Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  Mages did not band together, work to one end this way. They wouldn’t; they couldn’t!

  But the deadly proof filled the sky before him. The ghostly bird wheeled and the balefire lashed out once more. Once again the dragons scattered before it. A few more were caught. They fell, burning, to their deaths as had the others before them. The Phoenix turned on the largest band of survivors. They fled.

  It was hopeless. The dragons were doomed. Despair washed over Morlen. They could not succeed against an enemy they couldn’t even touch. Their only hope lay in retreating beyond the range that the priestmages could project the Sending.

  *Retreat! Now! Get beyond the mountains!* Morlen roared to his kindred wyrms. For a feeling rose in him now that if the dragons could but win to the red lands they had passed over earlier, they would be safe. He remembered the welcoming feel of that land, sent it on to the others.

  One by one they responded, halting their panicked, fruitless dodging, and raced for the mountains as fast as they could. Some faltered in the air, barely able to fly. Others dashed in to help, heedless of their own safety, risking death as the Phoenix swooped down once more.

  It singled out a pair of dragons; with a cry of despair Morlen saw it was Lurione, one of the youngest dragons, gravely wounded—and Talassaene, her amethyst scales glittering like jewels in the light of the newly risen sun. He struggled to reach them in time; in time to do what, he didn’t know. But he was too old, too tired, and wounded besides.

  And there was nothing he could do, anyway. That knowledge hurt the most.

  Yet somehow Talassaene, her claws gripping the younger dragon, twisted in the air and tumbled into a dive. The lash of the Phoenix’s fire missed her body by scant inches. For a moment Morlen thought she would win free unscathed; then the streamer of fire slewed around and caught her across the back and wings.

  She cried out but kept hold of Lurione and by some miracle kept to the air. Staggering as she flew, Talassaene nevertheless dodged out of the Phoenix’s range and continued toward the mountains, still bearing Lurione.

  Relief flooded Morlen; she would be safe. He turned his attention to the other dragons, urging them on. They obeyed, flying as fast as they could for the mountain barrier to the red lands.

  Once more the Phoenix dove after them. The last stragglers’ wings beat frantically in what Morlen feared was a futile attempt. He cried out a warning as it loomed over them; one of the dragons, despair filling her ruby eyes, looked over her shoulder at the Phoenix closing in. Then, just as the fire from its wings reached for the dragons, the Phoenix disappeared. Like the haze above a fire, it vanished, leaving the clean blue sky behind.

  Morlen went weak with relief. The gods only knew why their enemy had disappeared—had the mages reached the end of their power?—but he didn’t question it, only blessed it. Now he must get his kindred to safety.

  The flight was pure nightmare. His pain increased with each beat of his injured wings. Yet he couldn’t give in to it, couldn’t rest; nor could he allow any of the others to do so. Morlen didn’t know how the Jehangli had known of the dragons’ attack, or even how long they had known of it. There might be troops waiting below to kill or capture any wounded dragon setting down.

  They must keep flying. Morlen begged, pleaded, bullied, and cajoled his kinswyrms along when they would have given up. He would not allow it.

  At last they were over the mountains. *Rest,* he sent to the others. *Here we are safe.*

  Agony! Death!

  The old dragon twisted and thrashed in his sleep, his dreams now a torment. He moaned, all unknowing, and fled the nightmares that stalked him, sinking deeper into his mind.

  The waters of the lake swirled around him as if to wash away the pain.

  It was Heilan, one of Xiane’s eunuchs kept to run errands to the harem. Shei-Luin received him after donning the proper robes.

  “The Phoenix Lord wishes to ride to the Pavilion of the Three Pines this day, lady,” Heilan said. “He desires that you ride with him.”

  Despite his condition, the eunuch kept his gaze firmly upon her embroidered slippers. It was a moment before Shei-Luin noticed; her mind was still full of what had happened earlier.

  But when she did notice, she raised her fan to hide a smile. While it was true she was currently the emperor’s favorite, she was still only a concubine, and a palace eunuch was free to look upon her. Indeed, the eunuchs were the only males in the palace free to gaze upon the faces of any woman, noble or otherwise.

  Any woman, that was, save those of the highest rank, such as the mother of an emperor, his sisters, or … his empress.

  She was not Xiane’s sister, and certainly not his mother. But that Xiane’s eunuch unconsciously treated her with such respect told her how his master truly thought of her.

  She let the fan fall away with a graceful gesture. “Tell the Phoenix Lord that it will be my greatest pleasure to ride with him this day, and that I thank him for this mark of his favor,” Shei-Luin said. Then, greatly daring, she went on, “And tell him I also thank him for thinking of the Pavilion of the Three Pines. It is very … romantic there,” she added, her voice low and silky.

  A moment later she nearly laughed aloud. Though the eunuch’s gaze stayed firmly on the toes of her slippers, the tips of his ears had turned bright pink.

  “You will repeat to your master what I said—and how it was said,” Shei-Luin ordered with impish delight. She knew Heilan was an uncanny mimic.

  The ears turned red. “I will, Light of the Emperor’s Eyes.” The eunuch crawled backward to the door, then stood and left on his mission.

  Pleased, Shei-Luin rose from her chair to allow Tsiaa and Murohshei to undress her for her bath. “Use the jasmine perfume; it’s Xiane’s favorite.”

  Though once Xiane received her message, she doubted she’d have need of any perfume. They might not even get away from the palace this day.

  She thanked the Phoenix for this gift of chance.

  The dragons rested on the small plateau they had found. Few were unscathed; most bore at least some small wounds; some were gravely hurt. And too many of those were hurt beyond saving. Some, like Lurione, died before they could be helped.

  Indeed, Morlen suspected Lurione had died before ever reaching this poor sanctuary. It was a mercy, he thought, that Talassaene had fainted as soon as she’d touched the earth. She did not yet know her sacrifice had been wasted. He looked upon his granddaughter once more and wondered how she had brought herself to this place, let alone carried Lurione, she was so gravely wounded.

  The dragons did what they could for their kindred, exhausting themselves by repeated uses of their Healing fire. Morlen aided where he might. But for him all that he could do was not enough; and draining him further was the foreknowledge that the dragons could not stay. If they lingered the priestmages would find a way to send the ghost Phoenix after them once more. And that would mean the end of them all. They must leave.

  The Seeing sapped what little strength he had left. I am old and useless, he thought bitterly, watching a nearly spent Galinis bathe Talassaene in Healing fire once more. The blue-green flames enveloped her, slid around her unconscious body—and died out in a flicker. Galinis’s head sank to the ground, his eyes dull with exhaustion.

  *I have done what I could,* the younger dragon said. Even his mindvoice shook with weariness. *I can do no more.*

  *Thee have wrought valiantly,* said Morlen, afraid it wasn’t enough. Talassaene had not regained consciousness. *Rest now; we must leave with the night.*

  Groans greeted this announcement. *Why?* a dragon named Beracca asked plaintively. One eye was seared shut, never to see again.

  Galinis lifted his head. *A Seeing?*

  *Yes.*

  Sighs gusted through his mind, and their resigned acceptance followed. They would rest while they could. Morlen stretched out beside his granddaughter, willing her to live.

  The nira was still dazed, having regained his senses only moments b
efore. He blinked like an owl forced out into the day, unable to make sense of his surroundings. Giving up, he sagged against the arms that supported him—one of the acolytes allowed in to help. Another held a cup of tea out to him.

  “Drink, Holy One,” the young man said. His face was pale and his eyes wide and frightened. Whether it was because of what had transpired in this place, or for the place itself, the nira could not say.

  His confusion passed; with each moment memory came back. But he was still weak and in pain. Pah-Ko waved the cup aside. “Where’s my Oracle?” he whispered, holding aside the welcome relief of oblivion by sheer force of will.

  “Here, Holy One.”

  The voice came from behind him. Pah-Ko half turned in the shelter of the encircling arms.

  A young priest of the first rank cradled Hodai against his chest. Hodai’s eyes were shut, black lashes stark against the ashy hue of his face. An acolyte gently wiped the boy’s mouth with a damp cloth. There was a red stain upon it.

  Pah-Ko gasped in dread. His heart jumped and hammered jerkily in his chest. One withered hand stretched out.

  “Rest easy, Holy One,” the young priest hastened to say. “He bit his lip, that’s all. He sleeps now from exhaustion.”

  “Ah. Ahhh.” Pah-Ko relaxed. “Take him to my chambers and put him in his bed—” He wrinkled his brow in thought. “Yalin, is it not?”

  The young priest beamed, pleased that his name was known to one so high. “Yes, Holy One. I will take him there now.”

  “Stay by him until he wakes.” As the young priest bore his precious burden away, Pah-Ko turned his attention to the events around him. For the first time he noticed the sour stink of voided bowels beneath the fragrant incense. Then he saw the still, covered forms that littered the floor of the chamber.

  But other forms were not so still. Pah-Ko heard wild mutterings as the junior priests struggled to hold down their thrashing brethren.

  “What is this?” Pah-ko asked the one who still supported him.

  “The backlash … . It was too much for some of them. Their brains are fevered, it seems. Whether they will recover …”

  “Who?”

  The youth rattled off a few names, but the only one that penetrated Pah-ko’s befuddled mind was Haoro’s. So—Jhanun’s devious nephew was no longer a player in the great game of the temple. Pah-ko wondered how long the reprieve might last; forever, he hoped.

  But what price had they paid for it?

  “Deeh?” he gasped.

  For an answer, the acolyte pointed to one of the shrouded forms, one whose dead hand had slipped from beneath its covering. A simple braided band, the kind popular among the countryfolk, encircled the wrist, its bright colors vivid against the greying skin beneath.

  Pah-Ko recognized the band. Phoenix, please—not Deeh. But it was; he knew it in his heart. It was too much. Why Deeh and not Haoro? How many of the best have died across Jehanglan to keep the empire safe? he wondered as he spiraled down into the welcome darkness.

  Dusk—the gate of night had come at last. Morlen watched as the sun inched below the western horizon and the shadows flowed together, and the air around them and the red stone below them grew cold with the passing of the day.

  It was time.

  With a rattle of scales and wings, Morlen rose. All around him heads came up as the exhausted dragons roused. So spent were they, they had not posted even a single sentry.

  But some dragons did not move. As Morlen went among those, he saw that many had died. Others yet lived; but the spark of life within them was so faint, he knew they could never fly.

  He came back to Talassaene. By her side rested Galinis, one wing spread over her as if he would protect her. Her head came up as Morlen gently touched the tip of his nose to hers. Galinis drew his wing back.

  *Grandsire.* Her mindvoice was the barest whisper.

  *My heart, it is time to leave,* he said gently.

  She tried to stand. Before Galinis could help her, she fell to the ground once more. *Grandsire, I cannot. Please; I am afraid … .*

  *I will help thee, fly by thee. Thee will reach home,* Morlen said, knowing he lied and willing to risk everything to make those words truth.

  *Thee knows it would be fruitless. And I do not fear death. I do fear what these priestmages would do to me should they find me still living. Please, I beg thee: do not let them do to me what they did to Pirakos. For I know they would.*

  With a supreme effort, she raised her head and tilted it far back. The light of the first stars twinkled on the amethyst scales of her throat.

  The other dragons too hurt to fly did the same, baring their throats to their companions.

  *Save me, Grandsire.*

  With a howl of rage and grief, Morlen slashed across Talassaene’s throat with his razor-sharp claws. Her blood gushed hot and smoking onto the red stone as her long, graceful neck crumpled to the ground.

  All around him other dragons did the same for kith and kin, granting them the mercy of a swift death.

  Wild with grief, Morlen flung himself into the air. The others followed.

  Heartsick, hurt, and weary, the dragons retreated from Jehanglan.

  Sixteen

  A gloom hung over Dragonskeep. From the lowliest kitchen boy to the Lady herself, all walked wrapped in a shroud of apprehension. There was no word yet from the truedragons to ease their minds.

  What laughter there was these days was forced and brittle. But there was little of it; no one had the heart for jests. The battlements of the Keep, usually deserted, played host to an unending stream of visitors, their gazes turned to the south.

  The watchers rarely spoke to each other. They stood, kir and Dragonlord and truehuman, cloaks wrapped tight against the cold mountain wind that blew around them, and watched and waited.

  Days passed, but still no word came. Eyes strained to see anything, the merest speck in the distance that might give them hope. And no one saw anything save the occasional hawk circling against the pale blue sky.

  To his surprise, Linden often saw Taren on the battlements, his expression tense, standing watch as often as his health permitted. Sometimes Taren stood alone or leaning on a servant; most times Raven stood by him, lending his young strength to the sick man.

  Once Linden came upon Taren alone. The man shook, his teeth chattering and his cloak wrapped tight as a shroud around his thin body. He leaned heavily against a staff.

  “You should be abed,” Linden said in concern as he came up behind Taren. The man turned; his face looked grey in the waning light. “I must watch,” he said. “I must know.”

  He looked away once more. The wind whipped between them; Linden brushed tears of cold from his eyes.

  “It’s my penance,” Taren said, so softly Linden wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. Then, louder, Taren said, “There will be many deaths of this. And I’m to blame; I didn’t think …” Taren shook his head.

  Linden laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “They’ll come back,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “And Pirakos with them. You’ll see.”

  “Yes,” Taren said. His eyes glittered in the failing light. “Yes. We will see.”

  With the privilege of an old and faithful servant, General V’Choun entered the Garden of Eternal Spring without invitation and went straight to the emperor’s gazebo. He sketched a bow to Xiane as the Phoenix Lord looked up from the game of dice he played with Yesuin.

  “You look grim,” Xiane said in surprise.

  “I am, Majesty. Here; read this.” He held out a folded sheaf of papers. “Pah-Ko was too rattled to even seal these.”

  His long, horsey face awash with curiosity, Xiane took the papers. V’Choun watched his emperor’s face grow pale as he read. Without a word, he passed the message to Yesuin.

  “An attack of … dragons?” asked Xiane of the air. “But how?” he went on in bewilderment. “The dragons are all dead!”

  “No, Majesty,” V’Choun said. “Not all the drago
ns. Did you not read that these had wings? They are northern dragons, come to right the wrong that was done to one of their kind.”

  Laying the note upon the table, Yesuin said, “Xiane, what more proof do you need? You read of how many priests died, did you not?”

  Xiane nodded.

  “That was not because of the battle they waged; Pah-Ko could have easily controlled that power. No, this was the Phoenix itself taking this chance to strike back at those imprisoning it,” Yesuin said.

  V’Choun sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve come to agree with him, great lord. Pah-ko dared not write it for all to see, but I know him of old and I can read what he does not say. It’s past time for the Phoenix’s death, Majesty, and the Phoenix knows it. Even that great being must live by the Way of All Things.”

  Said Yesuin, “You know he’s right.”

  Xiane turned a look of anguish upon him.

  V’Choun said quietly, “Other reports have come in from across the countryside. Sudden floods where there has been no rain, ghosts heard wailing in the cemeteries, the earth shaking and hurling down temples—but only temples—springs spouting fire or blood instead of water, and worse. And all happened the day of this attack, Xiane.”

  Ashen-faced, Xiane stood. “I must think on this,” he said, and left the gazebo. He called, “Cousin, come with me.”

  Yesuin sprang up, then paused a moment. Turning to V’Choun, he said, “You know what we ask of him, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said V’Choun heavily. “The end of the Phoenix dynasty. His dynasty. Otherwise, it’s the end of Jehanglan.”

  “I know,” Yesuin said softly. “But Xahnu …” He followed Xiane into the garden.

  V’Choun sat down and stared unseeing at the dice on the table. He knew what was needed. So did the emperor. But would Xiane have the courage to undo the mistake his father had made?

  A sliver of moon rode high in the black sky. This night Merlet Kamenni stood the watch the Dragonlords had set by unspoken agreement. She paced the battlements, looking ever to the south, and twisted her single thick braid around and around her hand.