Page 127 of Immortal

Aunt Shou nodded. “There is much I wish to forget.”

“I can’t let you do this, Aunt Shou,” I protested.

“My children’s faces are dear to me, as are their memories. But their deaths . . . I would gladly wipe from my mind,” she said fiercely.

“A sip, then, for a fragment of remembrance. If there are enough here willing to drain the cups, I will bear these passengers,” the boatman offered. “Only once will I allow this, as my gift to the new ruler of the Netherworld. One who I believe is worthy of the title.”

Aunt Shou inclined her head as she accepted the cup he offered her. “I will remember your generosity, Honored Boatman.”

Lin called out, as she strode toward me, “I will take a drink, too.”

“As will I,” Mei echoed, from beside her.

More of the Wuxin stepped forward, my heart swelling. “How can I let all of you bear this burden?” My question emerged hoarse with emotion.

“The Wuxin pay our dues,” Lin said with a smile, glancing from Zhangwei to me. “You saved us, protecting the Wangchuan River. We were your enemies, yet you stayed when another would have left us to our doom.”

I blinked back the haze that descended over my vision How strange life was. For as long as I could remember, I’d hated and feared the Wuxin—and now, somehow, we had saved each other.

“I don’t need payment—”

“A gift, then,” Aunt Shou said. “In exchange for yours to us.”

“Thank you.” On impulse, I hugged her tightly, then bowed to the others. Tears fell from my eyes, trailing into the river. “Thank you all.”

They lined up one by one, each taking a drop from the cups the boatman held out. Their expressions shifted, from surprise to peace to a trace of doubt. At times, there was a flicker of grief before it eased.

At last, when the cups were empty. Zhangwei and I boarded the golden boat. The boatman pushed away with one strong stroke of his pole. The waters were smooth and calm, the current unbroken. We stood there staring at the faces of those who remained to bid us farewell, staring at them until I could see them no more. I was going home, yet why did grief still cling to my heart?

Zhangwei wrapped his arms around me, holding me close. Together, we glided along this river of lost hopes and dreams, the stars fading with the promise of a new dawn, aglitter on the horizon.

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.