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“I meant no offense,” the cat said, and the Djinn glared, not at her, but at the woman with black veils, whose cool, sad eyes returned the gaze. She did not move, and after a long while, the Djinn sighed.
“I think you and your mistress are both impatient. I will come to the box and the cage in time, if you will give me leave to meander in the Ajan alleys of my tale…”
THE TALE OF THE
CAGE OF IVORY
AND THE
CAGE OF IRON,
CONTINUED
THE FLOOR OF THE CAGE WAS PILED WITH cushions trimmed in fused tassels and rich gold thread. The child was resting on a lovely blue brocade, and she turned in her sleep, pulling up the Firebird’s wing over her shoulder like a blanket. His neck was curled protectively around her, banked and glowing, his beak polished brass, sticking out between the blackened bars of the cage. The door swung open and free, and with the breathing of the pair, the whole thing swayed back and forth on the frame that held it up a ways above the dusty floor.
“Hello?” I said softly, but my voice echoed like a scream against the red walls. The bird stirred and his eyes slid open lazily, shimmering eyelids drooping. The child moaned softly and her aviary caretaker hushed her.
“Go back to sleep, dovelet, it’s only a Djinn come to see Papa.” I saw her head fall back to its pillow, and soon enough the contented sounds of a child sleeping drifted out of the cage.
The Firebird gently extricated himself from the child and hopped out of the cage. He was huge, the size of a young elephant, his plumage all the familiar hearth colors: deep red and orange forefeathers down to creamy sear-white underfeathers. And his tail was aflame—unlike the Djinn, the tail of a Firebird is the only thing which is truly afire—long tailfeathers like those of a peacock, tipped in curls of fire and marked in intricate, blistering designs. As he woke the flame wound up from sweet ember to soft roar, and I thought him beautiful in that moment, for fire, as ever and always, speaks to fire.
“You must hush,” he said, his voice like a green branch falling into ash. “My daughter needs her sleep.”
“Your daughter? But she’s human!”
“The ways of the world are strange and dear, my little flint-strike. My daughter she is, doubt it not.”
“Simeon sent me to you. I understand now what he meant: a flame like my own.”
“Now why in the world would he do a thing like that?” The great bird put his head to one side, as if considering a pile of seed.
“I am looking for a box of carnelian—”
“I’m sure I haven’t anything like that, but if you care to look, just keep soft on your feet.”
“No, no
, I’m sure it would be hidden. But Simeon seemed to think I should see you.” I looked down, already a little ashamed of what trespassed outside Simeon’s embrace. “Did you know there is an army outside? They will attack tomorrow, or the day after.”
The bird fluffed his wings. “The whole city stinks of them. Even Kings and Queens sweat, and their swords weep, and I can smell the cannon even now. And you have their mire all over you, so I am reasonably certain I know you, too. I am sure Simeon means for me to tell you a great many things, in hopes that you will think well enough of us not to smoke us out like rats. But I am not sure at all that I care to speak to you, and I certainly know nothing about your ridiculous little box.”
“Please,” I whispered, “I only have until dawn. I have been Queen for no more than a day. It is not my fault. Tell me why you are in a cage with a little girl, and perhaps in your tale I can find their box.”
The Firebird glowered, and finally settled down onto the floor, his flaming face very close to mine.
“Are you lost?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said fervently.
“Poor lost things are a specialty of mine…”
THE TALE
OF THE
CLOAK OF FEATHERS
CALL ME LANTERN—AND DON’T LAUGH. I WAS always gentle, always. I was a sweet little flame in a glass. I was never a devouring blaze. That is for you, and your kind, and your army, and your cursed box.
