The door closed.
Nor will I, my lord, Shei-Luin thought. Nor will I.
When he returned to his mansion, Lord Jhanun gave orders to call back two particular servants from their quarters outside the city. Then he bathed and took his dinner in his study. It would take time, he knew, for the message to reach them, and they would wait until dark before coming. The fewer who saw them, the better; there were always officers of the army in the imperial capital. One might recognize these two men, and that would be fatal to his new plans. Whether Baisha succeeded or not, Jhanun meant to have the Phoenix Throne. Jehanglan must be saved from the impious ones who would destroy her.
After the evening meal was over, Jhanun’s house steward entered the study. “Is there anything else you require, my lord?”
“The gatekeeper has been warned?”
“Yes, lord. The instant Nalorih and Kwahsiu are here, he will let them in.”
“Is everything ready for my journey tomorrow? I wish to leave as early as possible; after this foolishness of worshiping a woman and the moon, I wish to make offerings at the Iron Temple. That damn feast day should be abolished. Only the Phoenix is worthy of worship.”
“My lord’s piety is well known, and much admired. All is in readiness, lord.”
“Good. Then bring me a pot of fresh tea and that will—Wait! I almost forgot. Have the Jasmine Hermitage made ready for my niece, Nama; I’ve sent for her. When she arrives, engage the finest tutors for her. She is to be made ready for the imperial harem.”
Only the merest elevation of the steward’s eyebrows betrayed his surprise. He bowed. “It shall be done as you command, lord. I will bring the tea.” He bowed once again and left.
When the tea arrived, and the evening incense had been lit beneath the image of the Phoenix, Jhanun opened the new package of sh’jin paper resting on his desk and pulled out a sheet at random. Setting it before him, he inspected it closely, finishing by running his fingertips over it. He could not find a single flaw.
Guildmaster Joon had been right; this was some of the finest stuff ever produced by the papermakers’ guild for the gentle art. This would be a joy and a privilege to work with. And to give such fine material the honor it was due, he must meditate between each fold to insure the proper serenity of mind. He closed his eyes for a time to find the still center of his thoughts.
When he was ready, Jhanun made the first fold in the pattern known as the Dancing Phoenix.
The painful tale was told.
Blast Linden Rathan. There must be some way he could get back at the bastard, Raven thought as he tugged at the neck of his tunic.
The room was hot and stuffy. The windows were shut, their hangings pulled tight, and a roaring fire burned in the hearth. Hanging in the air were the acrid scents of illness and medicines and the bitterness of Raven’s heart.
Taren was seated as close to the fire as safety allowed, eyes shut, and a thick shawl wrapped around his shoulders.
Raven mopped his face with a sleeve and considered pulling his tunic off. The place was near as hot as an Assantikkan steam bath, he thought.
“So she sent you away,” Taren said into the silence.
“Like a dog being kicked,” Raven said. His anger rose again.
The wrinkled eyelids opened. Taren’s blue eyes held only sympathy. “I grieve for you that one has come between you and the girl you love. I remember how much you spoke of her. Your devotion moved me.”
Raven looked down, embarrassed. In truth, the stories he had told were mostly of the scrapes he and Maurynna had gotten into as children. He hadn’t really been baring his heart—had he? Or had Taren listened to the silences between the words, as the saying went?
The older man shook his head now. “How sad it comes to naught—and for what?”
For what indeed? Raven thought, angry again.
“And nothing you can do, either. Or is there?” Taren said.
“Of course not. They’re soultwins,” Raven said.
“Ah.” Taren smiled oddly. “Of course not,” he echoed. He settled himself deeper into his chair and closed his eyes once more. “Forgive me; I am but poor company this day. I must rest again.” His head drooped.
Raven shut his teeth on the question that had leaped to his tongue. Instead he watched the fire and thought about how Taren had spoken when he’d repeated Raven’s objection; the same words and so different a meaning.
Was there a way around a soultwinning? Or a way of ending one?
It was late when two men robed and cowled like Walker priests slipped into Jhanun’s study. They waited, motionless as stone, for him to acknowledge them.
Jhanun did not look up from his contemplation of the paper figure resting on the desk before him. He had never, he thought, created such a masterpiece. The little phoenix might almost fly away. Every fold, every crease, was perfect, as if the paper would not allow mistakes. He would obtain as much of this batch as he could.
But now he must turn his attention to business. “Did anyone recognize you?” he asked the two men.
“No, lord,” Kwahsiu said. “Who pays attention to low-rank priests? No one recognized us.”
“It’s as he said, lord,” Nalorih added. “Rest easy. What service is it our privilege to perform for you?”
“You’re both familiar with the emperor’s appearance?”
They had steadier nerves than the steward; neither betrayed any surprise at the odd question, though Kwahsiu, as was his wont, grinned now and again as if he found the world impossibly funny.
Said Kwahsiu, “Very, lord. When we were still officers, we were both assigned to the palace for a time, and we often rode escort for the Phoenix Lord when he rode to the woods where he hunts.”
“Good. This then, is how you may serve me: I desire that you seek a man who looks enough like Xiane ma Jhi to be his brother and bring him to me. Slave, free man, a captured Zharmatian—I care not. Just find such a one, and as quickly as you can.”
Rubbing his crooked nose, Nalorih said slowly, “This may take some time, my lord. Likely we will need to find someone half-Jehangli and half-Zharmatian as the emperor is.”
Jhanun nodded. “I understand. I know this task is difficult, but I also know that if it is possible, the two of you can do it.”
The renegade officers bowed. “We thank you, lord,” said Kwahsiu. “We will not fail your trust.”
“Good. I wish you to leave as soon as possible. Take horses from my stable.” Jhanun raised a hand in dismissal.
The men bowed once more, then turned to the door. They were almost to it when Jhanun bethought himself of something crucial.
“Wait!”
They stopped, Nalorih’s hand on the latch. “Yes, lord?” they said as one.
“The man you look for—I care not if he is whole or crippled, but he must not be a eunuch, either made or natural. Do you understand?”
“We do, my lord,” Nalorih said after a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Kwahsiu had no such restraint. He grinned hugely. “Don’t worry, my lord. We’ll make very certain of it.”
Despite Tsiaa’s cooling poultices, the pain in Shei-Luin’s hand kept her awake. She snapped at Tsiaa when that good woman offered her a cup of balm and ginger tea to help her sleep.
In a fit of pique, she sent Murohshei to find one of the lesser musicians among the eunuchs. She wished she dared send for Zyuzin or one of the other Songbirds, but they sang only for the emperor.
The only good thing about this damned bee sting, she thought crankily when the eunuch left, was that it gave her a reason to fend off Xiane’s attentions that night; he’d practically apologized when she’d pleaded weakness and pain.
Let some other concubine put up with him.
She waited in petulant annoyance for Murohshei’s return. But when he did come, not only did one of the lesser musicians accompany him, so did Zyuzin. The boy’s round face was streaked with tears.
“What is this?” she
asked, astonished, as Zyuzin knelt before her, forehead touching the floor.
Murohshei waved the other musician to the outer chamber. When he was gone, Murohshei said quietly, “Xiane has decreed that the gardeners in charge of that portion of the gardens be executed for negligence. But—”
Zyuzin sat up. “But they didn’t know that the bees were there, lady,” he wailed. “How could they? Until a few days ago, they took care of the water gardens! They’re new to that part of the gardens. If they had known, they would have asked—” Here the boy broke down. He covered his face with his hands.
Moved by the piteous sobbing, and more confused than ever, Shei-Luin asked, “How does he know this?”
“They’re his relatives—two uncles and a brother. That was how Zyuzin’s talent was discovered; he came to the gardens to learn the trade from them, and the Songmaster heard him singing as he planted water lilies.” Murohshei’s broad forehead wrinkled. He said, “Lady—Flower of the West—only you … .” His soft voice broke. “Lady—please. It will break the boy’s heart. I fear he won’t sing again.”
Murohshei’s eyes begged her more eloquently than any speech. Faithful Murohshei—he has never before asked me for anything but the chance to serve me with all his heart.
Shei-Luin nodded. “I shall speak to Xiane tomorrow.”
Zyuzin whispered from behind his hands, “They are to die at dawn.”
Shei-Luin closed her eyes and sighed. She knew what must be done. “Murohshei, prepare me for the emperor. I will go to him now.” She stood.
Zyuzin stared up at her in awe. “Lady, thank you, thank you! But you would go to the emperor—when he didn’t send for you? No other concubine would dare!”
She smiled mischievously at him. “I,” she said, “am not just any concubine. Xiane will be delighted to see me. I shall tell him only he can comfort my pain.”
As Murohshei helped her into her best robe, he asked, “Do you think the Phoenix Lord will grant this?”
Holding out her hand so that they could see the swollen palm, she said, “After today? Yes. Go back to your bed, Zyuzin, and dry your eyes; your kin are safe.”
She swept out of the room as regally as an empress.
It was late the next morning before she returned. As she entered her sleeping chamber, Murohshei looked up from the flowers he was arranging in a bowl of water as he did every day for her.
“Have my ladies prepare my bath,” she told him wearily. She sank into her favorite chair.
“At once, my lady.” But he hesitated in the doorway. “Favored One …?”
She was tired, but not too tired to find a smile to reassure him. “The little songbird will still sing, my Murohshei.”
He bowed. “Thank you, Flower of the West.” Simple words, but she heard his heart behind them.
Nine
Once again Linden saw Fiaran to the door. “My thanks for coming to see Maurynna so often these past few days.”
The barrel-shaped little Simpler hugged his scrip of medicines to his chest. “It was my pleasure, Linden—not that I wish her or anyone else here at the Keep ill. But were it not for visitors and servants, I’d have nearly nothing to do. You Dragonlords are such a disgustingly healthy lot,” he complained with a wink. “All I get are your occasional headaches and colds.”
“Runny noses and short tempers, eh?” Linden said. He chuckled. “I guess we are a disappointment. But you’ve another patient now, don’t you? The man who escaped from Jehanglan.”
Few at the Keep had yet seen the mysterious traveler; he’d arrived ill and had been bedridden well-nigh ever since, with no visitors allowed but Raven and the Lady and Kelder. Linden had never even caught a glimpse of the man.
And if he wondered about Taren, Lleld must be eaten alive with curiousity.
“If I may ask, Fiaran, why haven’t you come to one of us to Heal the man? You know we’d gladly do it,” Linden asked.
“I thought of that first thing. But when I mentioned it to Taren, he refused. Said he’d had a Healing done once for a broken arm and was miserably sick for a week, with hives on top of it. It was something we were warned about at the College,” Fiaran said, referring to the College of Healer’s Gift where Healers and Simplers were trained. “Some unlucky folks are like that; a Healing or some food that the rest of us can tolerate makes them sicker than that proverbial poor dog.”
Linden rubbed his chin, thinking. “My sister Fawn couldn’t eat strawberries,” he remembered aloud. “Same thing happened to her—hives, I mean. She loved strawberries, too.”
“Isn’t it always the way? Poor girl. But Taren’s bad luck means I’ve something more than sore throats and sneezes to attend to for once.”
“Jekkanadar says it’s something common in Assantik,” Linden said.
“Yes, that shaking sickness they have. Makes you miserable for a tenday or two, more if you’re unlucky, then goes away until the next time, whenever that is. Seems it’s common in Jehanglan as well from what Taren said. I’ve some infusions that ease the worst of it, and I left one brewing. So I must get back to it, but I’ll come by later to see how Maurynna’s feeling. I think she could try some real food this evening.”
“She’ll be glad to hear it. She’s getting tired of sops and broth, and of staying in the room.” Linden raised a hand in farewell as the Simpler set off in his peculiar rolling gait. He went back into the suite of rooms that he and Maurynna shared. At the door to the sleeping chamber, he paused, thinking about what Fiaran had just told him of Taren. Poor beggar, unable to tolerate a Healing.
Linden shook his head in sympathy and slipped into the darkened room to sit at the bedside once more.
“Your friend is still not well?” Taren asked as he poured wine for both of them.
“Not yet,” Raven answered. “Though my great-uncle says she’s feeling better. Thank you,” he said as Taren handed him a goblet. He laid the bridle he was mending for Lleld in his lap and sipped. “This is good!”
“It’s Pelnaran; the Dragonlords drink only the best, it seems. So your great-uncle was allowed in to see her and not you?” The voice was full of gentle indignation for him.
“Um, no. But Linden Rathan told him and not me,” Raven said. He didn’t mention that he’d not stopped by the rooms to inquire as had his great-uncle. The less he saw of Linden Rathan, the better.
In the lull that followed Raven silently stewed over the injustices of life. He ran a thumb along the cheek strap of the bridle. Was the stitching coming loose by that buckle?
Taren said, “It must be boring for you, then, with your best friend ill. A pity you’ve no one else besides your great-uncle to speak with when I’m too ill for visitors.”
Raven brightened. “But I do have. There’s Chailen, the head groom, for one; I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who knows so much about horses. Then there’s Lleld and Jekkanadar. They’ve even taken me riding on some of the mountain trails.”
“They’re also grooms?”
“No,” Raven answered with proud wonder. He glanced down at the bridle once more. Yes, that stitching needed replacing as well. He put down his goblet and took up the sewing awl with its length of heavy waxed-linen thread. “They’re Dragonlords: Lleld Kemberaene and her soultwin Jekkanadar Surael. This is her Llysanyin Miki’s bridle in fact.”
A sharp hiss of breath greeted his words. Raven looked up in surprise. “Is something amiss, Taren?”
For there was an eagerness in Taren’s face and a glitter in his eyes that Raven had never seen before. It made him vaguely uneasy. Yet Taren’s next words did nothing to explain the mystery.
“So—you have four Dragonlords as friends?” Taren asked.
Raven shrugged. “I don’t know as I’d call Linden Rathan a friend.”
“But you know four Dragonlords?” Taren persisted. His eyes shone.
Frowning, Raven said, “Put like that … Yes, I do know four—Taren, what is this about?”
Taren’s incredibly sweet
smile brushed away his uneasiness. “Just that so many truehumans never even see a single Dragonlord in their lives—and you know four. Most would name you fortunate, Raven Redhawkson.”
“In three of those cases I wouldn’t argue,” Raven muttered.
“I should like to meet these four Dragonlords you know, Raven. I should like that very, very much,” Taren said softly.
“As soon as Maurynna is better, I’ll ask them,” said Raven, pleased that he could do something for the man. Taren had been a patient listener. “Will that do?”
“That will do very well indeed.”
As always at dinnertime, the great hall was filled with the buzz of conversation and the clink of dishes. It was usually a cheerful noise. But tonight there was an undertone of speculation, a kind of uneasy anticipation.
Maurynna rubbed the back of her neck; she felt as though the air hummed like a plucked harp string. Her unease brought Kyrissaean to the fore more than her usual wont. Maurynna could feel her draconic half watching, waiting behind her mind. It made her brain itch.
It didn’t help that this was the first night that she’d felt well enough to dine in the great hall. For the past four days she’d stayed in the rooms, waited on by their kir servants, Varn and his wife Wyone, and hovered over by Linden and occasionally Fiaran.
Fiaran she hadn’t minded; the poor man was pathetically grateful to have a patient. Maurynna thought he must get bored to tears in Dragonskeep, so she had drunk his potions without complaining. Indeed, most were quite tasty. Fiaran gave his few patients no cause to complain.
Linden, on the other hand, had fussed. Unceasingly. He had refused to leave her side until, in a fit of exasperation, she’d heaved a pillow at him and threatened to follow it up with a bowl of stew. Only then was he convinced she wasn’t about to die.
Now she wondered what rumors had spread about her illness. Too many people stopped her as she and Linden passed, inquired after her health, looked at her as if she would shatter with a touch. By the time they reached their table, Maurynna was tired from pretending to feel better than she did. But she would not falter; let the Lady hear there was nothing wrong with her and wonder over that.
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