Phoenix (12 page)

Nia leans in closer to me, as though to tell me a secret. But her hushed tones reveal words that are not so much clandestine, as uncertain. She isn’t sure of what she knows. It’s only a suspicion.

It makes me suspicious, too.

“The mamluki—the yagi, as you call them. They are not simply hybrid creatures, part man, part insect. They are cyborgs.”

“Cyborgs?” I’m scrambling to think what she means. “Like, bionic creatures? Part humanoid, part-machine?”

For once, Nia smiles. It’s not a big smile, but a flash of gratitude, of appreciation at being understood. It makes my heart swell.

“The yagi, as you call them, are mostly mutant creatures, yes, but the white witch is able to remotely control them. They are mostly organisms, but part machine—computer, really. She gathers data from them. They are able to communicate with her over long distances, transmitting back to her their location and other information, I’m not sure exactly what. I have no doubt she already knows about the attack at the hotel this morning. She probably knew about it as it was happening. The yagi found us. They transmitted our location to her, and then she gave the order to attack.”

For a long moment, I’m silent, staring at the fire, absorbing what she said.

“I don’t know it for certain,” Nia admits. “But there’s too much I can’t explain any other way. I’ve been her slave for over two years and in that time, the yagi have done things,” she gestures plaintively with her hands, “there’s no other explanation that fits. Not even the theory that they are rational creatures, which I don’t believe them to be. Their behavior is not consistent with that of rational creatures.”

“You mean, because they continue to attack us even when it’s obvious we’re slaughtering them?” I made this connection during my silent moments.

Nia laughs. “Yes! Precisely! That’s not rational. It’s as though they’re programmed to behave a certain way, even if it kills them, so they keep at it until they either die or receive different orders.”

Nia laughed at me. She laughed—not mocking me, but in connection with me. Not a long, hearty laugh, but a sweet trill of understanding, like the wings of a hummingbird brushing past me on a sunny day.

I want to kiss her.

But she does not look like she wants to be kissed. No, instead I must say something else, something sophisticated and understanding, so that she will laugh again and we will bond immutably before Ram returns.

Unfortunately, most of my brain is still occupied with the thought of kissing Nia, which leaves only brain-stem-level functions to try to impress her. I’m reduced to repeating what has already been said. “So, the yagi are cyborgs.” I squeeze any trace of goofy grin from my face with a somber scowl to indicate my displeasure at the yagi, and also to communicate my inherent maturity.

“Yes.” Nia nods solemnly, her expression one of gratitude that I have not lost sight of the point of the conversation.

Though if she really knew what I was thinking, she would not be so grateful. I don’t think.

“The yagi collect and send data to the white witch. They are able to identify dragons by their scent. The yagi had to know I was a dragon because I flew, following them, most of the way to the witch’s castle. I believe she learned my true identity from the yagis’ data.”

“And that’s why she quizzed you at dinner?”

“Yes.” Nia grows solemn. “She asked me about fire—about my knowledge of fire, and what it does. It wasn’t a casual conversation, either. She grew irate and accused me of withholding information.”

“What kind of information?” My heart is pounding from more than just my desire to kiss Nia. What is Eudora up to? Why does she want to know about fire—what could she have possibly hoped to learn from Nia that she didn’t already know?

Nia tilts her head toward mine, and I lean in closer still, until there’s less than a foot of empty space between us.

“She asked about fire,” Nia whispers. “About fire and heat and blowing fire, and whether I didn’t know what I was good for, and various other insulting things, but she also whispered something under her breath which I don’t think she actually wanted me to hear, but she was so upset by this time, I don’t think she could hold it back completely, and I heard.”

“What did she whisper?”

“Don’t you know how to make gold?”

“Gold?”

Nia nods. “I wasn’t sure if I heard her correctly, but then I researched it in her library. She’s got books and books on the subject—where gold comes from, its history, what it’s worth.”

“Where does gold come from?” I ask, only to have my words echoed behind me in my brother’s voice.

“Where does gold come from?” Ram repeats, a tone of incredulity that we’d be discussing that particular topic at this time. “Funny you’d ask, since we’re on a volcanic island in the Ring of Fire.”

I’d noticed the cone shape of the island earlier, so I’m not surprised to hear my brother call the island volcanic—although it appears to be a long-dead volcano, worn down by time. “The Ring of Fire,” I repeat, self-consciously sitting upright so I’m no longer leaning visibly toward Nia.

I notice she does the same, so she’s no longer inclined toward me. “The Ring of Fire,” she repeats, and clears her throat. “That’s the circle around the Pacific Ocean where most of the world’s active volcanoes are located. Fiji is part of the Ring of Fire. The white witch also had many books about volcanoes in her library.”

“Sounds like an exhaustive collection,” I observe off-handedly, puzzling over Eudora’s words.

“Only exhaustive on certain subjects,” Nia clarifies. “It was an eclectic collection.”

Ram clears his throat behind us. “It’s my understanding that gold is brought to the earth’s surface by volcanic activity.”

“That’s right.” Nia turns her attention to my brother. “Gold is a distinct element—it can’t be formed by combining other materials. I read about it in the white witch’s books. Some theories say it didn’t exist on earth at all, initially, but arrived when meteorites crashed into the earth. But based on the places where gold is found, usually in mountains pushed up from deep underground, or in regions of ancient volcanic activity, most experts seem to think there’s a certain amount of gold trapped far below the surface of the earth, in regions of extreme pressure near the earth’s core. The gold is then brought to the surface when mountains rise up, or is spewed out when volcanoes erupt.”

Ram nods. “It’s the same story with silver, copper, and gemstones. Diamonds require enormous amounts of pressure to create them—the same kind of pressure that builds until it erupts in a volcanic explosion.”

“Gold comes from deep in the earth.” Nia makes a face. “It’s not made.”

Ram gives her an inscrutable look. “Made?”

I explain, “Eudora asked Nia if she knew how gold was made.”

“Gold isn’t made,” he protests.

“There was a time,” Nia rises to standing and turns to face Ram, “when men put enormous effort into their attempts at making gold, into solving the riddle of how it was formed, to cracking the code and producing it. They all failed. But still, they believed it was possible, that gold could be made.”

I stand as well. “Eudora is very, very old. Hundreds of years—our father has estimated her age at around eight hundred, but even that could be off by centuries. Whatever her age, she lived through eras when men tried to make gold. Perhaps she still believes it’s possible.”

Ram’s expression is still peculiar. I’ve seen similar looks before, when he’s trying to solve a difficult problem. But this is more than that. “In the fires far beneath the surface of the earth.” But then he breaks off, shakes his head, and gives me a lecturing look with a shadow of uncertainty behind it. “Dragons hoard gold.”

“And silver and gemstones and other treasures,” I agree, trying to find his theme. “And hoard them in caves.”

“Often in mountains,” Ram adds.

“Or underground,” Nia studies our faces each in turn. “Do you think there’s something behind the witch’s question? Some real science, or magic?”

Ram raises his arms above his head in a broad stretch, and yawns. “I don’t know. It’s a riddle, and we won’t solve it tonight. We need our sleep. I scouted the area thoroughly. This island is completely cut off from all the other islands as well as the mainland. The yagi can’t reach us here—not unless they can fly.” He adds the last bit like an inside joke.

But Nia isn’t laughing. She looks serious, maybe even afraid. “Some breeds of cockroach can fly.”

“But the yagi are bred from Madagascar hissing cockroaches—that’s why they’re able to make that creepy sound they make. And Madagascar cockroaches can’t fly. They don’t even have wings.”

“The witch is always working, always refining. She’s been experimenting with flying breeds. I don’t know how far her experiments have gone, or if it’s even possible—”

“I wouldn’t think regular yagi were possible,” Ram concedes, “or water yagi. But she figured out how to make those.”

“Should we post a watch?” I ask.

Ram makes a face. “If we do, that will mean a third less sleep for each of us. There weren’t any flying yagi at the hotel this morning. If there were, they’d have flown up to the roof instead of climbing the walls. No, I think we’re safe here. As safe as we can be. We need rest more than anything if we’re going to make it all the way to Fiji.”

Since I, personally, was cringing at the thought of trying to stay awake through a watch in my current sleepy state, I’m relieved by my brother’s words. I make a bed for myself near the fire, and lay down wrapped in my cloak.

Ram believes we’ll be safe here for the night.

That should be enough to silence the fearful doubts inside me, the voices that insist we should be on our guard, that we might easily awaken paralyzed by yagi wails, unable to fight, if Ram is wrong.

For once, I hope Ram is right, that his streak of perfection goes unbroken.

Sleep finds me quickly, and other voices crowd in, whispering words that went unspoken in our conversation about fire and gold. They dance in the flickering flames, taunting me, their message unclear, or just beyond my understanding.

Gold.

Fire.

The ring of fire.

A ring of gold.

Maybe it’s because I fell asleep with my face to the flames, the last sight I saw flickering gold dancing heavenward.

Again, I’m surrounded by fire—thick walls of fire. I can’t see through it, can’t find my way out. It’s not a ring of fire, but more like a maze, and around each bend I hope to find escape, but I’m only met with more fire.

This time there’s no egg. Instead, molten pellets are being spewed into the sky, shot from the flames like tiny bombs that arc into the air, trace a curved red path through the stars, and then fall down like rain, like fiery hail all around me.

I’m running through them, bowed under my fireproof wings, trying to dodge the worst of them. They litter the ground and harden. Shiny. Pure. Gold.

Did it fall from the sky? Or was it spewed from the earth?

“Help me! Help!”

The cry comes from the other side of the wall of flames. It’s not my voice. It’s Nia’s voice. She needs me—she needs my help! I race along the wall of fire looking for a way out, a doorway or gap in the flames through which I can find my way to her. I follow every dip and curve and pathway, only to find dead ends everywhere I turn.

“Help!” Nia’s voice is distant, fading. Where is she? I need to reach her, to help her, but I’m surrounded by flames and there is no escape.

“Nia!” I call her name.

There is no answer, only fire surrounding me, hemming me in on all sides.

“Felix? Are you okay?” Nia nudges me awake.

The sky is clear above me, lit by the early dawn. There are no falling bombs of molten gold. The only flames are those that flicker feebly among the dying embers of our campfire.

“Nia?”

“Yes. Are you awake now? What was happening? You called my name in your sleep. Was it a bad dream?”

“It was a dream.” I confirm, still tracing the paths through the fiery maze in my mind, trying to harmonize the events of my dream with the world around me. But the two are so different.

“Okay.” Nia settles back into her place, the bearskin wrapped tightly around her. “Go back to sleep, but try not to dream out loud this time. I need my sleep.”

“Sorry about that.” I roll over with my back to the fire and close my eyes, but my heart is still racing from the panic I felt as I tried and failed to find a way out of the flames. I breathe deeply and attempt to clear my thoughts.

Behind me, I can hear the crackle of the wood in the fire.

But that crackle did not come from behind me. It came from ahead of me.

I open my eyes—not wide open, just to slits—and I peer into the gray-lit early morning. There are scrub grasses and bushy plants surrounding our campsite. Their domed heads rise like yagi all around us.

And they move like yagi.

And blink like yagi.

And wail like yagi.

Almost too late, I realize they are yagi, surrounding us even here in this distant, supposedly safe place, sneaking up on us without wailing so we’d have no warning until they’ve got us completely surrounded, with no chance of escape. Even as their wails begin to pierce the night, I spring to my feet and grab my swords and scream, “To arms!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I behead two yagi as Nia leaps to her feet, swords in hands. She must not have been fully asleep again yet. Ram, however, stumbles upright, whipping his swords clumsily back and forth before effectively beheading any yagi. At least he’s moving, and not paralyzed.

By the time Ram awakens enough to behead his first yagi, I’ve decapitated eight of them, not that my efforts appear to be making any difference. They’ve got us surrounded as thickly as the flames in my dream, except that the yagi are a perfect circle, a ring of mutants, an impenetrable wall of enemies many layers thick.

We’re not going to cut them all down, I realize as I slice through two more, their heads rolling underfoot. “Let’s get our things and go!”

“How can we get our things?” Ram asks. “I can hardly keep them at bay when they have my full attention.”