Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  He swore under his breath. “No sign of him?”

  “None,” came the tired answer.

  “Then we try again.”

  Someone groaned; the cloaked figures turned away from the light and disappeared like ghosts into the darkness once more.

  Soon Taren was just outside of the outlanders’ quarter.

  He came to one of the many small, arching stone bridges that spanned the canals. He slowed then, not wanting to lose his footing on the rain-slick pavement; hearing quick footsteps behind him, Taren moved to one side to allow the other to pass.

  “Taren? That is you, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”

  Taren hesitated a moment, then turned, a long, slender, needlelike blade now in his palm. He kept it hidden under his grass cloak. “I might,” he said, when he saw who it was, “ask the same of you, eh?”

  “I thought you were looking for something for Otter’s cough.”

  “I did, and a cursed lot of trouble I had to find it,” said Taren, pointing under his cloak with his free hand. “It’s right here. And look what else I found.”

  Another spasm of coughing took Otter. Maurynna supported him through it; at last it ended, leaving the bard limp and weak. He leaned back against the wall.

  Lleld hurried up with a cup of tea. “Here, drink this; perhaps it will help.” “It hasn’t yet,” Otter wheezed good-naturedly as he took the crude cup. “But it’s certainly better than nothing.” He drank. “Gods, what I’d give for a glass of good Pelnaran wine right now. Or better yet, Elenna’s ale.”

  “Indeed,” Maurynna said. She sighed. “That would mean we were home again.”

  Lleld sat on the edge of the low bed. “Where are they?” she complained.

  Curiosity aroused, the other wanderer came forward. “Oh? What—”

  “Hist! Quiet! Is that a guard coming up behind you?” Taren whispered.

  The man spun around, searching the rainy darkness. If he got into trouble—

  An arm slid around his neck. What! his mind screamed. His desperate fingers scrabbled at the iron grip that choked him but to no avail. Gasping, he sank to his knees. With a final effort he reached behind and tried to claw his attacker’s face. But all he succeeded in doing was knocking Taren’s hat off. He saw it fall over the side of the bridge.

  Taren’s voice snarled something in his ear but the man’s mind was too frozen with fear to understand. White-hot pain blazed through his skull.

  Xiane rode away from the hunting lodge with the uncomfortable feeling he’d played the coward, refusing to let Kirano speak any more of Xilu, insisting when he returned to the room that they speak of anything but that.

  Yes, it had been cowardly. But Phoenix help him, he was not ready to hear Kirano’s “truth” about his ancestor and the founding of their dynasty. He wasn’t certain he’d ever be ready to hear it.

  Because if everything he’d been taught all his life were a lie, Xiane knew there was only one thing he could do.

  And it was the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to do. Not so much for his own sake, but for Xahnu’s.

  No, he could never do such a thing to his son.

  But if it were the only way to right an ancient wrong?

  Xiane dug his spurs into his horse. Startled, it leaped into a gallop, leaving their escort to scramble after.

  He would think about it another time. Now he wanted to lose himself in Shei-Luin’s charms.

  Ironic, Xiane thought, how the father could frighten and the daughter entice.

  “Linden! Linden! I found him!”

  Linden turned back from the stinking alley he was just about to search with a sigh of relief. He saw two figures hurrying to him, one helping the other along. Linden ran to meet them.

  “Good work, Laeris. Taren! Are you well?” he called.

  The face that peered up at him when he reached the two men was deathly pale, and the eyes glittered with fever. The rain sluiced down his face.

  “I apologize for being so much trouble,” Taren said with a smile that was but a tired shadow of his usual sweet one. “I had to go much further than I thought I would. Then a bout of this old sickness took me and I had to sit in a doorway and rest for a very long time. But”—he patted his beltpouch—“I have Otter’s medicine. Shall we take it to him?”

  Magic. Magic walked through his dreams, a magic of a kind he’d not felt in far too long.

  Northern magic. Dragon magic.

  The old dragon stirred in his sleep, twisted and turned as he had not done for many lives of men. Far above, the surface of the lake swirled angrily; waves threw themselves against the shores.

  Those of humankind who lived along those shores stared in wonder as their placid lake tossed as if in a storm—but the night was still.

  “Ah,” they told each other. “It’s the Old One. He stirs.”

  Far below, the old dragon sank back into his dreams. The time of his awakening had not yet come.

  But soon.

  Thirty-seven

  A fruit seller, rising early to get the best place by the gate, caught sight of a straw hat bobbing in the water by the pilings at the far end of the bridge. Whistling with delight, he wheeled his laden barrow across and, after making certain no one was about to steal his melons, leaped the parapet and scrambled down the steep bank.

  Ah, it was a fine hat—at least compared to his own, which was frayed and tattered at the edges. He reached for it eagerly, one hand gripping a projecting stone to support himself, the fingertips of the other just grasping the hat. He tugged at it.

  It was caught on something, something under the bridge. He sighed; was nothing in his life ever to be easy? Grumbling, the man leaned out a little further and looked under the span.

  It took some moments before he realized what he gazed on. Then he was up and climbing the bank as fast as he could. Grabbing his wheelbarrow once more, he hurried to the market. Some of the city guard would be there even this early. Let them deal with a drowned body. He wanted nothing more to do with it—or the hat.

  Raven, in his guise as servant, was the first downstairs the next morning. He walked into the main room of the inn to find it filled with men dressed alike in red and gold, wearing helmets and bearing weapons—the first he’d seen in Jehanglan.

  Soldiers! We’ve been betrayed, he thought in a panic. His knees almost gave way; suddenly it was hard to breathe. He stopped, one hand on the newel post, hoping they wouldn’t turn around and notice him.

  Idiot; of course they will. You stick out as badly as a purple sheep in a flock. Still, he could hope. He carefully eased one foot onto the lowest stairstep, intending to sneak back upstairs.

  They noticed. Or, rather, the innkeeper pointed him out to the soldiers. One came toward him; it was easy to see this one was in charge. He stared at Raven’s hair and eyes, then made some comment Raven could make no sense of. The other guards looked uneasily at each other.

  The man spoke again, slowly; he paused, as if expecting a response.

  Raven could only stare down at the Jehangli. His breath came short and fast. He’d never been so frightened in his life; part of him stayed aloof enough to despise himself for it.

  The soldier—Captain?—Raven’s mind named a rank—frowned and spoke once, more sharply this time. He gestured impatiently.

  Raven started as footsteps came down the stairs behind him. He turned to see Jekkanadar. As always, the Dragonlord’s dark, lean face was calm. Raven went weak with relief; Jekkanadar would know what to do.

  The soldier repeated his earlier words. To his shame, this time Raven could make them out; the words were badly pronounced, but they were Assantikkan. Had he not been paralyzed with fear, he would have understood them.

  And he was the one they all depended upon to guard Maurynna? Gods help him, he was nothing but a coward.

  Then the meaning of the soldier’s words sank in.

  “Have body—you look. All look.”

  Everyone into Otter’s room! Ot
ter—pretend to be much sicker than you are; Maurynna, tend to him. We’ve unexpected company.

  Jekkanadar’s mindvoice burst into his mind; Linden cursed and sprang for the door, Maurynna and Lleld right behind him. He didn’t question Jekkanadar. The other Dragonlord would not have dared mindspeech unless the need was extreme.

  In moments they were in the room Otter and Raven shared. Otter was burrowing under the quilts on the bed as they entered. He sagged back against the pillow, feigning weakness; his sudden pallor, however, was real. Footsteps—too many footsteps—echoed down the hall.

  Lleld tugged a kerchief from her belt pouch. “Get that bowl of water and bathe his brow,” she whispered, tossing the kerchief to Maurynna.

  Maurynna grabbed the bowl and sat on the edge of the bed, wiping Otter’s pale face with the damp kerchief. Linden sat on the opposite side from her.

  The door flew open, and Jekkanadar and Raven entered, followed closely by Jehangli soldiers. As ever, Jekkanadar’s expression betrayed nothing. But Linden took one look at Raven’s ashen face and was sick at heart.

  Look at him—he’s well-nigh fainting with terror! And this boy is the one to guard Maurynna? Bitterest of all, he could say or do nothing. Raven was the only one they had.

  “Fool boy!” he snapped. “What kind of trouble have you brought us?”

  The harsh words had the effect he’d hoped for. The color came back to Raven’s face, and the glassy-eyed stare of terror turned into a burning glare of hatred.

  “That’s better, lad,” Linden said quietly in Yerrin. “Stop worrying; things may not be as bad as they seem.”

  At first he thought Raven didn’t understand his mountain accent. Then the gamble paid off; at the sound of his childhood language, surprise replaced hatred in Raven’s eyes. “Now take a deep breath; we’ll get out of this yet,” Linden continued. I hope.

  Raven’s chest rose in a long, slow breath and the boy nodded slightly in understanding.

  Linden stood up, pretending a calmness he didn’t feel. “What is this about?” he said to Jekkanadar. He walked casually around the bed, putting himself between Maurynna and the soldiers as if by chance.

  “They’ve found a body,” the other Dragonlord said. “They think he has something to do with us.”

  Linden frowned; who could it be? Taren was back with them, so it wasn’t—“Bloody hell—does anyone know if Willisen, Vaden, and Revien came back last night?”

  “Damnation,” Lleld breathed so softly only another Dragonlord might hear her.

  One soldier, evidently the leader, snapped, “Quiet!” and continued in broken Assantikkan to Jekkanadar, “What that one say? You all come. Now.”

  Linden switched to Assantikkan. “We’re traveling entertainers. Our singer is ill,” he began, gesturing at the grim-faced Otter. He gave up at the look of frustrated incomprehension on the Jehangli’s face.

  He’s getting maybe one word in three, Linden thought in frustration. If only we dared speak Jehangli! I’m certain we could make ourselves understood. He didn’t even consider waking Taren; the man had been near collapse last evening.

  The man turned to one of the other soldiers. “Find an interpreter who speaks Assantikkan,” the Jehangli ordered. The soldier saluted and left smartly.

  Thank the gods; the man has some sense. Linden exchanged a relieved glance with Jekkanadar.

  He considered asking Jekkanadar in arolan what was afoot, but the captain looked in a temper already; no sense in annoying him. If only he dared further mindspeech to find out what Jekkanadar knew. Who could it be? And what did this mean for them?

  He ground his teeth in quiet frustration.

  The captain snapped a low-voiced order to his men and the interpreter. Four of the soldiers left the room.

  Although the man had spoken too quickly for Linden to catch all he said, Linden was certain of the gist: “Round them all up. Bring them here.”

  That he’d guessed right was confirmed a short time later when the some of the members of the second troupe were herded in, Vaden stumbling and with red-rimmed, squinting eyes that spoke of too much raw wine.

  It must, an irreverent voice in the back of Linden’s mind noted, have been some dice game.

  The interpreter, a merchant’s clerk who spoke Assantikkan—of sorts—translated the captain’s tidings about the body found that morning. “Are any not here?” the translator finished.

  Dorilissa looked around. “I don’t speak much Assantikkan; will you tell him that we’re not all here yet, but—” She looked over at Vaden.

  “Left Willisen at the dice game with the sailors from our ship,” he mumbled. “He was dead drunk, so was the sailors; I couldn’t get him and me back.”

  “Revien?”

  “Found himself a whore to stay with—as usual.” Vaden groaned and held his head in his hands. “M’head hurts.”

  Jekkanadar told all this to the clerk, who passed it on to the Jehangli commander.

  The order came. “Captain Riushi wishes all to come.”

  “No,” Linden said immediately. “Of our people, the two young ones and the old man stay.” At all costs Maurynna must stay out of the hands of the soldiers; she was the mission. If something went wrong, and the soldiers cast them into jail after viewing the body, he could at least mindspeak her to get away.

  The captain’s head snapped around to look at him, no doubt wary at his tone; the soldiers still with him came to full attention.

  More of the other troupe filed in along with more soldiers. The latter came alert at the sight of their fellows standing at ready.

  “You see,” Jekkanadar said placatingly to the interpreter, “our singer is ill, and these two are but servants.” He waved at Maurynna, who still bathed Otter’s forehead, and Raven, who now brewed tea over the brazier. Otter coughed pitiably. “We don’t need them. He does.”

  The interpreter, a merchant’s clerk, took a moment to compose his thoughts—or steel himself to pass on their refusal—then spoke rapidly to the captain.

  The captain’s black eyes glittered with anger. But before he could say anything, the door opened once more and the rest of Dorilissa’s people squeezed into the crowded room along with Taren, who looked tired and ill. The soldier accompanying them went straight to the captain and whispered something in his ear.

  The captain was a stalwart man; his face betrayed nothing. But Linden saw the man’s gloved fist close convulsively on the hilt of his sword.

  Then, to Linden’s relief, after a long moment of reflection, the captain’s hand dropped and he nodded. But the look he turned on Linden said he had not forgotten—or forgiven—the defiance. The Jehangli smiled coldly and pointed to the door.

  Linden understood. He was to go and view the body as a punishment. He had no doubt that he had barely escaped worse.

  But what had held the man back?

  “I’d best go as well,” Dorilissa said, pushing her way to the front. “It might be …” She bit her lip. The others murmured, “Avert,” behind her.

  The soldiers herded them out of the room without even a chance to say good-bye. Linden looked back and almost wished he hadn’t at the sight of Maurynna’s stricken face.

  They were out in the street before anyone realized that another had joined them. Somehow Lleld had slipped into the group. Linden glared at her; she thumbed her nose in return.

  As they passed through the streets, Jehangli everywhere stopped to stare. There were comments about Linden’s size, his Marking, and the color of his hair. None were looked upon favorably. “Yellow ox” was one of the least insulting observations. Dorilissa’s florid complexion also drew a number of scathing remarks.

  But most of the comments were about Lleld’s red hair. A few mothers even covered their children’s eyes as the little Dragonlord passed.

  They went much farther than Linden had supposed they would, past a placard that he suspected marked the border of the foreigners’ quarter, and into a section of shabby buildings sep
arated by canals. As they went over one bridge—a good walk from the hostel—the captain pointed to the water and said something to the clerk that Linden couldn’t catch.

  “He found there,” the clerk said in his pitiful Assantikkan.

  Linden exchanged a surprised glance with Lleld. Why so far away? And who was it?

  Gods, but it was hard not to use mindspeech! Linden nearly cursed aloud in frustration. But looming over the lesser buildings were the gilded towers of a temple, or so he guessed it to be by the images of a great golden bird upon them; they didn’t dare use mindspeech again so close to a priestmages’ lair.

  The captain led them to a wooden building a short distance beyond the fatal bridge. Guards stood on either side of the door. They snapped to attention as the captain pushed the interpreter inside first, then went in himself, the Dragonlords and Dorilissa close on his heels. The guards followed, bringing up the rear.

  Inside was lit with smoky torches stuck into rings in the walls. The room looked to be a warehouse of sorts; there were wooden boxes that had, judging by the marks in the dirt floor, been shoved aside to clear a space.

  The reason lay upon a straw mat in the center of the room. It was the body of a man, his face uncovered, a rough canvas sheet pulled up to his neck. Thin brown hair, coated with some substance, hung in stiff rattails; in the torchlight the sallow skin looked like wax.

  Although it was what they’d expected, they all stopped short. The captain looked at them.

  “Oh, gods,” Dorilissa said weakly. She swayed; Linden caught her arm. For a moment Dorilissa clung to him, her eyes locked on the corpse before them. Then she drew herself up and stepped away from Linden.

  “It’s Revien,” she said. Tears shone on her cheeks. “Revien, you pain in the ass, what were you—” Her voice broke. Dorilissa turned away, her face buried in her hands.