Fox and Phoenix (Lóng City 1)

“You forgot you weren’t immortal,” I said.

She managed a smothered laugh, then shivered. “Kai . . .”

“Shi, shi. We’ll make that shelter down the trail. I’ll take care of everything.”

We made it to the next way station before dark. Yún immediately slumped to the ground. I spread out the tarpaulin and blankets and made her lie down. Then I covered her to keep her warm while I did all the rest—building a fire, rubbing down our pony and giving it extra feed, and constructing a small nest for the griffin.

Once I had water boiling for tea, I turned to Yún. “Now for you.”

Yún’s mouth trembled in a smile. “Are you going to heal me?”

“Maybe.” I hadn’t told Yún about that strange moment on Lóng City’s outer walls. It wasn’t healing, but at least it was magic.

The cut along her scalp had stopped bleeding. I cleaned it gently with warm water mixed with herbs from Yún’s pack. She bore that well, gritting her teeth. So far, so good. But the wounds along her forearm and shoulder brought a curse to my lips. Both were ragged and deep. One was festering already—that man must have used a dirty blade.

“’S my fault,” Yún mumbled. “If I hadn’t bribed the watch, no one would have known.”

“Shi, shi, shi.” I brushed her hair back from her forehead, which felt warm to my touch. Once more I cursed those mercenaries and wished them into the coldest depths of hell. “You did right, Yún. You made sure the shop was safe.”

“But I—”

“You did right,” I repeated. “You always do. Always. It’s those others. The ones plotting against Lian. They sent spies to chase us down. But you were smart, you figured that out. If you hadn’t come after me, I’d be dead and frozen on a mountain top.”

Still babbling whatever came into my head, I gently washed away the blood and dirt. Yún lay there sweating and shaking, even after I stopped.

(Now what?)

(We try something else.)

I laid my hands gently on her shoulder and her forehead. Closed my eyes and drew one long breath, held it long enough to hurt, then released it slowly in time to my heartbeat. Again. It was hard. Little things kept distracting me—the spit and pop of the fire, our pony whuffling, the sting and itch of my own scratches and cuts.

Nothing.

Not even a flicker of magic flux.

Frustrated, I drew my hands back and thought. Sure, I’d never claimed to be a wizard, but I’d always been able to sense the magic flux. But now I felt as though the air had vanished around me.

(What did I think? That I would wriggle my brain and make everything better?)

Shi, whispered Chen. Stop thinking. Breathe.

His voice boomed in the space between my ears. Underneath it, there was a faint whispering, whistling voice—Yún’s companion, Qi. Spirit magic, I thought. I placed my hands back on Yún’s shoulder and forehead and breathed as Chen had commanded. My pulse slowed, my thoughts dropped away, and the whine of my fears dissolved. It was like swimming in a pool of quiet. A stillness, an emptiness. An everything.

It was nothing like the magic flux. Not weaker or smaller—different. As different as water is from sunlight. As salt is from sugar. For the first time, I had an inkling what my mother meant when she lectured about yin and yang, then even that inkling vanished into infinity.

When I opened my eyes, dark had fallen and a cold wind blew across the shelter’s outer edges. Yún lay with her eyes closed, breathing easily. The fire had died away to glowing coals; its ruddy light limned her face like an artist’s paintbrush. Had she meant that kiss? Or was it just because we were both terrified and amazed to be alive?

She stirred. Her eyes blinked open. She looked faintly astonished.

“I feel much better. What do you think?”

I think I love you.

But that was impossible to say.

THE NEXT MORNING, I checked Yún’s wounds again. The cut on her scalp had closed. Only a raised pink scar remained, a tiny ribbon mostly hidden underneath her thick hair. When I laid my hand on her head, the last traces of magic buzzed against my palm, telling me that healing continued. The scar might even disappear by day’s end.

Her other wounds had not healed as much. You could still see an ugly ragged line along her forearm. Her shoulder wound wept a clear pinkish liquid. The skin around both felt warm to my touch. Not so dangerously hot as the night before, and not as inflamed, but still not good.