Phoenix Rising

by Ryk E. Spoor

  BAEN BOOKS by RYK E. SPOOR

  Digital Knight

  Grand Central Arena

  BAEN BOOKS by RYK E. SPOOR & ERIC FLINT

  Boundary

  Threshold

  Portal (forthcoming)

  PHOENIX RISING

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Ryk E. Spoor

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-3841-7

  Cover art by Todd Lockwood

  Maps by Randy Asplund

  First printing, November 2012

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Spoor, Ryk E.

  Phoenix rising / Ryk E. Spoor.

  p. cm.

  “A Baen Books original”—T.p. verso.

  Summary: “Kyri is a highborn young woman whose life is shattered by the murder of her kin. But even as Kyri flees her beloved land Evanwyl, she knows that she is her family’s only hope for justice and Evanwyl’s only chance to escape a growing shadow of corruption. Now she must venture across Zarathan, a world on the brink of a long foretold Chaos War. With her are two companions, swordsman Tobimar Silverun, Prince of Skysand, exiled on a turn of a card and a prophecy who is now seeking his people’s lost homeland; and Poplock Duckweed, an unlikely hero whose diminutive size is as much a weapon as a weakness. Kryi’s quest is simple: find the legendary weaponsmith, take up the sword and armor of a new order of warrior defenders, and bring the power of justice and vengeance to the evil and corruption that has darkened her land”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4516-3841-7 (pbk.)

  I. Title.

  PS3619.P665P48 2012

  813’.6—dc23

  2012032974

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)

  Printed in the United States of America

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS & THANKS

  First to my wife Kathleen, for giving me the time

  To Toni Weisskopf, for giving me the chance

  To Tony Daniel, for giving excellent editorial advice

  And to my Beta-Readers, for giving me encouragement and feedback—especially my Loyal Lieutenant, Shana.

  This novel is dedicated to three people without whom it would never have been written:

  First to Jeffrey Getzin, author of the self-published novel Prince of Bryanae, in whose campaign Kyri Vantage (then Kyrie Ross) was first born. Thank you, Jeff, for one of the most intense campaigns I have been in . . . and thank you for visiting my own world, and taking Bryanae itself with you, to live a greater and brighter life of its own.

  Second to Dana Renee LaJeunesse, for demanding and guiding the original creation of . . . a certain species (spoilers!). Thank you, Dana, for that and so much more. “Fear Me!”

  And third to Robert Rudolph, who helped create Skysand, and who first created a character named Tobimar Silverun. That character’s adventures were different . . . yet the spirit of the character is, I think, very much the same. Thank you for entering Zarathan and leaving it richer than before, Rob—and may I never have to deal with another player so incredibly lucky!

  PROLOGUE

  Warm light spilled from the windows of the estate, windows that were set in solid stone, warded with spell and steel; comfort with protection. He gripped the hilt of his sword and swallowed; his mouth was dry, as though filled with sand. “I—I don’t want to do this,” he whispered.

  His companion’s grip on his arm was unsettling—a combination of a reassuring squeeze and a warning, angry twist. “Ye’re too late fer that, boy,” the rough voice answered, barely audible from beneath the other’s helmet, covered now with black cloth to prevent any glint of light from reflecting back to possible watching eyes. “Done other things as we been ordered, you have, not so bad, but enough ’tis so you either knew what might be needed, or you been foolin’ yerself. Whichever ’tis, you’d best get over it.”

  “They’re not bad people, sirza.” The word meant friend, brother, father, though not related by blood; it was a word he used only to this man, the man he’d most admired and trusted and followed. “Why—”

  “Dragons and curses, kid, you know that doesn’t matter!” His mentor’s voice nearly rose above a whisper. “We don’t know the why, ain’t got need to know, and askin’ could get you what they’re about to get.”

  He’d never more wanted to just shed the armor he wore than he did now, but his sirza was right; it was too late unless he wanted to go back to the temple and tell the thing waiting there that . . .

  Shuddering, he shook his head and turned his face back to the castle. No, far, far too late. “We’ll never get in anyway. Doors are shut, the locking wards will—”

  “Been assured that’s no problem. Just be needin’ to break the doors in ourselves. Guards are mostly gone.” His companion made three quick hand signals; the others fanned out. “The ones we’ve come for will be the real problem, boy. Neither soft, both adventurers in their time. But alone, quiet in their upper chamber, guessin’ they’re takin’ advantage with the kids all elsewhere this night.” A gentler squeeze to the arm. “Better this way, eh, sirza? Better than what he would do to them, if we were daft enough to refuse.”

  That much was true. Their targets thought they were protected, blessed, but he knew how much of that was a lie. Yes, much better to die at my sword, no matter how horrifying they find it, than . . . than that.

  He took a deep, shaking breath, nodded, and then drew himself up.

  “Good lad,” he heard faintly. The two of them strode to the doorway now, coordinating their steps, concentrating the power they were given, speeding up, strides becoming a jog, a sprint, shoulders lowering . . .

  BOOM!

  The twin doors, each ten feet high and five wide, shuddered at the impact; he felt the cloth covering tear, but the time for stealth was over and it was no longer a concern. He was right, the door-wards are down; all that force would’ve meant nothing otherwise, and likely alarm chimes and lights would now be everywhere—or something worse.

  They drew back, focused, the power flickering about them in tarnished bronze light before they struck again.

  This time the doors flew open, the eight-inch thick beam that had secured them snapped in two, deep gouges in the rimewood panels where their shoulderguards had bitten halfway through the wood.

  Two house guards ran forward, but surprise at what greeted them hampered their response—and outnumbered more than three to one they had no chance, anyway. He and the others moved forward now, swiftly. Thank all the gods that the children are gone. He spared one more glance towards his companion. He planned the assault; I’m sure he waited for just that to happen.

  The others fanned out through the house. Sounds of screams, breaking furniture, and curses began to echo throughout the mansion as the two of them bounded up the stairs and smashed into the master bedroom doorway.

  A blaze of blue-white thunderbolts limned them and he screamed, thrown back in a momentarily uncontrollable convulsion. Those wards are still up!

  “Blast them! Threw up a new ward soon’s they heard the noise! Go, boy, got to get the door down before—”

  “I know!” He gathered himself up and they swung hard, sword and axe slamming into spell-reinfo
rced wood and metal. The hastily spelled ward could not overcome that assault, and though the hilt of his sword tingled, he felt the spell break.

  Then the doors were yanked open from the inside, two figures facing them; the grim fury on their faces gave way to disbelief and shock of recognition.

  As one, the two invaders lunged forward.

  1

  The huge double doors of Victoria Vantage’s ballroom thundered with the three ceremonial strikes: Strength, Faith, Wisdom, they seemed to say, and were flung open from outside. Kyri was already on her feet, along with Urelle, as six armored figures trooped in, three on each side and halted. “Assembled of Evanwyl!” Thornfalcon’s voice rang out. “Human and Artan, Children of Odin, T’Teranahm and all of the assembled races, the Justiciars of Myrionar greet you!”

  Mist Owl’s precise Artan tones continued from the other side of the doorway. “In the name of Justice and Vengeance, in the name of Truth and Wisdom, in the name of the Creator of All and in the name of all spirits that live, we bring you greetings and glad news!”

  Condor and Shrike stepped forward, one from each line, and turned, facing the open doorway. “The Sword is now balanced. On the one hand is Justice. On the other is Vengeance. But between them is Choice and Judgment. A choice and a judgment have been made this day, and where one has gone to the Sword, another has stepped forward to become the Sword of Judgment itself.” They extended their arms as one as a figure became visible, striding in from the darkness outside. “Evanwyl and all its people behold! This day we are whole once more, for we and Myrionar give to you—the Silver Eagle, reborn to us again as he has ever been!”

  Into the light he came, the Eagle-helm shining like a beacon, the silver and black pattern like wings on the armor and cape that streamed behind, towering dramatically over all the others except Condor, longsword at his hip, walking with a measured solemn step; she could see the mouth beneath unable to restrain a joyous grin. She led the cheer of “Silver Eagle!”, but then Urelle burst from her seat, tears streaming down her face, shouting “Rion!”, and the entire room dissolved in laughter and cheers. Rion pulled off the Eagle helm and swept his little sister up into his arms. “Now, now, I’m Silver Eagle now, Uri!”

  “Lad, it might be too much t’ expect that your family will be forgettin’ your name soon,” Shrike said with a chuckle. “Most o’ us haven’t family, but we all had names, and still have them. Sometimes, we even use them.”

  “Rion . . . let me have a look at you.” Victoria put her hands gently on the shoulderguards and stood there silently for a moment, then embraced him hard. “Oh, dear, if only your parents could be here to see you, Rion. I know how proud they would be, as proud as I am this day.”

  Rion—Silver Eagle, Justiciar of Myrionar!—blushed and looked over at Kyri. “What about you, Kyri?”

  She tried to say something, but settled for hugging him so hard the armor creaked, feeling something in her finally completely opening like spreading wings, and crying happily. “I knew you’d do it.”

  “That’s more than I knew.” He hugged her back, then looked back at Aunt Victoria. “Two parties in a week? You’ll go broke, Auntie!”

  “Nonsense. Your great-grandmother used to say that one should always have a party just before a great trial, because if things go wrong you at least had a party, and if things go right, you have two. And so now you have your second. And Kyri actually agreed to dance this time instead of stand around in the corners talking with former adventurers, warriors, and priests!”

  Kyri tried not to look embarrassed. But Watchland Velion, the Arms, the other Eyes, and the Justiciars had so many fascinating stories to tell . . .

  “Now that we are in the home of a brother Justiciar,” Thornfalcon said with a smile, “we are allowed to be . . . more ourselves.” He swept off his own helmet, revealing a long poet’s face that seemed naturally mournful until he smiled, a face framed by long straight brown hair. And that smile . . . well, I guess I know why he has that reputation with the ladies!

  “Indeed.” Mist Owl followed suit, showing the features of the Artan, that some called Elves, with surprising black-blue hair around a delicate heart-shaped face with eyes almost as large as his namesake’s. Kyri was startled by his beauty; Lythos, the Vantage household’s Sho-ka-taida or Master of Arms, had much of the delicacy of his people in his figure, but a hardness of feature that denied the possibility of beauty being a consideration.

  “You won’t be dancing in your armor, I assure you,” Victoria said, interrupting. “Unless you intend to flatten your partners’ feet.” She pointed to the side, where one of her servants held a door open. “Change in there.”

  When some of the Justiciars blinked in surprise, she straightened, giving them the same glare she used to give Kyri and Urelle when they failed to wipe their feet properly. “And immediately, if you please!”

  Mist Owl looked scandalized, but Thornfalcon backed up a pace. It was the short, squat Shrike who took action. “Come, lads!” he said with a chuckle, leading the way at a double-march pace. “Choose your battles wisely, or the battle may choose you.”

  Rion stared at her as he was half-dragged away by his new comrades, and Kyri tried to repress a giggle—not altogether successfully.

  The crowd did not repress giggles or outright laughter, and spontaneous claps rang out around the room. Kyri, looking around, realized there were even more people here than had been for Rion’s “Good Luck” banquet—the great hall of Vantage Fortress was crowded. There has to be at least one person from every family in Evanwyl for twenty miles! Maybe five hundred, six hundred, more? You will go broke if we do this again, Auntie!

  But now the ruler of Evanwyl was addressing her aunt. “That . . . was quite impressive, Lady Victoria,” said Jeridan Velion, the Watchland. His long blond hair was bound back in a careless-seeming tail; having fairly long hair herself, Kyri was aware of just how very much effort, and probably a little magic, went into making that simple style work without becoming a mass of tangles or an impediment.

  “Not so much,” Victoria said, acknowledging the compliment. “They’re civilized, after all, and would be far too polite than to gainsay a woman in her own house. They just needed a bit of firmness to recognize that they should be acting like guests rather than Myrionar’s moving statues this evening.”

  “I am more impressed by the fact that you must have appropriate clothing waiting for them—as I am sure they did not come prepared.” The Watchland’s smile was warm this evening. It’s odd, Kyri thought to herself. Some days I’ve felt very comfortable around the Watchland, other days . . . he seems very cold. There wasn’t anything she could put a finger on, but he did seem to go through different phases; she reminded herself to ask Urelle if she’d ever noticed anything like that.

  Victoria laughed softly. “I should have known you would be thinking a step farther ahead, Watchland. When you’ve been an Adventurer for, oh, thirty years before settling down, you learn to be very prepared indeed. I would expect you would be similarly ready, eh, Jeridan?”

  An incline of the Watchland’s head acknowledged the compliment. “Perhaps, perhaps. But you have a far more . . . formidable reputation than I.”

  Victoria looked pleased. “Thank you.”

  “As would be expected,” Byll Kontrul said affectionately, then his tanned farmer’s face shifted to a mischievous grin, “from the V—”

  Aunt Victoria’s narrowed gaze cut him off before he could quite complete the phrase—as she had managed to successfully avert it every other time someone had tried to say it in Kyri’s presence. She had guesses as to what the rest was, but no one would ever confirm or deny, and Aunt Victoria staunchly refused to elaborate. It had something to do with her Adventuring days, of course.

  Politely ignoring the byplay, Watchland looked over at Kyri. “And will you be following in your aunt’s—and your parents’—footsteps? Or will Arbiter Kelsley’s hopes be fulfilled?”

  “The Arbiter?”
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  Her obviously confused response caused Jeridan to smile apologetically. “I seems Kelsley told me things more private than I had thought.” He glanced over, where the Arbiter—highest priest of Myrionar—was speaking to Melni Andris. Oh, Balance, they lost Elodi in one of the patrols. The memory hurt; she and Elodi were the same age, had played together a lot when they were young; her death was the one dark blot in this wonderful week. And Melni still came? I can’t imagine coming to someone’s party if my daughter was killed!

  But the Watchland was continuing and she forced herself to listen. “He has been very pleased with your attentiveness in the Temple, with your memorization of the Way of Justice, and other work in Evanwyl, and it’s clear to me that he is hoping you will become a Seeker soon.”

  He is? The thought made her feel warm inside, despite the lingering empathic ache for what poor Melni must be feeling. “I . . . I am honored that he would want me as a Seeker. But I haven’t decided my path yet.” I really need to speak to her. “Would you excuse me, Watchland?”

  He followed her gaze, nodded emphatically. “Of course, Kyri. Please, go.”

  She reached Melni and the Arbiter just as the holy man of Myrionar was bowing his farewell. “Melni—”

  Melni’s tired, red-rimmed eyes met hers, and the sting of tears overwhelmed her. “Oh, Myrionar and Terian, I’m so sorry, Melni . . .”

  The older woman embraced her, and Kyri heard a small sob before Melni caught herself and pulled gently away, brushing back her gray-streaked brown hair. “Thank you, Kyri. And don’t you tell me I shouldn’t have come,” she said, as Kyri was about to say exactly that. “El . . . El would have been furious if I didn’t come to Rion’s celebration. And Balance knows I need some light and cheer in my life now, really.”