The Firebird's Vengeance

by Sarah Zettel

  But she remembered Master Liaozhai’s story about the boy who died from too much scrying. Even if he wasn’t like her, with visions that could be called without a shaping, what if she got paralyzed like he did, and all they found was her bones crouching over the pool, because she couldn’t make herself look away anymore?

  There couldn’t just be nothing.

  Still, Tsan Nu shivered. Biting her lip, she did what she always did when she was afraid. She took off her left shoe, slipped her fingers into a slit in the cotton lining, and brought out the flat, colorful amulet hidden there. It was called a zagovor’s heart, and when Tsan Nu traced the pattern with her finger, she could sometimes feel the subtle heart shape hidden in the layers of tight braiding.

  Her father had given her this amulet, just in front of the bushes where she now hid. She had shown him her secret spot, and he had praised her. “Be obedient, Tsan Nu, but do not give them all of yourself,” he’d said seriously. “Keep something just for you and me.

  “And to that end.” He’d reached in his pocket and pulled the amulet out. It was half the size of her palm, as flat as a copper coin, and braided red, black, green, and blue. “This is for you. If there is ever a time when you are truly in danger, and I mean in danger of your life, Tsan Nu — not in danger of a scolding, or of being made to practice your writing.” She’d blushed, but he’d just smiled. “But if such a time ever comes, you can use this to contact me. Listen closely,” and he had explained how to open up the magic he had locked into the weaving.

  Now she held it tightly against her as if it were her favorite doll. Should she use it? With everything she’d seen and everything she hadn’t seen, was now that emergency? Father was a sorcerer, and important, not just to the Isavaltans, but to the Nine Elders as well. He could make them listen.

  But slowly, Tsan Nu lowered the amulet to her lap. No. Not yet. She’d wait until tomorrow. By tomorrow, Minister Xuan would have talked to the others. By tomorrow, things would have changed. Maybe that was why she couldn’t see anything. It was all changing, maybe because of what she had already seen. Maybe it was as Master Liaozhai said, he had heard her, but he couldn’t do anything alone. The Nine Elders always had to talk for hours and hours before they did anything.

  Tsan Nu slid the amulet back into her shoe, and slid the shoe back onto her foot. She crawled out of the thicket and dusted off her knees and elbows. Then she set off running again. She needed to find Lady Pim Ma and beg some red ribbons so she could make Yi Qin’s “lucky” amulet.

  Everything would be all right tomorrow, and if it wasn’t, then she would call Father.

  In the end, it was to be Earth.

  The debate was long and intense, lasting from noon until twilight, but Xuan had known through it all what would be done. There was only one choice.

  If the guardian had been perverted or angered, the only one who could stand against its wrath, or answer how they might heal it, was another guardian. The only question was which guardian should be called.

  It was no small thing. It was never normally done, and had never been done twice within the same hundred years. The ceremony was difficult, and called for all the Nine Elders, for Heaven itself had to be touched and implored, and the life of an Elder had to be given in the transformation.

  The guardian of earth was chosen because while earth was slow where fire was quick, solid where fire was ethereal, the earth could also contain fire and so they were not in direct opposition to each other. This was no battle they sought to stage. That would be an even greater blasphemy than the northerners had perpetrated. This was a sacrifice for the restoration of harmony and peace, when all other means had failed.

  The transformation could only be worked at night. They all gathered now atop the tower. The moon was a silver coin in the black sky, surrounded by the pinpricks of countless stars, white, gold, and blue. All of them flashes of fire, blue white gold and red. Xuan remembered other nights, gazing up at those stars and feeling his connection with Heaven. Where there could be no water, no earth, there was yet fire, changing yet eternal.

  En Lai stepped forward alone to the altar. She positioned herself on the ancient stone, waiting, rooting herself in her element, opening her heart. Xuan saw her hands tremble as she brought them together, folded in acceptance and in prayer. He remembered how it felt to stand there, alone, waiting for the end. Even knowing that Heaven waited and that life went on, it was a hard, lonesome thing.

  Chi Tahn met En Lai’s eyes in silence. En Lai did not even have to nod. All there knew she had reached her moment of readiness. To wait any longer would make what must be done unbearable. They all remembered, they all at one time or another had stood on that stone.

  Chi Tahn threw back his head and he began to sing. His voice was strong and pure and it went straight to Xuan’s heart, drawing him close and opening him wide. One by one his brothers and sisters added their voices to the spell, raising their magics from within and from without, drawing the essence of each element and each direction into their invisible weaving until the whole of the world was within their compass.

  Xuan’s voice joined the others almost without his conscious volition. His song was needed, his element, his magic, and so it answered the call and wove itself with the others, rising into the air, sinking into the earth, reaching out to all the four outer directions and bringing them to the center.

  Song and power swelled until all the air around them trembled. Then Minh, the Minister of the West, stepped forward, still singing, always singing. In his arms he bore the robe of transformation. Dull brown silk embroidered with ebony threads, it showed the interlocking plates of the shell, the creases of eternity and wisdom, the shelter and strength that were the Earth’s guardian. En Lai’s shoulders sagged beneath its weight as Minh draped it about her. Xuan put aside his wishes to comfort her, and sang on, each tone, each word, robbing En Lai of self and strength, turning her into the vessel, emptying her being to the need of Hung-Tse.

  Shaiming, the Minister of Metal, stepped forward next, bearing the snub-nosed mask fashioned of gold and bronze. En Lai could no longer stand. She collapsed against Shaiming as he tied the ribbons tightly against her skull, so that her face was gone and all that remained in the moonlight was the face of the guardian. Singing that mystery, singing praise and gratitude, Shaiming lowered En Lai to the stone. The woman could not be seen anymore. There was only the shell, the great legs, the wise face, the dark eyes.

  There was only the vessel to be filled.

  Chi Tahn shifted the song, deepening the pitch, slowing the tempo, reaching into stone and earth where the guardian waited. Words of praise, words of pleading, words of gratitude and need. This was the greatest of all the songs. These were the words of true transformation. This was the first gift, and the last, the final duty of all who were chosen for this high office. Xuan poured himself freely into the working, spending strength, breath, and magic to shape the change, to call the guardian forth.

  And nothing happened.

  At first no one moved. Chi Tahn led the song still, and effort redoubled. Xuan reached within and without, bringing all his training to bear to shape the words that shaped the world. Around him, he felt the others doing the same. He had not been so close to his brothers and sisters in many years, and he gladly drew himself closer yet. En Lai lay still upon the altar, a heap of brown cloth and sparkling metals.

  Cloth rustled. Eyes shifted, left and right. A note wavered. The air shivered. The song went on. Xuan shaped the words, shaped the power, but the first traces of weariness were beginning to creep in. His jaws began to ache, his breath began to catch. The weaving loosened. He could hear Chi Tahn’s voice above the others, calling and calling again. He felt the pull, but it was weaker. It no longer touched heart and soul, compelling the magics. Xuan had to push them toward Chi Tahn, as if he were moving a burden up the ramp of a ship, trying to fill a hold that was too large for what he carried. The net of their magics frayed and the power began to spill away
.

  En Lai moaned.

  They all heard her voice, muffled by the mask. It should not have been so. En Lai should have been long gone, departed but for her final essence to help the guardian shape her body. The woman should not be there to feel weariness or pain. The moan, a purely human sound, came again, and the threads of the spell snapped as if cut by a knife.

  Silence fell, and the Nine Elders stared at one another. Xuan’s heart barely remembered to beat. This was wrong. This was impossible. The great spells did not fail. They could not. They were part of the order of nature. They could no more fail to bring the guardian than the sun could fail to rise in the east.

  Yet under the silence, power still thrummed. Something unspent still resonated in the air, making Xuan’s skin shiver.

  On the altar, En Lai, who was only En Lai still, lifted her head. Her pale hand reached out and pushed the mask back from her face. The inert piece of metal clattered onto the stone.

  “What happened?” she whispered, but her words rang as loud as the song had. “Where is my guardian?”

  She sounded lost, like a small child. But there was no comfort to offer her, no words, no learning. They stared around them, looking for answers on stones meant only for protection and prayer. Yet, there was still that something, that final spark of power, growing stronger, calling without words.

  “Do you feel it?” asked Xuan. “Do you feel that?”

  But none of the others heard him, they were too busy babbling out their own questions.

  “Where are they?”

  “Why do they not speak to us?”

  “What have we done?”

  There was light now, more felt than seen, a warmth in his veins. En Lai was on her feet, shedding the robe that should have become her skin. She stared at her human hands with their unaltered markings as if she did not know what to do with them. Tears streamed down her face.

  She did not feel this thing. It was not for her.

  Like a man in a dream, and yet at the same time utterly sure of what he must do, Xuan broke the circle. He walked to the altar. En Lai stumbled past him, moving in the other direction, seeking the comfort of the others, but he barely saw her. Thirty years ago he had walked this path. He had crossed these stones, lifted his foot, taken these last steps to the center of the altar of sacrifice, had stood with his brothers and sisters in art all around him. Thirty years ago, two hundred years ago, a thousand years ago. But they had been singing then, weaving the great spells with their voices. They had not stood mute and staring. He had been the one who stood still then, waiting for the transformation, waiting with open heart for what must be. He had not stood with his hands and eyes lifted toward Heaven. His had not been the voice to cry out.

  “Come home to me! Be welcome and speak to us of your freedom! Tell us how we are to redress the wrong that was done!”

  His had not been the eyes to see the golden streaks of fire across the night sky, shining more brightly than any comet’s tail.

  I kneel before you, he said with all the power of his mind reaching out toward his guardian, to this other part of himself and the element to which he was bound. I offer myself for my failure.

  In his mind, he heard the voice of his guardian give answer. Too late. Too long. I possess you already. I will have my retribution.

  Too late, the damage already done. As Tsan Nu had said.

  He knew what was going to happen, knew it with his whole being, as he knew how to breathe or his heart knew how to beat. There are innocents here.

  You knew what had been done to me. You knew and you did nothing. You feared and you schemed, but you did nothing.

  Tears ran from Xuan’s eyes. He reached up to the fiery form. He would have embraced it gladly and let himself burn, to be whole again. To be as he should have been. Let us help you find the path to Heaven.

  Anger poured over him. That is why you think I do this? You burn in my heart and you think I could not find my way?

  And Xuan saw. With heart’s eye and mind’s eye, he saw. He felt his wings and the rage of his own fire. He rose into darkness, the only light in the Heavens.

  Free. Free. Finally free.

  He stretched his wings out their whole, great length. His fire, his life, his heart and song rose for the first time in all the long, slow years. His captor was dead, dead, ash and dust behind him and the cage was gone, was gone, was gone.

  The veil between worlds was as nothing. To enter the Silent Lands was only to return home, filling its unchanging skies and shifting illusions with his song and his fire. The powers lifted their heads and took note of his passing. Let them see. His captor was dead, his cage was ashes, and he was free. He would fly, and he would go to his true home and there would be peace and rest, and no more pain.

  He spiraled higher. The sky became black and filled with fabulous stars that shone like diamonds with fire that lit up nothing but endless darkness. Those stars watched the Phoenix spiral higher. They watched comets fly beneath its wings and their own dust coat its feathers, only enhancing its brightness. Higher, and higher yet, singing out into that world where there was only darkness and fire, singing of what had been done, singing of coming home.

  At last, overhead the sky paled from black to blue and all the stars fell back in reverence as the light of Heaven shone down upon them. Tears spilled from Xuan as the Phoenix cried in gladness and stretched its wings to be enfolded into the pure sapphire light that was heart and home. Soon all of Heaven would know its suffering, and its curse would fall upon its captors and those who abandoned it.

  But even as he approached Heaven’s light, it receded, leaving him in blackness. The Phoenix, Xuan, the Phoenix, cried out in confusion and beat its wings harder, climbing yet higher. But still the blue sky fell back, as if it were only illusion.

  Frantically, the Phoenix called out. All the true names of the kings of Heaven were in that cry, Xuan knew that even though he could understand none of them. The Phoenix called out to its creators like a lost child calling for his parents. But they just turned away, pulling in the boundaries of Heaven like the hems of a silken robe, and for all that the Phoenix cried tears like small stars and for all that it called out and beat its wings, rising higher and rising faster, still Heaven retreated before it and would not pause so that it might enter.

  Exhaustion can come even to a child of the gods and at last the Phoenix’s wings began to falter. The ethereal realm would no longer support it and it began to fall, back into the darkness, back among the lesser stars who watched it with pity and contempt, back into the green of that space fit only to wrap up the mortal worlds and hold them in their courses.

  All that long, weary fall, the Phoenix cried. It cried because it knew why it fell and it drove that understanding deep into Xuan’s heart. It fell because it was corrupted. It was no longer pure in its being and its purpose. This the Nine Elders had done in their neglect. This they had left it to. Exile, loneliness, pain, and Heaven’s denial because it could not rid its heart of anger.

  Would you show me the path to Heaven? How? It was you who tore Heaven from me!

  Xuan collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. He still wept as the first flames blossomed from the wooden roof beams and the Phoenix screamed out its anger over the Heart of the World.

  Chapter Four

  Mae Shan woke to the scent of burning.

  Her eyes flew open and she was on her feet before she was fully awake, one hand on the knife in her belt. Night still darkened the nursery, but red and gold light flickered through the screens that blocked the way to the garden, casting dancing shadows on the floor.

  Fire.

  Now that the word penetrated her mind, Mae Shan smelled the acrid smoke and heard the crackling, tumultuous noise of a mounting blaze. She ran to the window, shoving the heavy shutter up.

  Outside, she saw the familiar shadows of the Moon Garden and its heavy walls, but all was illuminated by the vicious, dancing light, turning the willows the colors
of blood and brass. A talon of flame jutted over the western wall, releasing sparks to touch the topmost leaves of the garden’s trees.

  The great bronze alarm bells began to toll to the north. Black silhouettes raced past on top of the walls, some carrying spears and axes, some hugging clothes or bedcovers to themselves. Screams and weeping joined the clamor of the bells.

  Mae Shan automatically looked eastward to the Heart of the World, with its golden tower standing sentinel over all. Flames stretched up the sides, halfway to the roof. Clouds of grey smoke billowed into the air like dragon’s breath.

  Mae Shan’s heart froze, but reflex remembered training and duty. She had to get her charge away from here. Now.

  Mae Shan ran to the inner chamber.

  “Wake up!” she shouted to the two maids snoring in their beds as she raced past. “Fire! Fire! Wake up!”

  As the sounds of slow waking rumbled and rustled behind her, Mae Shan laid her hands on the rosewood door. Hot, too hot, and she could hear the rush of flames beyond it. The fire was already in the corridors. Confusion rushed through her. How had this happened so fast? Such a fire should have taken hours to start. Where was the Heart’s Guard?

  She had been trained to wake at the sound of an unfamiliar footfall. How could she have slept through the rising of such a blaze?

  Wei Lin? Unbidden, her heart called out to her sister who slept in the companions’ quarters with silken sheets and maidservants all around her.

  How much of the palace burned? What if Wei Lin were still asleep?

  Behind Mae Shan, one maid proved she was finally awake by shrieking like a startled kettle. Then came the clatter of a screen falling, and wordless, horrified cries. The other maid was beside Mae Shan in an instant, yanking at the door’s handle with terrified urgency.

  “Let me out! Let me out!”

  “No, you fool!” Mae Shan shoved her aside. “The door’s hot. The corridor must already be burning. Get your mistress. We’ll go through the garden.”