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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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The troupe gathered in a
meadow near the Erdon hunting lodge; truehumans and Dragonlords sitting or sprawling in a circle on the ground, Llysanyins grazing among them. A gentle breeze frisked among them and played tag with stray locks of hair before whisking off across the field.
They were lucky, Linden thought, watching the long grass dip and bow as the breeze passed over; the weather was still remarkably warm even for a country known for its mild winters.
The passes to the Keep must be deep with snow by now.
He was content to lie back in the grass by Maurynna’s side, Shan and Boreal nosing for some choice tidbit behind them, and drowse in the unseasonable warmth. Somewhere close by a late cricket sang of summertime, while on his other side the clicking of Taren’s beads came, steady as a heartbeat. The sound was hypnotic.
The idyll ended. Lady Mayhem yawned hugely and sat up. Linden grumbled under his breath; time to get to work, no doubt. He levered himself up onto his elbows.
“Now that we’re settled and rested from the journey, shall we see just what talents we have between us?” Lleld said. “I know we’ve discussed it somewhat already, and everyone’s thought about it, but now we begin in earnest. I’ll go first.
“I can tumble and juggle, walk a rope, and so can Jekkanadar.” She looked to her right. “Raven, you can play the drums that Otter brought along, am I right?”
Raven nodded. “Yes. I can keep time for my uncle, as well as play some fairly complicated Assantikkan dance rhythms, too. Or at least I could at one time; I’ll need to practice.”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
“And he can sing well enough to come in on a chorus with me,” said Otter, next in line. “As can Linden.”
“Good! So can Jekkanadar and I, for that matter,” Lleld said. “We’re not bards, but we can carry a tune.”
Maurynna said ruefully, “As I can’t even to save my life. But if there’s a little
zamla,
I can do a simple beat while Raven plays the more complicated things; we used to do that years ago.”
Lleld’s face wrinkled up in thought. “Well enough; you two are supposed to just be servants, anyway. So it won’t matter to the show when you leave us.”
Linden tensed at the words. His eyes met Lleld’s.
I’m sorry, Linden,
she said in his mind.
But you knew that all along.
Aye, but that doesn’t mean I like to be reminded of it.
She shrugged. “And Linden shall be our strong man. It’s what would be expected, given his size.”
“But not too strong,” Jekkanadar said. He twirled a stem of grass between his fingers and grinned.
Linden tossed a pebble at him. Jekkanadar caught it, scooped up a few more and juggled them.
“Just so,” Lleld said, pushing back her red curls with one hand. “You want to astonish an audience, not scare it out of ’em.”
The resulting mental image drew a smile out of Linden. His usual good humor at least partially restored, he said, “And don’t forget I can accompany Otter on the harp as well as sing. And how about a fire-breather? We might as well take advantage of our immunity to fire.”
“Good thinking, Linden; add one fire-breather, then. Coo,” said Lleld, rubbing her hands together. “We’re a talented lot, aren’t we? This is better than I had expected; all this and the Llysanyins will do nicely.”
“But what of me?” Taren said. He sat, not quite with them, but not quite apart from them, either. He smiled gently at Lleld, the string of white beads sliding through his fingers like a crystalline waterfall. Indeed, Linden hadn’t even thought he was listening; Taren had contributed nothing to the conversation earlier. He’d merely sat cross-legged, beads clicking, apparently lost in contemplation of the little meadow pinks before him.
Linden looked at the man in surprise. Taren had never even hinted he wished to be one of the performers. Linden had always thought the former slave wanted to stay out of the public eye as much as possible, that Taren would act as interpreter when needed but otherwise stay in the background lest he be recognized and taken again.
And now he was offering to perform in their show?
Linden saw he was not the only one taken by surprise. Lleld’s face showed open-mouthed astonishment.
“Uh,” she said. “Um, ah—but what can you do, Taren? Sing? Juggle? Tumble?”
The restless beads stopped. Taren folded his hands over them. He shook his head. “Alas, no, lady,” he said, his voice filled with sadness. “At my age? You mock me.”
Taren’s gaze dropped once more. He opened his hands; the beads were gone. With a soft click of his tongue, Taren reached behind Lleld’s ear. His hand reappeared, the beads threaded between his fingers.
“Mock an old man and then steal his worry beads,” Taren said, still with infinite sadness. But now Linden heard the laugh hiding behind it. “Ah, Dragonlord, you are not kind to a poor old man.”
With that, Taren stretched out his other hand—a hand that Linden swore was also empty—and reached behind Linden’s ear. This time Taren pulled forth a meadow pink.
He offered it to Lleld. “Yet see? I forgive you.”
Lleld whooped with delight as she took the flower. After a moment of astonished silence, the others laughed and applauded. Linden couldn’t help it; although he knew it was a trick, he still touched the ear from which Taren had “picked” the flower.
No, nothing else there—thank the gods. Linden joined in the applause and laughter.
When she’d caught her breath again, Lleld said, “Tumblers, jugglers, singers and musicians, dancing horses, fire-eaters, and a conjuror! I think we’ll do very well indeed, my friends. Very well.
“And now—to work. Linden, while Jekkanadar and I work on a simple tumbling routine, why don’t you take Maurynna and Raven back to the riding ring for some practice with various weapons?”
 
Elsewhere it was winter. Here, in the Garden of Eternal Spring, the air was warm and mild. A butterfly drifted past, dancing on the perfumed breeze. Birds sang in the little grove of cherry trees that Shei-Luin rested under as Murohshei fanned her. She lay, eyes closed and half drowsing, and sighed in contentment. It was a perfect moment. Murohshei had been right; this was a good place to wait.
For when Xiane received the message she’d sent him that morning … Shei-Luin smiled in quiet triumph. She’d been right to go to the palace temple this morning and consult the Revalator of Riya-Akono. A Revalator couldn’t always tell a pregnant woman what she would have, but when the Revalator—the closest thing to a female priest in Jehanglan—did, she was almost always right.
Then a voice rose in quiet song, so beautiful that when the birds fell silent, it was as if they did so in homage. Even the breeze ceased playing among the blossoms. Shei-Luin caught her breath, listening.
The song grew louder as the singer approached. It was an old ballad, gently melancholic, about a young man whose heart’s desire hardly knew he existed.
The fan ceased moving. Surprised, Shei-Luin glanced up.
Murohshei’s gaze darted back and forth as he searched the garden before them. For a moment Shei-Luin was alarmed; then she saw Murohshei’s lips
curl in a tiny, hopeful smile. She lifted her head enough to see what pleased her eunuch.
It was Zyuzin the Songbird who wandered among the peach trees and hedges of jasmine, singing as he walked. His eyes were downcast, modest as any maiden; as he passed the flowers, the fingers of one hand brushed them as lightly as a butterfly, a lover’s secret caress. In the crook of his other arm he cradled his
zhansjen.
As Shei-Luin watched, amused now, Zyuzin suddenly halted, his hand darting to press against his chest, his eyes wide as if startled to see them. He was, she thought, a very good actor. Only a flash of dimples gave him away.
Shei-Luin sat up and beckoned him. Once more the Songbird’s gaze dropped modestly—but not before a delighted glance flashed at Murohshei. A smile creased Zyuzin’s face, round as a full moon. He approached quickly, and bowed to her as the mother of the heir.
“Lady,” he said. Once more the dimples appeared, this time to stay. “Shall I play for you?”
Shei-Luin nodded, stifling a sigh of regret that he couldn’t sing for her. But the Songbirds of the Garden of Eternal Spring raised their voices in performance only for the emperor. Even this much was daring; some of the more conservative ministers would demand that punishment be meted out. But Shei-Luin knew Xiane. Even more, she knew her hold over him—a hold that would only grow now like a
chual
vine overtaking its tree.
So she laid her head in Murohshei’s lap once more, listening as Zyuzin settled himself and plucked the strings of his
zhansjen.
Its sweet melody spilled over her.
“Precious Flower!” an all-too-familiar voice brayed from beyond the peach trees. “Preee-cious Flower, where are you?”
For once Shei-Luin didn’t wince at the sound of that voice. Indeed, she welcomed it. Murohshei helped her to sit up; she knelt, sitting upright on her heels as was her privilege. Both eunuchs touched their foreheads to the ground. But, like them, she could not look directly at Xiane before others. Such was not her right. Not yet.
But it would be. She glanced through the curtain of her lashes, watching and waiting.
Xiane hoved into sight, his robes flapping about his long arms and legs as he made for her, waving a sheet of rice paper in his hand. Ministers trailed after him, their faces registering varying degrees of bafflement and displeasure. Lord Jhanun, she was pleased to see, was the most annoyed of all. She bowed her head demurely as Xiane halted in front of her.
“Is it true, my Flower?” he asked in delight.
She rested her hands across her belly. “It is, Phoenix Lord. I consulted the Revalator this morning. If she is right, I carry another son for you.”
A hushed gabbling broke out among the ministers. She peeked at them. Most looked pleased; only one heir could mean trouble, children died so easily. Some looked vinegar-faced at the news; this would give her more power than she had before. But only one betrayed no emotion, and by that Shei-Luin knew that whatever plot Jhanun brewed, she’d thrown a large obstacle in his way. She hoped it choked him.
Fingers slid under her chin and raised her face. She dared to meet Xiane’s eyes then.
“I remember my promise, Precious Flower. If this child is indeed a boy, I will make you my empress,” Xiane breathed.
Ignoring the surprised gasps of the ministers, Shei-Luin said, “It will be another son for your glory, Phoenix Lord. I’m certain.”
I am very certain. Yesuin does not father girl-children.
She smiled up at Xiane. Now would this
chual
vine climb like never before.
 
Damn,
Liasuhn thought as Nalorih and Kwahsiu turned off the road and made for a copse of trees and the travelers’ shelter within,
we’re this close to the imperial city, and we’re stopping to camp instead of pressing on.
He couldn’t wait to see the city of the emperor. While Kwahsiu had laughed when asked if the streets really were paved with gold, Liasuhn was sure it would be the most splendid place he’d ever seen—certainly a far cry from the little river village he’d grown up in.
We’re only a few ta’vri away, Kwahsiu said, and that was a while ago. Why are we stopping now? The horses could go on for a bit.
But he was only an apprentice, so he said nothing, just turned his horse to follow the others. To make up for his disappointment, he grumbled under his breath, careful not to let his masters hear.
When they reached the shelter, Liasuhn was surprised when someone came out. He was even more surprised when Kwahsiu said, “Do you have them?” and the man, instead of being surprised, answered, “Yes.”
Nalorih jerked his head at the door. “Go in.”
Liasuhn said, “But—”
“Don’t argue!” Nalorih snapped. “Move!”
More bewildered than frightened, Liasuhn dismounted and obeyed. As he entered the shelter, the stranger glanced at him, a glance that held no comfort.
Prickles of uneasiness rippled between Liasuhn’s shoulder blades. He paused a few steps inside the door, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the dimness. He’d no wish to break his leg tripping over a stool.
First he saw three staffs leaning against the wall. Then something on the rickety table caught his eye. A closer look revealed clothing—three bundles, all the same. He pawed through the nearest. He held up a hooded robe, his confusion growing with every heartbeat.
This was the garb of a Walker priest, one of those who traveled incessantly through the countryside, tending to the folk of places so poor or so small that they didn’t have a temple of their own. Priests of the Phoenix they might be, but Walkers were also the lowest of the low, despised by other priests.

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