Dragon and Phoenix
Page 34
An arrow whizzed past. In the instant it flew by him, Xiane recognized the colors of the fletching. Trust V’Choun to keep his head; the doughty old army veteran had faced worse, Xiane thought wildly, remembering the general’s dead wife.
The arrow struck full into the scaled throat—and went straight through the serpent. The snake stretched up and up, and opened its jaws, revealing fangs dripping venom, as if it would swallow the entire hunting party, horses and all.
While the man she named “the Demon” splashed and sang in the bathing room, well-pleased with his past night’s work, Nama dragged herself from the bed and pulled on a robe. Then she went to the desk and sat. As quietly as she could, she opened a drawer and slid a sheet of rice paper from under the sandalwood matting that covered the bottom.
Nama counted the days since the last moon, then counted them again, and yet again. Numb, she set aside the paper upon which she’d marked the days and the phases of the moon.
No, she had made no mistake. It was true. Bile rose in her throat, and she buried her face in her hands.
“What is that?” Zuia demanded from behind her.
Nama jumped. She had not heard the maid enter the sleeping chamber. She snatched at the paper and tried to thrust it back into the drawer.
Rough hands pulled it from her grasp. Nama bit her lip while Zuia studied the sheet. At last the maid laughed softly.
“Your courses are late, aren’t they?” Zuia asked.
“Yes,” Nama whispered.
“So you are with child at last?”
“Yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. The thought of bearing her rapist’s child made her sick at heart.
A hand slapped her face with enough force to snap her head back. She cried out. The tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Fool!” Zuia spat at her. She thrust the sheet in Nama’s face. “You should have told me the moment you suspected. Now Lord Jhanun will have to rush his plans.”
Nama cradled her stinging cheek in her hand as Zuia hurried out of the sleeping chamber. She heard the maid leave the house, no doubt to apprise her master of the long-awaited event. Nama slumped in the chair.
If only she could cut her wrists or throat. But Zuia had banished anything sharp from the little house after Nama’s first attempt to end her torment. She’d botched it; she’d thought all she had to do was slash the blade lightly across her wrists. Now she knew she must go deeper, much deeper, to where the bright red blood of her heart flowed.
That same day all cords and sashes disappeared from the house lest she hang herself. Nama considered tearing the silken sheets into strips and plaiting a rope. But she would never finish before Zuia returned. Besides, what could she cut the silk with? She wasn’t strong enough to rip it. And to touch the sheets that stank of the Demon’s sweat from, from …
She doubled over and vomited again and again. When she was done, she wiped her mouth and sat up once more.
If only I had a friend to help me end my shame, a friend to bring me a knife, a rope, some poison … .
The sound of footsteps—many footsteps—and voices came to her ears. She recognized Zuia’s voice, and her uncle’s, among them.
They came, as she expected, into the sleeping chamber. Behind came the two men who had brought the Demon into her life. One bore a sword strapped to his back.
At a gesture from Jhanun, the men continued on to the bathing room. The song ended in a frightened squawk. There came the sounds of a struggle and the Demon cursing the men.
Nama listened as the cursing ended in mid-tirade and the sounds of fighting stopped. As the men dragged the Demon, now bound and gagged, from the bathing room, she was too numb to feel much satisfaction at the terror in his bulging eyes as he struggled helplessly in the powerful hands that gripped his arms.
Now he knew what she had felt all this time. It hardly mattered anymore. Somehow she knew that her torment was not ended, not yet. It would only change form as a silk moth changed from caterpillar to moth.
Her uncle caught her chin in his hand. “Now,” he said, “you are ready to become Xiane’s concubine.”
The giant serpent swayed and hissed. Its cold gaze fixed on the men as if it would hypnotize them as lesser snakes were said to hypnotize small birds.
Xiane stared in stupefied horror. Even his horse stood beneath him as if caught in that same paralysis.
The snake reared back to strike. Before Xiane could blink, it faded. For a moment a ghostly image hung in the air; then—nothing.
But the deer he had brought down was now bloated and black, oozing a foul liquid that killed the grass. The breeze shifted; the stench that rolled over Xiane and the others set them all to gagging. The horses neighed in fear and bucked. The men turned their mounts and raced away.
When they neared the camp, Xiane suddenly said, “This is not a thing to speak of.”
“Do you hear that, dogs?” V’Choun said to the trackers. Hear and obey the Chosen of the Phoenix. If your tongues wag, you shall lose them.”
The trackers threw themselves to the ground and knocked their foreheads against the earth again and again. “We will not speak,” they promised fervently. “May our worthless lives end before we speak.”
“Talk,” the general said dryly, “and of a certainty they will end. Painfully.”
The camp was quiet that night; there were occasional outbursts of talk, even laughter. But they were forced and unnatural, dying quickly. Instead the men stared into the fire for a time, now and again looking fearfully over their shoulders, sitting close together for what comfort they might find against the darkness lowering outside the campfire’s reach. They did not stay long by the fire.
When Xiane and Yesuin retired to the tent they shared, the emperor disobeyed his own command and whispered, “What was it? Did you understand the meaning of the snake?”
“No,” Yesuin replied, “save that a snake is of things armored; it could mean war, soldiers—Xiane, if you want to know what this and all the other portents we have heard of mean, you must speak with one wiser than I; I know so little. You must send for Lord Kirano, Shei-Luin’s father.”
“The Blasphemer?” Xiane said, aghast.
Yesuin regarded him. “Is he?” the Zharmatian hostage asked softly. “Xiane, in your heart—is he truly?”
Nama stared down at the bed.
As always, the sleeping silks were turned down in invitation—an invitation the Demon had been only too quick to accept any time of the day or night.
But now he was gone. Where, she neither knew nor cared. She just hoped it was far, far away.
Yet the bed was still here; the bed, and all the horrific memories it held. It mocked her, that bed, with its welcome.
She stretched a hand out to touch the sheets, recoiled as memory stabbed her. Perhaps she should sleep on the floor … .
And have Zuia find her in the morning, and run to tell tales to her uncle? To hear her uncle berate her for endangering the safety of the child—the invader —in her womb? Finally, to let a mere piece of furniture defeat her?
A thousand, thousand noes. She crawled into the bed, her heart hammering, remembering all the nightmare days and nights. Defiantly, she blew out the oil lamp, and lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling.
As her eyes adjusted to the night, as her terrified body realized that yes, she was alone, finally, gloriously alone in this bed, Nama ran her hands out as far as they would stretch. They touched no one.
She turned on her side. After a long, long time of starting at every little sound, she fell asleep, wondering how long this reprieve would last.
They argued about it for what seemed like a lifetime. But in the end, Xiane gave in. Yesuin dropped his head into his hands as the Phoenix Emperor ordered a servant to bring General V’Choun to him.
Shei-Luin would be furious with him, Yesuin thought, his heart sinking. For if anyone discovered the truth from Lord Kirano, truth that anyone might have for the asking …
Yesuin shook his head violently to stop the rush of thoughts. To think such things gave them power.
Only one thought comforted him. No matter what was revealed, Xiane would never cast Shei-Luin aside; the emperor loved her too much.
Loved her as much as he did. Yesuin bit his lip against the the pain he must never reveal.
Thirty
Yesuin wished Xiane would not tell Shei-Luin about her father. But how did one tell the Emperor of Jehanglan “no” when that same emperor announced his intention of informing his “Precious Flower” that he’d sent for her father because it would “no doubt please her so,” just as soon as they reached the palace?
How did you tell that emperor that his “Precious Flower” hated the very mention of her father’s name? That his favorite concubine had come to him only because the man the world believed was her father no longer wanted her about him after his true daughter had been sent for?
In short, you didn’t. You tricked him.
“Will you really tell her?” Yesuin asked.
“Of course,” Xiane said, looking surprised. “She should be very happy, don’t you think?”
Yesuin said vaguely, “I thought it would make a nice surprise … .”
Xiane laughed his braying, raucous laugh. “Cousin—that’s a wonderful idea! A surprise it will be.”
Generous, maddening, bumbling Xiane; even after that, he somehow let it slip that he thought of sending for Lord Kirano, and word was carried to Shei-Luin. That he had also let slip who had suggested it, was abundantly clear the instant Yesuin slipped into Shei-Luin’s chamber from the tunnel. Xiane, he knew, would not come here this night; Shei-Luin was far enough advanced in her pregnancy that, by custom, no man could lie with her. They were safe from discovery.
He, though, was not safe from Shei-Luin. She descended upon him like a storm the instant he appeared.
“Are you mad?” Shei-Luin spat. “You must cease this insanity.” Though her voice was low, the rage in it scorched him.
Yesuin reached for her. “Beloved, you must understand. The Way has been perverted; the world cannot go on like this. You’ve heard the tales of disasters in the land. If the Phoenix isn’t freed, it will destroy the earth, even as your father—”
“He is not my father and you well know it!”
Scarlet silk flashed as she evaded him. Even with her belly swollen with child, she was grace itself. Shei-Luin paced like a tiger, her dark eyes blazing. Were he to touch her now, he thought, she would throw off sparks like a cat.
“I understand that you would destroy my son’s empire.” Back and forth, back and forth. “You speak of disasters! There are disasters only because the man who sits upon the Phoenix Throne is weak and sinful. He doesn’t observe custom, and that’s the only reason the Way is lost! This nonsense about setting the Phoenix free is just that—nonsense. When Xahnu is emperor, there will be no more disasters. Jehanglan will draw strength from him.”
Her voice shook with fury. And more: hate. It was like a knife in Yesuin’s heart. She whirled to face him.
“You would destroy what should be my son’s—our son’s,” she said. Her lip curled in disdain. “Or are you so greedy for Jehanglan that you would see her torn apart so that your tribesmen may pick over her bones like the mangy jackals they are? Are you so jealous of your son’s fortune—”
He cut her off. “You know it isn’t true. What are these lies? And as for mangy jackals … You lived in our tents, Shei-Luin. You grew up with me. Surely you don’t believe these words.”
The same words that ached inside him. Once he’d taken an arrow in the leg; tearing its barbed head out had hurt less than Shei-Luin’s bitter accusations. What had happened to the little girl he remembered? Had the imperial court corrupted her so much? By the Mother of the Herds, had he a horse between his knees this moment, he would ride away and never return—just as he and Shei-Luin had dreamed of once. But now he knew she no longer shared that dream. And without her it was dead, ashes upon the wind.
“Do you love me?” she demanded suddenly.
What, can you not see my heart in my eyes? Yesuin thought miserably. Once you could. “You know that I do,” he said, his pain spilling over. “How can you doubt it?”
“And you would do anything for me?”
Honor held his tongue. The question was not unexpected, but he couldn’t answer it the way Shei-Luin wanted.
She eyed him, testing his silence. “Then stop telling Xiane this nonsense that the Phoenix must go free. Tell him you and my father are wrong. Make him believe you.”
“Beloved,” he said, “don’t ask me to do that. Anything will I do for you—anything but that. I must follow the Way.”
The silence now was hers, hard as stone and colder than a mountain of ice. At last she spoke. “I’m not your beloved,” she said in a voice like steel. Her hands cupped her belly. “Never say that to me again. Ever. I am a mother, and I will protect my children—even from you, their … father.” She spat the word like a curse. “Get out. I never want to see you again.”
He knew she meant it. Even as a child Shei-Luin had been a very good hater. There was no appeal; she would not forgive him.
Yesuin turned, stumbling for the door to the tunnel, like a man who has taken a mortal blow and not realized it yet. Somehow he was through it, and shut it behind him, though he had no memory of the deed. He leaned against the tunnel wall, heartsick. Yesuin heard the door to the sleeping chamber open and close, and knew Murohshei went in to comfort his mistress.
And where would he find comfort, he thought bitterly as he picked up the little lamp and set off down the dimness of the tunnel.
Suddenly Yesuin knew he could no longer stay in the palace. He slammed a fist into the ancient wood of the tunnel wall and bit his lip against something that was a curse or a sob. He must ride the plains once more or die.
“Oh, damn!” Lleld fumed, pausing as she tugged a brush through her thick, red curls.
“What?” Jekkanadar asked from the bed.
Lleld turned on the chair to face him. “Linden just mindcalled me. He went down to make certain the horses were settled for the night, and found Taren’s gelding’s off hock swollen. He suspects that it kicked out while being raised from the hold, and smashed its leg against the wood of the hatchway.”
“And since neither he nor Raven were there—” Jekkanadar said, running a finger along the scar on his face.
“Chakkarin’s agents instantly sweeping us away to this inn, and since it’s not known we’re Dragonlords—” Lleld added, waving the brush.
“The dockhands were not as careful as they might have been, and somehow forgot to mention this little mishap,” Jekkanadar finished. He sat up. “Damn, indeed. How long of a delay?”
“A few days at least. Linden wants to be certain that it’s properly healed. The last thing we need is for any of the horses to founder on us.” She returned to brushing her hair, and fuming.
After a brief silence, Jekkanadar said, “Have you ever thought of what freeing Pirakos will mean to the Jehangli?”
She laid the brush on the little table. She’d always known that one day, one of her companions would ask her that. It didn’t surprise her that it was her soultwin. “Yes,” she said, “I have.”
“They depend upon the power of the phoenix to rule their land.”
“Power that’s stolen,” she pointed out, “from two creatures, both of whom are innocent victims.”
“And if that power is broken, chaos will rule.”
“I know,” she said quietly, “and I wish there was some way to avoid it. But the Jehangli had no right to do what they did all those years ago, and no right to perpetuate it. I’m afraid they’re going to have
to take their chances like the rest of us.”
Jekkanadar held out his hands as if weighing one thing against another. “To interfere or not interfere—which is truly the right course?” he asked, a wry smile on his lean, dark face.
She shook her head sadly. “Were this a bard’s tale, I could tell you. But as is all too often true, there’s no black or white. We right what wrongs we may, and do the best we can. It’s all anyone, truehuman or Dragonlord, can ever do.”
And with that, she blew out the oil lamp and crawled into bed. Jekkanadar wrapped his arms around her, and she fell asleep, still wondering what was right.
Thirty-one
The two men sat their horses and looked out to sea, sheltered from the fierce Jehangli sun in a shallow cave scooped by wind and wave from the cliff wall behind them.
Not that the harsh sunlight would have burned either of them. They were Tah’nehsieh, dwellers in the unforgiving desert, children of the red lands, darker than any Jehangli of the Phoenix Empire. But like all who knew the desert and respected it, they spared themselves and their mounts when they could.
One of the men, both younger and lighter of skin than his companion, sniffed the air. He smiled. Strange indeed was the briny tang, the taste of salt upon his lips. But familiar, somehow, and welcome. Perhaps it called to the northern part of his blood, the worlds his mother had told him of: high mountains covered with forests of pine and oak, maple and beech, then a life at sea. He tried to imagine so many trees standing straight and tall, crowded thickly together, crowned with green leaves. It was beyond him. All he saw in his mind’s eye were the scrubby trees he knew, the desert pine and scrub oaks near the mehanso. Few and far between were those trees, twisted and stunted by wind and sun and drought.