by Eileen Wilks
Sam’s head rested in the dirt some ten feet away. He’d lain down fully and she hadn’t even noticed, so riveted was she by the story Li Qin told of Grandmother’s early life.
A scholar, indeed. For once the chill, precise voice was neither cool nor impenetrable. Emotions seemed to echo up from the depths of the mind behind the voice. . . fondness, amusement, joy, loss. Li Lei was not born to be a scholar. She was born to meddle.
“You would know.” There was rebuke in Li Qin’s voice.
Lily looked back at her, surprised more by the tone of Li Qin’s voice than the content of her words. “Sam meddles?”
“Oh, yes.” Li Qin looked as placid as always. “His meddling may be in service of a worthy goal. I believe he considered his goal with Li Lei worthy. He knew the Chimei would come to Li Lei’s city, you see, and that great suffering and destruction would result. When he accepted her as apprentice, he did so with the hope that, when the time came, she would destroy the Chimei’s grip on this realm.”
Grandmother had been Sam’s apprentice? Lily could not resist asking, “Was she, um . . . was she a human apprentice? Or is that when . . .”
“Oh, yes, she was human, and quite young to our way of thinking—only seventeen—when she ran off to Sam. I gather it was not unheard of for a dragon to accept a human apprentice, but it was most unusual.”
Rule spoke. “I’m curious about why Sam would leave it to hope and chance and a young human woman to defeat this Chimei. It seems he could have dealt with her himself.”
This time the puff of air smelled more of metal and ash than cinnamon. You know very little, man who is wolf.
“Then tell me more. Tell us.”
Silence, both physical and mental. Then . . . You have stories, Rule Turner, that speak of the Great War. My people, too, fought in that war—and in its aftermath. The Chimei are like lupi in that they were created by an Old One involved in that conflict. Unlike lupi, they were not originally intended to be warriors. What do you know of the reasons for the Great War?
“Very little,” Rule admitted. “I know many players and peoples were involved. I don’t know most of their names, natures, or goals. I do know why my Lady fought. She fought for the right of the younger races to determine their own destinies.”
You refer to the younger races as “they.” Lupi are a very young race.
Rule shrugged. “Lupi belong to the Lady. We were created to fight for her goals, and our destiny lies in her hands and ours, jointly. I suppose I see us as different from other races that way.”
Lily looked at Rule, taken aback. Didn’t he think lupi deserved to determine their own fate?
Sam, too, seemed to find his statement curious. You do not find a contradiction in this? Did not the nature of your creation rob you of the very choice your Lady cherishes?
“The human part of me understands your question. The wolf considers it silly. The contradiction you see exists only in words. I could hunt more words in an attempt to explain, but they would be imprecise and, I suspect, unhelpful. Dragons are by nature supreme individualists. A dragon might have difficulty perceiving the truth of a race founded in both individuality and mutuality.”
Humans are such a race, also.
“Humans are more conflicted about it.”
Lily tried to grasp what Rule meant. The conflict between the needs of the many and the needs of the one—that, she knew about. People had been searching for the right balance there since they came out of caves, and maybe before. But she sensed there was more to what he said.
I am intrigued, Sam said after a brief pause. If you survive, I would speak more with you about this, but current troubles require the tabling of such digressions.
Your Lady has conveyed to you the essence of the conflict. The Great War was fought by many peoples for many reasons, but it was the deep dispute among some Old Ones which sparked it and made it so terrible. They disagreed over . . . We might say, over the amount of meddling they would allow themselves. Some attempted to hasten the maturation of the younger races through judicious meddling. Some opposed any interference. And some vigorously strove to shape the younger races.
The Chimei are the product of such reasoning. They were made by conjoining the patterns of multiple species, both sentient and nonsentient, physical and nonphysical. Their creator made them largely nonphysical so that if their physical portion was destroyed, they would not die, and could eventually reconstitute their physicality. He considered fear of death an evil force.
Had he stopped there, his children might have persisted more or less as he intended them, but he went on to remove fear from them entirely, believing it lies at the root of warped and dangerous choices.
He erred. Perhaps fear is an essential component of sentience, for the Chimei, unable to experience it themselves, crave fear. In the vast carnage of the Great War they mutated, becoming a species that actively feeds on fear. In the War’s aftermath, they developed another skill. They already had mindspeech; they learned how to touch other minds to cause them to create waking nightmares.
“Like giant snakes,” Lily burst out. “Or murderous yeti, or whatever someone fears. It’s the Chimei who’s doing that. She’s making people see what they fear.”
Yes.
She shoved to her feet, furious. “Why didn’t you tell us? Warn us, let us know what we were up against. This Chimei had something to do with the attack on Cullen, didn’t she? If you’d told us instead of making bets about when we’d show up—”
Quiet.
The single word arrived with such force that, involuntarily, Lily took a step back.
I balance the fate of your world in what I say to you, when I say it, what I imply, what I leave for you to learn elsewhere or not at all.
Lily sucked in a breath. He meant it. He’d spoken as he always did, with inhuman precision—no rhetorical flourishes, no dramatic exaggeration. “The world. The entire world.”
I said that my people battled in the War’s aftermath. We are uniquely suited to fighting the Chimei, and there were many Chimei in realms outside their own, so the fighting continued for some time. The cost to us was great. It was decided there was need for a treaty to stop the killing. Almost all Chimei agreed to return to their home realm, where certain alterations rendered them less dangerous. They are not allowed to leave. Some Chimei, such as this one, refused to return. The treaty binds such Chimei in other ways—and, unlike treaties made by humans, it binds in an absolute sense. Chimei and dragons are unable to kill each other—unable to act directly against each other.
“Directly,” Lily repeated. She knew a loophole when she heard one. “You can’t just pounce on this Chimei, but indirectly you can do something?”
Operating against her indirectly is possible, but difficult. Small actions, intent, words—all may have cumulative power. Applied at the wrong time, in the wrong way, this power could break the treaty. If dragons break the treaty, two things may happen. Any Chimei still outside their own realm would be free to travel here. And any Chimei here would be able to breed.
“This treaty prevents their breeding?”
It does. This Chimei is still in attenuated form. She is extremely powerful, but without physicality to anchor her, she is unable to use her power effectively. If she succeeds in manifesting herself fully, San Diego and much of this coast will be lost. If she breeds, or if other Chimei travel here and manifest themselves physically, they will send your world spiraling into chaos and madness.
“Chaos and madness. The world. You’re speaking literally.”
Sam didn’t deign to answer. Probably he figured he’d said it once, and that should be enough.
Lily’s heart was pounding. Possible disasters spun through her head—or was it all one enormous tragedy, on a scale she couldn’t conceive? And couldn’t stop trying to imagine.
She looked at Rule. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. He couldn’t have any answers, either. He met her gaze, his eyes dark and troubled. And
reached for her hand.
Oh, yeah. That’s what she’d wanted. The reminder that they were in this together . . . whatever the hell “this” was. She turned back to Sam. “Can’t the Old Ones who drew up this treaty—I’m guessing that’s who was behind it—do something?”
They have bound themselves to not interfere. It is an imperfect situation.
Imperfect. Yeah, that was one way of looking at it. Lily had an ancient, not-quite-physical demon who couldn’t be killed disrupting the minds in her city. Eating the fear her nightmares caused. What was she supposed to do? How did she fight such a creature?
Lily took a slow breath. Start where you are. That’s what Grandmother always said. For Lily, that meant treating this like a cop. “Okay. I saw an Asian guy at Clanhome last night shortly before Cullen was attacked. No one else saw him. How does he fit in? He does fit somehow, doesn’t he?”
I will not answer that at this time. I suspect you will be free to confer with the others about it, however.
Well, duh. Of course she was. That didn’t—
Lily Yu. A tinge of exasperation lent the faintest warmth to Sam’s words. There is no “of course” to this. Do you not see? It is likely you will be bound, to a greater or lesser extent, by the treaty.
That did not make sense. “The treaty was between dragons and Chimei. I’m human.”
Your grandmother chose to return to her original form, but she has been dragon. It is impossible for one who has been dragon to ever be fully not-dragon. The treaty binds her, and you are of her blood.
Lily went blank. She wasn’t—couldn’t be—
Did you not ask earlier why I can mindspeak you despite your Gift?
She had, but he couldn’t be right. That couldn’t be the reason.
Rule squeezed her hand. His eyes were dark, concerned. “This troubles you? I remember Fagin saying something along those lines. That he’d heard a suggestion that sensitives were born of dragon magic, or something like that. You weren’t upset by the idea then.”
Because she hadn’t believed it. Besides . . . “That’s not the same. Being touched by their magic isn’t the same as being, well . . .” She couldn’t say it. It sounded stupid. Presumptuous.
She received what felt like the mental equivalent of . . . a chuckle? In this, you are not like your grandmother. I do not believe Li Lei is capable of applying “presumptuous” to herself. In this, she was dragon before she was dragon.
No, you are not a dragon, Lily Yu, but you partake of a portion of dragon nature. You sense magic directly, as we do, although you are blind to it and unable to shape it. You have already begun to manifest one ability common to dragons, though you seem determined to overlook it.
What was he talking about?
You are capable of acquiring mindspeech and possibly other skills common to dragons, though I have seen no suggestion that you know this or wish to spend the necessary years of study to do so. Most notably, you possess an immunity to worked magic that is equal to that of an adult dragon.
Her Gift. He was talking about her Gift, which he claimed wasn’t a human thing at all. It was a dragon thing. All these years she’d insisted that being a sensitive didn’t make her anything other than fully human, and now . . .
Your mind is unpleasantly noisy.
It was pretty noisy from her perspective, too. “You think this treaty enacted however many thousands of years ago will affect me?”
Affect you, yes, and be affected by you. I do not know to what extent. Neither does the Chimei, for the situation is unprecedented. For now, she goes warily. She does not strike directly at Li Lei or at those of Li Lei’s blood.
“Strike at Grandmother.” Who was missing. “And us. Me and my sisters. She wants to strike at us. You mean the Chimei intends to hurt my family.”
She craves revenge as a human drunkard craves alcohol. More. I believe she remained here chiefly so she could seek revenge.
“For over three hundred years?” Lily asked, incredulous. “If this Chimei has been seeking revenge all that time, she isn’t very good at it.”
She has been largely unable to act. The Turning changed this.
“More magic around, you mean.” With sudden urgency, Lily asked, “Where is Grandmother?”
Unhurt. And hidden.
“And my mother. God, my mother isn’t of Grandmother’s blood. If this Chimei wants revenge and doesn’t dare go after those of us who might—who partake of dragon nature—”
Two things protect your mother. Li Lei gave her a charm carved from one of my scales. It may not be necessary. Your mother is mated with your father and has borne him children. This comprises a bond which the treaty will recognize, though again I cannot say the precise degree of restraint it will impose on the Chimei. In essence, all residents of San Diego are at risk. Your mother’s risk may be higher than most. It may be lower.
“But if mating with someone creates a bond that the treaty recognizes . . .” Lily couldn’t figure out how to arrive gracefully at the end of that sentence. She glanced back at Li Qin.
Who rose gracefully, smiling, and came to her. “You are kind to be concerned, and to offer respect for my privacy. Clearly, I have not borne your grandmother’s children, Lily. She concluded this was a critical factor, and that I would not be safe from the Chimei. That is why I am here. The Chimei will not attack those directly under Sam’s protection, for in such a case he would be allowed to strike back.”
“Okay.” Lily nodded. “Okay.” She had long wondered about Grandmother and this woman, whom she’d been raised to think was a distant cousin. A few months ago she’d decided their relationship went beyond that—if, indeed, Li Qin was any sort of blood relation at all. But it was weird to have Li Qin confirm it. Weirder than she’d expected.
Not really because of the same-sex thing. Grandmother was precisely as conventional as it suited her to be—she especially approved of conventions involving respect for your elders—and profoundly disinterested in any rules or norms she didn’t agree with.
No, it was knowing for certain that her grandmother had a lover of any sort. Not in the past. In the present. That was just . . . weird. “Rule wouldn’t be protected, then.”
“We do not think so, no.” Li Qin put a gentle arm around Lily’s waist. “This is a great deal to hear all at once. I have been able to absorb pieces of this tale a little at a time over the years. You are trying to arrange it inside you all at once. This is difficult.”
For no reason, Lily’s eyes teared up. It infuriated her. She blinked frantically. “I’m . . . sort of topsy-turvy.”
“Will you indulge me by taking tea once more? It is not your practice, I know, but I do not have a garden here to offer you. Perhaps a few quiet moments will allow your insides to settle.”
“That . . .” Lily hesitated. “Okay. Yes. Tea would be fine.” For maybe the first time in her life, she actually meant it. If nothing else, the ritual would give her something to do where she knew the rules. Speaking of which . . . As Li Qin released her and moved away, Lily looked at Rule.
He held her hand still, but was watching Sam, who’d risen from his curled posture. His wings were slowly unfolding as if he were about to depart for the sky. “One question before you go. No, two questions.”
Sam didn’t respond, but he paused.
“Was this Chimei behind the attack on Cullen?”
Certainly. Sorcerers are dangerous to Chimei.
“How?”
I will not explain. Was that your other question?
Rule grimaced. “No. You spoke of the consequences of your indirect actions breaking the treaty. I assume the Chimei can act indirectly, also.”
She can.
“What happens if the Chimei’s actions cause the treaty to break?”
There was distinct amusement in Sam’s “voice” this time. Lily Yu is not the only one to joust with questions. If this Chimei causes the treaty to break, I kill her.
“But you said—”
I said the creator of the Chimei intended them to be fearless and impossible to kill. He achieved the first goal, however disastrously. He nearly achieved the second goal. Nearly, but not quite.
He did not allow for dragons.
Sun Mzao gathered a body whose nose-to-tail length might have stretched out over the entire twice-a-football-field span of his landing pad. He crouched, then sprang for the sky. The great wings unfurled fully and beat once, twice, again . . .
And he disappeared.
“Ah, good,” Li Qin said. “Sam heated the water for us before he left.”
NINETEEN
The city of Luan; Shanxi Province, China; nineteenth day of the eleventh month of the forty-fourth year of the Ching Dynasty
FOUR people waited outside the home of Chen Wu Yin, the man who held the license for collecting night soil in the district where the sorcerer had taken up residence—two hungry, desperate women, a middle-aged man, and Li Lei.
She had planned to arrive after the women, who came every day. She had not planned on the man.
He had long hairs growing out of his nose. Li Lei regarded those hairs with disgust. How had he heard that the collector would have a job available today? After all Li Lei had gone through to make that possible, it was patently unfair for the man to be here.
She’d needed to find a young employee, one without a family of his own who would be left behind to starve. Whatever bribe or blackmail the sorcerer had used to procure his place, it had been effective. The sorcerer controlled the city and its gates. It was not too difficult to slip a single person through the gate, but smuggling out an entire family without the proper papers would have been impossible.
Then she’d had to persuade the young servant man to leave. She had plenty of coin, which is a fine persuader, but by then she hadn’t been able to speak to him . . . or to anyone. In the end, she’d had to use one of the three stones Sam had given her as part of her training.
If he thought she was foolish to have used his gift on such a paltry target when she could simply have killed him, well, he could laugh at her later. If she had a later. If not, he might still laugh. But she hoped he would also burn things. A great many things.
