The Phoenix Transformed

by James Mallory

  The worst part was that Tiercel thought Harrier was making the same mistakes he had.

  And he didn’t think he could stop him.

  AHAIRAN had become weary of these creatures—weary, and perhaps a little uneasy at the long boring sennights of what had been meant to be a quick and entertaining game. Though she had sworn to the Firecrown in the blood of the Wildmage Kanash that she would have all three of the Mages to serve her, Kanash’s death had made her wary: the Creatures of Form were fragile and easy to destroy, and she dared not attempt to force their compliance by bespelling them directly, only by acting against that which they seemed to value.

  At first she had believed it would be a simple matter to bring He-Who-Had-Called-Her and those he valued to heel, for all the Life Ahairan had come to know possessed an intense desire to remain alive. Ahairan and her kin in the Shadow World made constant war upon one another, judging weakness with avid and inhuman senses: just as they had sensed the flaw in He-Who-Had-Called-Her when his mind first touched theirs, so she judged the flesh-creatures now. Of the three Mages she must suborn to gain victory over the Firecrown, He-Who-Had-Called-Her was weakest, for rage and humiliation—emotions Ahairan now understood well, though emotion itself was as new to her as the body she wore—filled his body more completely than breath or blood. But while these intoxicating sensations strengthened her, they only weakened him. For that reason, she had been certain he would swiftly fall, and in the moment that He-Who-Had-Called-Her became her servant, she could have left to him the task of causing the other two to swear eternal fealty to her.

  But to Ahairan’s disquiet, her plan was not proceeding in the fashion she had so confidently predicted. These creatures—the ones capable of wielding magic—seemed to willfully embrace their own destruction. She had even crafted new spells so that the forms of the once-living would move at her command, displaying the terrifying extent of her power to those who yet lived. But the Mages and those whom they led were not like all the other Life that Ahairan had taken and used for her own purposes. Unlike Ahairan and her kindred, the three Mages who were her prey seemed to draw strength from one another. Despite all she had done, He-Who-Had-Called-Her had not petitioned her in submission and worship—none of them had. He-Who-Had-Called-Her might even cease to live before he recognized his oversight, and did he—did any of them—do so, her game—and her chance to enslave the Firecrown as well—was lost. The terms of the covenant she had entered into was explicit: only when all three Mages served her, would it serve her as well.

  She might renounce that bargain—yet to do so would be to admit she could not fulfill it, and Ahairan’s pride would not allow her to make such an admission. She could display her power to the Mages directly—force them to expend every spell they possessed against her, show them it was useless, even carry one or all of them off to imprison them in her tower of glass, as she had done to Kanash.

  Yet Kanash had become no longer alive when she had done that.

  And so Ahairan toyed with her atish’ban, growing increasingly frustrated and increasingly bored, and brooded upon how best to force He-Who-Had-Called-Her to bend to her will.

  And then Ahairan discovered an unlooked-for gift that did much to ease her boredom.

  UMMARA Sathan was not a fool. Any person of wisdom could see that this road the Blue Robes led them upon was one that would end with all the people laying their bones upon the sand, and that without having brought help from the Elder Kin, nor even having carried warning to the Cold North. Yet he had pledged his word to the undertaking, and he and his people would keep it, for a word once given could not be taken back, no matter how heavy a weight it became upon the shoulders of the giver. And so the Barantar had done all that was asked of them . . . until the day that the mad northern Wildmage Harrier of the Two Swords had given Sathan his word back.

  Sathan would not offer it twice.

  It mattered not to him that only the Thanduli and the Binrazan were the Barantar’s equals in wisdom. It would have been useful did the Kareggi share their good judgment, for even now the Kareggi were numerous, and for that reason Sathan was forced to endure the madness of seeing his flocks and herds stolen by others who said that numbers and need, not right, must determine who might own a goat or a sheep or a shotor.

  Let it be so. Was there not a city deep in the Barahileth where no Demon could come? A city protected by ancient magic, filled with iterus of sweet water, with flocks of every sort of beast and orchards of fruit, where the Barantar might shelter in safety? To this place he would lead his people, to reclaim their children and outwait the winds of madness. Let the Binrazan do as Harrier had bid them, as if they still rode at his side and heeded his counsel. Let the Thanduli sit upon their carpets in endless debate. The Barantar would ride the paths of wisdom.

  They were not able to depart the camp until the night was halfway done, for Sathan did not wish to say to Ummara Phulda why the Barantar did not travel east with the Binrazan. Instead, Sathan let Phulda believe that the Barantar would stay there another day, and so the Binrazan departed, and still the Barantar remained. And when the Thanduli tents were dark with sleep, Sathan led his people to fold their tents and saddle their shotors. To Ummara Calazir, when he came to ask what the Barantar meant by this going forth in the hours of sleep, Sathan said that he had thought again and meant now to follow Ummara Phulda at once. Had Ummara Calazir been more inclined to go after the Blue Robes than to go east, Sathan would have said that he meant to follow the Wildmages instead.

  It was not possible upon their departure to claim all the animals that were rightfully theirs, for when the others had left, the remaining animals had been divided—improperly!—and jealously watched. But Sathan consoled himself with that which the Nalzindar had said—speaking of the beasts that lay within the Demon City to feed the children of all the tribes—the knowledge that there were many fat goats in Abi’Abadshar, free to any who had need of them. In Abi’Abadshar, Sathan and his tribe would have need. And numbers.

  As soon as they were far enough away from the camp that their words would not be heard, Sathan said to his chaharums, Razinda and Tagora, that the Demon would surely continue to attack the Blue Robes and those who rode with them, and so the Barantar need fear nothing save empty bellies. In his heart, Sathan did not know whether he spoke truth or folly, but he knew that fear was too great a weight for a shotor to carry. In his mind lay the thought that they must now travel past the place of the slaughter of the Shamblers, to the nightspring Bisochim had made before that place, and there stop and butcher the sheep and goats that they possessed, and as many of their shotors as they dared. Then they must travel quickly, retracing the caravan’s path to the Dove Road itself.

  They were but three handspans of night upon the road when Sathan heard the first howl in the distance. There was a moment’s silence, then the first voice was answered—joined—by a chorus of others.

  “So Luthurm did not receive a true Foretelling,” Razinda said from where she rode beside him. “For there are no wolves where there is not that which wolves may slay.”

  “Think you that Bisochim’s Foretelling was false?” Tagora asked with interest. “How shall that be, when he is a great Wildmage who—”

  “Be silent, both of you,” Sathan commanded. Razinda and Tagora were chaharums of worth to the Barantar precisely because they could be sure never to agree upon any matter, yet this was a moment for silence, not for counsel.

  The howling came again, and closer. The shotors were restless now, sensing trouble, and the goats—content so far to walk along beside the shotors with the sheep—were looking about restlessly and starting to scatter. Riders from the column behind the herd animals began moving out across the desert to guide the animals back into place.

  It seemed very dark without Coldfire to light their way.

  “Has that the sound of wolves to you?” Sathan asked his chaharums quietly.

  “No,” Razinda said. Her eyes were wide with fear that she wou
ld not allow into her voice. “Dog. Perhaps.”

  “Leave the animals.” Sathan raised his voice in a shout. “Leave them!”

  He forced his shotor to turn and trot back up the column, calling to his people to run, leave the sheep, the goats, to drop the lead-ropes of the pack animals, run . . .

  The shotors needed little encouragement to run, and Sathan blessed the fortunate star that had seen the shotors well-fed and well-watered for so many days. If that which followed them was satisfied to make its meal on their herd-beasts the Barantar might yet live on. And then—for now Sathan’s shotor followed all the rest—he looked behind him and knew that they would not.

  The Black Dogs had attacked the Isvaieni only once before, but that was a night that every Isvaieni would remember and mourn—should any of them be so fortunate as to endure—even when other deaths and losses had been made dim and dull by the passage of time. Upon that night their ikulas had saved the Isvaieni only at the price of their own lives, so savage and implacable had been the foe that they faced. Then, the Black Dogs had attacked in a terrible silence. Now, they gave tongue like a pack of wolves harrying their prey before them.

  Sathan saw the doom of the Barantar in quick glances over his shoulder. He saw that the Black Dogs did not turn aside to slay the scattered sheep and goats, nor to attack the pack shotors that fell behind the others. The Dogs were no more than seven, but they were enough to compass the death of all his people, if in no other way than by driving their shotors to exhaustion and letting the Isvai itself finish the work they had begun.

  I have done this, Sathan thought in a moment of cold anger. It mattered not that the Northern Blue Robe was a mad fool leading them all into death. He had spoken words of hard wisdom also. There had been two roads leading to Death’s Oasis, and in his pride Sathan had chosen the worse for himself and for the Barantar.

  He drew his geschak and cut his shotor’s throat.

  Impossible to make it stop and kneel as it fled, panic-stricken, with the Black Dogs at its heels. This was the only way. Even dying it ran on for a score of paces, but when it crashed to its knees at last, Sathan was ready. He vaulted from the saddle, drawing his awardan in one fluid motion, and turned to face the pack. Each moment his death could buy his people was a precious hope of life.

  Not one of the Black Dogs stopped. All ran on, leaving Sathan standing there.

  “You are he who leads them, are you not?” a voice asked from behind him.

  Sathan spun around, his sword still at the ready.

  A woman in robes as red as blood sat upon the back of a shotor whose coat was as black as a starless sky. He had barely taken in the sight—attempting to convince himself that here was Ahairan, the Demon who had slain so many Isvaieni—before the atish’ban-shotor was kneeling and she was stepping gracefully from its back.

  Sathan had not ridden with Zanattar’s great army. He had never slain man or woman. But two nights past he had taken his awardan to many bodies with the seeming of man and woman, made to move and slay by this creature’s magic. And so he rushed forward now, his awardan raised to strike. But before his blow could fall, his weapon shimmered and changed in his hand. Where hard metal blade and rough bone hilt had been, Sathan felt the flex of scale and muscle against his palm, and when he looked, he saw that he held no awardan, but a desert adder, coiling and writhing and preparing to strike. He flung it from him with a cry, and as it struck the sand, he looked toward it and saw that it was awardan once more, unchanged.

  Ahairan laughed, and her laughter was sweet and cold. “You creatures have such simple minds. No,” she said, as Sathan moved toward his weapon to take it back once more, “it could not harm me even had your blow fallen. But you did not answer me.”

  Sathan forced himself to stop and look upon her face, knowing that there lived a craven wish within his heart that to gaze upon such an unclean thing would strike him dead. But her face was beautiful and her form was that of a young woman. Only her eyes were wrong, with fire in their depths as a beast’s would glow.

  In the distance the night was foul with the shrieks of shotors in their death agonies and the cries of his people. He fell to his knees. “I am Ummara of the Barantar,” he said, bowing his head. “Tell me what I must do to save my people.”

  “Walk with me, Ummara of the Barantar,” Ahairan said, holding out her hand to him.

  She meant him to take her hand, and so Sathan got to his feet and did, as if he were her Ummara leading her from the pledging-tent to disclose before the people that a new marriage had been made. But when he set his palm against hers it was as if he had set his palm upon a sheet of metal new-plucked from a bed of coals, and when he tried to wrench his hand free, her fingers closed over his in a grip he could not break.

  “Walk with me, Sathan,” Ahairan said again.

  TO be a child of the Isvai was to be strong. All his life, Sathan had been told that there were a thousand paths that led away from the tents of the Isvaieni. One might leave one’s own tribe and join another with softer ways. One might leave the Isvai and go to live in one of the Iteru-cities, to sleep in a soft bed and never fear Sandwind or hunger or thirst or the heat of the sun. To gain the freedom and beauty of the Deep Desert, the price the Isvaieni paid was in the coin of pain and loss and uncertainty. Sathan was no stranger to any of these. The pain in his hand—as if he’d plunged it into a basket of red coals—was agony greater than any he had ever known. And yet this pain was as nothing to the horror of the Demon’s words.

  “It is good that you have come to me, Sathan, for I become weary with waiting for He-Who-Has-Called-Me to bow down and worship me. Only when he has done so can there be a new race of Demons to claim this world and rule over it forever. I want it to be him because he dared to defy me. Do you know that he stopped me from causing you all to cease to live on the day he brought me into the World of Form? I could do that now. It would not be difficult. But should I cause all of you to cease to live, then He-Who-Has-Called-Me will not bow down and worship me. You must tell me why he will not do as I wish, Sathan. I must know his secrets.”

  She looked toward him, her expression holding nothing other than curiosity, and Sathan opened his mouth—wanting desperately to answer, to tell her—but all he could do was moan in pain. No matter how firmly he tried to hold the lesson of the awardan before his mind as he stumbled across the sand beside the Demon, to tell himself that what he felt was illusion, was trickery, his nose was filled with the scent of his own roasting flesh and he could do no other than believe.

  Ahairan nodded to herself, just as if she’d received a reply. “I must be careful. For so very long we could only make him do what we wanted by saying to him that it was to keep you from ceasing to live, or the Creature of Magic from ceasing to live.” She tightened her grip upon his hand and beneath the bright pain of burning Sathan thought he felt bones give way. “But he will not know, now, if you who are here cease to live. And so it will not matter to him.”

  Sathan closed his eyes. Tears more of shame than of pain spilled down his cheeks. Sennight after sennight, he and others had mocked the fair-haired northern Mage-without-true-magic for being soft and foolish—yet Tiercel of the Cold North had sworn to die rather than bow down to Ahairan, even though he had looked upon her face. Bisochim had fought her and defied her and had made the same vow. And Sathan wanted to be as strong—but his mind was filled with all the things he could offer Ahairan, the promises he could make her, if only she would let him and his people go.

  “If we die here—you cannot kill us in front of him,” he managed to choke out.

  “What do you matter? He has others!” Ahairan cried. Without releasing his hand, she spun to face him and backhanded him across the face. The force of the blow drove him to his knees. Sathan felt bone give and his mouth filled with blood. And still she clutched at his hand, squeezing it tighter as she raged. “Hundreds! Thousands! I could walk this World of Form each day until you stopped and on each of those days I could ma
ke a thousand of your kind cease to live and there would still be more! And here—even here—I could enter the minds of those who sleep in the shadow of He-Who-Has-Called-Me—thinking themselves safe, as you thought them endangered—and with each dawn I could call upon one of them to cease to be, and the last one would not be gone until so many days had passed as He-Who-Has-Called-Me spent in summoning me!”

  Sathan wanted to beg, to plead, to bargain. He could not make Bisochim do what she wanted—and he blessed Sand and Star for that—but he feared that she could see deeply enough into his heart and mind to discover where Abi’Abadshar lay. At least he could not tell her. No longer did his jaw obey his commands. When he tried to move it, there was nothing but bright pain and a grinding of shattered bone.

  Abruptly Ahairan released his hand. He would have fallen upon his face in the sand but for the fact that she knelt quickly, straddling his thighs, plucking his geschak from his sash and setting it into his undamaged hand. Their faces were only inches apart, and he could see now what he had not seen before. Her eyes were not dark like those of all the people of the south, but the bright pale gold of a bird’s.

  “It is possible that you do not believe me, Sathan. Your World of Form is very strange: there are so many words and names, and yet none of them are true words and true names. But all of my words are true ones, Sathan. Here, I will show you. Take this knife and cut out your heart.” Her voice was calm and quiet now, the voice of a parent providing a necessary lesson—and not one over-harsh—to a beloved child.

  Sathan did not intend his hand to tighten upon the hilt of the geschak, to raise it to hook it through the neck of his tunic and cut the tunic open to the waist, to raise the blade again to the neck of his undertunic and cut it, too, open from neck to waist. All the while, blood dripped from his half-open mouth to his skin, to his hands, to the hand that held the knife. He had no more control over that hand, that knife, than he would have had if they had belonged to another.