He didn’t. He already knew—or at least guessed. It was there in his eyes. “Raven still refuses to understand, doesn’t he?” was all Linden said.
His voice was quiet. Only one who knew him well would hear the anger lying beneath the calm surface like a reef beneath a glassy sea.
Maurynna heard it clear as a ship’s bell. “He’s not one to give up,” she pleaded for Raven’s sake. Or for the sake of the memory of their friendship; she wasn’t sure which. “I should have realized it long ago. I could have told him then … Are you … going to do something?”
Please don’t, she silently begged him.
His dark grey eyes held no hint of his thoughts as he stood motionless before her. Maurynna waited for his answer. It was long in coming.
“No,” Linden said with a sigh. “It would only make things worse, I think. I just hope the boy comes to his senses soon. Besides, you’ve already made it plain to him that he’s wasting his time.”
“Wha—How did you know?”
A sudden twinkle woke in Linden’s eyes as he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Maurynna-love, he was wearing half that pile of bedding on his back.”
She couldn’t help it. She fell into his arms, laughing.
The last of his ceremonial rings in place, Haoro flexed his laden fingers and grimaced. As usual, the rings pinched. He scowled at the acolyte who had dressed him. The boy blanched and cowered.
Before Haoro could lash out at the unskilled oaf, another acolyte entered the room.
“Holy One,” the second acolyte said. “Your uncle, the most gracious Lord Jhanun, wishes to see you before the ceremony.”
Haoro sighed. Was it truly already a year since he’d received the red lotus? It felt more like only days since his uncle’s last pilgrimage, the one that revealed to him his uncle’s plan. Trust his uncle to combine piety and business.
Haoro wished for at least another year. “Very well; escort him here and then take this clumsy one and make certain he knows how to properly dress a priest. Beat it into him if you must.”
The second acolyte looked surprised, bowed, and left. Haoro pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. Truly, he must control himself; a beating, indeed! Such crude punishments were not his usual method. It was the thought of seeing his uncle again, he mused. It would rattle anyone.
The acolyte returned, leading Jhanun. After bowing the Jehangli lord into the room, he left once more, this time followed by the shaking boy.
When they were alone, Jhanun said, “You have your priests in place?”
Haoro nodded as he adjusted the rings.
“You’re certain it will work?”
“Oh, yes,” the priest said. “I read through the old records of the original ceremony that bound the beast here and created the Stones of Warding at the other three quarters. It should work even better with a source of power at each quarter. A nira need not undergo the kind of torment that all have gone through since the binding. And if your Baisha is correct—”
“He knows of what he speaks.” The words snapped out like the crack of a whip.
Haoro bowed his acceptance of the reproof. “Then it will be easier to keep these creatures imprisoned in their human form than the beast beneath our feet.”
“Are your priests in place at the other three Temples of the Warding? And are you ready to move against Pah-Ko?”
This was the question Haoro had been dreading. “The priests are in place and ready, but …”
“You are not.” Cold eyes black and hard as obsidian bored into his. “I suggest you remedy that, nephew, and quickly. You must be ready to step into Pah-Ko’s place as I step into Xiane Ma Jhi’s when Baisha returns. I must start my return journey for the capital tomorrow. Soon after I reach there, I expect to receive news that you are ready. Is that understood?”
Pressing his lips together to hold back a retort, Haoro bowed in acceptance once more. “I understand, exalted uncle. But it’s not easy finding a weapon to use against Pah-Ko. He’s well loved. And now I must go to the temple for the ceremony.”
“Ah, yes. I look forward to the singing.”
With that, Jhanun left.
Haoro glanced down at his robes to make certain nothing was amiss, smoothing them automatically. Suddenly one hand clenched on the priceless silk, creasing it.
It would work, binding the Phoenix within a Warding anchored by four of these … Dragonlord … creatures. And it would be a binding that would last a thousand thousand years in truth, not wear thin like the one holding the fell beast in the vast cavern below the temple. For wearing thin it was; sometimes even he felt the torments the beast endured, and he was not the nira.
But he would be. No longer would his family have to beg for whatever favors Jhanun deigned to toss their way.
Lord Jhanun closed his eyes and let the incredible beauty of the singing wash over him.
Ah, Phoenix, if I ruled Jehanglan, I would see that you are properly honored—not like that impious, decadent wretch who sits upon the throne. Give me the throne, give me power, and I will use that power to spread your worship throughout the world.
He would see that the old ways were brought back. And when they were, never again would a concubine be allowed to gain influence over an emperor such as that little whore Shei-Luin had. Women would know their place.
He shuddered. To think that the daughter of the Blasphemer held such a high position in the court sickened him. No wonder there were earthquakes, fires, floods, drought, and any number of disasters. The Phoenix was right to be angry; that Kirano’s get was the mother to the heir made a mockery of the Phoenix’s sacrifice.
If only the emperor had listened to him and set the creature aside. If only she’d fallen for his little trick … . But no; the girl was cunning as a serpent.
All of which reminded him that he must return to the capital as soon as possible. If nothing else, he must keep a finger on the pulse of the court.
But for now, he would let the holiness of the Phoenix fill him.
Haoro listened with the others, impatient for the ceremony to be over. No, he had to admit to himself: not impatient with the ceremony, but impatient with himself. For he had yet to find the chink in the armor of the high priest, Nira Pah-Ko. He had yet to implement his part of the plan. Which he must, ere his uncle’s man returned.
As if the thought of the nira was a lodestone, Haoro’s gaze traveled to where the old man watched the ceremony from his private balcony, attended by acolytes, his new Oracle, and servants. By habit, Haoro dismissed all but the nira as beneath his notice.
Then something caught his eye: the mute boy by Pah-Ko’s side, the one who replaced the old Oracle when the other had outgrown his gift. The search for the new one had been long and hard; Haoro remembered hearing that the boy had been found in a family of salt-mine slaves two hundred ta’vri away, and that he was an Oracle of exceptional strength.
What was his name again? Ah, yes—Hodai.
But it wasn’t the boy himself that drew Haoro’s attention; he looked like any common brat. No, it was the expression on the boy’s face. Haoro had never seen such hunger. As the chorus welled up into the final, triumphant chorus praising the Phoenix of the Sun, it hurt to see such raw desire.
Haoro knew he had found his key.
Shei-Luin looked up from her book as Murohshei entered, carrying a zhamsin. She blinked in surprise, for following him was Zyuzin the Songbird, and he struggled with a large pottery jar. It was crude work, the kind of jar that poor people used, but Zyuzin beamed as if he carried something precious. She and Tsiaa exchanged a baffled glance. At Shei-Luin’s nod, the maid ceased her sewing and came to watch, kneeling behind and to one side of her mistress.
Moving as carefully as he could with his awkward burden, Zyuzin knelt before her. Murohshei knelt to one side, facing them both. He looked, Shei-Luin thought, like one who knew a delightful secret.
Zyuzin set the jar down and, resting one hand on its lid,
said proudly, “Flower of the West, I have a gift for you. Please forgive the humble jar it comes in; it was the best my family could afford.”
Intrigued, Shei-Luin asked, “What is this, little songbird? Surely no one would send flowers in a sealed jar.”
“Ah, but most of my family are not gardeners, Favored of the Phoenix. Only two of my uncles and one brother are gardeners—the ones whose lives you saved. The rest live a few ta’vri outside of the city.” His round, solemn face broke into a smile. He patted the jar like a proud parent with a precocious child. “This is red bee honey.”
Shei-Luin nearly dropped the book. Behind her Tsiaa gasped. Red bee honey was esteemed throughout Jehanglan for its delicate flavor—and known for its rarity. She had learned more of them since that day in the garden; Xiane had been right to fear. Red bees were aggressive creatures; disturb them and the entire hive attacked you—a habit, she discovered, that was used for a gruesome purpose.
Jehangli lords were not supposed to have the right of death over their servants; death was for the emperor alone to mete out. But a favorite way around that restriction was to send the hapless offender to raid a hive of red bees. If one were fast enough, one could outrun the furious bees after him—it was said.
“Your family gave you this honey?” she asked. At his nod, she studied the plain red clay vessel. It hadn’t even been smoothed; the marks of the potter’s fingers were plain to see. If this was the best jar they could afford, how could they afford red bee honey? “Is it from the hive that was in the garden?”
“No, Favored One, not from that one; that hive was destroyed. This is from my family’s own hives. They are beekeepers, you see,” Zyuzin said, “and among the few who can keep red bees. Another uncle and my grandfather can hum them to sleep. They sent the honey to show their gratitude for saving Padlen, Vui, and Akaro.”
Shei-Luin was touched. This must be a large portion of their harvest; Zyuzin’s family would have a lean year. She would send them much fine millet and dried meat, and a bolt or two of sturdy cloth. “I thank them for their generosity,” she said. “But you have already repaid my help with your beautiful songs in the garden.”
Zyuzin blushed and lowered his gaze modestly. Murohshei smiled.
A thought came to Shei-Luin. “We should share this with his imperial majesty,” she said.
Panic filled Zyuzin’s face.
“Don’t worry, little songbird, I will find a more appropriate jar,” she said, then laughed as the young eunuch heaved a huge sigh of relief. “And we’ll keep a good amount for ourselves; it shall be our secret, yes?” she added with a conspirator’s wink.
Laughter greeted this “plot” against the emperor.
Xiane will be pleased with this, she thought. He had a child’s cravings for honey and other sweet things. Each time he had some of this, he would think of her. And that was just what she wanted—to be in the forefront of Xiane’s thoughts.
She must remember Zyuzin’s family and their bees.
Ten
Hodai stood in the shadows watching the chanting priests. Here, in this little hall that opened onto the nira’s small private balcony, the young Oracle could hear the singing without being seen himself. The voices of the chorus soared like birds amid clouds of incense as they paid tribute to the Phoenix. Four times a day the great chorus raised the power: at dawn, the nooning, sunset, and midnight when the power of the sun phoenix was at its lowest. Four times a day Hodai came if he could, with his master the nira or without him—mostly the latter now; Pah-Ko was too ill and tired—and each time Hodai listened with all his heart.
The thought of his master, tormented with the pain of keeping the great beast imprisoned, darkened Hodai’s heart for a moment. Then he remembered where—and especially when—he was.
Sunrise. The return of the phoenix of the sun.
The ceremony of dawn was the best of all. It seemed the voices were more beautiful now than any other time, more joyful as they welcomed the sun phoenix once more to the world to bathe it in warmth and light. He imagined the voices as the colors of dawn, all red and apricot and copper and gold. His heart thrilled.
The chant swelled up now into the Song. It had no other name, did the Song, and needed none. Sung only to welcome the sun phoenix from the little death of night, it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard, the most wonderful thing in the world. He liked to imagine that when the foreseeings came upon him and he could speak, that at those times he heard an echo of those perfect voices in his own.
As always when he heard the Song, something in him beat against his chest, fluttered in his closed throat like a butterfly against a shuttered window. He wanted so much to sing—he who grunted like an animal. But perhaps, just perhaps, this time the Phoenix had heard his prayers … .
He took a deep breath to soar into beauty with the others. But once again all that came out was a horrible croaking. “Guh,” he tried. “Guh-uh-uhk.”
Hodai moaned and buried his face in his hands. He slumped down along the wall. Were his prayers never to be answered? Surely he served the Phoenix well! He wept in defeat.
He was crying so hard he only noticed the footsteps when they stopped in front of him. Hodai looked up, frightened, scrubbing at his tear-soaked cheeks.
One of the senior priests, Haoro, looked back at him, a gentle smile like a benediction arranged across his face. Hodai knew Haoro, knew that smile, knew the lie of it. But before he could scuttle away, Haoro put out a foot to block him.
“It grieves you, doesn’t it, child, that you cannot sing? I’ve seen your face, Hodai, during the great festivals when the full chorus hymns the sun phoenix. I have seen the grief and longing there and I grieve with you.”
Hodai hiccuped in astonishment. Haoro had noticed him? Hodai the Insignificant? Oh, Hodai knew well enough that he was important to Pah-Ko. He was Pah-Ko’s Oracle. But he could never prophesy for Haoro. Or anyone else, for that matter; whoever became nira after Pah-Ko would need his own Oracle. An Oracle found his or her tongue for only one master.
No, this must be a trick. Another thing Hodai knew only too well was how sincere Haoro could appear, even as he plotted a rival’s downfall or made a mockery of an unfortunate servant—such as a certain Oracle. Hodai gathered himself to bolt.
“I’m sorry, Hodai, for your pain—but I can help you.”
He collapsed in mid-spring. Caught in an ungainly sprawl on the floor, he looked up at the priest. Why do you do this? Do not mock me. But as always the words caught against his teeth and died there. “Ah-wuh?” he begged miserably.
Haoro knelt so that their eyes were level. In his panic Hodai forgot to breathe. What was the priest doing, coming down to him, a slave? And the look in those black eyes, so full of grief, Haoro’s weeping heart there for anyone to see.
Hodai saw. He knew he shouldn’t trust; such tears meant no more than those a kaiwun snake was said to shed before poisoning its prey. But he also knew that Haoro did not lie. Haoro didn’t need to; he simply used truth as a weapon.
No, he shouldn’t trust. But Haoro had said he could help him.
And Haoro does not lie.
Hodai stared beseechingly at the priest.
“Yes,” Haoro said. “I can help you. I can order the healing power of the Phoenix to be summoned; you know that. What is wrong with your voice can be undone. But in return, Hodai, I need your help.”
What? Hodai asked with his eyes. Anything; anything for a voice, and to lift his voice in the Song.
Haoro smiled. “Just a little information, boy. That’s all. Just a little … information.” He leaned closer. “This is what I want you to listen for,” he said and whispered in Hodai’s ear.
Hodai’s heart sank within him. He couldn’t; he just couldn’t. But then the Song came to its triumphant, beautiful ending. One voice rose above the others, heartbreakingly pure, like a shaft of sunlight through clouds.
To sing like that …
“Do you understand what I need?
” Haoro asked.
Hodai nodded.
“And you will do it?”
Long moments while his heart thudded in his ears, his emotions warred within him. Then Hodai nodded. Once.
“Good,” Haoro said and rose. “Good.”
There were no longer tears in his eyes. Only victory.
Eleven
A few days after his return from the Iron Temple, as he returned from a meeting with other like-minded nobles, Lord Jhanun drew open the curtains of his litter at the sound of unfamiliar noise in the courtyard of his mansion. The yard seemed full of strangers.
“Halt!” he called to his bearers.
They stopped, and he drew the curtain back further. A closer look revealed that there were not so many people as he’d thought; just a few older men bearing swords or spears grouped around two women, one veiled. An old travel cart that had seen better days a lifetime or two ago was disappearing around the corner, one of his grooms leading the patient ox drawing it. A stripling youth—the driver, no doubt—trotted after.
An air of genteel shabbiness hung over the little group clustered together. Robes were tidy but patched, the colors faded, and the piping frayed. The leather of the scabbards was worn, in some places down to the wood beneath. The guards saw him watching and bowed. So did the women.
Ah—his niece, Nama, was here. Jhanun signaled the bearers to set the litter down. He stepped from it and waited.
The little circle of guards opened and the women came forth. The veiled one led; the other, a woman of middle years, followed. Her face was bare since she was but a servant.
Nama bowed deeply to him. “I am here as you commanded, uncle,” she said. Her voice trembled.
Jhanun reached out and flipped the veil back from her face. The maid drew breath in a sharp hiss; her hand darted forward as if to undo his action. She quailed and fell back only when he turned a fierce glare on her. But her eyes blazed anger at him for this insult.
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