Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  Of those two, one was clearly one of the scholars who sometimes journeyed to Dragonskeep; the floppy, four-cornered cap of an academic lay by his elbow. He scowled briefly at the interruption and bent over his books and scatter of parchment notes once more. He muttered to himself, pulling his small oil lamp closer. Dragonlords held no interest for him, the set of his shoulders said.

  The other man also looked up at their entrance. He wore a bard’s torc. Linden heard Otter’s startled but quiet “What’s he doing here?” as Otter slowly raised a hand in greeting.

  At first the stranger did nothing, merely staring coldly at Otter. Then the man nodded and went back to his book.

  Someone you know? Linden asked. And no friend, either, by the look of it. There had been venom in that look. To himself Linden thought, Who would bear Otter such animosity?

  Otter replied, Yes to both; he’s a fellow bard, one of the Masters at the Harpers College; doesn’t usually travel much. I’ve told you about him. His lips were a grim line.

  Linden suddenly knew who it was. Leet? he asked. That would explain much.

  Yes. A welter of emotions twisted beneath Otter’s unsteady mindvoice. I wonder what—

  Otter broke off as Raven spoke.

  “Good gods!” Raven exclaimed, staring about him. “I had no idea there were so many books in the world!”

  A disgruntled snort came from the scholar’s table. Leet read on as if he hadn’t heard anything.

  Linden looked around the room, remembering his own astonishment at his first sight of the library of Dragonskeep. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, some in gaily colored bindings, most in sober brown; some were the gifts of kings and queens, some the presented works of grateful scholars who had found long-sought-after knowledge in the collection, others acquired by Dragonlords on their travels. The gentle, slightly stuffy scent of old leather welcomed him; he’d forgotten what a haven this had been when he’d first come to Dragonskeep, a hillman fresh from the mountains of Yerrih, awkward and nervous and frightened at what he’d become.

  Jenna chuckled softly. Rising, she said, “There may well be no other collection like it, young truehuman. Kingdoms may come and go, but there has always been the library of Dragonskeep—and the Keep itself, of course.” An impish smile twitched over her short-muzzled face. “It’s late in the evening to be looking for a little reading, my friends. Shall I guess what you’ve come for?” She laid a hand upon the page she’d been studying.

  “Bother,” said Lleld. “Someone’s been here before us, then?”

  Another, louder, snort from the scholar.

  Lukai blinked; his large, watery eyes crinkled with amusement. “Many someones, Lleld. Indeed, we were surprised we haven’t seen you before this. And we’ve missed you, Jekkanadar. We found some words in an old history of Assantik that we’d like your help with.”

  “Here,” said Jenna. She shut her book and patted it. “Let’s take this into one of the lesson rooms and leave Master Pren in peace.”

  Since the volume looked heavy, Linden picked it up for the frail kir archivist and followed her to a small room off the main library. Once they were all inside, Jekkanadar shut the door behind them; the others sat. Linden placed the book before the two archivists and took his own place by Maurynna.

  Before anyone could speak, Jenna nodded at Raven. “You’re the one who brought Taren Olmeins to Dragonskeep, aren’t you, young truehuman?”

  “I am,” Raven admitted.

  “When we heard the news,” Jenna said, “we remembered this book and began reading.”

  “Do you know every book in the collection?” Lleld asked.

  Kir and truehuman smiled. “Yes,” they said together.

  “You see,” Jenna explained, “they’re old friends to us.”

  “Old and well trusted,” Lukai said. “How may we help you?”

  “Tell us about Jehanglan,” Lleld said. “We know that the Phoenix Emperor closed his kingdom. It happened in Jekkanadar’s father’s time.”

  “True,” Jenna said as Lukai nodded. “And from then until a hundred or so years ago, no one traded with Jehanglan save a rumored few smugglers, and not many of those, either. Then an envoy came to the Dawn emperor, saying that his brother emperor of Jehanglan wished to beg a favor of him, for there had once been much contact between the two kingdoms. It was the first word from the Phoenix Kingdom.”

  “Odd,” Linden said. “Why change their minds all of a sudden?”

  Though her eyes were full of old stories, Jenna said only, “Silk.”

  Dragonlords and truehumans looked at each other.

  “Silk?” Maurynna echoed.

  “Just so,” said Lukai. “It is all here in this journal by Lady Ardelis of Kelneth. She was a great traveler and seeker of odd bits of information. She visited the Assantikkan court perhaps a year or so after the pact was signed. Here; let me read this to you.” He pulled a kerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his eyes. “I beg your pardon, but the dust upon these old books …” he muttered as he carefully turned the pages.

  “Ah! Here it is. Lady Ardelis wrote: ‘Today I saw a most strange ship come in to the port of Nen dra Kore. It’s not like our northern cogs, nor even like to the galleys of the Dawn Emperor. I’ve not the knowledge of ships to say anything more detailed than that it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before. Every inch of it is painted and carved as if the sight of the good bare wood were an offense to the eyes. A veritable rainbow of colors it was! And looming over all upon the sail is the image of a great, fiery bird; yet flying from the mast was the triangular pennant of an Assantikkan trading house—House Mhakkan, my escort, Merreb, said.’

  “‘I was told that this was one of the ships from fabled Jehanglan. When I remarked that I’d heard it was closed to outsiders, Merreb said that had once been so. But it seems some time ago the silkworms of Jehanglan were wiped out by a plague or some such thing, and the Phoenix Kingdom was desperate for silks and silk brocades. It is all their nobles and rulers wear in court. Now, it so happened that before Jehanglan shut itself off from the world, there had been a great trade between the two countries, even to the establishing of temples to each other’s gods to accomodate the traders, and that silkworms were exported from there to Assantik at one time.’

  “‘While they never did quite as well in Assantik as in their homeland, the silkworms had prospered well enough that the Assantikkans could spare silk to sell to Jehanglan—in return for certain trade concessions. The Phoenix Lord agreed and the Dawn Emperor granted the right of trade with Jehanglan to House Mhakkan, who controls much of the production of silk here.’

  “‘All this I was told by Merreb, factor to House Azassa, who spat whenever House Mhakkan’s name was mentioned.’”

  Lukai ran a finger down the page. “Here Lady Ardelis noted—with great delicacy—that she later heard that the Dawn Emperor owed much to House Mhakkan.”

  “Which meant they owned him,” Raven said bluntly. “Knowing what I do about that House now, the emperor likely had to give Mhakkan the grant. They would have brought him down otherwise. I wonder what hold they had over him? Whatever it was, they haven’t lost any of that power over the years; much the opposite. They’re stronger than ever and still greedy as hell. Now they control all of the silk production in Assantik. Trust Mhakkan to be in the right place at the right time even then.” He shook his head, looking disgusted. It was plain Raven had no more love for House Mhakkan than the long-dead Merreb of House Azassa.

  “I understand better now,” Linden said, “why Gilliad al zefa’ Mimdallek wanted Taren out of there.” He stared at the books lining the walls without seeing them. “No, House Mhakkan wouldn’t take kindly to someone using smugglers and taking trade from them, would they? Perhaps even opening a new route. What if someone found a way around the Haunted Straits? And if it were known there was such trading—” He looked over at Lleld.

  “The emperor would have to stop it, wouldn’t he, because whoeve
r did it violated an imperial order,” finished Lleld.

  Maurynna nodded. “Exactly; he would have no choice but to destroy that House. And that is not something Gilliad al zefa’ Mimdallek would want. For when the Dawn Emperors destroy a House, it is absolute. Ships, warehouses, merchandise, wagons, homes, everything that House has. Their fields are salted, their livestock slaughtered. Adults are killed and the children sold into slavery. Even the name of that House is stricken and may never be used again.”

  “It’s happened?” Linden asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Maurynna said. She shivered. “It’s happened.”

  “Taren,” said Linden, “is a very lucky man indeed to still be alive, then. Good thing for him that Second is so superstitious.”

  Lleld, chin in hand, asked, “Does Lady Ardelis say what the Jehangli trade for besides silk? There must be more than that.”

  Muttering to himself, Lukai thumbed through the journal once more. “Hm, hm, know it’s here somewhere … . Ah—‘they trade for silks’—which we knew—‘and cochineal and murex dyes, myrrh from Assantik, muttonfat amber and the gum of the sweet balsam tree that both come from the north, as well as other dyes and incenses and gemstones. Wheat and a few other grains, and Assantikkan dates, oranges, and ginger. Yerrin horses as well when they can get them—Merreb said the Jehangli are as passionate for horses as any Yerrin—and, oddly, troupes of traveling entertainers. Those are the only outsiders allowed to travel in Jehanglan. Perhaps the Jehangli have no jugglers of their own? I thought that odd and asked the reason.’”

  The aged parchment crackled as Lukai’s careful fingers turned the page with loving care. He went on, “‘But I fear I will never know why. None of the players, Merreb said, ever speak of what they saw; it’s as if once they leave the shores of Jehanglan behind, their memories of the place fall away from them. He has tried speaking to the members of more than one such troupe, he said, and none recall what happened there.’”

  Lukai blinked up at them. “The list goes on for a bit more; shall I continue?”

  “No,” said Lleld. “I think I’ve heard enough.” She slouched in her chair.

  The archivist nodded and carefully shut the book once more.

  Linden shifted uneasily in his chair. Not one tumbler who had traveled Jehanglan could remember what he or she saw there? That was not something he liked the sound of; it stank of magic—the magic that was not supposed to exist in Jehanglan. He looked around the table. The others, when they met his glance, shook their heads or grimaced, made equally uneasy by the reading.

  All but Lleld. She gazed over everyone’s head, chewing on a thumbnail. At last she said, “Only traveling entertainers?”

  “That’s what Lady Ardelis wrote,” Lukai said. “I would guess it’s the same yet.”

  “Oh,” was all Lleld replied. “Indeed.”

  Once the tunnels had been her secret and Lura-Sharal’s, one of the very few they had managed to keep from Lady Gei’s prying. Lady Gei had a nose for secrets like a rat did for food, Shei-Luin thought as she turned into one particular passage. Thank the Phoenix she no longer had to worry about the mistress of the harem. The woman avoided her now the way a cat avoided water. Shei-Luin paused for a moment just inside the entrance.

  The tunnel felt like a tomb. Dust lay thick beneath her heavy felt boots, muffling each cautious step. The silence wrapped around her like a cocoon shrouding a silkworm. After what seemed like forever, Shei-Luin reached her goal.

  She laid trembling fingers upon the latch. It had been years since she’d dared come to this place. She dropped her hand, afraid; reached out once more, hesitated; then, in a sudden burst of determination, she pushed the hidden catch.

  Click.

  A tiny sound, no louder than a cricket’s chirp, but it might as well have been a thunderclap the way her heart jumped. Shei-Luin held her breath and listened.

  Nothing. No one cried for the guards, no one called out, “Who’s there?” Not even the hiss of silk brocade as someone turned to listen. Just silence, heavy and oppressive as the air before a summer storm. Shei-Luin let her breath out in a long, ragged sigh.

  She slid the door open.

  The room was huge; dark shapes loomed in it like monsters from a nightmare. Shei-Luin held up the tiny lantern she used to light her way in the tunnels, and stepped forward a few paces. The nearest shadows retreated before the glow, revealing an ornately carved chair and a tambour frame. A closer look told her the chair was of ivory inlaid with gold and jewels. She ran her fingers over it in wonder. How could she have forgotten this?

  The carving on the back of the seat caught her eye: a woman standing upon the moon, a sword in her hands, but her head bowed in grief. Shei-Luin bowed to the image.

  Then she wandered through the room, marveling anew at the riches here, riches matched only by the emperor’s chambers. It was all as she remembered from the night she and Lura-Sharal found this room. They had not dreamed of such a prize when they had discovered the long-forgotten tunnels only a few days before.

  Shei-Luin wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes, the better to listen to the darkness. Memory welled up … .

  Whispers darting through the dark room, soft and secret though there was no one else to hear them.

  “The emperor likes you,” Shei-Luin giggled, “but he looks like a horse.”

  “Hush—he does not.” Even in the pale moonlight Shei-Luin could see her sister blush.

  “What—doesn like you or doesn’t look like a horse? He does too like you. Hasn’t he called for only you these past three moons? Do you really think you are … ?”

  Joy lit the beloved face. “Yes.”

  “Then this room”—Shei-Luin waved a hand at the opulent chamber—“will be yours. You shall be empress.”

  “I—empress? There hasn’t been an empress for a hundred years. Don’t be sil—” Lura-Sharal broke off in a fit of coughing. She buried her face in her sleeve to stifle the sound.

  Frightened by the violence of the paroxysm, Shei-Luin threw her arms around her sister’s shoulders and supported her as she sank to the floor. At last the fit ended; Lura-Sharal’s hand fell away in exhaustion.

  Blood stained the sleeve.

  “You told me you were getting better,” Shei-Luin sobbed, horrified at the amount of blood. There was much more than usual. Much, much more.

  “I thought so, too,” Lura-Sharal gasped. “We must go back.”

  They never returned to the imperial chambers. Three weeks later, Lura-Sharal was dead. And not even the hawk-eyed Lady Gei ever guessed Lura-Sharal’s final secret.

  Tears leaked from beneath her closed eyelids, and her chest heaved in a sob. Shei-Luin bit her knuckles against the sadness that consumed her, but couldn’t stop crying. It was three years ago today that Lura-Sharal had died.

  At last the storm of tears ended. She wiped her eyes and looked around the chambers of the empress one last time.

  “I will make this mine, sister—I swear it!—and burn incense to your soul each day,” she whispered.

  An instant later the room was empty but for its ghosts.

  The only light in the sleeping chamber came from the leaping flames in the fireplace, dancing red and yellow and blue in the darkness. A log settled and spat a burning coal onto the hearth.

  Linden picked it up and rolled it in his hand before tossing it back into the fire. He turned at the strangled yelp from the bed behind him.

  “Surely you’re used to that by now,” he said, smiling. “You’ve done it yourself.” He pulled off his tunic and tossed it onto one of the clothes chests at the foot of the bed.

  Maurynna sat up, back against the headboard, hugging her blanketed knees. Long black hair spilled over her bare shoulders and down her back.

  “True,” she said. “But I have to make myself. I still think that fire should burn me. I don’t know if I shall ever get used to it.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and worked his boots off. “You
will. It takes a while, that’s all,” he said.

  “Linden—” Her odd-colored eyes were huge in the dim light. “Linden, I’m worried for the truedragons. I’ve heard so much about the magic that guards Jehanglan … .”

  “And if Taren’s right? That there are no mages?”

  She tossed a stray bit of hair back over her shoulder. “Maybe their mages stay hidden. He was a slave; maybe they lied to him. Maybe—oh, I don’t know. But I’m frightened. I’ve heard too many stories. Almered knew someone on board a ship that was lost in the Haunted Straits.”

  Her hand stretched out to him. Linden caught it, yielding when Maurynna pulled him to her. There was a desperate feel to the hands that stroked his back, to the lips that sought his.

  He answered it with his own feeling of unease, seeking refuge in Maurynna’s arms.

  Haoro met with certain of his fellow senior priests in the night-shrouded grounds of the Iron Temple. When they were certain that no one lurked nearby, they gathered in a circle, a small lantern in the center the only light. Wrapped in robes and cowls against the night chill, only their faces showed, floating like ghosts in the lamp’s glow.

  He told them of Hodai’s confession.

  “Phoenix help us!” one said, shocked. “No wonder there have been so many calamities! Isn’t it bad enough that the emperor fails in his duty? But for the nira to doubt—!”

  “Next he’ll be sending for Kirano the Blasphemer,” another said bitterly.

  Hands flashed in the gesture to avoid misfortune. After a silence, the first speaker said, “So now what, Haoro? Do we move against him, though we haven’t much proof, just the boy’s word? It won’t be easy.”

  No, it wouldn’t be, Haoro thought. While pious, these men had no desire for the role of nira, nor had they the stomach to attempt deposing Pah-Ko unless they were certain of success. They came from poor families who could not protect them. He, on the other hand, had Jhanun as a shield—and he was the only one who wanted the feathered mantle. When it came time, they would support him.