The Firebird
The Firebird
By Nerine Dorman
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2018 Nerine Dorman
Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover illustration: Cat Hellisen
Cover design and layout: Nerine Dorman
The Firebird
By Nerine Dorman
Table of Contents
About this Story
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
About this Author
About this Story
What is true evil? How do you fight it?
Since she was little, Lada wanted to be part of the Order of Fennarin, one of the warrior-monks who are the last bastion in a war against the demons and insurgents that threaten her island home. Yet to achieve her dream, Lada turned blood traitor, her decision leading to the death and exile of her family.
Her betrayal comes to haunt her now, ten years later, when her elders demand that she oversees her brother Ailas’s trial. Lada feared him lost forever, thanks to his covenant with demons, which makes him anathema to her and her order.
Will she deny her blood and uphold the order that’s become her family? Or will she listen to the whispers of the demons? After all, they might just be telling the truth – though a truth that may make her question everything, even the organisation to which she’s entrusted her very soul.
Dedication
To my friends who journey through strange lands: Ir shti shta-tu!
Acknowledgements
You’d think that after a few years of writing acknowledgements that this would become easier. Well, nope. I’m going to kick off with a disclaimer and say if there is anyone I’ve forgotten to mention here, I’m sincerely sorry. And THANK YOU.
And now for the people who were involved. My undying gratitude goes to: Laurie Jane who beta-read this for me and offered valuable feedback, and then to my other reader who didn’t want to be named (if you’re reading this, thank you. You know who you are and your comments not only made my day but also provided a nice angle for me to look at developmental edits).
Then, dear Cat, you were awesome. Not only did you help with the line edits, but you also illustrated the beautiful nightjar that graces the front cover.
Also, Aleks, your blurb-sharpening skills are mean, sir. Thank you for lending me your eyeballs.
Then, to my friends in Skolion, dear Tallulah, Masha, and the others, a huge-ass thank you. Publishing is a tricksy business, and to know that I’ve got my team at my back makes this walk a little less mad and lonely.
Foreword
Oh gosh, I’m even writing one of these.
But a note, because I know people ask this question: Where does The Firebird draw its inspiration from?
This novella began life when I heard a call for submissions for non-Eurocentric fantasy settings, and started wondering about which settings would work for the kind of story I wanted to tell. A few years ago, I visited the island of Mauritius, and since then I’ve been itching to use a tropical island setting in one of my stories. So, no snow, okay? No castles. No mad kings. No knights astride galloping destriers. And no damsels either, for that matter.
The rest? Mmm, I’ll not lie. Wade Davis’s The Serpent and the Rainbow is partially responsible for some of my themes.
And that’s all I have to say on the matter.
CHAPTER ONE
The Firebird
The afternoon thundershowers have left the ground steaming, and the last great droplets caught in the canopy above spatter down into muddy puddles. The ground is slick, sucking at my boots where I crouch beneath a spreading meria tree. I’ve crushed fallen blooms underfoot like white dead moths, and the scent rises sickly sweet. My nose itches, but I suppress the need to sneeze. Not now.
Too much rides on our mission; I cannot afford to be the cause of failure. My ebon-wood stave is heavy with shored-up power humming along its length. I fear I won’t get to use it. Yet again. It rankles that Ally Melnas has set me to keep watch all the way back, near the gates of the estate, while the rest of our unit slips into the property on silent feet.
My view is of the red-mud wagon track winding down beneath its meria-tree canopy, a tunnel whose roof is spangled with star-like blooms. The estate is situated in a dell, high up in the foothills of Mount Ferion’s range where the tree ferns unfurl their fronds and, if an idle wanderer is fortunate, they might hear, or even glimpse, ghost lemurs.
It’s the lemurs’ eerie, hooting calls that make me shiver despite the mugginess of the day. The bell-like tones echo in this narrow valley—perhaps a maiden in distress, but then the cry rises and ends on an ascending staccato exclamation. A threnody of nightmares, and a tremor passes through me when I recall the nights I lay abed as a child, the shutters pulled closed and locked despite the heat. What if it isn’t a lemur, I’d ask Mama, and she’d hush me, tell me not to fear, that it’s not the spirits of the dead come to fetch me.
It was my brother Ailas who relished the unearthly tales, of the lemurs infested with demons when other, more suitable hosts were yet to be found. If you slept with your mouth open, he would tell me with great relish, the beast would come during the night and stick his hand down your throat and place a demon there, with the night-whistlers sitting on his shoulders, shrieking further lamentations.
Too much here on the estate grounds reminds me of my past. I shift so that I am not so hunched. The blood flow eases to my left leg and the muscle cramps so I have to massage out the prickles. Not a sound, but for the lemurs’ crying and the never-ending frogs—blue-lipped poison frogs and river toads. Little plinking sounds like drumsticks beaten together from the frogs, complemented by the squelching belches of toads. The chorus would be pretty, if we were here purely for the view and the fresh air.
But we’re not.
The orchid farmer and his family have departed for the market, according to our agent. They’ve been gone since this morning and will only begin their return now that the afternoon showers are over. A convenient alibi, I suppose. They can claim ignorance while we close in on our targets.
The insurgents were using Three Bells Farm for the past month before the farmer’s wife developed a conscience and reported them. Or maybe she just became too scared knowing what the insurgents are planning. Elder Saitas has been merciful. He will spare her husband who, at this point, has no idea that his wife has struck a bargain for his life. Idiots this close to the capital can only dream of keeping their treasonous activities secret. The Fennarin has eyes and ears everywhere.
My duty this day is to keep watch in case the farmer returns early or, in a worst-case scenario, more insurgents arrive with reinforcements. Either way for me, this mission has mostly been a case of hurry up and wait. Like the last one. And the one before. Apparently, despite my skills with the stave and in unarmed combat on the training grounds, I’m still a liability in the field. According to Ally Melnas, that is, despite me besting him and a generous handful of the other allies on more than one occasion.
I’d like to say that it’s because I’m a woman, but in the eye of
the Illuminant, all are equal within our order of the Fennarin. Or so it is said when our Most Esteemed makes his utterances. Yet I’ve heard what the others have said when they think I’m not within earshot. Shiwen peasant trash, that woman. Their jealous gazes slide over me, evaluating and finding a woman of common birth wanting because they’re too afraid to admit they themselves might be less than worthy.
Jumped-up Shiwen, they say. As if the Binmah class of tradesmen, priests and soldiers is somehow one step above the peasantry and bondsmen. They like to forget that their Shiwen grandmothers and great-grandmothers spread their legs for our Oran slavemasters before the Emancipation. Just because the mixed-blood Binmah were never shackled like the native Shiwen doesn’t mean we’re not all Adari people—Shiwen, Binmah and Oran alike—of the island; just some have a little more of the old blood in us than others, old blood we should be proud of. Even the Ora nobles have a little dip into the mud somewhere along in their clans, though they like to hush that up while they powder their faces with cerussa.
The frogs fall silent, and I’m instantly alert, my breath pinched in my throat. Not even a bird stirs in the boughs above me, though some creature was rustling the foliage only a heartbeat ago. Another ululating lemur call, but this time from higher up in the valley. My skin prickles, my veins constrict.
The animals and birds know danger is afoot. I’m vigilant, ready for anything.
A man’s shout down by the house is muted by the dense undergrowth. I’m not to move, and the frustration has me grinding my teeth. Something must’ve gone wrong. My unit was supposed to box them in, apparently in one of the storage sheds where the insurgents have planned to meet and collect supplies, as they do every other market day.
The impact of the explosion thuds through the earth, more felt than heard, and as one a swarm of birds takes flight. Flying foxes screech as they flap heavily into the air, shaking loose a deluge of meria blooms.
I dare to rise from my hiding place and curse my position. I have an excellent view of gate leading from the main road, but not further down to the farmstead. More shouts, followed by muted thuds. There is fighting, while I dither here like a fool. Every instinct, every desire in my whip-taut muscles urges me to rush down that wagon track to join, but I must hold.
The patch of sky darkens with roiling black smoke.
I stand firm, my knuckles turning white on the staff.
Footsteps rush up. Bare feet.
None of the allies goes without shoes.
My stomach turns, my throat suddenly parched as I step into the track to meet my opponent. The inevitability slams into me even while a small portion of my heart rejoices, lusts after the incipient conflict.
Not so useless after all, Ally Melnas, I want to say, even though he’s not here to see the deadly grimace that twists my lips. I have an opportunity to prove myself. I must not fall prey to hubris. Pride may cause one to stumble.
The man rushing at me is garbed as a peasant—a woven-grass kilt and little else. His skin is so daubed with mud and soot, it’s impossible to tell whether he’s Shiwen or Binmah, but none of that matters in the heat of battle.
Like me, he’s armed with a stave—a commoner’s weapon—but I don’t give him a chance to strike first. I bring my stave down, and he blocks with such ferocity the impact jars my teeth. We both discharge but manage to hold, though the concussion nearly brings me to my knees.
We’re brought up close, straining. We’re of a similar stature, his features fine boned despite the ferocious scowl that disfigures his face. Startled hazel eyes widen and abruptly he pulls back with a hiss so that I stagger to the side, past him.
“Unia!” he exclaims.
The name brings me up short. I haven’t gone by that name since... Well, since I joined the Fennarin.
But it all falls into place—the familiarity, his eyes. Of course the eyes.
My little Oran changelings, Mama always said as she held us both close. Somewhere along the line our Oran ancestor visited in the slave lodge.
I whirl around and spin, breathing hard against the constriction in my chest.
The insurgent has relaxed his stance, his stave at his side and one hand held out in supplication.
“Unia?” A hopeful smile graces his lips. “I hadn’t dreamt that—”
Brother.
The intervening decade spins out between us, a chasm. An ugly, unnameable monster coils within me, ready to lash out.
Traitor.
I tense then charge at him. Shock doesn’t have time to register on his face as I strike, faster than a tree viper. He doesn’t defend, though he tries to side-step. I am faster. I expected this move.
Years and years ago, chasing my brother round the lamin trees, dodging the aerial roots as we laughed and played. Always the same move—he tries to step to the side, slightly back, favouring his left leg where the dogfish bit him that time we went to the cove without Mama’s permission.
My stave connects with his temple and discharges, the shock of the power causing a momentary stiffening of his body before he collapses to the ground twitching, eyes rolling back in his skull.
I’m breathing harder than I expected, my world spinning. All sound has dulled; it is only me, my wheezing lungs, and my heart trying to batter its way out of my chest.
That last day of fire and betrayal, when the Fennarin came. I didn’t expect things to end the way they had, but he’d left me no choice.
“It’s your fault as much as mine,” I whisper, almost too scared to touch him. The business end of the stave hovers at his throat.
He doesn’t awaken, still twitching, eyes mere white slits.
“I think he went that way!” someone shouts.
I look up in time to see allies Pava and Saros rush up the track. Pava’s charcoal robes are dark with blood—I assume not his own, for the way he moves he appears otherwise unharmed—while Saros is completely soot smeared.
“You’ve caught him!” Pava crows.
Saros favours me with a disbelieving glare but he stoops to check the insurgent’s pulse.
“He ran...right at me,” I say, not quite believing my own words.
The only reason I stopped him—and I understand this implicitly—is because he’s my brother, my traitor brother who made the mistake of hesitating when he recognised his long-lost sister. Things might’ve been ended quite differently, otherwise.
Your compassion is your undoing, traitor.
Saros works quickly with the bindings while Pava spills the story of their near-disaster at the farmstead. There’d been an incendiary device, he says, and the fighting was hard and ugly, for the insurgents were desperate to protect their own. I can be glad that I am up here. This was not a battle for a woman to see.
I don’t remind him that I’ve seen far, far worse during the past three years of my active service, but I bite the inside of my cheek.
And I won’t revisit the village torched, of the children hidden under the floorboards of the old temple when we burned it. We’d only realised our error when we’d heard the screams, and by then it’d been too late.
Collateral damage.
Sometimes you must sacrifice healthy growth in order to excise the diseased, though that brings cold comfort in the dark, when sleep is elusive.
The old woman put to The Trial because her daughter was under suspicion of allowing a vyra to ride her. The families torn asunder.
Mama. Papa too.
My knuckles are white, so hard do I clench my stave.
It’s my brother’s fault. If not for him, our parents would still be alive.
Yet the shock of seeing him here, after so long. Ten long years.
What? Had I hoped he’d fade into the highlands, singing and dancing with his demon spirits?
“I don’t believe it,” Saros says while examining the insurgent.
I need to keep thinking of him as the insurgent. My brother is dead to me.
“What?” I nearly choke on the single syllable.
“You’ve caught the Firebird.”
No.
And yet when I study the prone man, the illustration that has been circulated all these past months makes sense. Granted, the artist gave him shorter hair—this man’s thick-corded locks hang past his shoulders. His face is rounder in the image, but the cheekbones, for sure. Along with the small tattoo of a sickle-winged night-whistler on his right forearm once Saros smears away a layer of mud paint.
Only the vyra-tainted will take permanent skin markings.
The dissonance of what I’m seeing nearly brings me to my knees.
“The Firebird?”
“I don’t doubt it! No one else would mark himself this way.” Pava grins. “Makes all of this worth it. Especially after all the trouble he’s caused us.”
“Elder Saitas will not be as angry,” Saros says with a meaningful pause. “That we lost two of our own today.” He fixes me with his critical gaze. “What I don’t understand is how you succeeded where the rest of us failed.”
Does he mean to say a “mere” woman is not up to the task or is he suggesting something altogether more sinister?
My blood chills. “What are you trying to imply, Ally Saros?”
Accusations of sorcery should not be thrown around lightly, and it is so like Saros to dredge up my past.
If his intent is to suggest that my superstitious peasant upbringing hasn’t quite been beaten out of me, he isn’t afforded the opportunity, for Ally Melnas, his robes torn as if he’s tangled with a kama bird, strides up the track towards us. Though he has a hand pressed to his bleeding side, he walks as if the injury is a mere scratch. Of course he would make light of a serious wound.
“Well done, Saros, Pava!” he exclaims. “I knew you’d capture him!”
“Ally—” Pava starts, but Saros thumps him hard in the ribs.