The Phoenix Endangered

by James Mallory

  Harrier bowed again. “It will indeed be my pleasure to take tea, and to share with you all that I know.”

  Aressea bowed again and walked off.

  “How do you do that?” Tiercel muttered, shaking his head.

  “It isn’t any harder than calming down a boatload of Selkens who’ve convinced themselves that Da wants to cheat them on the Port fees,” Harrier said. “And anyway, I had to learn to talk like that. Elunyerin kept hitting me if I didn’t.”

  Tiercel shook his head again. “I guess there’s just something about you that makes people want to hit you, Har. Because—remember?—Roneida kept hitting you, too.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Harrier muttered, rubbing his arm in reflexive memory. He pushed open the door to the bathhouse and stepped inside.

  The interior of the bathhouse was much the same as the others he’d been in, even the one in House Malkirinath, though that one had been inside, rather than a separate building. Tiled walls and a tiled floor, one of the traditional ceramic stoves nestled in the corner (something neither of the boys had seen outside of museums before they’d come to the Elven Lands, as they hadn’t been used in the Nine Cities in centuries), benches along the walls, small wooden tubs, and, filling most of the room, a deep tub filled with gently steaming water. Piled on one of the benches was a stack of fabric: scrubbing cloths, drying cloths, and a large soft house-robe for Harrier to wrap himself in when he was done (a nice gesture, but he was damned if he was going to go wandering around the farm wearing nothing but a house-robe). There was also a pair of wooden sandals tucked neatly beneath the bench, and Harrier noted with faint surprise that they were actually large enough to fit him. He wondered if other humans had visited here, because he’d never yet seen an Elf with feet as big as his.

  “You can make yourself useful, you know,” he said to Tiercel as he sat down on the bench to remove his boots. “Go out to the wagon and bring back a set of clean clothes for me.”

  Though he’d lost a shirt (actually his favorite shirt) in the stream when he’d met Kareta, it had been an annoying loss rather than a calamitous one, for House Malkirinath had sent them off more lavishly supplied than their own families had for the trip to Sentarshadeen. Of course, then they’d been taking a pack-mule for a fortnight’s trip to another city, not a wagon for a trek to the end of the world, but thanks to Idalia’s openhandedness, Harrier could actually afford to lose his shirt more than once—and his pants as well, if it came down to it.

  “Sure,” Tiercel said. “I think Aressea would even let us do the laundry while we’re here, if you asked her.”

  “Beats banging the stuff on rocks in a muddy stream,” Harrier agreed. “Maybe you can make something glow in the dark for her. That’s always nice.”

  Tiercel snorted rudely. “Ancaladar will let me know if there’s anything she’d like, but… I think the whole idea is that they do things for us, and then they get to ask House Malkirinath to do things for them. Isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is,” Harrier said with a sigh. He shook his head. There were times when he wondered if Tiercel had actually grown up in the same city he had. “And even if—” He stopped, but there really wasn’t any way to be tactful about it. “Even if House Malkirinath doesn’t have an Elven Mage anymore, I bet a lot of Elven Mages still owe them favors. So House Malkirinath will pay back everybody who helps us with magic—which I bet is what they’ll want—and then they can call on those other Elven Mages for help. So it’s not like either of us needs to worry about taking charity in any of these places, because we aren’t. Everything we get is being paid for.”

  “Just not by us,” Tiercel said.

  “Oh, we’re paying for it,” Harrier answered darkly. By going off on this crazy-bordering-on-suicidal quest that’s going to get us both killed.

  Tiercel frowned, as if he’d just thought of something. “I didn’t see … Where’s Kareta?” he asked cautiously.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Harrier said, shrugging. “She was there when I turned off the main road. At least I think she was. Then I looked around and … she wasn’t. What? You think I murdered her? Tempting as the idea is, Tyr … no.”

  “You think she just left?” Tiercel asked.

  “I hope she just left,” Harrier answered. “Probably too good to be true, though.”

  He tucked his boots under the bench beside the sandals and stripped off his tunic and shirt. He was still annoyed at the loss of his favorite shirt—they never had managed to find it. He wadded up his tunic and tossed it at Tiercel.

  “Go on. Make yourself useful. Unless the High Magick has spells for cleaning clothes.”

  Tiercel laughed, throwing Harrier’s tunic over his shoulder, and walked out of the bathhouse closing the door behind him as he went.

  There was a large ladle in one of the tubs, and Harrier picked it up and used it to scoop several dippers of water from the bath into the tub. Once he’d gotten the rest of his clothes off and folded them neatly out of the way, he stood in the tub with the scrubbing-cloth and the soap and washed himself all over quickly—Elven baths were more for soaking than for scrubbing, as he’d quickly learned. Once he was fairly clean, he stepped into the big tub, sinking down until the hot water covered him to the chin.

  Half a year ago he wouldn’t have even noticed things like this—hot baths, and soft beds, and hot meals (cooked by other people) and served on plates, at tables, where you sat on chairs. Half a year ago he’d been living in Armethalieh, with nothing more pressing to consider than the fact that he was going to be a really bad Apprentice Harbormaster. He’d taken all the comforts of his soft settled City life for granted.

  It wasn’t precisely that he missed them now. He missed his parents, of course, and his brothers, and (oddly enough) the hot ginger cider and roasted chestnuts that they sold down at the docks in the winter, and it hurt to know that in a few more moonturns he was going to miss being at home for his Naming Day celebration, and there was no way he could imagine that he could send a letter home to his family to tell them that he and Tiercel were still all right. But he didn’t really miss the rest of it.

  He would, he knew, if he were actually cold and hungry and really dirty, but so far he hadn’t been any of those things—or at least not for long. And he was realistic enough to know that he would probably be all of those things before all this was over, and to still hope it wouldn’t happen.

  After he’d been in the bath for about a chime, Tiercel came back with a set of his clean clothes. “Aressea says she’ll be happy to do our laundry,” he said, setting them down on the bench, “and before you ask, no, I didn’t ask her. I just said we looked forward to the opportunity—if possible—to get everything clean before we left.”

  “Huh,” Harrier said. “Did you not-ask her how far to the Veil?”

  Tiercel flopped down on the bench and ran a hand through his hair. “That would be a question,” he pointed out. “And I know you told me what to say, but, well…”

  Harrier sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it. For the Light’s sake, Tyr, they’re only Elves.”

  Tiercel grinned at him. “Oh, listen to Harrier Gillain, the great traveler! ‘Only Elves’! Nothing to concern yourself with!”

  “Come over here and I’ll hold you under water until you start making sense,” Harrier invited.

  “I’ve already got more sense than that,” Tiercel said cheerfully. “Hurry up and come out of there and get dressed. They eat early here.”

  Harrier didn’t need any more invitation than that.

  Five

  The Books of the Wild Magic

  AT THE ROLFORT house in Armethalieh, the family ate in the dining room and the servants ate in the servants’ hall. In the Gillain household, the family and the apprentices ate together in the dining parlor, and the servants ate in the kitchen. It was the difference between the organization of a Noble household and a Tradesman household.

  In the Elven Lands, while both boys were fairly sure
there were servants—or at least Elves who served in the households they’d guested in—it didn’t matter whether the household was as grand as House Malkirinath, or as humble as a simple farm: at meals everyone gathered around the same table, and no distinctions were made between servant and master. Harrier had never found out if there even were servants and masters among the Elves, simply because he’d never figured out the right way to phrase the not-a-question.

  The Blackrowan household gathered for its evening meal around two long wooden tables in a room just off the kitchen. The simple elegance of every item in the room, from the furnishings, to the serving bowls, to the elegant frescoes on the walls, would have marked this as the dwelling of one of the most aristocratic families in Armethalieh, rather than as the home of simple country farmers. But—Harrier reflected—these “simple country farmers” had had centuries to think about how they wanted things to look and to be, so it was no wonder that everything looked as if it had been polished and tended for generations. It had been.

  At least he didn’t have any more to worry about than just regular Elven politeness. He didn’t know whether it was because he didn’t notice, or they made allowances for him not being an Elf, or they just didn’t have the same kinds of differences among them that humans did, but he’d never seen any difference between the highest Elven households and the lowest. So all he really had to worry about was his table manners (which were excellent, since his ma had raised four boys with a long spoon and a quick hand) and not saying anything that resembled a question. And after Elunyerin’s similarly forceful tutelage in Elven manners, Harrier was excellent at that as well.

  As befit farmhouse fare, the food was hearty and filling, although Harrier still found Elven food odd. Fruit, in his opinion, did not belong in soup, and the meal began with a creamy soup that was thick with rice and cherries. By now Harrier had eaten weirder things without comment, though, and it wasn’t as if it was actually bad. The main part of the meal was more to his liking: roast pork and roast fowl, served with an assortment of breads, some stuffed with vegetables and spices (and fruits) and some plain. There were other dishes as well: vegetables and stewed fruits and hot and cold pies—it was obvious that if you left the table hungry, it would be your own fault.

  Once the meats were on the table, it was the signal for general conversation, and both Aressea and Aratari—who was probably Aressea’s husband, though the Elves rarely specified relationships when making introductions—were happy to tell Tiercel and Harrier a great deal about the farm over the course of the meal. Just as Kareta had said, the main crops that Blackrowan produced were silk—which meant silk-houses where both the insects and their food was cultivated—and fruit cordials, which meant orchards as well as stillrooms.

  By now it was nearly second nature for Harrier to steer an Elven conversation more-or-less in the direction he wanted it to go without asking any direct questions; it took a while, but as long as he kept reminding himself that he wasn’t really in any hurry, he didn’t find it too frustrating.

  After their hosts had carried the brunt of the conversation as long as politeness demanded, it was time for Tiercel and Harrier to share their own news. Some of it was information that Tiercel—prompted by Ancaladar—had already passed on: Sandalon Elvenking’s death, and the accession of Vairindiel to the rulership of the Elven Lands. Other things they spoke of were far less spectacular: the farms and villages they had stopped at between Karahelanderialigor and here, the weather, the travelers they’d encountered along the way.

  “And we’re going to be heading even farther south,” Harrier said, “and so it would make good hearing to learn all that you may tell of the road ahead.” While it was true that Ancaladar could certainly just fly ahead and see what was there, covering in a matter of hours a distance that would take the wagon days to traverse, neither Tiercel nor Harrier really liked that idea. They weren’t quite sure what would happen once they reached the Veil—or whether Ancaladar could get back through it once he’d gone out.

  The information he got in response wasn’t as encouraging as Harrier could like. They were about a fortnight’s journey from the Border, close enough that Aratari said that Blackrowan was the last settlement of any size to be found near the road. And worse, since that was the case, the road itself did not extend much farther. There was hardly any point, after all.

  Harrier did his best not to look as disappointed as he felt. He’d suspected that the road would run out some time. He just hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon. But the horses were strong and the wagon was sturdy, and if all else failed, at least Ancaladar could pull them out of a ditch. And Aratari and Aressea both announced themselves more than willing to provide all the provisions Tiercel and Harrier could possibly want. It would mean spending another day here, but it was hard to really feel their quest was urgent, when they didn’t know where they were going or what they were going to do when they got there. And it was at least as urgent not to starve to death along the way.

  After supper, Tiercel and Harrier brought their clothing to the room they’d been given to use while they were guests here—it would be washed tomorrow—and then Tiercel went off to find Ancaladar to get in a bit of practicing. At this time of year it was already dusk, and farmers, even Elven farmers, kept country hours. The household would be in bed soon, to rest in preparation for tomorrow’s work. For now, its members occupied themselves with the small chores that filled their evening hours, for there was little leisure time upon a farm. Animals must be fed, clothing must be cared for, preparations made for tomorrow’s breakfast. Harrier was just as happy to announce that he was tired and looking forward to his own rest; it was much less complicated for all concerned if the Elves didn’t have to deal with having a human underfoot, since neither Aressea nor Aratari, nor, for that matter, any of the rest of the Elves Tiercel and Harrier had met along the way, appeared to have ever seen a human in their lives.

  But once he was alone in the guestroom, he was alone with the Three Books.

  He’d been surprised to find the small red leather satchel there in the pile of clothing he’d brought from the wagon. The last he’d seen of it, he’d wrapped it up thoroughly in his heavy winter stormcloak and stuffed it into a corner of the wagon. But here it was.

  Harrier sighed. “Unpleasant tasks are best done at once.” His mother had always said that when he’d been dragging his feet about something. And it wasn’t as if this was precisely an unpleasant task. In fact, as far as Harrier understood things (which was, admittedly, not very well at all) reading or not reading the Three Books wouldn’t really make a lot of difference to turning him into a Knight-Mage. It was all about him agreeing to be one.

  Aressea had given him a small lamp to light the way to his and Tiercel’s bedroom, a small comfortable room at the back of the farmhouse. The lamp didn’t give much light, but there were a couple of larger lanterns here, one hung on a hook on the wall, the other set on the table between the beds. Harrier took the one off the wall and carried it over to the bed to set beside the other one. The guestroom lacked the sumptuous luxuries of a desk and upholstered furniture that their rooms had boasted in Karahelanderialigor—the only other furniture in the room was a chest built into one wall that could be used for both seating and storage—but Harrier didn’t intend to write anything and he didn’t need to lounge. He was just going to take a look at the Books, and he could do that lying on his bed as well as anywhere else. At least, once he had light to see by.

  Just as he’d thought, the shallow drawer in the bedside table contained all that was necessary to take care of the lanterns: a clipper to snuff and trim the wicks, a flask of oil to refill the reservoir, and a number of long thin pieces of wood that could be used to light the wick safely. Harrier was interested to note that the drawer was lined in copper, so that even a smoldering wooden spill could be dropped back into the drawer safely with no chance of starting a fire. He’d already learned that strange as the Elves could be sometimes, they were
also extremely efficient. He lit the two large lanterns, snuffed the small lamp, and settled himself comfortably on one of the beds.

  As he picked up the little satchel again, he hesitated. But he certainly didn’t want to think of himself as having less courage than Tiercel did—and Tiercel had participated in the spell to have Ancaladar’s Bond transferred to him not knowing whether he’d survive it or not. Harrier sighed heavily. At least Tiercel wanted to be a High Mage. Or Harrier was pretty sure he did. A lot more than Harrier wanted to be a Knight-Mage, anyway. Stop stalling, he told himself sternly. He opened the satchel and pulled out the contents before he could think about what he was doing.

  He hadn’t examined them very closely the last time he’d held them—or if he had, the discovery of what they were had wiped all memory of it from his mind. He inspected them more closely now.

  They were, well, book-shaped books. But small, really only about the size of his hand. All three were exactly the same size and thickness, bound in red leather, and they looked, not exactly old, but worn. Harrier wondered if someone else had owned these Books before they’d come to him, and who they’d been, and what had happened to them, and how the books had gotten from them to Kareta, and how she’d known to bring them to him. He wondered if the Books just sort of vanished when a Wildmage died, or if somebody had to do something with them, and if so, what. He wondered how three books that were so small could possibly contain everything that someone needed to know about the Wild Magic.

  He held them up to the light and inspected them closely. There was no title on the covers, and no sign that there ever had been, but there was a small gold symbol stamped into the spine of each: a moon, a star, and a sun. I wonder who makes these? he thought idly, knowing he was doing his best to delay as long as possible the moment when he had to look inside.

  Where to start? There were three of them, and it wasn’t as though he’d known in advance that this was going to happen so that he could ask the only Wildmage he’d ever met for some useful advice. But Kareta had kept talking about The Book of Moon as if it were the logical starting place, and Harrier supposed it was as good a place to begin as any. He sorted through them, picked it out, and opened it.