The Cygnet and the Firebird by Patricia A. McKillip

bird. It’s as if they exist in separate worlds. I might as well be back in Chrysom’s black box for all the sense I can make of this.”
    “There is always a way,” Meguet said sleepily. “You told me that.” She received no answer; Nyx had disappeared again. To Meguet’s eye, she looked pensive, very still, as if she were chasing the tag-end of some sudden, imperative notion in her head. She did not move; she scarcely seemed to breathe. Meguet sighed noiselessly, and settled back in her chair. Just before her eyes closed, she saw the white dragon’s golden eye in the shadows beside the hearth.
    She was on her feet almost before she had opened her eyes. The dragon was gone; Nyx had not moved.
    “Nyx,” she whispered, shifting toward her, the blade poised in her hands. “Nyx.”
    Nyx did not answer. Meguet, glancing at her, saw her frowning at the bird, her arms folded. She did not move, she did not blink. Meguet raised her voice. “Nyx!”
    “She won’t hear you,” the mage said. He was stillinvisible, though she caught the flick of a dragon’s wing, the shift of a claw here and there, as he moved noiselessly, restively, in front of the mantel. Listening, she heard faint music, soft laughter on the parapet wall. He read her mind. “I didn’t meddle with your time. I didn’t come for trouble. I came only for the key.”
    Meguet screamed Nyx’s name. Nyx remained oblivious, but through a south window Meguet saw one of the turret-torches raised aloft, as if the Gatekeeper had felt her desperate need. She heard voices within the tower, guards and pages tossing alarms down the stairwell, a flurry of running in the outer yard.
    “I sealed the door,” the mage said. “They won’t get through. Where is the key? Just tell me that. I’ll find it and go.” He spoke softly, as if not to disturb Nyx, but Meguet heard the strain in his voice. She wondered if he hid himself from Nyx or from the firebird.
    “She put it somewhere.”
    “Where?”
    “I think in a book. One of the household records over there, I don’t remember which—”
    “You’re lying.” He sounded amazed. “I didn’t think you could lie. Where is it really?”
    “Among the roses on the vines.”
    The dragon eye came closer; she shifted a step or two toward Nyx. “A good place to hide it. One rose among a thousand roses. But even if I picked them all, I’d never find it there. Where is it really hidden?”
    “The firebird changed it with its cry,” she said desperately, and he was silent, as if at last he believed her. Fists battered at the door; voices, impatient and furious, made improbable suggestions about makeshift battering rams, and Rush’s makeshift sorcery.
    “Meguet,” said the air, startling her with her name. “I can’t wait for tomorrow’s moonrise. Where is the key? If you don’t tell me, I will turn this household, one by one, into screaming firebirds. Beginning with the Gatekeeper.”
    “So,” she whispered, her mouth dry, “this is your spell.”
    “So it seems.”
    Nyx turned abruptly, pulling amber from her ear lobe. She held it up. The bird, freed from her mind, cried soundlessly. Its enchanted fire leaped from the amber, illumined the mage for a breath. He vanished before the fire struck him, but not before the firebird had seen his face.
    The bird cried. Its noiseless cry became the man’s cry, of such fury and agony that it froze both Nyx and Meguet and silenced the crowd outside the door. Brand moved under their amazed eyes, tore swords off the wall. The white dragon leaped to fly. The blades in Brand’s hands spun and flashed in a whirling, singing dance of death too quick to follow. Meguet, mesmerized by its glittering intricacy, moved a fraction too late to intercept the dragon in its deadly flight. The blades soared upward, turned again, came down so fast at the dragon that when the mage halted them in midair, Brand lost his balance, stumbledagainst them. He was instantly surrounded by a ring