Chapter 11 Àn’yīng
àn’yīng
Palace of the Aurora, Kingdom of Night
I don’t remember anything but the taste of the nectar, warm and honey-sweet as it lingers on my tongue. A bliss I haven’t known in so long crashes into me like a wave. The world sways, and overhead, a kaleidoscope of stars spin like I’m gazing at a celestial river.
Wherever I am, it’s beautiful.
So is the woman who steps before me and smiles at me with blood-red lips.
She wears a black gown covered in diamonds, giving the illusion that she is draped in the night sky and all its stars.
Garnets flash in her elaborately styled hair.
The sight of them stirs something inside me, a memory drifting just beyond my grasp.
“Hello, àn’yīng,” she purrs. “We have all been waiting for this day.”
I beam at her, because I want her to like me. I want to please her.
“Some of us,” she continues, “more than others.”
The woman makes an elegant gesture with her fingers, and I rise, feeling like a paper kite tugged along on a string. She leads me up onto a dais, then steps to one side.
Before me, sitting on a throne of silver, is the most beautiful man I have ever set eyes on. His hair tumbles like ink over his broad shoulders. His features are sharp enough to cut, brows rising like raven wings beneath a gold circlet, soft lips stained and swollen with wine.
I meet his eyes, and that gives me pause. They’re wide; he’s staring at me as though he’s seen a ghost.
A momentary pain blazes through my mind—a streak of a memory, too quick for me to catch. Yet as I stare back at him, I’m filled with a strange intuition that I know him.
He swallows, and then that expression is gone, replaced with a cool gaze as he turns to the woman. “I’m honored. You went to great lengths to find me a mortal offering.” His voice, low and rich, twines around me like an intimate velvet caress.
The woman smiles at him in a way that does not reach her eyes.
She stands before her own throne, larger and darker and writhing with shadows.
“You will see, my son, that I do indeed care for your desires.” She turns to address the rest of the crowd gathered before us.
“My loyal subjects! We have fought hard, and we have made sacrifices—but not without rewards.
“The heir to the Kingdom of Rivers is dead!”
Raucous, deafening cheers break out. I blink, the bliss slipping from me for a heartbeat. The heir to the Kingdom of Rivers. The words should mean something to me; I feel an insistent tugging at the back of my mind. Then, an image.
A face. Eyes as steady and warm as the earth, a smile like the sun.
Slipping through my fingers, vanishing into the clouds, into the sea.
The nectar’s cloying sweetness intensifies on my tongue. The images vanish, and I can’t quite remember why I was ever unhappy in the first place. The crowd is chanting Empress, Empress, Empress.
The woman—the empress—continues to speak.
“We cannot forget that this victory would not have come without the pivotal role my darling son played in this war. Mistakes can be made, especially when it comes to the foolishness of his mortal instincts—but he has proven his loyalty by pledging his life in service of me and our kingdom. Therefore, I honor his covenant and reward him with that which he most desires. Let it be remembered that I am merciful.” She turns to me.
“I hereby announce that my son, Yù’chén, heir to the Kingdom of Rivers, shall take this girl as his betrothed.
” She waves a hand, and her voice pitches low: “Go to him.”
I look from the empress to the man seated before me. Something feels off, but those invisible strings tug at me again.
I smile blithely as I gaze up at the man—it is easy to smile at his beauty—and slowly, clumsily, I lower myself to my hands and feet.
Behind me, the crowd goes wild, and my heart surges. I am doing this right. I am pleasing them.
Warm hands encircle my wrists and my shoulders, stopping me as I fold myself onto the floor. I’m lifted again, and when I look up, it is into the devastatingly beautiful face of that man. My betrothed, I think in happy disbelief.
Except he doesn’t look pleased. He looks furious. He’s breathing hard, trying to hold me up and at arm’s length, but my body pitches forward unsteadily.
Yet his expression shifts into boredom when he faces the woman—his mother—again.
“You’ll have me take as a wife someone who resents our kind for destroying her home?
” he asks petulantly. “She would never agree, were she not drunk on oleander nectar. This won’t pass as a marriage under the Heavenly Order. ”
“Then you’ll convince her until she wishes to, of her own volition,” the empress replies. “You were persuasive enough last time. I’m certain you can do it again.”
The crowd is turning away already, their voices rising as the celebration resumes and goblets clink together in toasts.
The man remains very still. His voice is quiet when he replies. “She won’t make the mistake of falling for me again. You made sure of that.”
“And you’ll make sure that she does,” the empress replies with a wave of her hand. “For both of your lives’ sakes.” A razor-sharp smile with those gleaming red lips. “Or shall I show her my methods of persuasion?”
Only I am close enough to hear the man’s sharp inhale. He stares at the woman again for several heartbeats.
“Why?” he asks tonelessly. “Don’t expect me to believe that you went through all this effort just to please me.”
The empress flicks me a glance. “Of course I didn’t,” she purrs, and leans close to him.
“You and I both know the mortal throne has yet to accept you. There must be another secret to it, a method to completely and wholly take that realm, which the imperial bloodline guards closely. Certainly, you’d expect your father to have passed on the secrets to claiming the mortal throne to his most legitimate heir, son of the late mortal empress.
Now he is dead, yet the land still does not accept you. ”
The man’s jaw tightens. “Have you considered the possibility that I cannot take the mortal throne because I am half mó?”
The empress’s eyes narrow to slits. “The very reason you exist,” she hisses with sudden venom, “is to claim that mortal throne for our realm. The girl was close to the mortal heir, who confided in her through that jade pendant for years. She may be our only chance to understand why the mortal land does not accept you, and the secrets to claiming that throne. Find out from her, or you’ll discover that my patience for your existence runs to its end. ”
I try to pay attention to their conversation, but their words drift through my mind like fog. My attention pulls to the man by my side, who listens to all this without expression.
The empress draws back and smiles. “Be a good boy,” she croons, and stalks away to join the revelry.
The man stands there for several moments, seemingly lost in thought, before he turns to me. He appears drunk, his cheeks and lips flushed, his hair wild and his collar askance. Yet his movements are gentle as he draws me into his arms and lifts me.
The sounds of celebration fall away from us, replaced by the rhythmic sound of his boots as he carries me from the banquet hall. It’s dark here, dark everywhere, the entire building lit only by starlight.
Everywhere around us, flowers bloom, bright in a way that makes my head spin. Red scorpion lilies, I think, and another memory brushes against the edge of my consciousness. I know them.
Their light drapes my companion in a beautiful wash of crimson. His eyes, most of all, catch their glow. Transfixed, I reach up and touch a finger to the man’s jaw. He flinches, then turns his head away.
I quickly draw my hand back. “Did I do something to displease you?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Tell me what it is, and I’ll make it up to you. Anything you want.”
“It’s nothing to do with you.”
The warmth of the bliss in my veins turns cold, the honey-sweetness on my tongue growing bitter. “You don’t want me?”
His gaze slides to me again, and his lips part in a breath. “You’re very intoxicated right now, àn’yīng,” he says softly.
It’s growing brighter. At the end of this passageway of flowers, a screen of smoke swirls.
We step through it into a vast chamber awash in gentle candlelight. A great rosewood bed sits in one corner, draped in dark velvet and silver sheets. Gauze curtains drift in a serene breeze through doorways that lead to a pavilion outside.
Behind us, the smoky screen hardens into doors that gleam like black glass.
My companion carries me over to a silk-covered futon perched before the pavilion.
“Are you hurt?” The question is so gentle.
Something stirs in my chest. An old, familiar ache. “I don’t think so,” I whisper. I’m suddenly tired, so tired that I cannot fathom moving from this futon again.
“Whose blood is this?” He touches my midriff, my hands, and that’s the first time I notice the sticky sensation between my fingers, the darkness coating my dress.
I frown. “I don’t remember.”
My host leans forward, studying me with urgency. “Do you know what happened?” he asks.
Something in his tone cuts through the fog in my mind.
A primal instinct whispers that something is wrong, so devastatingly wrong, but my head begins to pound whenever I try to latch onto that thought.
The sweetness on my tongue turns cloying, as though I’ve bitten into a fruit only to discover the rot within.
“No,” I whisper, and I reach out, because I feel a little lost and I want someone to hold on to in this moment.
My fingers close around the collar of his robes, and I tip forward, curling against his chest. There, I hear a familiar thump, thump, thump of his heart, feel the tick of his pulse against my cheek.
My host exhales slowly, and then he sweeps his arms over me, gathering me to him with an intimacy that feels almost familiar.
“àn’yīng,” he murmurs.