Page 136 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Yuánchi clambered to his feet, wings furled but firm, and he sang a rumbling basso profundo. Emma looked at me, teary-eyed but ready, and I nodded. She wrapped her fingers around the amulet and reached out with her other hand, offering her life and passions to Yuánchi.
Woodhouse, wyfe and healer,he answered,I choose you.
Their binding took hold, a flawless rose and scarlet sunrise, and warmth swept through the frozen meadow.
Lizzy was still defying the black dragon, withstanding the crushing pressure to bind. Mr. Darcy supported her, his strong arm around her, his stubborn courage aiding her resistance.
The black dragon writhed in frustration and stalked them, the muscles of her hulking chest flexing, her neck curling to whip her carriage-sized head. Ice spread beneath her, and in my mind’s eye I saw her old song beside the tower I was building, Fènnù’s broken and poisoned song, seething black within a diseased binding that stretched closer and closer to Lizzy’s breast…
A scarlet glow surrounded it and pressed it back. Emma’s hand was outstretched, the amulet gleaming. The wyfe of healing had bound at last, and Yuánchi’s brilliance filled her like the sun.
The black dragon whirled to attack her, rough scales screeching across each other, jaws spreading to strike. But Emma pronounced, “You bind without consent,” and the black dragon drew back, shamed, a puppy the size of a warship caught chewing a shoe.
Georgiana and Mr. Knightley were still singing, and I joined them, guiding us to the next theme, the next voice. We gathered around Lizzy and Mr. Darcy. Lizzy lifted her exhausted head, but she sang with me like we had sung together at Longbourn as a family. I wove in the next theme, rich with acceptance, the freezing chill of grief thawing into mourning and then blossoming in the transcendence of hope.
Fènnù snorted and bucked her head, then her immense voice shook my lungs as she joined the verse while Lizzy sang, “Forgive.” Their binding took hold, powerful but not frozen and black—it shone with a rich brass glow, tough and resilient.
Georgiana and I sang on, her right hand in my left, the dragon claw ring, last remnant of the flute, touching both our thumbs. In my mind’s eye, the rewritten notation of the first two songs receded to harmony, their foundation complete, and the third song filled the colossal fairyland tower, the lead voice in a chorus of healing, justice, and harmony. The last measure was unimaginably complex, finally more than I could comprehend, but I felt the ring warm, and its power invoke. A flock of little song draca swooped around us in celebratory circles, piping harmony in their high voices, and in my mind’s eye, the last peaks of the great song resolved in unison.
The ground trembled, swaying the meadow’s grass and blooms, then it jolted hard to one side. Blinding light blazed. I closed my eyes, balancing effortlessly while the world wrenched and changed.
An alto voice filled my mind.Great Wyfe. Mary Wollstonecraft Bennet. I am called Hé Sheng.
The syllables of the name were foreign, but I knew their meaning better than any feeble human words: the purest harmony, the restful conclusion of a moving melody, the perfect chord whispered by melted drops falling in a snowy glen.
See me.
I opened my eyes.
The false night Fènnù erected over the meadow had become a sapphire dawn.
The dragon of song’s scales were a mosaic that swirled from sea-blue azurite to grassy emerald. Their shoulders stood as huge as Yuánchi, but it was hard to judge exactly; their wings were half open, tremendous and patterned and iridescent, and my vision was dazzled. I craned my neck as their majestic head rose, silhouetted by nine shining abalone-and-sapphire rays. Invisible warmth radiated; my chilled body drank it, and the blackened patches remaining from Fènnù’s breath steamed.
The facets of their eyes flickered through rainbows as they looked over my rumpled, black clothes, then their head lowered to peer beside me and cocked to a bemused angle. Georgiana had fallen to her knees, her head bowed, an arm hiding her eyes.
I whispered, “Get up,” and tugged her arm until, eyes still hidden, she stood. I drew her close and said, “You can look.” Georgiana lowered her arm and gave a child’s amazed gasp.
Hé Sheng’s wings rippled, a gesture that should have defied my comprehension,but I sensed welcome and benefaction while wind gusted and the shining rays around their head reflected on azure scales.
My wyves of song, Hé Sheng sang affectionately.
Their bright gaze turned to where Yuánchi stood beyond Emma. The scarlet dragon, even blinded and scarred by the blight, was strong and welcoming.
Emma, too, was on her knees with her husband and sister, but Emma’s face was lifted and joyful.
Emma Knightley Woodhouse, Hé Sheng sang out.Go forth. Heal the blight. Heal my brother.Happily, Emma nodded.
Hé Sheng’s head and neck turned to Fènnù. The black dragon was a coiling mass, her roughened scales clattering over each other. She was fearsome and proud, and I heard her new song ring out, free of discord.
Elizabeth Darcy Bennet, Hé Sheng sang,help my sister forgive. She tends to rant and storm. Can you teach her a little less prejudice?
Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were kneeling, heads bowed, their hands clasped with each other, but when Lizzy spoke, she was amused. “If I can achieve that by teasing and quarrelling, I will succeed.”
Hé Sheng took a step nearer to Georgiana and me, and the ground trembled in reverent awe. Vast wings washed the sky with patterned whorls, and I saw in them ethereal music as yet unheard.
Sparkling sapphire threads materialized around Georgiana and me, the five mundane lines of a human musical staff but overlaid with the exotic symbols of the draca’s music. They settled gently around our shoulders, and with a slight, fond tug, sank through our skin, through muscle and bone until the third song joined our hearts.
The dragon of song sang one last time, rustling my skirts and blanketing me in scents of blooming spring:
