The Phoenix Unchained (13 page)

“—but of course Kellen didn’t realize that he was a great Knight-Mage, you see, because he was a Poor Orphan Boy, and his only relative, the Blessed Saint Idalia, had been taken away from him as a child and enchanted into the form of a Silver Eagle by the wicked Endarkened. And he was beaten and starved and forced to work on the docks of Armethalieh as a slave. And one day he broke a
whole crate
of Elvenware, and so he was cast out of the City in the depths of winter to
starve
.”

Tiercel’s audience “oohed” and “aahed” in sympathy.

“—and as he was lying in the snow about to die, who should come along to save him?”

“Shalkan! Shalkan!” Tiercel’s audience cried.

“That’s right. The magic unicorn Shalkan. And he dried Kellen’s tears and told him of his glorious destiny, and that he was the true son of the Arch-Mage of Armethalieh and the Wildmage Queen of the High Reaches, and that to claim his destiny he must draw the Sword of Light from the Black Cairn in the heart of the Lostlands and use it to turn his sister back into a human girl again, so that she could marry the King of the Elves, Jermayan Dragon-rider. And the two of them would unite the Armies of the Light and slay the Endarkened, so that Spring would return to the world. And now, I think, I have work to do. And your parents are probably missing you.”

There were groans of disappointment from his audience as the children reluctantly got up to leave.

“You tell stories well,” Simera said.

“I’ve heard that one every year since I was a child,” Tiercel said, getting to his feet and reaching for one of the packs. “I’m not sure, anymore, that any of it’s true.”

LATER that night he lay awake in the hayloft beside Harrier, surrounded by their gear—and the slumbering bodies of the dozen or so other travelers to whom the landlord had sold sleeping space in the stable’s second story. It was comfortable, and even warm, and after a long day on the road, Tiercel was exhausted, but he fought sleep with a desperate intensity. He feared his dreams.

The worst part was that there was nothing in the dream
to
fear. A woman made of fire, standing in a lake made of fire. When you described it that way, it sounded pretty. Other than being made of fire, she looked perfectly normal. And she wasn’t even looking at him. Not really. He’d been having the dream for long enough that he knew there was someone else in it. Someone he could never see.
That
was the person the Fire Woman was calling to. The one
who—if he reached her, and did whatever it was she wanted him to do—would cause all the horrible things to happen.

Whatever they were. Whoever he was. Assuming the dream was real.

But it was real in
some
way, Tiercel knew, because even though the Fire Woman’s calling wasn’t meant for him, he’d gotten tangled up in it somehow. So that even though she was actually calling to this other person, somehow he was—or could be—visible to her too. He didn’t think he was, yet. But the moment when he would be, came closer every time he had the dream, and he had no idea what would happen then. So he really hoped that Simera was right, and that a Wildmage would show up—soon—and tell him what was going on, and how to fix it. Meanwhile, he’d just better stay awake.

But that didn’t turn out to be possible. And this time, when he slept, he dreamed a different dream entirely.

Four

A Life Between Sand and Stars

H 
IS NAME WAS Bisochim, and he had been born in the Isvai Quarter of the Madiran Desert, far south of the Armen Plains. The Isvai was a sea of sand, harsh and trackless, and one must live by the desert’s own law to survive here.

The desert held little of kindness, but there was no cruelty here. Its inhabitants did what they must to survive, but no creature made another’s burden heavier. That was the first and most ancient law of the desert, for Bisochim’s people, like all the peoples of the world, followed the teachings of the Wild Magic.

Wildmages plotted the routes the nomadic herdsmen took through the great dune sea of the Isvai; Wildmages told them when the Sandwind would blow; Wildmages led their herds to new pastures when old ones failed; and when the deep wells that meant survival in the arid desert ran dry, Wildmages led them to new ones.

Bisochim had never expected to become a Wildmage.

The Three Books had come to him when he was a child. Like all the other boys and girls too young to perform any more useful tasks, his duty was to guard the flocks of the Adanate Isvaieni, for the hardy desert sheep and goats were both their wealth and the life of their tribe. But Bisochim had ambitions to become a hunter someday, and a hunter must have a falcon, both to take small game, and to drive larger prey into the waiting jaws of the hunter’s fleet-footed Ikulas. And so he had left the sheep and the goats to the care of the other children one morning and climbed the rocks where he had seen a pair of nesting falcons. If he were careful, and lucky, he could take one of the chicks for his own and raise it himself, taming it to his hand.

But when he reached the nest, it was empty, though he’d been watching it for many days and had been certain that the young falcons were all far too young to fly. The only thing that had been in the nest were three small books bound in brown leather. He’d recognized them at once.

The Book of Sun
.

The Book of Moon
.

The Book of Stars
.

He’d stuffed them into his tunic and scrambled back down the cliff with a lot less care than he’d taken getting up. He hadn’t dared look into them, nor had he told any of the other children what he’d found. It wasn’t until that evening, when he had returned to the camp, that he had even dared think about what he’d found. The Books of a Wildmage.

He’d taken them from his tunic and wrapped them carefully in his best shirt, and gone off to tell his father.

BISOCHIM’S father was seated at the loom in the main room of the tent, working while there was still light to see. Nedjed’s body
was small and twisted; what had once been strong muscle was now gaunt sinew, and skin was stretched tight over bone.

Nedjed was a man only in his middle years, but the desert life was hard. He had been one of the tribe’s greatest hunters until a battle with a desert lion had left him lamed and crippled. The tribe could support none who could not earn their keep, so Nedjed had learned a new skill, weaving the yarn that his wife spun from the hair and wool of the flocks into the heavy sturdy cloth from which Bisochim’s people made so many things. He was neither good nor fast, having come to the trade so late in life, but the work was enough to earn him life, and the respect of the tribe.

“Father,” Bisochim said, kneeling beside his father’s weaving-stool. “A thing has happened today, and I seek guidance.”

“Instruction is the only gift freely given,” Nedjed replied. “Tell me what is in your heart, son of my heart.”

“Today I found the Three Books of the Wild Magic,” Bisochim blurted out after a long agonized pause. “And I do not know what to do.”

Nedjed pulled the shuttle to rest and sat back, reaching for his crutch to steady himself. “And is it truth that you did find them, or did you take them from the hands of another?”

“They were in a falcon’s nest. I had hoped to take a fledgling. I found the Books instead,” Bisochim answered honestly. Theft was not unknown in the Isvai, but the greatest crime possible was to steal from your own people.

“Bring them here,” his father said.

When Bisochim had returned with the Three Books, Nedjed regarded his son for a long moment.

“Open one and tell me what you see.”

Hands trembling, Bisochim did as he was told, tilting the page toward the sunset light streaming in through the open tentflap.

“It is filled with sayings,” he said, after a moment. “Like the ones Socorro the storyteller ends his stories with on feast days.” He closed the Book again.

“Then the Gods have made their judgment. These Books have been sent to you. They have chosen you to keep the Balance. You must read them, and learn from them, and hold their wisdom in your heart. Your mother will be pleased.”

Bisochim stared down at the Three Books in his hands. He was a Wildmage, now, even though he didn’t feel any different than he had when he had gone out with the flocks before dawn. He turned his father’s words over in his head.

“Are you, Father? Are you pleased?”

“Son of my heart, it is a great destiny to keep the Balance. Some men yearn to be so chosen, thinking of the glory it may bring them. But the tales tell us it is the hardest life the desert can send. I take great pride that the Gods think you are worthy of it. But for a child of my body, I would wish an easier future between Sand and Stars.”

Bisochim bowed his head. His father had never been one to praise lavishly or lightly. “Thank you, Father. I shall always try to be worthy. And I shall never seek glory.”

“If you were one to do so, the Books would never have found you. Now go and wash yourself. It is time to eat.”

THOUGH he was now a Wildmage, little in Bisochim’s life changed immediately. His days were still spent herding goats and sheep. But in the evenings, when once he had played
shamat
and
gan
with his brothers and sisters, now he studied the Three Books. Soon the magic came to him, and the tribe flourished.

He could not Heal Nedjed—though he tried. No spell of Healing could restore what was gone forever, merely encourage that
which was damaged to heal quickly and well, and the wound-fever that had settled in his father’s leg after the lion’s attack had forced the tribe’s Healers to cut most of the leg away. But he was able to ease much of his father’s pain, just as he eased the hurts of all who came to him, for all the Adanate were eager to lend Power to his spells, and the Mageprices he was called upon to pay were light, and easily discharged. But the more Bisochim delved into the deep mysteries of the Wild Magic over the years, the more he became convinced that there was something . . . out-of-Balance in the world.

The Wild Magic held all things within its grasp. Life and Death. Dark and Light. All in a perfect balance, just like the life of the desert itself. And something wasn’t right. He knew he had to find out what it was. The time had come for him to leave.