The Last Dragon of the East

Chapter 45

45

Y ou’ve packed enough water, yes?” my mother asks, fussing over me as she crams red-bean buns into every available pocket of my robes.

“Yes, I have.”

“And your compass? You know as well as I do how easily you get lost.”

“I know, A-Ma.”

“A change of under robes?”

“A-Ma.”

She wrings her fingers together nervously, buzzing with so much excitement I fear she might vibrate right out of her skin. “I just want you to be prepared, that’s all. Who knows how long this trek could take?”

“I found her once,” I say with a grin. “I’m sure I can do it again.”

“Please remember to write. You know how I worry otherwise. I expect to hear all about your grand adventures.”

“I promise.”

She gives me a tight hug. “Please be safe, Sai. And good luck.”

“Thank you, A-Ma.”

With a nod and a reassuring smile, I set off with my hand outstretched before me. There’s a great deal of slack as it trails off—according to my compass—due north. There are very few large cities in the northern regions; the land is too cold and hard for the growth of enough crops to sustain a large population. It will take at least two weeks on foot.

But not so long by flight.

Once I’m well and clear of the city, I duck behind the shade of a tall row of trees, shifting quickly before launching into the sky. I ascend at a sharp angle, determined to keep out of view. Ever since the attack at the Winter Palace, rumors about dragons have been impossible to avoid. Most people—thankfully—have the good sense to ignore them, writing them off as tall tales, but I would much rather avoid detection where possible.

I follow my red thread, allowing it to guide me as I sail through the clouds. I have no idea what to expect. What form has Jyn taken? Will the memories of her previous life return to her as they did for me? I hope that I’ll reach her before anything befalls her. Róng may be dead and gone, but the world remains full of unseen dangers.

Plant life in the northern regions is sparse. The terrain here is rocky, covered in frost, and largely clear of trees, making it easy for me to spot the small village of tents on the northern coast.

My thread slowly edges downward. My Fated One is somewhere near.

I descend a good distance from the village, shifting into my human form before anyone can spot me. I walk the rest of the way, entering the main road that leads straight through to the village center. The place bustles with life. People go about their usual business, while most eagerly catch up with the traveling merchants who have made it all the way up with their goods. I blend in with the lot of them, a stranger to this area, yet still wholly welcomed by the locals. They pay me no mind as I wander through the village in search of my Fated One.

My thread is now drawn taut and vibrating, a glorious warmth emanating from our connection with our nearing proximity. I will my heart to settle, but there’s no denying the brewing excitement in the pit of my stomach. I’m close.

I come across a humble shack at the far edge of the village. Its thatched roof is made of woven water reeds, its walls of baked white clay. There’s a meager fence of thin sticks around the perimeter of the property. A strong breeze could easily knock it over, but it seems to work just fine to keep the family’s chickens from wandering off.

Strings of thyme, garlic bulbs, and red peppers hang above the wooden doorframe to dry. There’s an outdoor kitchen just beside the shack, boasting two woodstoves and a large, tightly woven basket for uncooked rice. All in all, this is a humble abode, though I can’t tell if anyone is currently home.

The sharp cry of a child answers my question.

I wander around the front of the shack and find a young woman seated on a log amid a thriving vegetable garden. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, her long black hair in tangles. Though my thread of fate points in her direction, she and I are not connected. Hers is connected to another, leading off to the left, back toward the village center.

The woman hums a gentle tune, gently shushing the crying bundle in her arms. The newborn is only a few days old, with chubby cheeks a cute shade of pink. The child cries and cries and cries, wriggling uncomfortably beneath thick blankets.

“Please, my darling,” her mother says. “Please, stop crying. Why won’t you sleep?”

I clear my throat gently. “Excuse me, madam?”

The woman rises, startled. “Yes?”

“Apologies for the interruption. I was traveling through and couldn’t help but overhear the child’s distress. Is everything well?”

The woman gives me an exhausted nod. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. My daughter… She has not taken to my milk. No matter what I do, I can’t get her to latch on. My husband will be back shortly with the doctor, but I fear…” She sighs, the dark circles beneath her eyes deep and weary. The new mother’s bottom lip trembles. “I fear I may lose my little one if she doesn’t eat soon. It’s been a hard winter. I’m not sure we can afford the medicine.”

My heart aches for her. She’s clearly doing her best.

“I happen to be a healer of sorts,” I say. “With your permission, might I hold her for a moment?”

The woman frowns slightly, her hesitation not unwarranted. She gestures with a hand to the free space on the log, inviting me over. We sit together as she carefully hands the child to me.

The crying stops at once.

The little girl peers up at me with big brown eyes. There are dazzling specks of green around the edges, as beautiful and brilliant as emeralds. She manages to wriggle one of her arms free of the blankets, exposing her thread-bearing hand.

We are connected.

I cannot help but laugh as she laughs, joy radiating over our bond.

“Amazing,” her mother breathes, her eyes wide with pleasant surprise. “Goodness, how is this possible? She hasn’t stopped crying since her first breath!”

I shrug a shoulder, keeping my hold on the child as tender and careful as possible. “Have you any goat’s milk?” I ask.

“That I do.”

“Mix in a small amount of honey and soak a clean cloth in the mixture. It will tide her over until she learns to suckle.”

The woman hurries inside, keeping an eye on me through the small window of her home as she diligently gathers the ingredients. She returns with the soaked cloth and hands it to me, then takes her seat at my side to watch everything unfold. I bring the cloth to the child’s lips. She whines softly before finally opening her mouth and hungrily sucking up the milk and honey.

Her mother gasps. Tears of happiness well in her eyes. “You’re a miracle worker. Pray tell, what’s your name, good sir?”

“Sai,” I answer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sai. I’m Luobing.”

“And the little one? What’s her name?”

“In all honesty, my husband and I are still struggling to come to an agreement on what we should call her.” The woman shifts in her seat. “Tell me, dear sir. What would your suggestion be?”

“You would have me pick her name?”

“I was in dire straits before you happened along. It seems that you have the right instinct.”

The little girl in my arms coos, staring up at me with wide eyes. She mirrors my smile, her free hand reaching out toward me with a flex of her little fingers.

“As luck would have it,” I say, “I have the perfect name in mind.”