Corvina Blackwood's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

Corvina reached the north slope near midday. Dead pines gave way to a stream, and beyond it stood the nest. It was huge, ringed with sharpened logs. Flames crawled along its border like a fence of fire. On its rim perched the phoenix, black feathers edged in green. Its tail trailed like burning vines. Sable hung limp against her neck, his breath a thin rattle. Her hands still held the lily sap, but the edges had begun to crack and flake. She crept to the stream and watched. The phoenix never left the nest. When a hawk crossed overhead, the bird screamed and loosed a gout of flame. Corvina pressed flat behind a log. She had no bait, no trap, no way to pull it off its eggs. One grab, the sap allowed. But she could not grab a feather while the bird sat on them, burning everything that came close. The binding tightened in her chest, a slow fist around her ribs. She looked at the sky. The sun was sinking. The sap would fail by dark. She had no more time to plan. Then she saw the water. The phoenix feared the hawk because it feared for the nest. If she could not lure the bird away, she could make it rise on its own. She filled her cupped hands at the stream and crept close. The heat scorched her face. She flung the water across the burning border. Steam burst up with a hiss. The phoenix shrieked and leapt off its eggs, wings spread, beating at the smoke. For one breath the nest sat open. Corvina lunged. Her coated hand plunged into the feathers and closed on a long green-edged plume near the rim. She pulled. The feather tore free. Fire poured over her fingers and slid away, harmless. The phoenix turned. Its eyes found her. It struck. Flame raked her forearm above the dried sap, and the pain was white and sudden. She fell back into the stream. The water killed the fire on her sleeve. She scrambled up the far bank with the feather clenched tight. She did not stop running until the dead pines hid the nest. Then she sank down and opened her hand. The feather was whole. Black, with a living green edge that still glowed faintly. She had what the rite needed. The fire-starter. Her burned arm throbbed, but she laughed once, short and rough. Sable stirred on her shoulder. His eye opened a sliver. She touched his head. "We have it," she said. "The fire." Then she saw the ground. Scorch marks ran through the wet grass, fresh, leading away from the slope. No footprints beside them. The thing that burned and left no tracks had been here while she fought the bird. It had not taken a feather. It had watched her take one. And now it knew she had what it wanted.