by Eileen Wilks
“Ah.” Isen started to rub his beard, found bare face, and scowled. “All right. Straight out, then. You remember what I told you to do when you’re Rho and you’ve got a messy situation and you don’t have a clue what to do about it?”
Everything clicked in place. “Look mysterious and knowing and stall until I figure something out.”
“That’s right. I’ll tell you that I personally think it’s a mistake, you marrying. Any of us marrying. But you’ve said you think the Lady wants change.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. She hasn’t whispered in my ear—that’s for damned sure. But it’s possible. So I’m waiting to see how things shake out.”
Rule was suddenly awash with emotion. For a little while, he’d thought his father was dead. Isen’s heart had stopped for so long . . . but it had started again. “I’d like to take my father to dinner,” he said. “But he hardly ever leaves his place.”
Isen’s eyes twinkled. “Bit of a stick-in-the mud, is he? Maybe an agora—what’s that word? Agoraphobic.”
Rule nodded solemnly. “Something like that. If you should happen to see him—”
Isen hooted with laughter and grabbed Rule, hugging hard.
Rule hugged back, his eyes damp. “I love you, Dad.”
“Love you back.” And Isen slapped him on the back to prove it.
* * *
LILY’S mother had graciously granted a two-day reprieve on their lunch, but Wednesday rolled around—as it has a habit of doing—right on schedule. Resigned, Lily sat at a red-draped table in her uncle Chen’s restaurant with a menu, a glass of water, and—to the waiter’s clear disapproval—a cup of coffee.
It was five minutes after noon. Her mother was late. Her mother was never late. The atomic clock could be set by Julia Yu’s punctuality. Lily couldn’t decide whether to be worried or annoyed.
Maybe she’d had trouble finding parking. The place was packed. If . . . Oh, my.
A slim, upright figure escorted by a deferential hostess was making her way through the crowded tables toward Lily. She wore pristine white silk trousers and a tunic with a Mandarin collar. The tunic was the color-soaked red a 1940s movie star might have worn on her lips and nails. “I am joining you,” Grandmother announced as the hostess held the chair for her. “Your mother is delayed. She will be here soon.”
A dozen impulses and questions whirled through Lily. Did her mother even know Grandmother was joining them? Or was her mother late because Grandmother told her to be? Or had Grandmother persuaded her the actual time was twelve thirty, or . . . .
In the end, Lily smiled helplessly. “It’s good to see you, Grandmother. You look fantastic.”
“Red is a good color for me.” Grandmother waved the hostess away. “We will not order yet. You may bring me some tea. You are drinking coffee,” she informed Lily.
“Yes, I am.”
“Hmph. Li Qin sends her love. She is very glad to be home again. She wonders why you have not yet been to see her.”
Lily’s eyebrows rose. “She wonders that, Grandmother?”
“I assume she does. I do not wonder. I know. You feel shy with me.”
Lily’s mouth opened to deny that—and closed again. Because suddenly, unaccountably, she did feel shy, or something very like that.
Grandmother patted her hand and spoke softly. “You have just woken to your name. You do not understand it, but you know it. I am the only one you might ask, but you do not know what to ask.”
Wordless, Lily nodded.
The server set a small china pot on the table. Grandmother inspected it, sniffing the steam. “You have prepared it correctly, I think. Loose tea, no bags? Yes. Thank you. I will let it steep.”
Grandmother folded her hands on the table as the slightly flustered server departed. “I will tell you the secret of true names. We know them when we understand the secret about death—which is, of course, the secret about life. Which is not a secret at all.”
“But I—I don’t understand death. I remember it happening. I don’t understand it.”
“You mean you do not understand what comes after death. No more do I. This does not matter. A baby reaching for her mother’s breast does not know what comes after not-baby. She sees not-baby around her, but she does not truly see until she becomes not-baby herself.”
“You mean that death is a transition.”
“Silly word, transition. All words are silly when we speak of this, so mostly we do not, or we let silly people do the speaking. I like the Buddhists, who do not mind being silly. They speak of the fallacy of duality, the confusion of either-or thinking. These words are as close as any to what you and I know.”
Lily shook her head. “They aren’t my words. They don’t . . . they don’t touch what I know.”
“Lily. You know now that having been, you can never not-be. Just as I, having been dragon, can never not-be dragon. And while I was wholly dragon, I was also human, for I could not undo having been human. Living does not undo life. Death does not, either. Life and death are not either-or.”
Words that would have been gibberish to her last week unlocked everything now. “You mean it’s all real. It’s all true. Cullen said a true name comes from the part of us that doesn’t change, but he was wrong. Mostly wrong, anyway, because it’s all change, and it’s all true.”
“Yes. Now, stop carving up what you know with words. The pieces left from that carving do not make sense.” She took a moment to pour her tea. She inhaled, frowned faintly, and sipped anyway. “Sandra learns, but she does not yet have the art.”
Lily grinned suddenly, thinking of a limousine. Black, not white, because Grandmother disliked the white ones. “And having been a child, we can’t not-be a child.”
Grandmother’s eyes twinkled. “I do not know what you mean.” She took a sip of tea, shook her head, and set the cup down.
Love and amusement mingled in Lily, making her next words softer than she wanted, more tentative. “I have some questions about things that can be chopped up into words.”
Grandmother snorted. “You wish to know about myself and Sam. Very well. You may ask. It is good for children to acquaint themselves with their ancestors.”
And that was the kernel, wasn’t it? “Most people don’t have an ancestor around to ask! I mean . . .” Lily gestured vaguely. “Over three hundred years, Grandmother! That’s . . . How is that possible?”
“I have been dragon. I cannot not-be dragon. Dragons live much longer than humans.” She shrugged. “I do not share in their longevity fully. My life will be longer than most, but not as long as a dragon’s. More than that I do not know.”
Lily’s heart beat faster. “Will my father live longer than most, too?”
“Ah.” Sadness clouded the old woman’s eyes. “I do not know, but . . . the magic did not go to him, did it? There is a property of my lineage, passed to me by my mother from her mother and back for many generations: our magic wakes only in the females of our line. It can be passed along through a son, but the son cannot touch it. The magic I passed down was not my original magic, of course, yet it still wakes only in the female, not the male.”
Lily grappled with a jostling crowd of questions, trying to order them. “What do you mean, it wasn’t your original magic?”
“When I was young, my magic took the shape of fire, but I burned out that Gift. When Sam transformed me, he breathed into me the magic of dragons. This is the magic I have passed on to you, though it takes a different shape in you than it has in me.”
“Did Sam turn you into a dragon to reward you for stopping the sorcerer?”
“Oh, no. He did it to save my life. Dragons possess great healing, but they cannot heal humans, and Sam did not wish me to die.” Her expression softened as her gaze focused on a memory only she could see. “Later, he said he had known my death was very likely, but he did not accept this. Dragons wish always to have their way.” She chuckled. “As do we all, but dragons wish this with great intricacy.”
“Is
Sam precongitive?”
“This is a human word, a modern word. I do not use it. Sam knows certain things. Back in China, he knew the Chimei would come, and he prepared me without telling me what use he would make of me. The treaty restrained him from that, but he could warn his apprentice, and he did. He told me that one day a Chimei would come, and I was to persuade my family to leave their home. He said he would release me to flee, too, if I wished. Though he did not intend that I leave,” she added pragmatically. “That is the way of dragons. They do not constrain, but they manipulate. But Sam did not know the Chimei’s lover would murder my family. His planning did not include that.”
She sighed once, softly. “In the end, the choices were mine. Vengeance is the choice of a dark heart, and my heart was very dark. I had to be close to kill the sorcerer, so I became a servant in his palace. I guessed that I would have to use what the lovely Cullen calls mage fire.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Many things Sam did not speak of until I was dragon and entitled to such knowledge. But he had instructed me in the use of black fire—an oddly dangerous teaching for a new apprentice! When the sorcerer came, I understood why.”
“You did use mage fire, then? Cullen says that only a sorcerer can call it safely.”
Grandmother snorted again. “In this, Cullen Seabourne is right. I had a great deal of power. I was good with fire. But I did not see power, so when I called black fire down on my enemy, I could not see what I wrought. I killed the sorcerer.” No matter what she’d said about vengeance and a dark heart, after three centuries her voice still rang with satisfaction when she said that. “But I could not control the fire. It burned . . . too much. I called it back to me, but I knew . . . The black fire feeds on what it burns, you see, and so more power returned to me than I had spent. I burned. I was neither alive nor dead when Sam came to me, but with a foot in both. He sang . . .” Her voice drifted off into memory and wonder.
Softly Lily said, “Dragonsong. I remember it so well.”
“Yes. And you have heard Sam sing one of the Great Songs, I think, when he returned you and his people from Dis. You understand when I say it is worth dying to hear such song.” Her grin flashed, as sudden and unexpected as a rainbow. “Even better if one does not die.”
Lily surprised herself by laughing. “It is, isn’t it?”
“And now, if you have exhausted your curiosity—”
“Not quite. Grandmother . . .” It was harder than she’d expected to speak of this. “The Chimei said she was the last of her kind. Sam said there were other Chimei who might descend on Earth if the treaty were broken and overwhelm us.” Someone had lied. Lily wanted it to be the Chimei, but she couldn’t quite convince herself of it.
Grandmother said nothing for a long moment, then repeated what she’d said before. “Dragons do not constrain, but they manipulate.”
“In other words, he lied.”
“No. Sam did not know if other Chimei still lived outside their realm. It was possible she was the last, but until her death freed all dragons, he did not know.”
“And the Chimei who live in their home realm? The Surrendered, she called them.”
“When Chimei return to their realm, they are altered. They surrender immortality and no longer feed on the fear of others.”
“There was never much chance of a horde of Chimei turning our world into their feeding ground, was there?”
Grandmother shrugged. “The greater threat was that she would breed, but there was a chance of other Chimei coming here. It was not great, but with such consequences, do you wait until the odds are bad to throw the dice?”
Lily drummed her fingers on the table. “I am not a pair of dice, and I don’t like being treated like one.”
“Who would?” Grandmother’s voice held sympathy, but no apology. “And now, if you are out of questions—”
“Not quite. I still don’t know when you gained the trick of turning tiger. And about that lineage you spoke of—”
“Do not interrupt,” Grandmother said sternly. “I will not speak of that today. Do you wish for some advice?”
“Not particularly.”
Sternness melted into a chuckle. “Who would?” she said again. “Unsought advice is useless. Indulge me anyway. Living is very serious, very real. It is also always a game. If we are wise, it is very real, very terrible, and very lovely, and a good deal of fun.” She patted Lily’s hand once more—and rose. “I have changed my mind. I am not staying for lunch.”
Automatically Lily stood, too. “But . . .”
“I am not so fond of shopping, and you and your mother need time with only the two of you. You do not argue, but you wish to,” she observed. “Be kind to your mother, Lily. She does not know what we know, and her life is not always easy.” Humor lit those bright, dark eyes. “I am a remarkable person, but I am a very bad mother-in-law.”
Lily sat, dazed and vastly amused, as her grandmother made her exit. After a few moments, curious, she sipped from Grandmother’s tea. It was cold, but otherwise tasted fine.
“You are drinking both coffee and tea?” her mother asked from right beside her.
Lily jumped. “You startled me. I was, uh, thinking. The tea was Grandmother’s, but she had to leave. She wanted me to offer her apologies.” She hadn’t exactly said so, but her actions were an apology of sorts. Maybe.
Julia Yu sighed. She was a tall, slender, beautifully dressed woman with lovely eyes and a receding chin. On her, the lack of chin was somehow a feminine touch. “Your grandmother is a very odd woman sometimes. Don’t tell her I said that,” she added, seating herself.
“Of course not.”
“We have a great deal to discuss,” her mother said with satisfaction. “I brought a notebook so we will not lose track of our ideas. Have you ordered?”
“I was waiting for you. Mother . . .”
“Here.” Julia pulled a full-size spiral notebook out of her very large purse and slid it across to Lily, along with a pen. “You take notes. I’ve lost my reading glasses again, I’m afraid.”
They were probably right there in her purse, but her mother hated being seen wearing them. “Okay. Mother, I want to thank you. I’ve been difficult, I know, but I . . . You didn’t approve of my relationship with Rule at first, but you changed your mind. You’re throwing yourself into arranging our wedding. I want to thank you for that.”
“I still do not approve of you and Rule Turner. He is a good man, I suppose, but a poor choice for you. He isn’t even Chinese.”
Lily jerked as if she’d been slapped. “But—”
“Lily.” Her mother looked fond, but impatient. Pretty much the expression she’d worn when Lily was five and spilled her milk twice in a row. “I don’t have to agree with your choices to support you.”
“Oh. Then the wedding . . . You’re doing that to support me, even if you don’t agree with my choice of husband?”
“Really, Lily, what do you think a wedding is for?”
Since that was the question she’d been asking herself—and a few others—she was briefly speechless. “Tell me what you think marriage is for. No, really. I want to know.” Her parents had a good marriage. Lily didn’t understand it, but they truly did. “For raising children?” she hazarded.
“That’s important, of course, but women have raised children without marriage for thousands of years. Marriage,” she said firmly, “and especially the ceremony which announces it, the wedding . . . That is how we say to the world, ‘These two are now a family, and with this joining our families are joined, too. And you had damned well better respect that.’”
“You . . . That . . . You never say damn.” Warmth flowed over Lily. Yes. Yes, that was exactly why she was marrying Rule. All of the other reasons were true, too, but this was why the mate bond and living together weren’t the same as marriage. “Thank you, Mother,” she said, reaching across to squeeze her mother’s hand. “That makes perfect sense.”
Julia Y
u looked surprised and gratified. “You haven’t said that to me often,” she observed dryly. “Now, in your situation . . . Ah, Sandra.” Julia Yu looked up at the server who’d just arrived, smiling. “Lily will have the orange chicken. I believe I want the moo shoo pork today.”
Lily opened her mouth to tell her mother not to order for her . . . and closed it again. Why fuss? She really did like the orange chicken.
“In your case,” Julia went on after the server departed, “with your marriage being so—so potentially controversial, it is extremely important that we put a good face on the ceremony. Everyone must see that your family is behind you completely in this marriage.”
Even if they weren’t, not completely. But for the first time, Lily saw that this mattered to her mother. What it meant to her.
Love. It was all about Julia Yu’s love and concern for her daughter—maybe not arriving in the form Lily kept looking for. And maybe it arrived with some overly controlling strings attached, too. But love just the same.
“Okay,” she said meekly. And as they talked, she made notes.
They’d finished their meals by the time they reached the big decision: the Dress. Her mother was talking about various designers, some bridal magazine article she’d read, and where they might go to look at various styles.
An idea flashed into Lily’s head. It felt right. “Mother, I’ve been thinking,” she said, though she hadn’t, not until this moment. “Oh—sorry, I interrupted. But I think I’d like Chinese style, not a—a princess gown or a ball gown or any of that.”
Her mother stopped talking. She tipped her head to one side, her eyes narrowing. Slowly she nodded. “Yes, that might work. Some of your generation are doing this, you know, using Chinese touches in their weddings. You are not an ordinary American bride, are you? You are Chinese American. And you are not marrying an ordinary American man. But nothing off the rack,” she added in quick warning. “Nothing cheap.”
“Of course not. Though with my budget, it can’t be too—”
“Lily!” Julia was horrified. “You are not going to deny me and your father the chance to buy your wedding dress!”
