Page 121 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Napoleon was a master strategist. Even the most scathing English editorials acknowledged that. He was also deeply informed about draca and the great wyves; Lydia had stolen a wealth of knowledge for him. He knew draca lore and history even I did not.
He had tried to assassinate me. When that failed, he woke the black dragon and used Fènnù in war, but he knew Fènnù was ultimately uncontrollable, a force of unfettered destruction, not a military weapon.
“Why are you in England?” I asked. “Entering enemy territory is dangerous.”
For a moment, his face closed. His honesty shuttered. That had been the right question.
“You were waiting when I came,” I continued. “You expected the wyfe of war to find you. Why? Why meet me at all? You know the black dragon is mad. Why gamble I would not obliterate your camp, emperor and all?”
His features were stone.
“A skilled general does not take senseless risks,” I finished. “You are herebecause the balance of victory lieshere. In Surrey. And because you could still lose.”
He called over his shoulder in French.
A severely beautiful young woman stepped out of the tent. She wore an exquisite emerald satin gown, although the bodice and collar were stained. Her impractically dramatic bonnet was suited for a promenade on a springtime boulevard. Unhesitating, she strode past the cowed officers and stood possessively beside the emperor.
Her eyes latched hungrily onto Fènnù then shifted haughtily to me. “Devrais-je la tuer?” she asked the emperor.
“Should she kill you?” Napoleon translated for me, politely.
The perfumer’s wide bonnet flapped as her head twirled to him.
I had known she was near, sensed her foul power, and her callous embrace of violence encouraged the anger I was resisting. My desire for revenge. My fury.
“I understood her,” I said through tight teeth.
“Are you not afraid she will kill you?” the emperor asked, copying my earlier question, but not for humor. He was quite serious.
“If I am harmed with the black dragon present, everyone will die.” My arm shivered as I fought the urge to draw the dagger.
He nodded and angled his head reproachfully at the perfumer, like she was a child who gave a foolish answer in a lesson. Her attention flicked warily between him and me.
“She makes you angry,” he noted.
Fènnù was drinking in my fury, tasting it, whispering, encouraging… I hugged my binding to Yuánchi, my lifeline to sanity, and it brightened, brilliant with the strength of the dragon of healing. And slowly, my fury matured into something difficult to bear but… more real. More true. The anger spurring my racing heart ripened into grief, then mourning for my dear mother.
And through my brightened binding, the woman’s voice sounded again:Lizzy, you must find us!
Emma’s voice.
What had Darcy said? The emperor feared the great wyves, united.
The silence was eroding the perfumer’s confidence. She drew a small glass container from her pocket, dampened her finger, and raised it, trembling, to coat her lips. Her power seethed and grew as a dark citrus scent filled the air. Her oily blackness stretched out, probing.
“You are a wyfe of war,” Napoleon snapped impatiently. “You hear them,non?Cent deux, one hundred and two wyves before you. You feel them”—he thumped his fist on his chest—“in your heart! They cry for revenge.” When I did not answer, he said, “La dragonne noirehas bound you. You must rise—”
The perfumer interrupted. “La dragonne n’est pas engagée.”
Finally, the emperor faltered. “The black dragon is not bound?”
“No,” I said.
Understanding crept into his face. “This is why you are sane…”
“You have a clever plan,” I said, “a daring plan. But it has failed.” I switched my gaze to the perfumer’s narrowed eyes. “He expected me to kill you. He knew you were outmatched by a great wyfe, but he sacrificed you, sent you to goad the bull to fury. You were bait—pretty to look at, useful at times, but disposable. A lure to drive me to madness, or if that failed, to draw me here so he could provoke me, break my mind with the thirst for vengeance.”
I had spoken rapidly, and I could see she had not followed it all. She asked Napoleon a question; his answer sounded dismissive.
