The Phoenix Transformed

by James Mallory

  His friend, his ally, and losing her made Harrier ache. She’d made him welcome from the moment he and Tiercel had arrived at Abi’Abadshar, teased him for what he didn’t know about Isvaieni ways, marveled at his stories of Armethalieh, never refused to accompany the two of them no matter where they ended up going, never said their impossible task was impossible . . .

  The worst of it was that his grief at losing her was mixed with relief. It was horrible that she was dead, and Harrier knew it was his fault, but he didn’t think he could have lived with letting her die while Ahairan told him all he had to do was surrender to save her life.

  He would have sacrificed her. He thought he would have. At least now he’d never have to know.

  “Mistress Pallocons was Overshadowed by Ahairan,” he said bluntly, stopping in front of her. “It—She—It came and went. I think she must have been Ahairan’s . . . creature since Akazidas’Iteru. And I couldn’t tell, except when she was . . . there.”

  Bisochim had been sitting beneath the shelter of Saravasse’s half-furled wing. He got to his feet now and regarded Harrier with worry and fear. “You say that Ahairan entered into the body of one of the northerners?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Harrier said. “I need to know—” He broke off, thinking of Eugens, and shuddered before he could stop himself. “Are they all like that? All Tainted? Can you tell? Can you undo it?” He tried to remember if Bisochim had been near any of the northerners, and he couldn’t. No, wait. He’d been in Fannas’s tent when Magistrate Perizel and Lord Felocan had come in. Was that close enough to know?

  “I would know—as did you—when Ahairan was present,” Bisochim said, after a long pause. “Harrier, I Healed all of them. I Sensed nothing in any of them then—even the one you call Mistress Pallocons. I would have thought . . .” His voice trailed off. “I could set wards and bindings about those who yet remain. I cannot say to you that such a spell would work. Nor would its weaving outlast my life.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Harrier muttered. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Ciniran’s dead,” he said. “They’re all dead. They stole food, and they ran, and I went to bring them back, and they’re dead, and I lost all the shotors . . .”

  “Harrier,” Saravasse said gently, “Go to your tent. Go and lie down. Rest. You did all that you could.”

  Her words struck him as preposterous, and Harrier wanted to laugh, but he knew that if he started laughing he just wouldn’t stop. Did all I could? It wasn’t enough. I haven’t done enough from the very beginning—if I had, none of us would be in this mess now . . .

  He mumbled something—he didn’t know what—and turned around and staggered off.

  THE last twelve hours had been horrible: shock alternating with nerve-wracking waiting. Of course it’d been worse for Harrier, but that didn’t mean that it’d been good for anyone.

  Tiercel had been the last person Healed, and being Healed by Bisochim was still as unpleasant as Tiercel remembered—if you defined “unpleasant” as a stabbing headache and half an hour of uncontrollable vomiting. He was almost convinced he’d rather have had the wound-fever than its cure. The only bright side to things was that it was night camp, not midday camp, so it was dark and there was enough water available for him to drink as much as he wanted.

  When the nausea finally passed off, the only thing he was thinking about was getting to his tent and sleeping, and hoping that Harrier really had been diplomatic enough with Magistrate Perizel and Lord Felocan. And he got there and Shaiara told him that all the Armethaliehans but Kave, Eugens, and Magistrate Perizel had run off, and that they’d stolen most of the food that wasn’t spell-sealed, and that Harrier had gone after them.

  “You just let him go alone?” Tiercel had asked, stunned.

  “He said he would not allow me to ride by his side,” Shaiara had answered, her dark eyes wide and unreadable. “He said that it would slay his heart did he by his action allow one whom he loved to fall into the hands of Ahairan.”

  “I . . . Oh.”

  Tiercel wondered if Shaiara had misunderstood what Harrier had said—or if Harrier had meant to say it. He decided that she probably hadn’t misunderstood him—but that it was something that Harrier would rather not have anyone know, himself included. At least Shaiara had sent Ciniran and whoever else she could grab in half a chime after him. So he wasn’t quite alone.

  After that Tiercel was far too keyed-up to sleep, even exhausted as he was. During the long nerve-wracking hours of waiting (once more) for news, he did what Harrier had meant to do: explain everything about their situation to Kave and Eugens and Magistrate Perizel. Everything they told him in return terrified him, because those things simply weren’t true.

  They told him all the things that Mistress Pallocons had overheard as she’d wandered around the camp. And Tiercel supposed Mistress Pallocons might have wandered around the camp—no one would have stopped her—but she couldn’t have heard what she’d told them she had. They didn’t all have stockpiles of food concealed in their tents. They weren’t within a day’s ride of the Iteru-cities. The Iteru-cities weren’t intact. The wells along the Border Road weren’t intact either: if the wells and oases of the Isvai had gone dry, the wells of the Border Road certainly had.

  Tiercel didn’t know why Mistress Pallocons would say things like that. Not until the Isvaieni with Harrier got back.

  By the time Harrier got there, stumbling into his tent and collapsing without a word to anyone, Larasan and Thadnat had already arrived. They sat before their Ummara and told her that Ciniran was dead, that all the northerners she’d sent them to find were dead, that they’d lost twelve shotors, and that Pallocons had been Ahairan’s creature from the beginning.

  It took Tiercel hours after that—questioning the four Isvaieni, since he didn’t want to wake Harrier—questioning Kave and Eugens and Magistrate Perizel—talking to Bisochim and Saravasse—before he and Shaiara understood as much of the story as Tiercel thought anyone ever would. The three surviving Armethaliehans weren’t as horrified as he and everyone else was at the idea that Ahairan might be able to possess any of them at will, but they were horrified enough.

  “But . . . Lord Tiercel . . . you have to do something,” Magistrate Perizel pleaded. “The idea that . . . that my actions might not be my own . . .” her voice trailed off, and she looked down at her hands. “And nobody would know,” she said quietly.

  “Harrier would. Bisochim would,” Tiercel said. It was small comfort, but it was all he had to offer. “That’s probably why Ahairan was so careful about when she possessed Mistress Pallocons.”

  “And why she was in such a hurry to get away,” Eugens said in disgust.

  Tiercel didn’t answer that. He was only grateful that whatever Ahairan had been planning, it hadn’t succeeded. If it had, Harrier would be her prisoner now—at the very least. At worst, he’d be the whatever-she-needed to create a new race of Demons, and she’d have no need to leave the rest of them alive after that.

  Tiercel didn’t enjoy the thought of trying to explain something this complicated to the rest of the Isvaieni, especially since he wasn’t sure he really understood it himself. He suspected that was the reason Shaiara had given the order to break out the rest of the hoarded food supplies that they weren’t saving for Sapthiruk Oasis. Between the flour and vegetable paste for thickening, the spices for savor, and all the extra meat from the animals the Black Dogs had killed, not only was the broth almost stew, but there was a lot of it.

  Of course the gossip about the day’s events had already made the rounds of the camp before the evening meeting. If the previous night’s council had been well attended, tonight’s was jammed. Everyone had an opinion, which Tiercel’s detailed explanation did nothing to head off.

  Ummara Kataduk presented the opinion of at least a third of the Ummarai when she said that the easiest and safest thing would be just to kill the surviving northerners. Not only were they implicated in the theft of the foo
d, they might also be pawns of the Demon. Zanattar flatly refused to agree with his mother’s position: the Lanzanur had survived by the mercy of the Wildmage Harrier, and this placed upon the Lanzanur the obligation to show mercy to those under the Wildmage Harrier’s protection.

  Ummara Liapha said that she was certain they would all do just as they pleased, but no good had ever come of selling the calf before it was foaled, nor of throwing out the whole bushel of dates just because one was spoiled.

  Ummara Kinaraf said that the Laghamba had survived, if they had not prospered, beneath the counsel of Wildmages and northerners. Five had stolen food. Five were dead. If the Wildmages and Tiercel Northerner said that the other three northerners were neither thieves nor Shadow-touched, the Laghamba would accept this word—knowing, Ummara Kinaraf added warningly, that should an evil hour come, the rules that Harrier Blue-Robe had set out for the tribes to follow would lie equally upon the shoulders of all.

  Ummara Fannas said he had no word to add to that of the Laghamba, for he had eaten a good dinner and looked to eat better when they arrived at Sapthiruk Oasis.

  By the time everyone had gotten the chance to have his or her say—more for the chance to state their position publicly either to brag or complain than to persuade anyone here to change their minds—the meeting had gone on for hours, and had ended very much the way Shaiara had told Tiercel it would when they went in to it: Eugens and Kave and Magistrate Perizel would be allowed to live, and Harrier would be expected to treat them no differently than he would treat anyone else.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Tiercel said to Shaiara, as they were walking back.

  “Not even this Eugens, who is of his blood?” she asked.

  Tiercel knew that in the south, becoming a Wildmage meant severing all ties with family. Shaiara knew the customs were different in the north, but she was suspicious of what acknowledging ties of kinship might mean for Harrier. “Not even for me,” Tiercel said ruefully. “And no. Not for Eugens, either. If Gens did something wrong, and Harrier didn’t think he could be fair, he’d tell someone else to decide. You. Or Kamar. Or Zanattar. Or Liapha.”

  “He would hate the one who brought justice down upon the head of his kin,” Shaiara said slowly.

  “If it was fair, I don’t think so,” Tiercel said slowly. “He’d be more likely to hate Gens for breaking the rules. But it won’t happen,” he added confidently.

  “Sell the calf after it is foaled,” Shaiara answered.

  WHEN Harrier woke, the light coming into the tent was dim with evening, and the air was cool. He sat up groggily, and it was several minutes before he registered that it was evening, that he’d returned at midday, that he’d slept the whole day away and the camp still hadn’t moved. He had a vague memory of making his way back to his tent, of stripping off his boots and his swordbelts, of lying down. Nothing more. It was only while he was in the middle of reaching for his boots that he registered the presence of someone else in the tent. He had to blink several times to focus his eyes before he realized it was Eugens.

  “I’m sorry,” Eugens said in a low voice when he saw Harrier looking at him. Eugens was sitting on the carpet a few feet away from Harrier’s sleeping-mat. Harrier wondered how long he’d been sitting there. “Light, Har, I’m . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I didn’t think.”

  “My fault,” Harrier said roughly. “I should have had you guarded.”

  He saw Eugens wince at the harsh truth. “You shouldn’t have to guard people whose lives you’ve saved to keep them from stealing from you. And . . . Is it true about Vianse? Tyr said—”

  “She was Overshadowed by Ahairan,” Harrier finished wearily. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eugens said again. “For lying to you. For everything. They wanted us to come with them—she said she’d overheard some of the women saying you were heading away from the Iteru-cities. Lord Felocan said there’d be water there. Supplies.”

  “They were heading in the opposite direction,” Harrier said. There was a moment of silence. “Why didn’t the three of you go with them?”

  “Helafin—Magistrate Perizel—she thought she should stay. Said it was her responsibility, even if you didn’t think so. Kave said he’d stay if she did, and . . . I’m your brother, Har. Couldn’t just go off and leave you, could I?”

  Harrier tossed his boots aside and stumbled over to kneel awkwardly at his brother’s side. Eugens put his arms around him and Harrier hugged him very hard. “You jackass. We’re all going to die here. You know that, right?” Harrier said.

  “Yeah,” Eugens said shakily. “But Naneida and the kids are home and safe. Guess I might as well die here with you as out on the desert with a bunch of other jackasses.”

  “Guess you’re going to get your chance,” Harrier answered, sitting back.

  “Yeah,” Eugens said. “Uh, your, uh, Shaiara, she said I should tell you when you woke up there was food waiting for you.”

  Harrier nodded, and went to get his boots. It was silly to dread the thought of seeing Shaiara again. By now there’d been plenty of time for the others to have told her about Ciniran’s death. He was a little surprised, when he and Eugens came out of the tent to sit on the carpet, to see that only Raffa, Natha, and Narkil were there. Shaiara, Kamar, Tiercel, and Larasan, and Thadnat were all absent.

  “They have gone to the Council, Harrier,” Raffa said when she saw him. “Shaiara said you were not to go, did you awaken while it was still going on.”

  “What about . . .?” Harrier pointed toward the second tent.

  “The other two northerners have gone to wait in the tents of the Kadyastar,” Raffa said simply. She turned to the pot on the fire, and ladled a mug full of its contents. “Now you will eat.”

  Under most circumstances, “eat” was an overstatement, but tonight, the contents of the mug Raffa handed him was actually thick. It even contained scraps of meat. “What?” Harrier said in confusion, after he’d taken a sip.

  “It was Shaiara’s word that the stores of flour should be added to the soup, and that it should be made rich, and that all should receive a double portion. If Ahairan wishes to send her creatures to do our slaughtering, it would be foolish of us to squander her bounty,” Raffa answered, her voice rich with irony.

  Harrier made a rude noise. He supposed that was one way of looking at the deaths of all the animals the Black Dogs had slaughtered last night. And oddly, after two full mugs of thick soup, he actually felt full—though not so full that he wasn’t careful to wash dinner down with a mug or two of water, until the last of the soup had been rinsed from his tankard. By the time he was finished with his meal, Shaiara, Tiercel, and the other three Nalzindar were returning to the tent.

  WHEN they got back, Harrier was awake and Eugens was sitting with him. Luru and Kadil brought Kave and Magistrate Perizel back as soon as Liapha returned to the Kadyastar tents, and once they were there, the absence of Ciniran was an aching void.

  “I should have—” Harrier said abruptly.

  “Do not think you might take the day and the manner of her death from her,” Shaiara answered sharply.

  Harrier got to his feet and walked off, and after a moment, Shaiara got to her feet and followed. Eugens stared after them, then glanced toward Tiercel and stayed where he was. Tiercel stared at nothing, grateful beyond words that Harrier was preoccupied right now. He didn’t want Harrier looking at him and asking him what he was thinking. He was thinking too many things. Terrible things.

  Tomorrow they’d pack up the camp and keep going. In another day—or three, or five—they’d reach Sapthiruk Oasis.

  And then what?

  No help was coming from the north. He glanced at Magistrate Perizel. The Commission had already been out of touch with Armethalieh for two or three moonturns, and if Magistrate Vaunnel was going to investigate—or notify Queen Vairindiel—she already would have. Dragonbond Elven Mages could be here in less than a day. So they probably weren’t coming at all. Tiercel realize
d that he’d been thinking—even before Ancaladar had been taken from him—that he wasn’t the only one who had to be responsible for this. All along he’d thought, in the back of his mind, that Armethalieh could take over if he failed. That Karahelanderialigor could take over if he failed. That Harrier could take over if he failed. That his failure just meant that the Eternal Light would send someone else to take over the job of destroying the Shadow Reborn.

  And it wasn’t true.

  If Bisochim couldn’t destroy Ahairan—and he couldn’t—Harrier certainly couldn’t, Knight-Mage or not. Now that Tiercel had spent more time talking to Magistrate Perizel, he really understood just how little idea they’d have in Armethalieh about what to do about a Demon, and Lord Felocan couldn’t be the only one who’d think it would be a good idea to just bargain with her. As for the Elves, they were terrific people, but they’d known this was going to happen since before he was born, and they hadn’t done anything about it except wait for him to show up so they could not tell him anything, and he just couldn’t say “oh, it will be okay, another High-Mage-Champion-of-the-Light will be born” because even if he and Harrier and Bisochim all died without falling to the Dark, Ahairan was going to get what she needed somewhere else, or go off and hide, or both, and okay, maybe another High-Mage-Champion-of-the-Light would be born—eventually—but that just meant there’d be another war like the one that had ended in the Great Flowering, and Tiercel knew more than anyone outside the Elven Lands about what that war—and the Great War, and the First Endarkened War—had been like, and the idea of there being another one like them made him want to cut his throat right now.

  Because if there was another war—in ten years, or a century, or even ten centuries—the Creatures of the Light were going to lose. All along Harrier had been saying that he was no Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy. And he was right. He wasn’t. Harrier wasn’t a Kellen, and as for Tiercel, he wasn’t an Idalia, or a Jermayan, or whoever he was supposed to be playing in this unfunny farce, and Tiercel doubted very much there would be any more heroes around whenever Ahairan decided to destroy them than there were now.