Firebirds Soaring

by Sharyn November

  The glorious colors of sunset turned to silhouette the visitors at the big window overlooking the harbor. They gazed out at the long peninsula curving toward the horizon, and beyond to the vast and sparkling sea.

  At her step they turned around. There was the handsome Nadav, his eyes even bluer than she remembered. Next to him a slim fellow almost as tall whose coloring, compared to Nadav, was about as interesting as old oatmeal: pale hair, pale eyes, probably pale skin where the sun hadn’t given it a brush of light brown.

  She took a deep breath. If he really was the crown prince of Remalna, she was going to like old oatmeal as much as she’d once liked overgrown redwood trees.

  She gave them a stately curtsey, spreading her silken skirts, and spoke formal words of welcome in her very best court Sartoran, since of course they wouldn’t speak her language any more than she did theirs.

  Raec scarcely heard the words—familiar as they were from years of sitting in on his parents’ diplomatic interviews—as he stared at a girl even prettier than Tara. Far prettier. She was shorter, rounder, with a lot of curly blue-black hair, chocolate-brown skin, and greenish-brown eyes. His jaw dropped; Nadav dug his elbow into Raec’s side, and they both bowed, Raec rather hastily, Nadav with impressive grace.

  “Welcome,” Jasalan said. “Would you care for refreshment? ”

  Raec raised a hand. “It’s all right. This isn’t any kind of formal call.”

  Of course not, she thought. But what right have I to expect more?

  She thought her welcoming smile just as bright as she’d practiced in her mirror, but his eyes narrowed, and he said, “Perhaps I ought not to have come. But if it helps, I would have whether you were here or the ornament of King Macael’s court, heir to his empire. Does he call himself an emperor, do you know?”

  Unexpected! Jasalan waved them to the waiting chairs and plopped down herself, forgetting to move with princesslike poise. Bland as he looked, this Alaraec was a sharp observer. She was not accustomed to that; Lored, for example, never seemed to be able to catch a hint. Even rather obvious ones, though he said he was devoted to her.

  Eh! She dismissed Lored, wrinkling her nose as she recalled that terrible day, the only time she ever met the mysterious and powerful Macael Elsarion.

  “No,” she said. “Just king. He told my father when he came here he was reuniting what ought to have been united long ago, and even my father admits that his having done it might end the wars between the Enaeraneth side and the Adrani side that seem to happen every other generation.”

  Nadav whistled. “What did he do, march up to your father waving a sword and yelling, ‘Surrender or die’? Or did he just utter a lot of sinister threats?”

  She shook her head. “He did have a big force, but they didn’t do anything. He sent a messenger saying he was coming the next day. Suddenly they were at the border, see? We never did have much of a guard or war force.” She shrugged. “Some wanted to fight, but Father said we couldn’t possibly win. And what would be the result? A few sad songs and lots of broken families. So we gathered in formal court rank, and he came, dressed in Elsarion indigo and white, only with the old kingsblossom lilies in gold. . . .” She paused, remembering the brush of that deep blue gaze, a far more intense blue than Nadav’s here, but as indifferent and remote as polished stones. His attention had moved past her as if she were furniture, not the prettiest girl in Send Alian—everyone said so—as well as a princess. “The warriors stayed outside the city. He came in alone. Went aside with my father, and nobody could hear them. The gossip is, he never raises his voice. Anyway, they came back, and he had father’s crown, but he wasn’t wearing it. He had a page carrying it on a pillow. Very respectful, but he was bare-headed when he arrived, and he left the same way.” She remembered his long, glossy black hair waving back from his high brow, and shook her head. “He was frightening,” she said finally. “Though I can’t tell you why, because it wasn’t anything he said or did.”

  “But you knew what he’s done elsewhere,” Alaraec observed, his eyes narrowed in that way again. “It was the force of his reputation, not his warriors, right?”

  Jasalan eyed her visitors and saw nothing but sympathy. Moreover, she knew enough of recent history to remember that Remalna had done no better at fighting off Norsunder during the war than any other kingdom had. “That’s what my father said. The warriors made us look better, not them, because the truth is, Papa would have surrendered if that man had walked alone all the way from the border. Because we all know what he’s done when someone gets in his way. Beginning with his own cousin.”

  Raec had been watching her. The interview had begun with the princess hiding firmly behind her courtly manners, so he’d taken a risk and introduced a topic that no one ever would in a typical courtly conversation. She was even prettier when her expression was real and not courtly. He gave in to impulse again. “Why don’t you come back to Remalna with us? Just for a visit. Nothing expected, no obligations. I’m too young to marry—I promised my parents I’d not make any decisions until I’m twenty-five—”

  “Why, it’s the same with me,” she exclaimed. And, “Do you have a fleet out there? We hadn’t heard anything.”

  “No. I hired a small trader.”

  Her brows contracted slightly. Was she disappointed? But a heartbeat later the courtly bright smile was back, and he decided he’d been mistaken.

  She was thinking, I’m going to wear a crown again. “I’ll go consult my mother and father.” She didn’t add, I’m certain they will agree.

  Young Risa hadn’t believed that Granny would find a cargo worth selling, not overnight, but as usual she’d underestimated her. Granny knew everyone along the coast of the Sartoran Sea, all three sides.

  They’d just finished packing into the hold some of the best rice-paper painted fans from Seven Cities when one of the ship’s boys scampered down the deck, dodging sailors busy getting the Petal ready to put out to sea on Granny’s order.

  The boy hopped over a coiled rope. “Risa! Granny says a messenger came. We’ve got passengers again. Same ones, with a couple more added. You’re to meet ’em on the main road just outside the city gates. Lead ’em to the Petal.”

  Risa hadn’t admitted, even inside her own head, to missing the company of the two toffs from Remalna. They were toffs, she was a sailor, and that was that. But now she grinned as the light of anticipation and happiness flooded through her.

  Risa handed the watch off to the mate on duty, hesitated over fetching her belt and knife from her gear—for her mother had taught her to defend herself from the threat of dockside footpads and the like—then shrugged. Al Caba was no longer in the least dangerous, not since the new king had put in patrols of large, well-trained guards. She and the boy rowed to shore, and he stayed with the pinnace while she dashed through the crowds on the busy dock.

  It did not take long to reach the outer gate. Like most harbor cities, Al Caba was long and narrow, curving around the harbor itself. But at the top of what was just beginning to be a steep rise toward the barely visible marble palace way up on the ridge, she paused to wipe her damp forehead on her sleeve and look back at the hundreds of ships, from tiny fishers to two big Enaeraneth war brigantines on patrol duty, ranging through all sizes, shapes, and types of rigging in between. Now it made sense to meet the passengers on the road. Otherwise it would probably take them a full day just to find the Petal.

  She resumed her uphill toil—and spotted a small group coming down the switchback road. She peered under her hand to block the glaring sunlight, glimpsed Nadav’s and Raec’s dark and light heads just before they vanished behind a tumble of rock overgrown with scrubby trees. They and two women reappeared, walking downhill toward a bridge over a chasm, both sides surrounded by lush greenery.

  She started forward to meet them. But just as they reached the bridge, the bushes at either side of the chasm rustled violently and a slew of armed bravos surged up, descending on the party!

  Risa
felt for her boat knife—remembered she’d left it on the Petal—but she raced forward anyway, fists doubled.

  In the middle of the bridge, a toff girl in a fancy dress screeched, “Go away! How dare you!”

  But the brigands ignored her, closing in on Nadar and Raec. Nadav ripped free his sword, raised it—

  Raec said something in a sharp voice. Nadav rammed his sword back in its sheath. Like Raec, he shrugged off his travel pack and slung it to the roadside.

  Then he and Raec turned on the bravos with their hands! Their hands, their feet, and some of the road dust. Risa faltered to a stop, watching in amazement. She could account for herself, but the training Raec and Nadav had had was obviously of another order altogether. The two Remalnans stood back to back, never fouling one another’s reach as they dealt with the bravos with brisk rapidity, tripping them, punching them in just the right place to fold them up abruptly until the attackers all either lay or sat, groaning, on the dusty road.

  Jasalan was impressed. Nadav was just a little faster and stronger than Alaraec, and lots more dashing. Surely that was proof that Nadav was really the prince, and they had swapped identities, just like in her favorite ballad?

  From the other end of the bridge, Lored watched in amazement and then fury. These were the best of his own friends, all volunteers—the strongest fellows in the old court. Nobody had ever given them any trouble, they hadn’t dared. Wasn’t this proof these two were as fake as a stage illusion? What prince fought like an outlaw?

  As the dust began to settle, Jasalan spied her suitor on the other side of the bridge. “Lored? I can’t believe you brought these . . . these ruffians!”

  “They’re not ruffians,” Lored retorted, stomping onto the bridge. “If anyone’s a ruffian, it’s got to be those two.” He jerked a thumb at Nadav and Raec. “So you were too besotted to discover if they are who they claim to be, but I cannot believe your father is stupid enough to fall for an obviously false tale. I intended to capture them before they could spirit you away. Find out the truth.”

  Jasalan flushed. “Go on,” she invited. “You have any other criticism to offer of my father or me? Don’t hold back,” she said in a bright, high voice that trembled on the last word. Then she scowled. “Because then it’s my turn.”

  Raec had bent over, hands on his knees, as he fought for breath. His head turned from side to side. He said faintly, “Who’s he?” to Nadav, who shrugged, then drew his arm across his brow.

  “No one,” Jasalan said coldly, “of account.”

  Lored, goaded beyond endurance, snapped, “Not until a better title came along. Not that I believe his even exists.”

  Risa watched Nadav turn his gaze skyward, his mouth compressed in a way that made it clear he was trying not to laugh. Raec, however, was much harder to read.

  “Oh!” Jasalan exclaimed, stamping her foot.

  Risa snorted. Dressed like a toff, and a foot stamper. She just had to be the former princess.

  “Let’s go,” Jasalan ordered. Then she frowned. “Where’s my maid?”

  “I believe she took off,” Nadav said. “Quite sensibly,” he added, as they all spotted the princess’s luggage cart on its side, abandoned in the middle of the road.

  Jasalan groaned. “She’ll run squawking straight to my father—”

  “Good!” Lored put in.

  Risa decided it was time to make her own presence known. She stepped up, pitching her voice to be heard. “We sail on the tide.”

  Faces turned her way, exhibiting several varieties of confusion.

  “That means soon,” she said. “I have a boat waiting.”

  Jasalan tripped forward, her ribbon and lace bedecked skirts swinging as she picked her way around Lored’s boys, who were struggling to their feet, some holding their middles, others rubbing a knee or the backs of their heads, and all of them wary of Raec and Nadav.

  Jasalan gestured imperiously at Risa. “Get my bags, since my maid ran off.”

  Risa was on the verge of a fairly hot retort; Nadav, making a comical face, sauntered back up the road to pick up one of Jasalan’s parcels. Risa picked up the other two. Raec took one from her and righted the little cart the maid had knocked over in her rush to get away.

  The three of them loaded Jasalan’s baggage onto the cart. As the boys retrieved their own packs from the roadside, Risa took the handle, found the cart rolled easily, and said over her shoulder, “This way.”

  Lored made a gesture toward Jasalan, but she swept past, nose in the air. Raec sketched a bow, then resumed dusting his clothes off.

  As Nadav passed, Lored muttered, “I’ll find out who you really are.”

  And Nadav could not resist saying, “The dread pirate Death Hand, and his wicked first mate Blood Gut, at your service.”

  Lored put his hand to his sword, with its jeweled hilt and exquisite carving—untouched in his rooms since his last lesson, what, two years ago?

  When the last of the ambush party was on their feet, Lored snapped his fingers and began to speak in a low, rapid voice.

  Jasalan was anxious until, at last, the girl with the ugly clothes and the kerchief binding up her hair said, “Here we are!”

  What she guided the rowboat to was not a princely yacht. Jasalan gazed in disappointment at the lack of gilding or carving, the scruffy crew, not a single one in royal livery. “What is this, a fishing boat?” she asked—in Sartoran.

  The kerchief girl said—in Sartoran—“It’s a trader.”

  Raec said, “I hired it. If you’d rather make other arrangements to travel in something more to your liking, well, we can sail on ahead and prepare for your visit.”

  Jasalan knew Lored was going to run back to her father and spout a lot of nonsense, which would result—if Father believed him—in her being forced back home until the prince was proved to be a real prince. And after that, would he want her to come to Remalna? He would not, and who could blame him?

  “If you can bear it,” she said to Raec, with the sweetest smile she could summon, “I can.” There! That would show a cooperative spirit, wouldn’t it? And also hint that if they shared adventure, they could share . . . a crown.

  Raec sat back, dazzled, until an efficient elbow in the ribs broke through the clouds of possibility that smile seemed to offer.

  “We will need to get the bags up before we can set sail,” Risa said, standing up, a bulky travel hamper balanced on one hip.

  The three of them made a human chain to pass up the princess’s luggage. Raec and Nadav then slung their own modest bags over their shoulders. Risa clambered up, tossed a land-rat’s rope ladder down, leaving the two swains to get their princess up while she marshaled a crew to raise the boat.

  Granny Risa gave orders for the main courses to be set, and as soon as the dripping boat swung in over the deck on its booms, the Petal slowly came to life, huge sails thudding overhead as they filled with the brisk sea air.

  Risa, having seen the boat tied down, left the huge pile of luggage sitting on the deck and stalked to her grandmother on the captain’s deck

  “Where is the extra guest to sleep?” Granny asked.

  Risa jerked her shoulders up and down. “If those two want to offer her their cabin, they can sleep on the deck.”

  “And if it rains?”

  Risa sighed. “I did not invite her.”

  “No, they did, and they sent word to me asking permission to sail with us again—they’d work off passage for four. I said yes.”

  Risa scowled. “If I liked her, I’d sleep on deck—in the boat if it rains, since the air is warm. But I don’t like her.”

  “I’m certain she’s no better or worse than most princesses.”

  “Are they trained to treat everyone as a servant?”

  “Probably. That doesn’t make you into one,” was Granny’s unemotional answer.

  Risa rubbed her chin. “This is true.”

  Granny flickered her fingers. “Go make your arrangements.”

 
Risa finally decided to give the princess her own cabin—it was much easier than shifting the entire crew about, small as the ship was. Risa could swing a hammock in the cargo hold, or sleep on deck when it was balmy, as she had when small.

  Jasalan, of course, complained about being cramped, but when the boys showed her their tiny cabin—shared between the two of them—she dropped the subject, and as the next few days flowed by, Risa watched her court Raec and flirt with Nadav.

  By now Risa cordially hated Jasalan, who noticed Risa only when she wanted to hand out orders. All her attention was on the two boys.

  Risa knew she shouldn’t watch—it just made her angry. But she couldn’t help herself—if she heard Jasalan’s voice, she made herself even more angry by listening to the fluting laugh, or the breathy-sweet way the princess agreed to everything Raec said and then pointed out how amazing it was that they thought alike in so many ways.

  But Nadav she teased. “I’m sure you think I’m clumsy. Oooh, I wish I could fight with a sword, but you’d laugh at me if I tried. Oh, my dress . . . my hair . . . the weather and this ship are turning me into a fright!” All intended—obviously intended, Risa thought sourly—to produce the compliments that Nadav so readily and audaciously supplied. “Fright? The fright, dear princess, is how unerringly the shafts from your beautiful eyes dart into my heart and slay me!”

  Risa would finally get angry enough to retreat to her granny’s cabin to brood, or high up on the masthead in the wind, where no one but the lookout could see her.

  Or Raec, who gradually drifted away from the other two when they were exchanging their witticisms about hearts and eye shafts, and prowled the ship in search of Risa. He realized as the days drifted by that he missed her conversation, and so one evening he made it his business to seek her out. Finding her on the masthead, he insisted she eat with them in the wardroom, which the crew had largely left to the passengers.