The Book of Dragons. Группа авторов

Bonda, it’s time we stopped coddling Kakanda,” said Sri Kemboja. “Maybe if we had spoken up before, we could have prevented all this.”

      To Sri Bujang, turning the pages of the letter with increasing dismay, this attitude seemed less than helpful. It was like his sister to fly off the handle when what they needed was a level-headed discussion of next steps.

      “I don’t think anyone could blame you for not speaking up enough,” he said tartly. “There’s no need to be so emotional. It’s not like anyone’s died.”

      Sri Kemboja stared at him. “A woman was critically injured in the storm yesterday—the storm you raised. The newspapers are all talking about it.”

      “Newspapers?” said Sri Gumum. “You’ve been reading human newspapers?”

      Sri Kemboja hadn’t taken her eyes off Sri Bujang.

      “What are you looking so shocked for?” she said. “You must have known your floods and your landslides were destroying roads and buildings, turning people out of their homes. It was only a matter of time before you hurt somebody.”

      “Adinda, have you been playing human again?” said Sri Gumum, raising her voice. “Going around calling yourself Yasmin and wearing shoes and all that kind of thing?”

      “So what if I am?” snapped Sri Kemboja. “Why can’t I have an outlet, if the raja muda gets to play sage whenever he feels like it? At least I’m not laying waste to cities and killing innocent humans!”

      “Aduhai!” Sri Gumum wrung her paws. “What will Ayahanda say? What is his sin that he has been punished with two such wayward children?”

      Sri Bujang had learned several new things about his sister in the past couple of minutes, which at any other time would have been of enormous interest. But there were more important things to worry about now.

      “Who got hurt?” he said. His voice cut through the din.

      Sri Kemboja said, “Her name is Yap May Lynn.” Her eyes filled with tears—the jeweled naga’s tears that were once so highly prized among humans that they were traded between rajas as gifts. “She was driving home to her mother. One of the trees by the side of the road, the branch broke because of the storm, and it fell on her car. She’s in the hospital now. She may never wake up. I may never see her again. And it’s because of you.”

      “Didn’t Bonda already tell you? Don’t make friends with humans,” said Sri Gumum. “They die after a short time and then you feel bad. That’s what humans are like. Anyway, how do you know Kakanda caused the rain?”

      “He did,” said Sri Kemboja. “He went back to his mountain again, even after everything we told him. Didn’t you? It was your storm, wasn’t it?”

      “Yes,” said Sri Bujang, heartsick. “It was my storm.”

      A man trailing a thunderstorm paused in the hospital car park, watching a car from under his umbrella. A woman got out, struggling with a large plastic container.

      Sri Bujang knew Sri Kemboja at once, and she recognized him, though neither was wearing their usual face. They gazed at each other in mutual embarrassment.

      “What are you doing here?” said Sri Kemboja.

      “Do you want to keep that dry?” said Sri Bujang, at the same time. “I can cover it with my umbrella.” He pointed at the plastic container, noticing its contents for the first time. “Is that human food?” he asked, intrigued.

      “It’s for a friend,” said Sri Kemboja. Then she flung back her head. “Actually, it’s for Mrs. Yap, May Lynn’s mother. You can tell Ayahanda and Bonda if you like. I assume that’s why you’re here.”

      Sri Bujang gave her an odd look. “I think Ayahanda and Bonda could probably tell me more about your human career than I could tell them. Anyway, you can’t see Mrs. Yap.”

      Sri Kemboja bridled. “What makes you think you can come here and tell me what to do? Just because you’re older and the raja muda—”

      “Mrs. Yap is with May Lynn,” Sri Bujang continued. “They should be discharging May Lynn in a few days’ time, but they want to keep her under observation for a while.”

      “What?” said Sri Kemboja.

      “May Lynn’s made a miraculous recovery,” said Sri Bujang. Something had been niggling at him, an unanswered question Sri Kemboja’s appearance had brought to mind. “Eh, how do you go around without bringing rain with you?”

      “What do you mean, a miraculous recovery?”

      “I mean me,” said Sri Bujang. “I wrought a miracle. Now she’s recovered.”

      Sri Bujang had almost forgotten what his sister looked like when she was not angry. Without the usual expression of impatience, her face was rather nice. She said, “How?”

      A flash of lightning briefly blinded them. The sky crackled in its wake, and the rain intensified.

      “I’ll tell you,” said Sri Bujang, “but do you want to go wait somewhere till she’s done with her mother? I should move before I cause a flood.”

      Sri Kemboja ordered at the coffeeshop with the confidence of an old hand:

      “Limau ais kurang manis,” she told the waiter.

      “You’ve been human for a while, haven’t you?” said Sri Bujang.

      Sri Kemboja gave him a suspicious look, though he’d only meant to express admiration. “You were going to tell me about May Lynn.”

      “There’s not much to tell,” said Sri Bujang. “I gave her my next life. She should be okay now.” There was a point that had been making Sri Bujang a little uncomfortable. Sri Kemboja’s unblinking gaze made him bring it up.

      “She might live for longer than usual,” he added. “That’s okay, right? Humans are—were—always asking me how to live longer.”

      Sri Kemboja came back to life.

      “What do you mean?” she said. “How long?”

      “Not too long,” said Sri Bujang, anxious to reassure. “She’s still human. Her body couldn’t take too much longevity. She’s not likely to live more than three hundred years or so, unless she’s very careful with her lifestyle.”

      “Kakanda!”

      “I know,” said Sri Bujang. “It’s not natural for humans to live so long. But it was either that or let her die. I know you all think I’m selfish, but the whole point of going to the mountain was not to do harm.”

      “I thought the point of going to the mountain was to seek liberation,” said Sri Kemboja. “How are you going to become an awakened one in your next life if you’ve given it away?”

      Sri Bujang was proud of himself for not wincing. “I’ll have to start over from scratch in the next life, that’s all. I’ve lost all the merit I built up before.”

      He tried not to think about the work his next incarnation would have to do to recover his progress toward liberation—supposing the next incarnation even knew enough to desire enlightenment.

      “Hopefully, I’ll at least be reborn as a human and not one of the other animals,” he said. Even if he’d avoided ending any human lives, he’d probably racked up too much moral debt with all the natural disasters to be reborn as a naga. “Humans are supposed to be able to attain liberation also.”

      Sri Kemboja folded her hands with the ease of much use—Sri Bujang would have had to practice to reproduce the maneuver.

      “I trained myself to suppress the rain-bringing instinct,” she said. “It wasn’t easy. It took a lot of work, and I don’t know