The Phoenix Unchained (15 page)

“It would indeed,” Bisochim agreed, once the silence had stretched
for a while. “But you must agree, they will heal far better once they have been untangled from these trees.”

The dragon blinked in astonishment, as if the idea had never occurred to her. “So they would, Man,” she said at last.

“Shall we begin, then?” Bisochim asked.

It was hot, back-breaking work to untangle the dragon’s wings from the grove of tall thornbush into which she had been driven by the storm. The Sandwind that had been her undoing had been a violent one, as deep desert winds often were. It had caught her by surprise, she told him, as she flew low to the ground nearly a hundred miles from here, catching her up in its violence, hammering her into near-insensibility before flinging her to the ground in the midst of a stand of thornwood. The tall twisted branches, nearly as hard as metal, had pierced and torn the abraded membrane of her wings, shredding them so thoroughly that she was now incapable of flight, even if she had been able to work herself free.

Bisochim was forced to ride back to his canyon for axe and ropes to cut away branches and—in some cases—cut down entire trees. It was evening by the time he was finished, and at last—for the first time in many days—the dragon was able to fold her wings to her sides once more and straighten herself into a comfortable position.

“I suppose I must thank you for your aid,” she said, still with the same odd reluctance with which she had spoken to him at all in their infrequent exchanges. “It is only fitting that you know my name. I am Saravasse.”

“And you already know that I am Bisochim. You must be tired and hungry. I know nothing of the ways of dragons, but there is a canyon a little way from here where you can find shelter. There is grass and sweet water—”

Saravasse snorted in amusement.

“—and I can offer you goats.”

“I know little of the desert, Bisochim. But I know it does not offer charity. Once I have rested—and I can repay you for your shelter with tales of the lands beyond the mountains—I shall be able to hunt my own food. Just not on the wing.”

“Will your wings heal?” Bisochim asked. Having seen the damage they had sustained, he was greatly worried. He had offered to sew the torn flaps of skin together—as much as that was possible—but Saravasse had refused.

“In time,” she said quietly. “And I have time. Without a Bond, I shall live forever. And now, young Wildmage, I suggest that you look to your
shotor
. Were I to make a sudden appearance, you would find yourself walking home.”

IN the sennights that followed, Saravasse was as good as her word. In exchange for her shelter—water was a gift of the desert itself and was never seen as charity—she told him tales of lands beyond Bisochim’s imagining. Of a world where it was so cold that water froze at midday, and fell from the sky as snow. Of Elves and unicorns, of forests that stretched as far as the widest desert, of Elven cities as exquisitely made as the most beautiful lacquerwork box. She spoke to him, also, of dragons.

Even now, a thousand years after Jermayan and Ancaladar had brought dragonkind back to life, they were rare, for in a time more ancient than Bisochim could imagine, the dragons had made a Great Bargain with the Elves, for the safety of all the peoples of the Light. Creatures of magic, they had bound their magic first to Elven Mages and then, when the time of Elven Mages was no more, to human Mages. Since the Great Bargain, only when Bonded to a Mage could a dragon express its innate magic . . . and produce offspring.

The Mage to whom the Dragon was Bonded became powerful beyond
others of his or her kind, for with the Bond, all Prices were paid, and the Mage possessed an endless wellspring of Power from which to draw. But the Bond came at a high price for both of the Bonded, for the death of either meant the death of both. And though an unBonded dragon had an infinite natural lifespan, it was no more invulnerable than any other natural creature, as Bisochim had already seen. A dragon could be killed—by mischance, or by a creature more powerful than itself. And the Bond did not lengthen the human Mage’s years at all. Were Saravasse—a young dragon still, as her kind counted time—to Bond, her life would be shortened from eternity to decades.

This was the reason she had been so curt and distant with him. A dragon recognized those with whom a Bond could be forged long before their potential human partners did. And while either—or both—parties could refuse to accept a Bond, refusing what was meant to be came at its own price. One of heartbreak, longing, and eternal regret.

“I knew the moment I saw you,” Saravasse said sadly. “But I did not wish to believe.”

It was high summer now, but the desert nights were cool. They sat together in the meadow that had grown up in the depths of Bisochim’s canyon home. He had dug the irrigation canals himself last winter, and now the floor of the canyon bloomed lush and green, even in summer, for there was plenty of water.

“You must leave,” Bisochim said urgently. “I do not have long to live.”

Saravasse chuckled sadly. She was nothing more than a shadow to him, for the moon had not yet risen over the canyon wall, and her eyes were closed so he could not see their light. “You are but a child,” she answered softly.

“I am more than a man grown, and the balance of my life will be measured in a few decades, not so very much more. The desert is harsh. The Isvaieni do not make old bones. Nothing to the life that you should have,” Bisochim answered.

“Where shall I go? Shall I walk back across the mountains? Even a dragon needs water. It will be long before my wings are healed enough for me to take the wind again.”

“Then
I
will leave and never return. I shall give you this place and all it contains. A gift.”

“Gifts are only given between lovers, Bisochim. Would you leave me to mourn you?”

“I would leave you to live.”

“Once I thought that was important. As did another of my kind. He is a legend, I believe, even among your people.”

“You speak of Ancaladar the Star-Crowned.”

“Such a fancy name. Ancaladar did not wish to Bond, either. And in those days—I speak now of a time thousands of years ago, of a war that your people have forgotten, the war that Elves and humans once called The Great War—the Bond between Mages and Dragons could not always be counted even in decades, child. Often it was counted in only so many years as you can count on your fingers. For it was wartime, and the Endarkened were powerful. Not even the spells of the Dragon-Bonded could save them. When I was . . . younger than I am now, I heard those stories. They terrified me beyond reason. Child, I have
slept
for longer than the lives of those Bonded. And I vowed—oh, yes—that I would never succumb. Just as, I imagine, Ancaladar vowed, in his time. It is why there are no dragons in human lands now; when the Bond is made, now, it is made among the Elves; their lives are short, but not so short as humankind.

“Those who had Bonded assured me it was a fair bargain—as it must be, since it was set by the Wild Magic itself—and that I
should not fear it if it came to me. It does not always. Some seek it, and never find it. Some avoid it, and are sought out. But I was determined to take matters into my own claws, and control my own fate absolutely. I could have retreated into a deep cave and slept away the centuries, but I did not want that. I wanted to explore the world, to cross Great Ocean. They say there are no Mages on the other side. I thought—perhaps—there . . . Instead, the winds blew me to your feet.”

“I shall refuse the Bond,” Bisochim said, though the words nearly choked him. There was nothing he had ever wanted more in his entire life. Not to be a great hunter. Not to become a Wildmage. Not to Heal his father and see him standing before him once again hale and whole. Nothing. But to accept what he wanted with all his heart would doom the creature he loved most in the entire world to death.

“Will you refuse me, Beloved?” Saravasse asked softly.

“Yes!”
Bisochim groaned.

“Then you will doom me to an empty and meaningless life,” the dragon said implacably. “I shall grieve for the loss of you every hour that I live.”

“You will find another!” Bisochim said without thinking.

“And Bond with them? And die with them?” the dragon asked. She laughed bitterly. “Beloved, tell me how
that
is a better bargain!”

“You’ll be in the Elven Lands,” Bisochim said. “So your Bonded will be an Elf. You’ll have thousands of years.”

“Hundreds of years,” Saravasse corrected. He heard a rustling of scales as she got to her feet. “But you’re right. It’s possible—if I start looking immediately—that I might find someone else with whom I can Bond in a century or two. I’d better get started.” The ground shook with her footsteps as she began to walk away.

“Wait!” Bisochim yelped, scrambling to his feet. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the Elven Lands,” Saravasse said over her shoulder. The sound of her voice came from several dozen feet in the air.

“What? Now? You’re going to
walk
?”

“I can’t fly. And I won’t stay here.”

Bisochim ran after her, but even though she was walking sedately, she was a dragon and her steps were long. He fell farther behind at every step.

“Come back here!” he shouted. “You can’t do this! You’ll die in the desert! You’ll never get there!”

The ground stopped shaking as Saravasse stopped moving. “I might survive. It’s a chance I’m willing to take. You have no claim on me, Bisochim. You want none.”

“I want you to live!”

He heard Saravasse sigh in the darkness. “To live is good. I wish to live. But I do not wish to live an empty meaningless life filled with pain. Do you? I am a creature of magic, governed by its laws. You are a Wildmage, keeper of the Balance. Mageprices are harsh things, so I have been told. I do not know; you are the first Wild-mage I have ever met. Yet I know that I did not know what happiness was until the moment I saw your face, and I would trade all the long years of a dragon’s unBonded lifetime to know that happiness in full. You think only of what I will lose. Think of what we both will gain.”

“You would be happy, Saravasse?” Bisochim asked uncertainly.

“I would. For all my days.”

“They would be short.”

“I could have died a moonturn ago if the rocks had been sharper or I had fallen from a greater height. Nothing in life is certain.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am certain of you if you are certain of me,” the dragon answered softly.

“I have never wanted anything so much as I want you, Saravasse.”

The great red-gold dragon turned around and paced slowly back to where Bisochim stood. For the first time she lowered her head to a level with his own and looked deeply into his eyes. Her eyes were the glowing gold of the rising desert moon.

Ah, so this is it . . .
Bisochim thought distantly. Power poured into him like a torrent of sweet water, and with it, more than he could ever have imagined. Acceptance. Love. Knowledge.

Later that night he Healed her wings—and then, for the first time, he saw the desert from the air. He was changed utterly.