Dragon and Phoenix

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

With thanks to:

Prologue - Midwinter • Year of the Phoenix 988 • Jehanglan

One - Year of the Phoenix 1008 • The Harem of the Imperial Palace • Jehanglan

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Epilogue

Also by

About the Author

Copyright Page

Hi, Mom—

this one’s for you!

With thanks to:

The Navajo people for their good humor and patience with a traveler in their land, and their generosity in sharing the beauty of that land with strangers.

Jennifer Lindert, who gave me crash space and hospitality while I was on the Navajo Reservation.

Dee Ardelis the Bloodthirsty Dreslough and Paul Galinis for letting me use parts of their names, real and SCAdian, for characters.

And once again—and always—the biggest thanks of all to Sam Gailey for fixing my computer every time it tried to get me, and for keeping me (more or less) sane.

Prologue

Midwinter • Year of the Phoenix 988 • Jehanglan

The old dragon stirred as something blazed like a shooting star through his dreams.

Something new. Something … unbelievable.

He drifted toward waking. In all his long life he had never known such a thing. He trembled with joy. The waters of the deep lake above him rippled, echoing his movement.

Then, like a morning mist, the thought was gone, hidden once more from him.

He sank back into sleep, to dream the centuries away.

One

Year of the Phoenix 1008 • The Harem of the Imperial Palace • Jehanglan

Lura-Sharal was dead.

Shei-Luin bowed her head as her sister’s body was carried away for burning, borne upon a litter of ebony by four burly eunuchs. A cloth of the imperial gold silk covered the girl’s slight form. What did it matter?

Lura-Sharal was dead.

Shei-Luin knew she should be proud of that mark of the emperor’s favor. But all she wanted was her elder sister back. What would she do without the wise and gentle words of Lura-Sharal guiding her?

She watched as the litter disappeared through the door. Tears streamed down her cheeks; she wanted to run screaming after it, to hurl herself upon her sister and beg Lura-Sharal to tell her it was but a jest, to hold her, to sing and dance with her once more. She yearned to run away and ride the wide open plains again as Zharmatians with Yesuin, their childhood friend.

Ah, Phoenix, if only they could all be free once more …

But now Yesuin was a hostage to the uneasy peace between his father’s tribe and the Jehangli.

And Lura-Sharal was dead.

A hand came down with jarring force upon Shei-Luin’s shoulder. She jumped, and looked up to find Lady Gei’s masklike face hovering over her.

Come, the lady said. Her voice held no sympathy. Come; the Phoenix Lord has seen you and grants you the favor of his company. For you are also of the seed of Lord Kirano; it is time to do your duty, girl. At thirteen you are old enough.

But I am n— Shei-Luin broke off. To speak the truth would be to close the path she suddenly saw open before her. Shei-Luin turned her head to hide her slip of the tongue.

The fingers on her shoulder tightened like bands of steel. Empty inside, Shei-Luin went where they led. Eyes filled with jealousy and hatred followed her as she went deeper into the perfumed sanctum of the harem to be made ready.

And afterward …

She bowed her head. But only for an instant; she would not shrink from her fate or from Xiane Ma Jhi, Phoenix Lord of the Skies. For she knew a thing that no one else alive now remembered.

She stared straight ahead, her eyes dry now.

Two

Dragonlords—those who are both human and dragon. They come to Jehanglan. They will bring war to the Phoenix.

So said the rogue Oracle. And the words of an Oracle were truth.

But now his Oracle was dead. She would never See for him again.

Lord Jhanun pondered the prophecy once again. Had he known the girl had a weak heart, he would not have ordered that she be given such a large dose of the forbidden drugs. But her words had been so tantalizing …

His fingers smoothed the piece of red paper on the desk, discovering its texture, gauging its precise weight. Each piece of sh’jin paper was subtly different. A true disciple revered such individuality.

He made the first fold. This is a true thing, these— he hesitated over the uncouth foreign word—Dragonlords? He glanced at the man who knelt a few paces before the desk.

It is, lord. There are a certain few, far to the north, who are born with the joined souls of dragon and human, Baisha said.

Fold, crease, fold. And these weredragons—they are able to change forms as do the weretigers that haunt the mountains? Jhanun asked.

Yes, lord. But they may change form whenever they wish, not just at the full moon.

Jhanun ran one end of his long mustache through his fingers and shuddered. Abomination! He must calm himself, else the paper would sense his disturbance. Fold, fold, a quarter turn of the sheet … The creature now beneath the mountain—it is not one of these … ?

No, lord; it is a northern dragon, else it would have Changed and escaped as a human.

I see, Jhanun said, thinking.

One alone—the Hidden One—means the end of the Phoenix. But four will give you the throne—

A pity the girl died with those words; more would have been useful. How was one more dangerous than four? he wondered. He would get no more; he must gamble with what he had. The crisp red paper hummed as he slid a thumbnail along a crease.

Jhanun said, The Phoenix must live. You will lure these unnatural creatures to the sacred realm. You know the prophecy; you know what must be done and the best way to do it.

After all, according to the prophecy, the vile creatures were coming no matter what. He would merely make certain that it would happen in the most advantageous manner—for him.

Turn, fold, crease, fold.

Baisha smiled to the precise degree allowed a favored servant to his master. The hands resting on his thighs suddenly turned palm up. They were empty. Then he pressed them together and brought them up to touch fingertips to forehead. Then he laid them palm up in his lap once more.

This time a silver coin lay in one hand.

The Jehangli lord nodded in understanding; the creatures would be tricked. You’re certain they will come? asked Jhanun.

Yes, Baisha replied. They will come, the noble fools.

So be it. He studied this, one of his three most faithful and trusted servants.

Pale skin, yellowed now, wrinkled and lined; a bald head fringed with thin white hair bleached by the powerful phoenix of the sun: A baisha, a foreigner indeed.

The Jehangli lord went on, "I raised you from slavery. I covered you with the hem of my robe though you were not one of the children of the Phoenix. I gave you what your own people denied you.

Now I give you this task. The journey will be long and hard, the task difficult. Do not fail me. A final fold, a last crease, and a paper lotus of a certain style lay before Jhanun.

It will be done, lord. I will bring you the required number of Dragonlords. Baisha rose and bowed. His eyes burned with fervor. I know what will bring them. I won’t fail you.

Stirred by such devotion, Jhanun rose from his desk and came around it. Bending slightly, he rested his fingertips on his servant’s shoulders, a mark of great favor. I know you will not fail. Now go; there’s much to be done. He let his hands drop once more to his sides.

Baisha bowed once more, backed the required three steps, then turned and strode to the door.

With a satisfied smile, Jhanun folded his hands into his wide sleeves.

It was beginning.

Shei-Luin fanned herself as she watched the tumblers with their trained dogs and monkeys performing in the open space between the two gazebos. She sat by the railing of the Lotus Gazebo in the choicest spot, as befitted her current status as favorite concubine. Her eunuch, Murohshei, stood at her left shoulder, keeping the lesser women from crowding her.

The Lotus Gazebo and its companion, the Gazebo of the Three Golden Irises, stood in the heart of the Garden of Eternal Spring. Winter never came here; the leaves of the plum and peach trees never withered from cold, the bright green of the grass never turned sere and brown. The might of the Phoenix ruled here, a gift to its royal favorite, the Phoenix Lord of the Skies. Or so said the priests who chanted here at the solstices.

To one side sat the Songbirds of the Garden. A group of boys and young eunuchs chosen for the incredible purity and beauty of their voices, their sole purpose was to sing for the emperor whenever he chose to visit the Garden. They were silent now, except for giggles as they watched the performers. They were, after all, just boys.

Shei-Luin hid a smile behind her fan as she glanced at the youngsters. Many rocked back and forth, holding their laughter in lest it disturb his august majesty in the Gazebo of the Three Golden Irises. One boy eunuch, Zyuzin, the jewel of the Garden, had both hands clapped over his mouth as he doubled over in mirth; his three-stringed zhansjen lay forgotten on the grass before him as he watched.

For one of the tumblers ran in circles, waving his arms and crying exaggerated pleas for mercy as a lop-eared, ugly, spotted dog chased him. Each time the dog jumped up and nipped at the man’s bottom, the man would grab his buttocks and leap into the air, squealing like a pig with a pinched tail.

The Songbirds giggled and pinched each other in delight.

A loud, braying laugh shattered the air. Shei-Luin winced delicately, careful that no one should see it, and looked into the opposite gazebo.

Xiane Ma Jhi hung over the railing, laughing as the ugly dog persecuted its master. He called encouragement to it, slapping the shoulder of the man standing by his side and pointing at the tumblers. The man grinned and said something in return.

Shei-Luin’s heart jumped at the sight of the second man. He was Yesuin, second son of the temur of the Zharmatians, the People of the Horse, the Tribe; Yesuin, once her childhood love and now hostage to his father’s good behavior. How she’d cried when he first came to the palace, knowing what it meant to him to lose the freedom of the plains. She’d remembered all too well what she’d felt when the walls of the imperial palace closed around her. But his misfortune had become her salvation.

Between the Phoenix Emperor and Yesuin was a certain resemblance; the concubine who had borne Xiane had been a woman of the Tribe.

Yet such a difference! Yesuin was all fire and grace; Xiane … Bah; Xiane does not bear thinking about, Shei-Luin told herself. He looks like a horse and brays like an ass.

As if he sensed her thoughts on him, Xiane looked across the lawn into the gilded structure where Shei-Luin sat with the other concubines and their eunuchs, the only males allowed there beside the emperor himself. Their eyes met. He made a great show of licking his lips and leering at her. Shei-Luin’s stomach turned; she knew that look. Unless he drank himself into oblivion, he would come to her chamber tonight.

She pretended modest confusion and hid behind her fan, gaze lowered. Later she would send Murohshei to bribe Xiane’s cupbearer into seeing that the Phoenix Lord’s wine bowl was kept full.

The other concubines tittered. Shei-Luin considered ordering them all flogged. But no; she had not the power for that yet. She must become noh, a servitor of the first rank; she must give Xiane an heir.

An heir that he could not give himself. But she had found a way; for she alone knew the ancient secret of the palace. And then …

The scene before her changed. The tumblers and their animals gave way before the female wrestlers that were Xiane’s current mania. Shei-Luin sat up straighter.

Not because she enjoyed the wrestling. Far from it. She thought these women hideous beyond belief. They were as ugly as the women soldiers who guarded the harem; big women, solid as oxen, and muscled like them, too.

But this was the fourth troop of wrestlers in the past span and a half of days, and if Xiane remained true to form … She watched the women, naked save for loin clothes and breast bands, grapple and struggle with one another, and waited as patiently as she could.

At last! Xiane stood up. A servant ran to take the robe he shrugged from his shoulders. The loose breeches beneath came off next and the emperor of Jehanglan stood clad only in his loincloth. He vaulted over the railing, calling over his shoulder, Let’s have some fun!

Laughing, the other young men in the gazebo followed suit. For once they were freed of the restrictions of the imperial court, where every move was ancient ritual, every word and glance noted, debated, dissected for insult or weakness.

Only in this garden and among the troupes of entertainers that he delighted in, could the emperor of Jehanglan, Phoenix Lord of the Skies and Ruler of the Four Quarters of the Earth, relax. Shei-Luin felt a momentary pang of sympathy. The Phoenix was cruel, setting this man upon the Phoenix throne instead of making him a performer.

But that moment was lost as she watched Yesuin run lightly across the lawn to stand beside the emperor. Her heart hammered in her chest; it was a wonder that all could not hear it.

They might almost be brothers, they look so much alike standing together!

But similar as the men were in build, it was the thought of Yesuin that thrilled her. The memory of Xiane’s body on hers made her feel ill. It amazed her, how differently she could react to two men so much alike.

Neither was tall but both were well-made and athletic. Xiane’s skin was the paler, legacy of his imperial father, and smooth; Yesuin’s scarred here and there from the battles he’d fought before coming to the imperial court as hostage. Some of the courtiers cast glances of mixed admiration and disdain at the sight of the scars; when those gazes fell upon the Zharmatian’s thigh and the brown birthmark there, they were pure contempt.

So the People of the Horse don’t kill their children for every little blemish, Shei-Luin thought fiercely, dismissing those contemptuous glances with an unconscious flick of her fan. They’re not the cowards you are. They don’t fear your demons.

She watched him, and him alone, as he wrestled first with the women, then with any of the courtiers brave—or foolish—enough to challenge him. She knew what was to come.

It happened all in a heartbeat. Yesuin and Ulon, one of the courtiers, rolled across the lawn as they grappled; Yesuin caught his opponent in a choke hold. As if by chance he looked over Ulon’s head and into the Lotus Gazebo where no man’s gaze but the emperor’s might fall. Shei-Luin was ready.

She dropped the fan. Tonight, she mouthed, quick as a thought. He blinked. Then Ulon twisted, and he and Yesuin rolled away once more.

It was enough. She would be ready.

Three

As he warmed himself by the brazier at his feet, Haoro, priest of the second rank, received the messenger in the outer room of his private quarters in the Iron Temple.

Before kneeling to Haoro, the man bowed to the small image of the Phoenix that adorned one wall of the plainly furnished room. Reaching into his wide sleeve, the messenger carefully withdrew a single sheet of rice paper, folded in the form known as Eternal Lotus. A red lotus. It was exquisite. Every graceful line spoke of a master sh’jer’s touch.

So, Haoro thought as the man held out the message with both hands, careful to never let it sink below the level of his eyes, it is time.

He took the paper lotus and held it up, admiring it. His uncle had exceeded himself this time. He would have to congratulate Jhanun. With eyes only for the flower resting on his palm, Haoro tossed the man a token and intoned a brief blessing. You may refresh yourself at the inn of the pilgrims, he said negligently. You also have my leave to attend the dawn ceremony tomorrow in the inner temple if you wish. Tell the lesser priests I said so.

Joy spread over the messenger’s face. To be allowed to hear the Song without having made the full pilgrimage beforehand was a rare privilege. The man knocked his forehead against the floor three times. Thank you, gracious lord!

He crawled backward, touching his forehead to the floor now and again, until he was at the door. Then the man stood up and left.

The moment the messenger was gone, Haoro cupped the paper lotus in both hands.

By this one’s color, he knew its message as if it had been set before him in the finest calligraphy.

Be ready.

So—the time had come for the realization of the ambitions he and his uncle shared. And what, Haoro pondered, has my revered uncle devised for his part?

No matter; he would find out when his uncle made his pilgrimage to the Iron Temple. Jhanun would never set his schemes to paper; this would be for Haoro’s ears alone. Again he wondered what his uncle had planned. Whatever it was, it would be bold.

The priest looked once more at the lotus. Had the messenger guessed the import of what he’d borne? The Eternal Lotus was by custom worked only in paper of the purest white. Therefore, this one could not exist.

With a thousand regrets, Haoro let the masterpiece drift into the brazier and watched it burn.

Many spans of days after he started his journey, Baisha stood beside a crude dugout canoe on a desolate beach on the northern shore of Jehanglan. He rubbed his forehead as if he could rub away the lingering effects of the illness that had delayed him. Damn that he’d ever caught the shaking sickness! It had made him late to leave Jehanglan.

You are certain the Assantikkan ship will be leaving shortly? he said to the trembling man the temple soldiers had forced to kneel before him. Answer me or they die. He jerked his head.

They were the man’s terrified family—a wife and a babe in arms—standing behind him within a ring of more soldiers. Swords pricked the hostages’ throats.

Yes, lord, the man stammered. They never stay very long—a few hands of the sun. You must hurry. He tried to look back at his family. A soldier seized his long black hair and yanked his head around again. Tears of pain filled the man’s frightened eyes.

It mattered not to Baisha. He looked over to the priest from the Iron Temple. Did your master give you what I need?

The priest nodded and reached within his robes. When he brought out his hand again, a crystal globe filled it. Inside floated a golden image of the Phoenix. The captive whimpered at the sight of it.

Baisha took it and hid it away inside the ragged and salt-stained robes he had donned a little while ago. The rest?

Once more the priest reached into his robes. This time he brought forth a jar of ointment. Smear this upon your face and hands, and all other exposed flesh. It will redden and irritate the skin so that you’ll look as if you’ve spent days drifting in the boat. Remember to smear some upon your lips, as well; they must be swollen and cracked as if from lack of water.

Grimacing, Baisha took the jar and removed the oiled paper lid. So he must look as wretched as he felt. With a sigh, he scooped some ointment out and smeared it on his bare arm. The priest signaled the acolytes who flanked him to aid.

Soon Baisha was ready. He stepped into the dugout; two soldiers ran to catch the sides and push it out to sea. Baisha picked up the single paddle and set to work, cursing under his breath. The damned ointment was doing its work quickly and too well.

The priest called out, What about these cattle?

Baisha barely glanced over his shoulder. Kill them, of course. We want no witnesses.

He ignored the anguished screams behind him and bent to his work.

Four

To rule the heart of the Phoenix Lord—that was power. Yet what was power if one lived confined? Though the bars of the cage were of carved jade, banded with gold and hung with silk, they were still bars.

Shei-Luin noh Jhi turned from the screened window. Her silk-shod feet padded softly against the floor as she went once more to read the message on the desk.

Such an insignificant bit of paper; the merest strip that would fit around the leg of a fast messenger pigeon. But all the world hung in its words.

The emperor is dying. Come at once-Jhanun.

Shei-Luin studied it, tracing the words with a long, polished fingernail. Her finger paused over the signature: Jhanun. Just that. No title, no seal, not even an informal thumb print.

Were I as stupid as you hoped, Jhanun, it would have worked. And you would have wrung your hands over my death, vowed vengeance against whoever used your name, and grinned like the dog you are in private.

She could well believe Xiane claimed he was dying; that did not surprise her. A stomach ache from green mangoes and Xiane Ma Jhi, august emperor of the Four Quarters of the Earth and Phoenix Lord of the Skies, squalled that he was poisoned.

She’d seen it too often to be frightened anymore.

But whether Xiane were dying or not, it would mean her death to approach him before her time of purification from childbirth was over. Which was exactly what Jhanun wanted. He had lost much of his former influence over the Phoenix Emperor since Xiane had become enthralled with her.

Was Jhanun mad that he thought she would obey—or did he think her a fool? No matter. He would learn. She was not to be taken by such ploys. Fool he was, to place such a weapon in her hands; if Xiane saw this, Jhanun would not escape banishment a second time. She would keep this safe to use one day if necessary.

But that the emperor’s former chancellor thought to order her as though she were still a simple concubine—that was arrogance.

And arrogance was not something she need tolerate. Not even from one as powerful as Jhanun nohsa Jhi—Jhanun, second rank servitor of the Jhi. Not when she herself was noh, first rank. Not when she was the mother of the Phoenix Lord’s only heir, born just three weeks ago.

A cloud of black hair spilled over her shoulder as she bowed her head at a sudden thought. Her hand clenched on the fan beside the note.

Was all well with her son? Xahnu was with his retinue in the foothills of the Khorushin Mountains, sent there to avoid the lowland fevers that carried off so many children every hot season. He should be safe. Even those as ambitious as Jhanun or the faction he headed would never dare harm the emperor’s heir—the Phoenix would destroy them.

Even so, she wanted her baby by her side. Tears pricked at her eyes.

No! She must not be weak. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth. She must be the coldest steel—especially if the emperor were truly dying. There would be a throne to seize did that come to pass. A throne that Shei-Luin already had ambitions for.

And Jhanun must be taught a lesson. That he thought to fool her by so transparent a trick angered her. He must be removed from the game that was the imperial court. Without him the Four Tigers would be masterless, scuttling in every direction and none, like a centipede with its head chopped off. They would cease their endless attempts to manipulate the weak-willed emperor. More importantly it would end their attempts to depose her.

Murohshei! she called. Her voice rang in the airy pavilion like a bell. At once she was answered by the slap of bare feet against the polished wood floors of the hall as her eunuch obeyed the summons.

Murohshei—slave of Shei. Idly she wondered if even he remembered what name he had carried long ago, before being given to the then-child Shei-Luin for her own.

The eunuch entered the room. He fell to his knees before her, forehead pressed to the floor. She stood silent a moment, pale hands clasped before her, holding the fan of intricately carved sandalwood and painted silk like a dagger.

Murohshei. Her voice was clear and sweet.

The eunuch looked up at her.

Murohshei, I desire the head of Jhanun.

Favored of the Phoenix Lord, Flower of the West, Murohshei said. It shall be done. However long it takes, it shall be done. He touched his forehead to the teak floor once more.

Shei-Luin smiled. She imagined Jhanun’s head on a pike outside her window. It would look very well indeed.

Then, as it had done all too often of late, the earth trembled violently. Shei-Luin staggered, would have fallen had not Murohshei sprung to her aid.

The Phoenix was angry once again.

Five

The dragon flew rapidly to the north, urgency in the rapid beating of its wings. Soon it dwindled to little more than a speck in the brightening sky.

Maurynna paused in the doorway to the balcony, wondering which Dragonlord was abroad so early and with such pressing need. She knew it for one of her kind and no truedragon; whoever it was, he—or she—was much smaller than her soultwin Linden’s dragon form. And even he, she’d been told, was no match for a truedragon.

She finished wrapping the light robe around herself and continued into the new day, considering what this early-morning flight might mean.

She’d caught only a glimpse, just enough to tell her that the dragon was dark, either black or brown. Jekkanadar or Sulae, perhaps? She knew they were both black in dragon form; but then so were a few others. If brown, well, there were too many it might be to hazard a guess. Maurynna pursed her lips in frustration. She was too new at Dragonskeep to know her fellow Dragonlords by sight in both of their forms.

Ah, well; no doubt she would find out eventually. She would put it from her mind and enjoy the early morning. It had always been her favorite part of the day.

The thought brought back a memory of the sea and the feel of her ship beneath her feet; she pushed it away and concentrated on what was before her. This was her life now.

The mountain air was still cold with the passing night; she shivered but made no move to go back inside. Instead she marveled at the colors of the mountains as the light spread across them, reaching bright fingers across the great plateau to the Keep.

First came the grey of the mountains’ granite bones peering through their skin of earth. Then, as the growing light flowed down the mountainsides, it revealed the pine forests standing guard between frozen peaks and living valley below, hidden now in the morning mist. Below their windswept green ring blazed the autumn leaves of maples, oaks, aspens, and many other trees Maurynna couldn’t name, turning the valley walls into a tapestry of frozen fire that inched downward day by day.

Autumn in Thalnia, her home country, never announced itself with such a fanfare of color, nor did it begin so early. Maurynna refused to think of what was to follow: snow that would bury the passes until the spring, trapping those who could not fly inside Dragonskeep. She would not think of that; she would think only of the beauty before her.

Remember how you dreamed of this when you were a child listening to Otter’s tales before the fire.

How she’d dreamed, indeed—and now it was real. Joy blazed in her heart. She, Maurynna Erdon, was one of the great weredragons.

Maurynna Kyrissaean, a sleepy voice corrected in her mind. Your dragon half would not like to be neglected, the voice added with a chuckle. She’s a most opinionated lady—for all that she won’t speak to me, Rathan, or anyone else.

Maurynna made a wry face at the reminder, then concentrated; mindspeech was another thing new to her. I’m sorry. Was I shouting again? As always when she used mindspeech, she felt what she could only describe as an echo buzzing in her skull. It made her want to open her head and scratch.

Only a little; no further than me, anyway. You’re doing much better. What are you doing up so early, love?

On the heels of his words, her soultwin Linden Rathan padded out onto the balcony in his bare feet. Linden’s long blond hair was tousled, his dark grey eyes still heavy with sleep. He rubbed at them, yawning. Maurynna caught a glimpse of the wine-colored birthmark that covered his right temple and eyelid—his Marking. He wore only a pair of breeches against the chill.

Maurynna shivered at the sight and shrank into her robe.

One eyebrow went up as he smiled. Are you cold? Silly goose, did you forget you could call up a heat spell now? Come here.

She went happily into his arms, turning in them so that she could look out over the mountains once more. Sometimes there were advantages to forgetting one was a Dragonlord, she told herself smugly as she pressed her back against her soultwin’s broad chest. Linden must have called up a heat spell even before getting out of bed. Someday such things would become second nature to her, but for now she was content to stand with Linden’s chin resting on the top of her head, his arms warm around her, and gaze out at the mountains that were her new home.

Yet try as she might, she could not think of them as home. They were beautiful, yes. But they were not the refuge of her heart. She admitted it to herself: she wanted the Sea Mist back.

I’d only just become a captain, she thought sadly. It was still all bright and shiny and new.

And the thought of being trapped in the Keep for the long northern winter nearly made her scream in panic.

Though she knew it would do her as much good as beating her head against the proverbial stone wall, she had to try once more. Must we stay here? I’d like to see my family and friends in Thalnia one last time. I never had a chance to say good-bye to them.

Linden sighed and rubbed his cheek against her hair. I’m sorry, dearheart, but you know what the Lady has decreed. She’s concerned because you can’t Change; she feels it’s safer for you here. Besides, there is the matter of Kyrissaean.

Ah, yes; the matter of Kyrissaean. The recalcitrant, irritating, inexplicable dragon half of her soul. Who refused to speak to any Dragonlord or even another dragonsoul, yet always lurked in the back of Maurynna’s mind. Who would not let Maurynna Change, who kept her earthbound and chained to the Keep.

Damn Kyrissaean. It would be long and long indeed before she forgave her draconic half.

Maurynna fumed. I hate being coddled. And you’re coddling me—all of you.

Yes, Linden agreed equably. Maurynna wondered if he guessed how tempted she was to kick him for it. We are; I am, he went on. It’s been far too long since there was a new Dragonlord. And I waited far too long for you, love. Bear with us.

And if you all drive me into screaming fits because you’re smothering me? Then what? But she held her tongue; the last thing she wanted to do was fight with Linden first thing in the morning. Especially not when he nibbled her neck so gently.

Eyes closed, she let her head fall back against his shoulder to make it easier for him. His hands slid upward. Oh, yes; a fight could wait at least until after breakfast.

But when, much later, they reached the great hall where the meals were served, something drove all thoughts of argument from Maurynna’s mind.

A young man stood with his back to her. As tall as Linden, though not as broad of shoulder and chest, he conferred with Tamiz, one of the kir servants. His hair glinted red-gold in the late morning sunlight that poured through the tall, narrow windows. He wore it in the Yerrin fashion, as Linden did his: shoulder length save for a long, narrow clan braid hanging from the nape of his neck and down his back. But where Linden’s braid bore the four-strand pattern of a noble and was bound with the blue, white, and green of Snow Cat clan, this man sported Marten clan’s black and green tying off the three-strand braid of a commoner.

Curly, reddish hair was common among Yerrins, and Marten a large clan. It might be anyone. Still …

Tamiz nodded, a sudden grin appearing on her short-muzzled face. She beckoned the man to follow. The set of shoulders and head was distinctive, but it was the horseman’s walk that gave him away beyond a doubt.

Raven! Maurynna gasped. Then, louder, Raven—what are you doing here? She ran across the wide floor.

Raven stopped, looked back over his shoulder; his face lit up at the sight of her. Beanpole! he cried as he caught her in a hug.

Maurynna hugged him back, forgetting that she was now much stronger than she had been as a truehuman.

Ooof! Raven wheezed in surprise.

Oh, gods, Raven—I’m sorry. I forgot, Maurynna said, laughing in delight. What was her best friend in all the world doing here?

Raven avoided her eyes. So did I, he said at last. I’m sorry, Your Gr—

Maurynna went cold. Not from Raven. Please—not from the boy she’d traded black eyes and heartfelt secrets with all her life. She couldn’t stand it.

Finish saying it, lad, and you’ll be lucky if all she does is knock you down, Linden said as he came up. He clapped Raven on the shoulder. Remember me? We met when you were a child. When did you arrive?

Late last night, Dragonlord. Raven bowed, then stared a moment before blurting out, But you’re not as tall as I remember, my lord.

Linden laughed. And you’re not as little as I remember. You’ll certainly not be sitting in my lap any more. Otter warned me a while ago that you’d grown. Speaking of him, isn’t your disreputable great-uncle awake yet?

I kept him up last night, Raven said with a smile.

No excuse for him—not today, Linden said. Lazy wretch. Tamiz, if Otter’s playing slugabed this fine day, tell him I said you could pour a bucket of cold water over him to rouse him. Dragonlord’s orders, in fact.

Tamiz laughed and went off. There was a wicked glint in her eye.

Oh, my—she wouldn’t, would she? Maurynna turned back to find Raven staring at her.

So it’s true, he said.

Yes. She swallowed. Why was her mouth suddenly so dry?

Linden said nothing, only shifted so that their shoulders lightly touched.

I used to tease you about your eyes, that they were a Marking because they were two different colors, Raven said. His voice was flat and tight. I never thought I was right. A long silence, then, You won’t ever come home again, will you?

There was pain in the words, and resentment. But what hurt most were the unshed tears she heard. He shifted his gaze to Linden. A long look passed between them.

Ah, said Linden at last. In her mind he said, I think there was more on Raven’s side than just friendship, love. You two had best talk. Take him to an out of the way corner; I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.

Confused, Maurynna said, What do you mean, ‘more than—’

Talk to him, Maurynna.

And Linden left them alone. Maurynna studied Raven; it was like facing a stranger. This way; we can talk over here. She hoped she didn’t sound as lost and lonely as she felt.

He followed her without speaking. She led him past the Dragonlords and visitors dining at the tables to one of the little alcoves that opened off the great hall. Cushioned benches lined the walls, a cozy place for friendly confidences. It seemed a mockery. She took a seat; Raven hesitated as if unsure whether he should sit in the presence of a Dragonlord.

Maurynna glared at him. He sat. Not as close as he once would have, but not as far away as she had feared.

A stiff silence hung over them for too many long, awkward moments. Then Raven asked again, Will you ever come back?

Maurynna bit her lip. They’ll have to let me go sometime—I hope.

Raven started in surprise. They’re keeping you here against your will? She shrugged. How to explain this? And should she? She knew that Dragonlords kept secrets from truehumans lest those few against the weredragons find a weakness to exploit.

But this was Raven. She made her decision and damn anyone who disagreed. Not quite. The Lady says it’s for my own safety. The Lady would likely also say I shouldn’t tell you, but … I—I can’t Change at will. Something … happened the first time. It was agony and it’s not supposed to be. Now Kyrissaean, my dragon half, won’t let me become a dragon. She stops me whenever I try. Did you hear what happened in Cassori a few months ago, the regency debate?

Raven nodded. "Yes, we got the news when the Sea Mist came home to Stormhaven. How the Dragonlords had been called in as judges, how you’d gone to trade there and that you’d become— His voice nearly broke. A moment later he went on, I heard it from Master Remon himself."

The breath caught in Maurynna’s chest at the mention of Remon, her former first mate. She wondered what he’d thought when the Cassorin ship caught up to him with its astonishing news. Never mind that; what had the poor man thought when he’d discovered she was missing from the Sea Mist? She tried to imagine how Remon had felt those months ago, when he’d walked into her cabin only to find it empty, the open window bearing silent witness to his captain’s disappearance.

Raven continued, Great-uncle Otter told me more last night; that’s why we were up late. But he didn’t tell me everything; he said some was your tale to tell me if you wished.

It was a moment before she could say, "We didn’t discover the problem, you see, while we stayed in Casna. Then, because Linden’s Llysanyin stallion, Shan, had escaped from Dragonskeep and made his way to the city looking for Linden, we decided to ride back. It seemed the best thing. Shan made it plain he wouldn’t tolerate another rider and Linden was afraid I’d overreached myself on my first flight. The other two Dragonlords who had served as judges with Linden, Kief Shaeldar and Tarlna Aurianne, agreed. They flew home the day we set out.

All seemed well, but one day on the journey Linden wanted to show me something from the air. It was to be a short flight, nothing difficult—and that’s when it happened. I couldn’t Change again.

Maurynna swallowed against the memory; even remembering that pain made her queasy. "Not that time, not the other few times I’ve had the courage to try. It’s never happened before in anyone’s memory, and there’s no mention of such a thing in any of the records. Both the Lady of Dragonskeep and her soultwin Kelder, as well as the two archivists, Jenna and Lukai, all of the kir recorders, Linden and I have spent candlemarks searching them. I keep hoping there’s an answer … ."

I’m sorry for that, Raven said. Truly sorry. Then, You and … Linden Rathan …

The pain was back in his voice. Maurynna suddenly understood. Raven—did you … did you think that we would … ?

He turned bright red. Um, ah—yes. I did. We got along so well, you see. And we always made up after a fight. We wouldn’t have to get used to another person’s ways, either of us.

"Raven, you don’t really consider that a good reason to get married, do you?" The thought boggled her. She had certainly never felt that way.

Raven said, It’s better than some.

She had to admit that he was right; indeed, it was a better reason than many she’d heard.

But it still wasn’t enough.

It seemed so simple. We’ve always been comfortable together, he finished plaintively.

If she’d had something to hand, she would have thrown it. Marry her because she was comfortable, like a pair of old boots? Because it was the easy way out? She considered hitting him but remembered her new strength in time. What!

From the corner of her eye she could see heads turning to look. She didn’t care. Oh, for—! Raven, yes, I love you, you idiot, but as a friend. She relented at the hurt in his eyes. More gently she said, Don’t you see? We would never have had a chance. Even if we had married, I would’ve had to leave you once I’d Changed the first time. Try to understand; I don’t just love Linden. He’s part of me—literally. That’s what being a soultwin means. I would have had to go to him no matter what.

He nodded. His voice shook when he spoke. I’m trying … to, to understand. I do here, he touched his forehead. He continued, But I’m having trouble here, and laid a hand over his heart. I’d always thought we’d marry, then go to my aunt in Yerrih. You know she wants me to help her raise and train her horses.

The words shocked Maurynna. Not his plans; she’d known about his plans for years. But she’d never known of his plans for her.

Feeling the walls of the Keep closing in, she got slowly to her feet. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air to breathe. You thought I would give up the sea so easily? That I could?

She couldn’t believe it. Raven of all people should know what having her own ship meant to her. He had dreams as well. Hang it all! Don’t any of you understand?

Maurynna bolted from the alcove and out of the great hall. Through the halls of the great Keep she ran, ignoring those who called to her, running like a deer from the hounds, running from those who wanted to bury her alive.

It was silly and childish—she knew that. But neither could she sit still any longer. She’d suffocate.

One of the postern doors was open to the fresh morning air. Maurynna went through it like a bolt of lightning looking for a target.

She didn’t stop until she reached the paddocks behind the Llysanyins’ stable. A leap that she wouldn’t have even considered trying a few short months ago carried her over the fence to her Llysanyin stallion’s yard. She landed, nearly lost her balance, but caught herself before she sprawled facedown in the dirt.

Boreal trotted to her, snorting concern over his person’s agitation. Maurynna buried her face in his mane and wrapped her arms around the dappled grey neck, fighting back tears of frustration and anger.

I can’t be a proper Dragonlord, I can’t be a ship’s captain at all, and everyone wants to either wrap me in wool like some glass bauble or drag me off to fulfill their dreams. Damn it, it’s not fair!

Boreal draped his head over her shoulder and pulled her closer. Encouraged by the intelligent animal’s sympathy, she drew breath to recite her list of grievances.

With my luck, the horse will be the only one who understands. The sudden thought made her break into a wry, hiccuping laugh.

Thank the gods, a lilting—if ironic—voice said behind her, you’re not crying after all. I had wondered about that from the way you fell on Boreal’s neck. For alas and alack, little one, you’re a wee bit large for me to cuddle on my lap for comforting.

Raven hunched miserably on the bench and stared at the stone floor. He’d well and truly made a mess of it. He hadn’t thought Maurynna would take it like that.

The worst of it was that he wasn’t quite certain what he’d said wrong.

The arrival of two figures at the entrance to the alcove caught his attention. One was a silent Linden Rathan; the big Dragonlord’s face was unreadable. The other was his great-uncle, Bard Otter Heronson. And he was anything but silent, blast him.

You always did have a way with words, lad, his kinsman said cheerfully.

Raven reminded himself of the penalties for wringing a bard’s neck. Then he reminded himself of the penalties for helping a kinsman out of this life. It was barely enough. Thank you, he snapped.

Did you really come all this way just to fight with Rynna once more? Otter asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

No, Raven said. No, I didn’t, curse you. Then, remembering the reason he’d journeyed here, he bit his lip in worry. Looking once more to Linden Rathan, Raven said, Dragonlord, I came here as an escort. The man I guided claims that a truedragon is held captive in Jehanglan!

What? Otter exclaimed. He shook his head. Boy, you missed your calling—you should have been a bard!

Linden Rathan’s eyes went wide. A truedragon? That’s impossible.

Raven shook his head. No, Dragonlord. It’s true. My word on it. There’s a truedragon prisoner in Jehanglan—and they’re destroying it.

It was not often that the full Saethe—the Dragonlords’ Council—met in such haste and need. But the few words the Lady had had last night with this stranger had prompted her to call this gathering, and to send her soultwin Kelder winging north.

The members of the Saethe filed into the Council chamber. As each entered, they looked curiously at the one seated to the Lady’s left. She knew what they saw—a man obviously ill, his hair hanging lank around the parchment-colored skin of his face, a heavy shawl wrapped around bowed shoulders—and wondered what her fellow Dragonlords thought, what rumors were flying about.

When all were present, the Lady stood and said, This is Taren Olmeins, a Kelnethi who was shipwrecked in Jehanglan. He has been a slave there these past thirty or so years. But recently he learned something that prompted him to a desperate move: to escape Jehanglan and bring us word of a great wrong done there.

She waited for the murmurs to die down. Good: judging by the surprise in faces and voices both; there had not been many rumors—yet. She found herself wondering what a certain small Dragonlord might have heard.

And what is this wrong? asked Kyralin Sanraelle.

Taren, I think it best if you tell them yourself, the Lady said.

Taren bowed his head and, using the arms of the chair, pushed himself up. For a moment the Lady feared the effort would be too much for him. She stretched out a hand to stay him.

He turned a smile of dazzling sweetness upon her. Nay, Lady, do not worry about me. This illness and I are very old enemies. It is but a weakness that will be soon made well by seeing justice done.

A murmur of approval ran around the table at Taren’s gallant words. The Lady saw the members of the Saethe lean forward to catch this unlikely hero’s tale.

"As your Lady has already told you, my lords and ladies, I was shipwrecked in Jehanglan many years ago, and taken as a slave. It was a hard life and cruel, for my master was not a gentle man, but I didn’t dare the Straits of Cansunn—what the Jehangli call the Gate of the Phoenix—once more. For though life may be hard, it’s still sweet, and I feared that I would not pass those waters a second time and live.

"So I lived my life as content as I could be, acting as an overseer of one of the salt mines my master was in charge of for the imperial court. For, you see, all salt there belongs to the Phoenix Emperor. Those mines are a favorite place to send those who have somehow offended the throne. Those so punished often don’t live long; the labor is hard.

So it was that one day a renegade priest came to work the mines. Because he was both learned and old, I begged for him to work under me as a clerk. To my surprise, my request was granted. We became good friends and Taorun told me many things I never knew before—such as the true source of the power behind the Phoenix Throne.

Taren paused and wiped his brow with a trembling hand. The Lady signaled her personal servant, Sirl, the only one allowed in this meeting. The kir brought forth a goblet of rich Pelnaran wine already poured against such need. He offered it to Taren with a bow. Taren whispered a barely audible My thanks and sipped.

A faint trace of color came to his cheeks. Taren drank again and went on, his voice a little stronger, "Your Graces, have you ever heard of the Jehangli phoenix? It is said to be a giant bird, more beautiful than the dawn, that lives for a thousand years. When those thousand years are past, the phoenix builds a great fire upon Mount Rivasha and casts itself within. There it is consumed by the flames and is destroyed—or so it seems. For from the ashes of the old, there rises a new, young phoenix.

"Taorun told me that, a little more than a thousand years ago, one of the Jehangli Oracles—children who have a gift of true prophecy—told a Jehangli noble how he might found a dynasty to last for all time. For there is a short span of time, before its feathers have hardened enough for flight, that a young phoenix might be captured if one has power enough.

"Taorun wouldn’t tell me all, for he still held to the deepest of his oaths, but that noble did capture a young phoenix, and thence became emperor. The anchor of that prison of magic was a fell beast, Taorun said, a creature of nightmare. He had seen it once, and feared to speak of it. But I was curious, and one night, I admit, I plied him with rice wine to loosen his tongue. At last he described the ‘horrible monster’ chained beneath the Iron Temple of Mount Kajhenral.

My lords and ladies, can you imagine my horror when I realized he spoke of a northern dragon? He didn’t know what it was, for there are no dragons in Jehanglan. And worse yet …

Taren stopped, biting his lip, as if what he would say next was too painful. Silence filled the room. At last he drew a shuddering breath and went on in a whisper, "I said nothing of this to the young man who brought me here, for I feared it would upset him too much. His friend, you see, is a Dragonlord.

But Taorun also told me that in the oldest records, there were reports that the creature had been seen to change from man to dragon!

Silence turned to uproar.

One arm still about Boreal’s neck, Maurynna looked around, laughing in truth now. While little one was the traditional endearment for the youngest Dragonlord—which she was—its use by this particular weredragon was always a delightful absurdity.

Lleld Kemberaene perched on the fence like some red-capped bird, eyeing her with exaggerated innocence. Ah. That’s much better. Yes, it would look silly, wouldn’t it? All of you trying to fit into my lap.

The tiny Dragonlord stood up on the top rail and walked along it as easily as if she walked the road leading to the Keep. She sprang into the air, somersaulted, then landed in the paddock and stretched to her full height, roughly that of a ten-year-old child—a somewhat undersized ten-year-old.

Maurynna applauded; Boreal stamped a foot and snorted in appreciation.

Thank you, Your Grace, and noble Llysanyin steed, Lleld said, bowing with a flourish.

Maurynna knew that before Lleld had Changed for the first time, the other Dragonlord had been a tumbler and a juggler in a band of traveling entertainers. You’ve lost none of your old skills, have you? she asked with a touch of envy, remembering her own awkward landing. Would she herself be so lucky, or would she forget how to read wind and wave if immured in Dragonskeep for too long? A sudden need to hear the crying of gulls shook Maurynna to her soul. Her breath caught in her chest once more.

No, I haven’t forgotten, Lleld said. Too useful when traveling as a truehuman. She tossed back her mane of fiery red hair. Is Linden being an ass again? the tiny Dragonlord demanded, hands on hips.

Maurynna swallowed against the lump in her throat and half smiled. "That’s not entirely his fault, Lleld, and you know it. Though I do wish he would argue with the Lady on my behalf; she won’t listen to me.

No, Maurynna continued. She paused to start a braid in Boreal’s long black mane. This is something different. A friend of mine from before I Changed—my oldest friend, we grew up together—is here. I—I had never realized that he expected we would one day marry. I suppose I should have; I just never thought of him as anything beyond a friend.

You wouldn’t have, said Lleld. Our dragon halves know we’re waiting for someone else and hold us back. We have to be pushed into a marriage.

The braid tangled somehow. Maurynna picked at it. As Linden was, centuries ago.

Just so. Lleld cocked her head. But I’d guess that you weren’t grieving for your friend’s hurt feelings, not the way you looked when you came over that fence. So what is it?

Tangle turned to knot under fingers suddenly grown clumsy. Maurynna said bitterly, "My best friend Raven was another one who thought to keep me from the sea." The betrayal hurt. It would, she knew, for a long time. She explained Raven’s erstwhile plans for them.

Lleld listened, shaking her head in disbelief. Rynna, we’ve got to find you a way to sail again. For the sake of the gods, you were captain of your own ship! I freely admit I don’t understand why you wish to leave the mountains—I’ve never heard of a Dragonlord or a truedragon who didn’t love them—but, blast it all, it’s not fair to you.

Despite the comfort of hearing her own feelings echoed, sudden misgivings danced down Maurynna’s spine as a wicked smile crept across the little Dragonlord’s face. She’d known Lleld for only a couple of months, but on the journey to Dragonskeep she’d heard many a story from Linden about the madcap bundle of trouble that was the smallest Dragonlord. No one that tiny, he’d complained again and again, should have that much mischief in them.

Lleld, Maurynna said in alarm, for if even half of Linden’s stories were true, this Dragonlord was known as Lady Mayhem with good reason. What are you planning now?

Oh, nothing, Lleld said airily. Then, Did you see Kelder flying north this morning? I’ve an idea about that.

Something else to worry about. Lleld and her ideas—or wild guesses as the others called them when they were being polite—were all too well-known in the Keep. And, as Lleld gleefully reminded Linden at every opportunity these days, sometimes she was even right.

Now Maurynna knew which Dragonlord she’d seen this morning. Yet what errand could send Kelder Oronin, soultwin to the Lady of Dragonskeep, winging north so urgently? All she could think of to say was a weak, Oh?

Lleld needed no further prompting. She launched enthusiastically into her latest incredible theory. Maurynna could only shake her head as she listened, too stunned to protest.

A shadow swept over them, was gone. They looked up; Maurynna recognized the Dragonlord she’d seen flying north candlemarks ago. The sight of Kelder Oronin hardly slowed Lleld down. She continued lecturing.

Then even the voluble Lleld was stricken silent.

Maurynna gasped. As five giant shapes flew in close formation not far overhead, a second shadow slid over them, this one taking heartbeats to pass by. Their hair whipped about their faces in the sudden wind. Boreal snorted in fear and quivered under Maurynna’s arm.

I thought they hardly ever left their mountains, Maurynna whispered in awe.

They don’t, Lleld said. Her eyes looked ready to pop from her head. So what are they doing here?

Six

Shei-Luin slipped through the tunnels of the palace like a ghost, her slippers of heavy felt making no noise to betray her upon the smooth wooden floor. Now and then she paused when something in a conversation caught her ear. She would listen for as long as it interested—or profited—her. Then she would be away again. She hadn’t much time before she must be in the gardens, and she must yet bathe and dress. What if Xiane should take it into his idiot head to come to her chambers before the gathering in honor of Riya-Akono’s feast day? The edge of danger just made this, her only freedom, more exciting. She giggled behind a hand.

These hidden passages were her palace, ever since she had discovered them when Lura-Sharal was mistress of the chambers of the favorite concubine. She and her sister had explored them together until Lura-Sharal’s death.

Now