Firebird

The Boiling Rose had closed for the night. Phoebe washed dishes as Cole stood in one corner of the kitchen, away from the windows, talking through his plans to sell the ring he’d stolen. He wasn’t really talking to Phoebe, mostly just thinking out loud, but she didn’t mind. She was tired. She just wanted to lock up the tavern and go home.

The tavern’s door burst open, echoing from the front room. Cole ducked behind a barrel, and Phoebe cautiously approached the kitchen door. She made sure he was hidden before opening it.

In front of the bar, scanning the tavern with careful eyes, was a group of rough-looking men. Their clothes were simple and practical, but well made, and they all had swords sheathed at their belts and knives strapped across their bodies. They weren’t uniform, so not town guards, but the way they moved belied their training. Mercenaries.

“I’m afraid the tavern’s closed,” Phoebe said with an awkward smile as she closed the door behind her.

“We’re not here for drink,” one man said. The others instinctively paid close attention when he spoke, moving out of his way as he approached. The leader, then. “We’re looking for a man who frequents this tavern. Medium build, dark hair. Named Cole.” He studied Phoebe’s reaction, looking for tells. She kept her awkward smile, shifting shyly.

“I haven’t seen him in a while,” she said. “Sorry I couldn’t help you.”

The man stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “We also know about his ‘closest friend’: a red-headed barmaid with a slight build.”

She laughed, letting a touch of nervousness creep into her voice. “Yep, that’s me. I’d been getting mad at him for disappearing on me again…” She trailed off as if overcome by awkwardness and nerves.

The man rested his elbows on the bar. “Look, we’re gonna find him eventually. If you help us, we’ll make it worth your while. If you get in the way, it… won’t be pretty.” His voice had a note of genuine remorse under the layers of hard-edged coldness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you.”

He sighed, and nodded to his men, one of whom immediately leapt over the bar and grabbed Phoebe’s arms as another man came around the bar with his sword drawn. Phoebe cried out, trying in vain to wriggle free, as the second man raised the pommel of his sword and brought it down hard on her temple. A crash of pain reverberated through her skull, and the world went black.

---

Ropes bound Phoebe’s wrists and ankles to a wooden chair as a tall woman entered the windowless room. She wore elegant clothes, thick black curls falling down her back in a lush and wild tangle, swept back from her face with bejeweled combs. She coldly studied Phoebe.

Several days had passed since she’d been taken. She’d caught fragments of the mercenaries’ conversations, enough to know that the leader’s name was Cedric. But not enough to gather where they were going or who’d hired them. She’d been gagged and blindfolded as they traveled, only aware of the modes of transportation: a cart, a boat, another cart, before being carried like a sack of potatoes and deposited on this chair.

“Your friend stole something from me,” the woman said. She had the speech of a noblewoman, but the bearing of a snake rising up to strike. “My men tell me you were… reluctant to help me find him.” She drew a curved knife from her belt, its sharp edge glinting cruelly in the candlelight. “Would you like to change your mind?”

Nausea roiled in Phoebe’s stomach. But a wall of steel rose in her mind at the very thought of betraying Cole. She looked the woman, letting that steel fill her gaze.

The woman narrowed her eyes, and raised her knife.

---

Weeks passed. Months, maybe. The woman, whose name Phoebe eventually learned was Alexandra, was methodical and practiced. She had a healer on staff to tend Phoebe’s wounds, preventing a premature death by infection. A cramped room down the hall from Alexandra’s workroom served as Phoebe’s cell, in what she realized was the uppermost floor of a country manor. That hall had a single large window with fine leaded glass, overlooking manicured lawns edged by a stone wall, with forests and fields beyond. At first, Phoebe tried to use it to keep track of the days, but before long time had grown muddy, and in the haze of constant pain her memories bled into each other. The lack of adequate food and water didn’t help.

Alexandra was a stubborn woman, and thoroughly exhausted her methods before accepting that Phoebe either truly knew nothing or would never betray Cole.

It was at that point that she carved an “A” onto Phoebe’s palm, using the blood as a stamp to sign a letter.

“If you won’t lead me to Cole, you’ll bring him to me,” Alexandra said. She instructed Cedric to bring the letter to the tavern and let rumor reach Cole’s ears.

Some time after that, Alexandra began taking pieces of Phoebe. A chunk of scalp with long strands of bloodstained hair. Pieces of skin with birthmarks and clusters of freckles.

Every time she was brought to the workroom, Phoebe felt Alexandra’s growing frustration. Even in her haze, Phoebe took satisfaction in Alexandra’s failure. She took relief, as well, in knowing that Cole was safe. He’d always been reckless, and she’d worried he might storm up to the estate with some half-baked plan that would only get him caught or killed. It seemed wisdom had reached his mind at last. As Phoebe tried to find sleep on the cold stone floor of her cell, surrounded by pure and utter darkness, she clung to the hope that Cole would find a way to save her. Or that Alexandra’s stubbornness would relent and she would realize the futility of holding Phoebe hostage. As time dragged on, ideas of escape faded, but she held on to the hope that Alexandra would simply kill her and be done with it.

---

Light spilled into the cell. Cedric entered, roughly dragging Phoebe up and hauling her towards the workroom. By the light beyond the window, it was either sunset or sunrise.

She was bound to the chair once more, ropes sinking into the bloodied grooves worn into her skin.

As the door opened, Phoebe’s mind drifted to a distant observation point away from her body and the incoming pain.

Alexandra entered, but she did not close the door behind her. Instead, more mercenaries followed, dragging a figure with a sack over its head. Phoebe’s stomach dropped. The figure was bound into a second chair, and the sack removed.

Cole.

“Your friend is a fool,” Alexandra said, a gloating note in her cold voice. “He spent so many weeks in hiding, only to get caught trying to fence his ill-gotten gains to a smuggler in my employ.”

Phoebe’s mind reeled. Cole was here. A captive. Caught by his own recklessness, just as she’d feared. She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at her.

“Unfortunately for you, my dear,” Alexandra said, putting a finger under Phoebe’s chin, “he didn’t have the ring on him when he was captured. He’s being most uncooperative about telling me where it is.” Alexandra drew her blade, holding it above Phoebe’s collarbone. “Let’s give him some incentive, shall we?”

Cries tore from Phoebe’s ragged throat as Alexandra dragged the knife through her flesh. She dimly wondered why Cole remained silent. What good was a stupid ring if they were both captive? Alexandra continued her work, and through her tears Phoebe saw Cole looking… almost bored.

Alexandra paused. For once, a hint of uncertainty touched her posture. Alexandra examined Cole, tilting her head.

Then she laughed, with cruelty and even a note of self-deprecation, and Phoebe slowly realized what Alexandra had understood first.

Cole hadn’t ignored the letters and the fragments of Phoebe’s flesh out of caution. He hadn’t been planning a careful rescue. He simply hadn’t cared.

Alexandra strolled over to Cole. “I’ll admit, you fooled the girl so well it even fooled me.” She held the knife up to Cole’s cheek as all trace of humor vanished from her face. “You’ve wasted my time. But now you will tell me where my ring is.”

Fear flooded Cole’s face as he eyed the knife. As Alexandra pressed it to his skin, before she’d even drawn blood, stammering words fell out of his mouth.

“Nerridge! A safehouse! I’ll take you there!”

Alexandra smiled. “Indeed you will.” She looked at Phoebe. “Cedric, deal with this one. I leave for Nerridge at once.” She nodded to the other mercenaries, who untied Cole and dragged him from the room once more, Alexandra stalking behind.

A dead silence followed. Cedric untied Phoebe. A trace of pity crossed his face as he grabbed her arm and pulled her up.

Cole was the only friend she’d ever had.

And he’d never been her friend at all.

---

Phoebe struggled to walk as Cedric hauled her from the healer’s room. Her body was wrapped in fresh bandages, the sharp scent of ointment filling her nostrils. The rough grip of Cedric’s hand on her arm sent flares of pain shooting through her with every step.

They were heading back to her cell. They’d been to the healer. Alexandra still wanted her alive.

Desperation clawed at Phoebe’s mind. All these months, she’d held onto the hope that there was an endpoint. But she would never be free, not even through death.

Cedric turned the corner, starting down the long hall. They passed that teasing window through which she’d stolen longing looks at the world beyond Alexandra’s estate. Grass she would never touch again. She couldn’t even see it, now. Night had fallen, and all she saw was her own reflection, with her bloodied clothing and shriveled frame. She saw Cedric’s reflection, too: the glint of his sword and his many knives, his face a passive mask trying to hide the flashes of pity he occasionally betrayed. An endless fate of darkness and pain awaited her at the end of the hallway.

A mad plan seized her.

She let her right leg collapse, swinging her towards Cedric. He instinctively tried to steady her. In his moment of confusion, she grabbed the knife from his belt and drove it up into his throat.

Blood muffled his cry, spurting from the wound and into his airway, bubbling out through his mouth. His eyes widened, and she pulled the knife back out at an angle to further slash his flesh. He stared at her as she staggered back, in disbelief more than anger.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, as the pulses of blood slowed and he fell. She didn’t know if he heard her.

She had no time to comfort him in his dying moments. Instead, she fumbled to grab his belt, slipping off the scabbard of his sword before winding it around her own waist, wrapping it around twice to fit her emaciated form. She sheathed the knife, and swung open the window.

A wave of fresh, cold air washed over her like a river on a summer day. Stars glittered above, and moonlight outlined the trees beyond the outer wall. So agonizingly close.

She didn’t know how many mercenaries remained at the estate now that Alexandra was off to Nerridge. But it didn’t matter.

Phoebe reached out a shaking hand, grabbing the intricate stonework framing the window. She slowly pulled herself through, until she stood on the window ledge, balancing on her toes and clinging to the window frame.

Black spots swarmed her vision, and she gave them a moment to clear.

Deep breath.

She moved one hand to a lower section of the wall, gripping it tight while the other wrapped around the inside of the window. She slid one bare foot off the ledge, scraping against stone until it caught on a bit of trim. She tested her weight, then lowered her other leg down.

More black spots. Another deep breath. Flashes of pain arced over her in waves. Sweat leaked into her open wounds, another layer of agony. Her hands were slippery from blood. Even as she held on with all her strength they threatened to give way at any moment.

Move.

She adjusted her grip, and lowered herself further. Her foot came to rest on another bit of stonework.

Her hand slipped.

Phoebe’s heart leapt into her throat, and with her other hand she pulled herself closer to the wall, desperately reaching for anything to hold onto. She managed to pinch her fingers around the edge of a brick - hardly a secure handhold, but better than nothing.

Deep breath.

Move.

She climbed further, even as her limbs shook and pain coursed through her like fire. Just above the second-story window, she paused, listening.

Nothing. An empty room.

She surged on. She was finding a rhythm, the decorative pattern of the masonry becoming a path of hand and footholds that she could follow. The pain became more manageable, sequestered in the back of her mind, but her muscles had long reached their maximum. It felt like they were operating on determination alone.

She lost her grip again, her hand simply unable to sustain her weight. Her other hand was slipping as well, she couldn’t rest - she forced herself to grab onto a new handhold. Her vision swirled into a hazy vignette. She vaguely felt the world shifting, and gripped tighter to the stone until the dizziness passed.

Deep breath.

Move.

Almost to the top of the ground floor window. She slid her foot into place. Shifted her weight -

Her leg gave out.

Her hands ripped free from the wall, and her gut twisted as the world tipped.

The wall flashed by, and she braced herself for impact.

Gravel bit into her hand, and a moment later white-hot pain lanced through her arm, followed by ripples of pain along her body as she rolled over the gravel like a log tossed by the current.

Still half-blind and disoriented, she dragged herself to her feet, adrenaline pulling her limbs like the strings of a marionette. She shambled to the row of bushes lining the gravel, hurling herself between their branches until she slipped through a gap, collapsing in the shadows behind them.

Long, precious moments passed as she breathed through the pain. A fragment of her mind drifted free from the rest, floating outside of her body, observing her pain and fear with the passivity of a scholar watching the behavioral patterns of a wild animal.

That part of her mind listened carefully for footsteps. Finding none, it quickly plotted a course through the shrubs and flowerbeds ornamenting Alexandra’s estate, which Phoebe had seen through the window so many times.

She pulled herself up and staggered on.

She encountered no guards. It seemed Alexandra had left only a skeleton crew. She reached the outer wall, leaning against its cold, rough stone. As the relief of making it this far passed, dread filled her. She looked up at the wall, realizing that even if she wasn’t weak and half-conscious, her broken arm wouldn’t sustain the climb.

Deep breath.

She stumbled along the wall, leaning against it for balance, until she came within sight of the gate. Two guards stood sentinel, the gate itself padlocked shut.

She crouched in the shadows, trying desperately to think.

The bars of the gate might be far enough apart for her to squeeze through. She just needed to get the guards away.

She slunk back into the shrubbery, tucking low under a bush and drawing the dagger from her belt. She thought of the coyotes that would dig around in the dumpster behind the Boiling Rose, remembering the sounds they’d make when they fought over scraps. She let out a few short, yipping calls interspersed with snarls. Through the shrubbery, she saw one of the guards venturing out into the landscaping. She gave a few more yips as he poked around the yard, slowly guiding him to her hiding place. She fell silent as he drew close, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

When he had just passed by her bush, she shot out her hand, digging the dagger into the back of his knee. He fell with a cry, and just as he turned around she jammed the dagger into his neck. She heard pounding footsteps, and darted back under the bush. As the other guard knelt next to the fallen one, Phoebe slipped behind him and slit his throat.

She sheathed the dagger and sprinted to the gate, trying to force the images of corpses from her mind. She found the biggest gap, and angled her shoulder through it. It was a tight squeeze. The iron bars pressed into her skull, but she pushed and pushed until she fell down on the other side. Back on her feet again, she ran for the treeline.

She hadn’t run far before she collapsed from pain and exhaustion. But she stood again, ran again, collapsed again, stood again. She pulled at branches and roots to drag herself up time after time, even dragging herself across the ground when she couldn’t fully stand. Anything to move forward.

She happened upon a creek running through the forest. She waded through it to hide her tracks. Rocks bit her feet, and each time she fell she had to lurch back up before water filled her lungs, but she refused to stop. Eventually, the forest waned, revealing fields of farmland dotted with cottages. Plots circled in her mind to steal supplies. Shoes. A cloak. Money. It wouldn’t be difficult. Not compared to everything she’d just done.

Even as her arm throbbed, and every inch of her skin burned, and the very air in her lungs seemed laced with shattered glass, she laughed. A quiet, half-deranged laugh as she registered all that had happened.

She was free.