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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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Shima looked startled. From her patch of shade, Maurynna said, “I’ve heard Shan make that sound, as well. And I swear he ‘chuckled’ once. Somehow, you just don’t expect a horse to answer you like that. At least, I don’t.” She grinned. “But then, I’m a sailor, not a horsewoman.”
“No,” said Shima. “You don’t expect it—not quite like that.” He eyed his new mount with, Maurynna thought, both pride and trepidation.
“Have you thought of a name for him yet?” she asked.
“What do you mean? Trissin is his name, yes?”
“That’s just his pasture name,” said Raven. “The master of the stables at Dragonskeep told me that they’re given those so that the grooms don’t have to keep saying things like ‘the sorrel mare with the white sock on her near foreleg and the blaze’ or ‘the bay stallion with the snippet on his nose.’ Gets cumbersome. Their person picks a name for them.”
“Sometimes,” Maurynna said wryly, remembering the naming of Boreal. “If they don’t like it, they won’t answer to it. Be prepared to haggle.”
Trissin nodded, sending his heavy mane flying.
Shima’s eyes were huge now. Maurynna almost burst out laughing, the look in them was so easy to read:
What have I gotten myself into?
Poor Shima,
she thought,
but like swords, most things
do
have two edges
. She hid a smile behind her hand. Then, “Name him,” she ordered.
“Hm.” Shima pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. “What …” He reached out, ran his fingers lightly along the stallion’s powerful neck, then held out his hand. Trissin buried his nose in the cupped hand and exhaled. They stood so for a long moment.
“Je’nihahn.” The word came out suddenly.
Trissin tilted his head in question.
“‘Hahn’ is ‘west’ in your tongue, isn’t it?” Maurynna asked. “What does ‘Je’nihahn’ mean?”
“‘Wind-from-the-west’,” answered Shima. “West is lucky.” His expression turned sheepish. “I was thinking of the names of your Llysanyins, you see, and … and that’s what came into my head. So—will you accept it?” he said to Trissin.
Once again the big head nodded.
“Welcome, Je’nihahn,” Maurynna said, and raised her hand in salute. Raven echoed words and gesture.
The stallion touched his nose to his person’s shoulder. Shima threw his arms around the Llysanyin’s neck and buried his face in the thick mane.
“Hunnh,” rumbled Je’nihahn deep in his chest. “Hunnnnh.”
 
 
Hodai looked up from the finches’ cage to see Pah-Ko shifting restlessly in his chair. Ever since the news had come of the death of the emperor and the new empress’s sacrilege in daring the Phoenix Throne, his master had been restless every night. He waited, knowing what was to come.
It did, a little while later. “Hodai, a bowl of hot rice wine, and another of rice gruel, please.”
Forcing his fingers to say “Yes, master,” instead of singing his pleasure to serve, Hodai trotted to the tea cabinet and withdrew what he needed.
When all was ready, he presented it to his master, and watched him eat and drink, dreaming of the day he could tell Pah-Ko his wonderful news.
A cry of agony woke
Hodai. Terrified, he ran into Pah-Ko’s chamber, where he found the
nira
writhing on his bed, hands clamped to his belly.
Forgetting Haoro’s injunction, Hodai cried, “Master! Master, what’s wrong?”
Pah-Ko turned pain-maddened eyes upon him. “How—” he gasped.
The habit of obeying was too strong to break. “Haoro,” whispered Hodai.
“Hao—Hodai, what have you done?” Pah-Ko cried. “Why did you do this to me?”
Hodai shook his head in fright and bewilderment. “But I—”
Pah-Ko thrashed on the bed, whimpering like an animal, unable to hear him. “Didn’t,” Hodai said. Then, unable to stand his master’s pain any more, he fled.
 
Zhantse knew the instant his dreams turned from fantasies of his sleeping mind into Truth. For there before him lay the familiar swirling grey mist that he must pass through. He approached along the stone road that appeared before his feet. Soon he would pass through the mist and walk through the Place of Dreamings.
Suddenly he stopped and peered intently at the fog. Had he truly just seen a dark shape through the mist? Yes; yes, he had. Not that that was so strange. He often found Pah-Ko or Ghulla waiting for him, though he’d not seen either of them lately.
But this figure, dimly seen through the fog, stumbled and doubled over as if in pain. For a moment Zhantse wondered if he had fallen back into ordinary dreaming. He paused, reaching out with his senses.
No, this was indeed a true Dreaming. Could it be some unfortunate that he saw, one who traveled here by mistake because of illness or injury? Such happened sometimes, he knew. He hurried forward to give what aid he could to the inadvertent Journeyer. Silken fingers of mist caressed his face and hands as he pushed through them.
But it was no stranger who stood before him. The hunched figure wore a robe that he knew well, scarlet with golden dragons and phoenixes embroidered upon the heavy silk. A face grey with pain lifted at his approach.
“Pah-Ko!” Zhantse cried. “What’s wrong?” He caught the
nira
in his arms, supporting the priest when the man would have collapsed. His heart filled with dread. Adversary, this man had been, yet friend as well. Many claimed to seek the Truth. Pah-Ko was one who did. “Tell me what’s wrong!”
“Poison,” said the Jehangli priest, his voice a whisper of agony. “Tiger’s whiskers.”
“Who?” Zhantse demanded, sickened. This was the work of a sadist, not just a murderer. Ground tiger’s whiskers didn’t kill at once. A victim writhed in agony as the bits worked their way through the body like a thousand tiny knives. “And why?”
“Haoro wishes the feathered mantle,” Pah-Ko gasped, clenching at his stomach. “It must have been him.”
Zhantse was aghast. Haoro?
That
one upon the little Phoenix Throne? The land was doomed. “Surely the Phoenix would never choose—”
“The Phoenix has no voice,” the
nira
said. Tears flowed down his cheeks; clearly this pain broke him as the other, merely physical, could not.
Zhantse nearly brought a hand up to wipe them away, then remembered that in this realm, the tears were not real, but simply a manifestation of grief. Then the full meaning of Pah-Ko’s words became clear. “Hodai … ?”
“Hodai is no longer my Oracle.”
So the servant had died before the master. No wonder Pah-Ko wept; Zhantse knew he loved the boy as the grandson he would never have. “When did he die?”
A short bark of laughter, a terrible sound of pain and betrayal. “Hodai still lives. The desire for a voice was too much. He betrayed—” The tortured voice broke and Pah-Ko wept bitterly once more.
“The Phoenix itself told me to follow the Way,” the
nira
whispered. “If I had lived, perhaps we could have convinced the emperor—did you know that he sent for Lord Kirano? Perhaps Kirano can convince—no, I forgot. Xiane Ma Jhi is dead.”
“What?” Zhantse demanded, shocked. “When?”
But Pah-Ko was too far gone to answer. Instead, he said, “I always knew you kept a secret from me, my friend. Tell me, does it mean danger for my country?”
“No. Here—let me show you,” Zhantse said. He wrapped an arm around Pah-Ko’s shoulders, and concentrated.
In an instant they hovered above the Vale.
It stretched out below them, a valley shaped like a wide, shallow bowl, an emerald jewel glowing against the red earth, protected within a ring of mountains. At one end of the valley, one mountain rose higher than the others. Once a volcano, thousands of years before, its crown had collapsed, leaving a deep hole that was now a placid blue lake.
Trees of all ages lined the terraced slopes of the green valley; small figures moved among them, tending them. Their leaves rippled in a breeze that did not penetrate the Place of Dreams.
“It’s beautiful,” Pah-Ko breathed, his eyes wide, forgetting his pain at last. “What are the trees?”
“Mulberries,” Zhantse said, “for the silkworms. Someday we’ll have enough to trade.”
Pah-Ko smiled weakly. “How do you get enough water?”
“The lake; it’s never run dry,” Zhantse said.
“Never?”
“Never.”
Pah-Ko said, “There’s a dragon hiding in that lake.”
Cautious, Zhantse said only, “That’s the old tale.”
“And it’s a true one, my friend. The dragon is in a sleep so deep, it is like unto death. That’s why I can feel him, I who am at death’s door.” Pah-Ko slumped heavily against Zhantse’s arm. “Lay me down, my friend. I can hold on no longer.”
The Vale dissolved; they were back where they started. Zhantse did as he was bidden, and knelt by his friend’s side. He held Pah-Ko’s hands, wincing as the gnarled fingers clenched on his with each new spasm of agony. The air whistled harshly though the
nira
’s teeth as Pah-Ko awaited his release. Zhantse prayed to Shashannu, Lady of the Sky, that it came soon. Inured as Pah-Ko was to pain, this was a thing no being should have to endure.
The Lady heard. A short time later, the deep, gasping breaths turned shallow and Pah-Ko’s eyes became vague and unfocused. Then, from one heartbeat to the next, the light went out of them.
For an instant longer, Zhantse held the twisted fingers, then laid them upon the still breast. He watched the color fade from the dream-form that once held Pah-Ko’s spirit, leaving it as grey as the mists that surrounded the Place of Dreamings. Zhantse blinked as tears stung his eyes. When he looked again, Pah-Ko was gone.
The shaman rose. “I thank Shashannu that you were able to see the Vale, my friend. It was hard keeping such beauty from you. But alas! for your land and mine, Pah-Ko. Evil walks them, and yet more evil may follow!”
For they had run out of time. Shima and Maurynna must leave at once for the Valley of the Iron Temple.
Zhantse began the long journey back to his body.
 
Shima dropped the bundle of kindling by the clay oven near the door, and stretched. His sister, Keru, came out of the house, balancing a basket of spice grass leaves on her hip. Shima’s stomach growled in anticipation. Baking day was always a good time to be home.
As Keru passed him, Shima lightly dug a knuckle into her head. “Bzzzzz,” he said, imitating a rockbee.
Keru laughed and swatted at his hand. “Why couldn’t I have had all sisters?” Her eternal complaint, and only rarely meant. She set her basket down by the kindling. Straightening, she began, “Nathua brought back dried persimmons from the Vale, and gave some to—What’s wrong with Zhantse?” she finished sharply, looking beyond Shima’s shoulder.
Shima spun around. One look told him something was wrong—very wrong. “What is—”
Zhantse cut him off. To Keru, he said, “Get Maurynna Kyrissaean. Now!”
Keru ran into the house.
A coldness born of fear fell over the little yard. “Master?” Shima whispered.
“My sister will be here shortly to dye Maurynna’s skin. While she makes the Dragonlord ready, get food and water and anything else you need. You must leave as soon as possible.”
For a moment Shima could only gape at the shaman. At last he managed to say, “But we were to wait for the dark of the moon!”
“There’s no time. Pah-Ko is dead. So is the emperor.” The shaman’s voice was grey and flat.
Simple words, and full of ill-omen. Shima caught his breath as their full import struck him. “To whom does the feathered mantle fall?” he asked.
“Haoro,” said Zhantse.
“Spirits help us,” Shima said, fear threading its cold way down his spine. “I go.” A moment later he was running along the dusty paths through the
mehanso
.
 
“Who are they?” Maurynna murmured to Lark as they watched the three women who had invaded Lark’s home. Each had a wide-mouthed pot to which she added water drop by drop, stirring briskly after each addition.
“The older woman is Zhantse’s sister, Chanajin. With her are her daughters Zelene and Yallasi.”
The women paused in their work and smiled as Lark spoke to them in their own language. Maurynna nodded in return, assuming introductions had been made.
“And as for
what
they’re doing,” Lark went on, “they’re preparing the dye for your skin.”
Maurynna chewed her lip. Yes, she had been warned of this, but it was not supposed to happen for at least a hand of days yet. But Zhantse had had Lark roust her and Raven unceremoniously from their beds, and hurried off before Maurynna could wake up enough to ask any questions. Nor did she like the worried look in Lark’s eyes, although the Yerrin woman spoke cheerfully enough.
Now Raven’s voice drifted in through the window; he’d been chased outside
earlier. He still sounded confused. Maurynna sympathized. But before she could ask Lark what in blazes was going on, the Tah’nehsieh women, finished with their preparations, descended upon her.
Moments later Maurynna found herself stripped to the waist, her hair hastily pinned on top of her head, bits of it coming down already, with her arms held out to the sides at shoulder height, enduring the cold touch of dye and early morning air as the three Tah’nehsieh women dabbed at her with rough bits of cloth, working the thick sludge into her skin.
I wish there was a fire in this room.
Goose bumps prickled along her skin and she shivered. Another strand of hair came loose; it fell into the stuff coating her shoulders. Despite the injunction against using any of her magic, Maurynna finally called up a heat spell. A very little one, she told herself. Hardly noticeable. It would do no good catch her death of cold, after all.
The spell helped—a little.
If only the dye weren’t so thick and slimy as well as
—
Ugh!
Chanajin swirled the disgusting stuff into Maurynna’s right ear, working the daubing cloth into every nook and cranny. Maurynna grimaced. Next came her left ear. Zelene and Yallasi were finished with her torso and were each working down an arm. Maurynna’s gaze met Lark’s. The other woman smiled wryly in sympathy.
I can’t complain they’re not thorough
, Maurynna told herself.
I just wi
—“What the—!” She grabbed the waist of her breeches just in time.
Chanajin tugged at the drawstring of her breeches again, and said something. When Maurynna wouldn’t let go, the woman turned to Lark and began a vigorous complaint, waving the dye cloth as she spoke. Lark essayed a reply, and the flood of words and gestures began anew.
Suddenly Maurynna thought she understood, and was appalled. Did the woman truly think that she would wear one of the men’s short kilts? Gods help her, not even the shortest of her nightgowns exposed so much leg!
When Lark looked at her and opened her mouth to speak, Maurynna interrupted with, “I know what you’re going to say—and the answer is
no!
I, I—I won’t.”
Damn it all, she could feel her face burning. Maurynna was certain she was blushing furiously.
Lark laughed. “I told Chanajin that. But she says that if you’re trying to pass for a Tah’nehsieh man—wait; I just had a thought.”
She said something to Chanajin, who started to protest, then fell silent, frowning thoughtfully. Lark spoke again and pointed to Maurynna’s breeches. Grumbling, Chanajin gave in; Maurynna could see it in the jut of her lower lip.
She nearly melted with relief. “What did you say to her?” she asked Lark.
“That you have the height of a man, and the free stride of a man, but that you most certainly do not have a man’s legs.” Lark grinned. “They’d give you away in an instant. I then pointed out that your breeches are similar to those worn by the Zharmatians, and that some Tah’nehsieh wear them, especially when riding long distances. And that’s when most of us are captured, so many of the slaves wear them.”
“Most of us”—she thinks of herself as one of this dark-haired, dark-skinned tribe
. Strange words to be uttered so calmly by a woman whose fairness was alien to this land.

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