Fox and Phoenix (Lóng City 1)

(Of course, idiot. So do you.)

(Well, I didn’t ask to leave. She did.)

(You aren’t going to be king of Lóng City. Just a make-believe Prince of the Streets.)

Dismissing my loathsome inner critic, I passed by the rest of the landscapes and cityscapes to a small group of portraits. The center one was a square of painted silk that shimmered with magic. It was a portrait of Lian’s father, Wencheng Li, just as I remembered him from last year. Thin gray hair drawn back into a tight queue. Weary eyes, but not so weary that you missed their intelligence. As I watched, I saw those eyes flicker toward me, then above my shoulder, as though he’d noticed something. He smiled. Maybe Lian had come to watch her father sit. Maybe he was smiling at her.

I jerked back.

That’s what I get for snooping. I see too much inside my friends.

I plopped onto the nearest bench. From time to time, a servant glided silently through the room on errands. Next door, Yao-guài warbled in excitement while Yún spoke to the beast in low soothing tones. Everyone had a task or obligation here except me. “I wish I had something to do,” I muttered.

A faint whirring sounded from the floor. I jumped up, startled.

A small square table, the size of a handkerchief, rose from the floor. More gadgets. The table paused. Cautiously, I sat down again. The table continued to rise. As soon as it reached the level of my arm, it stopped again. On top of the table stood an even smaller square box. As I watched, wide-eyed, the box flipped open to display an even smaller vid-screen, the color of creamy new parchment.

Mrrrp, said the vid-screen.

Magic flux rippled through the air as the vid-screen came to life. A thin keyboard unrolled itself from underneath the box and prodded my arm.

There’s too much magic in this palace, I thought.

The metal box vibrated. Intrigued, I ran my fingers over the keyboard. The vid-screen shimmered. A stream of images flickered past—so quickly they were more like dots of color and light. I tapped a few more keys. The images slowed, then froze with another tap.

I saw a thousand upturned faces, like a sea of brown dots against an emerald green expanse. I saw a great phoenix worked in gold, suspended from the ceiling. I saw a chamber so vast, it made the palace in Lóng City look like a mousetrap. In spite of the tiny vid-screen, I felt as though I had tumbled directly into another world.

The focus changed; the dots changed to courtiers, guards, and commoners, the camera pausing here and there. It was a silent scene. I saw one courtier lean toward another, but their conversation was inaudible to me. Before I could figure out how to change the volume, the camera zoomed away from them and locked on one man’s face.

Kaishan Zhu. The emperor.

The smooth, pale features filled the screen, the eyes bright and intent, the skin like fine silk drawn tight over his bones. An old man—this I could see—but alive with the knowledge of his power.

He was speaking to someone close by. Again, the scene played silently. I fiddled with the controls, but nothing worked. I tapped harder. The calculor buzzed, and the screen flashed the words “Audio Options Not Available.”

I clicked off the vid-screen and headed out the nearest door. Right away, a liveried servant popped into view—a stout, muscled woman, who looked as though she didn’t want to hear any nonsense.

“Princess Lian,” I said before she could speak. “She is currently in the emperor’s audience chamber. Please direct me to the nearest lift.”

The woman hesitated. Her lips moved silently through a few replies, but then she smiled broadly. “Of course, young sir. Please continue left along this gallery to the next green tapestry. You will see a small service corridor on your left. Take the lift at the end.” She rattled off the buttons to push for the emperor’s audience chamber.

The lift was right where she said it would be. I slapped my palm against the glowing yellow panel to open the door. Inside, I tapped out the buttons. Just as the doors clicked shut, I heard Yún’s voice, calling out to me.

Magic flux filled the compartment. The lift ascended, as smooth as oil rolling over water. As slow as smoke rising on a windless day.

Then slower. And slower.

The floor beneath me gave a funny lurch. I gripped the handy railing—just in time. The magical lift abruptly zipped along sideways, so fast it made my eyes roll backward.

Thump.

That was the sound of my head hitting the walls. I lost my grip and landed on the floor with a second thump. Magic still hummed around me, thick and sharp and smelling strong. It took me at least a minute before I accepted I hadn’t died. Another couple of minutes before I could tell the lift no longer moved, up, down, or sideways.

Right about the time I decided to stand up, the lift shuddered. I heard a horrible squealing. The floor opened up; its two halves tilted down and dropped me onto a thickly carpeted hallway. Mission accomplished, they snapped shut. The magical lift zoomed away, leaving me gaping and sick to my stomach.

I was right back where I had started, outside Princess Lian’s suite of rooms.

Yún sat next to me. Her face was gray. Her expression jumped between scared and furious. The griffin had disappeared.