by Ryk E. Spoor
It smiled. “Why, then I will have no further need to bind you to me. I will release you—on your sworn oath to never impede me and mine in the future, of course.” It turned away again, dismissing the False Justiciars, who quietly filed out and let the door of the inner sanctum close.
Yes, that was the last touch needed. The hope of actual release from my service will balance their hatred and anger towards me. They know they have little chance to kill me, and I have many ways to punish them beyond the merely physical. They—with the possible exception of Shrike, poor man—will fight with everything in their possession to win through and gain their freedom.
It smiled and leaned back in the chair. Almost all pieces are in place. Just a few last things to arrange.
It was in the middle of one of those “last things” a few hours later that it heard the door open. But the soul it sensed was not one of the False Justiciars. It passed its hand over the mirror-scroll, erasing the insectoid image, rose from the desk, and turned, grinning.
Watchland Jeridan Velion stood there, a curved, glittering blade gripped in his hands. The point of the blade dipped fractionally as the creature completed the turn. “So. A true duplicate. You and I are as alike as a mirror.”
“Necessary, of course,” it said, coming slowly out from behind the desk, leaving space between it and the Watchland. “I presume you simply walked past my guards, with an appropriately arrogant pose?”
“Yes. A bit of a hole in your security, others might think. But I believe you expected this. You called me here for some reason.”
It let the smile broaden. “Indeed, Jeridan. I think you should be here for the denouement, as it were.” It studied the blade in the Watchland’s grip, and raised an eyebrow. “But I compliment you. I had gone to some trouble to move that weapon out of sight and mind, even though for various reasons I could not arrange its complete disposal.”
“I was able to force some of my foggier memories to the surface,” the Watchland replied, blue eyes measuring the creature’s pose. “I remembered how the legendary Earaningalane had dwelt on the wall of my chambers for decades, yet I had a vague memory of it being moved, more than once. I knew you must have had a reason to make that weapon, of all weapons in the castle, disappear.” He raised the blade higher. “I think this can hurt you.”
It laughed. “You are entirely correct, Watchland. Most weapons of this land would be useless, but that one…ahh, that one was forged by the same hand that made the Raiments themselves, and gifted to the Watchland of Evanwyl in the days the first Justiciars walked the land. Oh, yes, if you can strike me with that blade, I will find it most unpleasant.”
The Watchland began a cautious advance. “Then why do I have no compulsion to stop?”
“Oh, now, that would be rather unsporting of me, don’t you think?”
“Unsporting? Is this a mere amusement for you, then?”
It smiled again, but now that smile was broader, the teeth glinting in a way no human teeth would ever shine. “Oh, indeed, an amusement, little creature. Let us see, then, how long you can survive, against me.”
The look of horror on the Watchland’s face as it finally revealed its true form was…inspiring.
Chapter 29
Kyri had wanted to stay silent—to suffer the agonies with dignity, without inflicting the pain of her cries upon her friends. But as the fiery agony of the beautiful dawn washed across her, searing like a wave of boiling oil, she found her resolutions impotent; a shriek of anguish burst from her lungs, in that instant sending a minor spike of pain through her throat from the sheer volume of the scream.
Instinctively, desperately, Kyri called up Myrionar’s power, and that burned too, burned and flamed both cold and hot, even as the glory of the Sun ignited her skin in smoking ruin.
But Myrionar’s power was still with her, still answering her prayers, and she begged for one thing, one thing only: Let me stay myself! Let the pain not drive me mad, nor the Curse take my mind! If I must die…let me die as myself!
The agony ebbed, just enough for her to gain control, clamp her mouth shut, reduce the screams to tormented grunts and muffled curses. She saw, in the instants before the torturous, all-destroying, all-renewing light took her eyes, Tobimar stumbling into view, Condor on his knees with horror and contrition, Poplock crawling to his friend’s side.
I can’t! I can’t survive this!
She forced that thought back with desperate will. I can. I must. I believe in Myrionar. All other cures failed. Only the sun remains.
But I’m burning away!
She could feel that was nightmarishly true. Though the power of her god dulled the sensation—barely—the agony was not fading as nerves were destroyed. The pain and erosion extended throughout her being, consuming her with flame. Her legs were already blackened, her fingers around the figurines becoming skeletal. Myrionar! By the Balance, how can I exist like this?
But she forced that question back, too. That was not faith, it was not focus. There were—there had to be—only two things in her mind: the first was faith that Myrionar’s oath, sworn in the name of the very power of the gods, could not be a lie. She had not yet had her justice and vengeance, and thus a way out for her existed—had to exist.
The other was simple: the end of her quest was in sight. She had kept faith, and Myrionar had provided the last thing she needed to have her rendezvous with their true enemy.
I cannot die before I have faced him! Before I have faced Viedraverion!
But her body was dissolving like mist before the dawn, corrosive brilliant fire causing her skeletal hands to collapse, her bones to begin crumbling. She felt that happen, a crushing agony as though a dozen hammers were pounding on every fiber of her being. She screamed anew, a horrid dry croaking wheeze that spoke of the dessicated, charred flesh and cartilage which was now her face and throat. Myrionar’s power was weak, weak indeed now.
Too weak to save her.
She realized that with horrific certainty as she remembered all the efforts she had put forth through the last months, spending whatever reserves the god had remaining to it with reckless abandon in the name of her quest…and now, at this last point, she could tell that even Myrionar no longer had the strength to rebuild what was lost. The Curse would be broken, yes…the moment the last of her mortal form went to ash, then her soul might be freed, might find some destination beyond. Or might not, for her oath also bound her, and she had failed. Without Myrionar to hold the paradise beyond open for her, without the fulfillment of her oath, she could not be released, nor could see find refuge; she would be a condemned spirit, fading and weakening, seeking an end to a quest that could never be concluded.
No.
Myrionar had promised there was a way out. And even now, as she heard with ears that were themselves nearly gone the dry-stick crumbling of her chest, she knew that the god had not—could not have—lied to her. She knew that, and refused to give up her hope, to release her faith.
But if Myrionar could not do it—
She thought for a moment of the other gods, allies to Myrionar. Surely Terian had the power. Chromaias, as well, and the Dragons, sleeping though they were, might respond with slumbering might to sweep aside injury and death. Fire burned through her skull, evaporated the remainder of her eyes in pure brilliant torment, and her screams were silent, yet she did not yield her self to the pain.
No, the other gods cannot help. By the Balance, the PAIN! I am not sworn to them, and their pact prevents them from acting for those not so sworn. I am the Justiciar of Myrionar, and none other. But soon there shall be nothing left of me…
Nothing?
For a moment all seemed still—even the incendiary agony was frozen, distant, inconsequential. No. Only my body will be gone.
My soul remains.
She remembered Xavier’s white-blazing power, Tobimar’s senses beyond the physical that guided him through battles of darkness and death; she recalled the moment of a dozen, two dozen, more o
f her ranged about the southern shore of Enneisolaten, all of them as real as anything that ever was, and she remembered the cold, precise lecture of mad Master Wieran.
My soul. Our souls, the foundation of the power of the gods, that is given to them in worship, returned to us in blessings. The soul that is our link between the mortal and the transcendent.
If I can find the strength…
Even as she thought that, she could sense, suddenly, the connection between her and her friends. Tobimar, crying, praying to his own god, entirety of his being focused on her. Poplock, golden eyes closed and weeping tears as he, too, prayed for her to the god of his people.
But…but there is more!
Condor—Aran—kneeling next to her, his only thoughts being how he had failed her and how he wished it were otherwise. Beyond him…Seeker Reed, cleaning the temple, silent yet thinking of her when he glanced at the Sword Balance above; Arbiter Kelsley, isolated in his study, praying for forgiveness for his failures. Lythos, looking into the dawn and wondering if his best student had survived the night, and others, tiny glimpses of the people of Evanwyl sparing a thought for the Phoenix who was also their beloved Kyri Vantage.
And farther: the little girl Hulda, suddenly seized with worry about the Phoenix and her party, offering a prayer to the Light; Zogen Josan, in the small temple of Jenten’s Mill, praying and seeing in his eye Kyri Vantage and her party; Miri and Lady Shae, standing together as they watched another tower rising, rebuilt, and thought for moments of those who had led to their salvation.
She reached out to these thoughts and felt them, their strength, their spirits, yearning to return to her something that she had given them. And though she did not in her heart think she was truly worthy, still she accepted what was offered, and remembered one more thing:
The warm fire of wings of flame, and the shining eyes of Tobimar Silverun as that moment (and a small Toad) brought them to accept what lay between them.
I will not die!
Her own soul caught those threads of belief, the power of faith, and accepted them, drew them in, even in the moment that her last bones were collapsing to dust and ash, and spun them out again, a weave that covered the detritus and charcoal that had been a body.
Myrionar, guide me! I have the power! I believe that WE have the power! And I have faith that you can show me how to do what no mortal could imagine!
The answer came to her in a burst of gold, and she screamed once more, a cry of tearing agony but of triumph and ecstasy as fire enveloped her very soul now, and the dark, dark cord that sought to bind it broke, tore apart, a curse now impotent and useless against the flames of the living spirit. Her shriek rose to the heavens, a call of vengeance and life, and exploded into pure red-gold flame.
The fire waned, and dancing through her was a feeling of victory. The voice of Myrionar had not spoken to her, and she knew the god was weaker than ever; yet there was surety singing in her veins, echoing through her heart, as she opened her unburned, reborn eyes and saw the awe and wonder in three faces before her, three faces lit by the dawn behind…and the golden fire of rebirth before them.
Chapter 30
Tobimar stood frozen with horror and anguish as he watched Kyri burning, literally turning to ashes as he watched, the skull trying to scream even as it, too, blackened. Oh, Terian Nomicon, Light in the Darkness, save her! If she must die, do not let her wander, please, for all I have done, for all I must do, take her to you, so that—
The black smoke and crumbling ruin before him suddenly ignited in golden fire. The flames exploded from the ashes, rising into the dawn, expanding, becoming a mighty firebird that raised its head and gave a screaming cry of triumph, a call to arms and a challenge to the heavens, a Phoenix whose wings spanned the hillside and beyond, mighty pinions sweeping outward in auric splendor to overshadow—and illuminate—the countryside, bringing a second gilded dawn to the land as Sanamaveridion had brought another, deeper dusk.
The golden fire funneled inward, condensed to a figure he knew and loved beyond anything else in this world, and for a moment Kyri Vantage hovered above them all, floating on wings of fire and rebirth, and he could not even think the words of his gratitude.
As abruptly as the flame had arisen, she fell, collapsing to her knees as he stepped forward and caught her. She looked up at him with surprise and relief, and Tobimar felt his tears flowing with unrestrained joy. “Kyri…I…by Terian and Myrionar, I thought…”
She smiled, her first smile without care or fear in weeks, and he pulled her closer, ignoring the pain of his own body, just reassuring himself that she was there and not a hideous burned husk. “I know. So did I. But I couldn’t let that happen, and neither could Myrionar. And now I know beyond any doubt that It spoke the truth: we can do this. And we will.”
She stood, though her knees trembled visibly and he could see how much the shock and fear and relief had taken from her. Kyri looked down at Condor, who still knelt before her in disbelief.
“And you, Aran, will show us the way.”
Tobimar turned, ribs grating painfully, to finally look at the man who had ambushed him, and then mysteriously failed to kill Kyri. “Aran…Aran? You are the false Justicar Condor?”
The tear-streaked green eyes barely narrowed at the tone, then dropped their gaze to the ground. He nodded shortly, red hair dropping over his face with the motion, and stayed on his knees, not raising his eyes. “Yes. I am.”
Poplock gave a wheezing grunt. “Tobimar…healing? Hello?”
“Great Light. I’m sorry!” His own body reminded him anew that he was far from healed, and while Kyri seemed completely whole, he suspected she had nothing left to give for now. Digging through his neverfull pack, he found some of the healing draughts Poplock and Hiriista had cooked up. “Here, open your mouth.” The little Toad complied, even that seeming to cause him pain, and swallowed the powerful alchemical restorative; A green and white shimmer traveled up and down the small, brown-warty body, and Tobimar could see bones straighten, pain fade from his friend’s face and posture. The Skysand prince drank one himself, ignoring the excruciatingly bitter taste to be rewarded with a burst of well-being and vanished pain.
Kyri had summoned her Raiment to her and was now fully dressed again; she picked up Poplock and with her other arm hugged Tobimar close. “Thank Myrionar you’re all right.”
“That we’re all right?” Poplock’s voice was breaking with relief and tears, emotion he rarely let show bringing an answering lump to Tobimar’s throat. “You were burning up, Kyri! And then the fire…the Phoenix…”
She blinked, puzzled. “Phoenix?”
“You were reborn, Kyri Vantage,” Aran said, and his voice was filled with awe. “You crumbled before our eyes to ashes, and then the flames rose up into the semblance of a mighty firebird, screaming victory to the heavens…and you stood anew before us.” He still did not raise his eyes. “You are the true chosen of Myrionar, and It did not desert you.”
Kyri looked down at the false Justiciar, and Tobimar saw a gentler expression than he had expected, given the tales she’d told him. “Aran. Look at me.”
Aran Condor took an audible breath, then looked up.
“I hated you, yes. You and all the False Justiciars. But Myrionar instructed me clearly, and I learned well, that the first principle of Justice is Mercy. I…” There was a catch in her voice. “I…did not want to kill you all, once I had thought it out. I didn’t want to believe you were all bad, all beyond hope. And it was you, most of all, that I prayed was not beyond redemption.”
Aran looked at her with disbelief and hope warring on his face. “You…prayed for me?”
“Many times…especially after I killed Shrike. You were coming to kill me, weren’t you? Just as I swore vengeance against all of you for my parents and Rion?”
“Yes, I was. It…for a while, I was mad with that anger, that hunger to find this ‘Phoenix’ and kill…her. And then…” He looked beyond her, into the woods. “I
made a very stupid bargain, and it seemed I had no more choices. But…”
“But you have one last choice, yes.”
He chuckled suddenly. “I already made that choice, Kyri. I made it when you…” the pale face flushed suddenly, “…when you asked me to forgive you.”
She did not laugh, just nodded. “And do you?”
Tobimar saw tension in Aran’s entire frame, and touched his own hand to the hilt of one sword.
But then all that tension simply drained out, with a relieved sigh. “There is nothing to forgive, Kyri. You were and are the one true Justiciar, and we were your enemies, traitors and liars and murderers all. I doubt Shrike—much as I loved him—gave you any choice. And,” his tone was suddenly sharper, “I am glad that you killed Thornfalcon.”
“I had help in that,” she said, gesturing to Tobimar and Poplock.
Aran finally rose to his feet and bowed to them. “Then my thanks. Aside from…our leader, he was the worst monster I have ever known, even in a group of false heroes.”
“It was a genuine pleasure,” Poplock assured him.
“Now what, Kyri?” Tobimar asked. “He came to kill you, but seems to have given up on that.” Inwardly, he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he knew better than to mistrust Kyri’s judgment on these things. Her willingness to believe in others had backfired on her sometimes—most obviously with Thornfalcon—but most of the time it had been one of her most potent weapons.
The gentle look faded from her face; instead it became sharp, cold, certain. “Now? Now I must be the Will of Myrionar, Tobimar.”
She turned to Aran, and her eyes were the gray of a dawn blizzard; a forbidding, chill aura surrounded her, one of command and doom, and Tobimar felt a momentary impulse to step back. “False Justiciar Aran Condor, do you accept the Judgment of Myrionar for your crimes?” she demanded in tones that rang across Trader’s Rest.
Aran swallowed audibly, but immediately dropped to one knee. “I…I do.”
