Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  Standing by a table laden with food and drink, Linden waited as an awestruck young servant filled his goblet with wine. Under the eagle eye—and no doubt the ready scoldings—of the watching house steward, the boy offered it up to him in the proper fashion, left hand beneath the base, right thumb and forefinger touching the stem just enough to steady it.

  Linden took it from him. “My thanks, lad,” he said.

  The boy beamed; then, sensing the steward’s iron gaze, replied, “You’re welcome, Your Grace. May I offer you anything else?” He gestured at the many platters filled with savory tidbits and sweetmeats.

  Even for an impromptu banquet such as this, the Erdons had many resources and, Linden reflected, one hell of a cooking staff. He considered the choices, then cast a glance over his shoulder.

  Just as he thought: another bunch of Maurynna’s relatives had cornered her and were talking all at once. Angling for preferred trading status with the Keep, no doubt. He saw Maurynna’s lips thin into a grim line.

  Idiots. Couldn’t they read the signs that a squall was brewing? He could, and he’d only known Maurynna for a few months. A long-ago comment of Rani’s about a fellow officer came back to him: “He’s not only stupid enough to stand behind a kicking mule—he’s fool enough to paint a target on his rump as well.”

  Now Maurynna’s eyes narrowed. The squall was imminent. And still they persisted, the greedy idiots.

  Time for a rescue. Hold them off for a little longer, Maurynna-love, he mindspoke her. They’ll stop as soon as I get there.

  A heartfelt Thank you! rang in his mind.

  Linden turned back to the servant. “Pick for me, will you, lad? Enough for two and bring it to me.”

  “With pleasure, Your Grace!”

  Linden sauntered a way through the group importuning Maurynna. The conversation flagged as the petitioners realized who passed among them. He slipped in beside his soultwin and slid an arm around her waist, smiling blandly at his new—and importunate—kin. The assorted relatives glanced at each other and hemmed and hawed. Hoping they’d take the hint and disperse, Linden said nothing, merely sipped his wine.

  His eyebrows went up at the first taste. This was a different wine than he’d had earlier and was one of the best he’d tasted in all his six centuries.

  Hm—perhaps there were some discussions of trade he’d welcome.

  Maurynna mindspoke him, her words vibrating with mixed annoyance and gratitude. Thank you for saving me from them. But I’m furious that they’ll harangue me and wouldn’t dream of doing it to you.

  That’s because they’ve always known of me as a Dragonlord. You’re too familiar for them to be in awe of once the first suprise is over.

  A pause, then she continued, fuming, This lot never had the time for me before, either; they certainly do now.

  You’re now of a rank that could be useful to them. Get used to it, love; it will never stop. That’s why you learn to value the true friends you do find. And ofttimes families are the worst. You should have seen my father and older sibs if you think this lot is bad.

  Oh? she asked.

  Insisted I get them the right to sell our holding’s horses to Dragonskeep—and only them. It did me no good to point out that Dragonlords ride Llysanyins, and if ordinary horses were needed, they were bred at the Keep. Da took it into his head that I was getting him back for all that he’d done to me. Didn’t speak to me until almost twenty years later.

  He heard her intake of breath at the thought, then a sly bubble of laughter formed in his mind. With it came a thought that he wasn’t quite certain he was meant to hear.

  I wonder how I could arrange that … . Her gaze slid over the group waiting, Linden knew, for him to leave again.

  Just then the boy arrived with a dangerously laden plate. Linden took it carefully as Maurynna said, smiling, “Thank you, Temion. You’re out of the kitchens now? Good.”

  To Linden’s amusement the boy swelled visibly. Never mind he’d likely known Maurynna all his life as one of the most junior of partners in the family enterprise. He’d been greeted by a Dragonlord. By name, even. He’d brag tonight in the servants quarters; Linden could see it in his eyes.

  Temion bowed low and left. It was, Linden noted, an even deeper bow than Kesselandt would have received. Some of the relatives looked sour at the honor done their erstwhile underling. With another smile and a nod, Linden steered Maurynna away from them before they lost their awe of him and found their greedy tongues again.

  They sought out a small bench in an isolated corner of the room. Maurynna settled onto it with a sigh composed of equal parts weariness and annoyance. Her face was set. Linden deemed it best not to say anything; instead he offered her the plate. Barely glancing at the proferred tidbits, Maurynna caught up a small tart. Before he could stop her, she bit into it and ate, staring grimly ahead.

  It was worse than he’d thought, Linden realized. For the tartlet she’d chosen had a filling of almond paste, which Maurynna despised. Yet there she sat, not even noticing the too-sweet, sticky filling that usually made her gag.

  He decided it was safest not to enlighten her. It wouldn’t improve her temper one jot.

  Phoenix, but his rear was sore! He’d never ridden so much. But Liasuhn didn’t really mind. He was on his way to riches!

  Well, he admitted to himself, perhaps not immediately—but one day. One day he would have enough money to eat at the best places and frequent the best brothels, as Kwahsiu and Nalorih did.

  A sudden doubt assailed him. Urging his horse alongside Kwahsiu’s, he asked, “Your head merchant won’t mind your bringing me back, will he?”

  Kwahsiu turned to him, his ever-present grin wider than ever. “Not at all,” he said. “Why, we were told to keep our eyes open for a likely looking lad. Our master will be delighted to see you. Absolutely delighted.”

  Liasuhn dropped back to his proper place, a warm glow deep inside. He was destined for greatness, without a doubt.

  And someday he would return to his little river town and astonish them all, oh, yes he would. He rode on smiling, lost in a happy daydream, and forgot all about his sore rear.

  Twenty-five

  Raven woke up the morning after the welcoming feast with a mouth that felt like the bottom of a manure pile. He sat up carefully.

  “Ooooh,” he moaned—but softly, very softly. His head came nigh to shattering anyway.

  He groped, slit-eyed, for the pitcher of water by the bed and splashed some into the mug alongside. He drank greedily. It eased the worst of his thirst, but his mouth still felt as if baby dragons nested in it.

  “Feh,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to put his feet on the floor. The soft pile of the carpet jabbed his feet and his head throbbed. Raven sat, feeling sorry for himself.

  Then he remembered, and his aching head suddenly seemed pleasure itself. For today he had to go home and face his family. His father. Perhaps he’d die of his hangover first.

  No, he thought gloomily. I wouldn’t be so lucky.

  Raven heaved himself to his feet and staggered to the small bathing room. It would take a long time to get ready for this.

  As if he could ever truly be ready.

  When Raven came down the stairs at last, a servant approached him. The man held out a much-folded scrap of parchment. Curious, Raven took it and turned it over; there was no seal to identify the sender. He looked to the servant for an explanation.

  “This came for you just a short while ago, young sir,” the man said. “One of the boys who hangs about the marketplace to earn a penny or two brought it.”

  Raven opened the note, all the while wondering what and who would—

  The “what” filled him with relief. He read, Your father and brother are in Weavers Street and look to be there for some time. I’d go see your mother now if I were you.

  The “who” nearly made him choke in surprise. “Breslin?” he said in wonder.

  By all the gods, if this wasn
’t a trick, he’d shake the hand of that obnoxious toad yet.

  Raven halted Stormwind in the courtyard before his father’s house. He wiped his sweating palms on his breeches and debated riding off again. But then Corlan, one of his many friends among the grooms, appeared. Raven stayed.

  “Yer lucky, Raven; the master isn’t here right now,” Corlan said as he caught the reins Raven tossed him. “Hoy! Isn’t this ‘un a fine lad? Look at the color o’ him! I’ve never seen the like.” He patted the Llysanyin’s neck. “He yours?”

  “More I’m his,” Raven said as he jumped down. “This is Stormwind. He’s a Llysanyin from Dragonskeep.”

  Whatever Corlan had been about to say died in a strangled croak. “Wha—” he sputtered. His eyes grew huge as he stared at the horse that looked calmly back at him. “Gods ha’ mercy,” the groom got out at last. “So the rumors were true? You did go—And this really is a—” He held the reins as if they might bite him.

  Taking pity on the man, Raven said, “He won’t eat you, Corlan. Just tell him what you want him to do and he’ll do it. Isn’t that so, Stormwind?”

  The Llysanyin nodded and nudged Corlan’s shoulder.

  “And just about now I’d wager he’d like a drink—right, boy?” So would I … .

  Stormwind snorted assent. Raven gently pushed Corlan in the direction of the stables. The stunned groom went off like a sleepwalker while Stormwind paced alongside. Just before they went around the corner of the house, Stormwind looked back. And winked.

  Laughing now, and brave with it, Raven went into the house to find his stepmother, Virienne.

  Taren stood by the window in the room he’d been given in the Great House and looked out, watching the servants as they went in and out of another house across the wide central courtyard. That, no doubt, was the Mousehole they were to stay in.

  He wondered if Raven would be returning to stay in the Erdon compound or if he and his father would come to an agreement between them. Taren hoped the former. There was something the boy was not telling of what he knew about Dragonlords, particularly these Dragonlords. Worse yet, without Raven to act as a buffer between him and the Dragonlords, he would have to spend more time with them.

  And that was a thing he wished to avoid at all costs, until he knew much more about them. It was said certain of the priests of the Phoenix could smell a falsehood, taste deceit like a foulness on the tongue. Taren had no wish to find out these weredragons could do the same. He remembered stories of Dragonlords from his childhood; they had ascribed all manner of magical powers to these shapeshifters. True, he’d deceived them this far, but it might be only because he isolated himself as much as possible. Which in some ways was a pity; he enjoyed talking with Jekkanadar.

  He would continue to stay aloof. He had no intention of risking everything, not unless he had to. Not until he discovered who the Hidden One was.

  With a muttered curse, Taren turned away from the window.

  The house was cool inside. This early in the cold season, the fires weren’t lit during the day. It would be good sleeping weather tonight, Raven thought as he trod the halls of his home.

  It was a fine home; not as grand as the Erdon family’s, of course, but a fine, comfortable house just the same. In many ways, it was good to be back.

  But something no longer felt right … .

  He paused before the door to the solar. Taking a deep breath, Raven gathered up his courage and went inside.

  His stepmother sat in her favorite chair, all her attention on the embroidery in her lap. Her hair, brown shot through with grey, was gathered in a bun at the back of her neck with a pair of hairsticks. Despite the grey, she looked much younger than her years.

  By her side stood a little table. Upon it was a basket brimming over with colorful balls of thread. The needle she plied flashed as it darted in and out of the dark cloth. A neck band for a feast tunic, he guessed.

  Then she looked up, alerted somehow to his presence.

  “Hello, Virienne,” Raven said weakly.

  She said nothing, simply looked at him.

  Wary, Raven came forward. “Didn’t you get my letter?” If Iokka had reneged on their agreement …

  Virienne pushed a loose strand of hair back from her face. “He was furious,” she said wearily. “How could you do such a thing to him? He expected you to come back with that shipment and sell it.”

  “Virienne, how could he break his promise to me?” Raven countered. “How does he justify forcing me into his mold? I’m not a trader; we all know it.”

  He rubbed his forehead. The willowbark tea he’d choked down earlier had banished his headache, but now it threatened to return with a vengeance and five offspring besides.

  Virienne flung her embroidery down on the bench beside her; it fell to the floor. “Ungrateful puppy! You have the world handed to you on a platter and you cast it aside. How poor Honigan would love to have what you do! Instead he must make do with your leavings, take whatever scraps you might throw him when the business comes to you.”

  The bitterness in his stepmother’s voice astonished Raven. Never had Virienne betrayed any jealousy, any resentment of him since her marriage to his father when he was eight. She’d never treated him differently from her son and Raven had been grateful for that. His friends had told him too many tales of wicked stepmothers when it became known that his widowed father was remarrying.

  “My leavings?” said Raven, stung by her accusation. “Damn it all, Virienne, as far as I’m concerned Honigan can have the wretched business and be welcome to it!” he yelled.

  She rose to face him, her eyes telling him he lied.

  It hurt. He said, “I mean that. If Da left the wool business to Honigan, I’d rejoice. I know Da worked hard to make it a success, and believe it or not, it would kill me to see it thrown away. That’s the gods’ own truth whether you believe it or not. And thrown away it will be if it comes to me. Do you think that wouldn’t hurt? To know my lack of skill is what killed my Da’s hard work? I don’t want that to happen.

  “Honigan, now; Honigan loves this trade as much as Da does. He should be the one it comes to. He’s clever, respected by the other traders. Me—ah, hell, Virienne, they hide behind their hands and laugh when they see me coming along. They know they can shear me closer than any sheep.”

  He picked up her embroidery from the floor and dusted it off. “Here; it would be a shame to spoil it now, you’re nearly finished.” He offered it to her, half fearing she would slap his hand aside.

  But she took it from him. “Yes; yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” she said, the storm gone from her eyes now. Resignation filled them instead. “When we wedded, Redhawk promised me that if I would look upon you as my son, he would look upon Honigan as his own.”

  Raven laughed, a short, bitter laugh. “A great one for keeping his promises my Da is, isn’t he? You kept your end of the bargain. Did you know there were times when I forgot you weren’t my blood mother, forgot that Honigan was but a stepbrother?” He rested his hands on her shoulders and said gently, “Thank you for that, Virienne. Thank you for all the times you’ve kept peace between the two pigheaded men in this family.

  “Now—why don’t we sit down, and tell each other all the news?” he said. “I’ve something that will surprise you, I think,” he added, trying to look mysterious.

  “It must be about a horse,” Virienne said with a smile as she sat once again. “I know that gleam in your eye.”

  Raven pulled a chair up to share the patch of sunlight that bathed Virienne’s and they talked. Virienne insisted upon hearing what Raven had done since he’d left.

  Her hand went to her throat at the tale of Taren’s suffering and daring escape; she nodded her understanding when Raven spoke of realizing his duty after meeting the former Jehangli slave; wonder filled her eyes as he described Dragonskeep, talked of sitting at the Lady’s table, and of seeing truedragons flying overhead.

  When he recounted the first meeting with
Stormwind, she laughed. “I knew it!” she said, clapping her hands in delight. “I knew there was a horse somewhere! And such a horse!”

  But her expression grew grave over the failed mission to free the captive truedragon, and when he told her of Lleld’s plan, and that he was part of it—though he did not say just what his part was to be—the color drained from her face.

  “Must you?” she asked faintly.

  “Yes,” he said. “I must. And you must swear to me not to say anything of this to anyone. Not to Da, not to Honigan, not to anyone at all. Just say that I’ll be going with the Dragonlords when they travel on. Will you?”

  She said, “I swear.” Her voice was almost steady. But her eyes held a mother’s fear.

  Raven nodded. He looked down at the floor and realized the patch of sunlight they’d started out in had long since shifted. They’d talked for a long time, longer than he’d thought. He was lucky his father hadn’t come home.

  And if he wanted that luck to continue, he’d best leave. Raven stood up, his cloak over one arm. “I must go back now.”

  Virienne stood as well. “I understand. Raven, what I said before … Please don’t think I’m just being ambitious for Honigan,” she begged him. “Yes, I want him to take over from Redhawk someday—but only because I know that would leave you free for your dreams and fulfill his. What mother could ask more for her sons?”

  Raven smiled. “What more can any of us wish for? Just ask Maurynna. She got her dream; now it’s my turn.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Ah,” Virienne said. “I’m sorry, Raven; I know that you were hoping …”

  “It doesn’t really hurt anymore,” Raven lied. “No doubt you’ll want to see her … and Linden. I’ll bring them here—”

  Virienne’s eyes widened in panic. “Dragonlords here? Raven, I’ve no time to plan a feast—”