Page 111 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“Shall I end the war?” I asked conversationally.
“Lizzy, this is not the way,” Georgiana began.
Darcy, though, waved to quiet her. “How would you end it?” His eyes were intent. My husband trusted me.
“I have seen a thousand wars,” I said. “Wars launched by idle cruelty. Wars over a misspelled word in a scripture, or skin that is too light or too dark, or food that is unfamiliar. I have seen wars that pander to imperial vanity. Wars that consume generations, fought by fathers and sons, then their sons, and then theirs. But I have also seen wars end.”
Swift as a blade, the smoky daylight dimmed as Fènnù coasted over us, fiftyyards high. Even with her wings still, her weight squeezed the air in my lungs. Her wake stained the sky to midnight. She settled in the field, not far from Yuánchi, and night settled around her. Yuánchi turned, hissing, his wings spread, but Fènnù ignored him. She watched me.
“There was no need to sing,” I told Mary, who was floundering in the dark. “The dagger may summon the black dragon, but she seeks for her great wyfe unbidden.”
I vaulted the collapsed stone wall and dashed into the meadow. Fènnù lowered herself and pressed the elbow of her wing to the earth. I ran up the leading bone, thick as a tree trunk. Her scales were rough, distorted by centuries of disease, and the uneven edges bit my boot soles. At her shoulder, I paused while she stood, colossal muscles sliding over one another, raising me more than twenty feet high.
“Elizabeth.”
I turned. Darcy was behind me—he had chased me up Fènnù’s wing.
“That was quick,” I admitted.
“The dagger has your mind. Fènnù is filling you with anger. Resist her. Come back.”
“My anger is my own.” I could feel Fènnù’s mind, dispassionate and superior, pruning my clumsy human logic. “Mary is angry. You are angry; it is in your eyes. But you are all afraid to act. Your grief and fear paralyze you. I have shed grief. I have shed doubt.”
“At the end, my mother had visions,” he whispered, “but I was too proud to listen. I ascribed them to weakness—to binding sickness, to madness. I see better now. My mother foresaw the blight and the return of the dragons. She knew she could not heal the song, so she chose to pass her strength to the next great wyfe of healing.”
Irritation burrowed through my dispassionate mood. “Are you sure this is the correct speech? It seems to be for Emma.”
“My mother passed a legacy to the next wyfe of healing. She charged me with another: to remember the great wyves and to defend them. To be faithful and bold to their cause. When I found you and loved you, I flattered myself that good fortune had aided my task. You were wise and strong, and I would always protect my wyfe. But here”—his hand chopped down toward Fènnù, under our feet—“you have chosen the wrong path. Fènnù has exploited your grief to take control. But you can resist her. Yuánchi told you that you are the strongest wyfe of war there has been. That is why he bound you.Youcan withstandFènnù—”
Yuánchi’s name jolted Fènnù’s thoughts, splitting them into paranoid fragments. A past life replaced mine, the life that led to the breaking of the song. Darcy became a different man, a Roman general and a lover, then he was Imhotep, the Egyptian priest who betrayed me…
In the confusion, a spark lit my mind, Yuánchi pressing through our binding, trying to speak to me. But Darcy was right; I was strong. I stiffened my mind to block him. Sealed him away.
Be still, my Fènnù, I thought.Be calm, my plague, my storm. The wild fears eased and the past life retreated, leaving a trickle of cold sweat on the back of my neck.
“You fear that Fènnù controls me?” I said to Darcy. “She will do whatever I wish.”
I pointed the dagger to the far side of the field, and Fènnù strode that way—one massive step, a second.A little farther, I thought, and she adjusted her stance to where I wanted.
Darcy, stubborn as usual, argued on. “You told me you might control her for a time, but that she will win. That you will lose yourself to her.”
“You are confusing me. Am I strong or am I doomed?” He licked his lips, dismayed—Darcy hated to be caught in an error—so I took pity and reassured him. “Trust me, love.” I flicked my blood off the dagger and slipped it into the sheath, then showed him my empty hands. I stepped closer, so close that the heat of his heaving chest warmed mine.
“If you leave,” I promised softly, “I will tell you how wars end.” I adjusted the set of my boots on the ragged scales of Fènnù’s back.
Darcy’s brow was furrowed, his dark eyes confused. We were close enough to kiss. I smiled willingly and rested my palm low on his chest, a handbreadth above his center of balance, then shoved. His arms wheeled, a foot skidded, and his stunned face fell out of sight. I leaned over and watched him land in the soupy pond below.
“Wars end when everyone dies,” I called, but I was not sure he heard.
33
HARTFIELD
EMMA
Harrietand I ran on narrow footpaths and crossed fields until we reached Randalls Road. That felt safer, so we followed it at a fast walk, Harriet catching her breath while I rushed down every branching path, looking for Mr. Knightley. Finally, we reached the Westons. Anne saw us through a window and ushered us in.
“Is Mr. Knightley here?” I gasped as her maid locked the door and drew the curtain, but he was already running in from the parlor. My heart lurched from pounding fear to dancing relief as we embraced.
