Dragon and Phoenix

by Joanne Bertin

  She nodded, unable to speak; gods knew when she’d see these dear people again. Or even if she ever would. Linden handed Rann back to Tyrian and caught her hand in his.

  Somehow she got up the gangplank without shedding the hot tears that were suddenly filling her eyes. Then came the familiar ritual of casting off. Though this time she had no part in it, it comforted her, with its very familiarity. She stood at the railing with the others, waving to those left behind until she could see them no more. One by one her fellow travelers left until she stood alone.

  She did not leave the aft rail until darkness fell and Linden came for her. She woke then, as if from a dream, to the wild, briny scent of the ocean, the endless song of the waves.

  Somehow it was no longer enough.

  Magic … . Magic upon the water … .

  The thought wove itself through the old dragon’s dreams like a broken bit of river weed tumbling along a current. And like a bit of weed, it slipped through his grasp when he tried to snatch at it.

  But it had been there. He knew it; in this slumber so deep it was like a little death. This water he slept in brought him tidings from waters far away, for, in the beginning and the end, all waters were one.

  There would be more.

  They were in luck. Late in the sailing season as it was, Maurynna had fully expected that they would encounter at least one early winter storm in their passage. But the gods seemed to smile upon their journey. For the weather was as mild and calm as even Otter could wish for, and the trip an easy one with a good wind following them, speeding them on their way.

  The only ones who “complained” were the Llysanyins stuck below deck. Not because they were ill, thank all the gods—Maurynna couldn’t think of anything worse than being seasick and unable to vomit, a thing no horse could do—but because they could not enjoy the sun and air on deck as their two-foots did. Maurynna was glad Linden had thought to ask for a store of apples for the trip; there was much to be said for bribery, she decided one day, as she groomed a contentedly munching Boreal.

  The voyage was a bittersweet thing for her. True, she was at sea again. True, Linden was with her. And with them were some of the people she cared for most in this world.

  But this was not her ship. And ahead lay separation from her soultwin. She made herself forget that. These days were a gift, a pleasant dream, something caught out of time that she treasured moment to moment.

  Yet, be they waking or sleeping, all dreams must end. This one did the day the docks of Port Stormhaven came into view. By courtesy of the captain, the Dragonlords and their companions stood on the quarterdeck with him and the steersman.

  Stormhaven was as beautiful as ever, Maurynna thought. The sight of the golden city glowing in the afternoon sunlight made her eyes burn. Rank after rank of buildings fanned out from the harbor in a semicircle, marching up the side of the limestone cliffs that formed the northernmost part of the great Thalnian plateau, cradling the blue water at their feet.

  “It’s beautiful,” Linden said. “I can see why you missed it.”

  She nodded, unable to speak for the sudden wave of homesickness that took her. She had been so afraid she would never see this again—or else come too late to see her family. Would she, her mind asked, see echoes of faces she knew now in children born centuries hence?

  Thank the gods I could come here while everyone I know is still alive.

  It was hard to stand aside as they came in to dock. Maurynna had to bite her tongue so as not to usurp Captain Hollens’s proper place. Not that he did anything wrong, it was just that there were so many little things that she would have ordered differently.

  But at last they were alongside the Erdon family’s own docks, the sailors leaping ashore to make fast the lines of the Swan’s Heart. The dockhands converged on the ship like bees to honey. More than one looked in some alarm at the band of cutthroats manning her.

  One moment Maurynna stood with the others in the middle of the deck; then, somehow, she was at the rail, leaning dangerously far out, hoping to see a familiar face on the crowded dock.

  There! Maurynna waved frantically. “Keronis,” she called and waved again. “Keronis!”

  Keronis looked up. He shaded his eyes and searched to see who had called him. His face lit at the sight of her and he waved excitedly. But then, to Maurynna’s surprise, his expression changed; her cousin turned and ran to the main warehouse that housed the dockside office.

  “What?” she murmured, confused.

  “Who was that?” Linden asked.

  “One of my far too many cousins here that I told you about,” she said, trying not to let her uneasiness show.

  She waited in an agony of apprehension as sailors and workers made fast the ship. Was she in that bad odor with the family that Keronis would turn tail and run as if suddenly finding himself nose-to-nose with a leper? Didn’t they understand that she had had no choice but to abandon her ship? Surely her old first mate had explained things to them!

  The moment the sailors ran out the gangplank, Maurynna swarmed down the ladder leading from the quarterdeck, leaving Linden behind. He sprang after her with an exclamation of surprise.

  But Maurynna was already across the lower deck and halfway down the gangplank. Her heart thudded against her ribs; it was hard to breathe. The next moment her foot trod Thalnian soil once more. Come what may, she was home again. Tears stung her eyes.

  And now she saw more familiar faces among the workers. She smiled at them, but it died as they moved back, eyes wide, clearing an area around her and the others who had joined her. As if by magic, an avenue opened up between ship and main warehouse. Hurrying down it were her Uncle Kesselandt and various aunts, uncles, and cousins, their faces white and agitated.

  Maurynna stared in bewilderment and growing fear; she had never seen Kesselandt like this. Not even an angry king could shake the Head of House Erdon’s composure—as she had seen on one heart-stopping occasion.

  But her proud uncle, now ashen-faced and sweating, stopped before her. His gaze darted over her, roved among the others she felt against her back; “Your Grace,” he said. Once again his gaze settled upon her though he would not meet her eyes. He licked his lips nervously. “Your Grace,” he said, and began stiffly to kneel upon one knee before her. The other Erdons and the workers followed suit.

  “No,” she whispered. Now the tears threatened to spill over.

  Behind her she heard Otter growl, “Kesselandt, you ass! Don’t.”

  Before a single knee came to rest upon the planks of the dock, a jeering voice rang out. “You call that bargaining, what you did for your last trip, dear coz? The price you paid for that lamp oil! Pathetic!” Breslin said as he swaggered along in the other Erdons’ wake. “Maybe it’s just as well you’ve given up trading.”

  White-hot anger burned the tears away. “Oh, indeed?” Maurynna yelled, dodging around her uncle and advancing on her least-favorite cousin as her family scattered before her. “I suppose you think you could have done better? Have you any idea how many merchants were in Casna at that time? Those wretches at the Cassorin lamp oil guild had so many people desperate for a cargo, any cargo, that they could charge whatever they wanted!”

  Breslin smiled blandly into the teeth of her wrath. “Then you should have waited,” he said, “as I did. Came in just after all the foolishness in Cassori was over and damn well robbed those idiots who’d held off selling. What were they thinking—that a market like that would go on forever? Idiots. Downright grateful to me, they were, for taking the stuff off their hands.”

  He looked past her to Linden, whom she felt standing at her back, dismissing her as he’d always done. “Linden Rathan, I presume?” Breslin said politely, one supercilious eyebrow raised, and bowed. “Welcome to the Erdon compound, Dragonlord.” His puzzled gaze lingered on Taren, Lleld and Jekkanadar, not certain what to make of them. He regally inclined his head, then nodded to Otter and sniffed affectedly at Raven.

  Raven returned t
he compliment.

  Years of humiliation at Breslin’s hands came to a boiling point. “Why, you …” Maurynna snarled, her hands itching to wrap themselves around his throat. “I suppose you think getting a good deal on a few barrels of lamp oil makes up for running the Fortune’s Child on a sandbar, don’t you? I told you that bar had shifted, but you knew better, didn’t you?”

  “You did what, Breslin?” Raven called from behind her. “I hadn’t heard about that one.”

  That shattered Breslin’s aloof pose. “You shut up!” he yelled back, beefy fists raised. “Stay out of this!”

  Raven laughed.

  From the corner of her eye Maurynna saw Linden come up beside her; ready, no doubt, to protect her should Breslin throw a punch. Annoyed, Maurynna pushed him back, hardly noticing the shocked gasps around her. “Oh, no, you don’t. You stay out of this, too.” For the first time she had the strength to defend herself against her biggest, brawniest—and most detested—cousin. She’d give the bully the drubbing of his life. Her own fists came up—

  Only to drop at a familiar bellow. “Children! Stop that!”

  Silence fell over the crowd. Maurynna dared a glance over her shoulder. She caught sight of Kesselandt bearing down on them. Otter and Raven were laughing like madmen, blast them, as they explained to the bewildered Dragonlords and Taren what was going on.

  Uncle Kesselandt sputtered like a teakettle about to boil over. Ordinarily the sight of him, face dark red with anger, would have terrified her. Now it just felt like home.

  But he ruined it when he stopped, clapped a hand to his mouth, and then quavered, “Dragonlord, I—I’m sorry. I should not have spoken to you—”

  Please, she wanted to beg, don’t make me feel like a stranger, as if I don’t belong here as well. But she saw in Kesselandt’s eyes and the eyes of the aunts and uncles and cousins behind him that it would never be the same again.

  “Uncle,” was all she said. “I’m still me. Truly I am.” It was no good. They looked, she imagined, like sparrows who’d returned to their little nest only to find one of their eggs had hatched an eaglet. “I’m still Rynna,” she faltered, defeated by their frightened eyes.

  “Pity,” Breslin drawled.

  Kesselandt turned on him in indignation.

  She fumed. Trust Breslin to remain the same: a large pain in the ass. She glowered at him.

  He winked. Before she could say anything—her astonishment nearly choked her—the superior look was back in place. Breslin turned on his heel and walked away amid incredulous murmurs.

  But he had served his purpose. Kesselandt was too furious at him to remember to bow and scrape before her—for the moment at least. Her uncle went after Breslin, still sputtering in anger.

  Once the family had gotten over the shock of their runaway returning with fellow Dragonlords in tow, Maurynna’s kinfolk had rallied well—even if a few still looked somewhat poleaxed, Linden thought.

  After a hasty consultation with Kesselandt and the senior aunts, uncles, and elder cousins in port, Maurynna came back to where the rest of the troupe (save Raven, who’d left with her) waited in Kesselandt’s office in the main warehouse.

  Linden made room for her on the edge of the desk. She sat down beside him. There were signs of strain around her eyes.

  “Where’s Raven?” Otter asked.

  Maurynna said, “For his sins, Breslin was set the task of overseeing the unloading of the horses. Raven went to … supervise him.” Her face was the very image of innocence.

  Otter snorted. “Needle him, you mean. Not that Breslin doesn’t deserve it a hundred times over.”

  “Just so. Anyhow, messengers have been sent off and a Mousehole is being made ready for us,” Maurynna reported. “We can move in tomorrow. Tonight we’ll stay elsewhere.”

  “A what?” Lleld asked. She shook her head as if uncertain she’d heard correctly.

  Linden wasn’t certain he had, either. A mousehole? They were to guest in a … mousehole? No; there must be something wrong with his ears. He looked over to Otter. The bard just shrugged his shoulders and nodded, grinning.

  “A Mousehole,” Maurynna repeated. “It’s what the guesthouses in a House’s compound are called. I’ve no idea why; they just are.”

  “Mousehole,” Jekkanadar echoed softly. His brow furrowed and he looked thoughtful.

  “How odd,” Lleld said. “I’ve never stayed in a mousehole before.” She looked as bemused as Linden had ever seen her.

  Points to you, love, he told Maurynna. For once it’s Lleld who’s baffled.

  “And I’ll warn you now,” Maurynna said, hiding a smile. “They’re planning a welcoming feast tonight. Luckily, on such short notice it will be rather small—for an Erdon affair. That will be in the Great House.”

  “And that is?” prompted Lleld.

  Maurynna answered, “The biggest dwelling in a House’s compound. There’s almost always one large house—often an estate on its own—where the Head lives.”

  The conversation shifted as Lleld demanded more about the way the great merchant families of Thalnia lived. “What are the compounds? It sounds very military.”

  “Not at all,” Maurynna said. “Or at least, not any more. They started during the Interregnum, the Years of Chaos, as houses and warehouses were built behind palisades where the the biggest and most powerful merchant families—the Houses—and their hired mercenaries lived and guarded the merchandise from attacks. It was a grim time.

  “Since then, the compounds have grown beyond their original walls. Each House owns land in its home city. Most is bought, some ceded by royal grant. On that land are the Great House and the Mouseholes, and a number of smaller but very fancy homes for the senior members and their immediate families, plus some more modest dwellings for the married juniors. The homes are usually close by each other, and the whole area is known as that family’s compound even if there are no longer walls setting it off from the rest of the city. Everything is owned by the House in common.

  “As I said, it’s the senior members of a family—those who make the decisions—or juniors with families, that live within its compound. If we’re not given houseroom by a senior, we unmarried juniors must find lodging where we can, often sharing a couple of rooms with two or three others. I was lucky. Since I was the only female among the younger cousins, I had a garret room to myself in my Aunt Maleid’s house.” Maurynna paused. “It was very small, stifling in the summer and freezing in the winter, but it was mine.”

  And then I got my own ship … . She didn’t say it aloud but the unspoken words hung in the air. Her expression grew dour.

  Linden drew breath to speak, then let it out in a sigh. What could he say? She’d lost the wild freedom of the sea and was barred from the sky. He had no words to console her. Guilt pricked him. Perhaps she’d come to this pass because of him. Had First Change come upon her too soon because he’d needed her in dragon form? Was that why Kyrissaean tormented her so—being forced to awaken before the dragonsoul was ready?

  His mood was so dark that when Jekkanadar chuckled, Linden bit back angry words just in time.

  For it was plain that Jekkanadar was not laughing at him or Maurynna. “Mousehole,” he said in delight. “Who would have thought? But it makes sense, of course, don’t you think?” he appealed to them.

  Linden exchanged puzzled glances with Maurynna before looking around to find the others as much in the dark as he.

  Now Jekkanadar laughed aloud. “I’m sorry; of course you wouldn’t know. It’s just a guess, but … There’s an archaic word in Assantikkan, so old I’d nearly forgotten it. A’mhausool. Even when I was young it was hardly used anymore.

  “A hundred years before the Wars of the Witch Kings, when justice was dealt out by the priests and priestesses of the goddess Kirakki, at each temple there was a sacred area designated as a kind of sanctuary—the a’mhausool. All disputes were brought before the priests, anything from an argument over the ownership of a pig to a bo
rder war between two nobles.

  “Anyway, built upon the a’mhausool were lodgings that any plaintiff might use no matter what their rank. Pigherder or duke, all were equal before Kirakki. One could stay in a nearby inn, of course, but there one risked a knife between the ribs. Only at the a’mhausool were you truly safe.

  “That is, until the high priest Hannakulan used his power as Kirakki’s judge on earth for personal gain. It led to the destruction of the temples and set the stage for the Wars. It was,” Jekkanadar said, “a very dark time.”

  Taren said thoughtfully, “The Zharmatians have a goddess K’rahi; she has something to do with their Seers. Another instance of ideas and words traveling between Jehanglan and Assantik, think you?”

  “Truly?” Jekkanadar said, his eyes lighting with interest. “We’ll have to discuss this further another time. But let me guess, Maurynna,” he continued. “Any guest staying in a Mousehole is sacred, yes?”

  Maurynna nodded. “Even if he were your House’s worst enemy, if the Head gives him guestright in the Mousehole, you may not harm him.” She tilted her head. “I’d always wondered why a guesthouse would be called that. But that does make sense; there are a lot of words from Assantikkan mixed in with Thalnian.” Her smile grew. “But what a silly thing for that poor word to change into.”

  “Indeed,” Jekkanadar replied. “Introduced in dignity the gods only know how long ago, only to be mangled in that peculiarly Thalnian way with words.”

  Maurynna thumbed her nose at him.

  “Mangled along with a cartload or ten from every other language I’ve ever heard,” Linden teased, tugging a lock of Maurynna’s hair, pleased that her grey mood had passed—at least for now.

  For a festive gathering conceived and launched on the spur of the moment, the Erdons did themselves proud, Linden thought.

  The Great House was one of the richest dwellings he’d ever been in; it would have done credit to a duke of the realm. Even this, the smaller of the two feasting rooms, easily could have held twice as many people as could come on such short notice.