Immortal

46

That night, I went to sleep in Tianxia—and when I next opened my eyes, I was standing amid the clouds. The glittering sands of the Golden Desert stretched out like a bolt of silk, encircling the Palace of Radiant Light. Jasmine dotted the grounds, the air thick with its sweetness. Aquamarine bridges arched above, melding into the heavens. A cry rang out, a qilin flying through the skies, her mane the hue of flame, her body sheathed in copper scales. My chest twinged. Would Red Storm still acknowledge me as her rider? As she glanced at me, her jaws seemed to part in a smile, dispelling my qualms. Drawing a breath, the familiar fragrance here evoked a deep calm inside me—of peace, of belonging.

A tall woman walked toward me, her violet robe embroidered with orchids. Pearls encrusted her headdress, jade bangles encircling her wrists. The tilt of her chin, the set of her mouth, the way her fingers curled—all these sent a rush of remembrance through me. How could I have forgotten my mother? How could I have forgotten it all?

We stood there, studying each other as I shifted nervously. I was not the child who’d left, nor was she the parent I remembered. Though the Queen of the Golden Desert looked just as when we last met, I now saw her through new eyes: no longer the terrified mortal before her sovereign but with the guilt of the daughter who’d defied her parent—one respected, feared, and loved.

“Mother.”

My heart beat unsteadily as I greeted her, clasping my hands before me, unsure whether she would welcome or spurn an embrace.

She did not move, keeping a distance between us. “My daughter, you finally remember who you are.”

“Forgive me for forgetting you, Mother.”

We had always spoken with such formality; she had been the queen first, and my mother second. I wished things were different; that I could just hug her and know she would embrace my weakness, instead of fearing her scorn. And remorse filled me too, for the years lost, for not grieving by her side . . . for being part of another family, cared for by others whom I’d loved in turn. One did not replace the other but filled a different place in my heart, one that was wholly their own.

“You shouldn’t have descended to the Mortal Realm,”

she rebuked me, her eyes unusually bright. “You should have let Zhangwei go.”

“Why? Because he’s stronger than me? More capable?”

The words slipped out before I could stop myself. Maybe I was tired of her expectations, her attempts to mold me into the perfect daughter—of trying to be more than I was.

She took a step forward, narrowing our gap. “No, my child. Because I didn’t want to lose you. It was a selfish decision. There was risk on both sides, but far more unknown for the one who descended to the realm below. After all, we couldn’t find you for years; I thought you were lost to us.”

I stared into her face, seeing at last the tenderness and relief as she looked at me, the hurt that clung to her still. Reaching for her hand, I held it tight, glad when she didn’t pull away. Mother didn’t like public displays of affection, but maybe she allowed it now because we were alone . . . or was it because this wasn’t real?

“Zhangwei was too gravely injured, Mother. I couldn’t let him go; he might have died. I didn’t do this because I was being reckless or rebellious. I did it because it was right for us.”

“Yet look at what you’ve become—”

Her voice broke, lines forming around her mouth as though she was silencing herself.

I flinched at her words, Aunt Shou’s previous claim ringing through my mind: Your mother would never accept you, what you’ve become.

While Mother had taken pride in my accomplishments, she’d never shied from expressing her disapproval that I wasn’t as strong, clever or ruthless as her. “You could never have seized the throne as I did,”

she’d often told me. And she was right. I could never have done it . . . nor paid the price. Mother had united our kingdom, rewrote the fate of our people, inked her place in history. She was the blazing sun, and for a long time I believed it was enough to simply reflect her light, destined to be forever in her shadow.

But I was wrong. We each shone brightest in our own lives, unless we allowed our light to be dimmed. Our differences did not make us weaker; we were strong in our own ways. I had grown to know the mortals and the Wuxin in a way Mother never could have. This might have been a weakness in her eyes, but I believed it was my greatest strength.

I should not cheapen my accomplishments, letting them tarnish unseen. I had protected those I loved, saving countless lives—immortal and mortal. There was no glory in war, each side paying an unforgivable price, reaping a harvest of strife. The violence of the past should serve as a warning; its cost was far too high to pay again.

And so I had ended the cycle of vengeance, extinguishing the embers of war.

But standing before my mother, doubt assailed me anew, along with the creeping insecurities of my childhood that I would never match up to her hopes. Yet the most important thing was that I regretted nothing. Life was not about right or wrong but finding our own way, learning what made us happy, what filled our lives—instead of looking to others for it.

My time as a mortal had altered me forever. Once, I’d pitied the mortals, imagining them less than us—such short-sighted, insufferable arrogance. There was a wisdom among them that many immortals lacked: a relentless courage to face the unknown, the drive to make the most of themselves, to live life to the fullest. In some ways, they knew better than us how to live . . . and maybe it was because they were prepared to die. It mattered less how long one walked the earth or flew among the clouds—but what one did with their time, the legacy that remained.

“Mother, do you accept me for who I am? Can you love me this way?”

It hurt to ask, just as it hurt to be unsure of her answer. After all, I was no longer her accomplished immortal daughter, a jewel in her crown.

Maybe love was less about perfection than acceptance, in a way—our flaws alongside our strengths, the beautiful with the ugly, all those parts we tried to hide. Maybe we should stop expecting perfection from those we loved, the surest path to resentment and disappointment.

When she finally spoke, there was a softness in her tone that I’d never heard before. “My daughter, I never stopped loving you.”

The shell around my heart broke, the one I’d built out of fear of being rejected. “I’ve missed you, Mother.”

As I stared at her, at the shining palace of my childhood, I wondered aloud, “Is this a dream? Am I with you now?”

“I am with you always, even if you cannot see me.”

Her eyes lingered on my face. “In your heart, you know whether this is real or not.”

She cradled my cheek, her eyes sliding to my hair. Did she see the mark of the waters of death? “You faced such trials in the Mortal Realm and the Netherworld, such hardship. If only I’d been with you, to help you through it.”

“I wish that, too.”

There was a rare closeness in this moment, one of priceless honesty. “But this made me stronger, Mother. Though my power has weakened . . . I don’t miss it.”

I struggled to form my thoughts. “Somehow, with less I am more.”

“While I have never felt like it’s enough.”

Her smile was tinged with sadness. “I would give everything up if I had your father back. But there are things not even magic can accomplish, wishes that even the gods can’t grant.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I couldn’t kill them.”

My voice hitched. “I didn’t want to.”

“What do you mean?”

Her gaze was penetrating, like she saw my deepest secrets.

“The Wangchuan River was being destroyed.”

My confession spilled from me, though her spies might have already told her everything upon our return. “I could have escaped with Zhangwei, letting Lord Dalian destroy his people. The Wuxin would have been obliterated without sacrificing the life of a single immortal. But . . . there is good there, too. Most just want to live in peace, to protect their own. Just like us.”

When she remained silent, my chest clenched. “Do you hate me? For not avenging Father when I could have? I know it’s not what you’d have done—”

Her arms went around me, holding me tight. “I could never hate you. I am proud of you, my daughter. For doing what I could not—for learning a different way, one you weren’t taught.”

She pulled away to stare at me. “There are days when my regret is so heavy, I cannot stand. When I think peace would be better for us all, rather than ambition or vengeance. Nothing good ever stemmed from hate; its price is always higher than one imagines.”

I hugged her back, unable to speak through the emotion that crowded me.

“Are you happy, Liyen?”

she asked, searching my face. “Cherish what you have, don’t wait until it’s too late, like I did. Life is a lot easier when you don’t just dwell on what you don’t have.”

I nodded, thinking of all I’d lost, yet all I’d gained.

“What will you do now?”

she asked.

“I want to come home, but I can’t leave yet. My task in Tianxia is unfinished.”

I added hesitantly, “Can I even return? A mortal cannot live in the skies, and . . . I don’t know what I am.”

“You are my daughter. If anyone questions or insults you, they will regret it,”

she said darkly.

I smothered a laugh. “Mother, you sound like Zhangwei—always threatening first.”

“That’s why we need you,”

she replied. “You make us better than we are.”

Something in her manner moved me deeply, this new softness. Though we’d spent all these years apart, I’d never felt closer to her.

“As for whether you can come home, that will take time,”

she said solemnly. “We are bound to the rules of the Immortal Realm; as it stands, you cannot return. I will have to negotiate new terms with the Celestial Emperor.”

She sighed. “He’s a cunning one; he’ll exact a high price for any concession on his part.”

My mind worked quickly, thinking of my people. “You can offer for Tianxia to rejoin the rest of the Mortal Realm. To return our shield and bring the walls down, as was promised in the treaty.”

I braced for an outright refusal.

“Tianxia strengthens us.”

Her mouth tightened. “Do you know how hard it was to wrest it from the Celestial Emperor? It was only because we won the war without their aid.”

“Tianxia is not a pawn. The mortals deserve to live their own lives, not subject to another’s whims and demands.”

I stared at her unwaveringly. “The storms must cease. Rules must be set to protect them from the immortals. Mortal lives are as precious as yours.”

Her eyes flashed. “Are you negotiating with me, Daughter?”

I clasped my hands and bowed, sensing I’d pushed her as far as I could. It was enough for now to have seeded the idea, though I wouldn’t give up. “I will submit a formal petition through the God of War.”

Gently, she touched the lock of white hair tucked behind my ear, her eyes warm and bright. “I’ve asked the gardeners to plant lotuses in our ponds. They are waiting for you to see them bloom—as am I.”

My eyes stung. I cried then, raw gasps breaking from my throat. Such longing filled me to walk in the halls of my childhood, to sleep in my own bed. How it hurt that I couldn’t.

Not yet. But one day, I promised myself.

Silence fell over us, the wind blowing through our hair, our skirts fluttering. I would always remember this moment, carved into my heart: our closeness, our unflinching acceptance of each other . . . what made us different. What made us family.

At last she pulled away, wiping a hand over her eyes. I pressed a kiss to her cheek, my hand still clasped in hers—no longer ashamed of what she might see in me, of what I had done, of who I was.

“We will find a way, Mother.”

When I awoke in the morning, sunlight was streaming through the windows. My chest was at once hollow and filled to the brim. This was not our end; I would see my mother again.