Time, food, and rest aided Phénix; she regained mobility.
She would have recovered more quickly if she slept more peace-fully at night. Now that she was away from Healer’s (or Restaurà’s) protective aura, her nightmares, or rather a single, recurrent nightmare, plagued her again. In her sleep a red-eyed face—whether of man, bat, or wolf she couldn’t say—laughed at her and taunted her. Once Hope shook her shoulders to wake her up, and Phénix gathered that she’d been thrashing and crying out.
As she became better acquainted with her housemates, she learned that the qualities that mattered most in a recovery house differed from those prized amongst the Raiders. The Raiders had focused on fighting skills, and then on bravery and self-sacrifice. In this circumstance, by contrast, the most appreciated trait was empathy. Phénix prized Damyroth above all her fellow lodgers because he could always read the pain in her face and invariably sought to ameliorate it or distract her. Everyone grew impatient with Lymbock, the jaundice patient, because he rarely pitched in with anyone else’s care. And though they understood that the injury to Hope’s psyche must have been severe, the fact that she walked by Sezirō without even noticing that he shivered with fever infuriated them all.
Tonight Phénix put off retiring to her bed and evil dreams. In the common room, Lymbock had rubbed her sore shoulder until he got bored; Phénix smoothed salve onto the raw tissue on the bottom of Damyroth’s stump and offered Sezirō sips of lemon water. Hope sat unmoving where they’d placed her in a chair. Jitneye brought out a strange stringed instrument that was something smaller and more rounded than Phénix had ever seen before and strummed it. Phénix softly began to sing a common children’s song that counted up to nine ducks and back. Although Jitneye often fumbled, Damyroth and Lymbock joined in.
Halfway through the song, tears started flooding down Hope’s mute face. They all noticed but pretended not to. Phénix and Jitneye exchanged meaningful looks; purposely he kept playing and she kept singing children’s songs until they had made it through all such songs they had in common.
When Hope and Phénix retired to their attic bedroom, Phénix lay on her back, listening to nighttime street noises of a busy city.
Phénix whispered to the gable, “Not so long ago, I spent time with a group of children. Their worlds had been turned upside down because most had lost their mothers. I haven’t yet met a mother who’s lost her children. Did something happen to your children, Hope?” She did not actually expect an answer.
“He killed them,” said the woman in the bed next to hers, startling her with a voice rusty from disuse.
“Who killed them?” asked Phénix softly.
“My husband.” She was silent for a long moment, and Phénix held her breath. “He killed my boy and my baby right in front of me.”
Phénix gasped at the thought. “How? Why?”
A sniffling sound in the dark attic room indicated that Hope was crying again. “With his butcher’s knife. Because he thought I was making eyes at a neighbor.”
“Oh, Sweet Waters,” whispered Phénix, as tears flooded her own eyes. “Did the guards arrest him? Hang him?”
She heard a muffled “No,” as if Hope had her hands over her mouth.
“Why ever not?”
“Because after he cut the baby’s throat, he smiled at me and cut his own.”
“Oh, the Waters!” Phénix breathed. She could too readily imagine the gush of blood, the lifeless little bodies. Her heart ached for her roommate, who was now wailing full-out into her pillow. She thought of crossing the room to her, but speech itself was such a breakthrough that she didn’t dare jeopardize this progress by adding touch.
When the sobbing abated a notch, Phénix asked the darkness, “What is your name? Would you prefer we call you by your real name?”
“‘Hope’ will do.”
“May the Waters bless you, Hope,” said Phénix, and she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling for a long time even after her roommate fell asleep, thinking about different varieties of pain.
All of Phénix’s burns and incisions closed up. She had recovered sufficiently that she could walk the streets of Salubriton alone, though she found the experience unpleasant because, since she didn’t carry a parasol, people looked through her, assuming she must be a low-class servant or a whore. In her strolls she found a bookseller not far from the Bread and Balm that offered old broadsheets from the other continents, but she had no ready money. She also hankered for different clothes, hair tonic, and other small items.
So she took the amethyst headband Arlettie had given her and carefully dislodged several of the smaller stones. Dame Tockymora accompanied her to sell the gems to make sure she got a fair price (though she asked for a 10 percent commission for her time). Phénix then bought herself two sets of rugged trousers and linen shirts similar to those she had worn as a stable manager in Slagos. She spent several sessions roaming cobblers’ shops, finding a cobbler who would craft boots to her specifications. Finally, she purchased a belt and sheath for her dagger. When she strapped it about her waist, she sighed with relief.
Buoyed by her success, she walked to faraway shopping streets, looking to buy presents for her housemates with some of the money she had left over. She purchased a book to help Lymbock pass the time, a new frock for Hope, and a cheerful hand fan for Sezirō. For Damyroth and Jitneye she bought bottles of local fruit juice. With water rationed, the juice was quite expensive, but she knew that after their exercises they grew thirsty, so this was a special treat.
She realized that the principle behind the recovery houses was the same one behind the Brothers and Sisters of Sorrow in Weirandale. In caring for others, you heal yourself.
She held her breath when she presented Hope with the new gown and was pleased to see her roommate eagerly change into it. These days Hope would talk to Phénix, their landlady, or the female healers if she had to, though she still shied away from any conversation with men. She fetched and carried as needed, but now that she could recall her own history she would not touch or allow male patients to touch her. The house rejoiced that she had made this much progress; her improvement lifted a weight off of all of them. Betlyna predicted that with time Hope’s psychic injury would heal even more, though they were still supposed to watch her constantly.
By contrast, Lymbock never cracked the cover of his book. His yellow color worsened rather than subsided; his legs began to swell; he lost his appetite and often complained of pain in his belly. Meanwhile, Jitneye had grown strong enough to return to his home but he wheedled the apprentice healers to be allowed to stay in the recovery house because he would be so lonely in his own lodgings. “Heart Attack Number Four is waiting for me,” he told Betlyna. “I’d ruther not meet that wicked fellow all alone.”
Next to Damyroth, Phénix became most fond of Sezirō. As she changed his bandages, washed, or fed him, he told her colorful stories about his adventures. He had sailed across all the seas, marveling at floating islands of ice and flocks of seabirds so dense they shut out the sunlight. He told her there were lands beyond Ennea Món, a concept that thrilled and frightened her.
“How did you wind up here?” Phénix asked him one day.
“Several of us signed on to a trade ship Agfadorian. When we stopped here the seamaster gave us shore leave and then put to sea in the night to avoid paying us what was due.”
“How low!” Phénix exclaimed.
“Aye, but he got what was coming to him,” Sezirō commented with a note of pride.
When he wasn’t talking of his travels, he would boast of past duels with relish.
“Why did you fight?” she asked him one day.
“I fought to prove I was the best. Or I fought for honor.”
“What does ‘honor’ mean to you?”
Sezirō was shocked by the question. “Honor means everything—do you not have honor in the Free States?”
“Well, yes. To act honorably would be not to cheat your customers. To keep your promises and such. But where I come from, most people are not eager to die for their honor.”
“Ach, Fire Bird. Let me see if I can explain. In Zellia, few people own much land or big estates. Some rich people, it is true, own ships or shipyards … but that’s another matter. What every man is born with is his own and his family’s honor. You must prove your devotion to Ghibli. You must prove you are a man of your word. You must care for your family. And you must not allow someone else to show you disrespect or show you the coward. If you do so, you will lose face. And your face, your honor, is all you possess truly.”
“Do women in Zellia fight for honor too?”
“Sometimes, yes. Though Zellish women are not as competitive as the men, they too train with swords and daggers and they will challenge anyone who tries to them dishonor. In Pexlia, our cousins with pink hair have a view idiotic of women’s honor. They do not teach their women to fight. They think their women’s honor lies in chastity, and they stone women who know pleasure.” He made a spitting noise.
“What do the Zellish believe?”
“We believe that a woman’s honor, like a man’s, doesn’t lie between her legs, but here.” He laid his hand on his heart.
“How do you love with honor?”
Sezirō opened his eyes wide in surprise at her utter ignorance. “One is honest with one’s bed partners. Once one has found the mate, one loves with the whole heart. One loves forever. In Zellia, a woman does not taunt men. She does not neglect the children or her family.” He lowered his voice. “Lymbock’s daughter, the daughter who has never come to fetch him, she is a woman with no honor.”
“Are men expected to love so faithfully too? If Lymbock had a son, instead of a daughter, would you say he had no honor?”
“Indeed,” said Sezirō. “The difference is if that son came to this door, I would run him through with my sword immediately. I swear, up from this couch I rise.”
Phénix thought through these concepts as she poured Sezirō some cold willow bark tea and sat on a pillow next to his rocking chair.
“What if Lymbock’s daughter doesn’t come to fetch him home because Lymbock was cruel to her? I can imagine he was not a patient or loving father.”
“Then, I should run Lymbock through with my sword to avenge her. To be the unloving parent is most dishonorable. But, alas, one cannot attack the ill. To do so would be to act without honor.”
She laughed. “Sounds like the rules about honor are very complicated.”
“Indeed. The purpose of life is to learn to live honorably in all situations.”
He grabbed her hand and changed the subject. “It is very honorable, Fire Bird, to comfort a dying foreigner, just as honorable as taking a stranger into one’s house.”
Phénix smiled at him. “But I do not do it to build my reputation. I do it because it pleases me when you feel more comfortable.”
“Even better.” He pressed her hand. “Damselle, someday you will want to travel back to your homeland, no? This you must not do as a woman alone and young. You have jewels, money. You must hire the Zellish bodyguard. They are the fiercest fighters and the most loyal defenders. Promise me that this you will do. I die easier if I know you will be safe.”
“What?” She recoiled a little at the prospect. “Sezirō, how can I find a Zellish bodyguard? How can I be sure that I am hiring someone skilled and loyal?”
“This is what you do, damselle. You go to the tavern called ‘Shipmates’ near the river. You ask for a man called Ciellō. You will remember—‘Ciellō.’”
Scratching the burn scars on her neck, she asked, “How do you know that this ‘Ciellō’ would be the best bodyguard?”
Sezirō smiled a shark’s grin. “Because he is the man who has killed me. He is very skilled.”
“He may be a great swordsman, but I am your friend. Why would he be loyal to me?”
“You understand so little,” Sezirō replied. “A Zellishman would not accept a commission unless he would be loyal. Also, he owes me a life. He will take this obligation with most seriousness. Promise me you will go to Shipmates and meet him? Promise me that, Bird of Fire.”
Phénix could hardly refuse, especially when Sezirō’s condition worsened. Healer herself visited the Bread and Balm, trying to persuade him to return to the Healing Center so that she could cut out as much as possible of the black-and-green infected tissue that slowly spread poison through his body.
Sezirō kissed Healer’s hand but shook his head. He knew he was dying; he wanted to stay in the recovery house among his companions. Healer warned them that while an apprentice would visit every day, much of the care would fall on the other patients. “No easy slipping away here, I wager. He’s young and strong: his body will fight for life.”
The five others nevertheless agreed that Sezirō should stay “at home.” Even Hope nodded (though Tockymora looked none too pleased). The patients all decided to short themselves on their water rations so that they had more for Sezirō’s needs.
Although everyone helped, Phénix ended up becoming the dying man’s primary attendant. His suffering grew terrible to behold; sometimes he writhed in agony. Yet he almost never complained.
Tired and anxious, she would sit by his side, marveling at his stoicism.
In a recovery house one learns about pain.
Sezirō still had hours when he rallied and his housemates were able to give him sips of sweet lemon water while chatting quietly with him.
During one respite, Phénix asked, “How do you feel? I mean, are you frightened, do you have regrets, are you angry?”
“Frightened?” He made a scornful face as if he would reject such a dishonorable suggestion, but then he gave a crooked smile. “Frightened? A bit. Like a small boy who is to swim in the sea for first time. It looks so immense and I feel so tiny.
“I would be more frightened if I were deserted. To have friends by is everything.”
Phénix commented, “They say that in the end, all persons die alone.”
“That’s as may be. But to suffer or to slide toward death all alone, that would be hard.”
She stroked his hand.
“Not angry. I have lived many summers. I do not miss the growing old, the losing my teeth.
“What else.… Regrets? Ah, shall I tell you, Fire Bird, why I travel so?”
“Please.”
“In my town there was a girl—Zorah her name. We go to school together, you understand? When we grow up, Zorah, she falls in love with me, but I, I—look elsewhere for the dance. Zorah decides to leave Zellia; she signs on to an oceangoing trader.”
Sezirō’s voice had grown husky so Phénix propped him up and offered him more sips of lemon water. He waved his hand when he was done.
“One day—that day I sail home from fishing to the harbor and I see Zorah—she leans over the side of Winds of Trade. I see her face—I really see it—for the first time.” He looked off in the distance, as if again visualizing her face before him. “I know I make a mistake terrible. A mistake that dishonors both of us. Now, I search for her,” he made an openhanded gesture, “everywhere.”
Phénix’s eyes had filled with tears during this story; it seemed immeasurably tragic that this Zorah would never know of his change of heart and his efforts to find her.
As the days progressed Sezirō could no longer talk and no longer fiddle with Phénix’s hair. What pleased him most was for her to sing to him. He didn’t care what she sang, so she pleased herself by choosing hymns of the Waters. The familiar melodies reawakened all her memories of Sister Nellsapeta, Stahlia, Wilim, and the small white church in Wyndton. The hymns appeared to comfort Sezirō; certainly, they comforted Phénix through these long, grim days.
In the afternoon about ten days after the prognosis, Sezirō’s eyes fluttered and his breath became even more labored.
“Hope! Fetch the others. Sezirō worsens.”
The housemates kept a vigil by his bedside in the quietest room the Bread and Balm had to offer. But the end did not come quickly: his strong heart refused to stop beating for another day.
Phénix was still holding his cooling hand and wiping tears off her face when Betlyna arrived.
“Do not grieve so,” said Betlyna.
“Would you have me caper about?” Phénix snapped.
“No, damselle,” Betlyna murmured to her, “but death is a release. When Restaurà can do no more, the Spirit grants the Ultimate Sleep. We must not fear death, because ofttimes it comes as a blessing.”
The apprentice made arrangements for Sezirō’s body to be taken away for burial.
That night while laying out the dinner dishes, Dame Tockymora said, “I’ve reported the vacancy. We’ll be getting a new guest soon. I do hope it’s not another Zellishman. I’ll never get the smell out of the bedding.”
Dumbstruck, no one voiced a rebuke.
The next morning, Healer herself paid them a visit. After she checked on all the other patients’ progress, she turned to Phénix.
“Might I have a word with you, damselle?”
“Certainly.” Phénix led her into the inner courtyard, which, for the moment, they had to themselves.
“I wanted to warn you again about people who might be looking for you,” said Healer. “I’ve heard renewed gossip.”
“Thank you.”
The older woman peered into her face. “You’ve not been sleeping well. Sezirō’s decline?”
Healer’s concern undid Phénix’s resolve to keep her negligible problems to herself, “That, and I have these terrible dreams that have clung to me ever since I was burned.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“Dreams that my mind has been tainted. That if I were”—here she paused, but her intuition told her to trust Healer as she had trusted Gardener—“to use my full abilities, I’d find these abilities corrupted.”
“I see. Come close to me, would you?” She held the younger woman’s hands and peered closely into her face. “Always before, I saw something of a shadow in your eyes. I don’t know how to describe it; it looked rather like a dark flame. But it’s gone now.”
“You could see it?” Phénix asked. Knowing that the taint was discernible to someone else meant so much to her.
“Aye. I mentioned this in the Healing Center. You might have been too weak to attend.”
“But it’s gone now? Are you sure? Are you totally sure?”
Healer took Phénix’s chin and slanted her face in and out of the sunlight, staring at her intently. “Completely gone, I am certain. Have you done something different in the last weeks?”
“Nothing.” Phénix shrugged. “I’ve done my exercises as well as I could while caring for our friend. I’ve walked less than I should, but I sang a great deal.”
“Sang? Sang what?”
“Hymns of the Waters. They seemed to soothe Sezirō.”
Healer tapped Phénix’s cheek with gentle “how-can-you-be-so-stupid?” taps. “Water washes away any lingering taint or corruption, does it not? I would wager you will have more restorative sleep in the nights to come.”
The next day, after a deep sleep, restlessness beset Phénix. She was eager to escape from this lodging, full of illness and suffering. Healer had told her to stay close to the Bread and Balm, but she had gone shopping without incident.
Dame Tockymora gave her directions to the closest stable, which was named Vigor Hostelry. Phénix bypassed the office door and walked down the rows of stalls, overcome by the smell of horse and the animals’ blows, stamps, and nickers.
The liveryman entered the stable with a bale of hay on his shoulders. Either her trespass made him surly or he was naturally so, because he made no effort to be pleasant. The hostelry generally rented horses for riding parties; someone who wanted to ride alone, he implied, was just an unprofitable nuisance.
“You’re not from Salubriton, that’s for sure,” he said. “Where do you hail from, damselle?”
Though he’d used the polite term “damselle,” Phénix didn’t like the way he squinted at her. “I was born in the Free States,” she said. “In Sutterdam. Does that change the weight of my coin?”
“You don’t sound like any Free Stater I’ve met,” he muttered. The man took her silver coin and hefted it in his palm.
“Oh, you’re an expert on all the Free States accents, is that right?” Now this man irritated her, but she would not allow him to deprive her of a ride.
The only horse that the liveryman was willing to rent her for an afternoon was a stocky white mare he called Pillow. Phénix needed to use a mounting block to get to the horse’s broad back because her arms were no longer strong enough to lift herself so high.
“Which way should I head to get to the countryside?” she asked the stableman.
“There’s nothing there,” he said. “Best to ride in one of our beautiful parks. We keep them green.”
“Just point me the way.”
Though annoyed at her insistence, the liveryman complied.
Phénix felt clumsy on the mare. The saddle was a foreign design without a cantle, and the leather was slippery. Also, this horse didn’t come close to fitting her hips—her legs were spread too widely for comfort or to grip the mare’s flanks. After only ten minutes her left shoulder and back started to ache fiercely. She started to regret this adventure.
My discomforts are real, but the true problem is that Pillow is not Cinders. She’s indifferent to me. She’s just a horse, plodding along with a rolling gait. And I am just like any other stranger she has had on her back. There’s no sense of connection and rightness.
The horse stopped in her tracks and neighed loudly.
Hesitantly, Phénix fumbled to find the latch to the door to her Talent.
One be not indifferent to Your Majesty! cried the horse plaintively. Thou art nay answering one!
Ah! Forgive me, Pillow. I am out of practice; I had my mind closed. Do you really recognize me?
One may be overfed, but one be not stupid.
I am delighted to speak to you. Do you hear me without taint?
“Taint”? One does nay understand.
Like a mash that has sat too long, and when you eat it, it makes you sick.
Thy thoughts have no odor.
Ahhhh. I’d like to see the countryside beyond Salubriton. Do you know the best way to go?
Naturally. One may be heavy, but one be not stupid.
Phénix began a long conversation with the mare, asking her whole life history (which was not very unusual or action-packed), just for the delicious sensation of using her Talent. Her ability to converse flowed as easily as ever. And that the mare identified her filled an empty corner of her heart.
The buildings thinned out, and the city’s hectic bustle fell away. Eventually Pillow swayed alone on a flat dirt road. The landscape was barren and mostly level, with a few small foothills in the distance and red rock formations scattered randomly. Ditches that might have been streams in wetter times were bone-dry. She passed a small pond that held only a cupful of dirty water at the bottom. Phénix saw no other travelers. She recalled what Damyroth had told her: Salubriton was situated on the edge of a thinly populated desert. The Wyes traveled by sea or river barge to other cities in the more fertile north of the country. Even though the inhabitants were accustomed to drought, this current dry spell was the worst in anyone’s memory.
The greater distance she rode, the hotter and drier the air became. She wished she’d thought to bring a hat and some water. Rooks or Codek would have chastised her (with good reason) for riding out so unprepared.
She was almost dozing in the heat and the monotony of the landscape. All of a sudden, Pillow reared in panic and dumped Phénix bang on her rear on the dirt road. The horse galloped a ways back toward the city before stopping her headlong flight. The young woman was too astonished by this event to even think of conversing with the horse about what had frightened her so.
If anyone had been around to see, Phénix would have been mortified by her lack of skill. She couldn’t recall ever being unhorsed before. She stood up, noticing that she was uninjured except for bruises on her seat, but feeling uneasy. She pulled her dagger from its sheath and looked in all directions.
In a few heartbeats, a tawny-colored catamount, which had been camouflaged by the dry grass until she moved, leapt onto the road in front of her.
Phénix regarded the mountain lion levelly. Perchance she should have been frightened, but the catamount gazed back at her with its yellow eyes, eyes a princella remembered from long, long ago.
You should not have frightened my horse, Phénix sent. That was very rude.
One wanted to meet thee, sent the catamount.
I didn’t know that catamounts live wild in Wyeland.
Indeed. This be where we live.
Some live in Weirandale.
One knows nothing of that.
Why did you want to meet me?
One has a new litter of kits. Wilt thou bless them?
Certainly. Bring them out of hiding.
Phénix sat in the middle of the dirt road. Three young kits crawled out of a dry rivulet, scampered over to her, and crawled around her lap. Phénix rubbed their fat bellies, caressed their soft fur, and let them lick her fingers with their rough tongues. They tried to climb up her clothing with their claws to reach her face, but she disentangled them.
The female catamount stood nearby, casting proud glances. Then she addressed Phénix.
Why art thou here, Your Majesty?
Here in the road? Because you frightened my horse.
Here in this realm.
I’ve been recovering from serious injuries.
Thou dost not bleed; thou dost not limp; thou rides a horse.
Aye, I am somewhat better now.
Then why art thou here, Your Majesty?
Are you saying it is time to leave? Truly, female catamount, you are most insolent.
One believes thou hast duties elsewhere.
Phénix firmly moved the kits off her lap and stood up.
This audience is at an end, she told the animal. Leave the area so that I can call back my horse.
The catamount blinked at her challengingly. Thou hast duties elsewhere, she repeated. The Waters ebb.
I TOLD YOU TO GO! commanded Phénix. The cat rounded up her kits and slunk off toward the foothills. Phénix sat back in the dirt of the road.
That the catamount had been instructed by a Spirit to accost her, she had no doubt. Phénix saw no streams or greenery, but it didn’t really matter if the Spirit had been Nargis, Vertia, Saulė, or one of the others. The point was that the cat had asked her to consider that question: “Why am I still here?”
Defensively she answered: I’m here because this is the first day I’ve even ridden a horse. I’m here because this is the first day I’ve even known whether my Talent survived uncorrupted. I still need rest.
True enough. But I’m also here because I’m afraid to leave. I don’t want to abandon this new fellowship at the recovery house. I don’t want to pull myself out by my roots once again.
She picked up a handful of road dust and let it sift through her fingers.
Yet this is not where I belong. This is not my soil.
I have played at being a wren, a kestrel, a finch, a skylark, and a phoenix. I can’t keep putting off what I know I have to do. If I am not ready now, I will never be.
She brushed the dust off her hands, rubbed them clean on her dustcoat, then used her fingertips to wipe the sweat that had pooled under her eyes and on the sides of her nose. She then stood up and slapped the dirt off her seat.
I must journey to Cascada and claim the Nargis Throne alone. It’s just taken this long for me to face it. Or, perchance, to be truly ready for it.
Pillow came to her whistle, full of apologies. Remounting posed a problem, but Cerúlia found a rock that she could scramble onto and then reach the horse’s stirrups.
Take us back to your stable, Pillow, she ordered. No, I am not angry with you.
On the long ride back, Cerúlia shifted in the uncomfortable saddle, trying to relieve her aching back. Eventually Pillow brought her back to the outskirts of Salubriton. Twilight fell, and a cooling breeze rolled in from the direction of the riverfront. The streets quieted, and lantern light glowed from interiors.
Cerúlia decided that tomorrow she would visit Shipmates tavern. A bodyguard would not really help her with her major task, but he might make the journey home less anxious. She should not scruple to use the gifts the Spirits had given her, such as her Talent, or the dagger and jewels that came from her uncle, Prince Mikil.
Besides, she had promised a dying man she would consider a bodyguard, and she wanted to prove that she was a woman of honor.