The Phoenix Endangered (29 page)

On the first occasion it had been early in the morning, and Ancaladar and Tiercel had been airborne, so their unexpected company hadn’t been much of a problem. And the boy had certainly
smelled
like someone looking for a lost goat. Possibly for a whole herd of them. But the second time they’d all been stopped for their midday meal, and Harrier had cause to be grateful that apparently all of Tiercel’s practicing had been of some use, because even though he and Ancaladar were in plain sight—and Harrier could see them clearly—the boy who gabbled out his panicky explanation of seeking the goat of his master plainly didn’t notice them at all.

“Do you think there
was
a goat?” Harrier asked curiously, when the boy was gone and the wagon was moving again. He hadn’t even stayed long enough to be fed—Harrier would have at least given him a piece of roast meat. It was about all they had left after so long on the road, and while it was better than starving, Harrier was looking forward to arriving somewhere that he didn’t have to eat roast meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“It is possible that there
is
a goat,” the Telchi answered after a moment’s consideration. “Or perhaps the boy has
fallen out of charity with his master for some reason and feels he will have a better life elsewhere. It is not often that such a resolution endures beyond a moonturn or so.”

“What will happen if he goes back?” Harrier asked. The idea of someone running away from his indentures was hardly a new one to him—Da had always grumbled that half the duty of the Port Watch seemed to be keeping the disgruntled youth of Armethalieh from stowing away on anything that would float, and the other half involved keeping them from stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down.

The Telchi shrugged minutely. “Certainly he could not expect to escape punishment. If he is a bondservant or apprentice, he may be turned out of his place, and his family will forfeit what they have paid—or been paid. If it is his own family that he runs from, he may, if he has the wit, throw himself upon the Consul’s mercy. Such children are taken from their families and set to a trade in another household. But perhaps he has already done that.”

“Maybe,” Harrier said. He was just as glad Tiercel wasn’t here for this conversation. Tiercel would have insisted on going after the boy, and finding out everything about him, and
doing something about it.
And Harrier wasn’t sure that would work out at all.

“It is just as conceivable, you know, that he is on a secret errand for his master that he does not wish us to know,” the Telchi said reprovingly. “You must learn to look beneath surfaces, young Harrier. All things are possible.”

“I’d rather not,” Harrier said glumly. “I liked everything a lot better when they had surfaces. Lots of surfaces.”

B
UT THAT WAS
the evening that Ancaladar—gently but firmly—said that he must go. He had already delayed longer than was absolutely safe.

“We have been fortunate twice, Bonded. We cannot hope for as much a third time—and should you be seen in my company, questions will be asked that you will perhaps find it uncomfortable to answer. Harrier and Macenor
Telchi will keep you safe while you discover where we must go next.”

“Be careful,” Tiercel said. He wanted to say more—a
lot
more, to tell Ancaladar to stay, that they’d come up with a different plan, something that didn’t involve Ancaladar having to go off and hide in a cave somewhere for Light only knew how long. But he just couldn’t think of anything. Ancaladar was right. And this had seemed like a good idea when it wasn’t happening
right now.

Ancaladar turned away and trotted a mile up the road in an unlikely silence, and then the great shimmering wings swept out—a darker shadow against the darkness. There was a faint
snap
as they filled with air, and then Ancaladar sprang into the sky. Tiercel wanted to think that he heard the sound Ancaladar’s wings made as they beat against the air, though he knew he didn’t. The moon hadn’t risen yet, so he didn’t even see him as he flew away.

And that night he dreamed again.

At first he thought it
was
an ordinary dream, because he was dreaming about a dragon. He hadn’t wanted either Harrier or Macenor Telchi to know how much letting Ancaladar leave affected him. Having Ancaladar
gone.
He knew Harrier and Ancaladar were friends, but it wasn’t the same. Not for Harrier—Harrier thought of Ancaladar being gone the way Tiercel was supposed to think of it: that Ancaladar was going off to stay out of sight for a few sennights, and as soon as the two of them had finished their business in Tarnatha’Iteru, he’d come back.

But for Tiercel, it was more as if something that was supposed to be
right there
suddenly … wasn’t. And the feeling was made all the worse by the fact that he could still
sense
his Bond to Ancaladar. But—not being either a dragon or a great Elven Mage—that was about all there was to it. A faint reassuring
thrum
in the back of his mind. Not like having Ancaladar here to see and talk to.

He knew it would hurt Harrier’s feelings if he said any of that aloud, because, well, Harrier was still right here. And he and Harrier had been inseparable for as long as
Tiercel could remember, and for Tiercel to say that he felt
alone
now would be more than rude, it would be
insulting.
So he’d just gone off to bed and hoped he could get used to this as quickly as possible. And that it wouldn’t last very long.

And he dreamed.

He was flying over the desert
—alone, alone!
Only he wasn’t exactly alone. That was
—
somehow
—
the problem. He was alone, and he wasn’t.

And he was terribly, terribly unhappy.

He soared through the hot winds that rose off the baking sands. During the day, the heat made strong updrafts, childishly easy to ride
—alone, alone!—
but at night, it took skill to ride the upper air, for the temperature dropped fast and hard. Safety lay in height, but to hunt one must fly low. And alone. Grieving, hoping, unable to die, unable to rebel. Trapped, oh
, trapped,
perhaps forever, helpless, and alone, alone
, alone….

He woke up with a yell because Harrier was shaking him.

“You were making noises,” Harrier said tightly.

“I was … a dragon …?” Now that he was awake, the dream was hard to hold onto. It hadn’t quite been a dream, but it hadn’t been his vision either. Something strange and in-between.

“Well, that’s new,” Harrier said gruffly. He sat back on his heels and ran a hand through his hair. “Any particular dragon?”

“I don’t know. I mean …” He tried to remember the dream, but all there was, was the sensation of flying—nothing new there, after so many hours spent on Ancaladar’s back—and the feeling of wild desperate grief. He rubbed his eyes.

“Hey, are you okay?” Harrier asked. “Is
Ancaladar
okay?” he added in an entirely different tone. “Is this some kind of, I don’t know, High Magick vision or warning or something?”

“Ancaladar’s fine.” Tiercel didn’t even have to think
about it before answering. He just knew. “And bizarre as I know you’re going to find this, I’ve never found one single thing anywhere in anything I’ve read about the High Magick about visions of the future. Seeing over distance yes—and no, I can’t do it except under certain conditions. Seeing the future with dreams and visions and warning prophecies, no.”

“So the prophetic visions you’ve been having … you aren’t having,” Harrier said, perfectly deadpan.

Even barely awake from a highly disturbing dream, Tiercel had to laugh. “I wish,” he said. “I didn’t say they don’t exist. But I think they’re more your kind of Wildmagey thing than mine—didn’t Roneida have to have had one to know where to find us? And I guess anybody who wanted to could send me all the prophetic dreams they wanted to.”

“And they are,” Harrier said, sighing. But he sounded more reassured now. “Why you? Tiercel, out of all the people in the Nine Cities—why
you?
And don’t say it’s because of the Magegift. Because yeah, that made sense—until the Light decided to turn me into a Knight-Mage.”

Tiercel rubbed his eyes wearily. A few feet away there was a quiet clatter and a shower of sparks as the Telchi built up the fire and began to brew tea. They were down to their last canister—when it was gone, there wasn’t any more, but they’d probably be at Tarnatha’Iteru by then. Probably.

“I’ve thought about that a lot, believe me, Har,” he said. “I’m not sure you’ll like what I’ve thought of.”

Harrier snorted rudely. “Well, I haven’t liked a lot of things since we got to Karahelanderialigor—I mean, I could go back farther than that, but we’d be here till dawn. So why not tell me anyway?”

“Ass.”

“Book-nose.”

“Lout.”

“Noble-brat.”

“Dock-rat.”

“Proud of it,” Harrier said promptly. “Where were we?”

“I was about to explain, and you were about to ignore me. As usual.”

“Not ignoring,” Harrier protested, smirking.

“Right. As far as I understand it—and remember, you’re the only Wildmage I know, and I know
exactly
how much you know—the ability to do the High Magick—the ancient War Magick—is innate. You’re either born with the Magegift, or you aren’t. If you aren’t, you can do the spells forever, and they won’t work. Why this should be, when as far as everyone knows, the War Magick came
later
than the Wild Magic, don’t ask me, because you know everything I know, just about. Maybe once upon a time
everyone
had the Magegift, and later they didn’t. I have no idea. Anyway, that’s the High Magick.”

“The War Magick,” Harrier supplied helpfully.

“Right. Which was invented because the Wildmages were being corrupted by the Endarkened. Through their magic, apparently, which is about the scariest thing I’ve heard about the Endarkened yet. And—at the same time—the Endarkened couldn’t get at the High Mages in the same way.”

“Just kill them,” Harrier interjected.

“As far as I know, the Endarkened could just kill
everybody,”
Tiercel said grimly.

“And now you’re going to tell me what something that happened about a million years before the Great Flowering has to do with us,” Harrier prodded.

“You won’t like it,” Tiercel warned.

“Get to the point.”

“Well, in the first place, when I started having the visions, you weren’t a Wildmage—Knight-Mage—yet. And Kareta couldn’t exactly come walking into Armethalieh carrying the Three Books of the Wild Magic to hand them to you. Besides, even if she could have, you wouldn’t have taken them.”

“You’ve got that right,” Harrier muttered.

“In the second place, from everything I know—and I could still be wrong—you can refuse to become a Wildmage, but you can’t refuse to be, well, born with the Magegift. So you’re pretty much
born
a High Mage, and the only difference is whether or not you’re trained.”

“Of course, if you aren’t trained—or don’t run into the right kind of Wildmage—you kind of die,” Harrier said. Tiercel looked at him in surprise. As often as Harrier demonstrated that he did think—and think well—and listened—despite his constant complaints whenever people started explaining things to him—it was always a surprise to Tiercel when he came out with a comment like this. Not so much because Tiercel didn’t think Harrier knew these things, but because Tiercel knew Harrier didn’t want people to know he knew them. “Is there a third thing?”

“Yeah.” Tiercel hesitated for just an instant. “It has to be me having the visions instead of you because I’m a High Mage and not a Wildmage.”

“It is never not going to sound ridiculous hearing that,” Harrier complained with a reasonable amount of good-nature under the circumstances. He shook his head.

And Tiercel was grateful that he didn’t ask any more questions just then, because he hadn’t quite figured out a way to explain to Harrier that just in case he was wrong about Dark magic not being able to corrupt a High Mage, it was going to be up to Harrier to try to see this through.

Whatever the cost.

Eleven

The City on the Edge of Forever

T
EN DAYS AFTER
that they reached the gates of Tarnatha’Iteru. It was the northernmost-but-one of the Border cities, and—according to the Telchi—one of the largest
Iteru
-cities in the Madiran. The
Iteru
-cities—
“Iteru”
meant “well” in the Old Tongue of the desert-peoples—were the cities that lay along the edge of the Madiran.

What the Telchi called the true desert lay farther south and west of here, a place called the Isvai, a barren and inhospitable wilderness that was home to nothing but a few nomadic tribes. Some of the Isvaieni came to the
Iteru
-cities to trade their crafts and the harvest of the deep desert—gold and gems, furs and resins, even salt—for the products of the
Iteru
-cities. Others never ventured out of the Isvai itself.