Lily translated for Gan. Ah Hai turned astonished eyes her way. “Growing a soul?”
They had a three-way conversation, with Lily translating what Gan said for Ah Hai. Gan explained that “you can’t have a friend if you don’t have a soul, so when I became Lily Yu’s friend, I started growing one. It’s probably bigger now because I’ve got lots of friends.” She went on to tell about her friends in Edge—there were two, it seemed, a gnome and a human, plus five others she considered half-friends who might become real friends someday, ending with, “And there’s Cullen Seabourne. He’s in Dis and he might be dead, but he might not be. I don’t like thinking about that. And in this realm there’s Lily Yu and Cynna Weaver and Rule Turner, who used to be a half-friend but he’s a real friend now. And that’s why I came, because my friends really needed my help. I don’t ever want Lily Yu to die again.”
“Again?” Ah Hai repeated faintly, eyes wide.
“It’s a long story,” Lily said.
“But it is true? All this is true?” she whispered. “This Gan was a demon, and she grew a soul?”
“Yes.”
“Ahhh . . .” Her eyes grew moist. “It gives me such hope. Not that I had lost hope, not ever. We were told it would be the work of generations, but . . . but if a demon can grow a soul—” She stopped, blinking rapidly.
Belatedly, Lily understood.
At its heart, the story of the Kanas was pretty simple. They had been charged by “the Great Dragon, who is not like other dragons” to raise the spawn. And they had never stopped.
The Great Dragon was Reno, of course. Rule had told her that Reno had fallen through from Dis to Dragonhome while looking for a way to enter that realm more voluntarily—and that had triggered him changing to female. Apparently Reno had been delaying that change for a very long time. Lily had thought dragons might need the help of their fellows to turn female. Turns out she’d had it backward. They needed help delaying that change.
Those Kanas who’d survived the burning of their village—which Ah Hai would not discuss—had decided they could serve best if their identities were unknown to any but the Zhuren themselves. And so were born the yāoqiú. The claimed.
“We did not want people coming to us, seeking favor with the Zhuren, as they would have done if it was known we were Kanas. We did not want an exalted place, but only to serve,” Ah Hai had explained. What did that service mean? “Obedience, of course. The Zhuren are as the heads of our family. Sometimes we give advice. If they do not take our advice . . . ah, well. Adult children do not always listen to their elders, do they? But sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—we must act, for we see what they cannot. Their hearts have not yet grown enough.”
That remained the real job of the Kanas: to help their damaged charges learn empathy. Lily spoke gently, putting it the way Ah Hai had. “If a demon can grow a soul, then the sons of the Great Dragon might grow hearts.”
? ? ?
IN a valley tucked into the low hills around Lang Xin, the grass grew tall and lush. Despite its proximity to the city, it had never been cultivated. Nor would it be. It lay along the migration route of the shānjiǎo. For thousands and thousands of years, herds of the enormous beasts had followed the same route, eating their way north to the forested slopes of the Shaanxi mountains, then, as the weather cooled, slowly circling around to head back south along another route. This allowed the grass on their original path to recover.
At this time of year, the shānjiǎo were still a couple hundred miles south of Lang Xin. At least most of them were. About forty of the beasts had headed north ahead of their fellows and were cropping grass contentedly with a single hill separating them from the sprawling capital. Shaped like a rhino but with the bony plates and weaponized tail of a stegosaurus, they were bigger than an African elephant. Yet the huge beasts were not considered a threat.
No doubt this was partly because their meat tasted rank to humans, so the people of Dragonhome had never hunted them. Mainly, however, it was because the placid eating machines were so ruled by instinct that none of them had ever been seen to cross over the hill separating them from the city. This was fortunate, for they were highly resistant to magic and wouldn’t be stopped by the wards. That resistance may have developed for the same reason as the upthrust plates along their spines. Dragons considered them tasty.
Shānjiǎo were dangerous during mating season, but that hit in late fall, long after they’d left Lang Xin behind. Or when frightened, but they were absurdly fearless most of the time. The pack-hunters that followed the herds, preying on the young or the infirm, annoyed more than alarmed them. So did the giant cats of the northern forests. Humans, they barely noticed.
Shānjiǎo feared two things. Fire and dragons.
First one, then another of the armored beasts lifted their heads from the delicious grass. Their snouts twitched, scenting the air, for their weak eyes weren’t much help.
Suddenly one of them lifted its head and let out a deep, rhythmic groan like the call of a giant bullfrog. Others answered. All at once they lumbered into a trot, heading straight for the hill.
? ? ?
SIX men and three women sat on the deck of a chún-chún docked at the city’s longest pier: Mei Bo, the boat father. Two of his cousins and one of his nephews. His two sons. His sister and her daughter. And the boat father’s lovely daughter.
Rule watched the Siji sitting motionless, their eyes closed to help them connect with beasts far beyond their physical reach. He stood very still himself, still and straight. Hating what he was doing to these people.
The river was on the opposite side of town from the valley of the shānjiǎo, the enormous beasts that Mei Bo and his family had coaxed into starting their northern trek early this year. Every night, under Grandmother’s gaze, they’d sent out their suggestions to the herd. Every night, they had forgotten they had done so.
Mei Bo opened his eyes. “They come, Zhu.”
Rule inclined his head once, wondering what the man saw when he looked at Rule. One of the Zhuren, yes, but which one? Did he know what any the Zhuren looked like? Or did he only see a tall man whom he knew to be a Zhu?
Grandmother had crafted an elaborate ensorcellment, one that was active only after the Siji been told to “wake up.” She’d told them what they were to do “when the Zhu commands.” They were good people, she’d said. If she made them do a bad thing, it would damage their minds. But they all but worshipped the Zhuren. As long as they believed they were following the orders of one of the Zhuren when they called the shānjiǎo into the city, their minds would be not be harmed.
Other types of harm were all too possible.