Page 36

I couldn’t speak.

My lips wouldn’t part, and my tongue was heavy as stone.

My entire body had gone numb.

Shani.

I sought the demon through our thoughts.

What are you doing?

She ignored me.

Her mind had become a closed door, and I wasn’t allowed inside.

“She’s a painter,” Shani reported.

“An art forger who Elangui found on land. Their marriage is a sham; he hired her to paint your likeness—on the Scroll of Oblivion.”

Nazayun’s eyes were electric.

“She has the Scroll?”

“She carries it in that string around her wrist.”

My fingers leapt to my hand, but it was too late.

Shani threw me against the wall, trapping my arms with her tail, then pinning her weight against me so I couldn’t move.

The Scroll unraveled from my red string and flew straight into King Nazayun’s grasp.

“You traitor,” I seethed.

“Elang trusted you.”

“That was his mistake. Also his mistake, letting you come here alone with a demon.”

I thrashed against her.

“It was you all along. You led Haidi’s monster to us. You let the patrol into the castle—”

“And destroyed your precious sangi,” Shani finished for me.

“Don’t look so dejected, krill, you’re still alive. Though the next time I see that blockheaded general…” She made a slurping sound.

Gods, we’d locked Caisan up for Shani’s crimes.

“What happened to your vengeance? What happened to being honor bound?”

Shani’s eyes blazed a dangerous shade of red.

“Demons have no honor.”

She grabbed my hand, and the opal ring slid off my finger.

It clattered to the floor, and with a whip of her tail, she smashed it.

Broken white bits flew, narrowly missing my eyes.

She spun, her tail still raised.

I was next.

“That’s enough,” said Nazayun.

“I’d like Lady Saigas to be conscious for her reunion.”

The fight in me went out like a flame.

My reunion?

“You seem to have forgotten,” he intoned.

“I promised you a reunion with your father.”

I looked up at the shipwrecks dangling from the ceiling like lanterns, and scanned the torn sails and smashed hulls for any trace of the trading ships Baba used to charter.

One of these vessels had to be his.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Your father isn’t up there,” responded Nazayun.

“He’s here. ”

A swell of water carried a wooden toy boat right into myhands.

Shaking, I clasped it.

It was smaller than I remembered, its length fitting neatly across my two palms.

Then again, the last time I’d seen it, I had been a child.

Now I was grown, a woman.

Its wood had darkened with age, and barnacles grew along the corners.

The details were as I remembered: the clean-cut sails, the beginnings of a bird along the figurehead, the gently curved crescent shape of the hull.

But one thing was different.

On the deck, standing behind the coarsely chiseled rails, was a detail I didn’t remember.

A painted man, so lifelike he looked alive.

Stubble dotted his cheeks, but that couldn’t hide the slant of his lips, the dimpled chin I used to pinch when I was a child.

Heat rushed to my face, smoldering the backs of my eyes.

So many years, I’d wondered what had happened to Baba.

Now, finally, I had the answer.

“This is him,” I whispered, touching the painted man.

“He’s trapped inside this ship.”

“An Oblivion of his own, I like to think.” The water around Nazayun’s face bubbled with amusement.

“At the time, I didn’t even know his daughter would be the Painter, but the fates are masterful poets indeed. Your reunion could not be more fitting.”

I wasn’t listening.

My heart was thundering inside me, and my thoughts flew back in time, to Baba on the last night of his life.

I pictured the waves thrashing against his ship, the rain pounding.

Baba, choosing to save the lives of his sailors even if it meant he’d never see his family again.

Five years of thinking he was dead.

Five years of counting every copper and thanking the gods every night I kept my family off the streets, five years of holding myself together by the barest thread.

All because Nazayun wanted to have a little fun.

Hate came rushing in.

The pillar behind my back began to vibrate with my anger.

More than anything, I wanted to make the Dragon King pay.

I wanted to obliterate that godly smirk from his face and erase him from all existence.

The worst of it was that I could do nothing—for now—except buy time.

Smothering my emotions, I lowered myself until I was genuflecting.

“Please.” I didn’t need to put on an act to sound small, broken.

“Let him go.”

“How quickly the flame goes out,” murmured Nazayun.

“Now you see, Bride of the Westerly Seas. You are mine.”

The words turned my blood cold.

I knelt lower, mutinously tracking the Dragon King as he loomed across the chamber, his spine curved against the ceiling.

In my head, I listed all the adjustments and revisions I’d make to his portrait.

First chance I got, I’d destroy him.

Until then, I wanted answers.

“Why him?” I asked.

“Hundreds of sailors have been lost to the Taijin Sea, and you pay them no heed. Why spare my father?”

“Arban Saigas.” The name rolled on Nazayun’s tongue.

“A hapless merchant, barely able to feed his family. Forgettable in every way. But fate is unpredictable, Lady Saigas.” Nazayun’s eyes sizzled with smug satisfaction.

“Your father made a trade of transporting worthless trinkets across the seas, useless baubles that only your fatuous kind might covet. He was of no interest to me—until his last voyage. Can you guess why?”

A treasure’s been found in the North, Baba had told us, and I’m to transport it to the capital.

For years Mama and I had tried to find out what exactly that treasure had been, but every one of our investigations had led to a dead end.

“You don’t know?” Nazayun gave a taunting laugh.

“Then I’ll tell you. On your father’s ship was a dragon scale. A great and priceless treasure in your realm, I gather.”

I sucked in a breath.

A dragon scale?

How was that possible?

A single scale alone would have been worth thousands of gold jens.

A fortune beyond my family’s wildest dreams.

“Normally I would have sunk his ship for such an offense, and squeezed out the souls of every sailor down the middle of the Straits of the Lost. Then I discovered just whose scale it was.”

“Elang’s,” I whispered, with a sting of realization.

He’d told me the story only yesterday.

“From the bandits who tried to kill him.”

“Yes. And thus, our story becomes far more interesting.”

“My father didn’t know anything! You could have let himgo.”

“I could have,” he agreed.

“As I said, Arban Saigas was no one special. But I’ve lived long enough to mistrust coincidence and recognize the strands of fate at work, even in something as abhorrent as Elangui’s scale. So I kept your father as an investment. I had a feeling he’d be valuable in the future.” Nazayun dipped his head, the tips of his whiskers grazing the marble walls as he moved.

“And lo, look at where we are today. You wouldn’t be here if not for his poor choices.”

I was still on my knees.

“Let him go,” I said again.

Every word cost me dearly in swallowed pride.

“Please.”

Nazayun ignored my plea.

“The fates are indulgent,” he said.

“Even I wouldn’t have guessed that the Painter and Elangui’s Heavenly Match would be the same, but now that I see it…there is no solution more elegant, more profane.” His blue eyes danced to me.

“Lady Saigas—if you wish to free your father, you shall do something for me.”

I lifted my head, temples pounding, dread corroding my courage.

He knew, just as I did, that for Baba, I’d do anything.

“What do you want?”

“For you to paint,” replied the Dragon King, as if it were the simplest request in the world.

The Scroll of Oblivion unspooled from Nazayun’s fingertips, winding across the vast chamber.

It tumbled along the marble walls, unfurling white and wide like a bubbling brook.

I braced myself.

Minutes ago, I’d witnessed him deliver brutal retribution to Queen Haidi for aiding Yonsar against his storms.

What would he do to me for daring to wield the one weapon prophesized to end him?

My imagination flashed forward to the cruelest possibilities, but in the end, Nazayun did the one thing that chilled me most.

He smiled.

“Beginning now, you’ll start anew on a fresh subject,” he said.

Lightning flashed in his eye.

“One you know dearly.”

Yes, I knew.

I whispered, “You want me to send Elang into Oblivion.”

“Ever vigilant, ever alone.” Nazayun’s tone made a mockery of kindness.

“Oblivion might be just the home he’s been looking for.”

I felt sick.

It took all my restraint to hold my tongue, to keep from slinging my foulest curses at him.

But that wasn’t how the game was played.

I needed to get the Scroll back.

In order to do that, I had to put on an act.

And gods, I knew how to put on an act.

“If I do this,” I said, finding my voice, “you will free my father?”

“You have my word.”

Immortals were sworn to their promises, Elang had told me, and the power of Nazayun’s word jolted the sea like an electric charge.

I looked up, finding my reflection in his eyes, mirror sharp.

“Then you leave me no choice,” I said.

“I will paint.”

“We are agreed, then.”

“We are agreed.”

The water beneath my feet howled, currents gathering into a whirlpool.

Before I could register what was happening, I was pulled into its swirling depths.

The fall was short, barely longer than a breath.

I landed on a marble stool, facing my new prison: a catacomb with a line of grim-looking statues guarding the walls and a squat table in the center.

On it were brushes of every hair and size, water bowls, and ink that had been mixed precisely to match Elang’s coloring.

How thoughtful.

“You will not leave until your work is done,” boomed Nazayun from above.

His voice resounded against the walls, making my ears hurt.

“Any tricks, and your father dies. Do you understand?”

I didn’t reply.

I was listening to the sea, and I could feel Elang’s presence.

Not far, somewhere in this palace, he was a prisoner like me.

Because of me.

“I’ll need to see Elang,” I spoke, “if I am to paint him.”

“You should have memorized your husband’s face by now,” said Nazayun.

His eyes glowed.

“You and Elangui may say your farewells once you are finished. You have until the morning, Bride of the Westerly Seas.”

With that he vanished from the chamber, leaving me alone with my impossible task.

I was defiant at first.

I paced the room, circling the Scroll of Oblivion.

It lay in a grainy river, its folds collecting sand.

“I see you’ve chosen to be stupid,” remarked Shani, misting into the room.

She’d turned shapeless, her presence marked by the iridescent outline of her form.

“It isn’t often that the Dragon King offers an exchange. If you want to save your father, I wouldn’t infuriate our king by dawdling.”

I couldn’t believe her audacity.

Giving me advice?

“I’m thinking,” I snapped.

“You should know Elang’s face by now.”

It wasn’t lost on me, how she no longer used the honorific ’anmi.

“It’s no coincidence His Eternal Majesty selected this room for you,” Shani said.

“Shall I introduce you to your company?” Shifting back into a stingray, she curled around the closest statue, of an elegant mermaid with sorrowful eyes.

“That was Nahma, former high lady of the Southerly Seas. She was turned into stone for sympathizing with your husband when he was banished. Next is Nazayun’s own daughter, the mother of Seryu’ginan, the heir—”

“That’s enough,” I interrupted.

My shoulders fell, and with them went my anger.

“Why betray us?” I asked her quietly.

“We had the weapon to destroy him. I have it now. Right here.”

Her face went amorphous.

“Nazayun offered me a deal once, not too different from yours,” she said thinly.

“Serve him and live. Refuse and die. What do you think I picked?”

“But we were so close,” I appealed.

“I know you’re afraid. I know you think you don’t have a choice, but—”

“But nothing,” she barked.

“You understand nothing.”

“You have honor, Shanizhun,” I persevered.

“I’ve seen it.”

Her tail came winging from behind, delivering a stinging slap.

My neck jerked back, more out of surprise than pain.

I touched my cheek, staring at the demon in disbelief.

“Haven’t you wondered how Elang’s mother really died?” she hissed.

“ I stole her supply of sangi, same as yours. Except he didn’t make it back in time for her. ”

“Shani, no,” I whispered in horror.

“Nazayun made you do it.”

“Never seek redemption for a demon. You’ll be disappointed.” Contempt spilled across her face.

“Now paint, or I’ll make you.”

My cheek still smarting, I sank onto the stool.

When the demon wasn’t looking, I folded my sleeve down, covering the precious notes I’d taken of the Dragon King.

I painted slowly at first.

Every stroke was reluctant, for I knew there was no way I could save Elang.

In exchange for Baba’s life, I’d doomed my husband’s.

But what could I do?

I felt like the miller’s daughter in the story Baba used to tell.

It was rumored that the girl could turn straw into gold, so a prince locked her away to create mountains of gold for him, just as I was forced to paint for Nazayun.

“And do you know what her reward was?” Nomi had asked, making a face.

“She had to marry the prince. Can you imagine anything so vile? I would have turned the prince’s entire castle into gold. That way, it would have collapsed under its own weight and crushed him to death.”

“So violent, Nomi!” Fal exclaimed.

Nomi shrugged.

“It’s what he deserved. Clever women get revenge.”

In my head, an idea was starting to form.

It was only a sprout, nurtured by desperation.

Even in my thoughts, it sounded ludicrous.

But if it worked…

My fingertips tingled.

To send someone into Oblivion, I would have to capture them in their final moments.

Not an easy task, but not impossible—especially if I could manipulate my Sight.

For years, I’d wavered between dreading my visions and desiring them—in the fervent hope that they could change the future.

When a vision did come, trying to control it was like steering a skiff against a fearsome wind; I only ended up awash.

Today I would open up my sails.

I would ride the storm.

Letting my eyes roll back, I set my palm upon the Scroll, and slowly, I began to draw Elang’s face.

I painted the smooth contour of his human cheek, the pebbly texture of his dragon one.

The trickiest part was capturing the split in his features, where he changed from human to dragon.

The part in his lips, the uneven nostrils, the break between his thick brows.

I had to paint carefully.

If my idea was going to work, the deception would have to be nearly imperceptible, even to the Scroll itself.

Luckily, I knew Elang.

I’d known him for years.

I would not fail.

“I’m finished,” I announced loudly, moments before the first tides of dawn appeared.

Shani materialized, looking skeptical.

“You’re done early.”

“Serve him and live. Refuse and die.” I quoted her flatly.

“What do you think I picked?”

“We shall see.”

While the demon surveyed the Scroll, I hung back, clasping my hands to keep my fingers from twitching.

Would Shani notice the trick I’d concealed in the painting?

“It seems you’re as much a traitor as I am,” murmured Shani at last.

“But you’ve forgotten the eyes.”

I’d purposefully left them white, hoping that the stark emptiness of Elang’s eyes would be a distraction, and no one would notice the unusual composition of my painting.

I replied, “A dragon’s pearl is its power; a dragon’s eyes are its spirit. An artist always paints the eyes last.”

Shani gave me a pointed look.

“You’re not an artist, you’re a forger. And you’re up to something.”

“I’m a mere mortal,” I said innocently.

“Do you think I’d dare deceive the Dragon King?”

The water demon lashed her tail out, pressing its serrated tip to my chin.

“If you dare, you’ll fail. Consider yourself warned.”

I bowed my head, catching the vial of sangi she flung my way.

Ironic that Shani herself had taught me how to paint a dragon.

It was thanks to her that I’d mastered the form—enough that I could hide a secret inside.

A forgery of fate, as Elang would call it.

I only hoped it was enough to save us.