most pressing being whether I’d received the Queen of the Golden Desert’s mandate to rule. No ruler of Tianxia had ever returned from the skies without it. How could I tell them I’d failed, and that the God of War was hunting me? No, not hunting, for he knew exactly where to find me—it was only a matter of time. Part of me wanted to flee, but where could I go? We were all trapped within these walls, those of the immortals’ making.

I wouldn’t run like a coward. This time, the stakes were in the open. When I next faced the God of War, it would be among my people, in the security of my home—though he could incinerate it to ashes should I push him too far. He was good at setting things on fire.

But his mind was sharp; I’d seen how he played weiqi, planning each move far ahead. He would be furious, but he wouldn’t let it govern him. He might rage at me, but he wouldn’t hurt me—not when I possessed what he most needed. There was only one way to secure the Divine Pearl Lotus . . . and that was if I gave it to him.

Yet I needed something from him too, even though I wished I didn’t. The thought of Queen Caihong’s anger sickened me: the catastrophic form it might take upon my kingdom, whether in torrential rains or violent storms. Did she realize how she was hurting us? Did she care? And though I wanted little more than to run the God of War through with his own sword, I had to extract a compromise from him rather than incite a confrontation that I’d surely lose. We were bound by need, by necessity: the God of War who so desperately needed the lotus was also the only one who might protect us from his queen’s wrath, who could persuade her to reach an agreement with me.

How could I share this with the court? I’d be handing the ambitious Minister Guo and Minister Dao a knife to plunge into my back. I had to tread carefully until I’d unearthed the identity of my real enemies—those who schemed in the dark, who’d poisoned me before, who weren’t afraid to get blood on their hands. If one of them ruled Tianxia, the people would be doomed under such tyranny. I could not let this happen.

As I approached the entrance, the guards pulled apart the thick wooden doors. I thanked them, entering my home. While I’d only been away a week or so, it felt like years. This place was at once familiar, and different—my mind crowded with new memories. Now I saw the withered flowers scattered across the grass, the parts of the trees cut away when they’d sickened, as I breathed in the frail scent of decay that twined with new life. So different from the ageless perfection of the skies, its ceaseless fragrance—yet a reminder of how precious our lives here were. A fallen blossom would never bloom again, just as a moment lost could never be regained. Each one had to count.

Heads turned as I stalked through the main courtyard. Attendants bowed, some retreating into the shadows—either alarmed by the urgency of my stride or bribed to divulge news of my return to their paymasters.

I stopped one, asking, “Where is Lord Chengyin?”

“In the throne room, Your Ladyship.”

“At this hour?”

I was surprised.

“Lord Chengyin usually keeps such long hours,”

she told me with another bow.

I frowned, wishing I could have met him alone, eager for news before facing the court. But word was already spreading of my return. I could not appear apprehensive, to give rise to gossip that would weaken my precarious standing.

I went to my rooms to change quickly; my stained dress would stir too much curiosity. Glancing in the mirror, I yanked out the sandalwood comb from my hair and dropped it to the ground. The ornament was as worthless as the sentiment behind it. Then I wrapped the god’s sword in a piece of brocade and locked it into a cupboard in my study. It was safer out of sight, though I didn’t like leaving it here.

I strode to the main hall, my brisk pace concealing my nerves. The court typically grew restless long before dusk. Yet when I entered, the calm was startling. The ministers stood before the throne, heads turned up attentively. Chengyin sat on a polished wooden chair beside my throne, dressed in formal robes of deep red and gold. They suited him well, enhancing his fine features.

When those closest to the entrance saw me, whispers of “Her Ladyship”

drifted through the hall like an unwelcome chill. Chengyin’s head swung toward me. Did he resent my return? A vile suspicion that was swiftly banished as a smile lit his face. He hurried down from the dais, clasping his hands as he bowed.

“Welcome home, Your Ladyship.”

With this, he declared his allegiance, quelling any consideration that he might supplant me. Following his lead, the court bowed, intoning a greeting. Minister Guo and Minster Dao hesitated before bending their heads, their expressions sullen.

I climbed the dais and settled into my throne. It felt unfamiliar, the seat too wide—yet I didn’t want to be anywhere else. “What news during my absence?”

I spoke decisively, thwarting any attempt to question me.

“Your Ladyship, a few days ago there was severe flooding in the east,”

Chengyin replied formally.

“Has there been much rain?”

Unlikely, as it was the dry season.

“Yes, Your Ladyship,”

Minister Hu answered, leaning heavily on his wooden staff as he hobbled to the front of the hall. “Relentless rain, without pause. The rivers swelled, bursting through the barriers, destroying the crops.”

I recalled the gray skies in the Golden Desert—Queen Caihong’s fury when she found me in the forbidden courtyard. Despite the deception, her anger then had been real. Was the storm the mark of her displeasure, spilling over to us? What else might be inflicted once she learned of my escape?

I hid my anxiety, gesturing to an attendant to bring a chair for Minister Hu. “Has aid been sent?” I asked.

“Yes,”

Chengyin replied. “Food and provisions. Shelters are being built for those who lost their homes.”

“Later, they will need support for replanting their crops.”

I hesitated before asking, “Were there any fatalities?”

“Several villagers were swept away,”

Minister Hu replied somberly. “Most are presumed dead.”

“Send more soldiers to search for the missing; prepare aid for their families. We must help bear their burdens. Inform me as soon as we have more news,”

I told him, my voice leaden.

“What of Your Ladyship’s news?”

Minister Guo’s smile masked his malice. “How was Your Ladyship’s visit to the Immortal Realm?”

“Everything proceeded as planned,”

I lied with a straight face. “But I was forced to leave earlier than intended, when intruders attacked the queen’s palace.”

“Who would dare attack the immortals?”

Minister Hu asked.

“They are called the Winged Devils. But the immortals’ forces are strong, they are in no danger.”

Against my will, the memory of how the God of War fought slid into my mind, his ferocity and grace. How would he fare without his sword? The thought pricked, when there should only be glee.

Shaking myself, I said, “For now, I only want to learn of any urgent matters here that require attention.”

“The court has managed exceedingly well in your absence, Your Ladyship,”

Minister Guo said silkily.

Minister Dao added, “If Your Ladyship is satisfied, we would be honored to continue sharing your burdens at court—to handle the petitions so Your Ladyship may pursue other matters that she enjoys more.”

A flagrant attempt to grasp power. Had the ministers found a way to work together? More than greed, this was an intended slight, one I would not meekly ignore. Not today of all days, after confronting the immortal queen, being stabbed by the God of War, then chased by monsters.

“Minister Dao, I want to be here,”

I said decisively. “Don’t presume to know my preferences. Your duties will revert to what they were, and all past petitions will be reviewed when I have the time.”

My tone emulated the way Queen Caihong had spoken to me.

His face twisted with anger, but he folded into a bow. “Forgive me, Your Ladyship. I only have your best interests at heart.”

Behind him, his accomplices exchanged furtive glances, their lips pursed. They thought me weak and malleable before, now they judged me as vicious and sharp-tongued. It was better this way. From the side of the hall, Aunt Shou cleared her throat, a warning to remain calm. When had she entered? It was a delicate balance, weaving one’s influence over a reluctant court but not yanking the threads hard enough to tempt rebellion. While I was far from perfect, I was beginning to believe I’d find my own rhythm.

I straightened, almost wishing I’d worn one of my gold headdresses. Clothes, crowns, and ceremony helped imbue one with the illusion of power. But wearing a robe embroidered with dragons did not endow one with their might; a cloak of feathers did not enable one to fly.

Grandfather would have frowned at such ostentatious displays, but he’d always been secure in his position, possessing an innate dignity and charm. If only these might be inherited along with blood. The court had willingly yielded to his will, unlike now. To many, I was a custodian of power, a temporary inconvenience. The worst imagined me a vessel for breeding the next heir, to be bundled away either as a powerless consort or in a shroud.

Minister Guo cleared his throat. “What of the mandate, Your Highness?”

he prodded as though scenting weakness.

I met his stare steadily. “Would I have returned without it?”

The minister opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Chengyin raised his voice to proclaim, “We are pleased to hear of Your Ladyship’s success.”

I shot him a grateful look as Minister Guo glared at him. “The position of your imperial consort still lies vacant,”

the minister informed me in a ringing tone. “Now that Your Ladyship has the mandate, allow us to propose some candidates for Your Ladyship’s selection? More than one, if you prefer?”

My hand itched to slap the leer from his face. But I smiled widely. “Of course, if there are enough desirable candidates.”

I leaned back against my throne. “We must prepare a courtyard to be fitted out for my consorts after I select them.”

Empty words to silence the minister, to throw him off guard.

Minister Guo’s eyes rounded. Maybe he’d hoped to embarrass me with his crude suggestion, but after today few things could shake me.

Minister Dao sidled forward. “Would Your Ladyship share her plan to choose her consort?”

I glanced at Chengyin, but his expression was blank as he studied me curiously. He’d never seen this side to me—harder than when I’d left, sharper around the edges. A thought struck, part inspiration, part recklessness.

“When I choose the imperial consort”—I took care to emphasize the word—“the person will be the one most capable and worthy of serving Tianxia, by my side.”

“A lofty ambition, Your Ladyship.”

Minister Guo’s tone dripped with condescension. “How will you determine this paragon?”

“A competition.”

I was pulling ideas from the air. A useful distraction from unwanted questions. “We are a land of warriors, most trained regardless of status. Those who are eligible will compete for my hand. But all entrants must be willing, none forced.”

While I had no plans of holding this event, even if I did, I wouldn’t want anyone coerced to enter. I wanted someone who’d want me for myself.

Minister Dao blanched. “Such a thing has never been held before.”

“If we cling only to tradition, we will be left behind,”

I said firmly.

“You will marry the winner? Regardless of their appearance or situation?”

Minister Guo probed pointedly. “Even a stranger?”

I blanched inwardly, imagining him scouring the land for the most brutish and vicious warriors, bribing them to his side.

“If he is worthy. Everyone will be given the same opportunity to participate, the same weapons and challenges. A warrior is valued not just for their physical form, but also the sharpness of their minds.”

I swiftly conjured rules to give the impression I’d thought this through, rather than it being a haphazard plan cobbled together.

“Weapons?”

Minister Chen repeated shrilly. He was a thin man with a straggly mustache, and—if memory served me right—three children of marriageable age.

I leaned my head upon my hand, dealing the final blow, one to ensure this plan never saw the light. “It will be a fight to the death. The winner will be the last one remaining.”

Maybe this bloodthirsty suggestion would finally deter them from the prospect of my marriage. Fewer suitors would be willing to enter the fray once a deadly price was attached to the crown.

Or it might leave those more determined, my mind reminded me drily.

Faces paled, whispers slithering around the hall. I’d caught them off-guard. The thought that I’d even consider this would make them hesitate, doubt their assessment of me as a puppet, easily led. If they couldn’t read me, they could not trap me . . . and maybe I would keep my throne a little longer.

I’d meant each word I’d said to Queen Caihong. I wanted to be a good ruler, to earn my place. But first I needed the support of the court—and if I couldn’t secure it by playing by their rules, I would make my own.