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Authors: Joanne Bertin

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Xiane stared in stupefied horror. Even his horse stood beneath him as if caught in that same paralysis.
The snake reared back to strike. Before Xiane could blink, it faded. For a moment a ghostly image hung in the air; then—nothing.
But the deer he had brought down was now bloated and black, oozing a foul liquid that killed the grass. The breeze shifted; the stench that rolled over Xiane and the others set them all to gagging. The horses neighed in fear and bucked. The men turned their mounts and raced away.
When they neared the camp, Xiane suddenly said, “This is not a thing to speak of.”
“Do you hear that, dogs?” V’Choun said to the trackers. Hear and obey the Chosen of the Phoenix. If your tongues wag, you shall lose them.”
The trackers threw themselves to the ground and knocked their foreheads against the earth again and again. “We will not speak,” they promised fervently. “May our worthless lives end before we speak.”
“Talk,” the general said dryly, “and of a certainty they will end. Painfully.”
The camp was quiet that night; there were occasional outbursts of talk, even laughter. But they were forced and unnatural, dying quickly. Instead the men stared into the fire for a time, now and again looking fearfully over their shoulders, sitting close together for what comfort they might find against the darkness lowering outside the campfire’s reach. They did not stay long by the fire.
When Xiane and Yesuin retired to the tent they shared, the emperor disobeyed his own command and whispered, “What was it? Did you understand the meaning of the snake?”
“No,” Yesuin replied, “save that a snake is of things armored; it could mean war, soldiers—Xiane, if you want to know what this and all the other portents we have heard of mean, you must speak with one wiser than I; I know so little. You must send for Lord Kirano, Shei-Luin’s father.”
“The Blasphemer?” Xiane said, aghast.
Yesuin regarded him. “Is he?” the Zharmatian hostage asked softly. “Xiane, in your heart—is he truly?”
 
Nama stared down at the bed.
As always, the sleeping silks were turned down in invitation—an invitation the Demon had been only too quick to accept any time of the day or night.
But now he was gone. Where, she neither knew nor cared. She just hoped it was far, far away.
Yet the bed was still here; the bed, and all the horrific memories it held. It mocked her, that bed, with its welcome.
She stretched a hand out to touch the sheets, recoiled as memory stabbed her. Perhaps she should sleep on the floor … .
And have Zuia find her in the morning, and run to tell tales to her uncle? To hear her uncle berate her for endangering the safety of the child—the
invader
—in her womb? Finally, to let a mere piece of furniture defeat her?
A thousand, thousand noes. She crawled into the bed, her heart hammering, remembering all the nightmare days and nights. Defiantly, she blew out the oil lamp, and lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling.
As her eyes adjusted to the night, as her terrified body realized that yes, she was alone, finally, gloriously alone in this bed, Nama ran her hands out as far as they would stretch. They touched no one.
She turned on her side. After a long, long time of starting at every little sound, she fell asleep, wondering how long this reprieve would last.
 
They argued about it for what seemed like a lifetime. But in the end, Xiane gave in. Yesuin dropped his head into his hands as the Phoenix Emperor ordered a servant to bring General V’Choun to him.
Shei-Luin would be furious with him, Yesuin thought, his heart sinking. For if anyone discovered the truth from Lord Kirano, truth that anyone might have for the asking …
Ah, Phoenix; why must it be both our danger and our saving that Kirano follows the Way of the Crane Hermit? If he can turn Xiane from this madness of keeping the Phoenix imprisoned, it will save the land. But Kirano will not lie. If anyone asks him if Shei-Luin—
Yesuin shook his head violently to stop the rush of thoughts. To think such things gave them power.
Only one thought comforted him. No matter what was revealed, Xiane would never cast Shei-Luin aside; the emperor loved her too much.
Loved her as much as
he
did. Yesuin bit his lip against the the pain he must never reveal.
Yesuin wished Xiane would not
tell Shei-Luin about her father. But how did one tell the Emperor of Jehanglan “no” when that same emperor announced his intention of informing his “Precious Flower” that he’d sent for her father because it would “no doubt please her so,” just as soon as they reached the palace?
How did you tell that emperor that his “Precious Flower” hated the very mention of her father’s name? That his favorite concubine had come to him only because the man the world believed was her father no longer wanted her about him after his true daughter had been sent for?
In short, you didn’t. You tricked him.
“Will you really tell her?” Yesuin asked.
“Of course,” Xiane said, looking surprised. “She should be very happy, don’t you think?”
Yesuin said vaguely, “I thought it would make a nice surprise … .”
Xiane laughed his braying, raucous laugh. “Cousin—that’s a wonderful idea! A surprise it will be.”
Generous, maddening, bumbling Xiane; even after that, he somehow let it slip that he thought of sending for Lord Kirano, and word was carried to Shei-Luin. That he had also let slip
who
had suggested it, was abundantly clear the instant Yesuin slipped into Shei-Luin’s chamber from the tunnel. Xiane, he knew, would not come here this night; Shei-Luin was far enough advanced in her pregnancy that, by custom, no man could lie with her. They were safe from discovery.
He, though, was not safe from Shei-Luin. She descended upon him like a storm the instant he appeared.
“Are you mad?” Shei-Luin spat. “You must cease this insanity.” Though her voice was low, the rage in it scorched him.
Yesuin reached for her. “Beloved, you must understand. The Way has been perverted; the world cannot go on like this. You’ve heard the tales of disasters in the land. If the Phoenix isn’t freed, it will destroy the earth, even as your father—”
“He is not my father and you well know it!”
Scarlet silk flashed as she evaded him. Even with her belly swollen with child, she was grace itself. Shei-Luin paced like a tiger, her dark eyes blazing. Were he to touch her now, he thought, she would throw off sparks like a cat.
“I understand that you would destroy my son’s empire.” Back and forth, back and forth. “You speak of disasters! There are disasters only because the man who sits upon the Phoenix Throne is weak and sinful. He doesn’t observe custom, and that’s the only reason the Way is lost! This nonsense about setting the Phoenix free is just that—nonsense. When Xahnu is emperor, there will be no more disasters. Jehanglan will draw strength from him.”
Her voice shook with fury. And more: hate. It was like a knife in Yesuin’s heart. She whirled to face him.
“You would destroy what should be my son’s—our son’s,” she said. Her lip curled in disdain. “Or are you so greedy for Jehanglan that you would see her torn apart so that your tribesmen may pick over her bones like the mangy jackals they are? Are you so jealous of your son’s fortune—”
He cut her off. “You know it isn’t true. What are these lies? And as for mangy jackals … You lived in our tents, Shei-Luin. You grew up with me. Surely you don’t believe these words.”
The same words that ached inside him. Once he’d taken an arrow in the leg; tearing its barbed head out had hurt less than Shei-Luin’s bitter accusations. What had happened to the little girl he remembered? Had the imperial court corrupted her so much? By the Mother of the Herds, had he a horse between his knees this moment, he would ride away and never return—just as he and Shei-Luin had dreamed of once. But now he knew she no longer shared that dream. And without her it was dead, ashes upon the wind.
“Do you love me?” she demanded suddenly.
What, can you not see my heart in my eyes?
Yesuin thought miserably.
Once you could.
“You know that I do,” he said, his pain spilling over. “How can you doubt it?”
“And you would do anything for me?”
Honor held his tongue. The question was not unexpected, but he couldn’t answer it the way Shei-Luin wanted.
She eyed him, testing his silence. “Then stop telling Xiane this nonsense that the Phoenix must go free. Tell him you and my father are wrong.
Make him believe you.”
“Beloved,” he said, “don’t ask me to do that. Anything will I do for you—anything but that. I must follow the Way.”
The silence now was hers, hard as stone and colder than a mountain of ice. At last she spoke. “I’m not your beloved,” she said in a voice like steel. Her hands cupped her belly. “Never say that to me again. Ever. I
am
a mother, and I will protect my children—even from you, their … father.” She spat the word like a curse. “Get out. I never want to see you again.”
He knew she meant it. Even as a child Shei-Luin had been a very good hater. There was no appeal; she would not forgive him.
Yesuin turned, stumbling for the door to the tunnel, like a man who has taken a mortal blow and not realized it yet. Somehow he was through it, and shut it behind him, though he had no memory of the deed. He leaned against the tunnel wall, heartsick. Yesuin heard the door to the sleeping chamber open and close, and knew Murohshei went in to comfort his mistress.
And where would he find comfort, he thought bitterly as he picked up the little lamp and set off down the dimness of the tunnel.
Suddenly Yesuin knew he could no longer stay in the palace. He slammed a fist into the ancient wood of the tunnel wall and bit his lip against something that was a curse or a sob. He must ride the plains once more or die.
 
“Oh, damn!” Lleld fumed, pausing as she tugged a brush through her thick, red curls.
“What?” Jekkanadar asked from the bed.
Lleld turned on the chair to face him. “Linden just mindcalled me. He went down to make certain the horses were settled for the night, and found Taren’s gelding’s off hock swollen. He suspects that it kicked out while being raised from the hold, and smashed its leg against the wood of the hatchway.”
“And since neither he nor Raven were there—” Jekkanadar said, running a finger along the scar on his face.
“Chakkarin’s agents instantly sweeping us away to this inn, and since it’s not known we’re Dragonlords—” Lleld added, waving the brush.
“The dockhands were not as careful as they might have been, and somehow forgot to mention this little mishap,” Jekkanadar finished. He sat up. “Damn, indeed. How long of a delay?”
“A few days at least. Linden wants to be certain that it’s properly healed. The last thing we need is for any of the horses to founder on us.” She returned to brushing her hair, and fuming.
After a brief silence, Jekkanadar said, “Have you ever thought of what freeing Pirakos will mean to the Jehangli?”
She laid the brush on the little table. She’d always known that one day, one of her companions would ask her that. It didn’t surprise her that it was her soultwin. “Yes,” she said, “I have.”
“They depend upon the power of the phoenix to rule their land.”
“Power that’s stolen,” she pointed out, “from two creatures, both of whom are innocent victims.”
“And if that power is broken, chaos will rule.”
“I know,” she said quietly, “and I wish there was some way to avoid it. But the Jehangli had no right to do what they did all those years ago, and no right
to perpetuate it. I’m afraid they’re going to have to take their chances like the rest of us.”
Jekkanadar held out his hands as if weighing one thing against another. “To interfere or not interfere—which is truly the right course?” he asked, a wry smile on his lean, dark face.
She shook her head sadly. “Were this a bard’s tale, I could tell you. But as is all too often true, there’s no black or white. We right what wrongs we may, and do the best we can. It’s all anyone, truehuman or Dragonlord, can ever do.”
And with that, she blew out the oil lamp and crawled into bed. Jekkanadar wrapped his arms around her, and she fell asleep, still wondering what was right.
The two men sat their
horses and looked out to sea, sheltered from the fierce Jehangli sun in a shallow cave scooped by wind and wave from the cliff wall behind them.
Not that the harsh sunlight would have burned either of them. They were Tah’nehsieh, dwellers in the unforgiving desert, children of the red lands, darker than any Jehangli of the Phoenix Empire. But like all who knew the desert and respected it, they spared themselves and their mounts when they could.
One of the men, both younger and lighter of skin than his companion, sniffed the air. He smiled. Strange indeed was the briny tang, the taste of salt upon his lips. But familiar, somehow, and welcome. Perhaps it called to the northern part of his blood, the worlds his mother had told him of: high mountains covered with forests of pine and oak, maple and beech, then a life at sea. He tried to imagine so many trees standing straight and tall, crowded thickly together, crowned with green leaves. It was beyond him. All he saw in his mind’s eye were the scrubby trees he knew, the desert pine and scrub oaks near the
mehanso.
Few and far between were those trees, twisted and stunted by wind and sun and drought.
Then he thought of the Vale, and had an inkling of what a northern forest might be.
The other man said, “Do you see it? The ship? If my Seeing was a true one, it left a few days ago and should be here today.”
“No, Zhantse,” the young man said. “Not y—Wait!” He shaded his eyes with one hand. Yes, that was a sail. Once again, his master had Seen truly. Not that he’d doubted; Zhantse’s visions were never wrong. Hard to understand sometimes, and sometimes mistaken in interpretation, but in the the end, they were never wrong.
He squinted up at the sun and did some quick figuring. “She,” he corrected absently, “not ‘it.’ All ships are female, my mother says.” How something that never lived could be male or female was something he didn’t understand. His mother had only laughed, and told him that perhaps one day he’d find out. “She’ll be here before the sun drops another two hands in the sky.”
He cupped his hands to his mouth and called the news to the men waiting in the shadow of the rocks on the beach below. They waved acknowledgment. Most went back to drowsing in the shade.
But why was the ship here? She’d not been due for another span of days or more. Was something wrong? Had some evil befallen their Assantikkan partner? Zhantse had spoken of an uneasiness underlying the vision … .
“I wonder if—” He broke off. The air caught in his lungs as if some giant hand crushed his chest. Cold sweat dripped down his bare back and chest.
Panic swept over him. His mind seized on the image of the mountain’s worth of rock mere handspans above his head. It was falling, falling to crush him like a beetle under a sandbear’s paw.
Run!
His horse responded to the unconsciousness squeeze of his knees and bounded into the sunlight.
The sudden glare blinded him; his eyes filled with burning tears in protest. He welcomed the pain they brought. For with them passed the sudden madness, the need to run away. He brought his mare to a skittering halt.
Gasping, he leaned on the pommel of his blanket-covered saddle. Spirits help him, what was wrong with him these days?
“Shima!”
The sharp voice penetrated the fog that clouded his mind after each of these panics. He made himself look around, answer calmly. “I—I’m well.” He looked away before Zhantse saw the lie in his eyes.
A deep shuddering breath; he looked at the rock cliff stretching up and up to the sky; looked at the older man still sitting his horse in the dimness of the shallow cave, and knew he couldn’t go back in there.
The men on the beach had noticed, damn it; he saw them exchange puzzled glances. His father’s milkbrother, Nathua, stood up, a worried frown creasing his brow as he brushed the sand from his short kilt. Shima waved him back. Nathua hesitated, clearly minded to investigate for himself.
Shima held his breath. He did not want to try to explain this to his prosaic clan-uncle. Once more he waved Nathua back. He even found a smile from somewhere. To Shima’s relief, Nathua shrugged and sat down again.
The shaman rode out into the sun. “Again?” he said. “The Feeling?”
Shima nodded. “Yes. As if the cliff …” He shook his head at the images conjured by his mind. “Each time it’s as if everything is closing in on me. I have to get
away
.”
“I’ve heard of such a thing before,” Zhantse said. “But usually it’s a thing that is with you from childhood, or else brought on by some harrowing exer-ience. Yet I know that no such thing has happened to you. So why?”
“Indeed,” Shima said bitterly. “Why? Why do the Spirits torment me this
way? One moment I’m well; the next, out the door, and running for the largest open space I can find.”
“And then?” Zhantse prompted.
“And then the feeling disappears, and I feel like a fool.”
Or a madman.
Shima passed a hand over his eyes.
Was
he going mad? He didn’t think so. Yet it was said the mad never considered themselves to be.
Perhaps he should throw himself from a cliff before it got worse. He couldn’t stand the thought of his parents’ pain as they watched their oldest son sink into insanity. A clean death would be better. But something inside him shrank from the idea, driving him further into despair.
Coward.
A hand on his shoulder brought him back. He jumped.
“You are not going mad,” Zhantse said. “Yes, I know what you’ve been thinking. I’ve known you from a child, remember? I can read you like a hunter reads tracks.
“But just what is happening to you, my young drummer, I don’t know. I’ve tried to See, but … Something blocks me; there’s a window there, but someone has hung a blanket over it. I have only a vague sense … .” The shaman frowned. “There’s another path before you. But where it leads, I cannot tell. I
should
be able to See. But I can’t; I sense … change of some kind ahead of you. And that’s all I can say.”
Shima rolled his eyes at his master and managed a wan smile. “All life is change, Zhantse. How many times have you told me that?”
Despite his wrinkles, Zhantse looked remarkably young and mischievous when he grinned like that, Shima thought. It usually meant trouble ahead—for a certain spirit drummer at least.
The shaman patted that same drummer’s shoulder with a fatherly hand. “So you shall have a little more than the rest of us. You’re young; you can stand it,” the shaman said cheerfully. He urged his horse down the beach, calling back over his shoulder, “You have always wished for an adventure, Shima. Perhaps one is coming.”
Shima made a wry face as Zhantse laughed and danced his brown and white gelding in and out of the breaking waves. It was true he often wished for an adventure like those of the ancient heroes of the tribe. But that didn’t mean he really
wanted
one. He sighed and sent his mare after the shaman.
At least he needn’t fear another attack while under the open sky.
 
The Phoenix Lord was in a fine temper, Jhanun thought, as Xiane scowled at the troupe of entertainers cavorting in the gardens for his amusement. One youngster was so frightened by that sign of imperial displeasure that he dropped two of the balls he juggled.
Xiane waved a hand. “Take them away. I would see the performing horses instead.” He slouched in his chair, muttering, “I hope these can count better than the last ones.”
Sturdy young eunuchs moved in and herded the performers away. Jhanun thought he knew the true source of Xiane’s bad temper: the concubine Shei-Luin was far enough advanced in her pregnancy that Xiane could no longer go to her. Indeed, even now, preparations were being made to bring her to the Phoenix Pavilion where, by custom, all imperial children were born.
From his spy among the emperor’s eunuchs, Jhanun knew that Xiane had called a different concubine to his bed every night for the past moon, and was dissatisfied with all of them.
The time was ripe. Indeed, he couldn’t wait much longer. If Xiane didn’t take the bait dangled before him, and soon, Nama would have to be disposed of.
He knelt before Xiane. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I see that you are displeased these days, and I think I understand why.” He smiled as one man to another.
One corner of Xiane’s mouth curved up.
“I know that we’ve disagreed,” said Jhanun, “on the subject of the concubine Shei-Luin, but it grieves me to see my lord so distressed. Alas that my dear, late wife and I never had a daughter that I could offer you as a concubine to ease your cares. But I have a niece that I have caused to be brought to the imperial capital, and I would offer her to you instead. She’s a pretty girl, delicate as a butterfly, and as dear to me as the daughter I never had. Will you accept her?”
Xiane considered for so long that Jhanun thought he would refuse. But at last the emperor nodded.
Jhanun fought to keep from betraying his elation. “You honor me, Phoenix Lord. With your permission, I shall have Nama escorted to the quarters of the concubines right away. She’ll be so happy.”
Xiane nodded once more, this time in dismissal.
Jhanun rose.
Now how to make certain she is brought to him before it’s too late … .
he thought as he bowed and backed away.
But as he stepped down from the pavilion, the Phoenix smiled upon him.
“Lord Jhanun!”
Jhanun turned back and bowed. “How may I serve you, Imperial Majesty?”
“When your niece is brought to the concubines’ quarters, tell them to make her ready for me tonight,” Xiane said.
“With the greatest pleasure, Phoenix Lord.”
Yes, with the greatest pleasure do I watch the tiger fall into the pit. Thank you, Xiane.
 
 
Shima stood with Zhantse and the ship’s captain at the top of a dune. As the captain called instructions to his crew, Shima watched his fellow tribesmen tread the narrow path to the cliffs above, heads bent against the tumplines of their packs. Each man bore on his back one precious sapling. They looked like a line of ants.
But there were so few trees this time. And the Spirits only knew when their Assantikkan partners would dare send more. Or even if they ever would again. If the ship’s captain—a man they knew only as the Sailor—was right, House Mimdallek might even now be facing the wrath of the Assantikkan emperor.
The last man reached the top of the cliff where the carts waited. Shima listened to the various sounds: Nathua shouting a final order; the rumble of voices; the creak of the wood as the men swung up into the carts to make themselves comfortable among the young mulberry trees for the ride to the Vale. Once there, the men would pack the saplings in along the narrow trail that was the only way in or out of the Vale.
Shouts; the drivers were urging the horses on. The men began a song, a deep-throated chant to encourage the young trees in their new land. The song rolled down the cliff in a shimmering wave of sound, took wings and flew, a paean of hope to gladden the heart and spirit. Shima listened as it faded into the distance.
Someday that hope would be realized.
He pulled his attention back when it would follow the song and forced it to pay heed to the Sailor, who spoke once again. It rebelled; the Vale was a pleasanter thought. But Shima was stern.
“As I already told you, drummer,” said the Sailor, “the return of this Taren Olmeins …” His face twisted in fury. “Gods damn him—and me for being fool enough to pick him up. I should have had his throat cut and dumped him overboard then and there no matter what Gil—”
He stopped short; Shima waited until he mastered himself once again. The man went on, “My … supplier is in danger.” The angry accusation in his voice was like a blow.
The Sailor spoke good Yerrin, though with a heavy accent. Shima answered him hotly in the same language.
“And we told you when all this began five years ago, that Zhantse has Seen no danger to your partner.”
“What says he?” Zhantse demanded in their own tongue. “I can follow a little, but not enough.”
Shima translated; Zhantse shook his head.
“Tell him,” the shaman said, “tell him that no act of mercy is wasted. I cannot see what part this Taren is to play, but I know that it will bring about great change. Tell him that even now I See no danger to him or his.”
Shima passed the message on to the Sailor. The man still looked grim, but Shima could see in his eyes how he longed to believe. At last the Sailor spread his hands out; acceptance or defeat, Shima could not tell.
“It’s in the hands of the gods now,” said the Sailor as he shrugged. The amulets woven into his many braids clicked together. “And may your shaman have the right of it.”
The unspoken
Or else
hung in the air between them.

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