The Phoenix Transformed

by James Mallory

  “You can’t,” Tiercel said again. He knew he didn’t have the words to explain. He only knew that something would go horribly wrong if Bisochim did, and he knew that Bisochim didn’t trust him enough to take him at his word.

  “You mustn’t. Beloved, the child speaks the truth.”

  It was hard to say whether Tiercel or Bisochim was more shocked at hearing her words. The scarlet dragon had raised her head from the sand to shout her warning. Now she lowered it until it was on a level with theirs.

  “Saravasse,” Bisochim said hoarsely. “Beloved. I must Heal you so that you can fly again. Just as I did so long ago—do you remember?”

  On the plains of Telinchechitl Bisochim had spoken to his dragon with so much anger and contempt that he’d made Tiercel think that Ahairan had driven him insane. Now there was nothing in his voice but love and grief—and so much longing that it made Tiercel wish he could be anywhere that he didn’t have to hear it.

  “I remember,” the dragon said softly, and the misery in her voice matched his. “But it cannot be. Oh, would that Tannetarie the White and Ancaladar the Black had spared me this day—I have become your dearest enemy through no wish of my own!”

  “You could never—” Bisochim began.

  “But I have,” Saravasse interrupted him. “The Spirit of Darkness has willed it so. Draw upon my magic as much as you choose and no harm will come to you. But any spell cast upon me will open a window into your spirit that will make you Ahairan’s plaything, to do with as she wills. You must leave me as I am, Beloved.”

  Bisochim sank to his knees in the sand beside her, moaning aloud in despair. Saravasse lowered her head further, resting it on the sand beside him. He bent over her, wrapping his arms around her head, and Tiercel turned away. He couldn’t bear to see any more.

  “This is how we began, is it not, my love?” he heard Saravasse say. “And this is how we will end. I am grateful beyond measure that you have returned to me, for my heart was lonely beyond the telling all these long years.”

  Tiercel staggered away. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. Just . . . away.

  HARRIER still thought that the blue robes the southern Wildmages wore were stupid and a bad idea. The whole idea of being a Wildmage was to serve the Wild Magic in secret. That was what he’d been taught by the Preceptors of the Light, and now that he was a Wildmage himself it seemed like an even better idea. But at least the blue robes he was wearing meant that nobody stopped him as he strode through the camp. After a few minutes’ walk, he reached the orchard. It was the only place other than an Isvaieni tent that he’d been able to think of that might offer any protection from the sun.

  It was cooler under the trees, but Harrier could see that their leaves were already beginning to wilt, and when he located a patch of shade and sat down in it, the grass crackled dryly beneath him. The canals between the trees that had been filled with water the day before weren’t just empty, but dry. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk and stared up at the hot white sky. It was wrong that there should be green leaves (even wilted ones) against a sky that color. Its brightness made his eyes hurt.

  Aside from a few dogs and chickens, Harrier was alone. He was surprised at how much of a relief it was. And then he wondered what he was going to do now.

  Home. He’d told Ogmazad that was where he was going. He only wished it was possible. He’d never wanted to go home so much in his life. Was Armethalieh still there at all? Or had Ahairan gone to Armethalieh after she’d escaped? If she had, what was she doing? Were his family and friends all right? He had no way of knowing—and no way of finding out, either. From what he’d been able to piece together between talking to Shaiara and the experience of their journey here, it was maybe three sennights from Telinchechitl to a place called Kannatha Well. Kannatha Well was near the southernmost edge of the Isvai. It was another moonturn from Akazidas’Iteru—at the northernmost edge of the Isvai—to Armethalieh.

  And Light Alone only knew how much Isvai there was between Kannatha Well and Akazidas’Iteru.

  It would be really convenient if Tiercel showed up right about now. Harrier sighed bitterly, knowing how unlikely that was. Tiercel had probably barely even arrived at Karahelanderialigor, let alone started explaining what he’d come for. Assuming he’d gotten there at all. Harrier didn’t want to think about the worst things that could happen, but he couldn’t help it. Bisochim wasn’t Shadow-Touched, but bad things happened all the time without Demons or the Dark around—look at Zanattar and everything he’d done, just to begin with.

  You know what Da says about borrowing trouble, he told himself firmly. There’s no need to when the world gives so much of it away free. Besides, you know that Tyr can talk practically anybody into or out of anything, and it can’t be more than an hour or two at most to Karahelanderialigor. He can keep Bisochim from doing anything . . . crazy . . . for a couple of hours. Then they’ll be safe on the ground. Harrier was mostly convinced of that, but it only left his mind free to worry about the other half of the problem, and his doubts there were harder to talk himself out of.

  What if the Elves refused to help?

  Harrier didn’t really understand why the Elves hadn’t been willing to do more in the first place. Idalia and Jermayan had said it was because they were afraid of Tiercel making the wrong choices, so they’d told him nothing and given him nothing beyond the power to cast the spells of the High Magick. And Ancaladar had been more to both Tiercel and Harrier than just a power source for Tiercel’s spells, but now Ancaladar was gone. And Harrier wasn’t completely certain that the Elves wouldn’t put asking for the help of Elven Mages to trap Ahairan into the same category as fighting the Dark themselves.

  No. They can’t. Not when the Dark is already back.

  But Harrier had spent just long enough in the Elven Lands to know that he’d have to live as long as an Elf to understand how their minds worked. They might say “no”—or they might offer Tiercel a form of help that Tiercel would never take. They might offer Tiercel another Dragonbond. Harrier shook his head in frustration. He couldn’t bring himself to believe Tiercel would accept, no matter how desperate their need—and how could he, when Ancaladar wasn’t dead? Kareta had seemed certain of that much. And Harrier had paid a high enough price for the information.

  Only you haven’t paid it yet.

  Ever since this had started, Harrier had kept trying to get used to the idea that the world was a place he couldn’t influence and couldn’t control, and all that seemed to happen was that the more control he gave up, the more was taken away. He’d gone from being Tiercel’s companion on their journey to his follower on their desperate quest, and now he wasn’t even that. And along the way, he’d given up charge over his own life to the Wild Magic. All the wondertales talked about Wildmages having great power, as if that meant Wildmages were people like Chief Magistrate Vaunnel, or Vairindiel Elvenqueen, or even his Da, people who got to give orders and have things turn out the way they wanted them to, and being a Wildmage wasn’t anything like that at all. It didn’t mean having more power as much as it meant having different power. And maybe, depending on what you’d started out with, less power. And as for control, well, as far as he could tell, you didn’t have any of that at all. Not over what you were going to be doing tomorrow, or where you were going to be. “All goes as the Wild Magic wills,” Harrier muttered in disgust. He closed his eyes against the brightness of the day. That much, at least, he had control over.

  ABOUT a chime later, Harrier realized he was about to have company. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell that someone was approaching, just as he knew exactly how long he’d been sitting here doing not-much. More of the so-far-useless Special Knight-Mage Gifts, he guessed. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised—and a little wary—to see that it was Zanattar who was walking toward him through the orchard.

  Zanattar was alone, but he was also armed. He hadn’t been armed back at Ogmazad’s tent—no one had. But
now he was wearing not only his geschak, but his awardan. He stopped about ten feet away from Harrier, staring down at him. “I am a blooded warrior, proven in battle,” Zanattar said.

  “Go away,” Harrier answered.

  “You have claimed for yourself the mantle of Knight-Mage, that which the Wild Magic bestowed upon Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy in the darkest hour the world has yet known. If you are indeed that which you claim to be, you may prove it now by slaying me in fair battle. Do this, and all who call me ‘brother’ will follow you,” Zanattar continued, ignoring Harrier’s interruption.

  Harrier stared at Zanattar for several seconds. All the things he could immediately think of to say—Excuse me, I thought you’d been at Tarnatha’Iteru—and—Oh, just what I want, a collection of murdering Isvaieni for brothers—seemed much too flippant as responses to a man who’d just challenged him to a duel to the death.

  “Yeah,” Harrier said at last. “No. I don’t have to prove anything to you. I really don’t like you. I don’t like you a whole lot, actually, but I don’t ever want to kill anyone ever again. Maybe killing people doesn’t bother you—” He bit his lip. He would never—never!—forget the first man he’d killed the day Zanattar’s army had taken the city. It seemed horrible that he didn’t know his name. Just as horrible as the fact that he couldn’t clearly remember the others he’d killed at all.

  Zanattar stared down at him for a long moment, his sun-darkened face expressionless. “Once I thought I would live out the compass of my years without knowing what it was to let another’s life from his body by the strength of my own hand. And then the day came when Luranda showed me the body of the Blue Robe buried beneath the sand, and I believed all that Bisochim had told us, and I believed our great enemies had slain those who meant no man harm. And now you have come to tell us that there has been no enemy save Bisochim—that it was he who slew the other Blue Robes, he who has fed us all upon the meat of lies until we have all choked upon it.”

  “And you don’t want to believe me. And you’re afraid you do. Too bad,” Harrier said unfeelingly, still not moving from where he sat. “Bisochim summoned a Demon, and to get here it tricked him and lied to him. Bisochim tricked you and lied to you, too. But no matter how many lies you were told, some of the things you did were still your own choices. So if you think I’m going to forgive you—or anyone—I’m not. But all of that doesn’t matter as much as it should right now, because there’s a Demon loose.”

  “But Bisochim will slay this Demon, will he not?” Zanattar asked, and even now there was hope in the Isvaieni’s voice.

  “No,” Harrier said flatly. “He can’t.” He was tired and angry and he didn’t see why Zanattar shouldn’t know the truth, especially now that he seemed willing to believe it. “Bisochim is a Dragonbond Wildmage. He’s probably the most powerful Mage I’ve ever seen—and as a matter of fact, Zanattar, and I know you won’t believe me, I’ve met Jermayan Dragon-Rider. Bisochim doesn’t have enough magic—or the right kind of magic—to kill Ahairan. Tiercel’s hoping that the Elven Mages will be able to find and imprison Ahairan until the right kind of Mages to kill her can be born and trained. If they can’t do that, we’re all going to die.”

  “And so we must go back to the Isvai now. Because Telinchechitl is cursed. And because there are no Armies of the False Balance seeking us at all,” Zanattar said.

  It gave Harrier a mean-spirited satisfaction to see the fear and dawning realization on Zanattar’s face. He sighed. Ahairan wasn’t Zanattar’s fault, no matter what else was. “The reason you have to go back to the Isvai is because this place is drying up. And because if Ahairan comes back here, you don’t have any place to run to. And when First Magistrate Vaunnel’s army gets to the Madiran—and believe me, one’s coming—we’d all better hope that Ahairan isn’t leading it.”

  He could see from the sudden look of stunned realization on Zanattar’s face that this idea hadn’t even occurred to him. Harrier had been thinking of nothing else from the moment he’d realized that Ahairan was here.

  “And if she is?” Zanattar asked. The man looked truly frightened now. At least if he’d thought that the wrong people were Demons, he’d believed that Demons were loose in the world for longer than Harrier had.

  “Then I suppose you should give thanks to the Wild Magic that you’ve learned to fight,” Harrier answered. It was the truth, but he still couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “Wildmage—Knight-Mage—if it is as you say, we cannot do this thing alone.” Zanattar sank to his knees in the dry grass. His hands rested—open, palm up—upon his knees. “Do not forsake the Isvaieni. We need the counsel of the Wild Magic now more than ever. I, Zanattar, beg this of you. If my death—” He lifted one hand, reaching for his geschak.

  “For the Eternal Light’s sake, Zanattar, haven’t enough people died?” Harrier snarled, thrusting himself to his feet. He glared down at Zanattar, breathing hard. “Is that all you can think of to do? Forever? Just kill and kill and kill? I—” He wanted to explain, to persuade, to beat Zanattar senseless. “It’s stupid,” he finished quietly.

  “Lead us,” Zanattar urged, not moving. “As Great Kellen led the great armies of old.”

  Harrier flexed his hands, trying to keep them from turning into fists. It was a long time before he could manage to answer. “I am not Kellen,” he said through gritted teeth. “And your people are not an army. But I’ll ride with you back to the Isvai. You just . . . stop killing people. Stop.”

  Slowly Zanattar got to his feet. He looked as if he wasn’t actually happy to be alive, and he still looked frightened. He half-nodded, and gestured in the direction of the tents, and edged away—until he could turn and walk away—without another word.

  Harrier sighed, and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. His head hurt, and now he was thirsty, and he didn’t particularly want to go walking several miles back to the lake in the middle of the day in search of water. He sat back down at the base of the tree and hoped nobody else would come to talk to him.

  FOR most of another hour Harrier stayed where he was, but after that, the sounds from the camp became too much to ignore. If they’d sounded like trouble, he would have investigated immediately. But they only sounded . . . noisy. When he finally got to his feet and started walking slowly back in the direction of the camp, he saw no change at first. Every tent was still in its place, just as it had been when he’d left. But the space around them looked barren somehow, and after a moment he identified the reason. Where there’d been carpets unfurled beneath outstretched awnings, and clutters of pots and baskets near burnt-over spaces used for cooking, now the grass was bare. He stopped in the doorway of the nearest tent, where a dozen people were carefully rolling up the rugs that had covered the floor. One of them—a woman—glanced up and saw him.

  “It shall be as you have counseled, Harrier. When the moon rises into the sky, the Adanate shall be prepared to go forth from this place.”

  “Just the Adanate?” From the preparations all around him, it looked as if all the tribes were getting ready to move, but it didn’t hurt to be sure.

  The woman shook her head. “The Ummarai have spoken, and their chaharums have carried their word to every tent. The Isvaieni go from Telinchechitl. The Kadyastar, the Barantar, and the Kamazan depart tonight.”

  “That’s great.” Harrier turned and walked away. He could not imagine how these people were going to pack up several hundred tents and get ready to go anywhere in half a day—and if they tried, the heat would probably kill them.

  HARRIER hadn’t thought anybody could be ready to go in less than a day, but just as the Isvaieni woman had said, the Kadyastar, the Barantar, and the Kamazan were ready to leave Telinchechitl by nightfall. Harrier, Shaiara, and Ciniran were going with them. Harrier had been surprised to discover that Shaiara now had not only a tent, but everything that went with it, since he’d had it drummed into his head over and over that there was no charity given among the Isvaie
ni. But Shaiara could choose to accept what Liapha wished to give her in Ganima’s name, and no matter what she thought of her grandmother, Shaiara was pragmatic enough to know that they needed supplies to cross the desert. Ganima’s long-unpaid bride-price was now a tent and supplies and extra shotors to add to the four they’d arrived with. Liapha had offered Shaiara Kadyastar saddles and bridles for her shotors as well. Shaiara had refused.

  THE swirl of departure that evening reminded Harrier of the noisy chaos of the Armethaliehan docks. Globes of Coldfire—his contribution—hovered over the shotors like Flowering Fair lanterns. Children too young to understand the seriousness of the situation ran back and forth, squealing and playing tag. In the caravan-line, shotors grunted and moaned as they were loaded. Saddle and bridle bells chimed and clacked.

  No matter how much Harrier had heard today about the “Breaking of Tribes,” it didn’t seem to matter much to the Isvaieni now that they were leaving Telinchechitl; they were sorting themselves out into tribes again for the caravan. Caravans, actually, because there were going to be several of them, spaced out over most of a sennight. When Bisochim had led the Isvaieni into the Barahileth, he’d created enormous oases of water at each halt, but Harrier couldn’t do that. In order to make use of the wells along the Dove Road, the tribes would have to make the journey back to the Isvai in small groups, and even so, the journey would be a grueling one. Many of the animals here would be slaughtered before they left, the meat preserved as food for the journey.

  The Kadyastar were traveling in the first group to leave—at least partly so Liapha could go on annoying Shaiara, Harrier suspected—and the Lanzanur weren’t going in the same group as the Kadyastar, because apparently Ummara Kataduk and Ummara Liapha just didn’t get along. That was fine with Harrier, because it meant he wouldn’t have to see Zanattar again until they got back to the Isvai, at least if Harrier was lucky. And if Harrier was very lucky, he wouldn’t have to see him again at all. Once Tiercel got back here with a dozen Elven Mages . . .