The Book of Dragons. Группа авторов

to the office and sort it out there during the day, away from Ma’s censorious eye.

      But as she imagined it, she could see her coworker gazing incuriously over the divider between their desks. Her resolution wilted. Yasmin possessed the preternatural elegance generally found only in the very wealthy; she looked like she had never sweated in her life. It was impossible to clip one’s fingernails in front of Yasmin.

      At this point, May Lynn’s train of thought was run off its tracks by an enormous crash of thunder. The world was plunged into darkness. As May Lynn peered up at the sky in confusion, it was split by a forked bolt of lightning.

      Blinking away the dazzle, she almost missed the sight that would fill social media feeds and preoccupy the press for the next several weeks. By the time she rubbed her eyes and opened them again, the dragon had already leaped across the highway. It retreated into the distance, heading toward the mountains. The traffic light turned green, but for several long breaths, May Lynn and all the other motorists stayed where they were, watching after the dragon until it was lost behind a veil of rain.

      “Ah, Adinda,” said Sri Daik. “You’re here?”

      Sri Bujang was engrossed in studying a stele, so he didn’t look up until Sri Kemboja said:

      “How could you?”

      There was no mistaking who she was addressing; she would never have spoken to their parents that way. Sri Bujang said, “What?”

      “I know what you’ve been doing,” said Sri Kemboja, in throbbing tones. “You don’t think I don’t know!”

      Looking at his sister’s accusing face, Sri Bujang felt suddenly that he had hit his limit.

      He had already been feeling hard done by. It was not that any drudgery was expected of him. Princes do not rub unguents on invalids’ scales, or feed them healing soups. Sri Daik was attended by physicians, magicians, great-aunts, lesser cousins, handmaidens and manservants, not to mention Sri Bujang’s mother, Sri Gumum. He had only to crook a talon for his every need to be supplied.

      So it was not clear why Sri Daik and Sri Gumum felt it necessary to take up all of Sri Bujang’s time. Sri Gumum had difficulties with the servants. Sri Daik had a mind-boggling array of ailments. They both had strong views on tax policy and zoning, public transport and foreign affairs—the various matters of government with which a king should be well acquainted. They were determined to tell Sri Bujang about all these things, at length.

      For one who had spent hundreds of years alone in a cave, this was acutely aggravating. Sri Bujang was accustomed to considering his spirit a precious commodity, to guarding his energies jealously from incursion. It was an unpleasant novelty to be treated as though his spirit was of no account.

      “You!” he began, but before he could tell Sri Kemboja what he thought of her tone, their mother said:

      “What do you mean, what Kakanda has been doing? He’s helping us with Ayahanda’s prescriptions.”

      Sri Kemboja seemed to notice for the first time the stele propped up before Sri Bujang. The pawang’s inscription was as illegible as doctors’ handwriting is said to be, but still the occasional name of a healing spell or electuary could be discerned.

      “What’s this?” she said.

      “The girls are doing their best,” said Sri Daik. “But this old carcass needs so many spells and medicines, it’s hard for them to keep track.”

      “Those naughty dugong forgot to give Ayahanda his dose,” said Sri Gumum. “Now the pain in his last pair of hind legs has come back! Whatever you say, it is not like having your own child tend to you.”

      Before his parents could rejoin battle over what the handmaidens had done and what should be done to them in consequence, Sri Bujang said:

      “I’m going to supervise the dosings from now on, make sure Ayahanda gets what he needs. Don’t worry, Bonda.”

      Sri Daik nodded. Sri Gumum smiled. Their approval was a balm to Sri Bujang’s irritated soul, but the relief proved fleeting.

      “Yes. Fine. Okay,” said Sri Kemboja. “That’s all very good. But have you told Ayahanda and Bonda about the destruction you’ve been causing?”

      Sri Bujang glared at her. “What are you talking about?”

      “Come, Adinda, this is not becoming,” said Sri Daik. “Even if you feel your royal brother is wrong, you should tell him gently. What is the matter?”

      “Kakanda has been commuting,” announced Sri Kemboja. She turned to Sri Bujang. “You’ve been going back to your mountain, haven’t you? Did you think nobody would notice?”

      Sri Bujang had indeed thought no one would notice. It wasn’t like his parents had shown any interest in what he’d been doing for the past several centuries.

      He drew himself up. “Is that all? I’ve been going back, yes. I need quiet time for contemplation. It’s not like it’s interfered with my duties here.” He turned to his parents. “I haven’t neglected you, have I?”

      He had thought this was a safe appeal, given how devoted he had been. But he saw at once that he was wrong. Sri Daik and Sri Gumum wore identical expressions of horror.

      “Oh, Kakanda, how could you?” said Sri Gumum. “You said you were going to postpone all that nonsense to the next life.”

      Sri Bujang had never mentioned this plan to his parents. He gave Sri Kemboja a burning look of reproach, which she pretended not to notice.

      “I have postponed it,” he said. “But I’m not going to become awakened in any life if I stop self-cultivating altogether.”

      “This is my fault,” said Sri Daik, with the quiet dignity of a martyr. “I am the one who called Kakanda back when he preferred to live on his mountain. In my youth, that was how things were done; children looked after their parents. But times are different now.”

      Sri Bujang felt as though the floor had opened beneath his feet. “I—what—but what’s wrong with me going back? It’s just so I can keep up my practice.”

      “Every time you come down your mountain, you cause a landslide,” said Sri Kemboja. “Did you not notice?”

      Sri Bujang was about to protest that this was ridiculous, baseless, uncalled for. But as the memory of his last trip to the mountain came back to him, the denial died in his throat.

      Could he really swear to the fact that there hadn’t been a landslide? As always, his arrival and departure had been attended by incalculable fuss. The mountain’s resident jungle spirits and animals were obsessed with protocol, and they loved a party. What with the clamor of their rites, he hadn’t had time to pay attention to the state of the soil. It was possible there had been a small landslide or two while he hadn’t been looking …

      “And the flooding, whenever you go up from the sea,” said Sri Kemboja. “You didn’t notice that either?”

      “Of course there was flooding,” said Sri Bujang crossly. “There’s always flooding whenever any of us goes anywhere. It’s just because of the rain.”

      “And you don’t think that’s a problem?”

      “Don’t fight, children,” said Sri Gumum, forgetting in her anxiety to prevent a quarrel that she was angry with Sri Bujang. “It’s natural of Kakanda to think the humans will be grateful. After all, they used to worship us for bringing rain. He doesn’t realize they have changed.”

      “Kakanda can try to claim he’s doing it for the humans’ sake,” said Sri Kemboja. “But I don’t believe it! When did the humans ever like us bringing floods or landslides?”

      “Adinda has a point, you know,” said Sri Daik to Sri Bujang. “Rain is good, but it must be the right amount. Too much causes