Page 128 of A Forgery of Fate

A forgery of fate, as Elang would call it.

I only hoped it was enough to save us.

Chapter Thirty-Six

My father had told me once that anyone visiting A’landi’s Summer Palace had to climb ninety-nine steps before reaching the entrance. The first emperor had designed it that way to ensure that every visitor would arrive out of breath and fall into a bow upon greeting him. I used to think the story utterly absurd. But now I understood where he’d gotten his inspiration.

The Dragon King’s throne room was a nine-tiered tower with sloping roofs on each level. The walls were studded with jade and opal, and the gables were plated with the purest gold. Instead of stairs, there were colossal sheets of tumbling water, impossible to cross without Shani’s help. Even then, I was panting by the time I reached the top.

There, lounging upon a cloud of sea foam, was the Dragon King. And by his side, sitting cross-legged on a slab of speckled crystal, was Elang.

I’d always thought him tall, but next to his grandfather, he looked small. Insignificant. I couldn’t tell whether he was hurt. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders tense, and yet the instant I entered, something in him lifted.

I looked away, schooling my face into a stony expression.Never play games with a dragon,the old saying went. Against all sense, I was throwing all my tiles in against the king. I prayed I wouldn’t lose.

“Your Eternal Majesty,” I said with a deep bow. “I have done as you asked. Behold.”

With a flick of my wrist, I sent the Scroll unraveling. In a long white ream, it fell, and there, for all to see, was my portrait of Elang. A careful congress of water and ink, every existing detail was finely rendered, as true to life as I could have drawn.

Elang didn’t even glance at it.

Stop looking at me,I wanted to shout at him.Look at the painting.

For three years, I’d known him as Gaari. He knew my art better than anyone, but it was the greatest gamble of my life—whether he’d see through the ruse I’d woven into his portrait.

I bit my bottom lip. During our cons, that had always been my tell. I hoped he’d remember it.

Meanwhile, the Dragon King surveyed my work. Several of his attendants gathered around the Scroll, comparing it to Elang himself, who still sat on a crystal slab. I straightened. It was clear for all to see, my work was as accurate as life itself.

“You’ve done well,” Nazayun allowed. “But where are Elangui’s eyes?”

I’d been waiting for this. “I will paint them after you release my father.”

Displeasure rumbled in the Dragon King’s throat. “You are in no position to bargain. Complete the portrait. Now.”

The sea boiled with his rancor, making me stagger backseveral paces. I steeled myself. “It is not a bargain; it is part of your promise.”

“Bring the girl’s father back to life,” Elang spoke up. His voice, hoarse yet commanding, startled everyone in the chamber to attention. “Bring him to life but keep him in Ai’long. Show her what she will lose if she defies the Dragon King.”

Nine Hells of Tamra, whose side was Elang on? This wasn’t part of my plan at all.

Nazayun seemed to like this idea. He considered it, then in a blink, it was done.

Baba’s toy ship reappeared, close enough for me to see each individual strand of my father’s hair.

“Awaken, Arban Saigas,” said Nazayun.

The ship began to glow. The painting of Baba peeled off the wood, and a tempest of water and ink surrounded him. Within, I could make out the growing silhouette of a hand, the ends of a green scarf I’d all but forgotten.

“Baba!” I whispered. The tempest was growing, and so, too, was Baba’s silhouette inside. He was as tall as I’d remembered, and I waded closer, reaching for him. “Baba, I’mhere!”

My fingers clasped a sleeve, then an arm still becoming whole. I held on. I felt his bones stretch into place, his muscles and veins cord around his arm. When I could count five hard knuckles on the back of his hand, I knew it was really him.

The tempest receded, and there was my father.

He lay in the water, floating supine. At first I thought he was dead; his skin was gray, and he wasn’t moving or breathing. Behind me, Elang drew out a vial of sangi and poured it between Baba’s lips.

Baba’s face contorted, his muscles jerking before they calmed. His eyelids twitched, struggling to open, but one ofhis brows shot up. Then he breathed, his first breath in five years.

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