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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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Jhanun did not look up from his contemplation of the paper figure resting on the desk before him. He had never, he thought, created such a masterpiece. The little phoenix might almost fly away. Every fold, every crease, was perfect, as if the paper would not allow mistakes. He would obtain as much of this batch as he could.
But now he must turn his attention to business. “Did anyone recognize you?” he asked the two men.
“No, lord,” Kwahsiu said. “Who pays attention to low-rank priests? No one recognized us.”
“It’s as he said, lord,” Nalorih added. “Rest easy. What service is it our privilege to perform for you?”
“You’re both familiar with the emperor’s appearance?”
They had steadier nerves than the steward; neither betrayed any surprise at the odd question, though Kwahsiu, as was his wont, grinned now and again as if he found the world impossibly funny.
Said Kwahsiu, “Very, lord. When we were still officers, we were both assigned to the palace for a time, and we often rode escort for the Phoenix Lord when he rode to the woods where he hunts.”
“Good. This then, is how you may serve me: I desire that you seek a man who looks enough like Xiane ma Jhi to be his brother and bring him to me. Slave, free man, a captured Zharmatian—I care not. Just find such a one, and as quickly as you can.”
Rubbing his crooked nose, Nalorih said slowly, “This may take some time, my lord. Likely we will need to find someone half-Jehangli and half-Zharmatian as the emperor is.”
Jhanun nodded. “I understand. I know this task is difficult, but I also know that if it is possible, the two of you can do it.”
The renegade officers bowed. “We thank you, lord,” said Kwahsiu. “We will not fail your trust.”
“Good. I wish you to leave as soon as possible. Take horses from my stable.” Jhanun raised a hand in dismissal.
The men bowed once more, then turned to the door. They were almost to it when Jhanun bethought himself of something crucial.
“Wait!”
They stopped, Nalorih’s hand on the latch. “Yes, lord?” they said as one.
“The man you look for—I care not if he is whole or crippled, but he must
not
be a eunuch, either made or natural. Do you understand?”
“We do, my lord,” Nalorih said after a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Kwahsiu had no such restraint. He grinned hugely. “Don’t worry, my lord. We’ll make very certain of it.”
 
Despite Tsiaa’s cooling poultices, the pain in Shei-Luin’s hand kept her awake. She snapped at Tsiaa when that good woman offered her a cup of balm and ginger tea to help her sleep.
In a fit of pique, she sent Murohshei to find one of the lesser musicians among the eunuchs. She wished she dared send for Zyuzin or one of the other Songbirds, but they sang only for the emperor.
The only good thing about this damned bee sting, she thought crankily when the eunuch left, was that it gave her a reason to fend off Xiane’s attentions that night; he’d practically apologized when she’d pleaded weakness and pain.
Let some other concubine put up with him.
She waited in petulant annoyance for Murohshei’s return. But when he did come, not only did one of the lesser musicians accompany him, so did Zyuzin. The boy’s round face was streaked with tears.
“What is this?” she asked, astonished, as Zyuzin knelt before her, forehead touching the floor.
Murohshei waved the other musician to the outer chamber. When he was gone, Murohshei said quietly, “Xiane has decreed that the gardeners in charge of that portion of the gardens be executed for negligence. But—”
Zyuzin sat up. “But they didn’t
know
that the bees were there, lady,” he wailed. “How could they? Until a few days ago, they took care of the water gardens! They’re new to that part of the gardens. If they had known, they would have asked—” Here the boy broke down. He covered his face with his hands.
Moved by the piteous sobbing, and more confused than ever, Shei-Luin asked, “How does he know this?”
“They’re his relatives—two uncles and a brother. That was how Zyuzin’s talent was discovered; he came to the gardens to learn the trade from them, and the Songmaster heard him singing as he planted water lilies.” Murohshei’s broad forehead wrinkled. He said, “Lady—Flower of the West—only you … .” His soft voice broke. “Lady—please. It will break the boy’s heart. I fear he won’t sing again.”
Murohshei’s eyes begged her more eloquently than any speech.
Faithful Murohshei—he has never before asked me for anything but the chance to serve me with all his heart.
Shei-Luin nodded. “I shall speak to Xiane tomorrow.”
Zyuzin whispered from behind his hands, “They are to die at dawn.”
Shei-Luin closed her eyes and sighed. She knew what must be done. “Murohshei, prepare me for the emperor. I will go to him now.” She stood.
Zyuzin stared up at her in awe. “Lady, thank you, thank you! But you would go to the emperor—when he didn’t send for you? No other concubine would dare!”
She smiled mischievously at him. “I,” she said, “am not just any concubine. Xiane will be delighted to see me. I shall tell him only he can comfort my pain.”
As Murohshei helped her into her best robe, he asked, “Do you think the Phoenix Lord will grant this?”
Holding out her hand so that they could see the swollen palm, she said, “After today? Yes. Go back to your bed, Zyuzin, and dry your eyes; your kin are safe.”
She swept out of the room as regally as an empress.
 
It was late the next morning before she returned. As she entered her sleeping chamber, Murohshei looked up from the flowers he was arranging in a bowl of water as he did every day for her.
“Have my ladies prepare my bath,” she told him wearily. She sank into her favorite chair.
“At once, my lady.” But he hesitated in the doorway. “Favored One …?”
She was tired, but not too tired to find a smile to reassure him. “The little songbird will still sing, my Murohshei.”
He bowed. “Thank you, Flower of the West.” Simple words, but she heard his heart behind them.
Once again Linden saw Fiaran
to the door. “My thanks for coming to see Maurynna so often these past few days.”
The barrel-shaped little Simpler hugged his scrip of medicines to his chest. “It was my pleasure, Linden—not that I wish her or anyone else here at the Keep ill. But were it not for visitors and servants, I’d have nearly nothing to do. You Dragonlords are such a disgustingly healthy lot,” he complained with a wink. “All I get are your occasional headaches and colds.”
“Runny noses and short tempers, eh?” Linden said. He chuckled. “I guess we are a disappointment. But you’ve another patient now, don’t you? The man who escaped from Jehanglan.”
Few at the Keep had yet seen the mysterious traveler; he’d arrived ill and had been bedridden well-nigh ever since, with no visitors allowed but Raven and the Lady and Kelder. Linden had never even caught a glimpse of the man.
And if
he
wondered about Taren, Lleld must be eaten alive with curiousity.
“If I may ask, Fiaran, why haven’t you come to one of us to Heal the man? You know we’d gladly do it,” Linden asked.
“I thought of that first thing. But when I mentioned it to Taren, he refused. Said he’d had a Healing done once for a broken arm and was miserably sick for a week, with hives on top of it. It was something we were warned about at the College,” Fiaran said, referring to the College of Healer’s Gift where Healers and Simplers were trained. “Some unlucky folks are like that; a Healing or some food that the rest of us can tolerate makes them sicker than that proverbial poor dog.”
Linden rubbed his chin, thinking. “My sister Fawn couldn’t eat strawberries,” he remembered aloud. “Same thing happened to her—hives, I mean. She loved strawberries, too.”
“Isn’t it always the way? Poor girl. But Taren’s bad luck means I’ve something more than sore throats and sneezes to attend to for once.”
“Jekkanadar says it’s something common in Assantik,” Linden said.
“Yes, that shaking sickness they have. Makes you miserable for a tenday or two, more if you’re unlucky, then goes away until the next time, whenever that
is. Seems it’s common in Jehanglan as well from what Taren said. I’ve some infusions that ease the worst of it, and I left one brewing. So I must get back to it, but I’ll come by later to see how Maurynna’s feeling. I think she could try some real food this evening.”
“She’ll be glad to hear it. She’s getting tired of sops and broth, and of staying in the room.” Linden raised a hand in farewell as the Simpler set off in his peculiar rolling gait. He went back into the suite of rooms that he and Maurynna shared. At the door to the sleeping chamber, he paused, thinking about what Fiaran had just told him of Taren. Poor beggar, unable to tolerate a Healing.
Linden shook his head in sympathy and slipped into the darkened room to sit at the bedside once more.
 
“Your friend is still not well?” Taren asked as he poured wine for both of them.
“Not yet,” Raven answered. “Though my great-uncle says she’s feeling better. Thank you,” he said as Taren handed him a goblet. He laid the bridle he was mending for Lleld in his lap and sipped. “This is good!”
“It’s Pelnaran; the Dragonlords drink only the best, it seems. So your great-uncle was allowed in to see her and not you?” The voice was full of gentle indignation for him.
“Um, no. But Linden Rathan told him and not me,” Raven said. He didn’t mention that he’d not stopped by the rooms to inquire as had his great-uncle. The less he saw of Linden Rathan, the better.
In the lull that followed Raven silently stewed over the injustices of life. He ran a thumb along the cheek strap of the bridle. Was the stitching coming loose by that buckle?
Taren said, “It must be boring for you, then, with your best friend ill. A pity you’ve no one else besides your great-uncle to speak with when I’m too ill for visitors.”
Raven brightened. “But I do have. There’s Chailen, the head groom, for one; I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who knows so much about horses. Then there’s Lleld and Jekkanadar. They’ve even taken me riding on some of the mountain trails.”
“They’re also grooms?”
“No,” Raven answered with proud wonder. He glanced down at the bridle once more. Yes, that stitching needed replacing as well. He put down his goblet and took up the sewing awl with its length of heavy waxed-linen thread. “They’re Dragonlords: Lleld Kemberaene and her soultwin Jekkanadar Surael. This is her Llysanyin Miki’s bridle in fact.”
A sharp hiss of breath greeted his words. Raven looked up in surprise. “Is something amiss, Taren?”
For there was an eagerness in Taren’s face and a glitter in his eyes that Raven had never seen before. It made him vaguely uneasy. Yet Taren’s next words did nothing to explain the mystery.
“So—you have
four
Dragonlords as friends?” Taren asked.
Raven shrugged. “I don’t know as I’d call Linden Rathan a friend.”
“But you know
four
Dragonlords?” Taren persisted. His eyes shone.
Frowning, Raven said, “Put like that … Yes, I do know four—Taren, what is this about?”
Taren’s incredibly sweet smile brushed away his uneasiness. “Just that so many truehumans never even see a single Dragonlord in their lives—and you know four. Most would name you fortunate, Raven Redhawkson.”
“In three of those cases I wouldn’t argue,” Raven muttered.
“I should like to meet these four Dragonlords you know, Raven. I should like that very, very much,” Taren said softly.
“As soon as Maurynna is better, I’ll ask them,” said Raven, pleased that he could do something for the man. Taren had been a patient listener. “Will that do?”
“That will do very well indeed.”
 
As always at dinnertime, the great hall was filled with the buzz of conversation and the clink of dishes. It was usually a cheerful noise. But tonight there was an undertone of speculation, a kind of uneasy anticipation.
Maurynna rubbed the back of her neck; she felt as though the air hummed like a plucked harp string. Her unease brought Kyrissaean to the fore more than her usual wont. Maurynna could feel her draconic half watching, waiting behind her mind. It made her brain itch.
It didn’t help that this was the first night that she’d felt well enough to dine in the great hall. For the past four days she’d stayed in the rooms, waited on by their
kir
servants, Varn and his wife Wyone, and hovered over by Linden and occasionally Fiaran.
Fiaran she hadn’t minded; the poor man was pathetically grateful to have a patient. Maurynna thought he must get bored to tears in Dragonskeep, so she had drunk his potions without complaining. Indeed, most were quite tasty. Fiaran gave his few patients no cause to complain.
Linden, on the other hand, had
fussed.
Unceasingly. He had refused to leave her side until, in a fit of exasperation, she’d heaved a pillow at him and threatened to follow it up with a bowl of stew. Only then was he convinced she wasn’t about to die.
Now she wondered what rumors had spread about her illness. Too many people stopped her as she and Linden passed, inquired after her health, looked at her as if she would shatter with a touch. By the time they reached their table,
Maurynna was tired from pretending to feel better than she did. But she would not falter; let the Lady hear there was nothing wrong with her and wonder over that.
At last they reached the table they usually shared with Lleld and Jekkanadar. The other Dragonlords were already seated and with them was Otter. Pleased smiles greeted her.
“Where’s Raven?” Maurynna asked. “And, for the sake of the gods, do not ask me how I’m faring!”
Mouths snapped shut all around the table.
“I don’t know,” Otter said after a moment. “After I left you a little while ago, I went back to my rooms and told him you’d be coming to dinner tonight. Then I went to my chamber to change that broken harp string and, well, nap. When I woke up, he was gone. No note, either.”
Is he avoiding me? Damn him for an idiot,
Maurynna thought as she took her place.
I can’t believe he’s sulking somewhere because I wanted Linden, not him, by me after that encounter with Morlen and the other truedragons. Oh, Raven, why won’t you understand?
More Dragonlords passed by. Each asked her how she felt. Maurynna fixed a smile on her face and assured every one she was well, thank you. A sick headache, nothing more, and yes, Fiaran’s medicines had helped. Yes, wasn’t it a good thing that there was a Simpler at the Keep? One couldn’t expect a full Healing from one’s fellow Dragonlords for every little ache and pain, after all.
At last everyone seemed satisfied she wasn’t going to fall dead in front of them and left her alone. She slumped in her chair.
Linden reached over and rubbed the back of her neck.
Tired already, love?
His dark grey eyes were sympathetic.
Gods, that feels good,
she said and leaned into his strong fingers.
A little, yes. Kyrissaean is very awake tonight and that’s always draining—no, don’t stop!
But at a sudden buzz of conversation, Linden’s hand had dropped away; he looked to the high table where the Lady sat. Maurynna craned her neck to see what had caused the stir.
With a shock she recognized Raven slowly approaching the high table. He walked beside a frail-looking man, one hand under the man’s elbow, guiding his faltering steps to the seat at the Lady’s right.
As the glow of the coldfire hovering over the table fell on him, Maurynna thought the man’s face looked like a ball of crumpled, yellowed silk, all lines and creases and wrinkles. What was left of his hair—the top of his head was completely bald—was white and thin, cut unusually short.
When Raven made to leave, the man caught his arm. A brief discussion ensued with the Lady and Kelder. At its end, Raven took the seat on the other
side of the man. He looked half embarrassed, half pleased, and wholly stunned to be at the Lady of Dragonskeep’s own table.
“At least he wore his best tunic tonight,” Otter sighed. Then, slowly, “So that’s Taren Olmeins.”
“The one who escaped from Jehanglan?” Lleld asked. For a moment Maurynna thought the little Dragonlord would climb onto the table for a better view.
“The same,” Otter said. “I recognize him from Raven’s description. It would seem that his tale is taken as truth if he’s asked to grace the Lady’s table.”
A Dragonlord seated at another table leaned over. “Bard Otter, that’s your grandnephew, isn’t it?” Merlet Kamenni called.
“It is indeed, Dragonlord,” said Otter.
“Ah; then no puzzle who the other man is.” The Dragonlord nodded. Her single thick braid of brown hair swung over her shoulder. “Odd that he hasn’t appeared before now.”
“A flare-up of an old illness, Your Grace, that Taren brought with him from Jehanglan, Raven told me. I would venture that this is the first night Taren’s been well enough,” Otter said.
Seeing Merlet’s brow furrow in consternation, Maurynna called, “It’s nothing contagious, Merlet. It’s also known in the south of Assantik where the swamps are. I forget the Assantikkan name for it—” She looked to Jekkanadar.
“Degwa n‘soor,” he supplied, turning in his seat to look at Merlet. “The ‘shaking sickness.’ The attacks sometimes last a tenday or so at a time. Raven said Taren was ill most of the ride north. It comes and goes, very nasty, but as Maurynna said, not contagious.”
Merlet looked relieved. “He was lucky to have your grandnephew looking after him, Bard Otter. Now, I suppose, we all wait on what the truedragons decide.”
“It would seem so, Dragonlord. But this waiting worries me,” Otter said.
“As it does all of us,” Merlet said bleakly. “May the gods guide them,” she finished and turned back to her companions.
“From her lips to the gods’ ears,” Linden muttered.
Maurynna made the sailors’ sign for luck under the table. May the gods listen very hard indeed for once.
Then the servers came forth from the kitchens, moving among the tables bearing heaped platters of food. By an unspoken agreement, the conversation turned to other, less distressing, subjects.
 
The Lady, Kelder, and the guests at the high table had left long before. So had most of the other Dragonlords and visitors throughout the hall. Only a few small groups lingered here and there over the cheese and fruit that ended meals at the Keep.
Maurynna carved slices of the sharp yellow cheese that was their favorite while Linden cut up an apple for them. He had just handed her her half when a truehuman servant approached the table.
“Dragonlords, Bard,” the man said, “the young truehuman who sat at the Lady’s table this evening sent me to say that Taren Olmeins would like to meet his—Raven’s—friends and great-uncle this night. He asked if you would be willing to go to Master Olmeins’ quarters in a candlemark’s time.”

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