Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  Yesuin rolled his eyes. “Give over, Yemal. We both know it’s a lie. Why don’t you kill me and have done with it?” he said wearily.

  Would Yemal really kill his brother? Linden thought, sickened. Yesuin certainly seems to expect it.

  “I’d thought the Jehangli would take care of that for me,” Yemal said. “But I should have known Xiane would be too weak for that.”

  “He is a true friend,” Yesuin said quietly. “Would that he had been my brother.”

  Yemal struck his brother a powerful back-handed blow across the face, nearly felling him. But Yesuin kept his feet; he said nothing, merely stared at Yemal. Blood from a split lower lip trickled down his chin.

  “Think you to return and take the tribes from me?” Yemal challenged.

  “What use? They won’t follow me. They no longer know me; they know you. No, Yemal, I was on my way to the Tah’nehsieh.”

  Ghulla’s head turned sharply to him. “Why there?” she said.

  “Because long, long ago, before I was given as a hostage to the Jehangli, Zhantse said that when the time came—and it would—I might live with the Tah’nehsieh if I wished,” Yesuin answered.

  The sightless eyes fixed on him as if they would bore through to his soul. “You speak the truth,” she said at last. Then, “Yemal, if Zhantse wants him, you must not kill him.”

  “I will do as I please, old woman. Remember that, and all will be well.”

  Dzeduin and the others drew sharp breaths. They looked uneasily from Seer to temur.

  Ghulla cackled like a mad hen. “Temur you may be, boy, but you remember that I am Ghulla, servant of K‘rahi. Never forget it’s bad luck to threaten a Seer, especially in the ham’sul.”

  Yemal snorted at that and turned his back on her, but Linden suspected the disdainful gesture was nine parts bluff; he’d caught the troubled look in the temur’s eyes.

  “Yemal,” Dzeduin said in an urgent undertone, “it’s bad luck to cross a Seer. Hurt Yesuin, and you’ll be crossing two. If Zhantse wants Yesuin, let him have him, by the Mother! We’ve just started a war—we don’t need any curses upon us!”

  Ghulla cackled, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. Her head bobbed on her bony shoulders. “A wise pup are you, Dzeduin, and so young! Listen well to him, Yemal, now and always. When the way is clear, let Yesuin go to Zhantse. Until then, I claim him; he shall stay here in the ham’sul with me.”

  Linden heard a tiny sigh of relief escape Yesuin, and saw Jekkanadar’s lips twitch as if he hid a smile.

  Yemal turned a glare of angry frustration from Seer to foster brother. At last he growled, “Very well, then.” Turning to the Dragonlords and Otter, he said sharply, “Come!”

  The news of Xiane’s death plunged the imperial palace into chaos. Weeping servants ran to and fro, wailing that now the marauding Zharmatians would kill them all.

  Shei-Luin, striding through the public portion of the palace like a tiger, caught one of the lesser ministers by the sleeve as he ran past. When he turned to her, wailing, “We are lost! We are lost!” she slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

  Only then did he truly see her. “Phoenix Lady!” he gasped, and sank to his knees.

  “Worthless one,” she snapped, though it was painful to talk with her swollen cheek, “find the lords and ministers of high rank and bid them to the audience hall, do you hear? Bid them come on pain of death. Go!”

  Clearly terrified, the man wobbled upright and ran off. Shei-Luin turned to Murohshei and Zyuzin, who had shadowed her since her return from the garden.

  “Murohshei—see that he obeys, then come to me. Zyuzin, go to the nursery. Have Xahnu brought to my quarters.”

  It was late when Shei-Luin entered the audience hall she had dared moons earlier. This time though, she swept in as empress, not as an importunate concubine. Behind her came Murohshei, a sleepy and confused Xahnu whimpering in his arms.

  Shei-Luin noted the faces as she passed: who looked upon her with hate, who looked to her for guidance, who looked merely confused and afraid. Step by sure step she came to the stairs leading to the dais. At the top were the thrones of Jehanglan. She paused to gaze at them a moment before turning to Murohshei and taking Xahnu from him.

  Then she started up the stairs. Hugging Xahnu, she whispered in his ear, “Don’t cry, my little phoenix. All is well. Be brave. I will let nothing hurt you.”

  By the time she reached the dais, Xahnu was quiet in her arms. She turned to face the mightiest lords of Jehanglan.

  “Your emperor is dead,” she cried. “But your empress and your next emperor live. The barbarians howl on the borders, and Jehanglan is in peril. Seek to take the throne, each man for himself, and Jehanglan falls to the wolves.”

  Silence greeted her words. She felt the panic beneath it; they knew she spoke the truth. Cradling Xahnu against her, she turned and walked to the thrones. She paused before the throne of Riya-Akono—her throne.

  A quick movement, and before anyone could cry a protest, she sat upon the Phoenix throne, Xahnu on her lap.

  “I claim this throne for my son,” she said, her voice ringing throughout the room. “I claim this throne as regent. Who shall follow me and save Jehanglan?”

  No one moved. Xahnu squirmed in her lap, uneasy at the mounting tension. Shei-Luin counted her heartbeats.

  Then old General V’Choun came forward to stop at the foot of the stairs. His eyes were red, and he looked years older. Shei-Luin remembered that Xiane had spoken of him with affection. She held her breath, waiting for his words; they were life and death to her.

  “I would not see my country torn apart, lady. I will pledge my fealty to the next emperor through you.” He knelt and pressed his head to the floor.

  Lord Musahi was next. One by one, the other lords and ministers followed.

  Shei-Luin sat upon the Phoenix throne of Jehanglan and accepted their homage, her son asleep now on her lap.

  “Do you think Yesuin will be safe?” Linden said in an undertone as they followed Yemal and Dzeduin back to their tent. During the journey to the Zharmatian camp, he’d come to like the escaped hostage.

  “Oh, yes,” Jekkanadar replied in a tone of absolute conviction. “Perfectly safe.”

  Surprised, Linden asked, “How can you be so certain?”

  Jekkanadar turned to him and smiled. “Ghulla’s tent is a Mousehole.”

  Raven lay on the far side of the dying fire. Unable to sleep, Maurynna pushed aside her blankets aside and sat up. Her thoughts whirled through her mind. Ever since meeting Miune, she wondered one thing over and over.

  Could it really be something that simple? That Kyrissaean had been frightened all this time?

  It couldn’t be. She would scream if it was. But if …

  Only one way to find out; moving as quietly as she could, Maurynna stood up and slipped out of the camp. When Boreal made to follow her, she waved him back.

  At last she stopped. She tried to let her mind empty as she’d heard Linden and the other Dragonlords talk about. Then she willed herself to Change.

  For a moment she thought it was about to happen; her joy was so great she nearly cried aloud. But then a thread of memory came back: her First Change, and the pain … .

  Panicking, she pulled back. She found herself on her knees in the coarse grass, her chest heaving as she fought for air. She still couldn’t Change.

  The gods damn it all, she was sick of this! She slammed her fists against the ground, heedless of the pain, past caring if she injured herself. What did it matter? She wasn’t a real Dragonlord. Again and yet again she pounded the hard-packed earth, ignoring the jarring pain up her arms, her teeth clenched against the howls of frustration that tore at her throat while hot tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Why? Why me? WhywhywhywhyWHY am I like this? Why, damn it—why? How long the frenzy lasted, she didn’t know. But when it was over, she sat back, hiccuping as she looked at her sore hands. They ached, and were black with dirt and stain
ed green from the grass. Lost in a false calmness born of exhaustion both emotional and physical, she wiped her cheeks with a sleeve and studied her hands again. Stray thoughts ran through her numbed mind.

  I’m going to regret this tomorrow.

  I still can ’t Change.

  Hope I didn’t break anything. She flexed her fingers; everything still worked.

  That was stupid. I guess Miune was wrong …

  Then a little voice at the back of her mind asked, Was he? Or was all this because of Kyrissaean’s fear—or your own?

  Too exhausted to care anymore, Maurynna pushed herself to her feet. She walked slowly back to the camp; Boreal met her halfway.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she twined the fingers of one hand into his long mane.

  They continued on together until they reached her blankets. Suddenly cold, Maurynna sank down and pulled them around her. She didn’t bother calling up a heat spell; she knew it wouldn’t help. This was a coldness of the spirit, not the body.

  Boreal touched his nose to her forehead before wandering off. His breath was warm and somehow comforting. Maurynna closed her eyes to wait for the dawn. It would be a long time coming.

  Forty-six

  Far-off thunder rumbled among the low clouds clinging to the top of the nearby, triple-peaked mountain. Maurynna paused as she laid the fire and looked up. Lightning danced along the craggy peaks.

  “Wonder if it’ll come this way,” Raven said as he dumped a meager load of firewood by her. “This was all I could find; wood is scarce in these parts.”

  Boreal and Stormwind wove back and forth along the sandy floor of the dry streambed, heads held high. They stared at the storm on the mountain, watching the lightning intently. Their noses touched.

  As if that were a signal, they trotted back to where the two-foots had set up camp. Maurynna reached up to rub Boreal’s nose; to her surprise, he caught her hand in his strong white teeth and tugged gently.

  She stood, baffled. “What is it?” she asked as he released her fingers. “Is there something you want to show me?”

  For an answer the grey stallion wheeled around and seized her saddlebag in his teeth. With a grunt, Boreal heaved it from the ground and surged up the wall of the streambed. Stormwind did the same with Raven’s.

  Maurynna and Raven gaped at each other in surprise, then ran to catch the Llysanyins.

  “Boreal!” Maurynna said, catching the stallion’s mane, “what are you doing? This is where we’re camping.”

  But Boreal ignored her as he heaved his way up the crumbling banks. Maurynna had to let go or be dragged along. She looked up at him, fuming. The light was fading fast and she had no intention of fumbling in the dark for a new campsite. “Get back here—both of you!” she shouted, for Stormwind followed close behind his herdmate.

  Boreal dropped the saddlebag and neighed from the top of the bank. He danced back and forth along the bank, plainly urging her to join him. Stormwind also dropped his burden; but instead of joining Boreal in his dance, the grey-maned stallion stood still, looking into the distance—at what, Maurynna couldn’t see from her lower vantage point. After a few moments Boreal joined him. Together they watched … something.

  “What are they looking at?” Raven asked.

  “I don’t know,” Maurynna said uneasily. Yet whatever it was, they allowed its approach. It wasn’t dangerous, then; the Llysanyins wouldn’t be so complacent.

  Her curiosity was soon satisfied. The Llysanyins, who had stood shoulder to shoulder against whatever approached out of the deepening gloom, now moved apart. The next moment, a horse and rider appeared on the bank.

  Maurynna gaped up at the interloper. In the dimness even she was hard pressed to make out details. Man or woman? The figure wore a short kilt topped by a kind of wrapping made of gaily woven wool that revealed nothing of the rider’s form.

  But if their visitor was male, he wore his hair longer than any man she’d ever seen, black and arrow-straight to his waist. The stranger stared calmly down at them and shook—his? her?—head slightly, the Llysanyins on either side.

  “Are you truly planning to camp there?” the rider called down to them.

  While not as deep as Linden’s, the voice was definitely male. Him, then.

  “We are, indeed. I’m not going any farther tonight, thank you,” Maurynna snapped.

  Her next acid comment died in a confused gasp. She stared, open-mouthed, up at the stranger.

  Here, deep in Jehanglan, someone had spoken Yerrin to them. She turned to Raven; he looked just as stunned as she felt.

  “Then your horses are wiser than you are,” the stranger retorted, still in that language. He pointed at the three peaks of the distant mountain. “When the Storm Brothers dance on the mountains, it’s death to be caught in the washes.”

  Raven recovered before she did. He said, “How do you speak Yerrin?”

  The stranger made an impatient gesture. “I’ll tell you if you’ll get your fool selves out of that wash. Any time now, it’ll turn into a river with the rain off of D’sah’nii’joos, the Three Sisters.”

  Maurynna looked to the triple-peaked mountain. Yes, the Three Sisters would be a good name for that one. And the stranger’s words made sense. Even from here she could hear thunder. She nodded to Raven. They hurried to gather the rest of their things together. The Llysanyins slipped and slid down the banks.

  Maurynna tied the little bundle of wood with a length of twine from Boreal’s saddlebag. No sense in wasting it; as Raven said, the stuff was scarce. Raven quickly saddled the Llysanyins. She tossed him the bundle and he bound the wood to the back of Stormwind’s saddle.

  They mounted once again—Maurynna with a groan—and set the Llysanyins to the bank. The powerful animals heaved themselves up it a second time.

  The stranger slid off his small, shaggy horse and tossed their saddlebags up to them before jumping back into his own saddle.

  “Away from here,” he ordered. “Sometimes the banks crumble when the flood comes through.” He wheeled his horse away. It sprang into a gallop. Boreal and Stormwind followed at an easy lope.

  They had only gone a short distance when a far-off rumble caught Maurynna’s ear. It drew closer, growing louder with each heartbeat. She halted Boreal and looked back at the wash, curious.

  With a roar, a wall of water thundered through the wash, surging over the banks. In a kind of horrified fascination, she watched the bank they’d stood on such a short time before melt into the rioting flood. The sudden river had a new, wider bed to rush through.

  A chill ran down her spine. We would have died in that. Sailor that she was, the thought of a watery death frightened her.

  Boreal pirouetted once more and leaped after Raven and the stranger. She didn’t try to hold him back. Instead, she held on to her saddlebag as well as she could, letting the reins fall onto Boreal’s neck, concentrating on keeping her aching body in the saddle.

  She caught up with Raven and the stranger a short time later. They had stopped, waiting for her. Boreal halted before the stranger’s shaggy mount.

  Caught between fear and curiosity, Maurynna studied the man; he returned the compliment. Finally she said, “Thank you. We’re strangers to this land and would have been caught in that like rabbits in a snare.”

  “You’re welcome, Maurynna Kyrissaean.” He laughed at her start of surprise. “Yes, I know both of your names, lady. A … friend told me about you and asked that I look out for you.” Mischief glinted in his eyes.

  “A friend?” Maurynna began in confusion; her heart was still hammering in fright at hearing her full name. Then she laughed. He had to mean the youngling waterdragon; who else in Jehanglan knew?

  The stranger smiled; a wide, friendly smile that called forth an answering grin from her, it was so infectious. “I see you understand of whom I speak. I’m Shima, spirit drummer to Zhantse, shaman of the Tah’nehsieh.”

  “That doesn’t explain how you come to speak Yerrin,” Ra
ven said roughly.

  “Your pardon; I should have introduced myself in your fashion. I’m Shima Larkson of the Wolf Clan.”

  “Your father”—here the man shook his head—“your mother, then, is Yerrin? How is that?” Maurynna asked.

  “Indeed; how did a Yerrin come to be here?” Raven said with a scowl, his voice full of suspicion. He turned to Maurynna. “And who is this friend, anyway, that you both seem to know?” he demanded.

  “To answer your first question, 0 Man-whose-name-I-do-not-know, my mother, Lark Hollydaughter, was shipwrecked on these shores,” Shima said. “I take my Yerrin clan from her.” He looked pointedly at Raven. Courtesy now demanded that Raven identify himself.

  The look was wasted. Raven merely glared back at him, unsatisfied, his lips pressed together in a stubborn line Maurynna knew only too well.

  Said Raven, “That still doesn’t tell me who’s making so free with Rynna’s names.” He locked his arms across his chest, looking prepared to wait until dawn for his answer.

  Maurynna smothered a sigh. “Shima, tell him. He won’t be satisfied if I say it; he’ll think you’re only agreeing with me to lull our suspicions.”

  Shima nodded slowly. “Fair enough, that. The friend of whom we speak is Miune Kihn, one of the last waterdragons in Jehanglan. He may well be the last; I’ve never seen another. But Miune says he can feel others deep asleep under their lakes far away. I hope for his sake it’s not merely wishful thinking.”

  Raven turned to her. “The dragon at the river—?”

  “The one who freed me of Kyrissaean’s interference,” Maurynna said shortly. “Therefore, yes, I deem him ‘friend.’ May we please be done with this farce? I’d like to camp sometime before morning, please. I’m not the rider you are, and I hurt, damn it.”

  Raven bit his lip. “I’m sorry; I forgot.” To Shima he said, “Raven Redhawkson, Marten Clan,” all belligerence gone.

  Shima nodded. “Well met, Raven Redhawkson. Follow me, please; I know a good place to camp not far way.”