Phoenix Rising

by Ryk E. Spoor

  “Not a bad collection . . .” the Child of Odin began. “Let’s see, now . . .”

  After some considerable haggling (with occasional interjections and heckling by Poplock), Tobimar and Kalma Odinforged arrived at agreement, and she gave over a bag with a satisfying heft of assorted gold and silver coinage in exchange for two Suncores and a decent-sized Vor-nahal whose deep sapphire color echoed the power in it; it caught at the winds and nearly levitated itself through its own magic, even though it had not yet even been cut.

  “You aren’t working for the money, I see.” Poplock said as they walked away.

  “Not entirely, no—though I really prefer not to dip into that reserve very often. I just have a feeling I might need a lot of ready money soon, depending on what we find out today. And she’ll make good use of the stones.” As he spoke, he saw the five young people leaving the castle gate, talking animatedly among themselves.

  “Ooo. We should be up next then,” said Poplock, following his gaze. “Good timing; you’ve got your reserve, and we’ll be in soon.”

  “I don’t see the Marshal yet, though. He—no, wait, there he is.”

  The Marshal now emerged from the second door and spoke to the Winnower; they exchanged a few comments, the Winnower shrugged, and suddenly the callstone in Tobimar’s left pocket vibrated and gave off a crystalline chime. “That’s us!”

  He hurried up to the Winnower’s doorway and presented the callstone, which now also flickered with a leaf-green light. “Tobimar Silverun and Poplock Duckweed,” he announced.

  “Very good. The Marshal will speak with you now, and you have also been granted an audience with the His Majesty.” The Ancient Sauran Marshal took the callstone, which changed to a clear white light in his scaled hand, and turned to face Tobimar.

  Tobimar bowed, one leg extended, and managed a swept-pivot to the full rear-facing position before turning back around. The Marshal returned the gesture, his motion far more impressive than Tobimar’s given that the great Sauran stood over eight feet high and massed . . . well, more than Tobimar wanted to guess. “Tobimar of the Silverun, welcome. And to you, Poplock Duckweed . . . of Pondsparkle, I would presume?” The deep voice was full of subtle humor, and Tobimar liked it immediately.

  “Good presumption. Left home about four years ago though,” the Toad answered.

  “I thank you for your welcome, T’Oroning’Oltharamnon hGHEK R’arshe Ness.” He was actually quite pleased by the way he managed the inhaled-choking sound in the middle.

  A deep rumble of an approving chuckle rolled out from the Marshal. “I appreciate your kindness in attempting my name—and in truth, you do wonderfully well with it for a human. But please, call me Toron, as my human friends have. Follow me.”

  “Thank you . . . Toron.”

  This time they were taken in through the main gate, and Tobimar could see just how immense the interior construction was. It was not merely some sort of overly ostentatious entrance hall; instead, the corridor continued, for a good fraction of a mile north it appeared, with a height of four hundred feet and a width of nearly three hundred, ending in a set of doors of pearl-white and jet-black, set with the lightning sunburst of the Dragon King in the center of the double doors.

  “No need for thanks; the summary of the intelligence you bring to us was . . . quite interesting. Indeed, his Majesty was most insistent on speaking with you directly once we understood the nature of your interest.”

  “Does he . . . know something, then?”

  A snort of deep draconic amusement. “He knows many things. About your quest, perhaps not, but then again, perhaps yes. It is your friend’s story which we both find of more import—and the possible connection to it which you have discovered within our own city. But we will not ignore your own request, I assure you; Skysand is far away, but a good ally to have in the north of the world.” The deep-set black eyes, with a visible faint red glow deep within, shifted to Poplock. “Your news is four years old, as I understand it? How is it that you did not bring it to our attention before?”

  Poplock shifted uncomfortably, and Tobimar felt some sympathy, having discussed the issue with him before. “Well . . . at first it seemed more our problem. And the problem was over when everything went boom, so no reason to worry any more. But a while ago I started thinking it was maybe not quite over, since old bugface had made a bunch of threats, and I tried to get an audience a couple of times, but the Winnower . . . well, I didn’t know how to put it, exactly, and he didn’t seem to take me seriously.”

  The frown of an Ancient Sauran could be pretty intimidating, and Tobimar was relieved when Toron spoke again. “I am afraid that was a failure on our part. Even careful checks of one’s moral outlook and diligence will not reveal so subtle a bias as simply not taking Toads seriously . . . not when this is a widespread attitude. Fortunately we replaced that Winnower recently.”

  “And I met Tobimar, who seems to know how to talk to people like that and get their attention,” said the Toad.

  “Fortunate, that. But unfortunate that your own mistake and our failure have combined to keep such a potentially dangerous situation from our attention. We will of course discuss all of this in detail in the Throne Room.”

  They were now approaching the black and white double doors, and Tobimar could now see that Elbon Nomicon’s symbol apeared to have been carved from a set of impossibly huge diamonds, single crystals fifty to a hundred feet or more in length. “Where in the world did they find such gems to carve?”

  “Ah, that would be a question to occur to a Skysand, to one of the sands and mines. No ordinary crystal, that, for it was carven entire from a single one of the Dragon King’s scales.”

  Tobimar did not quite catch the next few words, as his mind was suddenly overwhelmed by imagining the size of a Dragon which could have a single scale so huge that it would have clearly served to cover most, if not all, of that entire door. “I beg your pardon?” he said, realizing that he had just been asked a question.

  “I said, do you understand the etiquette of the Throne?”

  “I’ve been told it once, but I wouldn’t mind you reviewing it.”

  “It is fairly simple. You will enter, I will announce you to the King. You will then advance near to the base of the throne—about ten human paces back—and perform the Armed Bow. Make sure your weapons are more visible, your cloak hid one of them when you did it for me. It is imperative your weapons be very clearly visible; it is a grave insult for there to be appearance of an unarmed guest or petitioner in the presence of the King.

  “When you have finished the full turn, the King will rise, advance to the base of the Throne, and return the bow. He will then speak to you to begin the audience, and the rest will go as conversation takes it. When you are dismissed, you must perform the Armed Bow once more and leave the room. The doors will close for a moment, you will wait, then I will emerge after having performed my own bow and received any instructions my King may have for me, and I will lead you back outside.” Toron looked at both of them. “Are there any questions?”

  “No,” Tobimar said, “that seems fairly straightforward.” Poplock bounced agreement.

  Toron nodded, then raised the callstone in his hand; the doors echoed the light, and swung smoothly and with startling silence inward.

  Before them was the Throne of Dragons. It dominated even the immense, egg-shaped room it was in, facing the doors from the far end of the room. It sat upon a circular layered dias of seventeen pure glittering crystal slabs, different colors alternating until the pure diamond at the very top, which seemed to be a single piece with the throne itself a polychromatic jewel carved by a master sculptor. There was no ordinary stone on the throne or its supporting dias. Eight pillars, each of a single massive glittering crystal, supported the room in a pair of long opposed arcs, with the path to the Throne leading between them. In many ways it was impressive in stark simplicity; the floor and walls were pure polished stone, granite or so it appeared, unador
ned, unmarked by symbol or painting.

  In the throne sat the Sauran King, his dark form silhouetted against the transparent brilliance of the throne, which, along with the dias, seemed filled with light that brought vision to every part of the throneroom. He looked even larger than Toron, and his head was lowered as though gazing down on those entering his domain.

  “Your Majesty!” Toron’s voice was powerful and formal now. “I present to you Tobimar Silverun of Skysand, Seventh of Seven, Seeker of his people; and with him Poplock Duckweed of Pondsparkle.”

  Tobimar took a deep breath and advanced steadily forward. The Sauran King. The most powerful ruler in the entire world—save, possibly, the God-King of the Mountain—and the holder of the throne which had seen all the history of Zarathan unfold since the very beginning. He hoped he wouldn’t screw this up.

  When he’d reached what he guessed to be ten paces, he stopped, whipped his cloak off (almost upsetting Poplock, but the little Toad was very nimble) to expose his twin blades’ scabbards, and bowed low, extending his foot as far behind as he could. A moment later he completed the ritual pirouette and stood, looking upward.

  A moment passed. Two. Still the King did not move.

  Toron moved up to them, puzzlement clear on his face. “Majesty?”

  There was still no response, and now a deep foreboding came over Tobimar’s heart. Something’s badly wrong.

  Toron apparently felt the same way, for suddenly he was moving briskly up the Hundred And One Steps towards his King. Poplock had bounded from Tobimar’s shoulder and was hopping his way up faster, outpacing the massive Sauran. Tobimar ran after both.

  “Stay back, both of you!” Toron bellowed, and even the little Toad stopped dead in his tracks. Toron reached the top and advanced carefully to stand before the King. A few moments passed, and then he whirled suddenly and gave a roar that was amplified to deafening intensity by the empty vastness of the Throne Room.

  A glow of light materialized before Toron, and he began speaking quickly into it, mostly in the tongue of his people. Tobimar cautiously advanced to where Poplock stood, on the Hundredth Step, and picked up his friend.

  From this range, he was only about twenty feet from the Throne, and he could see the King, head bowed almost to his chest.

  And in the chest, showing dark-red against dark gray-green, four perfect holes in a curving line.

  The Sauran King was dead.

  20

  The jungle below was thick and green, breathing with life in the brilliant sunshine. As he watched, a flock of brilliant birds burst from the canopy, pursued for a short distance by a bat-winged shape, a merinam or least dragon, before it grew bored and settled down onto the top of a tree like a giant crimson flower.

  It’s not working.

  Usually Aran came here to . . . well, recover, to let beauty and quiet soak into his soul and alleviate the pain that still sometimes came to him when they were called upon to do something for their patron which was . . . well . . . evil.

  And usually it worked. He’d long since realized that the power of Myrionar had faded, that the Justiciars were one of the few forces of order left in Evanwyl and that keeping that force alive—even through deception—was better than just allowing things to fall apart. He’d managed to erase the roiling in his gut after that terrible night years ago when they’d taken the Vantage estate. A few days here had always managed to bring some peace back to his soul, every time he’d needed it.

  Until now. Aran sighed, still gazing at the sea of emerald and flowers that extended from the Khalals all the way to the rampart of Hell’s Rim; he sat on a low ridge of the Khalal foothills, and for that reason did not look too far to his left, because if he did, Rivendream Pass would intrude upon the perfect view.

  He remembered Kyri’s face, shattered and devastated, streaked with tears when they first saw her after . . . after it happened. Then helping her load the coach . . . and of course she was leaving. It makes perfect sense. Why wouldn’t she leave?

  And he remembered the lies they’d told her. Not all lies. I . . . I really wish we hadn’t killed him. He was a true Justiciar. Maybe . . . maybe if I’d said something to him . . .

  “Still up here, lad?”

  He jumped slightly, then tried to pretend he’d just been stretching. “Shrike? How long have you been there, sirza?”

  The older man pulled off his silver-gray helm with the short, hooked beak and dropped to the ground next to him, puffing. “Just . . . got up the Balance-damned hill.” Despite the virtues of the Justiciar armor, Shrike’s bald head was trickling sweat, which he mopped up with a cloth from his belt. “Never fails that I’ll find you here when you’ve got that look about you.”

  “Usually makes me feel better. The quiet . . . the beauty of the world.”

  Shrike’s sharp brown eyes studied him from above a nose that rather resembled the front of his helm. “But not this time, eh?”

  As if I could hide it from him. Aran sighed and shook his head. “No. No, not this time.”

  “Did you think it’d ever work, boy? You and I, we helped finish her parents.”

  He gritted his teeth and turned away. “That was . . . before. I didn’t know her. Didn’t know the family.” Didn’t have any real reason to reach out beyond the Justiciars.

  Shrike snorted. “You think that’d’ve leveled any balance for her, Condor? If she knew—”

  “There was never any need for her to know. She’d . . . healed. Her family had healed. I’d . . . I’d almost managed to forget—”

  “Forget?” Shrike’s voice cut through his protests with icy fury—fury with no small trace of fear. “You can’t afford to forget a Balance-damned thing, Condor. You’ve got too blasted many ideals as it is—”

  “Ideals you taught me!” He was suddenly shouting, with tears stinging his eyes, pain and anger directed at the man who’d raised him, part of him wanting to blame Shrike for everything.

  Shrike met his furious gaze . . . and then his eyes dropped and he sighed, and drew his knees up to rest his chin on the shining metal of his armor. “Aye. That I did. Taught you the Justiciar’s creed, made sure you went to temple . . . but by the Fallen Balance, Aran, what choice did I have?” He rolled to his feet and stamped a few paces away. “Even now y’r nothing much of a liar, not good at hidin’ anything without death hanging over you. Back then . . .” his face softened for an instant and a smile flickered over the weatherbeaten face, a smile that reminded Aran of long-past times. “Back then, you hadn’t a trace o’ deceit in you, boy. Eyes as bright as new leaves and a heart about as green and untested, too. You couldn’t’ve kept the secrets if you’d known about them then. You know you couldn’t.”

  “I . . .” They’d had this discussion before, though never so intensely—except for the first time, when he’d nearly left in fury, stopping only when his foster father and best friend had literally thrown himself in his path, crying, begging him to stop, for the sake of both their lives. “I know. No, I couldn’t.”

  “So I raised you . . . right. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should’ve given you to the Temple. But . . . you were . . .” Shrike stopped, seemed as though he was about to give up, but then set his jaw and plowed on. “You were the last moral decision I got to make for myself, I guess. Last one before I accepted that everything had to follow a plan, be a choice that fit the plan . . . or else. Mist Owl warned me there’d be trouble, and there was. If I’d known just how bad trouble could get, maybe I wouldn’t have made that decision . . . but then I’m glad I didn’t know then.” He reached out and patted Aran’s shoulder awkwardly.

  Aran seized Shrike’s hand. “Sirza, let’s just get out of here. Go somewhere else. To . . . to Zarathanton, even.”

  For a moment he thought his head had come off his shoulders. He looked up, dazed, from the ground, to see Shrike glaring down at him, face white as the dead under his dark tan, Condor’s own blood smearing the gauntlet on his clenched fist. “Do not say that. Do no
t even think it, boy. You fear him, you do, but you don’t fear him enough, by all the gods and demons you don’t. You don’t know what he’s become. You know what happened to Silver Eagle, but you haven’t felt what happened to him, and that makes all the difference.”

  He’s actually shaking with fear, Aran realized with a creeping sense of horror. He knew how formidable his foster father was, and—with no false modesty—knew that he was probably even more dangerous. Is it really that hopeless? We cannot even flee?

  Shrike’s jaw tightened, and he reached down and pulled Condor roughly to his feet. “My mind’s made up. It’s far past time, and I can see that damned girl’s got your mind turned around to the point you’ll go do something stupid if someone doesn’t set your head straight.”

  Still groggy from the backhanded blow that had laid him down moments ago, Aran shook his head. “What . . . what are you going to do?”

  “What should’ve been done years ago.” Shrike’s gaze was unyielding, and his hand hovered near his axe. “You need a talk with our leader. A private talk . . . like his master had with me, once.

  “Like he had with me, after I’d adopted you.”

  Though Shrike said nothing else, Aran felt a slow and rising dread as they passed into the shadows beneath the trees.

  Beauty was gone, and he was gripped with a sudden conviction that, even if he were to turn around and run, there would be no beauty left to see.

  21

  Kyri turned and looked back, finally unable to keep herself from doing so as the shadows of morning had shortened, shortened, and then begun to lengthen again as they passed to the afternoon. She had been walking all that time, forcing herself not to look.

  But just once . . .

  She had come a very long way; the Great Road here was as smooth as a ballroom floor, with just enough added roughness to be an ideal surface for walking or riding, and she had long strides. Zarathanton was now sinking below the horizon, only the tallest spires visible now, with the rolling hills of the landscape and her distance coming between her and the high walls of the city. She could see the bright lines of the Dragon’s Palace shining in the sun, but to the north she could only see the Forest Sea; it was cut back from the Road, a full ten miles on either side, but the road curved and the Forest Sea was high and dark, a bulwark of green that filled the entire center of the continent.