Dragon and Phoenix (69 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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No, not so strange,
Maurynna realized.
She’s spent most of her life here, after all. And will I do the same someday, think of myself only as a Dragonlord rather than as a member of House Erdon? Will I forget who I was?
Before she could be swept away by a flood of unformed doubts and fears, Lark went on, “You will, of course, have to change those stiff boots of yours for ours.” Lark pulled up her long skirt enough to reveal a soft boot made of split leather, gartered to the knee with narrow strips of more leather. Gay-colored fringe ran down the sides.
As long as she could keep her breeches, Maurynna didn’t care if she went barefoot, and said so fervently.
Lark chuckled. “Shima has an old pair he kept to use as a pattern. I’ll get them and one of his
tevehs
”—Maurynna recognized the word for the kind of sleeveless tunic the Tah’nehsieh men wore—“for you to wear. And just to warn you, you’ll have to stay like that a while longer for the dye to take. But in a little bit, one of the girls will bring in a hot infusion to wash that stuff off with; it will also set the dye.”
With that warning, Lark disappeared. Zhantse’s kinswomen sat with their backs against a wall. They had the look of people settling in for a long wait.
Maurynna gloomily increased the strength of the heat spell.
 
At last they were ready to go.
“It’s late in the day to start a journey,” Maurynna said quietly to Shima as she pulled Boreal’s girth snug.
“Have we any choice?” he replied. “Look at Zhantse. I’ve never seen him like this.”
Maurynna glanced over at the shaman. Zhantse paced back and forth, snapping at Lark and Keru as they packed food and skins of water into the saddlebags.
“Hurry! They must be away!” Zhantse urged over and over.
At last the bags were full; Lark and Keru each brought one to where the Llysanyins and their riders waited.
Without a word, Maurynna and Shima took them and tied them to the saddles. It was too hard to talk, Maurynna discovered.
“The—the scrips are packed inside,” Lark said, her voice quivering. “You’ll need them to carry the food once you leave the horses.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Shima managed to say at last. He caught his mother in a hug. “Stay well.”
“Stay out of the way of soldiers,” she retorted. “Both of you.” Tears shone on her cheeks.
“You must go now,” Zhantse said, a worried frown creasing his forehead. “Get as far as you can while the light lasts.”
They nodded, and mounted. Maurynna looked around.
No Raven. She urged Boreal on; Shima quickly caught up with her. They turned again and again to wave until the others were out of sight.
“Now where to?” Maurynna said as they rode. There was a hollow feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
“There’s a back trail out of the valley. It’s narrow and steep, but it will put us closer to Mount Kajhrenal than the main route.”
Before she could reply, there came a thunder of hoofs after them. Maurynna turned.
It was Raven. She pulled up; so did Shima, though his face was a mask of disapproval that lightened only when he saw that Raven rode bareback.
As the cantering Stormwind pranced to a halt, Raven said, “No, I’m not trying to go with you—not like this. I just thought I’d ride with you while I can.” He looked from one to the other. “Well enough?”
“Well enough,” Maurynna said. Then, “I’m glad you came, Raven. I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye.”
“You wouldn’t be so lucky, beanpole,” Raven said.
They rode on quietly, side-by-side when the path was wide enough, single file where it narrowed. Shima led them into a little side canyon that, to Maurynna’s inexperienced eye, looked like any of a hundred others they’d passed.
They came to where another path branched off the one they traveled.
“This is where you must turn back, Raven,” Shima said. “Only Maurynna and I may go on from here.” He gestured at the path, his hand rising in the air.
Maurynna looked up and swallowed hard. True, Shima had warned her it was steep and narrow, but by the gods, she hadn’t expected anything like this! The first part ran along the canyon wall; then, when it ran out of wall, it turned in a switchback, back and forth, back and forth, until it reached the plateau high above. She hoped there was enough room for the Llysanyins’ broad hooves.
I’ve seen wider hair ribbons,
she thought wildly as Shima set Je’nihahn to the path. She’d never again complain about the trail to the meadow back at Dragonskeep.
“Beanpole,” Raven said, staring up at the trail, “drop the reins on Boreal’s neck, hang on to the saddle, and by all the gods,
stay the hell out of his way.”
She did as he bade her, letting the reins fall onto the stallion’s neck, especially since Boreal was nodding hard enough to send his mane flying. Her fingers locked onto the high pommel of her saddle, she said, “I’m ready.”
Boreal began climbing.
I wouldn’t mind if I could go up a rope ladder—then I could just pretend I was climbing a mast. Or if I could fly up and send Boreal on alone; that wouldn’t be bad, either.
Damn Kyrissaean, anyway.
That night, Lark had trouble
sleeping. Every time she closed her eyes, images of Shima and Maurynna in the hands of the temple guards tormented her. Each time the images ended with them trembling upon the lip of the Well of Death.
She rolled over yet again, and propped herself up on her elbows, her heart hammering.
It was in the darkest part of the night that the noises she’d half expected came. Holding her breath, she listened as the stealthy footsteps crossed the lower floor, heard the rustling of baskets being opened.
She thought he’d given up too easily. Flopping back on her bed, she waited for the sounds to end, for him to come back up the ladder. When she heard his breathing turn deep and regular, Lark rose and quietly went about her own preparations.
 
A scratching at the tent door brought Linden awake instantly. “Who is it?” he called softly.
“Dzeduin. May I enter?”
Linden looked around at the other Dragonlords and Otter, now awake also; they nodded, sitting up in their blankets. “Yes.”
The Zharmatian slipped inside and crouched just inside the doorflap. “Word just came that troops bearing the crest of Lord Jhanun are within a day’s ride, and that they’re led by one wearing the garb of a merchant. Perhaps it’s the one who betrayed you; if we ride out soon, we’ll be able to tail them.”
Linden grunted. “I’ll go. I’d like to get my hands on that bastard Taren; I want to know what his game was.” He pushed back his blankets and stood up, wearing only his breeches. As he reached for his tunic, the others kicked off their own blankets. In a ragged chorus they announced that they, too, wanted to find Taren.
Soon they were dressed and following Dzeduin through the dark camp, their cloaks wrapped tightly around them.
 
 
Lark waited where the trail came out onto the top of the cliff. Crouched behind a thick saltbush so that she couldn’t be seen from below, she pulled her jelah closer against the predawn cold. The land of the Tah’nehsieh drank up the heat of the sun during the day like a miser hoarding up gold, she thought, and spent it in the night like a wastrel in a tavern. Behind her, her horse nibbled the dry, spiky grass that grew in tufts between the rocks. Somewhere a bird sang a few tentative notes as if uncertain whether it should be awake this early. Lark yawned in sympathy.
He would be coming. She was certain of it; just as certain as she was that the sun would rise this day.
The bird’s song came again, less hesitant this time, and with a jaunty trill at the end. Lark smiled; it was a rock wren, one of the saucy little birds that lived near the
mehanso
and would dash in to steal the grain from the great mortars as it was being ground.
Now the wren burst into full song. The sound echoed cheerily among the rocks. Lark shut her eyes to rest them, knowing her feathered serenader would play sentry for her.
As it did a short time later. The song ended with an indignant chirp and an explosion of flapping wings. Lark looked up in time to see the small, reddish brown bird rise above the cliff and fly off, still scolding the intruder below.
She inched closer to the cliff edge and waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom below; the light of the newborn sun was not yet bright enough to reach down between the cliffs.
He rode up the trail just as she’d known he would. She watched him until he was hidden by a switchback. Lark stood, groaned a little at the stiffness in her limbs, and mounted her horse. She rode it along the upper trail as it twisted and turned between the boulders that covered the plateau like an army standing watch. When the boulders became walls that towered over her head, she went on until she came to a narrow gap blocked by brush.
Here, she knew, was one of the tribe’s lookout points. From here, a sentry could look out over the plateau and see an invading army long before it reached the trail to the valley. One could also see a goodly portion of the trail from the valley to here. Lark pushed the brush aside and sent her horse up a short slope to a point behind the left-hand wall. Satisfied with her view, she settled herself to watch her backtrail.
She waited with the patience of a hunter. At long last, she heard the ring of iron horseshoes on stone and saw rider and horse surge out of the ravine onto the plateau and stop. He squinted against the sudden brightness and raised a hand to shield his eyes. His hair flamed in the young sunlight, and the years of her exile fell upon her like a snowcat upon its prey.
Gods help her, how long had it been since she’d seen a fellow countryman?
Not since her ship went down in the Haunted Straits, and she had washed ashore more dead than alive nigh thirty years ago. Six hellish years a slave, traded from tribe to tribe, until Kuthera of the Tah’nehsieh took her to wife. Now she was content with a place in both family and tribe, her only regret—and it was a mild one now, she admitted; it had faded with the years—that she would never see her homeland again. So she’d filled her children’s heads with tales of the northern lands. Of the four, only Shima, the oldest boy, longed to see Yerrih, with her broad, grassy plains like an ocean of shimmering green and pine-clad mountains wreathed in mist and clouds.
This man was an image out of the past. Red hair, blue eyes, freckles splashed across his nose; so had her own father looked, her brothers, her uncles. He turned in the saddle as if to make certain of his saddlebag, revealing the clan braid that hung down his back like a ribbon of pale fire.
His clan braid. Her hands went to her own, one at each temple in the manner of Yerrin women; stroked them. Even after all this time, she couldn’t bring herself to abandon them. She was still Yerrin. She would be until she died—as any true Yerrin was.
And that truth was a weapon.
It seemed all was well with the saddlebag, for her quarry now urged his horse on. Lark watched until he was lost from view at the turn. She closed her eyes then, the better to listen.
At first, nothing. Then once again the ring of metal-shod hoof on stone. She waited as the sound drew closer, then pressed her heels into her horse’s sides. They trotted back down the slope and out onto the trail, blocking it.
She had timed it well. Raven was not yet in sight. Lark wrapped her jelah a little closer and waited. The other horse came on steadily; she could hear the stallion snorting softly. Any moment now … .
The rider pulled up short and exclaimed in surprise. One hand flashed to the dirk hanging at his side, then dropped. He stared at her. His mount bobbed its head, iron grey mane falling over black neck.
“Good morning, Raven,” Lark said pleasantly. “Going somewhere?”
He said nothing, but his eyes were hard and angry. Lark settled the
jelah
about her shoulders a little more comfortably. She wondered if he would try to push past her—and if the Llysanyin would agree to it. If yes, there was little she could do to stop them. Her rangy Tah’nehsieh mount would go down before the massive northern horse like a pin in a game of draughts.
But the Llysanyin—Stormwind, she remembered, rolling the Yerrin word in her mind, delighting in its sound—stood like the rocks around him, solid and unmoving.
After what seemed a hundred years Raven said, “I’m going for a ride.”
“Indeed?” She guided her horse forward until the two animals stood facing each other, with Stormwind slightly to her left. “And if I asked to look in that
saddlebag you were so concerned with before, I wouldn’t find the dyes for skin and hair, now would I?”
A wave of pink passed over Raven’s face, then ebbed. His chin went up as he answered, “Very well, then; you know where I’m going.”
“Even though Zhantse warned you that if you went, they would fail?” Her
jelah
slipped a little; Lark drew it closer once again.
Raven’s legs closed around Stormwind’s sides, urging him on. “I don’t believe him. Or you.”
But the Llysanyin clearly did, for the stallion ignored his rider’s command. Instead he turned his head so that one eye looked back at Raven. Now Raven’s face turned nigh as red as his hair and stayed that way.
“Well, I don’t,” he said to the horse.
The Llysanyin snorted and turned back to Lark.
“Everything will be for naught,” she said to the horse. “They will all die. Zhantse has Seen.” She should feel silly, she thought, appealing to an animal. But there was too much
knowing
in the great dark eye that regarded her.
The Llysanyin backed up a few steps, his meaning as plain as if he spoke words:
No. We go no further.
Lark gently touched her heels to her horse’s sides; it stepped forward to close the gap.
“Stormwind!” Raven cried. “We have to—”
But there was no arguing with the Llysanyin who backed one more step to drive his point home, then stood like a statue.
Frustration twisted Raven’s face. “Damn you,” he said to Lark. “She needs me.”
“Does she?” Lark countered. “For what? Do you know how to live off of this barren land as Shima does? Do you know the trails, the hiding places? What could you do for her save betray her with your curling hair that will still glint red in the sunshine even with the dye? And there’s one other thing … .” She swung her head slightly so that her braids fell forward and saw his eyes go to them.
“I still have them,” she said, her voice even.
“So I see.” He sounded wary as if unsure where she would lead him with this unexpected opening. “Grey and black binding. Wolf Clan.”
“I’m still Yerrin in my heart although I’ve lived these many years in Jehanglan.”
The wariness increased. “As am I, although I spent most of my life growing up in Thalnia.”
“As to where this trail is leading … . Have you seen a single Jehangli or a Tah’nehsieh with anything even remotely resembling a clan braid?” she challenged.
First came confusion, then annoyance. “Of course not! After all, they’re not—Oh, gods.”
Comprehension at last. The freckles stood out starkly as Raven’s face paled to a sickly white.
“Just so,” Lark said, left forefinger jabbing the air for emphasis. “Will you hack off your clan braid, declare yourself outcast? Is simple jealousy worth that? For that’s all it is, isn’t it? You want to be with Maurynna; you resent that it must be Shima who goes instead.
“Well, my young friend, believe me when I say I wish it was you with her,” Lark continued vehemently. “Think you I like sending my son into such danger? Better he bide at home and tend to his drumming for Zhantse.
“Yet did I think that your going would help them, I would keep your clan braid in reverence. I would even return with you to declare you a hero before Marten clan’s elders, tell them that you sacrificed your braid to aid a Dragonlord—and I’ve no wish to leave Jehanglan anymore. My life is here now with my husband and children; if I left, I might never be able to return past the Straits. But I would do it.” She leaned back slightly and wrapped her legs about her horse’s barrel. “So, young Raven—what shall it be? Will you try to pass me? Or will you go back with me to the
mehanso?”
Raven snorted. “I’ve not much choice, have I? Stormwind won’t go—will you, boy?”
The Llysanyin shook his head.
“I didn’t think so.” For a moment, he scowled at the horse’s mane then, raising his eyes, asked, “What chance would I have afoot?”
“As a stranger in this country? None,” Lark said frankly.
He nodded at that, accepting her word. Thank the gods, beneath all the foolish, romantic, youthful notions, the boy had a solid streak of common sense.
“Then I’ll go back with you.” His shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Raven,” she said, her voice shaking with relief, “You’ve no idea how happy I am to hear you say that. I did not want to have to use this.”
And now she flung the
jelah
back from her shoulders, revealing the long sailor’s dagger—almost a short sword—hanging at her right hip.
“Ah,” Lark said as Raven’s eyes grew wide. “You didn’t think I’d do such a thing, did you? But I’m a mother, Raven; I would do anything to save my son from certain death, even if it had come to killing you—for Shima would die were you to follow him and Maurynna. And I could have done it, too. You didn’t know I was left-handed, did you? You wouldn’t have been expecting to be struck by a weapon and from that side.”
Stormwind’s head had come up at the first sight of the sheathed blade and he sank down upon his haunches. Lark held her breath, but the stallion’s forefeet stayed on the ground. Still, she kept her hands where the Llysanyin could see them until he accepted that she meant his rider no harm after all. She relaxed only when the stallion did.
“Shall we return to the
mehanso?”
she asked, a little shaky from how close she’d stood to death from those deadly hooves.
For his answer Raven signaled Stormwind to sink down upon his haunches once more. But the big stallion merely pirouetted in place on the narrow trail. Then man and horse set off at a fast walk back along the way they’d so recently traversed.

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