Page 44 of Immortal

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In the distance, Tianxia gleamed like a jewel amid the clouds—the violet mountains and glittering rivers, the red wall that snaked around the land. When the qilin alighted a short distance from my home, I slid down from its back. Such lightness swept over me at the feel of the earth beneath my feet, at the glimpse of the dark green tiles of home. Despite the wonders in the realm of immortals, nothing could compare to this fullness in my heart, the one of belonging.

“Thank you.” I hugged the qilin tightly, wishing I knew its name. I would have died but for the creature’s compassion.

I released it, expecting the qilin to take flight again—but it followed me as I walked. Its presence comforted me, but once the God of War subdued the attack on the queen’s palace, he would come here. He seemed to mistrust the qilin, and I wouldn’t endanger the creature.

“I wish you could stay, but it won’t be safe here. Don’t you want to go home?” I asked, sensing it could understand me.

The qilin bent to nuzzle my hand, its weight pushing me back a step. Then it straightened, springing into the air. Its wings flared wide as the qilin soared gracefully through the heavens. I stared after it until dusk crept up around me, the first glimmers of starlight peeking through the darkening skies.

Alone now, I pressed a hand to my chest. The scar was still there, no longer aglow, bearing no trace of the God of War’s dagger. Just the blood remained, which I wiped away, but what he’d done could not be erased. The Divine Pearl Lotus pulsed within me with its familiar warmth, a fierce gladness seizing me at the immortal’s failure to take it.

I inhaled deeply, shifting my mind to more immediate matters. What welcome would I receive? There would be questions, some I couldn’t answer—the most pressing being whether I’d received the Queen of the Golden Desert’s mandate to rule. No ruler of Tianxia had ever returned from the skies without it. How could I tell them I’d failed, and that the God of War was hunting me? No, not hunting, for he knew exactly where to find me—it was only a matter of time. Part of me wanted to flee, but where could I go? We were all trapped within these walls, those of the immortals’ making.

I wouldn’t run like a coward. This time, the stakes were in the open. When I next faced the God of War, it would be among my people, in the security of my home—though he could incinerate it to ashes should I push him too far. He was good at setting things on fire.

But his mind was sharp; I’d seen how he played weiqi, planning each move far ahead. He would be furious, but he wouldn’t let it govern him. He might rage at me, but he wouldn’t hurt me—not when I possessed what he most needed. There was only one way to secure the Divine Pearl Lotus . . . and that was if I gave it to him.

Yet I needed something from him too, even though I wished I didn’t. The thought of Queen Caihong’s anger sickened me: the catastrophic form it might take upon my kingdom, whether in torrential rains or violent storms. Did she realize how she was hurting us? Did she care? And though I wanted little more than to run the God of War through with his own sword, I had to extract a compromise from him rather than incite a confrontation that I’d surely lose. We were bound by need, by necessity: the God of War who so desperately needed the lotus was also the only one who might protect us from his queen’s wrath, who could persuade her to reach an agreement with me.

How could I share this with the court? I’d be handing the ambitious Minister Guo and Minister Dao a knife to plunge into my back. I had to tread carefully until I’d unearthed the identity of my real enemies—those who schemed in the dark, who’d poisoned me before, who weren’t afraid to get blood on their hands. If one of them ruled Tianxia, the people would be doomed under such tyranny. I could not let this happen.

As I approached the entrance, the guards pulled apart the thick wooden doors. I thanked them, entering my home. While I’d only been away a week or so, it felt like years. This place was at once familiar, and different—my mind crowded with new memories. Now I saw the withered flowers scattered across the grass, the parts of the trees cut away when they’d sickened, as I breathed in the frail scent of decay that twined with new life. So different from the ageless perfection of the skies, its ceaseless fragrance—yet a reminder of how precious our lives here were. A fallen blossom would never bloom again, just as a moment lost could never be regained. Each one had to count.

Heads turned as I stalked through the main courtyard. Attendants bowed, some retreating into the shadows—either alarmed by the urgency of my stride or bribed to divulge news of my return to their paymasters.

I stopped one, asking, “Where is Lord Chengyin?”

“In the throne room, Your Ladyship.”

“At this hour?” I was surprised.

“Lord Chengyin usually keeps such long hours,” she told me with another bow.

I frowned, wishing I could have met him alone, eager for news before facing the court. But word was already spreading of my return. I could not appear apprehensive, to give rise to gossip that would weaken my precarious standing.

I went to my rooms to change quickly; my stained dress would stir too much curiosity. Glancing in the mirror, I yanked out the sandalwood comb from my hair and dropped it to the ground. The ornament was as worthless as the sentiment behind it. Then I wrapped the god’s sword in a piece of brocade and locked it into a cupboard in my study. It was safer out of sight, though I didn’t like leaving it here.

I strode to the main hall, my brisk pace concealing my nerves. The court typically grew restless long before dusk. Yet when I entered, the calm was startling. The ministers stood before the throne, heads turned up attentively. Chengyin sat on a polished wooden chair beside my throne, dressed in formal robes of deep red and gold. They suited him well, enhancing his fine features.

When those closest to the entrance saw me, whispers of “Her Ladyship” drifted through the hall like an unwelcome chill. Chengyin’s head swung toward me. Did he resent my return? A vile suspicion that was swiftly banished as a smile lit his face. He hurried down from the dais, clasping his hands as he bowed.

“Welcome home, Your Ladyship.”

With this, he declared his allegiance, quelling any consideration that he might supplant me. Following his lead, the court bowed, intoning a greeting. Minister Guo and Minster Dao hesitated before bending their heads, their expressions sullen.

I climbed the dais and settled into my throne. It felt unfamiliar, the seat too wide—yet I didn’t want to be anywhere else. “What news during my absence?” I spoke decisively, thwarting any attempt to question me.

“Your Ladyship, a few days ago there was severe flooding in the east,” Chengyin replied formally.

“Has there been much rain?” Unlikely, as it was the dry season.

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Minister Hu answered, leaning heavily on his wooden staff as he hobbled to the front of the hall. “Relentless rain, without pause. The rivers swelled, bursting through the barriers, destroying the crops.”

I recalled the gray skies in the Golden Desert—Queen Caihong’s fury when she found me in the forbidden courtyard. Despite the deception, her anger then had been real. Was the storm the mark of her displeasure, spilling over to us? What else might be inflicted once she learned of my escape?

I hid my anxiety, gesturing to an attendant to bring a chair for Minister Hu. “Has aid been sent?” I asked.