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Authors: Joanne Bertin

Dragon and Phoenix (66 page)

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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“Ah. So that’s what it is. Miune and I had always wondered,” the shaman said mildly. He and the youngling dragon nodded at each other as if to say
Now we know.
Would they take her next words so calmly? “It must go back to Dragonskeep.”
*Of course,*
Miune said.
Zhantse nodded. “I understand.”
She must have gaped at him, for he continued, “This bundle has never been one of the holy things of my people, but a charge laid upon us. We have merely been its guardians until the proper time.”
The proper time
. No more hiding, then.
She swallowed hard. “Zhantse—just what is it that I must do?”
 
It was midnight in the Iron Temple. Hodai went to Pah-Ko’s chamber to see if this night, perhaps, the
nira
felt well enough to go to the ceremony.
But Pah-Ko slept, and Hodai was unwilling to disturb him. He patted the blankets into place and slipped out of the room.
As he entered the
nira
’s private balcony, a figure detached itself from the shadows. It was Haoro.
Hodai grunted in terror. What did the priest want now? He fell back a step, his hands raised as if to fend off a blow.
“Why so afraid, little Hodai? I come to tell you that this night, I shall keep my part of our bargain. After the midnight ceremony, come to the north tower, for tonight I give you your voice.”
Stunned, Hodai stood transfixed as Haoro swept past him. A faint echo of a beautiful voice chimed in his ears.
It was to be his at long last … .
Hodai could barely wait for the ceremony to be over.
 
Instead of answering immediately, Zhantse stood up and tossed a handful of what looked like rough pebbles into the fire. They sizzled and flared, hissing as they burned.
Some sort of tree gum
, Maurynna thought,
like myrrh
.
As Zhantse chanted softly, thin white smoke rose and hovered above the fire. Maurynna’s nose twitched at the spicy, mysterious scent, and a chill ran down her spine as she watched the smoke collect.
It’s as if there’s a giant, invisible hand catching it.
Zhantse passed his hands through the smoke, gesturing first east, then west, then south, and then, last of all, north. At each motion a fragrant tendril broke off from the main column of smoke and floated horizontally in the indicated direction. Maurynna watched in astonishment and awe as one passed directly over her head. She tilted her head back to follow it, giving up only when she was in danger of falling over backward.
She turned back to Zhantse. “Wh—what … ?”
“To drive away any evil spirits that might bring ill luck,” the shaman said, “did they know our plans.”
Urk. Now
there
was a comforting thought.
Zhantse remained standing and stared beyond her into the darkness, his face grim. Maurynna resisted the impulse to look over her shoulder; there might be something there. The firelight lit the shaman’s face from below, turning the kindly, seamed dark face into a terrifying mask.
Then the mask moved. “For many, many lives—almost since the beginning of the reign of the Phoenix—there have been a few brave men who have slipped into the slave camp below the Iron Temple. At the risk of their lives, they have mapped the caverns and tunnels beneath the Mountain of Nightmares, seeking the anchor of the power that kept the Phoenix imprisoned, gathering that information piece by painful piece. Many became lost and died slow deaths in the darkness under the mountain, or died under the hands of the guards before they could escape with what they knew.
“But enough lived. Enough that we know the way to the cavern where the dragon lies.”
He fell silent. A little voice in the back of Maurynna’s mind whimpered,
Why do I get the feeling that finding Pirakos will be the easy part?
She chewed her lower lip.
A moment later she realized one hand was clenched upon the hilt of the sword. She forced her fingers open and turned her hand palm up; her palm was smeared with something that, for one heart-stopping moment, she thought was blood.
But it was merely a trick of the firelight and the dust from the rotting leather that bound the hilt. She’d seen its like on old books in her Aunt Maleid’s library. Still, she found it disquieting and rubbed her hand clean on her breeches.
“And once I find Pirakos?” she asked.
“Then you use the key that you hold. For the one you seek is chained by a magic that will fall to the touch of cold iron wielded by more magic.”
Maurynna tilted her head. “That doesn’t sound too impossible. So that means there’s a reef in these waters somewhere, doesn’t it?”
A look of bafflement replaced the masklike expression. Shima spoke rapidly in their own tongue.
“Ah!” Zhantse said, smiling. “We say ‘a boulder in the path.’” He drew a deep breath, serious once more. “The ‘reef,’ as you say, is that in order to free Pirakos, you must get close to him. Close enough that, once the final chain is loosed, he will be able to reach you.”
Oh, gods, why does Zhantse sound so grim … ?
“And that is where the danger lies. For Pirakos is mad, Maurynna Kyrissaean, mad with hate and rage and pain and bloodlust, all focused upon those who walk on two feet.”
As she was forced to do. Damn Kyrissaean, anyway.
Maurynna wanted to kick something in frustration, or weep in terror. Instead she just asked, “Must I go alone?”
“No,” Zhantse said. “We could not ask that of you.”
Thank the gods
, she thought, nearly undone with relief.
So Raven and I will
go
on to
—
The shaman said, “You’ll leave at the dark of the moon; that will give you a few more days to rest—and, since he’s memorized the route in a chant, Shima will go with you.”
 
“Where were you?” Raven demanded when Maurynna finally got back to Lark’s house. He looked down at her from the opening to the upper floor. “You missed the dancing. The Llysanyins finally got to perform.”
“Talking with Zhantse, Shima, and Miune,” she answered wearily. She shifted the bundle she carried to the crook of her other arm and started up the ladder.
“What’s—”
“Raven—please. I’m tired. I want to go to bed. I’ll tell you in the morning.”
For a moment she thought he would block her way until she told him. But he retreated; she heard his feet scuffle along the dried clay of the floor. When she got to the top of the ladder, she was alone. Trying not to think of all she’d learned that night, she went to her own sleeping pallet behind a screen of plaited reeds, slipped the sword and the torc under her pillow, then undressed and got into bed.
She pulled the blankets up to her chin and lay staring up into the darkness. Bad as this night had been, worse was yet to come. Wait until they told Raven he couldn’t go with her … . She groaned and rolled over.
 
Hodai knelt on the floor, the blindfold Haoro insisted he put on before coming into the room bound tightly around his head. He clenched his hands together so hard they hurt. As unobtrusively as possible, he turned his head from side to side, trying to make sense of the faint sounds he heard.
There were more people in the room than he and the priest, he was certain of it; but how many there might be, he had no idea. Although it frightened him to sit in darkness while all those around him walked in the light, he could understand the why of it. This was forbidden magic, he suspected, and the less he knew of who took part, the safer they were. Not everyone had a powerful uncle to protect them.
But what was that scuffling noise, those grunts? Forgetting himself, Hodai turned his head toward the sounds. Someone cuffed him sharply on the ear. Hodai shrank away from any more blows.
Then came words that drove all else from his mind: “We’re ready, Holy One,” a soft voice said.
He heard the fizzling sound of incense catching, and a few moments later the sweet scent tickled his nose. Then a voice started a soft chanting; other voices joined it, and Hodai felt a kind of pressure building in the air. It pressed on him, dug tendrils into him the way ivy dug into a stone wall. It sang inside him until his head spun, and he was afraid he would be sick.
Dizzy now, he dimly heard a final voice join the chorus—Haoro’s, the only one he recognized. It reverberated in his head, on and on, until it seemed he’d knelt here forever.
Then he became aware of a pressure building in his chest, rising up and up to his throat, and catching there, as if every song he’d ever heard dwelled within and now tried to escape. He held his breath in wonder and excitement.
Yet the songs were trapped as they always were; he wanted to scream his frustration. Then came a muffled whimper and a soft thump, and then a finger traced a line across Hodai’s throat with something hot and wet.
And then it happened. The lock on his throat was gone! Hodai opened his mouth and sang a high, clear note.
There were murmurs of astonishment, and a hand clapped over his mouth, but gently. Haoro laughed softly and said, “Not so loud, little Oracle! Someone might hear. Now sit there, and leave the blindfold until I tell you otherwise.”
Hodai nodded, waiting in a fever of excitement. Mysterious noises surrounded him; then he sensed that the room was empty. He raised his hands to the blindfold, but waited.
“You may remove it now, Hodai.”
He yanked it off. Haoro stood before him; the priest looked tired, but pleased. “Is it well, little Oracle?”
Hodai took a deep breath. “It’s well.”
The voice that belled forth from his lips nearly made him swoon with its beauty. He wanted to burst into song.
Haoro must have guessed, for he said, “I think the first thing you should sing should be the Song, Hodai, to thank the Phoenix for this gift. But if you sing with the others, there will be awkward questions asked; let me first set the stage for a ‘miracle’ by the Phoenix.
“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.
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.
BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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