The Phoenix Transformed

by James Mallory

  THIS is my home, Shaiara thought. She stood at the edge of the camp, gazing out into the darkness as the festival celebration went on noisily behind her. I do not wish to leave it. The Nalzindar were people of the desert’s clean vast silence. How could they be truly Nalzindar if the desert were taken from them? This is a question whose answer I do not know, she thought sadly. It was in her heart that it was a question whose answer she had thought she would never need to know, for since the two northerners had first entered her life, she had expected daily to lay her bones upon the sand—not to survive to see a future not only unlooked-for, but unimaginable.

  “Brother’s daughter, I would have speech with you,” Kamar said quietly, coming up behind her.

  “How should there come a time when I would not hear your words?” Shaiara answered, turning to face him.

  “My Ummara will always hear her chaharum’s words,” Kamar answered. “I can but hope my brother’s daughter will hear mine, for Darak was dear to me, and his daughter is dear also.”

  “What words does Darak’s brother have for Darak’s daughter?” Shaiara answered.

  “Only these: that he would not have Darak’s daughter forget that the Blue Robes belong to all tribes and none, even if this is a truth that a northern Blue Robe does not heed. Darak’s brother would ask that Darak’s daughter not strive to make such a one Nalzindar, for it cannot be so. He may live as Isvaieni, and walk as one born upon the carpet, but if this is so, then you must remind him of what he has forgotten. Once Nalzindar, perhaps. But no longer.”

  “How is it that you shall seek to tell me that I must counsel a Blue Robe?” Shaiara whispered harshly.

  “For love of Sand and Star, and of you,” Kamar answered steadily. “Grant him the freedom of your tent, if you wish, for a season or even a turn of the seasons—it would be no bad thing. All have seen that the power that Bisochim once claimed is now Harrier’s to call, without Taint or Shadow. But when that time is run, you must both remember that Harrier of the Two Swords is Blue Robe, and not Nalzindar. Shaiara”—he said, placing his hands gently upon her shoulders—“long have I waited to see the one upon whom your eye and heart would light and say: this is the one with whom I shall end my days. I grieve with you, Darak’s daughter, that it should be a Blue Robe.”

  Shaiara stepped back, and Kamar’s hands fell away. But this is a new time—for new ways! She wanted to fling those words in Kamar’s face, except that in her own ears they sounded far too much like the false words of Bisochim, from the days when his heart had been held in the hand of a Demon. She had never meant to love Harrier of the Two Swords, or to give him that place in her heart and spirit that she had thought would forever remain untouched. He was of the Cold North, still in so many ways a stranger.

  A thought as chilling as any ice conjured out of air suddenly filled her throat. Perhaps—with Ahairan slain—Harrier meant matters to be different between them? A promise given for a moonturn was a different thing than a vow given for a lifetime—and in the gardens of Abi’Abadshar he had sworn to her while believing himself doomed to die.

  “Your counsel is wise, father’s brother. I shall think upon your words and seek their wisdom.” Without waiting to hear if Kamar would say more, Shaiara turned and strode away into the dark.

  ABOUT half an hour after it started, Harrier remembered that he’d always hated parties. The food was good. The drink was good—he stayed away from the beer and the date wine, but there were about a dozen different kinds of fruit juice.

  The people sucked.

  Not the people exactly. He’d spent most of the last year trying to keep the Isvaieni alive, and he knew just about all of them personally by now. It was just what they were saying and doing. A lot of them wanted to congratulate him on defeating Ahairan, which just made him think about Ahairan, and realize that he couldn’t actually explain what had happened. A lot of them wanted to kiss him—Liapha had managed it, to raucous cheers—and that was just embarrassing. Most of the people who didn’t want to either kiss him or congratulate him wanted to know what they should do next.

  Having spoken to Kave about his plans for the Isvai, Harrier actually had a pretty good idea now, but tonight wasn’t the time to tell anybody, since the idea even creeped him out. He thought they should pick the least-ruined of the far-southern Iteru-cities (which left Akazidas’Iteru out, though if there were any desert plants still alive there, they should grab them while they could for transplanting) and repair it, and live there. Even Orinaisal’Iteru was big enough to hold all the Isvaieni who were left, and it would give them some place to be while they were bringing the entire desert back to life.

  They’d need to farm as well as have flocks, and he didn’t think any of the tribes had many farming skills, but the Elves certainly farmed, and they could help.

  Avoiding that conversation was unpleasantly awkward. And the more times he had—or didn’t have—it, the more Harrier realized that apparently the Isvaieni had managed to get the idea that he’d always had a Master Plan for defeating Ahairan, and despite the fact that this so-called Master Plan had gotten at least half of them killed, they thought he was wonderful and they were eagerly awaiting his next stroke of genius.

  “It is in my mind that you should become High Ummara of all the tribes,” Zanattar said seriously.

  Harrier had been sure he’d found a nice dark corner to hide in between two of the tents. It was dark, but it wasn’t dark enough to hide him from the ikulas puppy that had followed him happily into his hiding place. All the ikulas were begging for scraps and being hugely indulged. They were all going to be as sick as, well, dogs by morning.

  “It is in my mind that you are out of yours,” Harrier answered sharply. “Didn’t you idiots try that once?”

  “Yes, yes,” Zanattar waved that aside. “But—Fannas! Come! Help me convince Harrier that I’m right!”

  In a few moments, to Harrier’s horror, he’d been chivvied out of his hiding place and seated on a carpet surrounded by about a dozen men and women, every single one of whom thought that Harrier should become King of the Isvaieni.

  “Of course you would want a council of advisors,” Ogmazad said.

  “Ogmazad, I don’t want any advisors at all!” Harrier said. “Because I don’t want to be King, or High Ummara, or whatever you want to call it! Don’t you see what a problem you’re setting yourself up for?”

  “Leaving aside this entire ‘Time of the Breaking of Tribes’ nonsense, which I, for one, never believed in for a moment,” Fannas said, waving his hand dismissively, “the tribes are broken. The desert cannot feed us. The old ways can no longer be followed—nor is there any place left where we can follow them. It is only sensible for us to make of ourselves one great tribe, Harrier. Yet no one will be happy should any Ummara of any tribe-that-is leads it. It must be you.”

  “No, it must not,” Harrier said firmly. “Look. I know this is a bad time for this, but—Helafin went back to Armethalieh today, to speak to the High Ummara of the Nine Cities.”

  “Yes,” a man named Suzat said. He was Adanate, and didn’t seem at all shy about offering his opinions in the middle of all these Ummarai and chaharums. “And she will bear your words to the High Ummara that the Isvaieni have done no wrong.”

  “She will tell Chief Magistrate Vaunnel what happened here,” Harrier said cautiously. “And Chief Magistrate Vaunnel will send another Commission of Inquiry—this time with Militia to back it up. If they get here and find a High Ummara of all the tribes, they are going to want that person to swear a Consular Oath to the Magisterium . . . to become chaharum to Armethalieh.” And I can’t do that, so even if I thought someone becoming king was a good idea, it wouldn’t be me. In fact, when Chief Magistrate Vaunnel’s Commission shows up, I intend to be nowhere to be found . . .

  “And this is why it must be you,” Zanattar said in triumph. “For you are from the north, and they will believe you.”

  “And this is why it must be no one,” Harrier
said, getting to his feet. “If you don’t have a king, he can’t be forced to swear a Consular Oath. And if you can’t figure out why that’s a good thing, I’m not wasting my time tonight explaining it to you. Go. Celebrate. We won.”

  HARRIER didn’t bother to hide this time, and he didn’t worry about hurting peoples’ feelings. He simply got away from the light and the drumming—where the hell had they gotten drums?—and the singing as quickly as he could. Light knew they deserved their celebration, but Harrier had never felt less like celebrating something in his entire life. He didn’t get very far into the dark before he ran into Tiercel. Only he didn’t—run into him. He’d known where Tiercel was the entire time. Not because of the Wild Magic, but because of the Dragonbond. Until the day one or the other of them died, Harrier was always going to know where Tiercel was, and what he was feeling.

  And Tiercel would know the same about him.

  He’d never be alone, never free, never able to choose something that Tiercel and Ancaladar really didn’t approve of.

  No secrets. No privacy. No freedom. For a moment Harrier felt a paralyzing sense of suffocation. It was the thing he’d hated most about the life he’d been supposed to have back in Armethalieh. It was the thing he’d been so happy to abandon when he’d followed Tiercel on what he’d thought was an insane delusional quest. And not only did he have those restrictions back again, there was no place he could ever go now to escape them, not even inside his own thoughts.

  Kareta had said the MagePrice was a high one.

  “I hate parties,” both of them said in chorus. Harrier made a rude noise and Tiercel poked him in the shoulder—unerringly—in the darkness.

  “I want to go up there again,” Tiercel said, pointing at the top of Telinchechitl.

  “That’s stupid,” Harrier said. Tiercel shrugged, a dim shape in the illumination of distant lanterns. Harrier could—almost—grasp why Tiercel wanted to do it. He knew Ancaladar knew. He also knew that Ancaladar wouldn’t give them information about each other unless it was an emergency. That was a small mercy. Harrier could almost feel normal, at least for a little while longer.

  “Come on, then,” Harrier said after a moment. The two of them began walking toward the staircase. Even though Bisochim was dead, the staircase remained. It had been made with magic, but magic had only shaped the molten stone. The stone itself was perfectly ordinary.

  Earlier in the evening someone had set a pair of lanterns—true lanterns, not Coldfire—on the bottom steps. As they approached the stairs, they saw Shaiara sitting on the center of the bottom step, staring out into the night. “Armethalieh wasn’t even touched,” Tiercel said quietly. “The Isvaieni were nearly wiped out.”

  Harrier didn’t need the Dragonbond to know what Tiercel was thinking now—he had sixteen years of knowing Tiercel: She ought to hate us. Why doesn’t she?

  “ ‘Instruction is the only gift freely given,’ ” Harrier quoted. “I don’t say that any of the people who died wanted to. But they all died so that the Firecrown could learn something.”

  “Wildmage wisdom?” Tiercel asked. He sounded tired. The shock of victory and of reunion with Ancaladar was beginning to wear off.

  “I’m not that smart,” Harrier answered. “You’re the one who told me that.”

  At the sound of their voices, Shaiara roused herself from her reverie and stood.

  “Tyr wants to go back to the top of Telinchechitl,” Harrier said to her. “He didn’t have enough fun up there the last time. Would you like to join us?”

  “I had thought that perhaps things between us might have changed,” Shaiara said with quiet dignity.

  “Uh, would you like me to . . .?” Tiercel began.

  “‘Go somewhere’?” Harrier finished, his voice suddenly savage. “That’s the problem. You can’t, can you? You and Ancaladar could be in Armethalieh and you’d still be just as close to me as you are right now. So you might as well stay right here.” He turned back to Shaiara. “My feelings haven’t changed. You said you chose me for as long as it pleased Sand and Star to grant us. Of course, we thought that would be about a fortnight. I won’t hold you to it.”

  “Fool of a northern Blue Robe!” Shaiara spat, turning her back on him and beginning to climb. “Bring the lanterns. It is night, and these stairs are dark.”

  “I think she likes you, Har,” Tiercel said. He sounded as if he was trying not to laugh.

  “Shut up,” Harrier answered gravely. “I think you’re talking about my wife.”

  Both of them felt the warm rush of Ancaladar’s amusement.

  WITH nothing more than two small lanterns to light their way, they had to be careful as they climbed, but neither Tiercel nor Harrier wanted to create a ball of Coldfire—or MageLight—to see by. Tiercel couldn’t tell whether this trip up the stairs seemed to take longer than the last one had, because he actually didn’t remember much of the last one. He didn’t remember very much at all about the day from before the wonderful, horrible, ridiculous, glorious, terrifying moment that he’d been re united with Ancaladar and the battle that followed. He’d spoken to more than two dozen of the men and women of the Hundred today, and all of them had given him the same answer: no matter how they’d reckoned the passage of time—breaths or heartbeats or the movement of shadows across the ground—from the moment the wall of MageShield appeared around the Black Dogs to the moment it vanished from around Ahairan’s entire army had been less than five minutes. Five minutes to change his life forever. His, Harrier’s, Ancaladar’s—everyone’s who Bonded to a dragon from this moment on, everyone who was Bonded to a dragon right now. No dragon would ever have to die again. And if that wasn’t enough, they’d created an entirely new kind of magic, because he wasn’t a Wildmage any more than Harrier was a High Mage—but through Ancaladar, their magics were fused and blended. He suspected that soon there’d be High Mages everywhere again, Bonding to dragons and Wildmages—or to Elven Mages. The future would be filled with more magic than ever before.

  But at such a cost.

  THE three of them reached the platform at the top of the stairs. There was plenty of light here; in the dark, the glow from the molten rock that filled the mountain’s hollow core glowed bright gold. Tiercel thought about how close he’d come to being in it today, and he thought about what that would have felt like. He shuddered. He hoped—He wished—

  “Stop it,” Harrier said quietly.

  Tiercel was about to deny that he was doing anything—although that was probably hopeless—when Ancaladar swooped down for a graceful landing. Fortunately he didn’t land on the platform itself, but on the lip of the tehuko beside it—and to Tiercel’s surprise, Saravasse did the same thing on the other side.

  “Would you like a dragon?” Harrier said to Shaiara. He gestured toward Saravasse, who hissed at him again.

  “One dragon in my tent is enough,” Shaiara said repressively. “I have no desire to have my life ruled by magic.”

  “I promise that I will stay outside, Shaiara,” Ancaladar said meekly. Tiercel was always impressed that someone that large (and that intimidating-looking) could manage to give the impression of a penitent house cat so easily.

  “All right,” Harrier said briskly. “We’re up here—roasting like a goat on the coals—is it too much to ask why?”

  “I wanted to talk to someone,” Tiercel answered, turning to face the Lake of Fire. “You! You lied to me! You said if we brought Ahairan here—and a Dragonbond Mage sacrificed himself to you freely—Ahairan would be bound!”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Harrier yelped, grabbing for him. “We just won! Do not taunt the Great Power on the edge of the tehuko, Tyr!”

  “I did not lie.”

  Suddenly a man-shaped figure stood on the very edge of the platform, but it wasn’t the form of the Firecrown that Tiercel knew. This was a shape formed of Fire Itself, its identifiable shape nothing more than a courtesy to them.

  “You said—” Tiercel began, and stopped abru
ptly. It wasn’t like having somebody (Harrier) yell shut up in his ear, but there really wasn’t any other way for him to think of it.

  “Please, will you tell us what you did say?” Harrier asked. Tiercel had never heard Harrier sound so . . . polite.

  “One who was anointed by the New Magic Called to Me, and I came, and these words I spoke to him upon the sand: If a Dragonbond Mage gives up his life at My Shrine entirely of his own free will, then shall Ahairan be dealt with in a fashion pleasing to you,” the Firecrown answered. “And one did. And so it was.”

  “Oh . . . Light,” Tiercel said, in sudden realization. “That wasn’t a promise. That was a prophecy.” He turned to Harrier. “The—the—the—the Firesprites. They had the gift of prophecy. They were known for it.”

  “And you just now decided to mention this?” Harrier said in stunned exasperation.

  “I didn’t think it was important. I asked for help, and the Firecrown said it would bind Ahairan . . . No. You said you could bind her for as long as Telinchechitl burned, not that you would,” he said to the Firecrown.

  The Firecrown inclined its head regally.

  “Yeah, this is why we don’t go summoning up Great Powers and making bargains with them,” Harrier said. “Come on. We’re done here. Say goodbye. Now.” Tiercel could hear the disgust in Harrier’s voice. He just hoped the Firecrown couldn’t.

  “Thank you for your help. We’re leaving soon—very soon. We aren’t coming back. I’m sure the Elves still know the terms of the treaty they made with your people. We’ll find out what it is. We’ll honor it,” Tiercel said hastily.

  “That is acceptable,” the Firecrown answered.

  Tiercel wasn’t sure whether it stepped backward off the platform, or simply dissolved, but between one moment and the next, the man-shaped form of flame was gone in a shower of sparks.