Chapter 14
14
T his place, I quickly realize, is more than a desert sanctuary.
This is her home.
Traces of domesticity, albeit simple ones, are everywhere. Handwoven baskets made of dried leaves sit out by the water, a collection of ripe mangoes and red berries that I can’t name sitting inside. There’s a thick line made of spun grass tied between two large palm trees, clothes hung over the top to dry. It’s what is beneath the low rock overhang that impresses me most.
Arranged against the back is a nest of blankets and soft pillows. It’s a comfortable heap of colorful silks and soft cotton and woven yarn—big enough for a dragon to curl up in, bigger still for a woman to spread out comfortably in the lazy desert heat. Not too far off is a fire pit, the earth beneath baked into a hard clay from constant use. Stacked up in the far back corner of the overhang is a pile of wooden crates, their contents unknown to me.
Jyn hasn’t said a word to me in hours. I hate it more than anything.
Here I am, a normally enthusiastic—and dare I say, sparkling—conversationalist, with a Fated One who prefers grunting in response rather than speaking. The lunar gods who matched us must have an ironic sense of humor.
“How did you find me that first time?” I ask her. “When I was being attacked by the fei?”
Jyn doesn’t answer. Instead, she sits by the water, dipping her toes in as the sun slowly sinks in the distance. I’m seated a stone’s throw away on the other side of the fire. Given her obvious coldness, I fear trying to get any closer might not bode well for me and our tenuous acquaintance.
I decide to forge on; perhaps I can pester a response out of her. “I sensed you for the first time when I crossed the mountain border. Did you sense me, too?”
I receive no response.
“Well, I’m grateful you came to my rescue. I would be dead otherwise.”
Jyn rises to her feet and makes her way silently to the fire pit. She gathers dried leaves and grass from a nearby basket to use as kindling, expertly piling it high before producing a piece of flint and a striker.
I get up, too, watching her from a few paces away with my hands tucked respectfully behind my back. “A little warm for a fire, is it not?”
“It gets cold at night in the desert,” she mutters, annoyed.
“Do dragons suffer from the cold?” I ask, thrilled to finally hear her voice after so many hours. “And what is it that they eat? How do you spend your days? Do you take on your human form often?”
Jyn glares at me. “The fire is for you. Anything. I enjoy sleeping. Yes, it’s easier to hide that way. Now, kindly cease your jabbering so that I may work.”
I sit back down on the other side of the fire pit as the first few flames flicker to life. “Interesting.”
Her pretty green eyes glance up at me. “What is?”
“Do you not breathe fire?” I lean back on my hands. “I was told dragons breathed fire.”
“What idiotic trout told you that?”
“The traveling merchants,” I say. “When I was a little boy, they filled my head with stories. One told me that in the lands past the Moonstar Isles, well into uncharted territory, dragons have massive wings and breathe fire from their gullets.”
Jyn snorts. “That sounds awfully painful.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then?”
“I have no need for anything so destructive,” she mumbles quietly, her gaze far off and her mind seemingly somewhere distant. “I have seen more than my fair share.”
“What was that?” I ask, straining to listen. “You always speak so quietly.”
Jyn turns. “Perhaps you have shit hearing.”
I pick at my fingernails, growing more and more unsure of our bond with every passing minute. Why does she dislike me? What must I do to get her to talk to me? In this moment, all I really want is to make her laugh, to ease whatever burden she’s carrying. Cracking jokes always worked with A-Ma; maybe it can help with Jyn’s mood, too.
“What can you put in a bucket to make it weigh less?” I ask her lightly.
“A hole,” she answers without missing a beat.
“You’ve heard that one before, I take it?”
“No.” She doesn’t sound amused in the slightest.
“How about—”
Jyn shoots me a hard glare. I shut up immediately. So much for that plan.
My attention gradually shifts to the crates piled high beneath the overhang. Curious, I hop to my feet and mosey over, fascinated by the black markings painted on the sides. It’s a foreign language, one that I have never seen before. One of the crates at the very top is open, revealing small white linen sacks. I pick one up, my nose immediately greeted with a familiar scent.
Tea.
“Longjing tea,” I say with a light chuckle. “Also known as Dragon Well.”
“What of it?”
“Did I mention I own a teahouse?” I continue, breathing in the lovely sweet scent of the dried leaves. “It’s a humble establishment, but I brew an excellent pot. This is a favorite among our customers. Or rather, was, back when they came in droves. Business has been dwindling as of late. I suspect it’s because of the war. No sense in spending coin on frivolous things, though I would argue tea is a necessity. A way of life, even.”
“I don’t remember you being this chatty,” she says under her breath.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Do you know the legend behind Longjing tea?”
“I have a feeling you’ll tell me, whether I request it or not.”
“Once upon a time, there was a severe drought,” I start with a grin. “The lands were so parched that the ground would crack underfoot, and all the plants and trees had long since withered away. Desperate for a solution, a young man climbed the highest peak of the tallest mountain, where they said a well sat at the very top, a benevolent dragon sleeping just inside.
“It took the man three days and three nights to make the journey. When he arrived, he prayed to the dragon to bring the rains. So moved was the dragon by the young man’s determination that he blessed the lands with a storm. The rain was so pure that the tea trees drank up every drop and took on a sweet and gentle taste. From then on, the tea was known as Dragon Well to honor the creature and his kindness.”
I turn to study Jyn’s expression. She clearly does not share my fondness for the tale.
Floundering, I say, “If a story isn’t what you are after, perhaps I can attempt another riddle?”
“No.”
“A song?”
“Absolutely not.”
I cross my arms. “I take it you don’t have many guests.”
“Prefer it that way.” Jyn works her jaw before letting out a frustrated sigh. “Your story was fine, though incorrect.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“It was not a young man, but a little girl who climbed the mountain to beseech the dragon for the gift of rain.”
“And you know this how, exactly?”
Her lips press into a thin line. “I was there.”
My mouth suddenly goes dry. “But this tale is said to be nearly seven thousand years old. It predates the written word. If you were there, then that means you’d be…”
Jyn glares. “Yes. Your point?”
“You look, um… well, very good for someone so…”
“Old?”
“I would never call you such a thing.”
She snorts. “Must be the tea. Keeps me looking youthful.”
The corners of my lips tug up into a small grin. “Was that a jest? And here I thought the effort would kill you.”
“Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to brew us some tea?”
My heart skips excitedly. “How would you like it, my lady?”
“Strong.”
“A woman after my own heart. Er, dragon after my own heart? You’ll have to forgive me, I’m unsure how this works.”
Jyn grows silent again as she rummages through her small collection of things. She doesn’t have much—a few chipped plates, a couple of cracked cups. It’s hardly a dragon’s fabled treasure hoard, but I’m pleasantly surprised when she retrieves an old teapot made of brownish-red clay. She quietly collects fresh water from the pond before setting it near the fire, but not over it. I’m glad she knows we need hot water and not a rolling boil, lest we oversteep the leaves and ruin the flavor.
“Why do you look so young?” I ask after a moment.
Her lips remain sealed for so long that I fear she may not answer. I attempt to ignore the awkward silence by busying myself with the tea. I pour us each a cup, and push it toward her, careful not to spill anything.
She accepts the cup and lifts it to her lips. After a contemplative sip of her tea, Jyn finally replies, “I’ve never given it much thought. I suppose dragons age quite slowly once we’ve reached maturity. To the human eye, it looks as though time has stopped altogether.”
“How long do dragons live for?”
Jyn raises an eyebrow. “Sometimes too long, and other times not long enough.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Never mind.”
“Which of the other stories are true?” I ask, taking the first sip of my own tea. It’s delicious, the flavor earthy and rich.
“How should I know?”
“If you’ve been around long enough to see the invention of writing, you’ve surely experienced many other monumental events. All legends start from an inkling of truth, do they not? That’s how myths and superstitions are ingrained in our bones.”
Jyn shrugs. “Some. Not all.”
I refill her cup of tea as I search my memory for my favorite childhood tales.
“The legendary archer, Houyi?”
“What of him?”
“Was he real? And did the Gods reward him with a potion of immortality for shooting down the stars?”
Jyn tenses. “He was real. And yes, they did.”
I lean forward, intrigued. “And his wife, Chang’e. Did she really steal it from him and escape to the moon?”
“Is that what you were led to believe?”
“Am I wrong?”
“I knew Chang’e to be a devoted wife. She drank his potion of immortality to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. She did the right thing but was banished to the moon for it.”
I frown. “I don’t like this version. It’s far more tragic.”
“You were the one who asked,” Jyn grumbles, unsympathetic.
“What of the three dragons and the stranger?” I ask before I’m able to stop the question from tumbling out.
Like the untouchable night sky, Jyn is suddenly still and distant. I can’t explain why the air around us goes cold. The flickering flames of our modest fire cast shadows upon her face; her exhaustion is evident in the deep, dark circles beneath her eyes.
“I hate that story.”
“But why? It was one of my favorites growing up. ‘According to legend, they were a family of three—’?”
“I know how it goes!” she shrieks, rising to her feet so quickly that she drops her cup and the tea soaks into the thirsty ground. Jyn turns on her heel and walks off along the water’s edge.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Go to sleep. You’ll leave at first light.”
“But—”
“Leave. Me. Alone! ”
She transforms before me, becoming both magnificent and terrifying. Her fingers grow and stretch into thick, piercing claws. Her teeth elongate and harden into two rows of razor-like fangs. Her skin grows dazzling, iridescent green scales that cover her from head to toe, her size doubling and then tripling into the dragon’s mighty form.
She is a haunting beauty, with undeniable power and strength beneath the mesmerizing sparkle of her emerald hide. I can’t look away, entranced in my slack-jawed awe. Her emotions hit me like a tidal wave over our bond, so cold and crestfallen that they knock the air from my lungs. I’ve never felt a distress like this before, so deep-seated that I feel it clawing with unforgiving violence through the hollows of my bones.
The sensation grips me by the throat, a phantom hand squeezing my windpipe so tight that it brings tears to my eyes. It frightens me to my core. It’s grief and madness and agony wrapped up in one desperate outburst. What is this heartbreak, this hopelessness? Did I bring this upon her?
Before I have the chance to blink, to try and apologize, Jyn disappears into the sky.
My thread of fate points upward, where I cannot follow.