Page 97 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Mr. Digweed, the gray-haired headman of Pemberley’s Briton clans, hurried through the double doors, aided by his young son, Thomas. Mr. Digweed uttered one pained exclamation when he saw Georgiana, then he strode over. He felt her damp brow, his face grave.
“What see you, wyfe of war?” he asked me.
“Fènnù’s shroud presses in on her. Her song holds it back, but she tires. I have been trying to aid her… my power is no use.”
“Teine eigin!” he said, and I recognized the words from our Beltane wedding—make fire. Thomas ran to the fireplace and stoked it with wood, then blew at the banked coals until the smolder burst into flame.
Mr. Digweed moved to the head of the sofa and held Georgiana’s hands high in his. “Druíwide, join us.” The Britons held hands to form a circle with him, including Darcy andLucy who had a deep connection to the Briton’s faith. I hesitated, but at his nod, joined as well. Mrs. Reynolds continued to play.
Mr. Digweed began a gruff, melodic chant, words that felt as hoary as mossy oaks and as solid as bedrock. A tiny, glowing light flew into the room, then a flurry of them—little needledrac glowing in blues and greens despite the dark. They swirled around, dancing near the warmth of the fire and dodging in and out of our circle.
Georgiana drew a hard breath, then began to sing with her human voice—Fènnù’s song. When I first heard those notes, they stabbed me like icy knives, but now it was part of something greater that shone like sunrise. In the world of draca, the song flared as blazing sapphire. The shroud twisted and tightened, a black iron vise struggling to contain it.
The windows rattled, then more violently. The thumping thunder of Fènnù’s wings grew louder.
“Fènnù will not relinquish this power,” I warned. “She will kill us all first.”
Mr. Digweed bent to Georgiana, his voice almost lost in the strength of the chorus. “Daughter of Bel, beloved of Pemberley, scion of a great wyfe. Gather our song into yours. Sing. Proclaim yourself!”
The musicians, human and draca, reached a climax, then the disparate melodies resolved in a meeting of perfect, pure unison. I felt a crashing tear open in the shroud, then it split, folding away into itself like a punctured soap bubble. The darkness outside appeared to spatter with sparks, then beams of sunlight ended the false night.
Like a person waking from a nightmare, Georgiana flew up to sitting, her eyes wide. She reached to the window, to the south, and shouted, “Mary!” Everyone crowded around her, reassuring her.
Everyone but me. At last I could sense Fènnù—and her surging anger. Her malevolent presence looked down from on high, assessing tiny, fragile Pemberley, the shelter for a lost prize, a frustration she could blot out of existence. I ran through the conservatory, knocking treasured plants aside while summoning Yuánchi, hopelessly, to fight. But even a minute might draw the battle away from Pemberley and save the others.
Bursting out the conservatory doors, I entered the south garden. Fènnù’s gaze penetrated me like an icy lance, but this time, her strength did not crush my mind. The brilliance of Georgiana’s song was fading but not yet gone, and it held Fènnù’s mind at bay, a fleetingadvantage, one I could use.
But as Yuánchi winged in, steel-strong fingers grasped my arm. Georgiana, staggering, had half-dragged Darcy across the garden to catch me.
“Do not fight her,” she said, her voice worn and cracked. “Do not drive her away. The pestilence is the enemy. Fènnù must be healed to cure it. We need her close.”
Yuánchi landed at the garden’s edge, furrowing the earth and obliterating decorative hedges in his blindness. But I looked another way, seeking the black dragon.
From the clouds, Fènnù dove on Pemberley. I no longer felt even the shards of her broken sanity. She had succumbed to fury.
Stop!I commanded with all my strength, but no human could command a dragon. Black darkened her wake as her breath primed. Out of time, I abandoned strength and reached for the memory of when our minds had merged in Scotland and I entered her abyss of despair and loneliness.
Wait, I called. Wait until I join you.
Her wings flared, braking her plummet, and she shot over Pemberley with a thump of wind that knocked slate tiles off the roofs. But that was all.
My wyfe of war, crooned in my mind.
“You commanded her,” Darcy cried. “I knew it. You saved us.” He pulled me against him, supporting Georgiana with his other arm.
I was not sure what I had done.
With daylight restored, I saw the garden properly. The hedges, the flowers, even the towering oaks were stained a lifeless gray. That leaden darkness extended to the hills, to all the forest in sight. Withered leaves were dropping, coating the ground with oily decomposition. Young, green branches softened, drooped, and spattered down as mush. The only growth that survived were the budding flowers and fruits. The rosebuds, poppies, even the green acorns were swelling, bloating with infestation.
Beyond sight, Fènnù coasted into a turn and began a patient circle. Not leaving. Waiting for me.
Georgiana’s iron grip tightened on my arm. “We have not saved everyone. Take me to London.Now.”
29
THE MUSEUM
MARY
