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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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“Mmm?” Maurynna rolled over and slid an arm around him. After a huge yawn she asked sleepily, “Did you have a nightmare?”
Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Linden said, “No. It was a very silly dream, actually. My sister Fawn’s husband, Fisher, was in it, and hundreds of ferrets as well. And there was a ferret who was a mage—no, there were six ferrets who were dressed as mages are in children’s tales, with those foolish robes
with the magical symbols on them that no self-respecting mage would wear. Then the next moment all the ferrets wore them and they ran down some rabbit holes.”
Maurynna chuckled. “That does sound silly—but fun. I wonder why you dreamed that.”
“So do—”
His mouth went dry. In his mind he was back in the great hall with Raven and Otter, hearing Raven’s tale of a captive truedragon, remembering his thoughts that day.
He suddenly understood his dream. The Jehangli had learned how to herd ferrets.
 
For once Linden was up before Maurynna. After dressing quietly, he left their rooms and went to the Lady’s chambers. The door opened to his knock; Sirl, the Lady’s servant, looked surprised to see him. The elderly
kir
bowed.
“Dragonlord,” he said, gesturing Linden to enter. “May I help you?”
“Is the Lady awake yet?” Linden asked.
Kelder Oronin, the Lady’s soultwin, appeared at the door of the inner chamber. “We’re awake, Linden, and about to break our fast. Will you join us?”
“For a mug of tea, perhaps. I want to get back before Maurynna wakes up,” Linden said as he followed Kelder into the private chambers of the ruler of Dragonskeep.
The Lady stood by the table. She wore a heavy robe against the chill, dark blue with green ivy vines embroidered upon it that emphasized the icy whiteness of her skin and hair. It reminded Linden of the robes the ferret-mages had worn in his dream.
“Lady,” he said. When he made to kneel to her, she stopped him with a wave of her hand. He bowed low instead. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”
The Lady’s smile was warm, if a trifle wry. “I hope nothing’s amiss, is there? Or are you come once more to argue that Maurynna be allowed to travel?”
“Not this time.” Linden returned the smile as Sirl handed him a steaming mug. “Though I do wish you would reconsider, Lady. She’s used to the freedom of the sea; to be bound to the Keep is hard for her. She’s afraid of being trapped here for the winter, I think. I hear it in her voice sometimes.”
Sympathy filled the pale eyes. “Does she know what a champion she has for her cause?”
“No, Lady.” Linden sighed and drank. “I’m afraid to raise her hopes each time I come to you lest she grow bitter with repeated disappointment. I beg you to reconsider, though.”
The Lady shook her head. “Not until she can Change, Linden. She would be too vulnerable away from here. Surely you’ve not forgotten how close the Fraternity came to destroying you and Tarlna in Casna.”
In all honesty, it was no more than the truth; Linden bowed his head in acknowledgement of that. The Cassorin regency debate had provided the ancient enemies of the Dragonlords with a rare opportunity for a magical attack on the three judges.
It had very nearly succeeded. Kas Althume, the mage who had masterminded it, had proved the equal of Ankarlyn the Mage, the greatest foe the Dragonlords had ever faced before. His murderous attack upon Tarlna Aurianne was thwarted only by the intervention of her soultwin, Kief Shaeldar.
Linden was very nearly next. Had it not been for the self-sacrifice of a former lover of his, Sherrine of Colrane, Linden knew he would have died by Kas Althume’s magic. The Fraternity had come too close to winning that skirmish in the war to destroy all Dragonlords.
Still, being a full Dragonlord had not helped
him
that time. It might not help Maurynna, either. But this was not the moment to argue the point. That was not what he’d come here for.
“I don’t agree, but we both know that, Lady. This morning I’m here for a different reason.” He licked his lips and prayed he was wrong. “Lady—do the truedragons know what they face in Jehanglan?”
The Lady exchanged a quick glance with her soultwin. “What do you mean?” she hedged.
“That although Taren thinks there’s no magic in Jehanglan, there is; the phoenix itself must be a creature of magic, after all. That the Jehangli priests are, in truth, mages. That being of the same religion, those priestmages all work to the same end—in effect, an army of mages.”
“So you’ve unraveled that knot as well, have you? Yes, Linden, they know. And went anyway, knowing full well what they may face. They couldn’t leave whichever dragon it is in torment.”
Linden groaned. “May the gods help them.”
“With all their might,” the Lady replied, her words heavy with foreboding. “I fear the truedragons will need it.”
*We will rest here,* said
Morlen.
*Scatter in small bands so that we will not be too much of a burden for this land.*
The Assantikkan wilderness called the Samarrakh was vast, but it was not a rich land, Morlen knew. Did they all congregate in the same area, both dragons and land would suffer. There would not be enough large game to feed the dragons well, and what there was would be decimated.
*It will take us time to regroup,*
one of the younger hotheads objected.
*And that is time wasted. Let us go on to Jehanglan!*
Morlen fixed the culprit with a glare.
*I lead, Nalarae, not thee, and I say that we will rest, for we need it. We have come far. Yes, it will take time for all to return here. I deem it a necessary setback. Or would thee have us come to Jehanglan too weary for whatever might face us?*
Nalarae grumbled, but gave in. He flew off, a small group of his friends with him. Others did the same; soon only a few dragons were left.
Talassaene said,
*Rest thee here, grandsire. Galinis and I will hunt for thee.*
Morlen, grateful for the chance to rest his tired wings, nodded and sank to the hard, bare earth.
I am too old for this,
he thought,
as are too many others. But we have lived good, long lives; it is the young ones who break my heart. How many of us will never see our mountains again?
 
The frenzied beating of tiny wings against the thin bamboo bars of the cage woke Pah-Ko. He blinked in confusion at the frantic sounds. The finches squawked madly as they threw themselves at the bars again and again.
“Earthquake?” Pah-Ko wondered sleepily.
“Ahhhhh.
Ahhhhhh!”
The strangled noises came from the other room.
Pah-Ko threw the covers back. Hodai! The boy was in the throes of a prophesy!
The
nira
lurched to his feet. Now the tables were turned; now he was servant to the slave. Pah-Ko snatched up the bowl and bottle of ink that always rested by the little shrine to the Phoenix and carried them into the other room.
The pallet bed on the floor was empty. The boy stood stark naked in the
middle of the room, the first rays of sunlight bathing his body, his dark eyes huge but seeing nothing. His mouth worked; the grunts that emerged became clearer. Pah-Ko could almost hear words in them.
Pah-Ko set the bowl down by the finches’ cage. He fumbled at the stopper of the bottle of ink, got it free and filled the bowl. Then he went to Hodai and, resting his hands gently on the boy’s shoulders, guided him to the table and tilted the boy’s head so that the vacant eyes looked into the ink. He knelt by the boy’s side, looking up into those empty eyes, praying he’d been in time.
The eyes focused; Pah-Ko silently blessed the Phoenix. Hodai stared at the bowl of ink as if he saw the secrets of the heavens inscribed there. His mouth worked; the words fought to come out.
Then the voice of the Phoenix belled out from the young Oracle’s lips like a song, wild and clear and free.
“Dragons,” it sang. “Dragons flying swiftly to Jehanglan. They would bring death to the Phoenix.”
Pah-Ko’s soul froze within him. He wanted the Phoenix free, not dead! “How long do we have?”
Hodai’s face worked. “Dawn two days hence.”
The golden voice slid away in a whisper on the last word. Pah-Ko knew the prophecy was over.
With a sureness of movement that belied his pain-twisted limbs, the priest stood up and caught up the robe at the foot of the sleeping pallet. He tossed it over the naked boy; the chill of dawn was still in the air. Then he strode to the door like a much younger man, calling to the temple soldier standing guard outside.
There was much to be done and little time to do it.
 
Maurynna was busy writing a letter to her cousin Maylin, so Linden went wandering. He came across Lleld on her way to the great hall. Having nothing better to do, he fell into step beside her.
“Hello, lit—” She broke off with a wry gnn.
“Hah—can’t call me that any more, can you?” Linden teased. During the more than six hundred years he’d been the youngest Dragonlord, tiny Lleld had delighted in calling him by the traditional nickname.
“Hmph,” she snorted. Then, cheerful again, “Ah, well—at least Maurynna’s still taller than I am.”
“Not hard, imp.” Linden jumped back from a quick little fist and followed Lleld into the hall.
“Hunh,” Lleld said thoughtfully, nodding at the far end of the hall. “Something amiss, you think?”
Linden glanced over. There, sitting by the hearth, was Otter. The bard wore a thoughtful frown.
“You look perplexed,” Linden said as they joined Otter by the hearth, sitting on the opposite bench. “Can’t think of a rhyme?”
“I’m not rhyming,” said Otter, “but perplexed I am. Do you remember Leet?”
“Leet?” Lleld asked. She snapped her fingers. “Ah! Would that be the other bard who was in the library that night?”
“The same.”
“A, um, friend of yours?” Lleld asked delicately.
Otter smiled wryly. “Ah—no. Long ago he was one of my rivals for Jaida, another bard. When she chose me, Leet took it hard. And when Jaida died in childbed, he blamed me, of course.”
The look in Otter’s eyes said that Leet was not the only one. “Jaida was such a little thing; we knew it was foolish to try, but she wanted children. So,” Otter admitted, “did I.”
Linden knew that desire; had known it for some six hundred years. And knew that, as Dragonlords, it was unlikely that he and Maurynna would ever have children. Their kind did not breed easily.
Likely just as well
, he told himself.
Else, with our lifespans, the world would be awash in Dragonlord get.
Still, it hurt.
He said, “I never felt comfortable asking, but … You never wed again. Wasn’t there ever—”
“No,” Otter said. His voice was tight. “No. I started traveling again then, and that’s no life to build a family on.”
Linden didn’t argue. Instead he thought of the times Otter had journeyed to Thalnia, remembered how the bard yearned to go more often, and now understood why. For in Thalnia were two children that took the place of the child who had died with Jaida. Maurynna still spoke fondly of sitting before a fireplace with Raven, listening to Otter’s tales.
After a while, Otter went on, “I can’t say Leet and I are enemies anymore, but I can’t say we’re friends, either. Indeed, I think he’s always avoided Dragonskeep before because he knows I come here often. That’s why it was so odd seeing him in the library. But odder yet was what he was reading.”
Lleld sat up straighter. “Oh? Wasn’t he investigating collections of ballads or something like?”
“No.” Otter tugged his beard; the perplexed look was back. “I thought the same, but it wasn’t. I went to visit him in his room a little while ago. We may not be friends, but we’re both bards. We should exchange whatever news we have. But the servants told me he left very early this morning. Then, I don’t know why, I thought to see what ballads he’d been studying; professional curiosity, I guess.”
“Of course,” Linden murmured.
Otter flashed him a look, then laughed and spread his hands, acknowledging defeat. “Very well, then. It was curiosity plain and simple. Jenna found the
books Leet had read during his stay, and we looked through them. They’re rather gruesome.”
Linden raised his eyebrows.
That
was unexpected. “Indeed?”
“A Lord Culwen of Cassori had an unappealing interest in blood magic, hauntings, murderers, and the like; he hunted out the old stories and wrote them down. Gruesome reading, as I said, if you can work your way through all his blatherings to the stories themselves. Somehow his books ended up here.”
Otter twitched as if with a sudden chill. “You know the kind of tales I mean—the ghost wolf of Lachlan forest, Grey Carra, the Creeping Hand—all those ‘scare small children into nightmares’ kinds of tales. Culwen seemed especially fond of the stories about Gull the Blood Drinker.”
“I
wish
he’d been only a story,” Lleld muttered.
“He was no myth, Otter,” Linden said to Otter’s suprised look. “The man existed and truly did murder all those people. I remember hearing about it when they caught him; it was only about two hundred years or so ago.”
Otter shuddered. “He really drank blood to keep himself young? Oh, gods, that’s sickening.”
“Indeed. Worse yet, the man enjoyed torturing and killing those people.” Linden rubbed his chin. “Well and well—let’s hope that witch spruce they planted over his grave still keeps his soul pinned down. Thing should be huge by now if those trees really do feed on evil as the stories say.”
“But why would this Leet be reading about such things? To write a song about one of the tales?” Lleld asked.
“Not he,” Otter said. “Something like that would be beneath him. Tales of valiant kings and beautiful queens, heroes in battle, or star-crossed young lovers—
royal
young lovers—are more his style. A pity he never spoke with Taren, if Culwen’s work was the kind of thing he liked.”
“What do you mean?” Linden asked.
“Taren and I have talked now and again about Jehangli legends. Some are very eerie,” the bard said. “Yet, somehow, this still doesn’t feel right.”
Lleld sighed. “How very strange about Leet. I daresay we’ll never know why, will we?”
“Not likely,” Otter agreed. “I’d be the last person he’d confide in.”
“Damn,” said Lleld. “I hate not knowing.”
 
“Are the pigeons ready yet?” Pah-Ko asked Deeh as he watched the scribes finishing the last few message strips. Each bore the same cryptic words:
Grey
Lands—send on.
“The pigeon girl is putting them into their baskets now, Holy One.”
Said Pah-Ko, “Good. Then I shall await them upon the tower.” He gestured, and two sturdy male servants hastened to him. They formed a chair with hands and forearms; he sat, bracing himself with a hand on each man’s shoulder. He
hated moving about the temple this way, but he was in too much pain these days for the long walk to the tower and its steep stairs. They set off, Hodai pattering along behind.
When they reached the top of the tower, the pigeon girl was already there with her helpers. Little baskets covered most of the small floor of the tower. Gentle cooing filled the air; Hodai smiled in delight and knelt by the nearest, peering inside the tiny opening in the lid.
The girl and her helpers bowed when they saw the
nira
. Pah-Ko had the men set him down. The air up here was brisk; it revived him, though he knew that if he stayed too long, the cold would settle in his twisted joints.
Just then one of the scribes arrived, carrying the narrow strips for the pigeons’ legs in a small, open box. The girl took one and bound it to the leg of a pigeon an assistant gently withdrew from its basket.
“Where, Holy One?” she asked, cradling the pigeon in her hands. It snuggled contentedly against her.
Pah-Ko said, “The temple at Mount Rivasha.”
The pigeon girl nodded, then held up the sleek bird before her face. The pigeon turned its head to meet her gaze with one dark eye. They stood so for many moments, the girl trilling softly to the bird. Then she tossed it into the air. It circled once, then flew away as swiftly as an arrow. Once it reached Rivasha, and its message was read, Pah-Ko knew more pigeons would be sent out to the next temples in the relay, and on and on until every temple in Jehanglan, large or small, was alerted.
Her assistants had the next bird ready, a message already bound to its leg. Once again Pah-Ko named a temple; once again the girl communed with her charge, impressing its destination upon it.
“Holy One,” Deeh said quietly, “it grows colder. I beg you, go inside where it’s warm, and rest. You’ll have need of all your strength when you go into the Grey Lands tonight. I know the destinations.”
The younger priest was right; journeys into the Overworld, the place between waking and sleeping where only a trained mind could venture, could be tiring, especially when one spent a great deal of time there.
As he would do, when each temple received the message in its turn, and each head priest went into the trance needed. Nor did it help that the tidings he bore were dark.
His heart heavy within his breast, Pah-Ko beckoned his bearers once again. “To my rooms,” he said. “Come, Hodai.”
As they paced the halls to his rooms, the
nira
wondered how many would die—and if he would be one of them.
What will happen to poor Hodai then?

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