The Phoenix Unchained (60 page)

He’d rather be riding, but somebody had to drive the wagon. It was large, almost a traveling house on wheels; He and Tiercel could sleep inside when the weather was bad, even cook inside. But its
main function was to serve as a traveling workroom for Tiercel, now that Tiercel had everything he needed.

Including, apparently, a new best friend.

Harrier hadn’t realized, when he had agreed that Tiercel should go ahead with this Bond thing, exactly what it was going to mean. He knew what Ithoriosa had said about Bonding, but frankly, he hadn’t paid a lot of attention, because Ithoriosa had said a lot of things that Harrier had suspected at the time were just meant to tease and annoy him. But all that stuff about the Bond being the most important thing in the dragon and its Bonded’s life?

Was apparently true.

Sure, Ancaladar missed Jermayan. A lot. And as a result, Tier-cel was pretty miserable most of the time lately as well as being all wrapped up in talking to Ancaladar every moment he was awake. They’d stayed in Karahelanderialigor for Jermayan’s funeral, and Tiercel had even spoken at it, just as if he were a member of the family, which Harrier would have found creepy if he hadn’t been so angry. Back then—ten days ago—he’d just been starting to figure out what this whole Bond thing really meant.

If he’d thought about it at all beforehand, he’d thought that having Ancaladar around would be like having a dog around. Okay, a really big dog. One that was just as smart as a person, and could talk, and fly, and bite Harrier in half if he got really grumpy, but still, in a way, a kind of a tool for Tiercel to use in this magic stuff of his, the way shepherds used flockguards, or the Port Watch used alert dogs. He hadn’t thought that Ancaladar would just push him aside and take his place in Tiercel’s life.

But he has. Get used to it
.

He might as well have stayed in Karahelanderialigor. Or gone back to Ysterialpoerin. Or gone
home
. Right now Tiercel was off with Ancaladar—again, the way they were every evening—practicing spells, because Ancaladar had taught Jermayan Dragonrider
to be an Elven Mage, so teaching Tiercel Rolfort to be a High Mage wasn’t all that hard.

Harrier saw a flash of light from beyond the trees and sighed. And during the day, Tiercel rode through the sky on Ancaladar’s back. For as long as Harrier had known him, Tiercel had been afraid of heights, but apparently being up on the back of a dragon was
completely different
.

Oh, of course Tiercel had offered to take Harrier with him—Ancaladar’s saddle was built for two—but there wouldn’t be anybody to drive the wagon, then, would there?

It was all he was good for now, Harrier supposed. Driving wagons. He wouldn’t have made a very good Portmaster, either.

It wasn’t that he disliked Ancaladar. How could you dislike a legend? And he felt sorry for him. He really did. A year was a long time, and Ancaladar had just lost someone who had not only been his friend for a thousand and eight years—maybe more—but his Bondmate, which Harrier had a vague idea was something a lot closer than just “friends” from what Ithoriosa had said.

But that didn’t give Ancaladar the right to take Harrier’s friend away from him. He sighed heavily.
Well, somebody has to drive the wagons. I bet there were a lot of people in Kellen Knight-Mage’s army who did nothing but drive wagons all day long. Nobody remembers their names now. I bet the Elves don’t even remember their names. But I bet nobody in the whole army would have gotten a hot dinner or a dry place to sleep if they hadn’t been there to drive the wagons
. It made him feel a little better. Not much, but a little.

THAT night it was cool and clear. They’d be heading into the Madiran in winter, which was a good thing. Harrier wondered if deserts had winter at all, and what they were like. He supposed he’d find out soon enough.

All of them slept out under the stars, and Harrier had to admit that the stars here in the Elven Lands were breathtaking. They were brighter than the stars at home: there, the ribbon of stars that they called The Unicorns’ Road was only a faint dusting across the sky, while here it was as bright and white as the moon itself. The first time Harrier had seen them, the sight had taken his breath away, and he never got tired of watching them.

They’d still be in the Elven Lands for a long time yet, and for all that time, all their supplies—and feeding Ancaladar, which was apparently no small matter—was taken care of, nor would they have to pay for anything. It was, Idalia had said when they left, a gift from House Malkirinath. Once they left the Elven Lands, they’d have to make other arrangements—and figure out how to deal with traveling with a dragon, since it wasn’t as if they could exactly tuck him inside the wagon to hide him if he needed hiding. Neither Rilphanifel nor Elunyerin were certain of what lay beyond the border of the Elven Lands; once more, as in the long ago, the Elves had withdrawn in order to allow Men to go their own way.

Harrier sighed, wishing he could go to sleep and stop thinking about these things. But somebody had to, and Tiercel wasn’t going to be that someone. He didn’t know whether Ancaladar was that sort of someone or not, and he wasn’t going to ask.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

For something the size of a house, Ancaladar could move very silently and gracefully. He’d managed to work his way over to where Harrier was lying without Harrier noticing, and Harrier only barely managed to suppress a yelp at the sudden quiet question. He was getting used to surprises, though. Good ones, bad ones, and just plain weird ones.

“Talk about what?” Harrier asked in a low voice. He looked around, sitting up.

Tiercel was sound asleep—he knew that snore—and Elunyerin and Rilphanifel were
apparently
asleep. Even the horses were asleep. Only he and Ancaladar were awake.

“Whatever it is that is keeping you awake this late at night,” the dragon said. “You and I will have to talk sometime, Harrier. I know things have not gone as you wished they would, and for that I am truly sorry.”

“What? You mean with monsters coming back? Meeting the Elves? Or my friend getting a dragon for his Naming Day present?” Harrier tried to make a joke out of it, and was dismayed at how bitter his voice sounded.

“It is not what I would have wished for, either,” Ancaladar said somberly. “Yet I cannot regret the chance to know Tiercel, however briefly.”

“It’s going to be for the rest of his life.”

Since Ancaladar wasn’t going to go away—no matter how little Harrier actually wanted to talk to him—Harrier decided he might as well do his best not to disturb the others. He got out of his bedroll, stuffed his feet quickly into his camp-boots, and walked off. He had to walk for quite a few steps before Ancaladar had to do more than simply turn his head and extend his neck to follow him.

“His life may be short, even by human standards,” Ancaladar said.

Harrier stopped and looked at Ancaladar. The dragon himself was nothing more than a big black shape in the darkness, but his golden eyes gleamed as if lit from within. Of all the things about the dragon, Harrier thought that was probably the strangest.
Why
did they glow, even when there wasn’t any light around to reflect? They weren’t like cat’s eyes, or dog’s eyes. More like . . . lamps.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to tell us more than the Elves would,” Harrier mocked.

“No,” Ancaladar said. “But only because I don’t know more.
They
don’t know more, not about what you two may face. They—and
I—know a great deal more about the problems of the past, but you see, the Darkness has changed its strategy every time it has faced the Light. Any advice at all may cause Tiercel to consider some solutions and discard others, and in doing so, discard the one that will solve the problem. The Elves believe the Wild Magic will cause him to intuitively know the proper solution.”

That is
still
the stupidest thing I have ever heard
. Harrier thought resentfully.

“We’re just kids,” Harrier said. “Whatever you think Tiercel is—or can do—he isn’t. And can’t. Really. If none of this had ever happened, he’d be going off to University right about now. I’d be apprenticed to my father. Someday—if Tyr was very lucky—he’d be clerking for the Magistrate Herself. I’d be a very bad Portmaster.”

“Neither of you would be happy in those lives,” Ancaladar observed dispassionately.

Harrier shrugged. Whether it was true or not, that hardly mattered now. “You were going to tell me about Tyr’s life being short,” he pointed out belligerently.

If it had been possible, Harrier was sure Ancaladar would have shrugged in return. “The desert by itself is dangerous to humans, and spells can only protect you if you cast them. If Tiercel finds whatever his visions are showing him as The Lake of Fire—and I have seen the land scoured to desert and grow green again, and what he describes does not sound familiar to me—then there will be more danger. He will need all his friends beside him.”

“He’s got you now,” Harrier pointed out. He wanted to be polite to Ancaladar, and he was
trying
, but he kept thinking about how, even during the worst parts of their journey here, he and Tyr had always been able to rely on each other and the friendship they’d shared since almost before either of them could walk. Harrier had never expected to just be . . . dumped because Tiercel had found a friend he liked better.

“And we will have each other until the end of our lives,” Ancaladar
agreed. “But this does not mean, nor should it, that Tiercel should renounce all other ties of kin and friendship. I am quite wonderful, but even I have my limitations.”

Harrier laughed despite himself. “You? You’re Ancaladar Star-Crowned. There isn’t anything you can’t do.”

Ancaladar snorted faintly, amused. “Were he hurt, I could not tend him. I can cast no spells for his protection—I am magic; I am not a Mage. When we come to places where I must hide—and we shall; of that much I am certain—you must aid him, and keep him from rash acts. I do not yet know him as well as I will, but I fear already that there are times that Tiercel is . . . excessively trusting, and it frightens me.”

Despite his unhappiness, this was a sobering thought. Harrier had gotten used to thinking of Ancaladar as being someone who’d fought off hordes of Endarkened. A myth. A hero. Not someone with limitations. He thought about it for a moment. Ancaladar was right.

“Huh. If you’re scared now, you should hear about some of the things he did on the way here. You’d turn white,” Harrier said. It was impossible for him to keep a certain smugness out of his voice. No matter how well Ancaladar came to know Tiercel in the future, Harrier would always be the one who had grown up with him.

“I would like to hear of them,” Ancaladar said quietly. “I fear sometimes that my Bonded keeps things from me.”

“Oh, he’ll do that,” Harrier said, grinning now in spite of himself. “He doesn’t mean to, but he does. You’ll figure him out soon enough. But come on, and I’ll tell you about the time we explored the sewers back in Armethalieh when we were little. It was all Tyr’s idea, of course. . . .”

“YOU knew them all,” Harrier said. “What were they like?” He leaned back against Ancaladar’s chest.

It was several hours later. The two of them had gone to the grove where Tiercel and Ancaladar practiced Magick. Ancaladar had assured Harrier that it was safe—he’d chosen it for privacy, and Tiercel was careful to leave no residue behind from his workings.

Although Ancaladar’s scaly hide was slippery, and no part of him—except for the few patches of hide just behind his head—could be considered soft, Harrier found that the black dragon made a very comfortable resting place.

“They were all very much like people,” Ancaladar said, sounding as if Harrier’s question entertained him greatly. “Except for Shalkan, of course: Shalkan was a unicorn, and . . . well, I suppose you
don’t
know what unicorns are like. They tend to be extremely annoying, and they’re rarely serious. But the rest of them, well, seemed to me to be very much like other people. This business of being a hero—it is partly in having the opportunity to act, and partly in being remembered for what you did. Certainly when you rescued Tiercel from the end of the dock when you were both children, at the risk of your own life, that was a heroic act.”