Page 33

The next day and the next, no one sought me out, not even Shani.

I stayed in my room, eating Nomi’s candies and trying not to think about Elang’s betrayal.

By now it’d be midwinter in Gangsun.

I imagined the snow dusting the top of my hat, and Mama lowering the scarf wrapped high over my neck so it didn’t obscure the lucky mole on my cheek.

I’d be haggling at the market over yams to boil for our stews, then listening to Fal complain my soup was too spicy, then reading with Nomi by the window, our stomachs warm and full.

A pang rose to my heart.

It hurt, how much I missed my family.

Don’t hold back your visions, Mama had told me before I left for Ai’long.

Let them bring you home faster.

The last few days, my fingers had itched with premonition, but I’d shied away, afraid that I might see something terrible about Baba.

No longer.

The sooner I learned to master my Sight, the sooner I’d find Baba—and bring him home.

I sat at my desk, steadying my breath.

Maybe I couldn’t control what I foresaw, but I could at least practice letting myself fall into a vision.

With my brush in my hand, I let my eyes roll back, and muscle by muscle, I uncurled my fingers.

The tingles rushed across my fingertips, hot like fire.

And once I let go, it was the fastest I had ever entered a trance.

The first thing I painted was the water.

As my fingers reached for the familiar gray of Yonsar’s depths, I pinned my concentration on Baba.

Show me my father.

My brush then sought a brighter blue.

The water in my vision turned crisp and luminous, and my hand moved in furious motion, sweeping the parchment with a series of curved lines.

Within a few strokes, I had the beginnings of a face.

This was far more intention than I’d ever been able to achieve during a vision.

Baba?

When the mouth formed, I knew it wasn’t my father.

It was small and boat shaped.

My father had thick lips.

Then came long ears, and two deep-set eyes like bulbs that had never seen the sun.

It was a woman, vaguely familiar.

Yet something was different, something was off.

My brush kept moving.

Under its fibers, the woman turned monstrous.

Her long black hair formed a swirling mass that writhed like eels, the ends crowned by barbed and gleaming hooks.

Then her two arms became eight, her teeth grew serrated edges, and in her fathomless eyes, I saw my own reflection.

That was when the brush clattered from my hand.

My heart roared in my ears, and I couldn’t stop shaking.

“Nine Hells of Tamra,” I whispered.

It was Queen Haidi.

“Show me how we’ll overthrow Nazayun,” I said, barging into Elang’s chambers.

“Tonight. There isn’t time to lose.”

If Elang was surprised to see me at his door, he hid it well.

He set down the sanheia flowers he’d been carefully de-thorning.

“You had a vision?”

“See for yourself.”

I had no name for the creature Queen Haidi had become.

I couldn’t even look at her without my blood going cold.

“He’s going to punish her for helping us.”

Elang was studying the painting.

His lips drew thin.

“I need to know, do you always encounter the subject of your visions afterward?”

“Always. Why? What does that have to do with Queen Haidi?”

“I’ll explain later. For now we cannot warn her, or we risk word of your Sight reaching the Dragon King.”

“Can it be undone?” My heart was still pounding.

“Tell me she won’t be like this forever.”

“It will depend.”

“On what?”

Elang set aside my painting.

“Listen closely,” he said, sounding graver than before.

“I’m going to tell you a secret.”

I leaned forward.

I was ready.

“There is an ancient scroll that even the gods fear. No book records its presence, and for a time, anyone who uttered its name was struck down.

“The scroll was made from eversnow bark, its fibers soaked for nine hundred years in tears of lingering sorrow, dried by the hellfires of the Demons’ Cradle, then woven in secret by the Mother Goddess herself.

It is called the Scroll of Oblivion, for whatever is painted on its page will vanish from this earth.

”

Understanding dawned.

“This is the weapon of the Eight and a Half Immortals.”

“You know the story?”

“Haidi told me. Nazayun thinks you are the half immortal…. It’s why he wants you dead.”

“It’s why he’s wanted all half dragons dead,” said Elang grimly.

“I am the last.”

“Who are the other immortals?”

“Deities across the realms,” he answered.

“Each of us plays a specific role in Nazayun’s downfall.” His gaze met mine, dark with stories untold.

“My role was to find a mortal with enough skill to harness the Scroll. The Painter.”

I kept my expression stony, but an ache rose to my throat nonetheless.

That was why he’d come to me as Gaari.

“My grandfather wasn’t always the vengeful creature you see today,” Elang went on.

“Long ago he was a beloved king, who built Ai’long in the splendor he wished all realms to enjoy. His greatest pride was Ai’long, and I truly believe a part of him still believes that his every action is for the good of the dragons.”

“He lost his way.” I understood.

Elang nodded.

“To be immortal does not mean to be constant. He’s watched the merfolk flourish and humanity grow in number and strength. He became fearful of the other realms, convinced they sought to undermine the dragons’ power.

“This fear was a poison; it changed him, and over time, he became cruel.

He ravaged land and sea alike with storms, he turned his own servants into stone, he made monsters out of anyone who dared defy him.

”

“What could he be afraid of?” I asked.

“He’s a god. He cannot die.”

“He cannot,” agreed Elang, “but he can be made weak. He can be made irrelevant.”

I drew in a deep breath.

“With this scroll.”

“Any subject painted on the Scroll is sent to Oblivion. But it must be rendered exactly, so perfect that every hair is in place, every muscle and ridge and scale.”

It was brilliant.

Outrageous, but brilliant.

And humbling.

I was no fool.

I knew the limits of my skill.

“The Scroll is what the patrols were searching for,” I realized.

“Where is it? I want to see it.”

“It’s been with you all this time.”

A beat, to process my astonishment.

Then I knew.

I looked down to my wrist.

I’d noticed the single black thread knotted into my red string, so slender and ordinary it was hardly visible.

It felt like a mistake, or a carefully braided trick.

Knowing Elang as I did now, it was obviously the latter.

“Here,” I said, raising my arm.

The light fell over Elang’s face, turning his dragon eye lambent.

“Well done.”

In a rush of magic, the black thread unraveled from my red string, materializing into a thick wooden rod.

From it distended a wide sheet—a roll of parchment long enough to wrap across the walls of this chambers multiple times.

The Scroll of Oblivion.

It didn’t look or feel any different than regular paper.

Slightly thicker, maybe, grainier.

It gave off no sparks of enchantment when my fingertips grazed its surface; it did smell nice, though.

Like almonds and damp wood.

I could feel the weight of Elang’s gaze, but I didn’t meet it.

We hadn’t spoken in days, and I wasn’t oblivious to his cautiousness around me, or the cold formality of our conversation.

Circumstances were forcing us to work together; that didn’t mean I had to forgive him.

“May I test it?” I asked, gesturing at the Scroll.

“You may,” said Elang.

“However, be mindful of what you paint. The Scroll cannot be destroyed, and once an object is set upon its page, the course to Oblivion cannot be reversed.”

“Understood. I’ll choose something small that won’t be missed.”

Aware that he was watching, I picked up the teacup on his desk, running my thumb across the tiny grooves and indents along its clay surface, the white chip along its lip.

“This will do,” I said.

I turned to Elang.

“With your permission.”

He gave a nod, and I positioned the cup in front of me, then picked up my brush.

Never had I been so nervous to set ink upon paper.

Carefully I copied the cup, each stroke checked twice in my mind before I committed it to paper.

It was painstaking work: emulating every line, the way the light fell on the lip, and the gradations of color on the two lotus blossoms rimming its bottom.

Meanwhile Elang brought out a set of inks, mixing a precise palette of gray, blue, and white.

Normally I preferred to do it myself, but he anticipated exactly what I needed.

If my paint became charry, he’d bring me a pan of water; if I was about to start coloring, he’d bring just the goat-hair brush I needed.

He was quiet when I needed him to be, and murmured short observations when I overlooked something.

The way we worked together reminded me that it wasn’t our first collaboration.

As Gaari, he’d often helped me with my art.

Leave it in the past, I reminded myself.

My lips pressed tight in concentration, I dabbed one last white coat over my cup and made a few fine strokes on the lotus blossoms.

There, I was finished.

Elang set the teacup and my painting side by side.

“You’ve captured the shine in the porcelain,” he started.

“The stain of tea on the inside of the cup too. I tried for ages to wash it off.” A small smile took over his face.

“Well done, Saigas. It’s impossible to tell which is which.”

Saigas.

Gaari’s old nickname for me.

I didn’t smile back.

“Nothing’s happening.”

“There’s one last step,” replied Elang.

“To cast the enchantment, the Painter must touch the object that shall be sent into Oblivion.” He regarded me.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

It sounded too easy.

I lifted one finger, and slowly, ever so slowly, I tapped the teacup.

Immediately the porcelain went soft as clay, puckering slightly where I’d touched it.

Then the entire cup flickered and vanished from the table.

I was spooked.

“It’s gone.”

“Trapped in the parchment,” he confirmed.

Goose bumps rose on my skin.

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

The paint on the Scroll was fast fading, and soon it was empty once more.

Elang tapped on the Scroll’s rod.

In a spark of magic, it swooshed into a single thread, sweeping back into the string around my wrist and knotting itself in place.

For the first time, I could understand why Nazayun feared Elang.

As one of the greatest, oldest gods, it was unfathomable that Nazayun had a weakness.

Yet here, in my mortal possession, was the sole weapon that could vanquish him.

“That was easier than you expected, wasn’t it?” said Elang.

He’d read my mind.

“Too easy.”

“That’s because an object like the porcelain cup doesn’t move, so capturing it is a simple matter. The task is more challenging when it comes to living, breathing subjects.”

Like the Dragon King.

“What will I have to do?”

“The rule of the Scroll is that you must only paint the truth. Art must mirror life, always, but therein lies the difficulty.” He inhaled, his dragon nostril twitching.

“Life is always moving, always changing. Thus, to capture someone alive—like my grandfather—you must paint him in the final moment before he is sent to Oblivion.”

I frowned.

“How would I know his final moment?”

“You won’t,” Elang allowed.

“Any premonition you have of him will simply be a chance. But that is already far more than any other painter can give.” He regarded me.

“I have confidence in you, Tru.”

I wished I could say the same.

Now I understood why he’d asked if I always met the subject of my visions: I’d need to physically touch Nazayun for him to disappear.

I held in a sigh.

Elang had certainly thought this through.

Now I needed to, as well.

“What will happen to Ai’long if Nazayun disappears?” I asked.

“Is there a plan, or will the entire realm be thrown into chaos?”

“My cousin Seryu’ginan will take the throne.”

I’d read about Prince Seryu in one of Elang’s tomes.

He was the Dragon King’s heir, his favorite—though it was hard to picture Nazayun showing affection.

“You would trust someone who has your grandfather’s favor?”

“Seryu would rather race whales and dally with humans than embroil himself in plots for power. Nazayun appreciates that. I do too.”

Interesting.

It was rare that Elang and Nazayun agreed on anything.

“Where is he now?”

“I wouldn’t know. He avoids Ai’long as much as he can. Likely wandering the Forgotten Valleys of Heaven and cavorting with fairies.” Elang twisted his lips.

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

I waited for more, but he didn’t elaborate.

It sounded like the cousins had been friends, long ago.

“Will he be a good ruler?”

Elang cast his gaze downward and wiped an ink stain from the table.

“Becoming king is the last thing Seryu will want. He’ll abhor the responsibility and will try every which way to foist the role upon someone else. But once he accepts it—yes, he’ll be a good ruler. He has a heart, a bigger one than most.”

He has a heart.

High praise coming from Elang, though I couldn’t miss the heaviness in his voice.

I still had one last question.

“If I do this,” I said softly, “if I succeed in painting Nazayun, and sending him to Oblivion, will Haidi…?”

“Yes,” replied Elang, just as softly.

“She’ll be freed of him. Your father too, if he is still alive.”

The hope that pinched my chest was sharp.

I drew a measured breath, wondering, What about you, Elang?

Will you also be free?

I didn’t ask.

I was still angry with him.

What did I care what happened after my job was done?

“When will we leave for Jinsang?” I asked, getting tobusiness.

“Once you’ve gained some control over your Sight.”

“No. We’ll leave sooner.”

Elang tilted his head, a question perched on his brow.

“You need me to copy a vision of your grandfather onto the Scroll,” I replied.

“The problem is, whatever I foresee won’t be detailed enough to produce a giant, true-to-life portrait.”

“That’s why you’ve been studying with Shani.”

“Yes,” I said dryly, “and I’ll continue memorizing how many scales are on his left ear and the exact shape of his toenails, but it won’t be enough. I thought it was only the right blue that was missing from my sketch. It’s more. Back in Gangsun, the artists in the shophouses were always critiquing the energy of a painting, the flow of it.”

“Spirit,” Elang remembered.

Yes, spirit.

It was the most difficult element to achieve.

A painter could produce the most meticulous brushstrokes, plan the most perfect composition, and apply just the right colors and layers—but if there was no spirit, then the result would be like a dragon with no eyes.

Lifeless.

“I couldn’t have painted the teacup into Oblivion without seeing it, being in its presence.” I was adamant.

“I need to see Nazayun. Not just some ghostly projection. I need to see the real Dragon King.”

Elang was quiet awhile.

“Then I’ll take you. After the Luminous Hour.”

I hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly, and I had to deflect my surprise.

“Is it soon?”

“The pearls are expected within the week. It would raise suspicions if we didn’t celebrate their arrival, but we can leave that evening and follow them into Jinsang.”

He made it sound so simple, when I knew it would be anything but.

“All I need is a glimpse of him,” I said.

“I don’t even need to be close.”

“Good, because that’s all I can offer. There’s a ceremony where Grandfather will receive the pearls into Jinsang. I’ll prepare a disguise so we can watch, but we’ll have minutes at best.”

“That’ll be enough.” I gave a firm nod.

“I won’t fail.”

“I know.” He resumed nicking thorns off the sanheia.

It was far too many flowers just for me, but I didn’t ask what they were for.

I had my task.

The less time I spent with Elang, the better.

I left without looking back.