Naamah's Kiss (Moirin's Trilogy #1)

After the dragon's appearance yesterday, not a man among them doubted it.

We saw them approaching in the distance, two men on horses, surrounded by several dozen of their former retainers armed with bows and arrows, their dirty faces grinning with triumph.

Emperor Zhu had issued an order that no one was to harm them, and no one did. The crowd of soldiers parted ranks. Not a few of them hissed and spat onto the ground as they passed, but no one raised a hand against Jiang Quan and Black Sleeve.

And we were there to see it. The Emperor and his daughter had given us a place of honor at their side—me, Bao and Dai, and Master Lo Feng.

Him, I worried about.

Stone and sea, it was his son who was the architect of this horror. That plump, laughing toddler I had seen in his memories, the joyful babe playing with a shimmering pearl the size of a ball, had been his son. A man, now, bitter and angry.

For many, many years. No one but Master Lo knew how many.

They came, riding slowly.

Far away in the blue skies, the peak of White Jade Mountain erupted in splendor. I felt the dragon coming and smiled to myself. Gods, he was glorious! His glistening coils decorated the sky as he arrowed toward us, growing larger and larger the nearer he drew, a hundred thousand shouting throats heralding his arrival. He descended softly, drifting downward like a gentle avalanche to settle onto the former battlefield, his gleaming claws digging into the earth, his opalescent eyes regarding the proceedings, all-seeing and impassive.

Heaven's emissary had arrived.

Lord Jiang Quan was a broken man. I don't know what else I had expected. Once, he had been a strong and stalwart fellow, a brave, ambitious leader. But he had taken a terrible gamble and lost. He dismounted before the Imperial presence, his head bowed, shoulders slumping.

"Jiang Quan." Emperor Zhu's voice was clear and deadly. "You stand accused of rebelling against the Mandate of Heaven. You stand accused of sacrificing your own eldest son to your ambitions. Do you deny it?"

Lord Jiang shook his head, defeat etched on his broad features. "No."

The dragon rumbled deep in his chest.

"Noble Daughter, do you wish to take this on yourself?" Although a company of Imperial archers stood at the ready, the Emperor turned to the princess, offering her the right of vengeance she had once craved. I was glad when after a moment's hesitation, she refused it with a slight shake of her head. She had enough blood on her hands, and I cared for her, more than I had ever reckoned. The Son of Heaven nodded, raising one hand and lowering it. "So be it. Let us make an end."

Imperial bows rose and sang.

I don't know how many arrows pierced the stalwart figure of Lord Jiang Quan, the enemy I barely knew. A dozen? Two dozen?

Enough. He fell without a sound, his body bristling with arrows.

Black Sleeve was different.

Clad in crimson robes, he sat upright in the saddle. However old he was, he looked no older than fifty or sixty years, a younger version of his father. His long, elegant face was rigid with disdain, dark eyes blazing with fury in it, his gaze locked on his father's. Master Lo returned it without flinching, returned it with grief and compassion. The alchemist made no move to dismount until the Emperor gestured, and several of his guards stepped forward to prod the captive with spears.

"Lo Yaozu, known as Black Sleeve." This time, there was sorrow in Emperor Zhu's voice. "You stand accused of conspiring against the Mandate of Heaven and inciting rebellion. You stand accused of exploiting one of the Celestial Beings to defile the reputation of the Imperial heir. Do you deny it?"

Head held high, Black Sleeve made no reply until the dragon arched its long, shimmering white neck and uttered another menacing rumble. At that, the alchemist paled, though he held his ground. "I make no denial."

"Why? "The word slipped from Master Lo's lips, filled with anguish. He bowed rapidly three times toward the Emperor. "Forgive me, Celestial Majesty. I cannot help but ask."

The Emperor nodded. "And I would hear Lo Yaozu's answer. Why?" He gestured at Lord Jiang's motionless, bristling body. "Jiang Quan's ambitions, I understand. He sought the Throne of Heaven for himself. What did you seek and why?"

A spasm of emotion crossed Black Sleeve's face, curling his upper lip. His gaze settled on us, one by one.

I shivered at the pain and venom in it.

"Look at them, Honored Father," he said with contempt. "You would not lift a finger to aid your beloved wife, my beloved mother, when she lay dying; and yet you crossed oceans and mountains to aid this abomination of an heir to the Throne of Heaven, this girl masquerading as a warrior."

Snow Tiger's head snapped up, eyes blazing, her sword singing free of its sheath.

Black Sleeve ignored her. "And them." He jerked his chin at Bao and me. "You would not consent to teach your own son. Do you not see what promise I held? I might have saved my mother if you had consented to teach me. Look at the pupils you chose instead. A common peasant—some Tatar's bastard by the look of him—and a sorcerous barbarian, neither with the wits to master the ancient arts." The pain of an old, old wound trembled in his voice. "Are you proud, Father? Are you proud?"

"No," Master Lo Feng said quietly. "I am not proud of the youthful folly that led me to steal a dragon's pearl. I am not proud of the youthful ambition that led me to seek to overturn the order of nature. Most of all, I am not proud of my failure to convey the wisdom of my maturity to my son. For that and what my failure has wrought, I grieve most deeply. Oh, Yaozu! Do you not understand that your mother died as she wished, at peace and in harmony with the world?"

The alchemist turned away, averting his head as though to avoid his father's words.

Master Lo's voice continued, gentle and sad and remorseless. "It is true. And yes, my son, I am proud of seeking to aid her Noble Highness, a warrior in truth, violated by your deed. I am proud to play a role in undoing the folly of my youth."

The dragon made an approving sound.

"And I am proud of my pupils, so very proud." Master Lo glanced at us, love and kindness shining through his deep, deep sorrow. "What I have been privileged to teach them, they have learned very well indeed."

"Have they?" Black Sleeve's voice quivered with rage. "Then let us see how well you have taught them, Father."

He turned in a graceful arc and flung out one hand, the sleeve of his crimson robe flaring.

Why is he called Black Sleeve?

In the blink of an eye, a handful of poisoned darts sped toward us. I heard the dragon's helpless roar of fury. Beside me, Snow Tiger was already in motion, her sword angled, avoiding Dai's efforts to protect her; but she no longer possessed the dragon's immortal strength and speed. Skilled as she was, she was no longer the quickest person there.

Bao was.

With a fierce cry, he flung himself between us and the alchemist's darts, whirling like a dervish, one half of his broken staff in each hand. The deadly little darts thudded into the battered bamboo.

All but one.

If Bao's staff hadn't been broken, he might have done it. He was that quick, that deft, and that good. But there was a gap between the broken halves, a gap that he filled with his own body. The dart caught him in the throat, in the sculpted curve beneath his jaw where I liked to press my face and breathe in the scent of his skin. There, the haft of the dart jutted forth. Such a tiny thing.

He took a step toward us, his face apologetic. "Moirin….." he said—and crumpled.

With a look of sick determination, Black Sleeve began another graceful turn, the other sleeve of his crimson robe swinging toward us. Half-blind with tears, I reached for my bow, knowing it was already too late.

A streak of silver shot past me, followed by the belated echo of Imperial bowstrings thrumming.

The arrows found their target, but Snow Tiger's sword found it first. She had thrown it with furious and immaculate skill. I knew it by the gilded filigree on the round guard, the golden silk tassel dangling from its hilt.

Black Sleeve sank to his knees, wrapping his hands around the hilt that protruded from his chest. He looked down at it, uncomprehending. He might have been a hundred years old, a hundred and fifty. But in that moment, his face was a wounded boy's.

"Father." He raised his face toward Master Lo Feng, his gaze bewildered. A trickle of blood spilled from one corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry."

My mentor made a choked sound.

His son fell over sideways, eyes fixed and motionless.

I ran for Bao, flinging myself on my knees beside him.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Late, too late. Black Sleeve's poison was fast-acting.

I plucked the dart from Bao's throat, bent my head, and tried to suck the poison from his skin. I sucked and spat, my lips turning numb and tingling.

"Moirin, no!" a voice behind me said. I ignored it.

Bao's eyelids fluttered. It seemed he couldn't move his limbs. His unfocused gaze met mine, and he tried to smile. "Should have told you—"

Nothing.

The words died on his lips.

My diadh-anam faltered in my breast, the spark of it guttering low in despair. Ah, gods! Like a fool, I had always assumed it was Master Lo for whom it had flared—my teacher, my mentor. They had always been together. Even after I had come to desire and care for Bao in all his insolent pride, to love him, I had never realized it had been him all along.

I was an idiot.

"No." I shook my head in denial. I shook Bao where he lay, shook his limp, lifeless shoulders. "No, no, no, no! You stupid boy, you can't be dead!"

His head lolled, lids half-parted.

Dead.

Master Lo Feng sank to his knees beside me. He felt at the pulses in Bao's wrists and throat. Felt, and felt again, seeking any sign of life, and finding none. His grave eyes told me the news I did not want to hear.

"An antidote," I pleaded. "There must be one!"

"No." The word fell like a stone.

I bowed my head. I was vaguely aware of Master Lo rising and walking away from me, his hands folded in his sleeves. Vaguely aware of hands pulling at me. Vaguely aware of other hands batting them away, the princess' voice, high and fierce.

"Let her be!"

I was grateful for it. I laid my head on Bao's still chest, pressing my cheek against his cooling flesh and closing my eyes.

"Moirin." It was Master Lo's voice, deep and commanding. He had returned. I opened my eyes, unsure how much time had passed. "Oh, child!" He sighed. "Today I have seen the son of my heart slain by the son of my blood. Today I realize I have lived too long. If you are willing, there may be a way. Will you share your magic? I have never asked this of you, but today I do. Are you willing to give a part of yourself that my magpie might live?"

"Anything!" I gasped.

He knelt beside Bao's body, his head bowed in silent prayer as he cycled through the Five Styles of Breathing, then rubbed his palms together, conjuring energy. "Then let us attempt this."

I knelt opposite him.

There was power in that place. There was the sacred energy of White Jade Mountain, its pristine reflecting pool and untouched snow, the mountain's peak thrusting toward Heaven, its vibrant mantle of spruce, all present here in the dragon himself.

And there was dark power, too—the blood of thousands of men and horses spilled in unnecessary sacrifice, soaking into the earth.

I breathed it in, all of it. I fed it to the guttering spark of my diadh-anam. Master Lo waited patiently, his dark eyes somber. When I was ready, I nodded.

"Whatever happens, know that I spoke the truth," Master Lo murmured. "I am proud of you, my last and unlikeliest pupil."

"Thank you, Master," I whispered.

He laid his hands on Bao's chest. "Now." I put my hands atop his and called the magic, making a gateway of myself.

It came in a rush more powerful than ever before, spilling through me—bright and dark, twined together in a braided torrent, taking a part of me with it. I breathed it out, breathed it into Master Lo Feng. On and on, the rushing torrent poured. Master Lo's hands grew warmer beneath mine, warmer and warmer, almost too hot to touch, but I didn't pull away. I let the magic flow through me, draining me, until spots of glittering darkness danced before my eyes and I began to fade.

The stone doorway beckoned.

And there was a part of my fading self that yearned for it, yearned to pass through it. The dragon's cry echoed in my mind. Home. On the far side of death, home and the Maghuin Dhonn Herself awaited me.

Ah, gods! It was a peaceful thought. I was tired, so tired. Tired of blood, death, fighting, jealousy, ambition, and cruelty, tired of being a stranger far from home. And after all, I hadn't failed. I had found my destiny and fulfilled it.

No, the dragon said in my thoughts. It is not finished.

Master Lo Feng took a deep breath, a breath so deep it seemed he breathed all the Five Styles at once, his entire body expanding with it. Through failing eyes, I saw him smile his wise, gentle smile one last time.

He released his breath.

My diadh-anam flared to life—flared and doubled. I felt it blaze like a beacon inside my chest….

….. and inside Bao.

Bao loosed a shout, his body jerking to life. He scrambled wildly to his feet, clutching his chest and staring at me. "What have you done? What have you done?"

"I don't know!" I cried. My vision had cleared, but I was too weak to move. "Master Lo—"

"Master Lo!" Bao crouched beside him. "Ah! No!"

Master Lo Feng's eyes were closed. The hint of a peaceful smile yet curved his lips. But there was no breath in his lungs, no life in his body.