The Veiled Dragon

Nine

The servants had brought a small, triangular table of polished mahogany into the Hall of Amity and placed three teak thrones around it. Prince Tang and his wife sat close together on one side, staring at their reflections in the burnished surface, and Minister Hsieh sat alone at the opposite point. The shape of the table represented the trio’s nominal equality as members of the Imperial Household of Shou Lung, the seating arrangement reflected their actual status in the Emperor’s eyes, and the absence of any guards except the minister’s was a concession to his office: only the Emperor himself could bring personal guards into the presence of a mandarin.

“Why does table have only three sides?” Hsieh demanded. “Where is Lady Feng?”

The knot in Tang’s stomach tightened even further, but he forced himself to slacken his face muscles and meet the mandarin’s eyes. “Lady Feng is not here.”

The mandarin accepted the prince’s nonanswer with stern inexpressiveness. “Is most worthy concubine available? I travel many thousands of li to speak to her.”

The prince hazarded a glance at his wife, whose face remained as unreadable as the mandarin’s. They had not expected this. Though Hsieh and Lady Feng were cousins, they disliked each other vehemently and had taken pains to avoid each other for years. It was even whispered that, after some incident involving Lady Feng’s familiar, it had been the mandarin who had arranged the exile of the Third Virtuous Concubine.

At last, Wei Dao asked, “You have nothing to say to Honored Husband?”

Hsieh regarded the prince and princess in thoughtful silence, until a smirk of amusement flickered briefly across his lips. “No, to surprise of everyone in Hall of Supreme Harmony, profits of Ginger Palace are most satisfying. Even Emperor notice.”

Tang’s stomach started to writhe and churn. The good news would only make it more difficult to admit that he had allowed someone to kidnap the Third Virtuous Concubine.

“Do not look so troubled, Prince. We will talk after I see Lady Feng.” Hsieh’s uncovered eye narrowed in mild rebuke. “I am most anxious to hear why Ministry of Spices does not know about Ginger Palace’s poison trade.”

Tang rose and accepted the mandarin’s admonishment with a polite bow. “I am most anxious to make report on anything you wish.” He fixed his eyes on the silver-trimmed hem of the mandarin’s maitung, then took a deep breath and forced himself to speak again. “But first, I must relate regrettable truth about Lady Feng.”

Even a seasoned bureaucrat like Minister Hsieh could not prevent the blood from draining from his face, thereby betraying his shock. “Something has happened?”

Wei Dao was on her feet and speaking before Tang could continue. “When Prince Tang says Lady Feng is not here, he means not in Ginger Palace.”

Hsieh’s jaw fell, and when his brow furrowed this time, the rebuke was not a gentle one. “Then where is Third Virtuous Concubine?”

Again, Wei Dao answered for her husband. “She tends to sick friend in Elversult.”

The mandarin scowled and, apparently resigning himself to having all his questions answered by the princess, turned directly to Wei Dao.

“It is most indecorous to have Emperor’s consort wandering about outside her palace, especially in land of barbarians.” Though his face showed no sign of emotion, there was a dubious edge in his voice. “Why not bring sick friend to Ginger Palace?”

“Friend is too sick to move.”

Hsieh’s eyes narrowed; then he whirled back to Prince Tang. “Who is this friend?”

“Very important—”

Hsieh raised his hand to silence the princess. “I ask honorable husband.”

Tang glanced at his wife, who wisely made no attempt to communicate what she had intended to say. Though the mandarin’s gaze was riveted on the prince, his adjutant was watching Wei Dao from the corners of his eyes.

Tang could not bring himself to answer. He was too blinded by fear to see the escape toward which Wei Dao had been driving. Lying to a mandarin was both a crime as terrible as treason and an indelible stain on the honor of his ancestors, yet now that his wife had shown him the way, he wanted nothing more than to avoid admitting his ignoble failure.

“Who is Lady Feng’s friend?” Hsieh demanded.

Tang realized that his wife could have intended to give only one answer. “Lady Feng visits Moonstorm House in Elversult.” The prince felt as though he would retch; his stomach was turning somersaults and his jaws were aching. “Queen of city is very ill, and her priests ask for help of Third Virtuous Concubine.”

Hsieh’s face did not soften. “Then why does constable woman harass Shou caravan? Making hostage of Emperor’s servant is poor way to show appreciation.”

As badly as he wanted to, the prince did not look toward Wei Dao. Certainly, she had already thought of an answer to this simple question, but the mere hint of coaching from her would be enough to condemn both Tang and his wife to slow and dishonorable deaths.

“Barbarians have strange customs.” Tang knew that his response was a feeble one, but he needed time to think of something better. “Vaerana Hawklyn does not trust afterworld magic and accuses us of causing her queen’s illness.”

“Have we?”

Tang tried to swallow and found that he could not. “Why do you think that, Minister?”

The minister splayed his fingers, then began to tick off the names of poisonous plants that had been hidden in the Ginger Lady’s cargo. “Oleander … lantana … castor bean … pink pea … Shou berry.” He reached his little finger and stopped. “Need I go on?”

Prince Tang shook his head. “We only sell poisons, not use them. Yanseldara’s condition is not our fault.”

Hsieh lowered his hand. “You know I do not care if it is, as long as your reason is good. But if you are lying—”

“Never!” Both Tang and his wife spoke at once.

Hsieh raised a cautionary finger and continued, “If you lie to protect Lady Feng, I have no mercy.”

Tang’s head began to spin. “To protect Lady Feng?” he asked, truly confused. “How does lying—”

“We do not lie.” Wei Dao stepped around the table to her husband’s side. “We send a company of guards to inform Lady Feng of your arrival. Perhaps you wish to send Yu Po along?”

Hsieh considered the offer, then shook his head. “That is not necessary. If there is anything I should know, it is certain to come to light.”

The mandarin rose and honored them with a shallow bow, then led Yu Po and his guards from the room. As soon as their steps faded from the corridor outside, Tang sent the servants away.

“Why do you lie to mandarin?” he demanded, turning to his wife. “You dishonor ancestors and condemn us to Chamber of Agonizing Death!”

“Only if Minister Hsieh discovers abduction of venerable mother.”

“How can he fail?” Tang’s legs were trembling. It made him feel ashamed and weak. “Any servant tells esteemed mandarin everything he wants to know.”

“True, but Minister Hsieh is sure to ask wrong questions,” Wei Dao replied calmly. “He thinks venerable mother has lover, and any servant he asks certainly tells him that is nonsense.”

The princess’s reassurance did little to bolster Tang’s courage. “But how do guards bring Lady Feng home from Moonstorm House? Cypress has mother, not Vaerana Hawklyn!”

“Yes, but now we have fresh ylang blossoms.” Wei Dao grabbed her husband by the wrist and started toward the back of the palace. “Now come. We have no more time for your cowardice—or your foolishness.”

* * * **

Inside the cargo box, the thick stench of ylang blossoms did more to muffle the unexpected shriek than the canvas tarp—or so it seemed to Ruha. The first screech was instantly followed by more cries from all corners of the cavernous spicehouse, and then came a brief stampede of drumming boots. Wisps of another smell, rancid and even more cloying than ylang oil, drifted through the gaps between the wagon’s sideboards. After that, the cavernous spicehouse fell silent, leaving the witch to wonder if, after untold hours of stillness, she dared uncurl herself and peek outside.

Ruha decided to wait; ten heartbeats, twenty, thirty. She had thought it would be a simple thing to stow away until the wagon was inside the palace, then slip out from beneath the tarp when it was parked to await unloading. But the Shou had driven the witch’s wagon and several others into the shady coolness of the spicehouse and left them there, then began to unpack the vehicles parked outside in the hot sun. Until now, the patter of feet passing by her hiding place had been so steady that she had hardly dared to breathe, much less poke her head out from beneath the tarp.

Ruha’s count reached a hundred. She slowly uncurled herself, taking a moment to stretch her stiff muscles in case she suddenly had to run or fight, then half-swam through the dried blossoms to the back corner of the wagon. In the inky darkness beneath the tarp, her sun spell had grown weak and expired some time ago, leaving her as visible as any workman. She used the tip of her jambiya to lift the tarp, then raised her head high enough to peer over the tail boards.

A gasp of surprise rose into her throat and escaped, half-strangled, from her mouth. Less than five paces away sat a small black dragon. Save that it was no larger than a cargo wagon, the creature was identical to Cypress, with the same dull scales, splintered horns, and sinister voids where his eyes should have been. The foul odor she had smelled earlier seemed to be coming from the carcass, and now the witch thought she could identify the stench: rotten fish.

Ruha dropped back into the wagon and tried not to choke on her own heart, which had somehow climbed high into her throat. When the creature did not immediately come tearing through the tarp, the witch dared to hope it had not seen her and frantically tried to think of some reason that did not involve her that it might be waiting outside her wagon. She failed, rather quickly, and started to consider what she might do about the situation.

Come out, my dear. Though the voice reverberated through Ruha’s head without passing through her ears, it sounded as raspy and chilling as the first time she had heard it. You have no idea how I have been looking forward to our second meeting.

Ruha knew then that someone had betrayed her, but who: Vaerana or Fowler? The thought was ludicrous. They both had more reason than she to hate Cypress, yet who else could have known where she was hiding? Anyone they would have trusted with the secret. In Vaerana’s case, at least, that circle was no doubt larger than the witch would have liked.

Come out and give me that silver I smell in your pocket If you show that much courage, perhaps I will have mercy.

A prickling chill ran down Ruha’s back, and a terrifying possibility occurred to her. I have seen your mercy, she thought. And you have seen my magic. Go away, or it will be you who begs quarter.

The witch waited a moment for Cypress’s response. When none came, she breathed a little easier. If the dragon had been able to read her thoughts, her chances of surviving the coming battle would have fallen to nothing.

Ruha sheathed her dagger, then burrowed into the ylang blossoms. She crawled toward the front of the cargo box, taking care not to jiggle the wagon. As she moved, she summoned the incantation of a fire spell to mind. She doubted that she could trick Cypress into swallowing a chestful of oil vapor again, but neither would it take such a huge explosion to destroy his new body. A smaller blast, properly placed, would prove sufficient to annihilate him.

The witch was only halfway to her goal when something jolted the wagon. She heard the zip-zip of oilcloth being ripped; then a flickering yellow light of the spicehouse’s oil lamps filtered down through the ylang blossoms. Already uttering her incantation, Ruha lifted herself out of the blossoms and, expecting to feel the dragon’s claws driving deep into her flesh at any moment, thrust her hand over the sideboard.

The flames shot off the wicks of half a dozen different lamps and streaked into the palm of her hand, gathering themselves into a hissing, sputtering ball of fire. She whirled around, ready to slap the scorching sphere into Cypress’s empty eye socket or beneath his arm, or anywhere that would channel the explosion into her attacker’s vital areas.

The dragon was not there. He stood three paces away from the wagon, the dark voids beneath his brow fixed on the fire in Ruha’s palm. From his talons hung the remains of the shredded tarp, arid she could see the tip of his tail flicking back and forth behind his head. He made no move to attack.

There’s no need to burn down poor Tang’s spicehouse, the dragon said. Step out of the wagon. Give me that silver I smell and answer a single question. I promise, your death shall be mercifully quick.

Ruha felt as though the fire in her hand was cooking her bone marrow as far down as her elbow, but she made no move to throw the fireball. Without being properly placed, the blast would do no more than melt a few of the dragon’s scales. Besides, as much as the searing heat grieved her, the sphere could cause her no real damage until after it left her hand.

“I have known enough pain in my life not to be frightened of it,” Ruha said. “If I am to die, I do not particularly care whether it is quickly or slowly.”

As the witch spoke, she stepped over to Cypress’s side of the wagon. To her surprise, the dragon moved neither away from the fireball nor forward to attack. Ruha might have been able to reach the dragon with a good leap, but he would have time to turn away and, in all likelihood, impale her on his long talons. If her plan was to succeed, she had to draw him closer.

“You may ask your question. Perhaps I will answer, or perhaps I will not.”

You will answer, Cypress promised. And you will step out of the wagon.

“Why is it so important that I leave the wagon? I can answer your question from here.”

In the black depths of the dragon’s empty eye sockets appeared two dirty yellow sparks. When we met the first time, was it happenstance? As Cypress asked his question, the sparks lengthened into gleaming lines, then began to flicker at the ends and thicken into stripes. Or did someone tell you I would be there?

“Who would have told me that?” Ruha wanted nothing more than to hurl her fireball at the dragon and run for her life, but she forced herself to stand fast. If Cypress had not attacked by now, then it had to be because he was afraid of destroying what was in the wagon. The witch tipped her hand so that the fireball was precariously close to slipping from her palm, then added, “And stop what you are—”

You will not drop the fireball!

The yellow stripes shot from Cypress’s vacant eyes and joined together, becoming a long-fanged bat of amber light. Ruha brought her hand around, placing the fireball between herself and her attacker.

Stupid Harper! Flames will not save you!

The bat emerged from the fireball, its wings blazing and its eyes glowing with rabid fury. Ruha reached for her jambiya, and the beast was upon her. Instead of raking her eyes with its tiny claws or sinking its fangs into her throat, it appeared inside her mind, a flaming creature of the night, flitting across the starry sky high over her memories of Anauroch’s purple-shadowed sand dunes.

Ruha cried out, but she could not bring herself to flee the dragon, or even to turn away. Cypress was already inside her mind, and trying break contact with him was as futile as trying to escape an unpleasant memory by closing one’s eyes. The dragon sat motionless on the floor, his gaze pinning the witch in place as surely as if he had been standing on her chest.

Her only chance of escaping, Ruha realized, lay in distracting Cypress. No sooner did she have this thought than a small brake of saltbush sprouted from the sands of her mind. The words of a wind spell rose from the brush like a swarm of sand finches. Cypress’s fiery bat streaked down to dive through the heart of the flock, scattering the syllables of the incantation before they could shape themselves. Ruha’s arm remained motionless, the fireball still burning in her hand.

Cypress’s bat settled on the surface of Ruha’s mind and began to beat its burning wings. Clouds of hissing yellow fume curled from the tips of the fiery appendages and rolled across the dune-sculpted terrain. Wherever the haze touched, the sands themselves melted into rivers and pools of bubbling brown acid. The witch started to feel hot and limp, as though a fever had taken hold of her body, and her limbs trembled with weakness. For a moment, she feared she had guessed wrong about the dragon’s fear of destroying the ylang blossoms, that he merely wanted her to drop the fireball at her own feet.

The bubbling brown pools inside Ruha’s head joined and became a lake. The bat dove into the acid, sinking its fangs deep into the throat of some naked thought that was writhing just below the surface of her mind. The witch saw Cypress’s lips curl into something that resembled a smile; then she felt her foot sliding across the floor of the wagon. She tried to stop, but no sooner had the thought taken shape than it dissolved into nothingness in the bubbling acid. The dragon had won control of her mind, and now she had to fight him not only for her life, but for the possession of her own thoughts.

It occurred to Ruha that this was a battle not of strength or speed, but of imagination, and a rocky island of hope instantly sprang up inside her mind.

Waves of acid began to lap at its shores, filling the air with hissing white smoke and reducing the isle to little more than a sandbar. The witch pictured the sand changing to granite. She felt a strange tingling deep within her stomach, then experienced a momentary burning all over her body, as though she had exerted every muscle at once. The little island hardened into dense stone and stopped dissolving, but Ruha felt her foot slide a little closer to the rear of the wagon.

A deep-throated growl rumbled from Cypress’s throat; then the yellow acid inside Ruha’s mind began to churn and froth like a storm-tossed sea. Mountainous waves rose and crashed over the witch’s small isle, threatening to submerge it entirely. She envisioned the island erupting like a volcano, pushing its way higher above the surface and spreading immense blankets of molten stone across the lake. Again, she experienced a strange tingling deep within her abdomen, followed by a momentary burning over her entire body. She felt physically drained, as though she had been running for a long time in the scorching sun.

You only anger me. Cypress’s voice broke like thunder inside Ruha’s mind, and she felt her foot touch the wagon’s tailgate. An untrained mind cannot prevail.

The stars vanished from the purple sky over the witch’s growing island of hope. Spears of lightning stabbed at the summit of the erupting volcano, and a few hissing drops of acid began to fall on its slopes.

Then, before Cypress could unleash the full fury of his storm, a pair of familiar forms came rushing across the spicehouse floor.

“Cypress!” gasped Wei Dao. “What do you want here?”

Prince Tang drew his sword and pointed it at the dragon. “You go!” Then he looked toward the door. “Guards!”

Cypress glanced away from Ruha long enough to flick his tail at the approaching prince and send him crashing through the flimsy door of a spice bin. That instant was long enough for the witch. She envisioned her volcano bursting apart, flinging lava and ash in all directions. A tremendous wave of fatigue rolled over her body; then her island erupted as she had envisioned, pouring forth molten stone in such prodigious quantities that the acid lake completely vanished beneath its fiery blanket.

Ruha felt control of her limbs return. Gasping for breath and trembling with fatigue, she slipped back to the center of the wagon. Her mind was not entirely free of its attacker, however. The dragon locked gazes with her again, and once more his bat figure appeared inside her mind, rising from beneath the sea of flaming rock like a phoenix reborn. An angry rumble rolled from Cypress’s throat; then the flaming bat transformed itself into an immense, black-haired cyclops. The brute floated down to the ground, then waded through the lava toward the witch’s volcano. He stood as tall as the summit, and his knobby hands looked powerful enough to crush stone.

Ruha pictured the ground beneath his feet turning to quicksand, but this time she experienced no strange tinglings in the pit of her stomach. She felt only a dull, nauseating ache, then a searing wave of pain as the last of her energy drained from her muscles. The witch collapsed to her knees, so exhausted and enervated that she could not find the strength to rise. The cyclops stopped beside her volcano, then reached out and tore away a huge chunk of glowing stone.

As I annihilate this mountain, so I annihilate your mind! the cyclops cackled. When I finish, your head will be naught but a smoking hole, as empty and useless as a spent sulfur pit!

Ruha tried again to change the scene inside her head, but succeeded only in exhausting herself to the point that she almost dropped the fireball. The wagon rocked as someone climbed in behind her, but the witch could not rip her gaze away from Cypress’s empty eye sockets to see who it was. She thought about trying to drop the fireball before the dragon seized control of her body again. The resulting conflagration would kill her as well as the newcomer, but she felt fairly certain that destroying the ylang blossoms would also delay the theft of Yanseldara’s spirit.

Prince Tang kneeled beside Ruha, holding several slender yellow leaves in his hand. His eyes appeared glassy and vacant, and he seemed to be chewing something. Cypress glanced away from Ruha and glared at Tang. Inside the witch’s mind, the cyclops stopped tearing apart her volcano. She was too exhausted to take advantage of her foe’s distraction, but she found herself free to look away from his gaze. A small company of Shou guards had appeared at the door and were cautiously advancing into the shadowy spicehouse, squinting at the dragon as though they could not quite believe their sun-dazzled eyes.

Whatever the dragon said to Tang, Ruha could not hear it, but the prince’s response was short and angry: “No. If you want oil, you leave now—or I burn wagon myself.” Tang raised one of the slender leaves to Ruha’s lips, then instructed, “Chew leaf, wu-jen.”

Ruha clenched her teeth and considered thrusting her fireball into Tang’s face.

“Trust me. This no love potion. It is lasal. Leaf protects against Invisible Art.”

Ruha allowed the prince to slip the leaf into her mouth and began to chew. The wail of a distant wind arose inside her mind, and the cyclops slowly turned toward the sound. Cypress glanced at Wei Dao, who immediately stepped to the wagon side and spoke to her husband in Shou. The prince responded sharply and pointed toward the guards, who were advancing on the unconcerned dragon with polearms leveled for battle. They seemed rather unsteady on their feet, and even from halfway across the spicehouse, their eyes appeared more glassy than Tang’s.

Inside Ruha’s mind, the wail of the wind became a roar, then a howling sand cloud billowed across the boiling plain. Cypress groaned, and the cyclops turned to face the storm. The brute took a deep breath and began to blow, but his breath was no match for the fury of the gale. The sand blasted over him, and he vanished into the tempest.

Cypress grunted, his empty-eyed head recoiling as though the storm had struck him physically. He backed away from the wagon, trembling and sputtering and madly scratching at his temples. Tang’s guards charged, filling the spicehouse with a tremendous clamor as their blades struck their foe’s impenetrable scales. Several of the blades snapped on impact, but most either bounced off or became lodged without causing any damage. The dragon lashed out with fangs, claws, and tail, littering the floor with the shattered bodies of Tang’s loyal guards.

Finding herself completely in control of her own body—if somewhat exhausted and fuzzy-headed—Ruha rose to her feet and swung a leg over the side of the wagon.

“No!” Wei Dao shrieked.

The princess leapt toward Ruha, causing the witch to hesitate just long enough for Tang to grab her by the shoulder.

“If you leave wagon, we all die.” The prince’s words were slurred, and he seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes. “Only fear of burning blossoms saves us now.”

“I know that.” Ruha scowled, struggling against the roaring storm in her head to remember why she had decided to throw the fireball in the first place. “But I must attack … while we have the advantage.”

You have nothing.

Cypress cast aside the bodies of two more guards, then pointed his long snout in Tang’s direction. The dragon was far from destroyed, but he looked as haggard as Ruha, and more than a few of his thick scales had been pulled or cut away. Tang called something to his surviving guards, who looked rather relieved and backed away.

“But wu-jen is under my protection,” the prince said, speaking in Common.

Your protection? This time, Ruha heard Cypress—though whether it was intended or an accident of his anger, she did not know. She is a Harper, sent to take Yanseldara away from me!

Tang cringed at the dragon’s anger, but did not back down. “Nevertheless, while she remains in Ginger Palace, she is under my protection.” The prince glanced at his battered guards and nodded once. They leveled their weapons and took a single step forward. “If you do not agree, we finish this now—and you lose Yanseldara anyway.”

“Are you mad, Husband?” Wei Dao cried. “Give him barbarian! She causes too much trouble already.”

Tang glared at Wei Dao. “I hear enough from you, Wife. I am Prince of Shou Lung, and to call me mad is treason.”

Wei Dao’s face darkened to an angry ocher, but she obediently lowered her gaze and mumbled, “Please to forgive outburst, Merciful Husband.”

Cypress observed the exchange in silence, then pointed his snout in Tang’s direction. Why all this trouble for a barbarian, Young Prince? he demanded, still allowing Ruha to eavesdrop. Could it be you have fallen in love?

“That is not your concern,” Tang replied. “I have ylang oil by evening. Please to bring Lady Feng, and we make exchange.”

Cypress stepped forward, bringing his nostrils almost to within arm’s reach of Ruha. You are fortunate that I understand the power of love, Harper. Treat Tang well. You owe him your life.

Ruha brought her fireball around. So exhausted was Cypress that he barely pulled his head away in time to keep her from stuffing the sphere into his nostrils.

“I’ll treat Tang as well as he deserves, I assure you,” Ruha said.

The dragon backed away and swung his snout toward Tang.

The prince listened for a moment, then pointed to the door. “You bring Lady Feng. I see to wu-jen.”

Cypress allowed his empty gaze to linger on Ruha for a moment, then turned away. With a weary beat of his wings, he lifted himself into the air and flew out the door. Tang waited until he was gone, then turned to Ruha.

“Perhaps now you understand wisdom of my actions.” The prince’s voice was smug and condescending. “Or do you still believe Cypress is destroyed?”

Ruha shook her head. “I do not—but how could he have survived?” The lasal haze inside her mind was already beginning to clear, but it had not yet grown thin enough for her to understand what she had seen. “I blasted him into a thousand pieces.”

“You destroy body, not spirit,” Tang explained, assuming a superior air. “Cypress is dracolich. He hides spirit inside gem—”

“Wise Prince,” Wei Dao interrupted. “Cypress says she is Harper. Is it prudent to tell her so much?”

By the scowl Tang shot his wife, Ruha could see that the prince wanted to impress her with his proscribed knowledge—and she wanted him to. The witch allowed an expectant gaze to linger on the prince’s face for a moment, then rolled her eyes and looked away, letting out a deliberately loud sigh of disgust.

The silent put-down worked as no verbal upbraid could have. Tang’s face reddened, and he snapped at Wei Dao, “I decide what is prudent!” When the princess lowered her gaze, Tang looked back to Ruha. “Cypress hides his spirit inside gem. After his body is destroyed, he possesses new corpse and consumes old one.”

“But the sharks ate his old one,” Ruha said, thinking aloud. “And that is why he smells like rotten fish now. He is eating the creatures that ate him!”

Tang nodded. “It is impossible to stop process. Even if you burn old corpse and spread ashes, he can find them and swallow them. When he has eaten enough, he becomes dracolich again.”

“How close is he now?”

Tang shrugged. “It does not matter to you. For your protection, I must not allow you to leave Ginger Palace.”

“Is that by Cypress’s command, or yours?”

“By dragon’s—and he warns me you have no gratitude. He says you do not repay my bravery as woman should.”

Ruha’s eyes narrowed. “And how is that?”

The prince smiled. “Ginger Palace still has need of wu-jen. Our union would be most blissful.”

“Prince Tang, that will never be,” Ruha said, speaking sharply. She climbed out of the wagon and moved several paces away. “But I have a better way to show my gratitude. I shall let you leave the wagon before I throw my fireball into it.”

In the blink of an eye, Ruha was surrounded by Tang’s battered and bloodied guards, each holding a long-bladed halberd or square-tipped sword within an inch of her body. Wei Dao stood behind them, looking more than a little disappointed that she had not been able to draw her dagger quickly enough to kill the witch before her husband’s soldiers got in the way.

Tang eyed the witch’s fireball and did not climb from the wagon. “Burning blossoms would be unfortunate mistake for all concerned—especially Yanseldara.”

Though the heat of the fireball felt as though it were melting her arm, Ruha stopped short of flinging it into the wagon. “Do not lie to me. I heard you say this morning that Cypress needs something more from you to complete his spell.” The witch waved her flaming sphere toward the wagon. “It seems obvious enough that what he needs is fresh ylang oil.”

“Yes, that is true.” Tang scowled at Wei Dao and motioned for her to return her dagger to its sheath. “Cypress needs fresh ylang oil to make love spell.”

“Love spell?” Ruha gasped.

“You know what ylang blossoms do,” Tang replied. “You see that this morning.”

“A dead dragon—a dracolich—wishes the love of a half-elf?”

Tang nodded. “He loves Yanseldara for many years, since she wounds him and sends him away from Elversult.” Tang placed a hand over his heart. “Love unrequited is most sad.”

Wei Dao rolled her eyes, then gestured at the fireball still burning in Ruha’s palm. “We have no time for this foolishness, Wise Husband. Tell witch why she cannot destroy ylang blossoms.”

Tang looked into Ruha’s eyes and, finding no sympathy there, reluctantly nodded. “Very well. Love is matter of spirit. To save Yanseldara’s spirit or to steal it, same thing is needed—powerful love potion.”

“Then there must be a difference in how it is used.”

“It is not necessary that you know that,” said Wei Dao.

The witch ignored Wei Dao and hefted her fireball. “Perhaps you would prefer that I assume you are lying about the blossoms?”

Prince Tang looked genuinely hurt. “You call me liar? I risk my life—life of royal Shou Prince—to save you, and this is how you repay my love?”

Ruha lowered the fireball and used her free hand to snuff it out. She had learned all she was going to about the blossoms, and it was just enough to keep her from destroying the wagon.

“Prince Tang, you cannot love me, any more than Cypress loves Yanseldara.” Ruha spoke softly, for her intention was more to explain than to hurt. “Only a man can love, and you have yet to become a man.”

Tang leapt out of the wagon, pushing several guards aside as he stepped toward Ruha. “Shou prince becomes man in tenth year. I am man for twenty years!”

Ruha shook her head. “You want me because I deny you, and that is the emotion of a child, not a man.”

Tang’s face contracted into a shriveled mask of rage and pain. His mouth opened as though he were going to speak, but all that emerged was an unintelligible sputter.

Wei Dao stepped to the prince’s side and took his arm. “She knows nothing, Great Prince.”

The princess motioned to the guards and spoke in Shou. A pair of them sheathed their swords and seized Ruha by her arms. They started to drag her from the spicehouse, and Prince Tang made no move to stop them.

Ruha glanced over her shoulder. “A man takes responsibility for his actions, Prince Tang.”

As she spoke, the witch tried to summon to mind the incantation of a wind spell and discovered she could not. Only the faintest hint of the lasal haze remained in her mind, but it was enough to prevent her from using her magic.

Keeping her gaze fixed on the prince’s face, Ruha continued, “A man does not allow his fear to dictate his actions, and a man does not hide his mistakes from those who can help him correct them.”

Prince Tang looked away, and Wei Dao urged, “Pay her no attention. After Lady Feng is returned—”

“Returned?” Ruha snapped her arms free of her captors and spun around, then found the tips of several halberds pressed against her body. She ignored them. “Prince Tang, if you believe Cypress intends to return your mother, then you truly are a child.”

The guards seized Ruha’s wrists and started to drag her away, until Tang spoke to them in Shou. The two men stopped, but still grasped the witch’s arms so tightly her bones ached.

“If he wants potion, Cypress must return Mother,” said Tang.

Ruha shook her head. “Does he not need her to cast the magic that will make Yanseldara love him? And even if he can do it himself—which he cannot, or you could not have been confident of her safety until now—remember why he attacked the Ginger Lady. Does he not fear that Hsieh intends to put someone else in charge of the Ginger Palace? Would Lady Feng not make an excellent hostage to guarantee approval of the mandarin’s choice?”

Tang turned to his wife. They began to argue in Shou.

“You need help to recover your mother.” Ruha spoke loudly to make herself heard over the quarrel. “Admit that, and you have taken your first step to becoming a man.”

Tang jabbed his index finger against his wife’s forehead and shouted something angry at her, then whirled away and strode over to Ruha.

“I need no help to rescue Mother!” The prince glared at Ruha for a moment, then stepped past her and started toward the door. “And I am no child—I prove that soon enough!”