Immortal

47

The candlelight wavered, close to the end of its wick. I sat by my desk beside a pile of unread scrolls, my mind wandering. Where was Zhangwei? He’d returned to the skies over a month ago; he had his duties as I had mine—but his absence left a hollow in my heart, one that only he could fill.

After everything, I should be secure in his love. Yet when I was tired and alone, as tonight, doubt slunk in like a thief through an open window. What if he’d changed his mind? What if he’d tired of me? I was not the immortal he’d fallen in love with, not even the mortal he’d pursued. There were times I no longer knew who I was.

Yet there was so much to be grateful for. Zhangwei and I had escaped. My people were safe, the threat of the Wuxin no longer darkening our horizon. Soon, I would begin negotiations with the immortals to release Tianxia. And Chengyin had recovered, though he was still shaken from his ordeal. I had spent many mornings sitting with him in his garden before heading to court.

“Do you remember anything of your time in the Netherworld?”

I had asked him.

His face had shuttered, his body flinching.

“You don’t have to tell me,”

I said at once, regretting having upset him.

“I want to,”

he assured me. “I was there, yet I couldn’t control anything I said or did. When I tried to fight, it would hurt—the pain only easing once I stopped resisting. It was like being trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t awaken from, my mind endlessly screaming for release.”

I laid my hand over his, holding it firmly. “I’m sorry you suffered this.”

His voice dropped as he added, “The worst part was when he used me to threaten you, to hurt Mother.”

“You stopped him. If you hadn’t, we’d still be trapped in the Netherworld.”

“Only because you wouldn’t leave me.”

His eyes were haunted as he raised them to mine. “Do you think Mother is well?”

The question echoed what Aunt Shou had asked me in the Netherworld. “She is stronger than any of us knew. Wiser, too. And I know she is thinking of you every day.”

“No matter who she is—Wuxin or mortal—I love her,”

he’d said in a low voice. “She will always be my mother, the one who took me in when no one wanted to.”

Aunt Shou had been part of my life for so long, sometimes I caught myself looking for her when I was uncertain, expecting to hear her voice ringing out when I’d said something I should not.

“I love her too,”

I admitted, for the first time since learning who she was. My anger and resentment toward Aunt Shou weren’t because she was a Wuxin, but because of her deceit. Deep down, she was the aunt I’d always known and loved, the one who’d set us free in the end.

When I first returned home, suspicious looks were cast my way, a few of the ministers whispering among themselves. Was it the subtle glow that cloaked my skin, the faint thrum of magic in my presence, the hardening of my manner? I was no longer the girl they’d condescended to, who’d tried to fight back in her own way—though I missed her at times. When Minister Guo led the furtive calls to cast me from the throne, I’d moved swiftly, stripping him of his position and banishing him from the palace.

The courtiers no longer made me feel nervous—their quarrels, once my bane, were now a nuisance. The threat of war, of death, being trapped in Lord Dalian’s court, had shifted my perspective.

It didn’t matter how good a ruler I was if those meant to support me chose to undermine me instead, if my rulings failed to be implemented.

This court held the future of Tianxia in its hands, and those who did not value the honor had no right to be here. While the court was still in turmoil in the wake of Minister Guo’s departure, I ruthlessly appointed new ministers on merit alone, ignoring family connections or influence.

Tradition and history should be a guide but not a yoke. If something was wrong, the past was not a reason to keep it so.

Some at court undoubtedly hated me for it, but as my grandfather had said: Rulers aren’t just meant to be liked . . . what’s most important is doing what is right. Why please those who wanted to believe the worst of me, who only cared to further their own ends? My harsh treatment of Minister Guo quelled the lingering murmurs of disquiet—his previous allies adjusting to his absence with remarkable ease, his rivals clamoring to fill the gap in power.

My efforts were centered on the people’s well-being, not pandering for the favor of the disgruntled few, those accustomed to privilege. No calamity had descended from the heavens, whether storms or floods, which added to the tranquility in Tianxia, to the illusion that my reign was favored by the gods. I let them believe it; it was easier that way. But I worked hard to build a foundation for the kingdom that would last beyond the current peace, that would thrive even in adversity—even beyond my rule.

After all, I wouldn’t live forever. I would not always be the Lady of Tianxia. The kingdom needed a steady hand while we adjusted to the changes, while I secured my people’s freedom from the immortals. Only then would I hand the reins of power to another, one chosen by the people. A dream that had taken root from Aunt Shou’s wisdom.

And then . . . I would live for myself, with the one I loved.

If he returned.

I scowled at the reminder of Zhangwei’s absence. Immortals had a poor sense of time—weeks felt like days to them, while I had learned impatience in the Mortal Realm. And there was the irksome matter of my betrothal. Now the need for my false engagement with Chengyin had passed, some ministers had redoubled their efforts to marry me off. Maybe they didn’t like seeing a woman alone on the throne. I would need to resurrect the threat of the betrothal competition soon, if only to silence those more daring. I shouldn’t have cared, yet each time one of them brought it up, my mind inevitably flitted to Zhangwei, my annoyance rising at his absence.

A thought struck as I picked up a brush and swirled it into the ink. A smile played on my lips as I wrote a message to Zhangwei, then folded the paper and pressed my jade seal upon it. If he was playing a game with me, I’d just rewritten the rules. This would bring him here before another week was over.

I was wrong.

The next morning, while the court was in session, chaos erupted outside the hall. I looked up, glad for the distraction. Minister Dao had grown more insufferable of late, emboldened by his rival’s absence, insisting on the election of his eldest son to the court despite his having failed the entrance exams twice. While I’d never ordered an execution before, he was sorely tempting me.

The doors swung open as an attendant rushed in. “Lord Zhangwei, the God of War, the High General of the Golden Desert, requests an audience with the Lady of Tianxia.”

The use of Zhangwei’s formal titles was unexpected, several courtiers exchanging guarded looks.

I glanced down at my red robe embroidered with white camellias, suppressing the ridiculous urge to change it to one more flattering. “He has no invitation,”

I said. Zhangwei had kept me waiting this long, a few minutes more was no hardship for him.

“Do I require one to speak to the Lady of Tianxia?”

He stood in the entrance, sunlight gliding across his armor. His deep voice sent a shaft of pleasure through me, though I schooled my face into indifference, repressing the urge to run to him. The problem with having too much pride is that you end up making yourself suffer.

“My time is precious,”

I replied in an aloof manner. “Unless you’re here upon matters of state.”

“Today, I would speak on both.”

My heart quickened as he strode forward—though he looked ready for battle not courtship, with his sword, the daggers sheathed by his waist, a large wooden bow slung across his back.

My eyes narrowed. “What brings you here, Lord Zhangwei? Why are you attired for war?”

He halted before the dais, indifferent to the stir he’d roused in my court. A sheet of paper was crumpled in his hand, the letter I’d written to him just the night before. “Did you not summon me?”

“I did not,”

I replied smoothly. “I merely informed you of my plans out of courtesy.”

“Cancel the tournament.”

His voice pulsed with barely restrained anger. Had I provoked him too far?

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

My tone dropped, edged with challenge. I was enjoying this immensely—my pleasure honed by the nights I’d spent waiting for him.

“No,”

he replied arrogantly, unslinging his sword. “As you can see, I’ve come prepared. If another happens to win, I’ll just make you a widow.”

He was calling my bluff, drawing this farce out. I cursed him in my mind, my hands clenched in my lap. “You’re a bad loser, Lord Zhangwei.”

“The worst.”

His mouth curved in a way that made me lean instinctively toward him, but I drew back, fighting a rush of heat.

Zhangwei turned to address my court. “There will be no tournament for the Lady of Tianxia’s hand in marriage, nor will any suitors be entertained.”

I glared at him, both fascinated and infuriated at his high-handedness. “That is not for you to decide.”

“It is, when you’ve promised yourself to me, as I have promised myself to you. Or have you already forgotten?”

As whispers rustled around the court, I was torn between reaching for him and throwing something at his head. Chengyin stepped forward, ever vigilant when guarding my interests, braver than most to confront the God of War. “The Lady of Tianxia’s betrothal is a matter for the entire kingdom.”

Zhangwei’s jaw tightened, his gaze pinning mine. “It is between us alone. I have a proposal that requires your immediate consideration. Would you prefer I speak now . . . or later?”

The way his voice had lowered—I bristled at his presumption. After weeks of unexplained absence, how dare he storm into my court and make demands? I would not surrender so easily, running to him the moment he beckoned.

“State your terms,”

I said curtly. “What is your proposal?”

Zhangwei took a step closer, a fierce light in his eyes. “Marriage. To me.”

My throat went dry. How could he declare himself before everyone? Though such intense pride surged through me that he had.

“Is this just to stop me from marrying another?”

“No, I want you for myself. I want all of you.”

He spoke with such certainty, the last of my defenses crumbled. I raised my hand to dismiss the court, but Chengyin cleared his throat.

“As the Lady of Tianxia’s First Advisor, I would like to hear more of the God of War’s offer,”

Chengyin said with feigned solemnity. “All proposals must be weighed by her advisors before anything is decided.”

It was his way of protecting me, offering a diplomatic excuse to decline anything I did not want. Yet right then, a small part of me was tempted to throttle Chengyin. There was nothing I wanted more than to marry Zhangwei, even if he offered nothing but himself.

“My offer has three parts.”

Zhangwei cast a meaningful look at me. “Such delicate negotiations took time, hence my delay. The first part of my dowry—”

“Dowry?”

Minister Dao repeated, his surprise infused with malice. “The dowry is usually paid from the bride’s family.”

Maybe he sought to secure the God of War’s favor, since it was clear he had lost mine.

Zhangwei’s frigid expression sufficed to send Minister Dao scuttling back. “I need nothing else but the lady herself, as long as she is willing.”

Warmth coursed through my veins like a thousand shards of sunlight. He had come to me, his heart in his hand. “I would hear your terms,” I said.

The air glittered, a bronze shield appearing before me, inlaid with sapphires, amethysts and pearls—the one I’d seen in Queen Caihong’s throne room.

“The Shield of Rivers and Mountains.”

My voice shook; this didn’t feel real.

He nodded. “As promised, Tianxia will be released from its service to the Golden Desert.”

Gasps erupted among the minsters, smiles spreading across their faces as their shock gave way to joy.

“What of the wall?”

I asked quickly.

“It will be brought down. Those who wish to remain are welcome, but none will be stopped from venturing beyond. The people of Tianxia will be free to choose where they go. However, we ask that a troop of soldiers be posted at all times to watch over Kunlun.”

I rose, forcing myself to walk to him when all I wanted was to run. “I need nothing else. This is everything to me.”

He spoke clearly, for my ears alone. “I would give you everything I have, all that I am—and more.”

As he extended his hand, a fine sword appeared on the ground between us. Gleaming with power, crafted with the magic of the realm above. I looked up at him in confusion, fighting back a smile. “More weapons?”

“The soldiers guarding Kunlun will be equipped with immortal blades.”

Zhangwei added with a note of warning, “These cannot be used for ill, else the magic will turn inward, upon the wielders themselves.”

“Typical dowries are gifts of gold or precious stones, offerings of food or wine,”

I said, a thread of humor coiled in my tone. “While you have given me a kingdom’s freedom and outfitted an army.”

“I am only the messenger,”

he told me gravely. “You won these yourself.”

I blinked back the brightness in my eyes. “Then what do you offer?”

“My heart for yours,”

he said quietly, oblivious to the stir in the court.

His black eyes shone with the light of the stars. Such profound joy swept over me . . . with him by my side, I would never be cold again. We were surrounded by people, yet he was the only one I saw. A sudden impatience filled me to be alone with him, to claim every part he had offered me today.

I raised my voice. “I have urgent matters to discuss with the God of War. The court is adjourned for today—”

“For the next week,”

Zhangwei interjected, his eyes alight.

My face flushed, but I wanted him too. Chengyin cast a pointed look our way before leaving, the other attendants and ministers following him swiftly, closing the doors after them.

As Zhangwei reached for me, I shook my head. “I cannot return to the Golden Desert,”

I began haltingly.

“Then I will make my home here. I would cross the Netherworld again, should you desire. Heaven or hell depends on whether we’re together or apart.”

Still, I hesitated. Not because I doubted the strength of his devotion but because he had given me so much, I dreaded taking more. I wanted him, but I didn’t want him to suffer for being with me.

“I don’t know how much time I have left, or what lies in my future,”

I confessed. “Some days, I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“You are you. You are all I need, whether we are together a year or a hundred.”

He stroked the hair from my face, looking into my eyes. “Never doubt my heart. I have loved you since we met—as I will for the rest of our days.”

He pulled me to him and kissed me, his lips moving over mine with hunger. I closed my eyes, yielding to the heat that pulsed through my flesh, the rush of emotion as unrelenting as a storm. How I loved him—our love tested beyond imagining, transcending time, heaven and earth, even crossing the river of death. Unlike Zhangwei, I didn’t know the years left to me, nor did I possess the certain end of a mortal. And so I would treasure each day like it might be my last.

Write your own destiny, Zhangwei had told me once. And I would, together with him. I would follow him to the ends of the earth as he had followed me—and we could make our home anywhere, even in the Netherworld. Across the realms, each lifetime, my heart had found its way back to him. He was my past, my present, and my future, and I would place all my days in his keeping. At last I had learned one of life’s elusive mysteries, that the true meaning of eternity lay not in the endless years but in having someone to share them with.

A question slipped into my mind, one that had plagued me since leaving the Temple of the Crimson Moon, when I had faced my destinies and defied them both—neither mortal nor immortal, with the waters of death in my veins.

You are all, yet you are none, the mirror had told me. I’d thought I belonged nowhere, untethered to the world, that I would never find a place to belong again—but I was wrong. The answer came to me, as clear as the skies after the rain. I would not be defined by a single decision, nor by my name or title—whether the Lady of Tianxia or the Princess of the Golden Desert, daughter, grandchild, or the beloved of the God of War.

I was all of them . . . and I was more.