“We don’t move openly against him—yet,” Haoro said slowly. “First, let us see if he says more. If we could get a younger priest or one of the older acolytes to ask Pah-Ko’s advice for his own doubts, then pretend to sympathize with Pah-Ko’s …”
The others nodded.
“It might work.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open for such a one.”
“There are one or two who might do among those acolytes who see to the incense on the main altar.”
“Sound them out, then,” Haoro ordered. “We’d best get back; soon it will be time for the midnight ceremony.”
They scattered like a flock of startled crows, each taking a separate way back to the temple.
Linden lay in bed with one arm tucked behind his head, the other across the blankets pulled up to his chest. He ignored the cold night air on his bare shoulders and arms; there was too much to think about and it might help him stay awake. Beside him Maurynna breathed deep and easily, sated after their lovemaking, curled so that her back pressed against his side. He guessed she was already asleep. Which didn’t help him; he wanted nothing more than to fit himself around the curve of her warm body and drift away. But now he needed to think.
He blinked and yawned. Damn; something Taren said tonight was bothering him. But he couldn’t put a finger on just what, and now he was growing too sleepy to chase it down. But it was something important, very impor …
… He was in the great hall at Dragonskeep. Nothing strange in that, but standing beside him was his sister’s husband, Fisher. Although one part of his mind told Linden that Fisher had died centuries before, it seemed right that his brother-in-law was here.
“Shall we go hunting today?” Fisher asked. “I’ve some fine new ferrets that will do well after rabbits, I’m thinking.” He patted the reed basket slung from one shoulder and grinned. From inside came an eager scratching and chuckling.
Linden grinned in return. If there was one thing Fisher was always ready to do, it was hunt with his ferrets. Linden wondered if Fisher’s well-known fondness for rabbit stew was the result of ferreting or the cause of it.
“Let’s,” he said. “There’s a warren in the apple orchard that’s been after the young trees. I’ll warn you, though, it’s a fair walk.”
But when they passed the gate of Dragonskeep they found themselves in that orchard. Yet, with the logic of dreams, Linden was not surprised. Things were as they should be. Fisher set the ferrets’ basket on the ground.
“Be ready, Linden,” Fisher warned. “We’ll have to herd the lot of ’em into the rabbit holes.”
Before Linden could ask him what he meant—surely the basket could hold no more than one or two ferrets, and where were the nets for the rabbit holes, anyway?—Fisher threw back the lid and pushed the basket over. Ferrets poured out and raced about, leaping and dancing. The breathy, staccato ah-ah-ah “laugh” of excited ferrets filled the air. Already there were far more than the basket could have possibly held, and still the slinky animals bounced out.
“Quick! Quick! Herd them down the holes!”
Linden stood bewildered amid the army of sleek, leaping bodies playing around his feet. “Herd ferrets? Are you mad? There’s too many!”
“Aye!” Fisher roared in glee. “A whole business of ‘em! Better yet—an army of ’em! And there’s more.”
With that, he upended the basket and the last few ferrets tumbled out. There were six of them, all wearing little robes with magical sigils. They sat up on their hindquarters in a line before Linden, front paws crossed solemnly over their stomachs. One, a white ferret, fixed ruby red eyes on Linden and said, “We have agreed upon the best way to churn butter.” Then the white ferretmage waved a paw, and all of the cavorting ferrets were garbed in robes. The next instant, the entire business raced down the rabbit holes.
Linden could only gape in astonishment. “What the-Fisher, I don’t—
“Understand,” Linden muttered. He shook his head and pushed up onto his elbows. Darkness pressed around him. From the fireplace came the dull red glow of embers.
“Mmm?” Maurynna rolled over and slid an arm around him. After a huge yawn she asked sleepily, “Did you have a nightmare?”
Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Linden said, “No. It was a very silly dream, actually. My sister Fawn’s husband, Fisher, was in it, and hundreds of ferrets as well. And there was a ferret who was a mage—no, there were six ferrets who were dressed as mages are in children’s tales, with those foolish robes with the magical symbols on them that no self-respecting mage would wear. Then the next moment all the ferrets wore them and they ran down some rabbit holes.”
Maurynna chuckled. “That does sound silly—but fun. I wonder why you dreamed that.”
“So do—”
His mouth went dry. In his mind he was back in the great hall with Raven and Otter, hearing Raven’s tale of a captive truedragon, remembering his thoughts that day.
He suddenly understood his dream. The Jehangli had learned how to herd ferrets.
For once Linden was up before Maurynna. After dressing quietly, he left their rooms and went to the Lady’s chambers. The door opened to his knock; Sirl, the Lady’s servant, looked surprised to see him. The elderly kir bowed.
“Dragonlord,” he said, gesturing Linden to enter. “May I help you?”
“Is the Lady awake yet?” Linden asked.
Kelder Oronin, the Lady’s soultwin, appeared at the door of the inner chamber. “We’re awake, Linden, and about to break our fast. Will you join us?”
“For a mug of tea, perhaps. I want to get back before Maurynna wakes up,” Linden said as he followed Kelder into the private chambers of the ruler of Dragonskeep.
The Lady stood by the table. She wore a heavy robe against the chill, dark blue with green ivy vines embroidered upon it that emphasized the icy whiteness of her skin and hair. It reminded Linden of the robes the ferret-mages had worn in his dream.
“Lady,” he said. When he made to kneel to her, she stopped him with a wave of her hand. He bowed low instead. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”
The Lady’s smile was warm, if a trifle wry. “I hope nothing’s amiss, is there? Or are you come once more to argue that Maurynna be allowed to travel?”
“Not this time.” Linden returned the smile as Sirl handed him a steaming mug. “Though I do wish you would reconsider, Lady. She’s used to the freedom of the sea; to be bound to the Keep is hard for her. She’s afraid of being trapped here for the winter, I think. I hear it in her voice sometimes.”
Sympathy filled the pale eyes. “Does she know what a champion she has for her cause?”
“No, Lady.” Linden sighed and drank. “I’m afraid to raise her hopes each time I come to you lest she grow bitter with repeated disappointment. I beg you to reconsider, though.”
The Lady shook her head. “Not until she can Change, Linden. She would be too vulnerable away from here. Surely you’ve not forgotten how close the Fraternity came to destroying you and Tarlna in Casna.”
In all honesty, it was no more than the truth; Linden bowed his head in acknowledgement of that. The Cassorin regency debate had provided the ancient enemies of the Dragonlords with a rare opportunity for a magical attack on the three judges.
It had very nearly succeeded. Kas Althume, the mage who had masterminded it, had proved the equal of Ankarlyn the Mage, the greatest foe the Dragonlords had ever faced before. His murderous attack upon Tarlna Aurianne was thwarted only by the intervention of her soultwin, Kief Shaeldar.
Linden was very nearly next. Had it not been for the self-sacrifice of a former lover of his, Sherrine of Colrane, Linden knew he would have died by Kas Althume’s magic. The Fraternity had come too close to winning that skirmish in the war to destroy all Dragonlords.
Still, being a full Dragonlord had not helped him that time. It might not help Maurynna, either. But this was not the moment to argue the point. That was not what he’d come here for.
“I don’t agree, but we both know that, Lady. This morning I’m here for a different reason.” He licked his lips and prayed he was wrong. “Lady—do the truedragons know what they face in Jehanglan?”
The Lady exchanged a quick glance with her soultwin. “What do you mean?” she hedged.
“That although Taren thinks there’s no magic in Jehanglan, there is; the phoenix itself must be a creature of magic, after all. That the Jehangli priests are, in truth, mages. That being of the same religion, those priestmages all work to the same end—in effect, an army of mages.”
“So you’ve unraveled that knot as well, have you? Yes, Linden, they know. And went anyway, knowing full well what they may face. They couldn’t leave whichever dragon it is in torment.”
Linden groaned. “May the gods help them.”
“With all their might,” the Lady replied, her words heavy with foreboding. “I fear the truedragons will need it.”
Fourteen
*We will rest here,* said Morlen. *Scatter in small bands so that we will not be too much of a burden for this land.*
The Assantikkan wilderness called the Samarrakh was vast, but it was not a rich land, Morlen knew. Did they all congregate in the same area, both dragons and land would suffer. There would not be enough large game to feed the dragons well, and what there was would be decimated.
*It will take us time to regroup,* one of the younger hotheads objected. *And that is time wasted. Let us go on to Jehanglan!*
Morlen fixed the culprit with a glare. *I lead, Nalarae, not thee, and I say that we will rest, for we need it. We have come far. Yes, it will take time for all to return here. I deem it a necessary setback. Or would thee have us come to Jehanglan too weary for whatever might face us?*
Nalarae grumbled, but gave in. He flew off, a small group of his friends with him. Others did the same; soon only a few dragons were left.
Talassaene said, *Rest thee here, grandsire. Galinis and I will hunt for thee.*
Morlen, grateful for the chance to rest his tired wings, nodded and sank to the hard, bare earth. I am too old for this, he thought, as are too many others. But we have lived good, long lives; it is the young ones who break my heart. How many of us will never see our mountains again?
The frenzied beating of tiny wings against the thin bamboo bars of the cage woke Pah-Ko. He blinked in confusion at the frantic sounds. The finches squawked madly as they threw themselves at the bars again and again.
“Earthquake?” Pah-Ko wondered sleepily.
“Ahhhhh. Ahhhhhh!” The strangled noises came from the other room.
Pah-Ko threw the covers back. Hodai! The boy was in the throes of a prophesy!
The nira lurched to his feet. Now the tables were turned; now he was servant to the slave. Pah-Ko snatched up the bowl and bottle of ink that always rested by the little shrine to the Phoenix and carried them into the other room.
The pallet bed on the floor was empty. The boy stood stark naked in the middle of the room, the first rays of sunlight bathing his body, his dark eyes huge but seeing nothing. His mouth worked; the grunts that emerged became clearer. Pah-Ko could almost hear words in them.
Pah-Ko set the bowl down by the finches’ cage. He fumbled at the stopper of the bottle of ink, got it free and filled the bowl. Then he went to Hodai and, resting his hands gently on the boy’s shoulders, guided him to the table and tilted the boy’s head so that the vacant eyes looked into the ink. He knelt by the boy’s side, looking up into those empty eyes, praying he’d been in time.
The eyes focused; Pah-Ko silently blessed the Phoenix. Hodai stared at the bowl of ink as if he saw the secrets of the heavens inscribed there. His mouth worked; the words fought to come out.
Then the voice of the Phoenix belled out from the young Oracle’s lips like a song, wild and clear and free.
“Dragons,” it sang. “Dragons flying swiftly to Jehanglan. They would bring death to the Phoenix.”
Pah-Ko’s soul froze within him. He wanted the Phoenix free, not dead! “How long do we have?”
Hodai’s face worked. “Dawn two days hence.”
The golden voice slid away in a whisper on the last word. Pah-Ko knew the prophecy was over.
With a sureness of movement that belied his pain-twisted limbs, the priest stood up and caught up the robe at the foot of the sleeping pallet. He tossed it over the naked boy; the chill of dawn was still in the air. Then he strode to the door like a much younger man, calling to the temple soldier standing guard outside.
There was much to be done and little time to do it.
Maurynna was busy writing a letter to her cousin Maylin, so Linden went wandering. He came across Lleld on her way to the great hall. Having nothing better to do, he fell into step beside her.
“Hello, lit—” She broke off with a wry gnn.
“Hah—can’t call me that any more, can you?” Linden teased. During the more than six hundred years he’d been the youngest Dragonlord, tiny Lleld had delighted in calling him by the traditional nickname.
“Hmph,” she snorted. Then, cheerful again, “Ah, well—at least Maurynna’s still taller than I am.”
“Not hard, imp.” Linden jumped back from a quick little fist and followed Lleld into the hall.
“Hunh,” Lleld said thoughtfully, nodding at the far end of the hall. “Something amiss, you think?”
Linden glanced over. There, sitting by the hearth, was Otter. The bard wore a thoughtful frown.
“You look perplexed,” Linden said as they joined Otter by the hearth, sitting on the opposite bench. “Can’t think of a rhyme?”
“I’m not rhyming,” said Otter, “but perplexed I am. Do you remember Leet?”
“Leet?” Lleld asked. She snapped her fingers. “Ah! Would that be the other bard who was in the library that night?”
“The same.”
“A, um, friend of yours?” Lleld asked delicately.
Otter smiled wryly. “Ah—no. Long ago he was one of my rivals for Jaida, another bard. When she chose me, Leet took it hard. And when Jaida died in childbed, he blamed me, of course.”
The look in Otter’s eyes said that Leet was not the only one. “Jaida was such a little thing; we knew it was foolish to try, but she wanted children. So,” Otter admitted, “did I.”
Linden knew that desire; had known it for some six hundred years. And knew that, as Dragonlords, it was unlikely that he and Maurynna would ever have children. Their kind did not breed easily.
Likely just as well, he told himself. Else, with our lifespans, the world would be awash in Dragonlord get. Still, it hurt.
He said, “I never felt comfortable asking, but … You never wed again. Wasn’t there ever—”
“No,” Otter said. His voice was tight. “No. I started traveling again then, and that’s no life to build a family on.”
Linden didn’t argue. Instead he thought of the times Otter had journeyed to Thalnia, remembered how the bard yearned to go more often, and now understood why. For in Thalnia were two children that took the place of the child who had died with Jaida. Maurynna still spoke fondly of sitting before a fireplace with Raven, listening to Otter’s tales.
After a while, Otter went on, “I can’t say Leet and I are enemies anymore, but I can’t say we’re friends, either. Indeed, I think he’s always avoided Dragonskeep before because he knows I come here often. That’s why it was so odd seeing him in the library. But odder yet was what he was reading.”
Lleld sat up straighter. “Oh? Wasn’t he investigating collections of ballads or something like?”
“No.” Otter tugged his beard; the perplexed look was back. “I thought the same, but it wasn’t. I went to visit him in his room a little while ago. We may not be friends, but we’re both bards. We should exchange whatever news we have. But the servants told me he left very early this morning. Then, I don’t know why, I thought to see what ballads he’d been studying; professional curiosity, I guess.”
“Of course,” Linden mu
rmured.
Otter flashed him a look, then laughed and spread his hands, acknowledging defeat. “Very well, then. It was curiosity plain and simple. Jenna found the books Leet had read during his stay, and we looked through them. They’re rather gruesome.”
Linden raised his eyebrows. That was unexpected. “Indeed?”
“A Lord Culwen of Cassori had an unappealing interest in blood magic, hauntings, murderers, and the like; he hunted out the old stories and wrote them down. Gruesome reading, as I said, if you can work your way through all his blatherings to the stories themselves. Somehow his books ended up here.”
Otter twitched as if with a sudden chill. “You know the kind of tales I mean—the ghost wolf of Lachlan forest, Grey Carra, the Creeping Hand—all those ‘scare small children into nightmares’ kinds of tales. Culwen seemed especially fond of the stories about Gull the Blood Drinker.”
“I wish he’d been only a story,” Lleld muttered.
“He was no myth, Otter,” Linden said to Otter’s suprised look. “The man existed and truly did murder all those people. I remember hearing about it when they caught him; it was only about two hundred years or so ago.”
Otter shuddered. “He really drank blood to keep himself young? Oh, gods, that’s sickening.”
“Indeed. Worse yet, the man enjoyed torturing and killing those people.” Linden rubbed his chin. “Well and well—let’s hope that witch spruce they planted over his grave still keeps his soul pinned down. Thing should be huge by now if those trees really do feed on evil as the stories say.”
“But why would this Leet be reading about such things? To write a song about one of the tales?” Lleld asked.
“Not he,” Otter said. “Something like that would be beneath him. Tales of valiant kings and beautiful queens, heroes in battle, or star-crossed young lovers—royal young lovers—are more his style. A pity he never spoke with Taren, if Culwen’s work was the kind of thing he liked.”
“What do you mean?” Linden asked.
Dragon and Phoenix Page 16