Love and amusement mingled in Lily, making her next words softer than she wanted, more tentative. “I have some questions about things that can be chopped up into words.”
Grandmother snorted. “You wish to know about myself and Sam. Very well. You may ask. It is good for children to acquaint themselves with their ancestors.”
And that was the kernel, wasn’t it? “Most people don’t have an ancestor around to ask! I mean . . .” Lily gestured vaguely. “Over three hundred years, Grandmother! That’s . . . How is that possible?”
“I have been dragon. I cannot not-be dragon. Dragons live much longer than humans.” She shrugged. “I do not share in their longevity fully. My life will be longer than most, but not as long as a dragon’s. More than that I do not know.”
Lily’s heart beat faster. “Will my father live longer than most, too?”
“Ah.” Sadness clouded the old woman’s eyes. “I do not know, but . . . the magic did not go to him, did it? There is a property of my lineage, passed to me by my mother from her mother and back for many generations: our magic wakes only in the females of our line. It can be passed along through a son, but the son cannot touch it. The magic I passed down was not my original magic, of course, yet it still wakes only in the female, not the male.”
Lily grappled with a jostling crowd of questions, trying to order them. “What do you mean, it wasn’t your original magic?”
“When I was young, my magic took the shape of fire, but I burned out that Gift. When Sam transformed me, he breathed into me the magic of dragons. This is the magic I have passed on to you, though it takes a different shape in you than it has in me.”
“Did Sam turn you into a dragon to reward you for stopping the sorcerer?”
“Oh, no. He did it to save my life. Dragons possess great healing, but they cannot heal humans, and Sam did not wish me to die.” Her expression softened as her gaze focused on a memory only she could see. “Later, he said he had known my death was very likely, but he did not accept this. Dragons wish always to have their way.” She chuckled. “As do we all, but dragons wish this with great intricacy.”
“Is Sam precongitive?”
“This is a human word, a modern word. I do not use it. Sam knows certain things. Back in China, he knew the Chimei would come, and he prepared me without telling me what use he would make of me. The treaty restrained him from that, but he could warn his apprentice, and he did. He told me that one day a Chimei would come, and I was to persuade my family to leave their home. He said he would release me to flee, too, if I wished. Though he did not intend that I leave,” she added pragmatically. “That is the way of dragons. They do not constrain, but they manipulate. But Sam did not know the Chimei’s lover would murder my family. His planning did not include that.”
She sighed once, softly. “In the end, the choices were mine. Vengeance is the choice of a dark heart, and my heart was very dark. I had to be close to kill the sorcerer, so I became a servant in his palace. I guessed that I would have to use what the lovely Cullen calls mage fire.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Many things Sam did not speak of until I was dragon and entitled to such knowledge. But he had instructed me in the use of black fire—an oddly dangerous teaching for a new apprentice! When the sorcerer came, I understood why.”
“You did use mage fire, then? Cullen says that only a sorcerer can call it safely.”
Grandmother snorted again. “In this, Cullen Seabourne is right. I had a great deal of power. I was good with fire. But I did not see power, so when I called black fire down on my enemy, I could not see what I wrought. I killed the sorcerer.” No matter what she’d said about vengeance and a dark heart, after three centuries her voice still rang with satisfaction when she said that. “But I could not control the fire. It burned . . . too much. I called it back to me, but I knew . . . The black fire feeds on what it burns, you see, and so more power returned to me than I had spent. I burned. I was neither alive nor dead when Sam came to me, but with a foot in both. He sang . . .” Her voice drifted off into memory and wonder.
Softly Lily said, “Dragonsong. I remember it so well.”
“Yes. And you have heard Sam sing one of the Great Songs, I think, when he returned you and his people from Dis. You understand when I say it is worth dying to hear such song.” Her grin flashed, as sudden and unexpected as a rainbow. “Even better if one does not die.”
Lily surprised herself by laughing. “It is, isn’t it?”
“And now, if you have exhausted your curiosity—”
“Not quite. Grandmother . . .” It was harder than she’d expected to speak of this. “The Chimei said she was the last of her kind. Sam said there were other Chimei who might descend on Earth if the treaty were broken and overwhelm us.” Someone had lied. Lily wanted it to be the Chimei, but she couldn’t quite convince herself of it.
Grandmother said nothing for a long moment, then repeated what she’d said before. “Dragons do not constrain, but they manipulate.”
“In other words, he lied.”
“No. Sam did not know if other Chimei still lived outside their realm. It was possible she was the last, but until her death freed all dragons, he did not know.”
“And the Chimei who live in their home realm? The Surrendered, she called them.”
“When Chimei return to their realm, they are altered. They surrender immortality and no longer feed on the fear of others.”
“There was never much chance of a horde of Chimei turning our world into their feeding ground, was there?”
Grandmother shrugged. “The greater threat was that she would breed, but there was a chance of other Chimei coming here. It was not great, but with such consequences, do you wait until the odds are bad to throw the dice?”
Lily drummed her fingers on the table. “I am not a pair of dice, and I don’t like being treated like one.”
“Who would?” Grandmother’s voice held sympathy, but no apology. “And now, if you are out of questions—”
“Not quite. I still don’t know when you gained the trick of turning tiger. And about that lineage you spoke of—”
“Do not interrupt,” Grandmother said sternly. “I will not speak of that today. Do you wish for some advice?”
“Not particularly.”
Sternness melted into a chuckle. “Who would?” she said again. “Unsought advice is useless. Indulge me anyway. Living is very serious, very real. It is also always a game. If we are wise, it is very real, very terrible, and very lovely, and a good deal of fun.” She patted Lily’s hand once more—and rose. “I have changed my mind. I am not staying for lunch.”
Automatically Lily stood, too. “But . . .”
“I am not so fond of shopping, and you and your mother need time with only the two of you. You do not argue, but you wish to,” she observed. “Be kind to your mother, Lily. She does not know what we know, and her life is not always easy.” Humor lit those bright, dark eyes. “I am a remarkable person, but I am a very bad mother-in-law.”
Lily sat, dazed and vastly amused, as her grandmother made her exit. After a few moments, curious, she sipped from Grandmother’s tea. It was cold, but otherwise tasted fine.
“You are drinking both coffee and tea?” her mother asked from right beside her.
Lily jumped. “You startled me. I was, uh, thinking. The tea was Grandmother’s, but she had to leave. She wanted me to offer her apologies.” She hadn’t exactly said so, but her actions were an apology of sorts. Maybe.
Julia Yu sighed. She was a tall, slender, beautifully dressed woman with lovely eyes and a receding chin. On her, the lack of chin was somehow a feminine touch. “Your grandmother is a very odd woman sometimes. Don’t tell her I said that,” she added, seating herself.