Page 91 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
I remembered stretching my arm like a banner to the south, to the lands to conquer. “The wyfe of war, the Bennet, wanted to fight.”
“Aye. But the wyfe of healing, she was a wise wyfe, she said nae, and the wyfe of song supported her. That dinnae need to stop the wyfe of war—shecould fight alone—but she wanted the great talisman that had found its way to the north: the flute. The wyfe of song held that, and when she refused to give it up, the wyfe of war took it from her. Took it by force. One bound wyfe fighting another.”
“Our draca fought,” I said. “I had a lindworm, she a drake. Hers died.”
Mistress MacLeod recited familiar words:
“To sound our claim,
the three wyves came:
Of healing, wise.
Of song, who cries.
Of war. Arise.”
That song was this story, but… “The words are wrong,” I said. “Her firedrake fell, torn and smoking, and the wyfe of song’s binding broke. That should have stunned her, but she was too strong. I had to wrench the flute from her hands. Even then, she stood tall.” I found Mistress MacLeod’s steady gaze. “The wyfe of song never cried.”
“What then?” Darcy asked, the words sharp and separate.
A voice called outside—the guard—but my memory shone bright, so I continued, “I led the northern clans to battle. The south had four times our warriors, but a wyfe of war laughs at those odds. And I held theflute!Its power sang. I thought it would summon a tide of draca, but when the battle began, it… hushed. I struggled to wake it. I obsessed. I ignored the fight. Then an arrow struck me.” I clutched my left shoulder, feeling that barbed point drive below my collarbone. “It hit hard as a hammer and cut deep. They had breached our line. I fought, but my sword tangled in a warrior’s mail, then a rush drove me to the ground. An ax swung. I lifted the flute—it was a reflex, to block—and the flute shattered…”
The vision ended with a splitting shriek in my skull.
“The song’s words are true,” Mistress MacLeod said in her brogue. Her finger circled the final symbol: roaring flame. “The two clans built a pyre for the wyfe of war, and the wyfe of song laid the shards of the flute in her dead arms. They burned wyfe and flute together while the wyfe of song wept.”
I did not remember that, but it sounded like what she would do.
My lips formed a ragged smile for Darcy. “This is why you would not have come if I told the truth. My own ancestor destroyed the flute. That is the legacyof the Bennets, our mysterious Scottish heritage. The French are chasing a fable, some obscure mention of the Bennet name, but the flute is lost. The three items will never be united. The song cannot be healed.”
“I do not believe it,” Darcy said.
“I remember it,” I said simply. “It broke in my hands.”
“Then I do notacceptit. We could repair it. Replace it. The great items did not fall from the sky. They were fashioned by people. We could learn how.”
“It took years to craft them. Fènnù’s sanity, what there is of it, will break in days. That is the purpose of the French advance, to trigger her apocalypse. Fènnù will abandon her search for me and unleash destruction. Our petty war will be eclipsed.” I took Darcy’s hand; I had to pull through his resistance. “But Fènnù has a weakness. She is drawn to conflict…” The next words hurt—I knew what Darcy would think—but I would not lie any more. “If she cannot find me, if she does not have my memories to focus her, her destruction will fall on the south. Longbourn and Pemberley will be safe, above the tide.”
Darcy’s fingers were wood in mine. I counted thudding heartbeats before he said, “You cannot surrender half the country to destruction. It is amoral.”
“Amoral, how? Is destruction in one place better than another? I lost a sister and a father. I lost Denny. We both mourn Mr. Rabb. I will not lose more people that I love.Youmatter to me. My family matters. Georgiana matters. If you and I escape, if wehide, Fènnù will hunt endlessly amongst the southern war. Without me, she… she might even give up. Return to harmless sleep…”
“If you believed that,” he said icily, “you would have told the truth at Pemberley.”
Until now, I had been pleading. Anger cut that away. “I did not tell the truth because you are sentimental. You would not accept the truth.”
“What truth? That you have abandoned duty?”
“That we have lost! We are in retreat from a superior foe. When I am near Fènnù, she poisons me, drags my mind into her mad violence, and through me, her madness poisons Yuánchi. To save Yuánchi, I had to flee, and if I left you behind, Fènnù would find you instead. Yuánchi’s binding touches you too, and the black dragon is jealous. She would kill you in idle pique and resume her hunt.” An old lesson returned. “?‘A general must retreat without fearing disgrace.’?”
Without hesitation, Darcy recited the full quote, “?‘A general whose only thought is toprotect his countrymust retreat without fearing disgrace.’?” Into my surprised silence, he added, “When did you start reading Sun Tzu?”
I remembered an ages-dead general so respected that he defied custom and taught his daughter the art of war. He dictated thirteen chapters while I transcribed them, holding the brush perfectly vertical as he had taught me, always standing, never sitting—father said writing was a dance, like swordplay.
“My father told me,” I said, but these bursts of ancient knowledge felt suddenly too real, too frighteningly uncontrolled. Despite the risk, I reached out to Yuánchi to steady my mind… and could not find him. It was like I had thrust my hand into a mountain of snow, silent and soft and impenetrable.
Darcy’s eyebrows had risen in disbelief, so I forced my attention back to him. “All that matters is that you and I remain here. That we wait.”
