by Ryk E. Spoor
“Name and own to those crimes, then, and do not hesitate or hold back, for my Justice will see through any deception.”
His gaze wavered, but did not drop. “I have taken and used the title of Justiciar of Myrionar falsely. I have professed my faith in the Balanced Sword when I did not believe. I have been a part of plots against the great families of Evanwyl. I have assisted in murder, assaulted the innocent, profited from ill-gotten goods. I have held my tongue when I could have saved lives of others. I have sought vengeance when I did not deserve it. I have knowingly served a demon, and taken a gift of power from the King of All Hells himself.”
“Terian’s Light,” Tobimar heard himself curse; he saw a wrinkle on Kyri’s brow, but she said nothing as Aran continued.
“I played the part of friend and counselor when I was a spy and a traitor, and even when doing good deeds I have used a name and title which were never mine to use. I have shamed the armor and the name that I wear.” He paused. “If this is not sufficient, I will try to name in detail every instance of every crime I have committed, but that will be a list long in the telling.”
Kyri studied him, the stormcloud-gray eyes narrow and cool, showing no sign of either sympathy or anger, that impassive aura strong about her. “That will do,” she said after a moment. “I am aware of many specifics of your crimes, Condor. I, personally, am the victim of several, and my family more so. Tell me, then: do you have any justification for these offenses?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “No.”
The slightest raising of an eyebrow. “Would there be any to speak for you, in your defense or justification?”
“None that I know, save others as corrupt or more so than I.”
“There you are wrong,” she said. “I will speak for you, Aran. You were raised by a man already deep in the snares of your patron—a patron we know now to be Viedraverion, first son of Kerlamion Blackstar himself.”
Aran’s head snapped up at that, surprised. “You know already?”
“We do.” She raised a hand and continued. “You were raised to be part of that group, and by the time you knew what you were being asked to do, it was too late to easily escape. I suspect they made a point of showing you just how little chance you had of escape. A child who is raised to be a certain thing has a hard time escaping it. So against your crimes we must set a certain mitigation of circumstance.
“So I ask now: do you repent of your crimes?”
“I do.” Tobimar could hear the intensity of feeling in those two words.
“Will you offer your heart, your soul, your life in exchange for those crimes?”
“Those and anything else that I may have to give,” Aran said.
Kyri was silent for long moments; her stare neither wavered nor reduced its intensity.
Finally she straightened to her full height. “Aran, you have come to me of your own will, and accepted the Judgment of Myrionar. This speaks well of your sincerity, and there are mitigating circumstances of your upbringing and situation.
“This, then, is my judgment. Firstly, for the offenses against me and mine…I forgive you. I do not forget them, but I forgive you, as I have deprived you of your only family in turn. Let the past remain in the past. It is over, it is done.”
Tobimar saw Aran blink hard and nod emphatically.
“For your other offenses, you will be pardoned if you perform two services for us. First, that you show us the way to the Justiciar’s Retreat, and second that no matter your fears of, or your friendships for, the false Justiciars and their master, you will fight in the name of Myrionar in truth, on our side, even unto your death if need be. Once our enemy is defeated and the Retreat is cleansed, your debt will be accounted paid.”
Aran did not hesitate. “I swear that I will see to it that you reach the Retreat, no matter what, and that I will fight for the true Myrionar, on your side, against my old allies, to my last breath if I must.”
“Will you swear that oath to three gods?” Kyri asked. “For here before you are three who are witnesses and perhaps emissaries of three gods, and you who were false in naming one will perhaps be less willing to lie to three.”
“Name the gods and I will swear to them. To a thousand times three of them if I must.”
“Then swear it in the name of Myrionar, of Terian, and,” her lips turned up just the tiniest bit, “Blackwart the Great.”
Aran, on the other hand, was so earnest that his expression did not waver. “Then I do so swear, in the name of Myrionar, god of Justice and Vengeance; in the name of Terian, the Nemesis of Evil, the Light in the Darkness; and in the name of Blackwart the Great, the Golden-Eyed God. May they all witness this, my true and absolute oath.”
Tobimar felt something then; a stirring, both within and beyond him, and thought—for just an instant—he saw the same vision of Terian that had appeared to him in Kaizatenzei. He felt Poplock stiffen on his shoulder, and Kyri nodded slowly.
“Then it is done. Your oath is accepted, your penance set.” Suddenly the cold, forbidding aura was gone; in its place was Kyri, weary but smiling. She put an arm around Tobimar. Tobimar let her lean just a bit on him and slid his own arm around her waist to brace her. “And since you have repented, and we will see great battle soon enough, I give you leave to continue to wear the Raiment of Condor; it may serve us well in more than one way.
“Now, Aran, tell us—quickly—how you came here, everything from the time you found Shrike, and then everything you can about our enemy. Because tomorrow we go to Justiciar’s Retreat.”
Chapter 31
Poplock listened carefully to the repentant Aran, occasionally catching one of the beetles or flies that now flitted about in the brilliant sunshine, and had to admit, after a while, that there was something to admire in the red-haired young man. Okay, he made bad choices, but drought and fire, he has courage. Traveled to the Black City and faced the King of All Hells himself. That’s balls of steel, as Xavier might say.
And it spoke very well of him that he had fought off the influence of the Demonshard—something Poplock had witnessed as he came back to consciousness. Gotta do something about that, though; can’t have cursed demon swords lying around for anyone to pick up.
“Our leader’s always been subtle,” Aran went on. “While Thornfalcon was around, we didn’t even see him often, and we were forbidden from speaking to him when we…” he broke off. “Oh, Balance, you don’t know. He’s really—”
“Jeridan Velion? Actually, we know he was playing that part. Complicated story.”
Aran blinked, and then chuckled weakly. “Well. It seems that you already know a lot more than I would have thought. I wonder if I have anything new to tell you?”
Tobimar grinned. “I bet you do. But not the big secrets, more things about him and your remaining companions.”
“Hmm.” Aran’s brow wrinkled. “Well, like I said, he’s subtle. He’s always pleasant to speak to. He always seems to know what you were going to be saying before you say it, even if he does you the courtesy of letting you actually speak first.
“He’s a soul-eater. That’s not surprising in a demon, of course, but he’s something special. He was making Thornfalcon one of his people—though I don’t know how.”
Poplock bounced. “That’s why Thorny was such a tough beetle to chew; he was part demon.”
“Yes.” Aran’s face was grim. “Our patron sparred with us once in a while, and it was clear he was incredibly good—better than any of us by a long, long bowshot. He has a lot of magical resources, too; you know about his mirrors?”
“Yes,” Kyri said. “Miri told us about those, and Tashriel confirmed it.”
“Well, I can tell you this: he’s been talking with a lot of people with those mirrors. Between all of us in the Just…er, false Justiciars, we heard bits of conversations with at least a dozen people, and probably that wasn’t close to all of them.”
“No surprise there,” said Tobimar. “We
know that Viedraverion was the central planner for everything the King of All Hells was doing—all the revolutions, attacks, all of it.”
Aran stared at him, then around at Poplock and Kyri. “What? You mean…he was the architect of these wars?” After a moment he closed his eyes. “Of course he was. We should have realized that was why he was in such frequent communication with Kerlamion. Myrionar’s Name…” He trailed off. “But that doesn’t really matter. Because I tell you that his real goal doesn’t have much to do with that.”
Poplock sat up straighter. “What? How do you mean?”
Aran opened his mouth, closed it, seemed to be thinking. “It’s…hard to explain. I guess the easiest way is to say that it’s a matter of the attitude, the way that our patron expressed himself with regards to his supposed superiors. I always got the impression that he was humoring them, in some fashion, and that Evanwyl itself really mattered to him for some reason—that whatever Kerlamion wanted from him he did mainly because he needed something from either the king himself or one of his underlings.”
Kyri suddenly looked thoughtful. “You know, that does make sense. Didn’t Tashriel say something about Viedraverion exerting pressure through Kerlamion?”
“I think so,” Poplock agreed, and Tobimar nodded. “So Viedraverion, your patron, has his own game underway, and he was helping Kerlamion as a means to his end.”
“That’s…kind of scary,” Tobimar said candidly. “Manipulating the King of All Hells can’t be a safe thing to do. What in the world could he be after that would make that risk worth taking? Or has he got some secret that makes it not so much of a risk as it would seem?”
Aran shrugged with an air of apology. “I wish I could say, but I think what’s most obvious about this is that our Patron maneuvered us and everyone else without letting us know much about what he wanted. I didn’t even know his real name, Viedraverion, until Kerlamion himself spoke that name.” He looked at Kyri. “Phoenix Kyri, this isn’t much knowledge to go upon. Are you…are we…really going to engage them tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, and Poplock knew that expression; she’s made up her mind and there’s nothing in this world that will change it. “The longer we wait, the worse things will get. For the moment, he doesn’t know that you’ve changed sides. That has to be an advantage, but it’s an advantage we could lose very quickly if we wait. I am fully recovered…” she smiled with an edge of her own awe and relief, “…fully recovered due to my rebirth, so I will not have a better opportunity. He has, we hope, only two remaining allies at the retreat, so—”
“He may have more,” Aran said suddenly. “I just remembered something else that might be important. In his retreat—the inner sanctum we would only enter rarely, with his explicit bidding—he had inlaid ritual circles of various types. He used one such circle, with additional modifications, to send me across Evanwyl to Rivendream Pass.”
Poplock saw what he was getting at. “Mudbubbles. He’s a demonlord; he could be summoning demons to help him.”
“I’m afraid so. I wasn’t terribly well educated in such things—I’m no magician or priest—but I could recognize some of the symbols and they were definitely associated with demonic works and some I think were summoning related.”
Kyri nodded slowly. “Then we can’t assume it’s just the three. On the other hand, that makes it more obvious that we cannot wait much longer. He could keep making bargains and summoning more aid. The longer we give him, the stronger his position.”
Poplock couldn’t think of a reasonable counter-argument, and by their expressions neither could Tobimar or Aran. The only reasonable justification for not going quickly would be if they either had some source for better intelligence against their enemy, or if by waiting they could get more reinforcements. But as far as Poplock could tell, there weren’t any more good sources, and their only possible significant reinforcements were in Kaizatenzei, weeks or even months away.
“More importantly, we know Jeridan Velion went to confront him—probably was triggered to do so—and may still be alive. I am not going to wait; I wouldn’t even delay now if it weren’t for the fact that we spent all night traveling here, and all three of us are exhausted and need rest. I don’t know about you, Aran—”
“I’m fine,” he said, though he didn’t look happy about it. “I drew full strength from the Demonshard before I went to confront you, and that doesn’t seem to have dissipated just because I discarded the blade.”
“Hm.” She studied him, then glanced at the rising sun. “We need to rest before moving on.”
“I’ll take a first watch with Aran,” Poplock volunteered. “After all, I nap on Tobimar’s shoulder a lot while we travel, so I’m not as beat as all of you, now that I got healed up.”
Kyri nodded. They moved up the hill, to the shade of the jungle nearby, and set up a small camp. After a brief meal, Kyri and Tobimar lay down to rest; it wasn’t long before Poplock heard a gentle snoring from his friends.
“You’re smart not to trust me,” Aran said in a low voice.
“Ha!” Poplock said, “Not just me, either. If I hadn’t volunteered, Tobimar would’ve stayed up. Kyri…well, she kinda has to trust you now that you’ve accepted judgment. That’s the way she is, and me? I don’t want her to change. But that does mean people like me have to watch out for her when her approach doesn’t quite work.”
“Of course.” He looked at the two of them, and his expression shifted slightly. Following the line of his vision, Poplock was pretty sure he was looking at how Kyri—even in sleep—was holding Tobimar’s hand.
“Yeah, that’s the way it is. Sorry, even if you had a chance once, it’s gone now.”
Aran glared at him for an instant, but then his gaze dropped and he looked ashamed. “I never dared take the chance anyway. I would have had to fight…them for that chance. Shrike realized I was thinking of leaving, I tried to convince him to leave so I could follow her. That’s what panicked him, made him bring me to face the truth about who we were really serving.”
“Viedraverion?”
“Oh, not him. Remember, he didn’t reveal everything about himself. Although he was more than scary enough, draining your power just with a touch, cutting three lines into Thornfalcon’s armor as though he were drawing in the sand. No, that was when I first saw the King of All Hells.” The young man shuddered, making his armor rattle slightly.
Seeing the empty scabbard wriggle reminded him. “Hey, what can we do about that piece of trash you threw away?”
“Oh, Balance. I…I’d been trying to forget about it.”
“Well, we can’t. Do you want to—”
“No, I don’t. That…thing is more dangerous than you can imagine.”
“I dunno, after what we’ve been through, I can imagine quite a bit.”
Aran stood. “Let’s find it, at least.”
After a few minutes of reconstructing that last agonized moment in which the former Condor had thrown his weapon away, the two entered the jungle at another angle. This did take them away from the camp, but—honestly speaking—Poplock wasn’t worried about them, here in what was still part of Evanwyl. Aran was the only real danger he’d wanted to keep an eye on.
The search took a few hours; just like a true Justiciar, Aran Condor had had superhuman strength when he pitched the Demonshard, and it had flown a long distance. Finally, though, Poplock noticed the background sounds of the jungle getting quieter, and Aran’s head turned. “There. Over there.”
The Demonshard was embedded to half its length in the earth, leaning at a sharp angle. Around the blade, everything was black and dead. The weapon hummed louder as Aran approached. The red-haired young man stopped and stared pensively down at the ebony-dark weapon. “Balance take it,” he muttered.
Poplock felt a cold, crawling sensation just being this close to the Demonshard. “That’s a nasty, nasty weapon,” he said quietly.
“You don’t even begin to know,” Aran muttered. “Bu
t…it’s also the only weapon of any power I own. If we’re going into combat against him…”
“You just gave that weapon up. You want to change your mind?”
“I renounced its control of me.”
“You tried that once before, remember? And it still tried.”
“I was still pretending to be Condor, then.” Despite the words, Aran backed away from the weapon.
“Take me up again, Aran Shrikeson,” said a chill, wavering, echoing voice.
Poplock jumped half a foot in the air from Aran’s shoulder. “Blackwart’s Chosen! That’s a creepy voice.”
Aran nodded. “Fitting for what it is.”
“Your family name is ‘Shrikeson’? Sounds like a pretty strange coincidence.”
“Not coincidence. I don’t know who my real family was,” Aran said absently, still regarding the huge black sword with trepidation. “I guess the false Justiciars probably knew it, but there was no point in keeping it and maybe raising questions. Since Shrike adopted me, that’s the last name I was given.”
“Oh.” Now that he could see and sense the Demonshard, Poplock was even more sure this thing had to be dealt with, but he was darned if he could figure out how. “Maybe we can just stuff the thing into a neverfull pack.”
The blade chuckled eerily as Aran shook his head. “That weapon will cut almost anything even without a hand to wield it, except a scabbard meant to hold it. Kerlamion laid such an enchantment on my scabbard when he gave me the blade. Drop it in such a pack and it might sever even the magical pack, with,” he gave a wry smile, “unfortunate consequences.”
“You can still fight pretty well without a magic sword though, right?”
Aran nodded. “I am very good, yes. Hand-to-hand I was probably the best of us, even better than Bolthawk. So I don’t really need a sword, though without something of real power, I don’t know if I’ll be any use against a demon.” A flash of real humor. “Even though he likes to talk about being sporting, I really, really doubt he’s going to let me draw on his own power to fight him. And even if I’m forgiven, I’m not even close to being worthy to be a real Justiciar.”
