by Ryk E. Spoor
“Put yer shoulder into it, lad,” Shrike said; the two Justiciars pushed the crate into place with two ramming blows. “There. Now I hope there be just some drapes or something light.”
“Here, I’ll help.” Kyri followed them, leaving the Watchland, Victoria, and Skyharrier discussing the journey to the south.
As she reached the front hall and paused, looking around to decide what to take next, Condor and Shrike were joined by Bolthawk, Mist Owl, and Thornfalcon. She was startled when all five dropped to their knees before her. “What . . .”
“My lady,” Mist Owl said, his straight and slender figure more tense than usual, “we . . . owe you a great apology.”
“And one that must be given now.” She saw Thornfalcon’s gaze flicker backwards, towards where—she guessed—he could just barely see Skyharrier. “Now, while our most courteous brother keeps the others in conversation.”
Oh, no.
“Your brother . . .” The slender Justiciar’s gentle voice suddenly threatened to break, “He . . . he had guessed at a most shameful secret. I . . .”
She saw the others looking, trying to speak, and to spare them the trouble, forced herself to say it. “Silver Eagle betrayed you, and killed my parents.”
“Great Balance, girl!” The exclamation seemed torn from Shrike. “How . . . did ye . . . ?”
She smiled bitterly. More bitter than I knew. “I was the one who thought of it.”
“Myrionar’s Sword.” Condor’s voice vibrated with sympathy, a sympathy she nearly rejected outright . . . but there was no point in inflicting her anger on them.
She was the one who deserved that anger.
“Then,” Mist Owl said bleakly, “you have guessed that we found out the truth, and kept it a secret purely from selfish, selfish reasons—to protect the reputation of the Justiciars.”
“No,” she protested instantly. “Not selfish, Mist Owl. None of you think that! Not ever! My brother . . . and I, and my sister—we’ve always believed in you. There was nothing he wanted more than to join you—and you gave him, at least, the chance to redeem the armor.”
The Justiciars exchanged glances. Thornfalcon looked quickly back, then met her gaze. “But we failed him, and you, again. We had thought we had dealt with all those involved. Now—now we know it was something worse.”
“Worse, and deeper than the roots of mountains,” Bolthawk said. “We should have realized it. By the Hammer-Father and the Hammer, we should have known it would take something much worse to turn one of Myrionar’s own and hide it.”
“But now we do know,” Shrike said, “and so, lass, we come to ask ye something we don’t deserve at all; that we be given some time to make it right. Ye could tell the truth, and we couldn’t gainsay y’r right . . .”
“But,” Mist Owl took the words up, “but then all we have done . . . may be undone. We still fight for Evanwyl, for justice; you know this better than any save one of our brothers, for I know your own brother has told you what he has seen, what we have done.” He looked to Thornfalcon, who had just looked back again; the slender Justiciar nodded, and Mist Owl continued. “We agree that your family may still be in danger, and you are acting wisely. Will you allow us to continue, to seek those who have now struck our hearts twice, at least until you yourself return?”
The five were staring at her now, eyes beneath the helms as close to pleading as she could ever have imagined. Allow you? I’m the one who caused it this time! But aloud, she said, “Of course I will, Mist Owl. I won’t dishonor my brother’s name by destroying what had made him happier and more proud than anything else in his life.”
The five bowed so low their helms touched the floor. “Then we all thank you, Kyri Victoria Vantage; your forgiveness both shames and honors us, and we shall strive to be worthy of you . . . and the memory of our fallen brother.”
Thornfalcon made a sudden gesture. “Quick. We have been in here too long and no sign of the actual work being done!”
Despite the heaviness of her heart she couldn’t deny a tiny smile for Thornfalcon’s exaggerated panic. “Then lend a hand, all of you.” She pointed to another crate. “That’s the other stonesculpt crate. I’ll get that. None of the others will be that heavy, I’ll guarantee it.”
She reached down, squatting just as she’d always been taught, and with a smooth motion hefted the crate. Gods, it’s heavy! It occurred to her now that the two crates were probably about the same weight . . . and together the hangings had been about eight to nine hundred pounds. But the pain helps focus, at least.
Condor and Shrike stared at her momentarily. “Lass, Balance an’ Swords, take care! Let us—”
“I’ve . . . got it.” She gritted her teeth and moved down the path. Not . . . going to let them . . . think I can’t handle this.
Probably should have asked for help. She felt the ground sink under the combined weight, but held grimly on. Rear of the longcoach. Just have to . . . lift it . . . a little more . . .
With a supreme effort, she pulled the crate up and practically threw it into place next to the first. “Whooo . . . That’ll teach me to try to show off.”
“Doubtful. That has always been your problem since you were much younger, Kyri.”
She turned quickly. “Arbiter?”
Kelsley sat in a wheeled chair, pushed by one of the other Seekers . . . Yana, that was her name. “I know you have been terribly busy, Kyri . . . but we have missed you at the Temple.”
I knew it. But how can I say it? “Arbiter . . . I . . . I am not sure . . .”
“I know. Twice now you have lost family, twice to cruelty and evil, and no vengeance yet have you seen. I know.”
Kyri was suddenly silent, tears threatening to overwhelm her again, and she realized she was nowhere near as strong as she had thought. My fault . . . maybe the weakness of my faith, too . . .
“Kyri . . . I know the pain is great. And it seems there is no reason or justice in the world now. But I beg you, do not abandon your—our—god for appearances. There are many vile powers in the world, and one of their greatest goals is to break our faith, take us away from the gods, and the gods away from us. I know of the power of Myrionar, I have felt Its power, and I know Its sorrow, too.”
For a moment, she felt that same presence, the one that was sometimes with her in the Temple, and she sensed the sorrow Kelsley spoke of.
“Do not let evil triumph. We need the gods. And they need us. Our faith in times of injustice . . . brings them strength too, leads them through that which seeks to oppose them, that they can in the end lend us the power to return the world to its right and proper course.”
I’ve lost my mother, and my father, and now my brother! And what has Myrionar given me?
But before she could say it, she looked down at Arbiter Kelsley, still unable to rise for more than a few moments, and—she had heard—likely to need a year or more to recover, and no magic known would avail him. He held Rion in his arms, and tore his own soul apart to try and save my brother, all in the name of the Lord of Justice.
That kind of faith, that personal seeking of justice for her and her family—something that could have cost Kelsley his life—could she ignore it? Dismiss it? When the power to even attempt it had come from Myrionar Itself?
When it was I who gave Rion the idea that got him killed?
No. It’s hard . . . but no one said justice was easy. Toron himself said how powerful and hidden our enemies were, even to powers of the greatest of the gods. If I am grateful to Father Kelsley for what he has done and tried to do, some of that has to go to Myrionar for giving him, not just the power, but the courage and convictions to risk all for my brother’s sake, even when there was no true hope to save him.
She knelt down and took Kelsley’s pale hand. “I’m sorry, Arbiter. It is . . . very hard to keep my faith. But I know what you’ve done for us, and I won’t abandon Myrionar. I will just hope that this time . . . this time we will find the monsters responsible.”
/> “I assure you,” he said, and now his voice was cold iron, “I assure you, Kyri Vantage, there is no prayer more fervently made at our temple, and no prayer more fully at the fore of my mind every day. And I know—for I hear all the prayers in my Temple that are given to others to hear—that there is not one person in all Evanwyl who has not said a prayer for you and your family.” He gestured outward, and smiled again. “And I doubt not that it is in the minds of all of these present, especially his former brothers; they help you in this movement because they know they have no other help to offer now, and at least with this they accomplish something. See this, and know neither I, nor they, shall give up . . . and Myrionar shall not forget.”
“Indeed. Nor shall the Watchland of Evanwyl.” Velion was beside her again. “One attack, however terrible, could have been just some single, senseless tragedy. This is far more sinister. A small country we may be, but all the resources I may command will be bent towards finding the truth and delivering that truth to you.”
She rose and bowed. “I thank you, Watchland.”
“It is the least I can do . . . and far too little, even if I succeed. But you are welcome.” He pressed her hand once more, bowed, and returned to his horse. “I have new Armsmen in training, and I must see how they fare. Fare you all well, and take care on the long road.”
She waved, then turned towards the Vantage mansion. The sun was setting, and the mansion’s front darkened, looking already sad and forlorn.
She went to stand by the door, looking in at the still-silent Urelle, and then looked back at the mansion.
I will be back. Mother, Father, Rion . . . and Myrionar . . . I swear that. I will be back.
16
“Oh . . . my,” Kyri finally managed.
Aunt Victoria smiled, looking in the same direction. “I’ve seen it many times . . . and never quite gotten used to it.” She smiled more widely as even Urelle leaned forward, eyes shining. “Behold the oldest city in the world, built before the Fall itself, in the language of its builders Fanalam’ T’ ameris’ a’ u’ Zahr-a-Thana T’ikon, Zarathanton, home and throne of the Ancient Saurans and the Great Dragons themselves.”
The walls that surrounded the first among cities were shining, polished wonders of pearl-gray, uncounted thousands of years old yet as unscarred as though they had been new-polished that very day, two miles or more on each side and five hundred feet high, fortifications spaced regularly along their length, impenetrable above and below. The gates of Zarathanton, open at all times save in war, were more than half the height of the walls, some of the largest portals ever forged, sparkling with gold and krellin and a dozen other metals, jewels, and the pearl-gray of unbreakable stone. Within, buildings could be seen, even higher, to the Castle of the T’Teranahm thrusting spires two thousand feet and more into the sky. Crystal and silver, stone and magic fused into testaments of power that had endured throughout every Chaoswar since the beginning, raised by the power of Elbon Nomicon and his Sixteen, and the thought sent chills of awe down Kyri’s spine. Memories were faded, knowledge lost, but these walls, this city, had stood since before Myrionar had first spoken Its words of Justice, before Terian had learned the secrets of power, before Idinus of Scimitar had taken up his abode atop the tallest mountain in the world, since even before her people had ever set foot on Zarathan itself.
“Are . . . are we living there, Auntie?” Urelle asked finally, and the anticipation in her voice made Kyri’s heart fill with hope. In the weeks of their—sometimes hazardous—travel, Urelle had slowly begun to recover. Once more, from the ashes.
And, maybe, so have I. She fingered the phoenix figurine that she’d taken with her on impulse, and looked to the sky, almost expecting to see the fiery actuality somewhere above. Which is silly—they’re rarer than dragons. But the symbolism of that which dies and somehow comes to live again, was so very strong for her. She still blamed herself, sometimes, for Rion’s death—probably always would. But at the same time she knew he wouldn’t have blamed her, would have been furious at her for blaming herself . . . and the weeks of sometimes dangerous travel had helped ease the wound.
The worst part is keeping the secret. But I promised, and a Vantage keeps her promises.
Victoria was answering Urelle’s question. “Not within the City, no, but I’ve obtained an estate a few miles to the north, at the border of the Forest Sea. We’ll be near enough, Urelle.” Victoria hugged Urelle. “Near enough for you to see the wonders, and come to know them.”
Kyri stared at the crowds as they approached. More and more people—more people just on the Great Road than she’d seen in all Evanwyl, and of so many species. Children of Odin walking within almost touching distance of the Artan on one side and mazakh on the other, an Iriistik talking with a human who seemed comfortable speaking the buzz-click speech.
We’re not the only gawkers, she noted with some comfort. Scattered through the crowd were others who stood and stared in awe and wonder and consternation—a wing-shouldered Valkyrnen there, a great shellikaki all feelers and armored jointed legs and waving, startled eyes from within a huge carven shell, and a bit farther away, on the other side of the road, five young people standing together, all stunned and amazed. They caught Kyri’s eye because of their beauty; all five of them startling in their good looks, three boys, two girls, seeming only a year or three older than Urelle’s fourteen. One in particular stood out to Kyri, for with his raven-black hair and dusky complexion he looked not unlike Urelle herself.
“We turn north at the next intersection,” Ingram said, glancing at Victoria, who nodded to verify his statement. The lavender-haired boy moved forward, weaving his way through the nearby crowd effortlessly, levering others aside with subtle motions of his body and staff-blade weapon.
Kyri shook her head. We were indeed lucky. She had seen that weapon, the anai-k’ota, in use three times, striking as a staff, breaking apart into a series of bladed linked sections, slashing and striking and cutting in a ballet of death and destruction that seemed utterly at odds with the quiet, slender boy who, in his spare moments, spent his time reading from ancient books and sometimes peering at a strange glowing square which he hid away before anyone could get a look at it. Not even five feet tall, Ingram Camp-Bel had proven to be fully as formidable as the gray-armored, twin-sword wielding Iriistik warrior who called himself Ele-Kim-ze, which he said meant, roughly, Quester.
Quester was behind them, observing and guarding. Both of their escorts had recognized their skills and thus were willing to rely on their charges to defend themselves for the few moments necessary, if something came from an unwarded direction.
Urelle continued to stare at the City as they headed north, until it vanished behind a hill. An hour or so later, the longcoach pulled up in front of a green and gray mansion, set like a quiet jewel against the background of the Forest Sea.
“And here we are!” Victoria said, leaping down from the roof seat.
Kyri laughed. “Aunt Victoria, you know, you’ve seemed to be getting younger the longer we’ve been travelling!”
“Have I?” The older woman glanced up at the mansion, smiling faintly. “I suppose I have. I was a Guild Adventurer myself, and this has taken me back. I’d rather not have had to do it,” she said more quietly, with a glance at Urelle, who seemed more interested in watching Ingram unhitching the team, “but as I had to, it’s helped wake me back up.”
“I think it’s helped us all.”
“I think you’re right, child. I think you’re right.” Victoria glanced sharply at Urelle as she started towards the mansion. “Stay on the grounds behind the ward-fence, Urelle—and you too, Kyri.”
Urelle nodded emphatically. “I understand, Auntie.” Kyri stared at the towering mass of jungle, wafting strange, unknown scents into the humid warmth of evening, and nodded also. The Forest Sea.
Farther than this, only Adventurers, armies, and the mad or suicidal ventured . . . or those who were native to the wild. Anywhere on Zara
than, hideous dangers awaited those who left the shelter of their homes, the near and clear circles of the fields and the few fortified areas about the cities, or the broad and enchanted swathes of land about the Great Roads. Though maps claimed huge territories as the Empire of the Mountain or the State of Elbon Nomicon or even Dalthunia and vastly smaller Evanwyl, in truth they were all archipelagos of tiny islands of safety, connected by slender roads that were only mostly safe, surrounded always by wilderness, a hundred species of intelligent beings savage and otherwise, mystical creatures and mobile plants, undead remnants of ancient cities, legacies of ages past and conspiracies of the present, wandering remnants of forgotten gods, or servants of gods so new their names were only beginning to be spoken.
Finally she looked back down towards Aunt Victoria. “Do we have any staff?”
“Not yet, Kyri. Need to set up, get some word around.”
Kyri looked over at Quester and Ingram. “I know you’re just bodyguards, but . . .”
Ingram managed a small smile, which lit up his face, making him look even younger. “I suppose for another week’s pay . . .” he glanced to Quester, who dipped his antennae, “we could keep guard here for a week or so.” He reached over and with surprising strength hefted one of Urelle’s boxes. “And help you move in.”
Even with Quester and Ingram helping, of course, it took a long time. Finally, Kyri was left dragging the last piece—the first stonesculpt crate, of course—by herself while Aunt Victoria began to get dinner ready and Urelle, Ingram, and Quester started arranging the rooms to be livable.
What in the name of the Sixteen was I thinking, bringing these things with me? I swear, they’ve gotten heavier! She’d gotten about a quarter of the way up the staircase when she had to put it down and take a rest. Maybe these should be hung up downstairs.
She snorted at herself. Upstairs was going to be her own room and Urelle’s and she was not going to leave Mother’s hangings downstairs. Besides, half of them were already up there.
