Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  “It’s nearly dawn. If you hurry, you can get to the eastern edge of the plateau before the phoenix of the sun rises. Sing there, Hodai, in the wilderness, and only there until I give you leave, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Hodai breathed.

  “Go then, little Oracle, and remember—this voice is yours for as long as the Phoenix shall live.”

  Hodai threw himself upon Haoro’s sandaled feet and kissed them. Then he sprang up and ran for the door, wild with joy.

  This day he would greet the Phoenix.

  After Hodai left, Haoro wearily ran his hands over his face. One last thing to do in what was left of this night of nights. He would have a while, he knew, before Hodai returned, but he wanted this done with.

  Despite the fatigue weighing him down, Haoro walked swiftly through the passageways of the temple until he came to the door that led to the nira’s chambers. The guard before the door was one loyal to Haoro; he looked straight ahead as the priest slipped into the room.

  Once inside the door, Haoro paused to listen. Soft snores came from the other room. Satisfied, Haoro went to the little cabinet that held teas and other such things. Opening it, he searched until he found the laquered canister of ground rice flour; Pah-Ko, he knew, was fond of rice gruel when he couldn’t sleep.

  Haoro reached into his sleeve and withdrew a folded packet of rice paper. Opening in, he poured the contents into the rice flour. As he’d thought, they were much the same color as the rice. One would have to have a sharp eye indeed to see the addition.

  Satisfied, Haoro returned the now-empty packet to the pocket in his sleeve, and left. Now it was only a matter of time.

  Forty-nine

  Lightheaded with excitement, Hodai watched the eastern sky change color, glowing gold and apricot. Any moment now, the rim of the sun would show above the distant horizon.

  Wait, wait—just a little more … . He saw it!

  In the instant between the opening of his mouth and the first notes of the morning hymn, a whirling disorientation he recognized washed over him, the herald of a prophecy.

  Then, before he could stop it, his new voice poured forth, and the world snapped back into focus. Too overjoyed to wonder what he might have Seen, Hodai poured his soul into the paean to the sun.

  And when he sang the first notes of the Song, he knew that this was what the Phoenix sounded like, and tears of happiness rained down his cheeks. He was complete now.

  The argument had gone on for far too long. Shima’s head was aching, and the northerner showed no signs of giving up.

  “Who the hell are you to tell me I can’t go?” Raven bellowed. “Of course I’m going. Maurynna needs me.”

  He did not, Shima noticed, look at Maurynna as he said that.

  Shima sighed. It would be very long indeed before he forgave Zhantse. This hothead might have accepted the shaman’s word; he certainly wasn’t going to take the word of a potential rival. Groundless as it was, Shima saw suspicion in the bright blue eyes. Mustering what was left of his patience, he said yet again, “I told you: the skin dye won’t work on you. Not with those freckles; they’d show through. No Jehangli or Tah’nehsieh has them.”

  He silently blessed all the spirits that he had not inherited his mother’s fair northern skin—and freckles, else they would truly have a problem. “Besides,” he continued, “Zhantse has nothing to turn that red, curly hair of yours straight and pure black, either. You would look wrong, Raven. Wrong enough to bring a guard over, and all he’d need then is one look at your northern eyes. We’d be captured before we could begin.”

  “Rynna has ’northern eyes’ as well,” Raven snapped.

  Shima waited for Maurynna to speak, but she just sat, staring at the floor as if the answers to all her questions might be found there.

  “True, but her hair is black and straight enough—and long enough—to pass for a Tah’nehsieh. And she has no freckles to betray her beneath the skin dye. A quick glimpse of her won’t attract closer attention from a guard. All she has to do is keep her gaze lowered.”

  “He’s right,” his mother said. “Believe me, Raven. I’ve tried the dye and it doesn’t work.” She held out a curl of her fiery red hair, and said with mock sadness, “I never even tried to disguise this. Miracles are for the gods.”

  She looked so woebegone that even Raven smiled, albeit reluctantly. But it was clear he was still not convinced. Shima saw fury smoldering unabated in the other man’s eyes.

  Before Raven could erupt again in anger, a voice from the other side of the blanketed doorway of the outer room called, “Hoh neshla,” the traditional Tah’nehsieh greeting at the door of a dwelling.

  Zhantse! Shima’s shoulders sagged in relief. Thank the Spirits that the Seer was here. Maybe he could talk some sense into this stubborn northerner. Otherwise this argument would chase its own tail into tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that … .

  “Enter, Grandfather,” his mother called in Tah’nehsieh and went to greet him.

  Maurynna, who until now had sat quietly to one side, cocked her head at Shima. “Zhantse?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded and fell silent again. Shima wondered again at her silence. He’d not thought her one to sit passively by while others decided her fate. Indeed, if—as had been revealed in conversation with his mother earlier this morning—she’d once been the captain of her own ship, she was used to making decisions and taking charge of her own life. Yet here she sat quietly, arms clasping her folded legs, though at times during the morning it looked as if she struggled with something, some idea or decision.

  What could it be? Before he could chase down the possibilities coursing through his mind like so many rabbits, Zhantse entered the inner room. Shima readied a folded rug for his master to sit upon; stone floors were hard. He heard his mother fetching a beaker of cool water from the water jar for their new guest. He held himself ready to translate; Zhantse had precious little Yerrin, and Raven had barely more Jehangli.

  The Seer sat down with a nod of thanks. But before Zhantse could speak, Raven snapped at him, “Is this your idea, that I stay behind?”

  Both Shima and his mother gasped. This was rudeness, speaking so to an elder and speaking first. Shima reluctantly translated the ill-mannered words as if doing so tainted him with Raven’s discourtesy. Zhantse listened and studied the younger man challenging him.

  It was Raven who looked away.

  Only then did Zhantse speak. “Yes,” was all he said, his voice mild as ever. “I Saw it. I Saw that this mission will fail if you’re with Maurynna. You will be discovered, and you will die, as will Maurynna and Shima. Without you they have a chance.” He spoke Jehangli, Shima noted, so that Maurynna could understand.

  His mother caught her breath and left the room.

  Shima translated for Raven. But his mind raced over Zhantse’s words.

  Without you, they have a chance. Not Without you, they will succeed.

  That the future was veiled from Zhantse’s Sight did not bode well. Shima felt the first clutch of fear he’d known since he’d heard that the one from the prophecy was coming.

  Yet if the land were to survive, the risk must be taken.

  He prayed. Shashannu, Lady of the Sky, help us.

  A torrent of objections spilled from Raven’s lips. There was no time for translation. Not that Zhantse seemed to expect it; again he sat, letting the younger man’s anger flow over and around him, never allowing it to ruffle him.

  Yet there was another it touched. For now Maurynna roused herself from her earlier withdrawal; her odd-colored eyes blazed. Shima braced himself for a battle worthy of the gods. Even Zhantse betrayed a flicker of nervousness.

  But her voice was quiet—dangerously quiet—when she spoke. “Raven.” That was all; the single word, no louder than a sparrow’s wings in the dawn.

  Still, it stopped Raven. He stood, watching her, fists clenched tight against his sides.

  “Don’t make
me say it, Raven,” Maurynna said. She might have been discussing the weather.

  Say what? Shima wondered.

  Raven tossed his head back. Impossibly, the knuckles of the clenched fists turned whiter. “It’s the only way I won’t, Rynna,” he said. Then, challenging: “Are you certain you want to?”

  Say what? Shima wanted to scream.

  “No, I don’t. You know that.” The words were soft. She looked as if they hurt her.

  “Then I’m going.”

  Sorrow replaced pain, and in its turn gave way to stern majesty. Shima held his breath.

  “You’re not going, Raven.” A catch of breath, then: “Dragonlord’s orders.” The words meant little to Shima but clearly much to Raven. For the other man’s face went deadly pale; he shook as if with fever. But when he spoke, his voice matched Maurynna’s note for calm note.

  “As you wish … Dragonlord.” And Raven walked out, a terrible calmness wrapped around him.

  Maurynna put her head down on her knees and cried.

  It was not until the evening that Shima was able to speak to his mother without one of the northerners, his sister, or a member of the tribe present. He found her in the storeroom, looking over her supplies of dyed grass and reed lacing for making baskets. At least, that was what she seemed to be doing. But by the look on her face, Lark’s mind was miles upon miles away. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat a second time that she came back to herself.

  “Oh—I’m sorry, Shima. I—I didn’t notice you. I was … busy deciding what colors to use for a new basket.” But it was not indecision that filled her eyes.

  “You were worrying,” Shima said bluntly. “Because of what Zhantse said this morning.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, and looked away. “I’m—” She shook her head and wouldn’t finish.

  But Shima knew what she refused to say. “Afraid? So am I. But it must be done. You know this.”

  “I know. But I’m a mother, and you a child of my body. It’s my right and my burden to fear for my children.” Once more she met his gaze; her eyes begged, Let us speak of other things.

  Shima was only too happy to agree. “What Maurynna said to Raven—‘Dragonlord’s orders’—Is she one who must be obeyed as the Jehangli obey their emperor?”

  A smile twitched at his mother’s fear-thinned lips. “Not quite the same; I’ve never heard of a Dragonlord ordering anyone to death for not obeying—but I’ve also never heard of anyone ever disobeying, either.” The smile broke through. “I think folk consider it most … unwise to anger someone who can turn into a dragon—and sit on you.”

  “Ouch,” said Shima, unable to repress a smile of his own at a sudden memory. He’d had a dragon sit on him. Luckily, never very hard.

  “Besides, like bards and Healers, Dragonlords are considered the favored of the gods in the Five Kingdoms. And only a fool annoys the gods.”

  “So people obey,” Shima said, thoughtfully.

  “The wise do,” said Lark. “Remember that.”

  “Where are you going, Maurynna?” Shima asked from behind her.

  Maurynna stopped and turned, shading her eyes with a hand. Shima was striding down the steep trail that led to the little cliff house that was Zhantse’s. Today he wore sandals of woven grass that slapped against the rock, raising a little puff of red dust with each step.

  She waited for him. “Down to the pasture to visit Boreal. Would you like to come?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  His face lit with delight and he rushed down the last quarter of the trail; she laughed and set off again.

  After a time, Shima asked, “Where is Raven this morning?”

  “Riding, I suspect. It’s what he does when he’s upset. It will … It will take him a little while to accept that he has to stay behind.”

  “So he’s sulking?”

  “Not really, he’s just … You have to understand—we’ve always gotten in and out of trouble together,” Maurynna said plaintively. “We’ve always looked out for each other.”

  “Ah. And now that you’re getting into the worst trouble of your life—” Shima let the sentence hang.

  “Just so. Raven can’t be there, and I know it hurts him. Even after this is over, he won’t be the one I count on, because …”

  Because everything in my life turned topsy-turvy a few months ago. And through no fault of his own, Raven’s suddenly standing at the door looking in—and not just with me, but also with his own family.

  Not that Raven was making life any easier for anyone. Maurynna sighed, reflected she’d done quite a lot of that lately, and caught herself sighing again. “Oh, blast it all,” she snapped at no one.

  Shima wisely said nothing.

  Shei-Luin left the audience hall after hearing the day’s latest petitions and giving orders for the defense of Jehanglan against the invading Zharmatians. Minister Musahi walked at her side; Murohshei, as always, was one step behind.

  “Arrangements must be made to send the heirs to the mountains to avoid the fevers,” Musahi said.

  Shei-Luin frowned. “I would keep them with me a while longer,” she said, “for the people to see Xahnu, their emperor-to-be. But make the arrangements, Minister, for them to travel there from Rivasha. They can go after Xahnu and I make sacrifices to the Phoenix in the temple there.”

  Musahi bowed. “As you wish, Phoenix Lady,” he said, and left her.

  When they were alone, Shei-Luin said to Murohshei, “There is yet one more thing I must do to make all safe for my sons. Escort me to the chamber of Lord Jhanun’s niece, Nama.”

  “As you wish, Flower of the West. This way.”

  As they entered the little meadow with its spring-fed pool, Maurynna could see only three Llysanyins standing hands above the tribe’s smaller horses. It was as she’d guessed; Raven had taken Stormwind out. She couldn’t blame him, she thought, as she stuck two fingers in the corners of her mouth and whistled. During his ride, Raven would come to see the sense of their objections. At least, she hoped he would. He could be sensible at times.

  As the shrill blast of the whistle echoed off the valley walls, Boreal shouldered his way through the little herd; the Two Poor Bastards followed. Once clear, Boreal tossed his head and kicked up his heels like a yearling colt as he ran, finishing by prancing to a halt before her.

  Maurynna rubbed his nose. “Silly,” she said affectionately, her good humor restored. Beyond him she could see Trissin and Jhem coming up.

  Boreal snorted, the noise almost covering up the small, wistful sound behind her. Maurynna looked over her shoulder.

  Shima was staring at Boreal like a hungry little boy at a tray of sweets that he wasn’t allowed to touch. A thought came to her.

  “We’ll have to ride to Mount Kajhenral, won’t we?” she asked.

  A nod was all the answer Shima spared her.

  “And if—And when we make our escape, we’ll have to ride like hell to get away, yes?”

  Shima came back to himself at that. “Spirits, yes! They’ll try to ride us down.”

  “They won’t ride Boreal down. But your horse will never be able to keep up with him,” Maurynna said flatly.

  Shima drew himself up. “Pirii will do what she can,” he said. But she heard the faint note of defeat.

  This is probably useless, Maurynna thought as she looked once more at the Llysanyins. If Linden couldn’t convince them before … Ah, well, they won’t trample me for asking.

  Yet before she said a word, Trissin nipped at his brother to chase him away, and strode up to Shima. The iron grey Llysanyin rested his nose on the man’s shoulder. When Shima—whose eyes were huge—didn’t move, Trissin nudged him sharply and swung broadside to him.

  “Mount up,” an astonished Maurynna said to the stunned Shima. “You’ve been chosen.”

  “The child you bear is a danger to mine,” Shei-Luin said. “Whose is it?”

  “I never knew his name. He wouldn’t tell me, so that I couldn’t curse him and his ancesto
rs.” The pale, bloated face turned to her, eyes red from crying.

  Nama was oddly calm; surely she must know why Shei-Luin was here, and what it meant. Calm—or too exhausted to care.

  Nama pushed herself up from the bed and staggered to her feet. Her swollen belly dragged at her; she shuffled across the floor to stand face-to-face with Shei-Luin. Her lips pulled back in a terrible parody of a smile.

  At last, Shei-Luin, thought with contempt, the rabbit stands up for herself. But she suppressed a shiver. For an instant, with her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and grimace, Nama looked like one of the demon masks actors wore onstage.

  The burning eyes fixed on Shei-Luin. Said Nama, “I don’t know who he was, or where he came from. All I know is that he looked like Xiane, and that was why my uncle had him brought to the imperial city—so he could get me with child.”

  The voice, harsh as a crow’s with weeping, rose to a shriek with the next words. “He raped me—again and again and again! He would tell me he was sorry—hah!—then force himself on me. For moons it went on, no matter how I begged, no matter how I fought, until I was pregnant. Only then did it end!” There was no longer any trace of the pretty young girl in the contorted face.

  Nama turned sharply, nearly falling. She showed none of the heavy grace common with pregnant women; it was as if she hated the child within her so much that she could reach no compromise with what it did to her body. She pointed at her maid huddled at the foot of the bed, her finger stabbing the air. “And she helped! When I fought too hard, she held my hands down! Always she watched me so that I might not kill myself to escape my torment and my shame.”

  The maid cowered from that accusing finger. Apologies and pleas for mercy poured from her lips, a tangled jumble of words that made no sense.

  Shei-Luin swallowed hard to keep from vomiting. This was not what she had expected. She had thought to confront another player for the throne. Instead, she found a victim.