Page 33 of Sons of Sorrow
“But I can’t help thinking, Lu.” Bruna pinched the bridge of her nose, like doing it hard enough would keep the tears from falling. “What if? What if I could have saved him?”
Sylvain offered his strength in silence, letting her cry it all out. I stepped closer, kneaded her shoulder with one hand.
“I’m so sorry, Bruna,” I told her. “And Luna, too. I never knew.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Bruna wiped the last of her tears from her cheeks, forcing a smile as she readjusted her witch’s hat. “It happened so long ago. I guess it’s why I became an alchemist. I wanted to learn how to heal. I wanted to make sure I didn’t lose anyone I loved again. Not if it was something I could help.”
Her eyes flickered toward Luna for only a fraction of a second. As I expected, Luna had her head lowered, her hair framing her face, hiding her expression. Her sadness was palpable all the same, but the more I thought I understood, the more I wondered.
This hardness of hers, this arrogant self-sufficiency from the Iron College. Was it a survival mechanism, or could a part of Luna be doing it for her sister? Was the hardness her own way of showing her love?
“Yes,” Evander said, nodding gravely, doing his best impression of a compassionate human being. “Very sad. I, too, know how it feels to lose a parent.”
We turned our heads toward him expectantly. In some way, each of us had lost someone important to us. Sylvain lost his father and didn’t even know who his real one was. Satchel’s parents were still alive, but he’d looked up to Grand Summoner Baylor as much as I used to.
“What?” Evander asked, arms crossed, eyebrow quirked. “What’s everyone looking at? Oh. Oh, no. Bruna, it’s that damn potion of yours making me feel all velvety on the inside. Stupid painkiller making me talk all sorts of nonsense. No. Not today. Not ever. I am not going to give you a sob story. Nope. No emotional porn from me, thanks.”
A flutter of wings, a tinkling of bells, and Ember and Satchel had suddenly sprung away from the hydraling corpse. Hand in hand, too, I noticed.
“No time for a sob story, anyway,” Ember said, pointing with his free hand. “Look. Something’s happening.”
The hydraling’s remains were quivering, flopping about on the ground, stubby limbs slapping uselessly at the air. I couldn’t decide if it being completely headless made it more humorous or grotesque. We backed away as one, Ember and Satchel taking to the air on their wings. Safety in numbers, and harder to attack once they’d blended in among us bigger, juicier targets. Very smart.
“Hah!” Satchel crowed, pumping his fist. “Still got it. I knew I sensed a guardian around here. It was right in the hydraling’s belly. Suck it, Evander. Kiss my tiny little butt.”
“Pass,” Evander stammered, eager to get the last word in. “Hard pass.”
Sylvain crafted his armor into weaponry, the leaves rustling as they formed a sword and shield. “I wouldn’t celebrate just yet. Behold.”
And so we beheld as the hydraling’s leftovers went up into flames. I shielded my eyes from the brightness, watching through my fingers as the creature’s core — its rotund stomach — shone the brightest.
“What in the world?” I breathed. “Is that — an egg?”
It was, radiant and white-hot, burning the hydraling’s flesh and organs away from the inside. This was the guardian that Satchel had detected from the start, its true form locked into its smooth and perfect shell. But what creature of fire started its life cycle from a humble egg? A humble, flaming, scorchingly hot egg that a hydraling could swallow whole?
“Oh, crap,” I shouted, pulling on Sylvain’s wrists, tugging at Bruna by the hem of her dress. “Everyone, take cover!”
“Please, Locke.” Evander batted my fingers away when I tried to help him. “We survived the hydraling, and we’ll survive this too, whatever it — ”
Evander’s voice cut off into a winded “Oof” as Luna charged him with her shoulder, sweeping him up with ease despite her lither frame. Wow. All that rugged Iron College training was really paying off.
We hid behind a line of rocks not too far from the smoking, hissing egg. Fine fractures crept along its surface, accompanied by a series of pops and cracks.
“Lochlann,” Sylvain whispered in my ear. “What manner of creature is this?”
A glowing beak pecked through the shell, the guardian breaking its way out. I was right.
“It’s a phoenix,” I breathed.
The egg shattered. With all due respect to all the other guardians we’d encountered so far, this one was definitely the most majestic. The phoenix spread its wings, each one as long as a man was tall, its body even bigger than an ostrich or an emu, its talons wicked and sharp. This thing could really mess up someone’s day, with or without its supernatural abilities.
Its feathers shimmered yellow, orange, and red, every strand shifting through the hues of flame, its wings, its tail, the crest it wore like a crown perpetually on fire. Closer to its chest and forming a ruff around its neck were feathers of a brighter blue, the color of truest, hottest fire.
And there in the center of its forehead, burning and blazing, was the Heart of the Flame, brilliant and white hot.
The phoenix threw its head back and screeched into the sky, the call of something noble, ancient, and powerful. Chills, in spite of the oriel’s persistent fire. Chills ran down my spine. And flames spilled past its beak, licking like a tongue.
How could I have forgotten that a phoenix could breathe fire? Just as well as any dragon, really. It presented its own unique dangers, the blazing of its feathers, wings, and tail not merely decorative. If its burning plumage wasn’t a sufficient enough deterrent, it could also burst into flames, self-immolate to transform into a being made completely out of fire.
