The Phoenix Endangered

by James Mallory

  “Oh.” They were going to have a couple of other problems—big ones—the moment they crossed the Veil, actually, but Tiercel didn’t want to bother Harrier with them just yet. Not tonight.

  “Yeah,” Harrier said. “‘Oh.’”

  IN THE MORNING Tiercel was awakened by the sound of Harrier and Kareta arguing.

  “It’s a lovely morning—see? The sun is all bright and shiny, and you don’t have anything else at all to do! You could sit right down and read your lovely Books!”

  “I have a lot of things to do. Feed the horses. Water the horses. Cook breakfast. Pack the wagon. Harness the horses. And maybe burn those damned Books if it’ll shut you up.”

  “It won’t do you the least good, you know! They can’t be stolen, they can’t be lost, they can’t be taken from you, and they can’t be destroyed. You’d have to give them up.”

  “I suppose you’re going to stand there and tell me that burning them doesn’t count?”

  “I suppose it would depend on how you burned them, wouldn’t it?” Kareta answered chirpily.

  “In afire.”

  There was absolutely no point in trying to sleep through this. Tiercel groaned, rolled over, and sat up.

  “Well, of course in a fire, silly!” Kareta was saying, “but why you burned them matters so much more than how! Really, if you’d just read a little bit of The Book of Moon—”

  “Why would what you meant to do matter?” Tiercel asked, puzzled.

  “Ask him,” Kareta said, tossing her head.

  “Don’t ask me,” Harrier snapped.

  “I want to ask somebody,” Tiercel said, now thoroughly awake. “Intention doesn’t matter in magic. You do the spell, and you get the results. They’re the same every time.”

  “Hah,” Kareta said.

  “Aren’t they?” Harrier asked, looking as if he hated himself for asking.

  “Yes,” Tiercel said. Everything he’d studied about the High Magick said so.

  “Read your Books,” Kareta said.

  “DOES INTENTION MATTER in magic?” Tiercel asked later. It was with unaccustomed reluctance that he’d saddled Ancaladar and prepared to fly that day. He’d really wanted to stay behind and ride on the wagon with Harrier, except that Harrier had all-but-thrown him onto Ancaladar’s back. Tiercel only hoped that both Harrier and Kareta would both still be there—and in one piece—when they stopped for the midday meal.

  “In House Malkirinath, you read the history both of the Great War, and of that which your people call the Flowering War,” Ancaladar answered.

  House Malkirinath in Karahelanderialigor was where Ancaladar and Jermayan had lived for, well, a very long time. Until Tiercel had come, and the Great Spell of an Elven Mage had transferred Ancaladar’s Bond to Tiercel. He knew that Ancaladar had been Bonded to Jermayan for over a thousand years, and that the dragon still grieved for him deeply—even now he rarely spoke Jermayan’s name if he could avoid it—though the magic of his new Bond made that grief less sharp than it could have been. Tiercel was grateful for that: without the magic that softened Ancaladar’s sorrow it would have been unspeakably cruel to force him to live on without the man with whom he had shared so many centuries, no matter how necessary he was to the success of Tiercel’s quest.

  “Yes …” Tiercel said slowly. “That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

  “High Magick and the Wild Magic are not the same,” Ancaladar answered, giving the impression of heaving a deep sigh of reluctance. “In nearly everything—save that they are both forces for Good—they are opposites.”

  “Which is why, when you put them together, they could kill Endarkened,” Tiercel said, half guessing. “And that means—since I know intention doesn’t matter at all in the High Magick—that intention must matter a lot in the Wild Magic. That’s … the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

  “And that is precisely what Kellen Tavadon said many times,” Ancaladar said, sounding amused now. “Long before he became a Knight-Mage he spent many years being trained to become a High Mage.”

  As fascinating as it was to hear about Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy’s real past, Tiercel had more urgent questions right now. “But how can magic know what you want instead of what you do?” he asked.

  “The Wild Magic—so I have been told—does not care so much what you want as much as what it wants. And what you need,” Ancaladar replied.

  “I don’t think we should tell Harrier that,” Tiercel said.

  “Indeed,” the dragon said.

  BY THE TIME Tiercel landed at midday, Harrier had already lit the brazier and was rummaging through their supplies for bread and cheese and fruit. Tiercel was relieved to see that Kareta seemed to be in one piece. She looked amazingly cheerful, too.

  He sat down next to the brazier with a groan—flying for hours was fun, but it left him suffer than riding a horse did—and a moment later Harrier came back with a carrying basket. He set it down on the blanket, removed the teapot, mugs, and a canister of tea, shook a measure of leaves into the pot, and settled down to wait for the water to boil. While neither of them really thought that the “tea” the Elves were so fond of tasted like anything much more than boiled grass, they’d both gotten fairly used to it in the last moonturn, and it was actually pretty drinkable if you added enough honey. Tiercel rummaged in the basket, setting the loaf aside for the moment and lifting out the wheel of cheese. They’d stopped two days ago in the village of Wintercrown—at least Elunyerin and Rilphanifel had said it was a village; it certainly didn’t look anything like any village Tiercel had ever seen—where they’d loaded up with supplies, and Ancaladar had enjoyed a hearty meal.

  Tiercel drew his dagger and cut off a large chunk of cheese, then replaced it in the basket and reached for the loaf of bread. They had dry provisions to last at least a fortnight, and perishables for several more days, though this was (he was pretty sure) the last of the bread.

  “You should be at the farm in a few more hours,” he said around a mouthful of bread and cheese. He and Ancaladar had already overflown the farmstead several times that morning; there was no reason to fear that the sight of Ancaladar would disturb the inhabitants, since in the Elven Lands, dragons were actually a fairly common sight. Unfortunately, that would change as soon as they crossed the Veil; when he’d come to Karahelanderialigor Tiercel’d hoped that the Elves would be able to tell him exactly what place he was looking for, but in fact, neither Elves nor dragons had been beyond the Veil since the Elves had withdrawn eastward from the Nine Cities centuries ago. And that meant that whatever was on the other side of the Veil wouldn’t be used to seeing dragons either.

  “Huh,” Harrier said without actual comment, pouring hot water from the kettle to the pot.

  “And that will leave you all the rest of the day to read!” Kareta said brightly. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what—”

  Without even looking up, Harrier reached into the basket, snagged an apple, and flung it at Kareta. The unicorn caught it neatly and crunched it with obvious enjoyment.

  “The two of you might as well just go on ahead,” Harrier said, as if Kareta hadn’t spoken—and as if he hadn’t just tried to brain her with an apple. “There’s no reason for you to fly around in circles for the rest of the day just because Nethiel and Dulion aren’t as fast over the road as Ancaladar is.”

  “Who is?” Ancaladar asked mildly.

  “I am,” Kareta said simply.

  The dragon lifted his head, and Tiercel could almost swear he looked affronted.

  “Easy enough to say,” Harrier said, cutting his own chunk from the wheel of cheese. He pared a piece off it and flipped it over his shoulder. Kareta caught it neatly. “It’s not as if we’re going to be holding races any time soon. Or as if they’d settle anything. So why bother?”

  “I’m faster,” Kareta said sulkily.

  “But go ahead, because it’s not as if we can get lost between here and there,” Harrier said, ostentatiously ignor
ing her. “And when you get there, be sure to ask them how far it is to the Border, and if there are any other settlements before we get there.”

  “Um,” Tiercel said.

  “‘It would be good to know, of your courtesy, were there anything you would care to say concerning what might lay between—whatever the name of the place is—and the border of the Elven Lands,’” Harrier rattled off around a mouthful of bread. The most difficult thing for both boys to master during their sojourn in Karahelanderialigor had been the maddeningly indirect forms of polite Elven speech, in which any form of direct question was considered the height of rudeness. Since Tiercel hadn’t really talked to all that many people during his stay, Harrier was much better at it than he was.

  “I shall remind you, Tiercel,” Ancaladar said.

  “It’s not that hard,” Harrier said.

  “And you’ll want extra supplies,” Kareta said. “You’ll need a lot more apples, just to begin with! And oat cakes. And maybe some of those—”

  “I am not feeding you,” Harrier said. “Don’t you have someplace else to go?”

  “Oh, no,” Kareta assured him soulfully. “I’d be so bored anywhere else! And I’m not bored here. And … someone has to make you do the right thing.”

  Tiercel reached for the teapot hastily. Kareta might be a unicorn, and a creature of magic, but he didn’t think there was anyone—or anything—anywhere who could “make” Harrier do something if he’d made up his mind not to.

  THE ELVEN FARM (or village or whatever) was called Blackrowan. Kareta (in his mind he added “that stupid unicorn” every time he thought about her, until in his head her name was simply “Kareta-that-stupid-unicorn,” and Harrier didn’t really give a damn whether or not unicorns could read your thoughts or not; if she was eavesdropping, she deserved whatever she got) had mentioned that offhandedly once they were on the road again. She also mentioned that Blackrowan was famous for its fine fruit cordials, that the area wasn’t suitable for rice but did well for silk, that the nearest city to Blackrowan was Tarmulonberan, and that it didn’t matter anyway because they weren’t going there.

  In short, she just didn’t shut up.

  Harrier was pretty certain that he could get her to stop talking if he’d only say he wanted some peace and quiet in order to read the Three Books of the Wild Magic. And he was damned if he’d do any such thing. The harder she pushed, the harder he dug in his heels.

  And the thing was, he meant to read them. Or at least take a look at them. He didn’t want to—to be perfectly honest, the thought of even opening The Book of Moon scared him stiff. But he was pretty sure it was his duty.

  The first Knight-Mage to be called by the Gods of the Wild Magic since Kellen …

  Maybe some people would think that was just great. Harrier could think of half-a-dozen of his age-mates at Armethalieh Normal School who would be whooping with glee at the thought, brandishing imaginary swords and talking of the battles they’d fight. Harrier just felt sick to his stomach—he’d already fought battles, and as far as he could see, he’d lost every one.

  He remembered Windy Meadows, the town he and Tiercel and Simera had stopped at. The one whose inhabitants had all been eaten by Goblins. That had been after the Wildmage Roneida had given him a sword, but it hadn’t done him a lot of good. He hadn’t been able to save Simera’s life.

  And in Ysterialpoerin, when something had chased him and Tiercel halfway around the city, he hadn’t been able to do a single thing then either, even though—he was pretty sure—it would have killed them both if it had caught them.

  He knew the Wild Magic was wise and good, and it must know what it was doing by sending the Books to him. And he was reasonably sure that (that damned unicorn) Kareta wasn’t lying when she said the Wild Magic meant him to be a Knight-Mage, because while Harrier didn’t know very much about what Wildmages did, he was pretty sure that even if he’d make a really bad Knight-Mage, he’d make an even worse regular Wildmage.

  The trouble was, that wasn’t saying much. He’d watched Simera die, poisoned by the Goblins. And he was terrified that he was going to have to watch Tiercel die too, because what Tiercel was trying to find was a thousand times more dangerous than a few Goblins. And thinking of Tiercel dying was bad enough, but what was worse was the fact that according to everything they’d been told over the last several sennights, Tiercel was the Light’s champion. And that meant that if Tiercel died, the Darkness would win. Or at the very least, have time to get stronger, until a new champion came along. And while it was getting stronger, it would kill more people. And all the stories Harrier had grown up with—about the Blessed Saint Idalia, and Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy, and the Great Flowering—told about how difficult the victory of the Light had been a thousand years ago, and how high a price the Armies of the Light had paid to gain it. And that made Harrier afraid that this might be their best chance to win, even if it didn’t look like a very good chance at all.

  And that brought him right back around to becoming a Knight-Mage.

  I’m only seventeen; I shouldn’t have to think about things like this.

  But he didn’t really have a choice. Any more than Tiercel’d had a choice about accepting Ancaladar’s Bond. The Bond was the only way Tiercel could gain the power to work his High Magick spells. Becoming a Knight-Mage might be the only way Harrier could keep Tiercel alive long enough to use them.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Kareta said chirpily.

  “I’m wondering if they know any recipes for roast unicorn at Blackrowan,” Harrier muttered.

  TIERCEL AND HARRIER had spent nearly two moonturns in Karahelanderialigor, one of the most important of the Elven cities, and it had been sennights before they had realized they were in a city at all, because the Elven notion of how a city should seem and the human one were quite different. The Elves believed that everything they built should exist in harmony with the world of Nature, and they were so good at what they did that (to human eyes) what they built often seemed to simply vanish into the landscape. Even great Elven cities were only discernible—to human eyes—as a few scattered cottages, and without the help first of Elunyerin and Rilphanifel, and later of Ancaladar, Tiercel and Harrier would simply have gone right past the villages and farms and steadings that lay along their road.

  At least Blackrowan was easy to find. Not because it was visible, but because Ancaladar was. Harrier clicked his tongue at Nethiel and Dulion, urging them off the road and in the direction of the stand of trees where the enormous black dragon lay sunning himself.

  As he drew closer, what had looked like a woodland underwent one of those odd transformations that Harrier was becoming used to. Suddenly, between one moment and the next, it was no longer simply a group of trees, but a long, low-roofed house in the midst of trees. Though there were great Mages among the Elves, there wasn’t, as far as Harrier knew, any magic involved in the way Elven settlements seemed to appear out of nowhere—just the sort of misdirection and trickery the mock-Mages used to delight their audiences at the Flowering Fairs. But on a much grander scale.

  “Do you suppose they’d …?” he said, glancing around. He stopped, frowning in disbelief, and stood up on the step of the gently rocking wagon to get a better look around himself.

  Kareta was nowhere to be seen.

  “Huh,” Harrier said, sitting back down again. That was odd. He would have been prepared to swear that she intended to stick to him until he read those Books and memorized every line. Instead, she’d vanished without a single word. There wasn’t much he could do about it, though, so he concentrated on finding his way to where he was supposed to go. As he knew from experience, it wasn’t all that easy; the Elves might be able to tell a farmhouse from a stables from a drying shed, but to Harrier, the buildings all looked pretty much alike. Fortunately Tiercel was there to greet him, along with an Elf he introduced as Aressea, the mistress of Blackrowan.

  “Be welcome in my home and at my hearth, Harrier son of Antarans. Stay
as long as you will, and when you go, go with joy,” she said, bowing as he stepped down from the wagon’s bench.

  “To be freely welcomed is to be made doubly welcome,” Harrier answered, bowing in return. “It would be good to know, of your courtesy, where I might see to my horses before I bathe.”

  He knew he wasn’t being in the least presumptuous by assuming that a bath would be the first thing on the menu. Elves were fanatical about cleanliness when it was at all possible to be so, and Harrier knew perfectly well that cold baths in rushing streams weren’t nearly as good as hot soaks in Elven bathhouses for getting a person clean.

  Aressea waved her hand dismissively. “It would be a poor hostess indeed who asked a guest to labor. Siralcar will see to your horses while you refresh yourself. Come.”

  As another Elf appeared—seemingly out of nowhere, but Harrier had gotten over his astonishment at the way Elves mysteriously appeared out of “thin air” long before he’d left Karahelanderialigor. Once Siralcar took charge of the horses, Harrier turned and followed Aressea and Tiercel along a path through the trees. He knew, since he’d driven the wagon past the main house already, that he was already in the middle of the farm, and if this had been a farm in the Delfier Valley, he would have expected to see an open farmyard, with open fields and low hedges surrounding the farmstead. But he’d long since gotten used to the idea that the Elves did things differently.

  “I believe you shall find all that you require within,” Aressea said, stopping at the door of the bathhouse. “Afterward, perhaps it would please you to come to my kitchen to take tea, and let it be known how Farm Blackrowan can best be of service to House Malkirinath.”