Page 123 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Mary Bennet, Yuánchi thought, the words vibrating my brain like a clanged bell. This time, I managed not to wince.
“Yes?” I answered. It was hard to break the habit of speaking aloud. The wind whipped the sound from my lips and left a sour flavor of black rot and frost.
Fènnù, Yuánchi thought, but when conveyed through his mind, that mundane word, the Chinese for wrath or fury, was a simplistic title for an unthinkably ornate composition, one befouled by a grating discord.
One of the cream firedrakes veered, drawing a sight line to the left. I let go of the saddle and pointed so the others would see the black dragon rising, her wings spinning sable squalls from the frozen landscape.
I could just make out a woman’s form on her back. Lizzy.
With three huge strokes, Fènnù climbed over us. My neck craned as she soared higher. When birds fought, they attacked from above. Were we about to be blasted out of the air by my possessed sister?
The wyfe of healing says stay true, Yuánchi thought.The wyfe of war hears her. She will follow.
“Very well,” I said. What else does a figurehead say to a ship? The drakes resumed their heading toward Surrey, and Yuánchi followed, his great muscles trembling.
The devastated region ended, but the green hills and fields of Surrey were soiled with dark patches. They looked like spilled ink. Georgiana shouted, “The blight,” against the wind.
Yuánchi began to descend. I spotted people ahead and leaned to look, then Yuánchi’s next wingbeat hitched—an aerial stumble. We rocked wildly. I bracedmyself against his muscular neck, my palm jammed into a patch of rough, blackened scales, and beneath his thudding pulse, I sensed the same discord I had heard in Fènnù’s name. In the scarlet dragon it was a poison, a spreading corruption of the broken song.
Yuánchi’s right wing spasmed and folded. The horizon tilted sideways, the lap belt yanking my hips while treetops rushed toward our right side. Yuánchi writhed like a dropped cat, the sky whipped through a dizzying circle, and somehow we were upright by the time the trees struck, branches clattering and snapping harmlessly against Yuánchi’s armored chest and belly. His wings fanned, scooping air to slow us—I plowed ignominiously into his neck—then we rammed the earth and skidded sideways across an expanse of grassy meadow.
Dazed, I clung while his stupendous lungs pumped breath through his body. My heart was rattling, my brow sheened with cold sweat. So much for the transcendence of flight. Something small squirmed from my pocket and flew away, the song draca deciding he preferred his own wings.
Are you hurt?Yuánchi thought.
No, I answered. We had landed in a meadow in a modest valley. There were scattered, untrimmed fruit trees and sprawling ruins from an ancient stone structure.What happened to your wing?
His neck and blind head settled painfully into the grass.I am weak. I have grown weaker since I bound the wyfe of war. Now the black dragon is close, and the broken song presses deep.
Mr. Darcy was already on the ground, and Georgiana was descending gingerly. I followed her, then ran alongside Yuánchi’s neck to where his head rested, tilted to one side, his jaws cracked to ease his slow, heavy wheezes.
“Can I help you somehow?” I asked. He did not respond.
Emma was running toward us through the grass. Now Yuánchi stirred, lifting his muzzle to greet her. I had never seen him reach out to anyone other than Lizzy, and a needle of jealousy pricked my heart in defense of my sister.
Where was Lizzy? The sky was empty.
Mr. Darcy had run to the center of the meadow. He spun, a hand shading his eyes. I called, “Do you see her?” and he shook his head. Anger from the frightening flight and Yuánchi’s illness filled me, and I yanked Emma’s arm to pull her away from Lizzy’s dragon. “You called us. You said Lizzy would follow! Where is she?”
“She answered through Yuánchi,” Emma said helplessly. Her hazel eyes pinched with worry as she scanned the scattered clouds.
Her dismay undercut my frustration, and I noticed her state: ungloved, fingernails torn, her unfailingly pristine clothes wrecked with mud, her face soot-smeared. Flakes of ash were caught in the feathers of her gray bonnet and in her hair. The effect was unsettling. Her appearance had always been so perfect.
“What happened to you?” I asked as Georgiana joined us and gasped, “You found it!”
An amulet hung on Emma’s breast. It was muddied too, but jade peeped through, and the scarlet was unmistakable.
Mr. Darcy, slump-shouldered, had rejoined us. He observed tiredly, “The amulet.”
“It is how I spoke with Yuánchi.” Emma lifted it slightly, a lady’s demure display. “Through him, I heard Lizzy. I do not sense her now.” She rubbed her eyes. “Yuánchi is terribly unwell. I did not know when I asked you to fly.”
Emma’s usually animated speech was flat with exhaustion. The soot on her cheeks was tracked by dried tears, and foreboding filled me.
“Where is Mr. Knightley?” I asked.
She smiled with some of her old confidence. “He is fetching Harriet. It is too dangerous for her to stay in Surrey. Papa gaveherthe amulet! It took us ages to sort that out. She has loaned it to me.” To Mr. Darcy, she said, “Lizzy will come. She told me so, and I was right about the lake, was I not?”
He nodded, in acknowledgement or thanks, and adjusted his shoulders closer to his usual commanding posture.
