Immortal

19

As we walked toward the dining hall, those we passed turned to stare, more at the God of War than me. Even without his armor, he cut a striking and forbidding figure, moving with predatory grace. He didn’t speak but studied everything we passed. Did my home appear dull to him, used to the perfection of his realm, the effortless opulence? I loved my home, yet could not deny the wear in the buildings, the faded paintings, the chipped tiles that hadn’t been replaced. Was he judging us, finding us wanting? Grandfather preferred to channel our limited funds into strengthening the kingdom rather than gilding our domain—but what would an immortal know of that with their mountains of jade? Moreover, the God of War’s attack had left far too many things in need of urgent repair.

“What are you thinking about with that look on your face?” he asked.

I pointed at a charred pillar ahead. “Whether you’re admiring the marks of your rage.”

His gaze followed mine, his jaw tightening. “It wasn’t because of anger.”

“Then why? To punish us? To force us into submission?”

My voice cracked as I fought for calm.

“Your grandfather failed in his duty. He ignored Her Majesty’s command. Such defiance could not go unpunished.”

He paused, then added, “Only later did I realize he did it to save you.”

“Would it have made a difference? Or would you still have attacked and burned my home?”

His expression was grave. “Buildings can be repaired.”

It struck me then, he hadn’t hurt my people that day. There had been fire and smoke, terror and chaos . . . but no blood spilled. Only Grandfather had been lost—my heart clenched at the thought—and even then, I could not wholly blame the immortals for his death. I used to think the God of War relished bloodshed, that he thrived on it—but now I wasn’t so sure. It didn’t matter; this changed nothing of what he’d done to me.

“It will cost us more than we have to restore it all,”

I told him. “We have no magic, no endless source of treasure. Everything here has a price; the gold to fix a roof could have been put toward a new school.”

“I will pay for the repairs,”

he said with hesitation. “This was my doing.”

My pride wanted me to refuse, but why should my kingdom suffer? I wouldn’t thank him though; this wasn’t kindness, it was guilt. “You may discuss the reparations with my First Advisor,”

I said coldly.

“Stop acting like this.”

He moved toward me. “I know you’re angry with me, that you’ve been wronged, that you might even think you hate me—”

“Oh, I do,”

I interjected, raising my chin.

Fine creases formed at the corners of his mouth. “You have every right to feel this way, but I hope you will listen with an open mind.”

My eyes narrowed. “If this is your ‘apology,’ it’s wholly inadequate.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Nothing from the God of War. Why should I listen, when you don’t offer the same courtesy?”

It was becoming harder to speak, like a vise was tightening around my chest. “You immortals lash out when you feel slighted or wronged, but what of the times you fail us?”

“I do listen; I’m trying. I don’t want us to be at odds.”

He held my gaze. “Believe me when I say we want the same things—we just need to figure out how to get them, together.”

I didn’t reply, yet his words resonated. As we entered the dining hall, the courtiers rose, intoning a greeting. Minister Dao was still holding a roasted quail leg but I ignored the disrespect; there was no need to reveal how little regard he had for me. As Chengyin came forward to greet me, his eyes darted to the God of War, widening in shock.

Chengyin recovered swiftly, clasping his hands and bowing. “We are honored by your presence, Great Immortal. If we’d known in advance, we would have prepared a banquet to welcome you.”

He smoothly offered the courtesies that I should have. I kept a meaningless smile on my face to appease those staring at us—even as the thought of holding a banquet to celebrate this wretched immortal choked me like a bone stuck in my throat.

Several small tables were arranged around mine on the dais, all of which were occupied. The nearest available one was halfway down the hall, which suited me well. I gestured toward it as I took my seat. “Why don’t you sit there, Lord Zhangwei? An attendant will bring you the finest—”

He stalked toward me before I’d finished, his teeth clenched as he said, “Your Ladyship is most kind. However, as I came to see you, I will sit by your side.”

“There is no space,”

I told him flatly. “Perhaps another time.”

The God of War turned to the man on the other side of me—Minister Guo—who shot to his feet at once. Muttering an unintelligible apology, he scrambled away as though I had the plague. His dining partner, Minister Xiao, also rose and left—followed by a swift vacating of the other occupants on the dais. Soon, only Chengyin remained, his expression decidedly pained.

Lord Zhangwei’s lips slanted into a mirthless smile as he took Minister Guo’s seat. “Your court is most hospitable. There is ample space now.”

“You have a wonderful way with people,”

Chengyin remarked in a strained voice. “If only I possessed that skill.”

“The ability to terrify with a single look?”

I replied. “You’d need to have done a lot of terrible things to earn a reputation like that.”

Chengyin grinned. “Imagine how useful it would be for us at court.”

“Us?”

Lord Zhangwei repeated in a deceptively light tone.

An idea sparked. One that might offer a veil of protection from further entanglements with the immortal—and as importantly, from my own wavering heart. I cleared my throat, casting a meaningful look at Chengyin. He frowned but nodded, offering his support though he didn’t know what it entailed. A decision he might soon regret.

“Chengyin is my betrothed.”

I spoke swiftly, not giving myself time to doubt, dropping my voice so no one else could hear. Chengyin went pale but inclined his head shakily, in acceptance of my claim.

“I ask for your discretion, Lord Zhangwei,”

I added. “This news has not been shared yet with the rest of the court—a secret. However, our engagement was planned long ago; Chengyin and I have been close since we were children.”

Lord Zhangwei’s gaze slid to Chengyin, then back to me. “Is this true? You are engaged?”

I braced at his tone, both silken and deadly. “Maybe it’s different in the realm above, but it is a mortal custom to congratulate a betrothed couple.”

“Except you have not been behaving like someone who is betrothed,”

he lashed out.

His anger fed my own. “How dare you imply that I’ve done anything inappropriate? What about your behavior? I owe you nothing; you have no claim over me, and I couldn’t care less what you do.”

A deathly silence fell over us. “Congratulations,”

the God of War said at last, his eyes ablaze. He leaned forward then, to whisper into my ear, “But I don’t give up that easily.”

I stared ahead like I hadn’t heard him—even as something kindled inside me, something I swiftly smothered.

Chengyin spoke, filling in the silence. “We accept your good wishes,”

he said weakly, gesturing for an attendant to pour more wine. I was tempted to ask for a cup, though I tended to abstain from it. In my position, the barest slip of control could have dire consequences.

I’d hoped the immortal would leave after my announcement, but he remained beside me as an attendant hurriedly cleared his table, another bringing fresh food and wine. He lifted the wine cup to his lips and tossed down its contents—then once again, after the attendant refilled it.

Chengyin tugged my sleeve. “Why did you tell the God of War we’re betrothed?”

he whispered urgently. “Why does he look like he wants to throttle me?”

I shrugged. “Killing runs in his blood.”

“That’s not funny.”

Chengyin scowled. “You’re going to have to find yourself another fiancé. Or rather, another victim.”

“Don’t you dare.”

I smiled widely for Lord Zhangwei’s benefit. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

“I’m not sure you can stop him.”

Chengyin sighed as he began filling my plate with food: thin slices of beef, tender pea shoots, noodles garnished with shrimp. “Since we’re doing this, let’s make it look good.”

“Thank you,”

I said gratefully.

“Our esteemed God of War looked ready to flay someone from the moment you both arrived. What did you do to provoke him?”

Chengyin asked.

“Maybe he provoked me?”

I retorted.

“Your temper is undoubtedly shorter than usual.”

I let out a drawn breath. “Chengyin, are you on his side or mine?”

“A hard question. Both of you possess the power of removing my head from my neck. I like it where it is.”

“Your Ladyship,”

Lord Zhangwei drawled from beside me, the wine cup in his hands. “Perhaps we should begin our negotiations?”

I glanced at the court. Even though it was just the three of us on the dais, all eyes were upon us. “Later. In my chamber,”

I said unthinkingly.

“Is that an invitation?”

His smile was knife-sharp. “I wouldn’t want to trespass.”

“To talk, nothing more.”

I enunciated each word.

“A pity,”

he murmured, his gaze pinning mine.

Against my will, a memory surfaced . . . of when he’d placed the comb in my hair, his fingers gliding down the curve of my neck, his breath against my ear. My throat went dry. “Why do you keep playing this game? You know none of it was real,”

I said in a low voice.

“What if it was?”

We stared at each other in silence. Was this another trick? Chengyin cleared his throat then, a fortunate distraction. “What brings you to our realm, Honored Immortal?”

“A delicate negotiation. If I can come to terms with the Lady of Tianxia,”

he replied.

Chengyin nodded sagely. “I defer to Her Ladyship in these matters.”

“A most accommodating consort.”

Lord Zhangwei’s tone reminded me of silk yanked taut.

“Yes, he is. Unlike others I can think of.”

I searched the hall, seeking a way to loosen the coiled tension, to divert the guests who were staring at us. “Do we have any entertainment planned for tonight?”

I asked aloud.

A musician came forward, a slender woman in a peach robe. Her instrument was shaped like an elongated pear, lacquered in black. As she took the seat in the middle of the hall, her hands plucked the strings of her lute with the skill of a true master.

The God of War’s attention shifted to the musician, and I hated how acutely aware I was of it. A vigilant attendant was refilling his cup, which he’d emptied with startling speed. My chest tightened. Was he attracted to the lute player? He was not the only one; the crowd watched her with reverence. Moreover, as an accomplished musician, it was natural to admire the talent in another.

“Would you like an introduction? Perhaps you might join her in a duet?”

On the surface, I sounded like a solicitous host, yet it was plunging the knife in deeper.

“I can introduce myself.”

He rose and walked over to the musician, indifferent to the attention he was stirring.

The musician started at the sight of him, her fingers halting mid song. But then she rose and greeted him with a graceful bow. He spoke to her in hushed tones, gesturing for an attendant to bring another chair and instrument. As he arranged the qin across his lap, the musician stared at him, her turn to be transfixed. The melody they played rippled forth in seamless unison, a joyous one. They played exquisitely, his hard features a foil to her delicate loveliness.

As though enchanted, the guests smiled as they stared at the pair. I fought to remain indifferent. Once I had let the beauty of his music cloud my mind, imagining there were other layers to the God of War. A costly mistake. Let him be attracted to another; it was better this way.

Yet how it rankled, how it gnawed at me. At the end of the song, the guests rose, clapping in earnest. Lord Zhangwei invited the musician to sit beside him at his table—it was his right as a guest, though how it stung. I buried the sensation, smiling until my jaw ached, wishing I were anywhere but here.