“Lord Wellington would answer that she is a weapon, ravaging England for our enemies, so she must be destroyed. But he is a military man. To me, she is a mystery. When she rose from the Thames, her mind overcame mine until you protected me. The next day, when you battled above London, I felt her reach for me again.” I licked dry lips. “It is not only she. I am attracted to her, as well. The visions I had of past wyves show her, never you. Are they her memories?”
They are wyves’ memories. Wyves she has bound. Draca bind to learn what we do not know. Love. Passion. She keeps memories of her bound wyves after they are bone and dust.There was stillness, then,We all keep memories. The memories of a lost wyfe are treasures.
That was comprehensible, at least. “In the visions, I saw moments of vengeance and violence. I know I am the wyfe of war. You need not prevaricate about that. Fènnù called me that, and so did you when we bound. But I have been interpreting that label through human concepts. What does adragonmean by wyfe of war?”
The passions of wyves burn bright. An ordinary wyfe is a candle. A strong wyfe, a torch. A great wyfe is a sun. All wyves have… colors. Your passion is the color of a wyfe of war.
“Are there human words for the color of a wyfe of war? Is it anger?”
It is steel and courage and sacrifice.
“Not… madness?” My throat was thick. I swallowed, tasting salt. “Or cruelty? I killed a woman, and I felt no regret. Not until after. When I did it, there was…” I could not voice those words. Pleasure. Triumph.
The one you call Fènnù is broken. The fragments of her mind overcome the wyves she binds. Even when she was whole, she chose wyves seeking strength to right wrongs. When she lost her song, only battle remained. Now, the songs of all dragons are unfinished.
“I need a poet to interpret these unsingable songs,” I muttered. I rubbed at a growing ache in my temples. “Well, what is the dagger, then?”
Nothing. Daggers are human things.
“This dagger is a dragon’s tooth. Fènnù’s tooth, unless there is another dragon larger than you.”
Scales rattled as Yuánchi stiffened his wings.You did not say it was a tooth.
“I was not sure at first. Did I never tell you?”
In answer, Yuánchi’s thoughts filled my mind, but they lilted like a woman’s voice:Fang, scale, and claw. Then death, they saw.
Well, that was different. I heard Yuánchi’s thoughts as words, but that was a comfortable illusion. If I concentrated, his words, like those of wyverns, had no sound. No syllables. They were comprehension without hearing. But this had been true mimicry of a spoken voice.
“Thatispoetry,” I said. “Do draca write poetry?”
Those are human words. I woke to a call and crossed seas to the wyfe who called me. She spoke those words. Even then, she told a lost story. Three great wyves had gathered three great items—fang, scale, and claw—to heal the broken song. But they failed and died.
“You crossed seas to reach England?” Yuánchi cocked his head uncertainly, and I blew out a frustrated breath. “England is the large island on which we sit. It is not built of imaginary lines. Neither does it vanish while you sleep. Did you cross seas to come to this island? To findthatwyfe?”
Yes,he thought, sounding mildly chagrined.
“You must have come from the East, as you had a Chinese name.” Yuánchi snorted reprovingly, as if logic were distasteful, but I forged on, “The great wyves gathered the dagger and two other items to heal Fènnù. Or they tried. They failed. Then you came here.”
I did not say all that. Those wyves are gone. I do not hold their memories.
“Whatexactlyare fang, scale, and claw?”
Yuánchi’s head swung, examining me from several angles. Finally, in a fussy tone, he thought,Exactly, they are three human words. You called them poetry.
“So I did,” I sighed. This was giving me a profound headache. “The dagger summoned Fènnù from the ice. But I do not believe the dagger is a weapon. It was in none of my visions, so it came after Fènnù’s mind was broken. I think it was made as a cure.” Yuánchi was eyeing me as dubiously as faceted jewel eyes could manage. “But weapon or cure, we must recover it. If our enemies have it, England will lose this war.”
31
A SMALL THING
EMMA
Pemberley House wasa massive three-story manse of silver granite, stately and unfamiliar, situated on a grassy rise. Behind, the hill climbed to a peak crowned with ancient forest.
Harriet and I stopped in the entry, amazed by the decorations for the royal visit. Narrow, ten-foot-tall tapestries showed winter scenes of frozen lakes, snowy forests, and proud elk, all agleam with silver thread. Green holly with blood-red berries overflowed from vases wrapped in black ribbon. A few laggard courtiers wandered, nodding their approval. It was dramatic but tasteful, suited for a country at war and a royal family mourning a handful of lesser cousins.
A maid led us to our room. I left Harriet exploring the cabinets and wheeled Nessy to her chamber, adjacent to ours and cozy with wool rugs, embroidered pillows, and a goose down quilt. Nessy climbed under the covers, and I cracked the window so chill air flowed in.
