The Cygnet and the Firebird

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  “I don’t know, either. Why did she?”

  “I’m supposed to guard you. At best a futile notion, at worst laughable.”

  Nyx turned, set the box carefully back on the mantel. “My mother worries too much.”

  “How can you say that? The mage is not only looking for the key you are carrying around in your pocket, but for the firebird, both of which are in the place he will obviously return to, unless you spun him into thread so thoroughly he is still trying to untangle himself.” There was a tap at the door; she nearly jumped, then rose with more dignity. “That will be Brand’s supper. The Holder requested your presence in the hall.”

  “I can’t go now,” Nyx said absently. “I’m thinking.” She sat down, slipped her shoes off and propped her feet up. Arms folded, she frowned at midair. A wide-eyed page set the supper tray on a table, seemed inclined to linger to watch the firebird eat, and encountered Nyx’s eye. Meguet, left between the pensive sorceress and the ravenous man, sat tensely, watching for a thread of white dragon-wing, a dust-gold face in the shadows, and wondering what raw deed the firebird’s jewelled enchantments hid. She murmured,

  “There are too many mages.”

  Nyx’s eyes rose, fixed on Brand. She nodded, still frowning. “He could have ensorcelled himself.”

  “And the other mage is following to free him?”

  “It’s possible. There is a way to find out.”

  “How?” Then she leaned forward, gripping the sword hilt. “No.”

  Nyx shrugged. “I don’t see how we are to get closer to the truth this way. The man retreats constantly into the firebird. If we let the mage find him, Brand might remember himself along with the mage.”

  “Not here. Not in this tower, in the middle of the Holding Council. They may be bitter enemies. The entire house would be in danger. I think you should hide the firebird—”

  “Where?” Nyx asked. “In the maze beneath the tower?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then where?”

  “In the thousand-year-old wood. Not even the mage would find him among the shifting trees.”

  “I could find him easily there. What I can do, I must assume the mage can do.”

  “Then somewhere in the city, or in the swamp—”

  Nyx’s mouth crooked. “I can’t disappear into the swamp with a bird. My mother would spit lightning. I would prefer to face the mage.”

  “I’ll leave,” Brand said abruptly. They both looked at him, startled, as if they had forgotten he could speak. Disturbed, he pushed away his food. He came to stand before Nyx. “I didn’t know the bird would endanger you.”

  Nyx checked her immediate response, said patiently, “You might walk out of here, but the bird would return. It’s you who must learn to cry jewels. To cry sorrow. Or the bird will never set you free.”

  He shook his head at her obtuseness. “All I know,” he said, “is that the bird came to you, sorcery to sorceress. First you must deal with the sorcery. Then I will be able to remember.”

  She drew breath. His eyes held some of the bird’s fierceness, but it was the fierceness of desire, of determination. “All right,” she said at last, wondering that he had guided her so skillfully out of one maze, only to be so blind in another. “I will work with the spell awhile, instead of your human memory. One can’t be more difficult than the other. But I have already tried to find my way into the spell, and gotten nowhere.”

  “Try again,” he pleaded and sat down on the window ledge where the bird had waited for the rising moon.

  She found the bird’s face within his thoughts; its spellbound mind yielded nothing to her of memory or enchantment. When the bird itself reappeared, Nyx slipped within its mind, as easily as she had dropped into Chrysom’s tiny box. For a time, she wandered among the bird’s enchantments that bloomed ceaselessly behind its eyes, and faded again without the fire that fashioned them. They formed like dreams around her, thoughtless, intangible, with nothing of either mage or Brand in them. She found her way out again, and said, studying the bird with some perplexity,

  “This is exasperating. The bird won’t give me a path into the man; the man won’t give me a path into the bird. It’s as if they exist in separate worlds. I might as well be back in Chrysom’s black box for all the sense I can make of this.”

  “There is always a way,” Meguet said sleepily. “You told me that.” She received no answer; Nyx had disappeared again. To Meguet’s eye, she looked pensive, very still, as if she were chasing the tag-end of some sudden, imperative notion in her head. She did not move; she scarcely seemed to breathe. Meguet sighed noiselessly, and settled back in her chair. Just before her eyes closed, she saw the white dragon’s golden eye in the shadows beside the hearth.

  She was on her feet almost before she had opened her eyes. The dragon was gone; Nyx had not moved.

  “Nyx,” she whispered, shifting toward her, the blade poised in her hands. “Nyx.”

  Nyx did not answer. Meguet, glancing at her, saw her frowning at the bird, her arms folded. She did not move, she did not blink. Meguet raised her voice. “Nyx!”

  “She won’t hear you,” the mage said. He was still invisible, though she caught the flick of a dragon’s wing, the shift of a claw here and there, as he moved noiselessly, restively, in front of the mantel. Listening, she heard faint music, soft laughter on the parapet wall. He read her mind. “I didn’t meddle with your time. I didn’t come for trouble. I came only for the key.”

  Meguet screamed Nyx’s name. Nyx remained oblivious, but through a south window Meguet saw one of the turret-torches raised aloft, as if the Gatekeeper had felt her desperate need. She heard voices within the tower, guards and pages tossing alarms down the stairwell, a flurry of running in the outer yard.

  “I sealed the door,” the mage said. “They won’t get through. Where is the key? Just tell me that. I’ll find it and go.” He spoke softly, as if not to disturb Nyx, but Meguet heard the strain in his voice. She wondered if he hid himself from Nyx or from the firebird.

  “She put it somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I think in a book. One of the household records over there, I don’t remember which—”

  “You’re lying.” He sounded amazed. “I didn’t think you could lie. Where is it really?”

  “Among the roses on the vines.”

  The dragon eye came closer; she shifted a step or two toward Nyx. “A good place to hide it. One rose among a thousand roses. But even if I picked them all, I’d never find it there. Where is it really hidden?”

  “The firebird changed it with its cry,” she said desperately, and he was silent, as if at last he believed her. Fists battered at the door; voices, impatient and furious, made improbable suggestions about makeshift battering rams, and Rush’s makeshift sorcery.

  “Meguet,” said the air, startling her with her name. “I can’t wait for tomorrow’s moonrise. Where is the key? If you don’t tell me, I will turn this household, one by one, into screaming firebirds. Beginning with the Gatekeeper.”

  “So,” she whispered, her mouth dry, “this is your spell.”

  “So it seems.”

  Nyx turned abruptly, pulling amber from her ear lobe. She held it up. The bird, freed from her mind, cried soundlessly. Its enchanted fire leaped from the amber, illumined the mage for a breath. He vanished before the fire struck him, but not before the firebird had seen his face.

  The bird cried. Its noiseless cry became the man’s cry, of such fury and agony that it froze both Nyx and Meguet and silenced the crowd outside the door. Brand moved under their amazed eyes, tore swords off the wall. The white dragon leaped to fly. The blades in Brand’s hands spun and flashed in a whirling, singing dance of death too quick to follow. Meguet, mesmerized by its glittering intricacy, moved a fraction too late to intercept the dragon in its deadly flight. The blades soared upward, turned again, came down so fast at the dragon that when the mage halted them in midair, Brand lost his balance,
stumbled against them. He was instantly surrounded by a ring of swords, shear-edged, gleaming like ice. The white dragon slipped under his blades and flew headlong into the amber fire. A swirl of leaves the color of bone and pearl scattered to the floor.

  Brand, his face white, set with fury, was thwarted only for a moment by the blades. He changed himself; the firebird cried within the ring. It caught air, flew above them. Nyx’s searching amber found the mage again: a flickering just visible beside the windows. He shifted. The fire continued out a window; Meguet heard an outraged shout from the yard. The firebird circled, its wings brushing wall and torch fire, silver talons outstretched to tear the mage out of the air and hold his shape. The fire swept over him again. He moved, fading, but not quickly enough; the bird’s claws raked his outstretched arm before he vanished. Nyx, sweeping the amber fire across the dark, following his movements with a mage’s eye, nearly transformed Meguet as he reappeared beside her.

  “Give me the key,” he said to Nyx. “Or I’ll take her with me.” His voice shook; Meguet saw the blood under his tattered sleeve.

  “Take the spell off Brand,” Nyx said with disconcerting control, “and we’ll discuss the key.”

  “He is fighting his own way out of it,” the mage answered. “If I take your cousin, you’ll never find her.”

  “Brand is fighting you,” Nyx said evenly. “He is still spellbound. Remove the spell.”

  Meguet, disinclined to being haggled over, slid smoothly out of the mage’s grip, whirled away from him. He vanished again; this time he threw up a mist to scatter Nyx’s fire. Meguet, swinging her blade, attacked a sudden shower of rose petals as the fire hit the mist. The bird snatched at them as futilely; she ducked as one of its claws tangled in her hair.

  “Moro’s eyes,” she breathed. The bird became man, desperate, furious, bewildered, and then bird again, taking wing. Gold fire flared, limned the mage, and encased half the household records in amber. The bird swooped at random, swooped again, then cried noiselessly as its talons snagged the mage and dragged most of him into light. The mage spun away; the bird’s claws scored his shoulders just before he vanished.

  Someone cried: Brand or the mage. Brand appeared again, blurred, half-bird, half-man; blood dripped from his fingers. The bird wrenched him out of shape, took wing, and Meguet saw its broken, bloody talon. She cried, a sudden, helpless pity snagging at her voice,

  “Nyx, stop this! Can you stop this?”

  Nyx cast her a glance, frowning slightly. The color had come into her eyes. “This makes no sense,” she murmured, and the amber flared again. Something flew through the window, shadow-dark, as graceful as the dragon. Meguet, expecting dragons, saw it in the corner of her eye and turned her head. The fire transformed it instantly: A black swan circled in golden flame became a white rose falling through the fire into shadow.

  Tears pricked her eyes, for no reason, she insisted to herself: Everything was enchanted, even the air. The mage was at her side again, and then the firebird overhead, swooping, talons open, descending toward him.

  He seemed to slow the bird; Meguet saw its movements overlapping, image fanning out from image in the air. But he could not stop it entirely. In that charmed moment gold turned and turned through the air, clinked finally at the mage’s feet. Bending, he eluded the bird’s grasp; its talons flashed, scarred empty air just above him. He could not seem to balance himself; he gripped Meguet, dragged at her until she stumbled. The stones rose like water around her; a key floated on them into her hand. Then whispering air and fire slashed down again at the mage. He gasped, reaching for the key as for a spar in the shifting world. His hand locked around Meguet’s wrist. She gave one terrified cry and then he pulled her into stone.

  Nyx, staring at the stones where Meguet had vanished, found her nowhere. The firebird, searching as futilely for its prey, gave a soundless cry and glided to the window, with Brand as lost inside it as Meguet was inside the mage’s time. She whispered, “Meguet.”

  A deep, rhythmic thumping began at the door; they had brought up something for a battering ram. Nyx lifted her head, her face mist-white in the candlelight. The floor was littered with the fire’s enchantments. She checked her first, absent impulse to open the door to the battering ram, which would have proceeded across the room and out a window, taking the bird with it. She raised her voice instead.

  “Stop—” Her voice caught; she cleared her throat. “Stop pounding! I’ll open the door.”

  “Quiet!” the Holder said sharply, and the din outside the door ceased. Nyx broke the mage’s spell; the door opened, spilling guards into the room. They stared at the glittering debris from the fire: pearl leaves, rose petals, books sealed in amber. Then they saw the blood on the firebird, and a whispering began.

  The Holder tugged at the pearls at her breast, her eyes, wide and dark, reflecting something of Nyx’s expression. “What happened?”

  “The mage came back,” Nyx said. “The firebird attacked him. They seem to know one another.” She stopped, pulling at a strand of sapphires in her hair. She frowned, searching for words, her eyes going back to the stones. The Holder read her mind.

  “Where is Meguet?”

  “The mage took her.”

  “Took her! Moro’s bones, took her where?”

  “Somewhere. Some time. Some place.”

  “Why?”

  “She was attached to the key I threw him.” The strand of sapphires came loose, dropped to the floor. She touched her eyes and added, “He’ll be back. Probably to exchange Meguet for the key.”

  “Moro’s bones,” the Holder breathed again. “How many keys does he want?”

  “Just one. I gave him a false key to make him leave.” She paused, feeling the weight of the Holder’s still, black gaze. “There are things that are not making sense—”

  “You,” the Holder said succinctly.

  “I mean, other than that.”

  “What in Moro’s name possessed you to put either of your lives in danger for the sake of some moldy sorcery no one has paid attention to in a thousand years?”

  “It’s not—”

  “Why didn’t you give the mage the key the moment he came back for it?”

  “Because—”

  “Instead of jeopardizing the house and losing Meguet in some time beyond memory and some place without a name? And why is that bird still a bird? You’ve been immersed in sorcery since you learned to read—what’s so difficult about turning a bird back into a man? Surely you’ve done more complex things with birds. How do I know this one won’t attack you next?”

  “Because, I don’t think—”

  “And where in Moro’s name is my Gatekeeper?”

  Nyx glanced around the room. “I saw him come in. I think it was him.”

  “If that mage stole him as well as Meguet—”

  “No, it was my fault. I was fighting with the bird’s fire. I must have changed him into something.”

  The Holder closed her eyes, pushed her hands through her hair. Pins flew. “You’re a sorceress. Do some sorcery. Disenchant that bird. And my Gatekeeper. Find Meguet. And if that mage returns, give him whatever he wants, including the bird, if he wants that. I want no more bloodshed, mage’s battles, stopped time or misplaced people. I want to end this council in even less excitement than it began. I want it to be a dull reference in the history of Ro Holding, not an entire flamboyant chapter.”

  “Yes.” Nyx’s voice came with effort. “I am sorry.”

  “And do it by dawn.”

  She did not quite slam the door. Nyx sat down, blinking, her face stiff. She stirred a couple of garnet rose petals with her foot, trying to think; her mind only filled, like the tower room, with enchantments. The door opened softly. She lifted her head. Calyx entered, side-stepping spells.

  “I’m sorry about the books,” Nyx said wearily. “They’ll change back at moonrise tomorrow.”

  “Never mind the books.” She touched Nyx’s hair gently, removed a dangling pin.
“I only wanted to tell you that the Gatekeeper is at the gate.”

  She straightened a little, blinking. “Is he?”

  “He could never have gotten through the door. You only thought you saw him.”

  “Most likely.”

  “Should someone tell him about Meguet?”

  “He knows.” She added, at Calyx’s puzzled expression, “Rumor is faster than thought in this house.”

  “Besides,” Calyx said comfortingly, “you’ll find her by dawn.”

  “Only if the mage brings her back from wherever he went. I don’t even know the names of places beyond Ro Holding. Do you?”

  “Just what Cado the Peculiar mentions.”

  “Who?”

  “He was the fourth son of Irial Ro. He was called Cado the Restless when he was young. He signed on a merchant ship, disappeared for eleven years and then came back to astonish his family with tales of one-legged giants, women made of gold, flowers with eyes, sorcerers with tails. According to the historian Blaconnes, it is most likely that Cado went ashore at Hunter Hold, lived an obscure and happy life digging for gold in the Junil Mountains, until the woman he lived with ran away with a rich miner. Then he shipped himself back home, whereupon, meeting his wife again, he thought it prudent to invent a few marvellous lands.”

  “Oh.” Nyx’s eyes strayed to the firebird, its eyes hooded in the torchlight. “The firebird would know where the mage went.”

  “The bird can’t speak.”

  “And the man can’t remember.” Nyx sat silently, contemplating the pair, then touched Calyx, who was working the pins back into her hair. “You’d better go. If I lose you as well as Meguet to the mage, I’d be better off living an obscure and happy life as a swamp toad.”

  “Our mother ordered supper sent up to you.”

  “She’s still feeding me. That’s a good sign.”

  “You’re too much alike, that’s all.” Calyx bent, kissed Nyx’s cheek. “Be careful.”

  Alone, Nyx studied the sleeping firebird. Her supper came; she ate a few bites, pacing, her eyes, colorless and heavy, focused on the bird, while her mind drew constant, fraying patterns between the firebird, the man, the mage, the blackened weavings of metal on Brand’s wrists, the silver paths within Chrysom’s box.