The Phoenix Endangered Read online

  The book was hand-written, and the writing, while clear and even, was tiny: Harrier was glad he’d lit both large lanterns, because he thought he’d need all the light he could get to read it. There wasn’t a title-page or anything, either. The book just started.

  He’d looked at some of Tiercel’s High Magick books (mostly out of curiosity, and only after Tiercel had assured him that they couldn’t hurt him) and at least they’d made a certain amount of sense to him. They were full of recipes and complicated directions. Harrier could do High Magick—assuming he had the patience for all those fiddling details. It just wouldn’t work, because he didn’t have the Magegift that Tiercel had been born with.

  The Book of Moon? Wasn’t anything like that. The beginning of it seemed to be more like … well, he wasn’t quite sure. It was talking about how to behave, and why, kind of the way a Light-Priest talked on Light-Day, about how it was important for everyone to respect everyone else, and to believe that they acted from the best intentions even if you didn’t understand why they did something, because just the same way that white light turned into a rainbow when it shone through a crystal, so the Eternal Light contained so many different things within it that you couldn’t expect to know what they all were just offhand.

  Except the Book wasn’t talking about people, and it certainly wasn’t mentioning the Eternal Light. It talked about acting in harmony with the Wild Magic, and understanding that you must always be ready to pay the price for anything you asked of it, and knowing that the less selfish you were, the more likely you were to get what you really needed.

  It didn’t really sound a lot like magic to Harrier—even though he’d be the first to admit he didn’t know what magic was actually like. What it sounded like was the wondertales he read his young cousins to bed with. “Be good.” “Be kind.” “Be unselfish.” And you’ll get what you want.

  The trouble is, I don’t know what I want. Except for Tiercel and me to be safe back in Armethalieh, and for none of this to have ever happened. He thought for a minute. No. For none of this to have ever needed to happen. For there to never have been any Fire Woman, or Lake of Fire, or Goblins, or Tiercel to have had to have visions because of them, or … anything. That’s what I really want.

  He didn’t think even the Wild Magic had a spell for that, though.

  Only about half or maybe two-thirds of the Book was those closely written pages. Harrier didn’t read them all. After the first several, he started skipping through, seeing if there was anything different. That was when he found the spells.

  Each one took up a page—or at most, two. There was a name at the top—like in his Ma’s cookbooks, like in Tiercel’s High Magick books—and then a lot of writing underneath. But there the resemblance to both cookbooks and spellbooks ended.

  The first one was Fire. That one just had a lot of instructions about thinking and concentrating—and on having something you wanted to light on fire close at hand. Harrier turned the page hastily. He didn’t want to set any fires here. Next there was Finding—that one required a drop of his blood and the desire to find whatever it was he was looking for—and then there were Summoning and Scrying—which were a little more complicated, and required him to burn a bunch of leaves and cut himself (again!) or find a pool of water and a jug of wine, and as far as he could tell, Wildmages spent a lot of time poking themselves with sharp knives. Maybe it was so they didn’t just do spells any time they felt like it. There were a couple of other spells, too: one was titled Weather-Calling (which was the first one Harrier had seen that looked remotely practical, especially if it could be used to summon a fair wind, since he couldn’t count the number of times ships had stood in Armethalieh Port for sennights because they couldn’t catch a favorable wind) and there was one for Coldfire (another one that just needed thinking and concentrating) and one that simply said at the top of the page: To Know What Needs To Be Done. That one was vague enough that Harrier vowed then and there that even if he did become a Knight-Mage, he would absolutely never cast it. The stuff he’d already read about Mageprices had been enough to thoroughly worry him. Everyone knew that the Wildmages paid for their magic by performing mysterious tasks set them by the Wild Magic Itself, and while Harrier might otherwise have dismissed such tales as one more thing the legends had gotten wrong, what Roneida had said to them back on the Plains seemed to confirm it. She’d made a journey of hundreds of miles to find them—all the way from Vardirvoshanon—because the Wild Magic had demanded it of her.

  Which pretty much meant that any time a Wildmage cast a spell, the Wild Magic would make them do something, whether they wanted to or not. And that didn’t sound very comfortable at all to Harrier. What if the Wild Magic wanted him to pick up and go traipsing off somewhere right in the middle of Tiercel’s quest? And what if he said no?

  He just wished there was someone he could ask about this stuff. He turned the page.

  The last spell that was written in the book was one for Healing, and for that one, apparently he’d need not only as many different kinds of leaves as Ma would use to season a stew (and, apparently, something to burn them on, and he wondered—uneasily—if he ought to see if they had the right sort of thing here) but he’d need to cut a lock of his hair and a lock of the hair of the person he was going to heal, and take some hair from anyone else who was “participating in the spell.” That sounded weird, and he had no idea how somebody who wasn’t either casting the spell or having it cast on them “participated” in it. Maybe there was an explanation of that somewhere in the parts he’d skipped. But then again, he didn’t intend to Heal anybody if he could help it. In fact, the more he read, the more he was sure he didn’t intend to do any spells at all.

  He closed The Book of Moon, grumbling under his breath, and tucked all three of them back into the satchel. He was just in time to get them under his pillow before the door opened and Tiercel walked in. His hair was damp from a ducking—probably in the watering trough, though there was a washroom down the hall—and he hadn’t bothered to tie his hair back again. Since they’d left Armethalieh, Harrier had gotten his hair cut whenever its length started to annoy him, but Tiercel had simply let his grow. It was down to his shoulders now.

  A globe of Coldfire hovered over his head, but by now, Harrier hardly noticed the things any more.

  “If Aressea is anything like my Ma, she’ll whale you for dripping on her clean floors,” Harrier said.

  “I’m not dripping,” Tiercel said. He snapped his fingers, and the glowing blue ball of light vanished.

  “You’re wet,” Harrier said.

  “I’m damp,” Tiercel corrected. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” Harrier answered reflexively.

  “You’re reading your Books, aren’t you?” Tiercel said. “Can I see them?”

  Harrier felt an automatic impulse to deny that he’d been doing any such thing, but this was Tiercel. He dug the satchel out from under his pillow and tossed it across the room. “Knock yourself out,” he invited.

  Tiercel walked over and sat down on his own bed, where the light was best. He opened the satchel and pulled out one of the books. “It sort of tingles,” he said as he opened it. He looked down at the first page, frowned, turned the book over, opened it from the other end, paged through it quickly. “Also, it’s blank.”

  “What?” Harrier sat up hastily and reached for the book. Tiercel passed it to him across the gap between the two beds. Harrier glanced at the spine. There was a small cluster of stars stamped there, so—obviously—this was The Book of Stars. He paged through it. All the pages were covered with the same dense script as The Book of Moon. “No it isn’t,” he said.

  “Well, I couldn’t read it,” Tiercel said. “I couldn’t even see it.”

  “Maybe—” Harrier began, but Tiercel shook his head quickly, rubbing his fingers against his pantsleg as if they still tingled.

  “Maybe they’re something only a Wildmage can read.” He tossed the satchel back over to
Harrier’s bed. It landed beside Harrier with a thump, but he barely noticed.

  He’d been able to read them.

  Was that all it took? Did this mean he already was a Wildmage, or a Knight-Mage, or whatever it was he was supposed to be now? Did it mean there was nothing else he needed to do to be able to light fires just by thinking about it and summon up winds and make balls of Coldfire just the way Tiercel did? He didn’t feel any different than he had when he’d sat down to dinner!

  “I’m really not going to be a very good… Knight-Mage,” Harrier said quietly.

  Tiercel looked at him, and his mouth drew into the shape that it took when he was thinking. He started to say something, then he started pulling off his boots instead. “I’m not really the best High Mage,” he said softly, when he’d gotten them off and set them aside. “Certainly not as good as First Magistrate Cilarnen. Or Jermayan Dragon-Rider, come to that. Even if he … was … an Elven Mage and not a High Mage. But.” He stopped, and Harrier could tell that Tiercel was thinking carefully before he spoke. Funny, because usually Tiercel just charged right into things, especially with him. “But you know, Har, it’s not like I decided to become a High Mage. Oh, sure, I went poking around the Great Library because of your Uncle Alfrin’s book, and then I decided to go and do a spell, and those parts were pretty much up to me. But I was a High Mage before that, really, because I had the Magegift. And that was the Light’s decision. And the Gods of the Wild Magic, because you know, I think I would have died when I was a baby because of the Magegift if there hadn’t been a Wildmage in Sentarshadeen to make me better. So it’s because of the Wild Magic that I’m here now, being a High Mage.”

  “You’re a good High Mage,” Harrier said, determined to defend his friend.

  Tiercel shook his head. “Not really. I don’t know. But the thing is, I was picked. And you were picked. By the Wild Magic. And, Har, you’ve kind of got to, I don’t know, hope or believe or trust that the Wild Magic knows what it’s doing to have picked us. Or … I don’t know.”

  We’ll be lost before we start. Harrier didn’t know how good a High Mage Tiercel was—he had to be a good one, didn’t he, with all the practicing he was doing and with Ancaladar to help?—and he knew exactly how bad a Knight-Mage he himself was going to be. Even if they weren’t exactly like all the stories told about Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy, Harrier did know one thing: a Knight-Mage could fight, and probably even command armies. And he was strong, and good with his fists, and he’d never backed down from a fight—in fact he’d even started his share—but he’d seen Elunyerin and Rilphanifel spar against each other back at House Malkirinath, and he knew he couldn’t do that. And as for leading an army … he wouldn’t even know where to start.

  Not that they had an army right now.

  But Tiercel was right about one thing, even though Harrier was enormously reluctant to admit it. The Wild Magic had picked both of them. So he either had a choice between deciding it didn’t know what it was doing and refusing the books—and while he’d like to do the second, the first was just terrifying—or just muddling on and pretending he thought everything would work out. Although no matter what Ancaladar said, Harrier was absolutely certain Kellen had never felt this way. Ever.

  “I’m tired if you aren’t,” he grumbled. He stuffed The Book of Stars back into the satchel and stuffed it under his pillow, then bent over to remove his own boots.

  AFTER SO LONG on the road they were both used to getting up as soon as it was light, and even if they were sleeping indoors in soft beds, habit woke both of them a few minutes before Talareniel—one of the Elves they’d met the previous evening—scratched on the door to let them know that the morning meal would be upon the table shortly. Both boys were up, dressed, washed, and in the dining room quickly enough to be able to help Aratari, Siralcar, and Talareniel bring the dishes to the table.

  Today, Harrier discovered, Tiercel would be gone for most of the day, since at some point yesterday when he’d been out of earshot, Tiercel and Ancaladar had offered to assist with a number of tasks around the farm. “Ancaladar says it will be good practice for me,” Tiercel said when the subject came up again at breakfast, from which Harrier figured out that the “tasks” referred to all had to involve magic in one way or another.

  That left him to get everything ready for tomorrow’s departure. Half a year ago he wouldn’t have known where to begin, and now half his mind was occupied with lists of things they’d need, while the other half was engaged in framing his requests in accordance with the demands of Elven politeness.

  Salt was the first thing on his list. If they could hunt on the other side of the Veil, they’d need to be able to preserve what they caught. Fishhooks, because he’d never thought to ask for any at their previous stops. Grain, because horses who pulled a wagon all day couldn’t be asked to live on grass. Bacon and meal and tea—and honey for the tea—because they had some dried and preserved foods, but he wanted to load up on as much more as they could. Rope, because his Da had drummed into him that there was always a use for rope.

  “I would be lacking in courtesy—and a very poor guest—did I abuse the generosity of those who had offered nothing but kindness,” he said at one point. He wasn’t quite sure if the Elves could refuse to give you things when you asked for them, even indirectly.

  Aratari had assigned Siralcar to assist him for the day. Harrier had no idea at all how old Siralcar might be—he looked like a grown man, but among Elves, that could mean he was anything from a few decades to several centuries old. Siralcar regarded him, smiling faintly.

  “I do not think that it would be possible for you or Tiercel Human Mage to exhaust the bounty of Farm Blackrowan, Harrier Gillain,” he answered. “And Tiercel does us great honor by aiding us today as he does. The work come the Springtide will go more quickly with the fields cleared now. And calling the queen home to her own hive will mean more honey for all. Yet it would be good to know, should you care to tell it, what purpose could take you across the Veil.”

  Harrier knew that even if the Elves didn’t ask direct questions, that didn’t keep them from being just as curious as anyone else. And while he didn’t intend to tell Siralcar everything about everything, there was no harm in telling him where they were going—especially since none of the Elves had the least interest in leaving the Elven Lands.

  “Far to the south and the west there’s a big desert called the Madiran,” he answered. “Back home—in Armethalieh—we trade with them. And that’s where we’re going. I’m just not quite sure how far from here it is.”

  “It would be good to know what such trade might consist of,” Siralcar said, after he’d mulled Harrier’s words over for a few moments.

  Harrier thought carefully, trying to picture in his mind some of the cargoes he’d helped to check aboard outbound ships. “Rugs, a lot of it,” he said. “Nothing as fine as I’ve seen here, of course. Spices. Goldwork. Metalwork and pottery. Some stays in the City. Some is loaded onto ships and goes across Great Ocean, and is sold in other lands.”

  “Even here we have heard of Armethalieh,” Siralcar said. “It is a very long way from here.”

  Harrier sighed. There wasn’t much to say to that.

  WHEN THEY’D BROUGHT everything Harrier wanted to take with him on the journey to the storage barn where the wagon was being kept, Harrier’s heart sank. Even if Tiercel never wanted to be able to get at any of his High Magick junk ever again, there was no way they could fit all this stuff inside the wagon.

  “Storage baskets may be attached to the outside of the wagon,” Siralcar said quietly, seeing Harrier’s expression. “They can be lined in oilcloth to keep their contents from the damp, and they will not add much to the weight of the wagon. It will be only the work of a few hours to attach them.”

  Harrier nodded. It was a good solution, and the load would only grow lighter as they used up the supplies. “I thank you for all your courtesy. It would be good if such a thing could be done. There i
s … one item more that I… I think …” he stopped.

  Siralcar regarded him with obvious curiosity.

  “It is difficult to describe something if you don’t know it exists,” Harrier said with a sigh.

  “Things which do not exist can be made, if they can but be described,” Siralcar said helpfully.

  Harrier ran a hand through his hair. “It would be a sort of a brazier, I suppose. But very small. Just something that would hold one of those little cakes of charcoal that go into a tea-brazier to keep the water hot.”

  Siralcar frowned, considering. “Perhaps such a thing can be found.”

  GATHERING TOGETHER THE list of provisions had taken the entire morning, and even though it hadn’t involved a lot of lifting and carrying—much less than Harrier would have done any afternoon on the docks in Armethalieh—he’d still worked up enough of an appetite to be more than interested in the midday meal.

  The weather was mild enough that the meal was taken outdoors, even though as far as Harrier could remember, it should be Vintage or even Mistrise by now, and back home there would be heavy frosts at night and everyone would be watching the skies and predicting the date of the first snow. Several long tables were set up under the trees; Harrier had already noticed that for all that the Elves built so many things to last, they didn’t build one more permanent thing than they needed, or leave something standing a moment longer than necessary. Where humans would have just left the outdoor tables up year-round—or at least during the moonturns of good weather—the Elves took them down and put them up between uses.

  Interestingly enough, there were many more people gathered for the midday meal than there had been for either breakfast or supper. Harrier didn’t have enough experience of farms in general (let alone Elven ones) to know whether this was typical—and whether it was or not, where were all the other Elves when they weren’t here? As far as he knew, Blackrowan Farm was the only settlement for miles around. He knew it would be rude to ask the question even if he could figure out how to phrase it, though. Maybe Ancaladar could tell him later. At least the food was good and plentiful. He hadn’t had a meal yet in the Elven Lands that wasn’t, even if some of the dishes were a little strange.