Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback Read Free Page B

her around the eyes. Come in,
    then.”
    “This is unwise,” the chancellor said. “Anything guarded by a
    dragon is locked away for a reason.”
    • 23 •
    • The Coin of Heart’s Desire •
    “Treasures hidden forever do no good,” Tern said. She entered the
    treasury, leaving the chancellor behind. The door swung quietly shut behind her.
    Despite the dragon’s protection, it was difficult to breathe through the dream of ocean, and difficult to move. Even the color of the light was like that of rain and lightning and foam mixed together. The
    smell of salt grew stronger, interspersed curiously with the fragrance of chrysanthemums. But then, it was better than drowning.
    “What brings you here?” asked the dragon, swimming alongside
    her. Its coils revealed themselves in pearlescent flashes.
    “I must select twenty-seven gifts for the Twenty-Seven Great
    Families to impress them with the dynasty’s might,” Tern said. “I don’t know what to give them.”
    “Is that all?” the dragon said, sounding disappointed. “There are
    suits of armor here for woman and man, horse and elephant. Give
    one to the head of each family—although I presume none of them
    are elephants—and if they should plot treachery, the ghosts that live in the armor will strike down your enemies. Unless you’ve invented
    gunpowder yet? The armor’s no good against decent guns. It’s so easy to lose track of time while drowsing here.”
    Tern craned her head to look at the indistinct shapes of skeleton
    and coral. “Gunpowder?” she asked.
    “Don’t trouble yourself about it. It’s not important. Shall I show
    you the armor?” The undulating light revealed finely wrought armor
    paired with demon-faced masks or impressively spiked chanfrons.
    She could almost see her face, distorted, in the polished breastplates.
    “That’s no true gift,” Tern said, “practical though it is.”
    The dragon sighed gustily. “An idealist. Well, then. What about
    this?”
    As though they stood to either side of a brook, a flotilla of paper
    boats bobbed toward them. Tern knelt to examine the boats and half
    a verse was written on one’s sail.
    “Go ahead,” the dragon said, “unfold it.”
    She did. “That’s almost a poem by Crescent-Sword-Descending,”
    • 24 •
    • Yoon Ha Lee •
    she said: one of the empire’s most celebrated admirals, who had
    turned back the Irrilesh invasion 349 years ago. “But it’s less elegant than the version my tutors taught me.”
    “That’s because Crescent was a mediocre poet, for all her victories
    at sea,” the dragon said. “Her empress had one of the court poets
    discreetly rewrite everything.” Its tone of voice implied that it didn’t understand this human undertaking, either. “In any case, each of the boats is inscribed with verses by some hero or admiral. If you float them in the sea on the night of a gravid moon, they will grow into fine warships. To restore them to their paper form—useful for avoiding
    docking fees—recite their verses on a new moon. And they’re loyal,
    if that’s a concern. They won’t sail against you.”
    Tern considered it. “It’s an impressive gift, but not quite right.” She envisioned her subjects warring with each other.
    “These, then,” the dragon said, knotting and unknotting itself.
    A cold current rushed through the room, and the boats scattered,
    vanishing into dark corners.
    When the chill abated, twenty-seven fine coats were arrayed before
    them. Some were sewn with baroque pearls and star sapphires, others
    embroidered with gold and silver thread. Some had ruffs lined with
    lace finer than foam, others sleeves decorated with fantastic flowers of wire and stiff dyed silk. One was white and pale blue and silver, like the moon on a snowy night; another was deep orange and decorated
    with amber in which trapped insects spelled out liturgies in brittle characters; yet another was black fading into smoke-gray at the hems, with several