Shadow of the Phoenix

by Rebecca Harwell

  Sleep did not come.

  “This is too strange,” she whispered into the dark room.

  An exasperated sigh came from the bed. “Pretend I’m not here. Or that you don’t feel overwhelming fury at my presence.”

  “If only it were that easy,” Nadya muttered. “You aren’t afraid at all. After all, you called me a monster.”

  “You are one. I’ve known that for a long time. Now, stop moaning about it and go to sleep.”

  “Why are you even here if you think that?” Nadya argued. “You know, after what you did on the solstice, a lot of people in Storm’s Quarry would call you a monster.”

  “Like I said”—his voice went soft—“you need monsters to defeat monsters.”

  * * *

  They bought passage two hours before dawn. An older woman, hair streaked gray and skin weathered from decades at sea, looked the two of them up and down with calculating eyes. A few gold coins changed hands and she stepped aside to let them board her small cargo ship. The Seawitch was its name, and it bore the moniker easily. A midsized vessel, its sides had taken on a grayish hue from years at sea. It would carry Levka and Nadya to Brome, where it would leave them and a dozen crates of dried silverfin and several bolts of woven blue cotton on the docks.

  After climbing aboard and setting sail, it took Nadya exactly one hour at sea to realize that, Nomori or not, she hated boats. Since realizing that, she had spent nearly every moment on the starboard deck, one arm draped over the railing, ready for her next fit of retching. Her fingers gripped the railing hard enough to crack it in several places.

  Her nausea roiled behind her eyes, so overwhelming that she did not notice Levka’s approach until he stood over her, his shadow disrupting the high noon sun.

  “How many times have you thrown up your breakfast?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

  Nadya shot him an annoyed look. “Why do you care?”

  “Because we need to discuss the next stage of this venture, and I have no desire to be retched upon.”

  “Then stand over there and talk,” she mumbled. None of the ship’s crew had dared come over this way, to avoid her sickness.

  “Fine.” Levka leaned against the rail, staring out at the Brine of Lazuli. To anyone watching, the two passengers appeared to be enjoying one another’s company, gazing at the water together. In truth, the former magistrate’s proximity made Nadya nearly as sick as the waves.

  “Brome is a large port city, and it won’t give up any secrets easily,” Levka said quietly, no doubt trusting Nadya could hear him over the sound of waves lapping the Seawitch’s stern. “Whatever knowledge Wintercress has stored there will not be easily accessed, particularly by outsiders.”

  “Makes sense,” she managed to say. She hadn’t expected anyone to hand off the secrets of their nivasi to her.

  “And unfortunately, we cannot simply punch our way to the answers.”

  She was too queasy to rise to Levka’s jab. Instead, she grunted and closed her eyes, breathing in slowly.

  “We will have to disguise ourselves. Merchants would be our best bet. No one would question a pair of foreign merchants coming into Brome on a trade ship, asking questions, looking to make purchases.”

  “They won’t until they see our purses,” Nadya said. They had used nearly all the coin Marko and Kesali had given them to book passage.

  Levka sighed. “Just let me do the talking when we get there, and this will all go smoothly. Until then, I suggest we both try to rest up.”

  A few moments passed before Nadya realized he was still there. She opened her eyes. “What?” she snapped.

  Levka studied her face, his own slightly amused. “You are a poor excuse for a Nomori, you know?”

  Her laugh at the unexpected remark turned into retching, and Nadya leaned over the side of the vessel once again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Three weeks had passed since Nadya left with Levka, and Shay had begun to settle into her new routine. Waking up at the unseen dawn, lighting the lantern beside her pallet, and stumbling out to the mess. Warming the coals of the forge on her way there, and then scarfing down whatever the mess served for breakfast. Grunting to Filipp as he came to sit in his favorite spot, still smelling of spirits. Filling the orders of the day, maybe getting a visit from Alla or Peanna or Peanna’s rats. Shay would never enjoy Storm’s Quarry, but the determination with which the people in the resistance worked to save their city gave her hope that this could be done. That Nadya would return safely, and Wintercress could be overthrown.

  Of course, she kept that optimism locked up tight in fear of losing it if she shared it with anyone. She took on the grim expression of most every person in the resistance, and Shay found herself having to remember that she wasn’t part of it, not really. I am here for Nadya, she’d tell herself, nothing more. Once Nadya comes back with whatever Nomori secrets they find, she and I will finish this. We’ll go out fighting, or we’ll leave a freed Storm’s Quarry behind.

  One bleary-eyed morning, after a night that she had dabbled a bit with Filipp’s stash of liquor, putting up with his drunken rants in return for a bottle of ale, Shay got to the smithy to find Marko standing in front of the forge, his forehead creased in thought.

  “Need something?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  If he was offended by the lack of decorum, he didn’t show it. “We’ve got an assignment for you,” he said, turning toward her. If possible, Marko looked worse than her, with large dark circles under his eyes. His fingers tapped against the hilt of his rapier.

  “More rat collars?” Shay gestured to the forge. “Or it is lizard leashes this time? I am your ever humble servant, here to carry out any order.”

  Marko didn’t smile, and Shay let the grin drop from her mouth. “Something wrong? Have you heard from Nadya?”

  “No, nothing like that. We can only hope she and that—” He couldn’t even bring himself to call Levka a name. “We can only hope they are successful in finding a weakness in the Cressian nivasi. That’s not why I’m here.” Marko drew in a breath. “We need you.”

  “Figured.” Shay crossed her arms. “Neither us of is getting younger, so…?”

  “We need the Shadow Dragon.”

  Marko didn’t meet her gaze as he said it. Shay sighed; she had expected this to happen at some point. She was a decent smith, to be sure, but her real talent lay in fire and blade.

  “Stars, I hate that name,” she muttered.

  The Duke raised his eyebrow, but he remained silent.

  Shay sighed. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you called on me. I might be the only smith in the resistance, but I’m also your only—”

  “Yes, you are,” Marko said hurriedly. “I had hoped to avoid using you like this, but it was foolish to think we could overthrow Wintercress without the help of someone like you.”

  Someone I don’t know I can trust hung in the air between them, unsaid.

  “What do you need me to do?” she asked finally, careful to keep her voice down. Not many stirred in the cavern this time of morning, but she did not want to advertise her nivasi nature. Suddenly, the thought of being hated and feared by the people she worked with day after day turned Shay’s stomach in a way she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t supposed to care, and yet she did, in a most vulnerable way.

  Marko began walking toward the Bulwark, and Shay followed him. “Our spies gave us word in the night that the Prince is getting in a shipment from Wintercress this afternoon,” he said as they walked. “Mostly mundane supplies, but—”

  “Weapons,” she finished for him.

  He nodded, opening the door of the Bulwark. Kesali, standing at the war table, gave a nod to her husband and looked at Shay. The Stormspeaker’s eyes were unreadable as she asked, “How much do you know?”

  “Just that Wintercress is getting some weapons in today, and I assume you want them. With the materials I’m getting at the forge being little more than scrap, a load of new weapons
is sorely needed,” Shay said. “Is there anything else to know?”

  Marko and Kesali shared a quick glance. “No, that is the heart of it,” he said. He took his place next to his wife. “Our spies will follow the shipment as it comes it, tracking its progress throughout the city as best that they can. We should get a rat message before dark.”

  Shay choked back a snort with the seriousness that he referred to their unconventional communication system. “Which will tell me where to go,” she said, composing herself. “I go in as the Dragon, take out any soldiers guarding the shipment, and what? Carry crate loads of weapons back by myself? I’m not Nadya.”

  Marko flinched at her mention of Nadya, but Kesali’s face was carefully blank.

  “You will have help at the time,” Marko said.

  “Trust us, and do your part,” Kesali added. “Everything should go according to plan.”

  Shay did laugh this time, a sharp sardonic chuckle that echoed throughout the small room. “Let’s be honest with one another. There is no trust here.” She raised a hand as Marko opened his mouth in protest. “I am fine with that. But we shouldn’t fool ourselves. You do not trust nivasi,” she said, pointing to Marko. “You do not trust me.” Shay pointed to Kesali, and then gestured to herself. “And I do not trust anyone within the walls of this city. There, now that we aren’t trying to lie to ourselves, we can move on. You’ll have someone there to back me up and help transport the weapons home. Got it.”

  It was all she needed to know.

  * * *

  The city of Storm’s Quarry stood silent.

  Shay couldn’t help the cold feeling that crept up her spine as she darted through the streets of the third tier. Winds brought in salty air off the Kyanite Sea, mixing with the odors of decay that clung to the city streets. The night air rustled the refuse and pulled at the signs of long-deserted shops. She felt as if she ran through a city of ghosts. Hollow eyes peered out of barred windows, the Sirens of the dying city.

  Her hatred for Storm’s Quarry usually burned so hot, but the stillness ate at it, gnawing away at the edges until Shay felt only numbness as she surveyed the wreckage of the city from atop a roof.

  Her target was in sight.

  A regiment of fourteen Cressian soldiers surrounded the crates of weapons. One of them, wearing the silver stripes of a sergeant, lifted a lid and examined the contents. Shay caught a glimpse of rows of gleaming saber blades before the lid snapped shut. He uttered some orders in Cressian, and his men got to work moving the crates to their final destination: the palace.

  Not tonight, Shay thought, and she leapt down.

  Unlike Nadya, she didn’t land hard on the cobblestones, cracking the ground. Shay let her momentum carry her into a roll when she hit the ground. She rose, and her blades ignited in a spray of white light.

  For a moment, none of the soldiers moved, their faces falling and mouths opening in surprise and terror at the sudden appearance of a nivasi. Shay didn’t give them time to collect themselves. Her blades flashed out, and the nearest soldier dropped, his uniform sizzling and smoking.

  That broke the regiment’s paralysis. Soldiers surrounded her. Their sabers lunged for her throat, and Shay dodged and parried, melting off any blade that dared to get too close.

  One soldier staggered back. His blue eyes shone with fear at the nivasi before him before he turned and sprinted down the alley.

  “Damn it,” Shay swore. Another soldier swung his saber down at her head. She blocked it, slicing through the iron like melted butter with her sword of light. He cursed in Cressian and aimed a kick to her chest.

  His boot connected with a shield of fire. He fell back, howling. Shay silenced him with a single slash of her blade.

  If anyone escaped to raise an alarm, Prince Trillium would send reinforcements. More soldiers or, worse, the Cressian nivasi. Shay didn’t like the odds of her escaping another fight with that woman alive.

  Fire bloomed at her feet, incinerating the bits of wood and paper that littered the street. She gathered brilliant orange flames into her hands. They turned blue, then white, becoming pure light as she concentrated on strengthening and controlling the power that raged within her.

  The running figure had nearly reached the end of the alley, and Shay, desperate, drew back her arm to sling her blade of light and any other fire she could muster. Damn it all if the neighborhood burned down. But before she could let her power loose, the Cressian soldier came to an abrupt halt. He let out a single gurgle and slumped to the ground, revealing a man standing there, rapier gleaming with blood in the moonlight. He moved into the light of the fight, and Shay could have whistled for joy.

  The Guardmaster had come.

  Out of alleyways and leaping down from rooftops, fighters of the resistance swarmed upon the scene. Their rapiers and bayonets glinted in the light of her fires as they got to work, cutting down the Cressian soldiers who remained. Some tried to flee, realizing the hopelessness of the battle they now faced. None made it far.

  With the addition of two dozen warriors on her side, Erevan and Nomori men alike, the resistance made short work of the remaining Cressian soldiers. Shay sent a bolt of fire into the back of the last retreating man, and he fell to the ground with a shriek before being consumed by flame and turned to ash.

  She wiped her brow. Her sleeve came away grimy with soot and smeared war paint.

  “Secure the crates.” Shadar Gabori barked out orders behind her. “You have two minutes. We need to get these out of sight before anyone comes to see what the commotion was.”

  “Good fight.” He greeted her when he approached the northern side of the street that Shay kept a wary watch over. He had not, she noted, sheathed his rapier.

  Shay moistened her cracked lips and nodded. “You as well. Marko mentioned I’d have backup, but I did not expect the Guardmaster himself.”

  Shadar’s mouth tightened at her informality with his new Duke, but he did not remark upon it. “The Duke did not know I’d be here. He wishes that I would stay holed up in a safe house, sending others out with orders to save our city. I like to let him think that I do.” Shadar drew a deep breath. “I believe he is worried that I’ll be reckless in the aftermath of my wife’s death. That I have nothing left but to die for this city.”

  “You have Nadya,” Shay said automatically.

  He nodded and cracked a brief smile. “I do. And, fortunate for our city, Storm’s Quarry does as well.”

  Shay did not have a reply, so she nodded and stood back as the Guardmaster finished ordering his troops about. Like a well-built engine, the resistance fighters split up in groups of five and six, carrying the crates of Cressian weapons.

  “What about them?” an Erevan man asked, nudging one of the soldiers’ bodies with his boot. “Should we hide the evidence of the fight?”

  “No.” Shadar shook his head. “We leave them. There isn’t time to hide all traces of our fight, and we do not have the men to spare them a burial. Their own commanders should take care of it.”

  The air that hung over the street grew heavier. Shay tugged at her chestplate, avoiding the gaze of any of the resistance fighters. The Guardmaster’s words were a bitter reminder that those they killed were not innocent, but neither were they criminals. Jeta’s voice rang through her head. It is easy when the lives you take, the people you catch, are hardened souls, their lives burned dark with sin. War is different. War has no villains, no heroes, only victims. She shook herself to rid her mind of the words.

  The Cressian Prince is guilty, as was Councillor Aster, Shay reminded herself. Anyone who falls under their command…we can’t afford to separate them. Not if we are going to win.

  “Leave everything but the weapons,” Shadar was saying. “Let Wintercress know that there are still those in Storm’s Quarry who have the strength to fight back. And let our people know that we are still fighting for them.”

  In less than an hour, the resistance had deserted the street, vanishing back to the va
rious safe houses around the city and to the cavern underneath it. Shay kept her distance from the Guardmaster as their small group navigated the dark mining tunnels. He headed straight for the Bulwark when they reached the cavern, and Shay straight for her bunk.

  The next morning found her at the smithy as usual, this time wrangling with the newest design of collars for Peanna’s rats. Lighter and better fitting, Shay was proud to say. The thought elicited a chuckle out of her. If only her forgemaster could see her now.

  “Shay.”

  She turned to see Shadar Gabori standing at the edge of the smith’s platform. Cursing silently, Shay dipped her newly shaped collar in the bucket of acrid water that had been brought fresh this morning. Steam curled into the still cavern air. Once the piece was cooled, she set it carefully on the table and dropped her tongs onto their hook.

  “Guardmaster,” she greeted, maintaining her best passive face. She wasn’t surprised that he had chosen to stay the night in the cavern after reporting the events of the fight to Marko and Kesali. She had, however, hoped to avoid his notice as much as possible.

  Shadar surveyed her workspace with a critical eye. Shay found herself straightening defensively. True, it wasn’t much, and none of the equipment was up to par with what Jeta usually insisted upon for their work, but she was proud of what she had made of it.

  Finally, he nodded and said, “I’ve heard you are doing good work here. Not just going after Cressian shipments after dark.”

  “Trying to. Not much to work with, but your men will have more than sharpened sticks for the fight. Especially with the new Cressian materials.” Please, please, go away. Her fingers rapped against her leg nervously.

  “Glad to hear it. Do you have a moment to speak privately?” he asked, and Shay’s stomach sank down to her knees.

  She actually wished Kesali had summoned her for an early morning meeting, or that Filipp hadn’t been so hungover that he didn’t even make it to his favorite rock to sit and berate Shay on her smithing technique. “Of course,” she said through gritted teeth. “Can we speak here? That way I can keep an eye on things.” And have the advantage of familiar territory.