The Cygnet and the Firebird Read Online Free Page B

colorful than the last.” He touched the rose in her hand. “They all said you were safe.” He paused, his eyes going seaward again, where white birds flashed over the water and dived. “I caught the gist of it: a mage, a key—”
    “Don’t say it.”
    “And a blood-red rose.”
    She looked at him, said recklessly, “You were watching; you must have seen him pick it.”
    He blinked, wordless, then pulled her close suddenly; she heard his heartbeat. “What do you think? That I would have stood here sunning myself like a tortoise while you defended a sleeping Holding Council alone against a mage who could have left youlying on your shadow as easily as the rose? Is that what you think?”
    “Yes,” she said, for there were gates within gates into the house, and she suspected he watched them all. “No. Yes. What I think is that you know exactly what comes and goes through that gate.”
    He was silent. His hold eased; he dropped a kiss on her hair, and said finally, “So I do. And in case the mage considers knocking at the gate next time, tell me what I should look for.”
    “A man,” she said, “taller than me, by a few inches. With hair a dusty golden-brown and light eyes like water. The animal is embroidered on his robe.” She paused, thinking back. “He wears silver at his wrists—”
    “Old?”
    “No older than you. Taller than me—”
    “You said that.”
    “And he moves like a man accustomed to space.”
    “You noticed a lot in an eye-blink,” he commented drily. She looked at him, her eyes still and clear as the sky where the sun had set and the memory of light lingered. He swallowed a word. His face dropped toward hers. Their lips touched. And then he turned abruptly, snatching her breath along with his, and she saw the firebird over his shoulder.
    It seemed to blow out of the sea like spume, so white it was, and so fast it flew; then, as it passed the turret, she saw the fiery wingtips and the long, graceful plumes that trailed behind it like flame. Its talons were silver. It gave a cry of such fierce fury and despairthat it drove the blood from her face and brought the Gatekeeper to his feet. The busy yard stopped as if it were spellbound again. With the cry came fire: a forge-fire, and a hammer, and the hand holding the hammer froze into silver.
    Meguet hit the ground running before she realized she had moved. There were cottagers’ children transfixed by the swooping bird; there were animals everywhere, it seemed—horses, cows still coming in to be milked, chickens, hounds. The bird, crying again, turned a corner of a barn into bronze, and nicked a hound’s ear. The hound bellowed, blundered into the cows; there was a small stampede toward the bewitched forge. Stable girls hurried to take in the horses, ducking their heads under their arms as at pelting hail. The bird wheeled above a group of barefoot children who had twisted themselves into a knot with a piece of harness. Meguet and several of the cottagers ran toward them as they struggled frantically. The bird’s fire missed the children, hit a cat slinking away into the shadows and turned it into a jewelled sword. Meguet snatched it up. Wielding it above the children, she startled them into tears. She cut them free of each other; they scattered, wailing, then turned again, too fascinated to find shelter.
    She saw Rush Yarr and a few of the younger councilors on the tower wall with bows; household guards were racing to position themselves along the crenelation. She saw Rush fix an arrow, draw back and aim. She slowed, feeling a sudden, unreasonable dismay form like a shout in her throat. The bird, a swirlof white and red, cried its enraged sorrow; fire swept the wall, and all the archers ducked. The stones themselves turned gold.
    “Nyx,” she breathed. The Gatekeeper, struggling with a panicked cart horse, shouted at her.
    “Meguet!”
    “I’m going to get Nyx! Tell them not to shoot!”
    “It’s not the bird in danger,” he