Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  It was the sight of Yesuin and me together that gave Jhanun the idea for this atrocity, she thought. I will never be able to remember the joy I had with Yesuin without remembering what this poor child went through. And she would never see Yesuin again to forge new memories.

  Jhanun would pay; Shei-Luin vowed that. But there was justice that could be dealt out now.

  “Do you wish mercy for this woman?” Shei-Luin asked.

  Nama looked over her shoulder. “Are you mad? No! I don’t! Give me a knife, and I will cut Zuia’s throat myself!”

  “Cutting her throat would be merciful,” Shei-Luin pointed out. To Murohshei she said, “Call in two guards. Tell them to take this woman to the executioner. She is to die the death of a thousand cuts.”

  Murohshei bowed and left the room.

  The maid screamed and threw herself at Shei-Luin’s feet. “Mercy, have mercy upon me, lady!”

  “Why?” Shei-Luin asked coldly. “You, a woman, aided in the rape of another woman. You had no mercy then.”

  The maid wailed in terror.

  Two of the women guards of the harem entered. Shei-Luin stepped aside, glancing at the guards’ faces. One look at their hard expressions as they each seized an arm told her that Murohshei had informed them of Zuia’s crime. Good; there would be no taking of bribes to look the other way while the maid escaped. It had happened, she knew. It would not this time.

  The hulking women picked the maid up from the floor. Zuia screamed and fought like a madwoman. She was a strong woman, but the guards were stronger, and trained warriors. They dragged the maid to the door.

  “Wait,” Shei-Luin said.

  The guards stopped. They frowned, no doubt fearing a reprieve for the prisoner, a mercy they did not agree with. Zuia fell silent, her eyes filled with hope.

  “When it’s over,” Shei-Luin said, “her head is to be struck from her body and nailed to the city gate as is the custom. Throw her body to the dogs.”

  Zuia fainted. The guards smiled grimly; their eyes said, It is no more than she deserves.

  “We hear and obey, Empress,” they said. There was a respect in the words Shei-Luin had never heard before.

  After Murohshei closed the door once more, Shei-Luin turned back to Nama.

  “Thank you,” the girl said.

  Shei-Luin nodded. “Where’s the man who did this to you?”

  “I know not. Once it was certain I was with child, I never saw him again.”

  “Lady,” Murohshei interrupted, “I remember some moons back, there was talk among the lower servants that a body had been found in the river. There was no head, and it was the body of a young man. They had heard it from the farmers who brought the vegetables.”

  “He was young,” Nama said. “Younger than Xiane. The head will never be found. At least he is dead.” Her fingers dug into her belly as if to rip the infant from her womb. “Must I bear this child?” Her gaze challenged Shei-Luin.

  “You cannot,” Shei-Luin said as gently as she could. “You know why.”

  Nama turned away a little. “Yes. Even if it was killed as it came from my womb, there’s the chance that one day a pretender would come, claiming to be that child—Xiane’s child—who was saved, and another infant killed in his stead.”

  Silence filled the air between them. At last Shei-Luin said, “I’m sorry.” And she was. The girl deserved better, and she could not give it to her. Not when it meant danger to Xahnu and Xu someday.

  Nama nodded, then drew herself up to stand as proudly as she could. “I would end my shame,” she announced. Only a glimmering of tears betrayed her fear. They did not fall.

  I was wrong. This is not a rabbit. This is an eagle. “I will help you.”

  “How?” whispered Nama.

  “Poppy juice. You shall sleep, and … never wake.”

  Relief set free the tears that fear could not. “Thank you,” the girl said. “That is a gentle death. And after … ?”

  “I will order your ashes set in the altar of the Phoenix. The priests will burn incense to your memory every day, and I will burn it myself each year upon this day for as long as I live. I promise you that.”

  “You’re generous, Empress. Again, I thank you.” She smiled a little.

  “You’re brave, Nama, and I had thought you a coward. I was wrong.” With that, she surprised Nama—and herself—by bowing to the girl.

  Nama returned the bow as best she could. “Please—let it be soon. If I have too much time to think …”

  “I understand.” Shei-Luin nodded at Murohshei. He bowed to both of them, and left. When they were alone, Shei-Luin took Nama’s hand and led her back to her bed. “Sit down,” she directed.

  The girl obeyed. Shei-Luin placed a chair opposite her and sat. They waited.

  Soon Murohshei returned, a flask of the best rice wine in one hand. “It’s already mixed,” he said softly. In the other hand he held a large goblet. It was gold and studded with pearls—one of Xiane’s. Shei-Luin nodded her approval. Murohshei poured out the wine and set the flask aside.

  After catching Shei-Luin’s eye, he bore the goblet to the bed. Going down upon both knees, he raised it above his lowered head and presented it to Nama. She took it; he bowed, touching his forehead to the floor as if she were the empress.

  Shei-Luin saw a spark of color bloom in the pale cheeks at the honor. Nama licked her lips; she stared at the death she held in her hands for a long moment. “Let my uncle know that I did this willingly to erase the shame he laid upon me.” Then she raised the goblet to her lips and drank.

  “Eh!” she said, grimacing. Then she smiled a little, explaining sheepishly, “It makes the wine too thick and sweet,” and gulped the rest down.

  After a time, Nama said, “My head is heavy.” Her eyelids drooped.

  “Lie down,” Shei-Luin bade her in the same gentle voice she used for Xahnu or Xu.

  When she and Murohshei had made the girl comfortable, Nama, her voice barely above a whisper, asked, “Will you stay with me? Please?” and held out her hand.

  Shei-Luin took the cold, trembling hand in both of her own. “I will.”

  “Thank you.” Nama’s eyes closed.

  A little while later, her lips curved in a smile. “No one can ever hurt me again.” The words were slurred and her eyes didn’t open.

  “No,” Shei-Luin answered. “Never again.”

  The smile remained. Shei-Luin noticed that the girl’s breathing was slow and shallow. She felt for a pulse; it was weak, but steady. Shei-Luin stroked the small hand.

  There was nothing to do now but wait.

  The explosion that Maurynna half feared never came.

  She came upon Raven some time later, sitting on the wall that encircled the dancing floor, a flock of children squatting on their heels around him as he cleaned Stormwind’s tack.

  At hearing that one of the Two Poor Bastards had agreed to bear a truehuman, all he said was, “A pity we lost their saddles. Nothing the tribe has will fit Trissin,” and went back to his task.

  Maurynna threw her hands into the air and left him sitting on the wall, the children laughing and handing him things as he pointed to them and tried to name them in stumbling Tah’nehsieh.

  But the moment she was out of his sight, she leaned against the nearest wall. “Thank the gods,” she muttered under her breath. One less thing to worry about.

  She didn’t know just when it happened. One moment Shei-Luin heard the shallow breathing. The next, it had stopped. Once again she felt for a pulse. Nothing. Nama nohsa Jhi, last concubine of Xiane Ma Jhi, late emperor of Jehanglan and Phoenix Lord of the Skies, was gone.

  Shei-Luin tucked the limp hand she had held for so long under the blanket covering Nama. “May you find happiness where you’ve gone, poor child,” she said. “I will send your uncle after you to be your slave.” She stood up, stiff after sitting for so long.

  To Murohshei, she said, “Send for her women to wash her and prepare her body. When she’s re
ady, have the eunuchs carry her to the main audience hall so that the chief ministers may witness that Nama is dead and her child with her. Let them set their thumbprints to that.

  “And when that is done, bid the priests come, and tell them her ashes are to be interred in the temple. She’s to be given the honors of a noh. She’s to have a shroud of the imperial golden silk, just as … just as my sister did.”

  Her voice almost broke then. Had things been different, could she have been friends with Nama?

  She had no time to dwell on might-have-beens. She was the empress of Jehanglan, and there was much she must do.

  And the first was to issue a proclamation for the death of Lord Jhanun as a traitor.

  Trissin stood with legs braced as Raven and Shima clambered over him. He snorted from time to time, and his skin twitched as the two young men worked over him with a blanket and a long length of grass twine as they measured around his broad barrel, but otherwise the stallion was as steady as stone.

  “Sorry, boy,” Raven said after one particularly violent twitch. “Didn’t mean to tickle you.”

  “Hunhh,” Trissin rumbled deep in his chest. “Hunnhhh.”

  Shima looked startled. From her patch of shade, Maurynna said, “I’ve heard Shan make that sound, as well. And I swear he ‘chuckled’ once. Somehow, you just don’t expect a horse to answer you like that. At least, I don’t.” She grinned. “But then, I’m a sailor, not a horsewoman.”

  “No,” said Shima. “You don’t expect it—not quite like that.” He eyed his new mount with, Maurynna thought, both pride and trepidation.

  “Have you thought of a name for him yet?” she asked.

  “What do you mean? Trissin is his name, yes?”

  “That’s just his pasture name,” said Raven. “The master of the stables at Dragonskeep told me that they’re given those so that the grooms don’t have to keep saying things like ‘the sorrel mare with the white sock on her near foreleg and the blaze’ or ‘the bay stallion with the snippet on his nose.’ Gets cumbersome. Their person picks a name for them.”

  “Sometimes,” Maurynna said wryly, remembering the naming of Boreal. “If they don’t like it, they won’t answer to it. Be prepared to haggle.”

  Trissin nodded, sending his heavy mane flying.

  Shima’s eyes were huge now. Maurynna almost burst out laughing, the look in them was so easy to read: What have I gotten myself into?

  Poor Shima, she thought, but like swords, most things do have two edges. She hid a smile behind her hand. Then, “Name him,” she ordered.

  “Hm.” Shima pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. “What …” He reached out, ran his fingers lightly along the stallion’s powerful neck, then held out his hand. Trissin buried his nose in the cupped hand and exhaled. They stood so for a long moment.

  “Je’nihahn.” The word came out suddenly.

  Trissin tilted his head in question.

  “‘Hahn’ is ‘west’ in your tongue, isn’t it?” Maurynna asked. “What does ‘Je’nihahn’ mean?”

  “‘Wind-from-the-west’,” answered Shima. “West is lucky.” His expression turned sheepish. “I was thinking of the names of your Llysanyins, you see, and … and that’s what came into my head. So—will you accept it?” he said to Trissin.

  Once again the big head nodded.

  “Welcome, Je’nihahn,” Maurynna said, and raised her hand in salute. Raven echoed words and gesture.

  The stallion touched his nose to his person’s shoulder. Shima threw his arms around the Llysanyin’s neck and buried his face in the thick mane.

  “Hunnh,” rumbled Je’nihahn deep in his chest. “Hunnnnh.”

  Hodai looked up from the finches’ cage to see Pah-Ko shifting restlessly in his chair. Ever since the news had come of the death of the emperor and the new empress’s sacrilege in daring the Phoenix Throne, his master had been restless every night. He waited, knowing what was to come.

  It did, a little while later. “Hodai, a bowl of hot rice wine, and another of rice gruel, please.”

  Forcing his fingers to say “Yes, master,” instead of singing his pleasure to serve, Hodai trotted to the tea cabinet and withdrew what he needed.

  When all was ready, he presented it to his master, and watched him eat and drink, dreaming of the day he could tell Pah-Ko his wonderful news.

  Fifty

  A cry of agony woke Hodai. Terrified, he ran into Pah-Ko’s chamber, where he found the nira writhing on his bed, hands clamped to his belly.

  Forgetting Haoro’s injunction, Hodai cried, “Master! Master, what’s wrong?”

  Pah-Ko turned pain-maddened eyes upon him. “How—” he gasped.

  The habit of obeying was too strong to break. “Haoro,” whispered Hodai.

  “Hao—Hodai, what have you done?” Pah-Ko cried. “Why did you do this to me?”

  Hodai shook his head in fright and bewilderment. “But I—”

  Pah-Ko thrashed on the bed, whimpering like an animal, unable to hear him. “Didn’t,” Hodai said. Then, unable to stand his master’s pain any more, he fled.

  Zhantse knew the instant his dreams turned from fantasies of his sleeping mind into Truth. For there before him lay the familiar swirling grey mist that he must pass through. He approached along the stone road that appeared before his feet. Soon he would pass through the mist and walk through the Place of Dreamings.

  Suddenly he stopped and peered intently at the fog. Had he truly just seen a dark shape through the mist? Yes; yes, he had. Not that that was so strange. He often found Pah-Ko or Ghulla waiting for him, though he’d not seen either of them lately.

  But this figure, dimly seen through the fog, stumbled and doubled over as if in pain. For a moment Zhantse wondered if he had fallen back into ordinary dreaming. He paused, reaching out with his senses.

  No, this was indeed a true Dreaming. Could it be some unfortunate that he saw, one who traveled here by mistake because of illness or injury? Such happened sometimes, he knew. He hurried forward to give what aid he could to the inadvertent Journeyer. Silken fingers of mist caressed his face and hands as he pushed through them.

  But it was no stranger who stood before him. The hunched figure wore a robe that he knew well, scarlet with golden dragons and phoenixes embroidered upon the heavy silk. A face grey with pain lifted at his approach.

  “Pah-Ko!” Zhantse cried. “What’s wrong?” He caught the nira in his arms, supporting the priest when the man would have collapsed. His heart filled with dread. Adversary, this man had been, yet friend as well. Many claimed to seek the Truth. Pah-Ko was one who did. “Tell me what’s wrong!”

  “Poison,” said the Jehangli priest, his voice a whisper of agony. “Tiger’s whiskers.”

  “Who?” Zhantse demanded, sickened. This was the work of a sadist, not just a murderer. Ground tiger’s whiskers didn’t kill at once. A victim writhed in agony as the bits worked their way through the body like a thousand tiny knives. “And why?”

  “Haoro wishes the feathered mantle,” Pah-Ko gasped, clenching at his stomach. “It must have been him.”

  Zhantse was aghast. Haoro? That one upon the little Phoenix Throne? The land was doomed. “Surely the Phoenix would never choose—”

  “The Phoenix has no voice,” the nira said. Tears flowed down his cheeks; clearly this pain broke him as the other, merely physical, could not.

  Zhantse nearly brought a hand up to wipe them away, then remembered that in this realm, the tears were not real, but simply a manifestation of grief. Then the full meaning of Pah-Ko’s words became clear. “Hodai … ?”

  “Hodai is no longer my Oracle.”

  So the servant had died before the master. No wonder Pah-Ko wept; Zhantse knew he loved the boy as the grandson he would never have. “When did he die?”

  A short bark of laughter, a terrible sound of pain and betrayal. “Hodai still lives. The desire for a voice was too much. He betrayed—” The tortured voice broke and Pah-Ko wept bitterly
once more.

  “The Phoenix itself told me to follow the Way,” the nira whispered. “If I had lived, perhaps we could have convinced the emperor—did you know that he sent for Lord Kirano? Perhaps Kirano can convince—no, I forgot. Xiane Ma Jhi is dead.”

  “What?” Zhantse demanded, shocked. “When?”

  But Pah-Ko was too far gone to answer. Instead, he said, “I always knew you kept a secret from me, my friend. Tell me, does it mean danger for my country?”

  “No. Here—let me show you,” Zhantse said. He wrapped an arm around Pah-Ko’s shoulders, and concentrated.

  In an instant they hovered above the Vale.

  It stretched out below them, a valley shaped like a wide, shallow bowl, an emerald jewel glowing against the red earth, protected within a ring of mountains. At one end of the valley, one mountain rose higher than the others. Once a volcano, thousands of years before, its crown had collapsed, leaving a deep hole that was now a placid blue lake.

  Trees of all ages lined the terraced slopes of the green valley; small figures moved among them, tending them. Their leaves rippled in a breeze that did not penetrate the Place of Dreams.

  “It’s beautiful,” Pah-Ko breathed, his eyes wide, forgetting his pain at last. “What are the trees?”

  “Mulberries,” Zhantse said, “for the silkworms. Someday we’ll have enough to trade.”

  Pah-Ko smiled weakly. “How do you get enough water?”

  “The lake; it’s never run dry,” Zhantse said.

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  Pah-Ko said, “There’s a dragon hiding in that lake.”

  Cautious, Zhantse said only, “That’s the old tale.”

  “And it’s a true one, my friend. The dragon is in a sleep so deep, it is like unto death. That’s why I can feel him, I who am at death’s door.” Pah-Ko slumped heavily against Zhantse’s arm. “Lay me down, my friend. I can hold on no longer.”

  The Vale dissolved; they were back where they started. Zhantse did as he was bidden, and knelt by his friend’s side. He held Pah-Ko’s hands, wincing as the gnarled fingers clenched on his with each new spasm of agony. The air whistled harshly though the nira’s teeth as Pah-Ko awaited his release. Zhantse prayed to Shashannu, Lady of the Sky, that it came soon. Inured as Pah-Ko was to pain, this was a thing no being should have to endure.