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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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A few days after his return from
the Iron Temple, as he returned from a meeting with other like-minded nobles, Lord Jhanun drew open the curtains of his litter at the sound of unfamiliar noise in the courtyard of his mansion. The yard seemed full of strangers.
“Halt!” he called to his bearers.
They stopped, and he drew the curtain back further. A closer look revealed that there were not so many people as he’d thought; just a few older men bearing swords or spears grouped around two women, one veiled. An old travel cart that had seen better days a lifetime or two ago was disappearing around the corner, one of his grooms leading the patient ox drawing it. A stripling youth—the driver, no doubt—trotted after.
An air of genteel shabbiness hung over the little group clustered together. Robes were tidy but patched, the colors faded, and the piping frayed. The leather of the scabbards was worn, in some places down to the wood beneath. The guards saw him watching and bowed. So did the women.
Ah—his niece, Nama, was here. Jhanun signaled the bearers to set the litter down. He stepped from it and waited.
The little circle of guards opened and the women came forth. The veiled one led; the other, a woman of middle years, followed. Her face was bare since she was but a servant.
Nama bowed deeply to him. “I am here as you commanded, uncle,” she said. Her voice trembled.
Jhanun reached out and flipped the veil back from her face. The maid drew breath in a sharp hiss; her hand darted forward as if to undo his action. She quailed and fell back only when he turned a fierce glare on her. But her eyes blazed anger at him for this insult.
The maid, Jhanun thought, would have to go. She was too protective. Even now she stood, her fingers twitching as if they ached to curtain her lady from curious eyes and importunate stares. It was well he’d prepared for such an eventuality.
But it was his niece’s reaction that Jhanun sought. Did the girl show any flash of spirit over such a gross insult? Any spark of rebellion in the dark eyes?
None. Only fear and confusion looked back at him. She cringed slightly as if expecting a blow. That was well, very well indeed. Nama was still the trembling little mouse he’d remembered. His plan could go forward; she would never say a word of what had been done to her.
“Welcome, niece,” he said, his voice warm. “Come; I will show you myself to your new home.”
He turned and set out, striding swiftly. A moment later he heard her scurry after.
 
“You’ve been avoiding me, Hodai.”
The voice came from behind like an attacker in the dark. Hodai gasped and jumped. He whirled around, his heart beating wildly; one hand flew to his throat. Beneath his shaking fingers the gold of his slave’s collar was hard—as hard as the eyes of the man who faced him.
Haoro stepped out of a wall of shadows. Or had the man woven them around himslf in a cloak of darkness? For the shadows fell away and scuttled off like insects. The servants’ tunnel was once more lit with the warm, yellow light of the oil lamps set in their niches along the walls. It was dim, but nowhere was there anything like the inky pool of darkness from which Haoro had emerged.
Hodai looked desperately up and down the narrow passageway. He’d thought he was safe here, that Haoro would never stoop to using these back ways. They were for the lowest slaves. Even Hodai had the right to use the main passages through the temple.
But he’d thought here he’d be safe … .
Haoro’s hand snapped out quick as a striking snake. The long, cold fingers seized Hodai’s chin, tilted his head up to meet eyes like black jade. Part of Hodai was mildly surprised that the priest’s hand was covered with skin like anyone else’s; he’d half-expected to feel scales rasp against his flesh.
The rest of him was terrified.
“Well?” Haoro said. “Have you nothing to tell me, boy?”
Hodai shook his head frantically. Or tried to; the priest’s fingers held him in a grip like a vise. He waved his hands in fright.
“I know he questions the Rule of the Phoenix, boy. I
feel
it. Why else do so many messages pass between him and the Seers of the Zharmatians and the Tah’nehsieh? I don’t believe it is just for the sake of learning as your master says. Yet Pah-Ko is clever; he doesn’t speak his true mind to us lesser priests, or tell us what lives in his heart.
“But you … . I know he says things to you that he would say to no one else, would not dare say to anyone else. Who would you tell? So few others know
the Oracles’ finger speech.” He smiled, a bare twist of the lips, and his voice dropped, soft as silk and cold as jade. The priest continued, “As I do. Ah—you didn’t realize that, little Oracle? But I do know it. So tell me; tell me everything.”
Hodai forced his trembling fingers to move.
Nothing. Master say nothing bad.
Haoro’s fingernails bit into Hodai’s face; the boy’s eyes filled with tears. He squeezed them shut.
“Look at me!” the priest demanded.
Whimpering, Hodai met the black eyes boring into his. They burned with a coldness that seared both mind and soul, tearing him apart as they raged through every corner of his being.
After an eternity Haoro released him. Hodai fell back against the wall, gasping. In his terror he’d forgotten to breathe. The world danced grey and dim before his eyes. His thin chest heaved as he gulped down great draughts of air.
“You tell the truth,” the priest said. “Pah-Ko has said nothing in your hearing. But he will, Oracle. He will. And when he does …”
Haoro turned the full brilliance of his smile upon the mute. “When he does and you have told me of it, then shall you have your reward, brave little Hodai. Then shall you sing. Listen.”
From the empty air came a ghostly singing. The voice was faint and clear, and more beautiful than even the voice that led the Song. Hodai trembled at the sound and stretched out his hands as if he could snatch it from the air.
Without another word the priest disappeared back into the shadows he’d come from. The singing ended. Hodai slid down the wall into a huddled ball on the floor. He wept.
How could he betray the man who’d been father and mother to him?
He remembered the voice promised him.
How could he not?
 
The compound of her uncle’s city mansion was huge, Nama thought as she pattered along behind him. There was the main house itself, then a number of little houses, many in their own gardens, here and there. Houses for guests? Favored servants? She had no time to stop and look.
Nor did she want to. She might meet someone’s eyes. For she did not dare rearrange her veil; her face was still bare to any man’s gaze. From the corner of her eyes she could see servants stop and stare. To her utter humiliation, some of the men leered at her once Jhanun was past. Phoenix help her, did they think she was some courtesan of Jhanun’s? She wished the earth would open and swallow her. She wished the Phoenix would strike her dead with its holy fire and spare her this shame. But all she could do was hurry after her uncle with her head bowed and her eyes brimming with tears she dared not shed.
At least Moya was with her. She could hear the maid and a few of her uncle’s servants following close behind.
Please let us get there soon! And
please
don’t let uncle stay very long.
Once there, and they were alone, Moya would hold her while she cried.
By the kindness of the Phoenix, it proved to be only moments more before they reached their destination, a place so far away from the other houses that it might almost not be part of the compound. Jhanun paused before a gate set in a palisade of stout bamboo higher than a man’s head. He reached into his sleeve and drew out a key. It turned in the lock without a sound. He pushed the gate open and led her inside.
Nama paused in the gateway. A single glance made her forget her fear and confusion. The place was enchanting!
Jasmine vines grew in wild abandon along the fence, softening its harshness and perfuming the air. Other flowers grew everywhere, a riot of color to delight the eyes. A little stream meandered through the landscape, singing merrily to itself as the sunlight glinted on its waters. A small footbridge arched over it. Beyond lay a house, also small, but perfect as a jewel in its setting.
Entranced, Nama took a few steps forward into this unexpected haven. She clapped her hands in delight.
Like some nightmare echo came the sounds of the gate swinging shut and Moya’s cry. Nama spun around; from beyond the gate came sounds of a scuffle.
“Lady! My lady!” Moya wailed. “Let me go to my lady!” Her cries grew fainter.
“Moya!” But there was no answer. Nama thought she would faint from sheer terror. “Uncle?” she whispered.
“She’ll be sent home with your guards. You no longer need the services of an inferior maid,” her uncle replied with a lift of his eyebrow. “I have engaged a better one for you.” He lifted a hand and gestured.
Nama looked. The door to the little house opened; a woman came out. Though her clothes were of the plain cloth of a servant, they were elegantly cut, and worn with such regal assurance that they might have been silk brocade. From her perfect hair to her elegant slippers, this was a maid fit for a lady of the court.
But her expression was as hard and grim as a stone wall, and her eyes held no welcome, only cold indifference. She was a big woman, as tall as some men. Nama’s spirit quailed at the sight of her.
“That is Zuia,” Jhanun said. “She will see to your needs. In two days, after you have rested from your journey, the first of your tutors will come. Now go.”
Nama hesitated, frightened by the grim-faced woman.
“Go.” Her uncle’s voice was soft, but cold as a knife blade against the throat on a winter night.
Moving through a cloud of despair, Nama crossed the little bridge.
The Lady of Dragonskeep woke
from a dream. Tears slid down her cheeks as she sat up in bed, careful not to disturb Kelder. She brushed the tears aside.
Gods, what a sad dream, so full of grief and regret! Yet she couldn’t remember what it had been, just that a voice bearing all the sorrow in the world had threaded a way through her mind. She drew a shuddering breath.
Then, quietly as dusk falling, the voice was back in her mind. Her waking mind; no dream this time.
Fear seized her. She knew that voice.
Morlen? Morlen, what’s wrong?
*We have decided what must be done, Jessia.*
One of you
has volunteered to go to Jehanglan to free the captive?
But if so, why was Morlen so—The Lady bit her knuckle. Was it Talassaene? That would explain—
*No, my friend. I tried to take that task upon myself, for if I had understood that Seeing so many years ago, perhaps much misery could have been avoided.*
Sorrow gusted through her mind like a storm, then the truedragon went on,
*The others would not hear of it. Instead—
*
A flood of grief brought fresh tears to the Lady’s eyes. She cried silently, caught up in Morlen’s emotions.
Then what … ?
*We go to war, my dearest friend. Even I, for although my magic is not what it once was, I cannot abandon my people. So in a few days … That I have lived to see this wretched day! Jessia, heart friend—I beg thee to pray for us. I fear we shall have need of it, for there is worse yet.*
She listened as he told her his fears and grew cold inside.
 
Nira
Pah-Ko sat by the window, watching the early morning mist swirl through the valley below. His breathing came loud and harsh in the stillness of his tower room. He was not an old man, but looked like one, limbs twisted and wasted from containing the power that nourished Jehanglan. Deep, deep within his tired bones he felt the pain of the captive chained in the caverns below the temple.
He was the
nira
, the focus, the linchpin of the holy prison that held the dark
beast; he was the living sacrifice for Jehanglan. It had been an honor to be chosen so many years ago, but it was a hard one.
It happened to every
nira,
Pah-Ko reflected as he shut his mind to the latest surge of pain. Agony in the beginning, it had become easier to ignore with long practice; the priest shut the thought from his mind that the jolts came stronger these days, harder to put aside. He did not like what that might portend—that and the earthquakes to the east that the runners spoke of.
“The signs are bad,” he wheezed aloud to the colorful finches in the cage by his chair and to the child crouched on the floor before him. “All bad. The emperor is weak, sinful. Were he righteous, all Heaven and Earth would be in harmony. Instead he skimps on the ceremonies when he even bothers to attend them, and fails to honor his ancestors properly.” He shook his head sadly. “That I should have lived to see such days, Hodai,” he said to the boy at his feet.
The boy nodded, his great eyes fixed on his master, but offered no comment. The finches hopped from perch to perch in their cage of gilded bamboo. “Beee, beee, beee,” they buzzed and flocked to the side of the cage, hoping for a treat.
Pah-Ko fumbled in the dish on the table. With difficulty he made his crooked fingers scoop up a small quantity of seeds and cast them into the bottom of the cage. Like tiny, animate flowers, the finches jumped down and pecked eagerly at the seeds. As the
nira,
he was entitled to have nightingales sing for him as the emperor did; but their sweet song seemed to torment Hodai and he would not add to the young slave’s pain. He kept finches instead, and enjoyed their impertinent ways.
Poor, poor child; he wants to sing so badly and cannot even speak.
The boy made the signs for
pretty
and
greedy
and smiled.
“Aren’t they, though? There’s fire and flood, drought and disease—but you don’t care, do you, my little jewels? The land is racked by earthquake, the runners bring tales of two-headed calves born in the villages along the
sian
lines, dead men have been seen walking, and there are rumors of blood filling temple courtyards—but what is that to you?” Pah-Ko said.
He waggled a finger at them. One or two turned a saucy eye on him, but the rest snatched greedily at the seeds. “Ah,” he said, amused as his favorite, Little Jade, fluttered back up to the nearest perch and watched him, bright green head cocked to one side. “This though, you should care about.”
The boy tilted his head much like the finch, listening. His face grew serious and something like fear filled his eyes.
The priest lowered his voice though there was no one else in the room. “My powers are fading, Hodai, and Haoro eyes the feathered mantle of the
nira—
my mantle. And if Haoro becomes
nira,
then—Bah! His family was always greedy, and now they are poor; a dangerous combination. And the honor—and power—it would bring to his mother’s brother, Jhanun …”
Hodai nodded, hesitantly at first, then vigorously. His clever fingers said,
Bad power,
then made his private sign for one of the other senior priests, Deeh.
“Yes,” the priest wheezed and began coughing. At once Hodai jumped up, fetched him a cup of bitter tea and helped him drink. When the fit had passed, the young slave arranged a blanket over him, then knelt before him once again. “Yes,” Pah-Ko repeated, relishing the warmth of the thick wool. “Bad power indeed. The Phoenix should choose Deeh. It would be better.”
Agreement washed across Hodai’s face like a flood. He signed,
Haoro does not lie. But Deeh speaks truth.
Pah-Ko looked out of the window once more at the mist.
Such simple words and so true,
he thought.
Is it not bad enough that Haoro’s paternal grandfather was so deep in the plans to overthrow the Imperial Palace? The family was stripped of nearly everything—and rightly so. But now there’s the chance that they may come into power again. The old emperor was too lenient; he should have destroyed them. At the least Haoro should never have been allowed
to
rise in the ranks of the priesthood. Maybe it is a mistake that when a man is
chosen to be the
nira,
so much wealth and power is heaped upon his family. But if not, what sane man would accept?
Pah-Ko was honest with himself. Anything that benefited Jehanglan could be endured—especially when it brought fortune, rank, and honor to one’s kin. He would never have agreed to become the nira years ago had it not been for the benefit to his family. It was a sacrifice any Jehangli man of good conscience would make; the well-being of one’s family was all.
Now his brother was a duke and a sister had been a concubine of the old Phoenix Lord, retired now in honor to an estate of her own with many servants. Another sister married an Imperial Judge. His parents’ ashes—honor of honors! —were interred in the great Temple of the Phoenix itself and incense burned to their souls every day. He had done well by his family; it had been a small price to pay to lift them from their abject poverty.
Another surge of pain; he hid it as well as he could from Hodai. Pah-Ko shifted carefully in his chair.
I hope Deeh is the one chosen. He’s an orphan; Haoro has a family of jackals ready to leap upon Jehanglan—if only his mother wasn’t one of Jhanun’s sisters!
Nor was the choice of his successor all that disturbed Pah-Ko these days. The uncomfortable doubts which plagued him of late raged in his mind like crows tormenting a trapped fox.
“It’s all unraveling,” he muttered. Hodai leaned against his knee, offering silent comfort; Pah-Ko stroked the sleek black head. “All of it. Our temple’s reverend ancestor, Gaolun, said that the reign of the Phoenix would last a thousand thousand years. Now it’s only a few handfuls more than a thousand years, and the world disintegrates before my eyes. And what of my other Oracle’s prophesy, Hodai, that said to bring the seed of Lord Kirano to the Phoenix
Lord? Shei-Luin has borne a fine son to Xiane Ma Jhi, and still there’s calamity!”
The boy fluttered his hands anxiously and his dark eyes filled with fear. He grunted in an effort to speak.
With difficulty, Pah-Ko caught the hands beating at the air like frightened butterflies. “No, no, don’t worry, child. It wasn’t even your prophecy. You Oracles only tell us what you see, and you see the truth. All we mere mortals can do is try to follow the Phoenix’s divine words. But are we in truth doing that?”
A tiny sob escaped the boy. He rested his head against Pah-Ko’s knees. One hand came up, searching.
Pah-Ko caught and held it, willing comfort and peace to the shaking boy. He thought,
I must be more careful what I say to Hodai; sometimes I forget how young he is, with all the self doubts of the young. He has so much wisdom for a child.
He sat, staring out of the window. The crows of doubt returned to pick at his mind. Suddenly he said, “Some say the first
nira
was wrong to do what he did. Some also think the binding
should
be undone. Eh, Hodai—shall we ask Little Jade what he thinks? Bestow your wisdom upon us, 0 tiny wise one!”
Hodai’s hand clenched like a vise. It jerked once.
“Beee,” the little finch said. “Beee, beee, beee.”
Pah-Ko nodded wisely. “You agree the Phoenix should be free? Good! And what is that? Yes; I now think the poor beast below us should be set free as well, may the Phoenix forgive me my heresy.”
The boy’s hand, suddenly cold, slid like a dead thing from his grasp.
 
Linden came out of the bathing room, working his fingers through the wet, unbound length of his clan braid to untangle it. Steam rose gently from his naked body as he wandered through the sleeping chamber, humming. Maurynna, content to be warm and lazy under the blankets, watched with appreciation as he paused before the fire to fight with a particularly recalcitrant knot.
I don’t think I’ll ever tire of just watching him,
she thought. Then she smiled.
Or of
—
A sharp tapping at the chamber door interrupted the pleasant train of thought. She sat up in suprise.
“Linden? Maurynna?” Varn, their kir servant called through the door; he had learned better than to just walk in, poor fellow. His voice had an edge to it that Maurynna had never heard before. Alarmed now, she snatched up the nightgown that had fallen to the floor the night before and yanked it on.
“Yes. Come in,” Linden called when she was ready. He turned to her. She had his breeches ready and tossed them to him. He pulled them on as Varn slipped into the room. Maurynna jumped off the bed and went to her clothes
chest at the foot of it. She grabbed the first tunic and breeches that came to hand, and stood up to listen.
The usually cheerful
kir
was frowning. “I thought you might want to know,” he said, “the
Saethe
is meeting. Now.”
This early? Why, half of them must have been rousted out of bed,
Maurynna thought in surprise.
“Why?” Linden asked.
“I don’t know for certain,” said Varn slowly.
“Kitchen rumor, then,” Linden snapped.
Maurynna remembered Linden once telling her that nine times out of ten, whatever came out of the servants’ quarters was correct.
Varn nodded. “Word is that the truedragons suspect it’s either Dharm Varleran or a truedragon named Pirakos in Jehanglan. That Morlen had a Seeing: it will take magic or magical beings to free the captive, so asking a band of truehumans to invade is out, even if they could get into the kingdom.”
The
kir
paused; he rubbed his short-muzzled face. The next words came out as barely more than a whisper. “Word is that it will take them a few days to make ready, but … The truedragons … The truedragons are going to war.” Tears slid down his furred cheeks.
“Gifnu’s bloody hells,” Linden swore softly. He turned away.
Tunic and breeches slipped from Maurynna’s fingers, and she put her hand over the icy pit where her stomach used to be.
“Dear gods, no,” was all she could say.

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