Immortal

17

Night had fallen when I left the throne room, the moon illuminating my path. As I entered my courtyard, I plucked a handful of jasmine from a bush, inhaling its rich fragrance. A relief to discard the mask of decorum here, the need to guard every word.

In my study, I sat behind the mahogany desk, recalling how Grandfather used to sit here as he worked tirelessly into the night. This was how I liked to remember him, in these quiet moments—not the chaos and anguish of the night he’d died. My breathing hitched as I lay my head down against the cool wood. Remembrance was both the solace and bane of the living.

The doors slid apart, Yifei ushering in Aunt Shou and Chengyin. As I straightened, they sat across from me. Yifei set down a tray with walnut cakes, winter-melon pastries, and a bowl of mandarins. She poured the tea, then nudged the fruit closer to me, ever concerned for my health since the poisoning. Even now, the memory of it made me shudder: the bone-deep weariness, the feverish pain that burned yet left me cold. A familiar anger rose at the unknown enemy who’d inflicted this upon me.

“Being the First Advisor is more a punishment than an elevation,”

Chengyin said with a sigh. “Now that you’ve returned, I gladly surrender my position. My ears hurt from all the ‘advice’ the ministers have been trying to dispense. I would rather spend my afternoons—”

“Drinking wine and spouting bad poetry with Minister Xiao’s eldest son?”

Aunt Shou interrupted, glaring at him. “Or is it his sister you’re casting your eyes at?”

Chengyin flushed. “Our poetry is not ‘bad.’ Besides, he’s one of the few around here who doesn’t say one thing and mean another.”

“Surprising, given his father,”

Aunt Shou remarked with a sniff. “Minister Xiao is one of Minister Guo’s closest allies. Who knows what his children have been taught.”

“Children shouldn’t be held accountable for the bad choices of their parents,”

Chengyin replied with an irreverent grin.

“Children should respect their elders,”

Aunt Shou chided him, yet there was a tenderness in her eyes when she looked at him.

“Chengyin, could you bear it a while longer?”

I asked. “There aren’t many I can trust at court who are also capable. Once things are stable, I’ll find you a new position where you can host all the questionable poetry-reciting banquets you wish.”

“Can I be the Minster of Revelry?”

I frowned. “Do I have one?”

“You will soon.”

He grinned as he lifted his cup to me. “I accept your proposal.”

I laughed, raising my own cup to him. As Chengyin picked up a pastry and bit into it, Aunt Shou smacked his arm like he was a boy once more. “Remember your manners. Serve Her Ladyship first.”

He shot her an aggrieved look. “Mother, this is the same shameless person who used to snatch my favorite books and toys, who broke your precious porcelain vase. She even gave me this.”

He pushed his sleeve up to show a scar on the underside of his wrist, one I knew well.

“You deserved it,”

I said loftily. “We both broke that vase, and you were just clumsy enough to cut yourself on the pieces.”

“You pushed me into them.”

“Because you shoved me in the first place,”

I retorted, restraining the urge to laugh.

He scowled. “You shouldn’t have wailed so loudly, then. Mother heard you, when we could have swept up the pieces and buried them in the garden like I wanted to.”

I looked at Aunt Shou, shaking my head in mock disgust. “Parents shouldn’t be held accountable for the bad choices of their children, either.”

“Traitor,”

Chengyin muttered, even as his lips twitched.

The bond between us was forged through such remembrances. Chengyin and Aunt Shou were my only family now, not through blood but affection, and yet as close and vital. I wished they would accept the gifts and honors I’d gladly bestow on them, but they’d refused everything except when it would aid me, as Chengyin did with the position as First Advisor. While this denied me one of the keenest pleasures of power—to reward those loyal and deserving—it was also a precious thing to be loved for oneself.

“Enough,”

Aunt Shou said wearily, pressing a hand to her forehead. “We can’t have the Lady of Tianxia and her First Advisor bickering like spoiled children. If any of the minsters heard—”

“She can just order their heads cut off,”

Chengyin interjected.

I smiled sweetly. “I might start with yours.”

“There will be no executions,”

Aunt Shou said sternly. “Liyen doesn’t have the stomach for that; moreover, ruling by fear is ill-advised. Silencing worthy ministers, only rewarding advice that pleases the ear, cultivates a viperous court of bootlickers where nothing of worth gets done.”

I nodded. “I don’t want that, either, though it might make life easier.”

“The idea about the betrothal competition was shrewd. They didn’t expect that,”

Chengyin told me.

“Unpredictability will keep them on their toes, but it won’t earn you their loyalty or respect,”

Aunt Shou observed bluntly. “Right now, they fear the unknown more than you. It will take a while to change their opinion, but prejudices aren’t overcome in a day.”

“Are they plotting against me, Aunt Shou?” I asked.

“There are always plots when a throne is at stake. But they won’t dare move against you when you have the mandate from the Queen of the Golden Desert,”

Aunt Shou said firmly. “With her favor, your position is stronger than before.”

When I didn’t reply, Aunt Shou’s eyes narrowed in that knowing way—the one that made me feel like a child again, caught doing something I shouldn’t have. “Liyen, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t have the queen’s mandate,”

I said slowly.

Chengyin frowned as he glanced at Aunt Shou. “What happened?”

“The God of War tried to take the Divine Pearl Lotus from me. He failed.”

Chengyin drew in a long breath. “It’s a wonder you’re alive.”

The wrinkles across Aunt Shou’s forehead deepened. “The immortals knew about the lotus? I thought it was concealed.”

“As did I,”

I said darkly. “Maybe he sensed it when he healed me? Magic seems unpredictable. We can never assume we know how it works.”

“Those monsters who attacked us before—the Winged Devils? Were they after you, for the lotus too?”

Chengyin probed.

“It’s possible, but I hope not.”

An uneasy feeling to be a target, hunted by both immortals and monsters.

Aunt Shou shook her head. “Your grandfather said the lotus couldn’t be seized; it had to be gifted. How did the immortals try to take it from you?”

“An enchantment. They needed my trust for it to work.”

I wouldn’t say more of what he’d done. “Love”

had no place between the God of War and me, nor would it ever.

“How did you escape?”

Chengyin asked.

Quickly I told them of what had transpired: The confrontation with Queen Caihong, the attack on the palace, how I’d escaped with the qilin. I said little of my time alone with the god, of the ceaseless ache in my chest now.

“The immortals won’t let you go,”

Aunt Shou said somberly. “They will come here.”

Chengyin sighed. “We haven’t recovered from their last visit.”

I simmered, remembering the fires that had raged through my home, the ruin left in their wake. If the God of War intended to repeat his destruction, I’d throw his precious sword into the forge—after I’d run him through with it.

If you can, that unhelpful voice in my mind added.

I smothered it; I had to think clearly. “I won’t let them hurt anyone. The immortals need me alive—at least for now. They’ve learned that they can’t just take what they want from me. They need my cooperation to secure the Divine Pearl Lotus, else I wouldn’t have dared to return here.”

The god’s sword hidden in my study was a secret I was reluctant to share. This would attract more thieves than the lotus, both mortal and immortal, and I didn’t want to endanger anyone else.

“What will you do?”

Chengyin asked me.

“I won’t serve Queen Caihong like Grandfather did—devotion and obedience has gained us nothing so far. After what they tried to do to me, it shows they’ll never treat us as we deserve.”

Aunt Shou nodded. “I didn’t expect the immortals to be so cunning and underhanded. They spout virtues like honor and valor, yet are quick to turn their back on them to get their own way. If I’d known, I would never have let you follow him to the skies—God of War or not.”

Her protectiveness moved me. “There was no choice; I had to go. But now, they are forced to negotiate. I have an opportunity that no ruler of Tianxia has had before—a chance to reopen negotiations, to forge a new treaty . . . one without walls.”

“A new future.”

Chengyin’s eyes were bright. “No matter how large a place, to be fenced in makes one feel small.”

He frowned then. “These negotiations only work if both sides are willing and able to trade. Will giving up the lotus hurt you?”

The thought troubled me more than I cared to admit; I was no sacrificing heroine. “The God of War said I wouldn’t die if I relinquished it. Though we can’t wholly trust him, I don’t think he’d lie about this.”

I fell silent, unwilling to explain. Because deep down, I sensed the immortal cared for me too—just a little, but enough that it had enabled me to break free.

“What will you ask from them?”

Aunt Shou wanted to know. “We must keep the terms precise and clear.”

“To end our obligation to the Queen of the Golden Desert, for the return of our shield. To rejoin the world beyond—it’s ours too,”

I said fiercely. “We would still guard Kunlun; it keeps us safe.”

“Queen Caihong will not want to relinquish Tianxia,”

Aunt Shou mused. “Having the worship of the mortals also elevates her status, bringing her closer in prestige to that of the Celestial Emperor.”

My hands curled on the table. “We aren’t a prize to be traded or won. We deserve more than to be a jewel in the queen’s crown.”

“And we will be.”

Aunt Shou’s eyes were as bright as the silver in her hair. “But this negotiation will be delicate; agree to nothing without consulting me. We must ensure your safety alongside Tianxia’s future.”

Chengyin was studying me, rubbing his chin. “If the Divine Pearl Lotus is a part of you now, do you have magic?”

I recalled the tingling as I gripped the god’s sword, the fear in the soldiers’ faces. That was what power felt like, though I didn’t know how to grasp it. “If I did, Minster Guo and Minister Dao would have found themselves transformed into crickets,”

I replied evasively.

“This is a serious matter,”

Aunt Shou reminded me. “The immortals will try to retrieve the lotus at any cost. If you have magic, you can stop them.”

“I don’t,”

I said heavily. “At least, nothing I can use. Why don’t we have magic, Aunt Shou?”

“It’s the way of life,”

she said, her gaze distant and almost sad. “Mortals can’t channel magic, just as rabbits cannot fly. I’ve read that we lack the lifeforce that enables the immortals to channel their power. It’s a vital part of them—if their lifeforce is extinguished, they die just as we do.”

The thought didn’t bring me the satisfaction it should have. I straightened, clasping my hands. “We must prepare for the God of War’s arrival.”

“You seem certain he will come,”

Chengyin said. “Why not Queen Caihong? After all, it was she who wanted the lotus.”

“It’s the God of War who needs it.”

They stared at me. “Why?”

Aunt Shou asked.

“He was injured in the war with the Wuxin but is still powerful.”

“An injured God of War,”

Chengyin remarked. “They must be guarding this secret from their enemies.”

“From us, too.”

They didn’t trust us, or maybe they didn’t think we were worthy of the knowledge. I added wrathfully, “I hope his wounds hurt.”

“You are vicious today, Liyen,”

Chengyin said. “Did the great God of War offend you during your visit, beyond his attempted theft? Did his handsome form fail to win your good opinion?”

I scowled, resenting how close he cut to the truth. “Self-preservation. If he’s more focused on his wounds, he won’t inflict more on me.”

At once, his face clouded. “We won’t let him hurt you. Guards will accompany you at all times, armed with any of their weapons we can gather.”

I did not like being shadowed, and having seen the God of War fight, this seemed futile. Yet any blade was better than none.

Aunt Shou pressed her lips together. “We must keep this from the court. We must maintain the pretense that all is well and that you have the queen’s mandate,”

she advised. “Too many are still eyeing your throne. They would leap at any chance to displace you.”

I nodded as Aunt Shou and Chengyin rose. It was well past midnight, too close to dawn.

After they left, I headed to my grandfather’s altar in the corner of the study, crafted of ebony and mother-of-pearl. I brushed away the incense ash that had fallen over his ancestral tablet, replacing the flowers in the vase with freshly cut ones. Yifei could have done all this, but it was a privilege to care for his memory. Lighting three sticks, I knelt down and whispered a prayer, not to those undeserving gods—but to wherever my grandfather’s spirit was, a wish for him to find peace, to lend me strength for what lay ahead. My grief had not lessened but was changing—growing gentler, weaving nostalgia to blunt the sharpness of loss. Rising to my feet, I pressed the incense sticks into the brazier. Could Grandfather see them or smell their fragrance? Or did we perform such tasks for ourselves, a fragile comfort to lessen the guilt that we still lived?

I didn’t have these answers. But as though someone had heard me, a gentle breeze darted through the window, the wind chime breaking into a delicate melody. I stood straighter, my resolve hardening. This was not a game I could sacrifice; winning was more than a matter of pride. The immortal had underestimated me; he didn’t know what I was capable of. This time, I would show him, and victory would not be claimed by the God of War.