Phoenix Rising

by Ryk E. Spoor

  “Mine?”

  “Why, do you think, you have stayed here, rather than being kept to the guest quarters and told, otherwise, to stay away from my work? You are no smith. You are quick of hand and eye, but scarce as useful as the greenest apprentice. But your hands I have asked to steady the ingots as I forged them, your eyes I have asked to help judge the angle and the choices of metal and design, your strength I have had deliver blows, your mind and will I have called upon to remember what it is we forge here and why. To you, the first Phoenix of Myrionar, I am binding this armor and this sword, and they shall be born, as are all children of our races, of two parents.” He nodded again, slowly, approving both of the dawning realization on her face and, it seemed, of the condition of the armor after this latest work.

  “We shall complete this work, you and I; and in a few more weeks you shall give to your sword a name, and then,” he held her gaze, “and then—only then—shall the Phoenix Herself be truly born.”

  “Not quite,” Kyri said slowly, as the nearness of her departure began to sink in. She looked to the northeast, where Evanwyl lay, not far off at all, no, much closer than she might have thought when she first began this quest. Though here she could only see the mist and smoke and stone of the Spiritsmith’s forge, still she could envision the houses and shops and Vantage Fortress as though they were before her. “Here the Phoenix was conceived, but the bird must hatch from its egg.

  “And that will happen when I leave, when I return home . . . and when the Phoenix first speaks her name as a Justiciar.

  “Only then will I have been truly reborn.”

  37

  Once more, the argent and auric mirror-scroll showed the night-black throneroom of the even darker King of All Hells. “A few more weeks,” the black-glowing figure said. “The alignment of the forces required could not quite be achieved yet.” A night-glinting smile. “Fortunately this was not necessary for the first stages.”

  Normally the man was very happy—indeed, thrilled—to be a part of these conferences. A small part at this point, true, but with a slowly increasing importance as Evanwyl became more significant to his patron and, in the greater game, to Kerlamion Blackstar himself.

  But today I must be concerned for myself. Yet I must not fear, nor allow fear to drive my decisions. I must trust that . . . my patron . . . will continue his policy of listening to even bad news fairly.

  His patron was replying to the King of All Hells: “Indeed, Majesty.” It nodded, gesturing to place maps upon the mirrors. The other panels were dark, this being a conference solely between ruler and master planner—and the master planner’s most favored servant. “Without Voorith’s misfortune, the attacks would have been launched long since. I have become convinced, however, that this was a stroke of good fortune in disguise.”

  “Perhaps. Show to me the way of things now.”

  It pointed. “The Forest Sea is almost entirely emptied of the Artan. The only remaining stronghold—as one might have suspected—is Pondsparkle. Many were driven from it, but a surprisingly stubborn core of the Toads and some of their allies remain, and have found the Temple a particularly strong fortress.” The human-seeming figure glanced at Kerlamion’s image, seeking counsel.

  “Well enough,” the Demon King said after a pause. “We shall destroy Pondsparkle . . . and its patron . . . in time. But for now we shall not challenge even so small a god as that directly, as long as the Golden-Eyed meddles no more. Go on, then.”

  “Artania is mostly ours, but Nya-Sharee-Hilya resists.”

  The darkness thickened, the cold blue fire of eyes flared. “Balgoltha promised a swift and final victory.”

  “It appears,” it said with a sideways smile, “the Master of the Sea has promised more than he could deliver. I did warn you that I thought he was neglecting some aspects of their defenses.”

  A subliminal pulse of pure darkness showed Kerlamion’s displeasure, but all the great Demonlord said was, “Do you believe he will fail in the end?”

  “Oh, no. The swiftness has failed to some extent, yes, but without aid from outside, or some other threat to draw off the forces of Balgoltha, the seige cannot help but end in the total destruction of the Artan city, and thus their last hope of a homeland.”

  “And is there chance of such aid?”

  It laughed, a sound that seemed to make the very lightglobes flicker in fear. “I think not, Majesty.” It pointed, and the maps blackened. “The White Blade is assailed on all sides by your brother’s forces; I am sure he is most distressed by his success.”

  The man could not quite restrain a smile at that thought. Speaking professionally, I would say that the Curse of Blackness is one of the most artistic of Kerlamion’s creations—perhaps his greatest in a way, despite the undeniable power and symmetry of the Great Sealing. He recalled the terrible simplicity of the curse that Kerlamion had placed upon his brother Erherveria, one of the few Demons who had chosen a lighter path: “Always shall you remain who you are, good and just and kind in your thoughts, while in actions and words and deeds you shall do the opposite, unmaking that which you once sought to build, slaying those you would protect, destroying that you sought to preserve.” A positively inspired way of dealing with a traitor; making him useful, and punishing him at the same time. He thought he detected a similar half-smile on his patron’s face. We do share . . . certain tastes.

  His patron turned, pointed again. “We could not act directly against the Mountain yet—that, I am afraid, must wait until we can devote our full attention to that problem. However, our forces in Dalthunia launched a simultaneous set of raids into the Empire’s territory, keeping the Archmage and his forces distracted, while the passage of magic across the borders is being severely interfered with.”

  “And Aegeia?” This was of course one of the most crucial areas, as the Lady of Wisdom was incarnate.

  It chuckled. “As I promised you, Aegeia is no longer a concern. Your other spies have undoubtedly noted the chaos of their pantheon, the . . . private little war that they’re having. With some fortune, it may result in that entire odious little country becoming a godswar-torn battlefield, in which case we shall have little to fear from them for a long time indeed.”

  The black-on-black figure studied it for several moments. “And how was this achieved?”

  It smiled. “My private secret, Majesty. We all have our own.”

  It took most of his control to prevent that from triggering any sort of shift of expression. You are practically daring the King of All Hells to suspect you? Who and what are you, really, my patron? Despite that, he felt now more than ever that he had chosen his ally very wisely . . . or perhaps that his patron had been most wise in choosing him.

  Kerlamion’s blank fiery gaze regarded the figure narrowly, but did not press the issue. “And Evanwyl?”

  Oh no.

  He dared not interrupt, though, as his patron replied easily, “Remains entirely secure. A peaceful refuge,” it said, with ironic humor, “in the midst of other countries at war. My Justiciars have seen no sign of any significant efforts in this area in all this time.”

  “It is well, then. You believe that our forces will hold for the time being?”

  “For some time, yes. But you do realize that they will mobilize soon enough; a new Sauran King has been selected, and he is already beginning to bring things under control in his own city. The Archmage of the Mountain will also not long remain on the defensive, and when he moves—”

  Kerlamion smiled his light-destroying grin again. “Oh, indeed. But the time shortens apace, Viedraverion.”

  A name! At last, I know its name!

  He could see the momentary grimace of annoyance, but despite its apparently privileged position, Viedraverion obviously did not dare to chastise Kerlamion for mentioning his name in front of his servant. “The forces are aligning well, yes. When can we expect . . . ?”

  “Unless something interferes . . . one month. Perhaps two.”

  Th
at inhumanly glittering smile from his patron. “Oh, most satisfactory, Majesty. I assure you we can hold things for that long, even if I must go and act myself to make it so.”

  “It is well.” The head shifted. “I have other reports. We will speak again.” The mirror went blank instantly; the King of All Hells had no need of courtesy.

  Only his patron’s image remained, looking at him. “Hm. Gained more than you expected today, did you not, my friend?”

  Time to tread most carefully. “I admit to having curiosity satisfied, though the name itself tells me little.”

  A tiny smile. “At the moment. But I would be disappointed if you had no intention of researching it.”

  “I will do so, of course. Unless you care to make it easier and simply tell me.”

  “Ah, now, that would be far easier. But I did not choose you for your tendency to take the easier path. Now,” and the face grew serious, “tell me what bothers you.”

  He swallowed, took a breath. “You are most perceptive . . . my patron.”

  “Dear me. As bad as all that?” It studied him, leaning back in a carven chair. “You are rarely so hesitant. Out with it, then.”

  “A thousand apologies,” he said. “Understand, if you allowed us to . . . approach you in any other fashion . . . but your rules are absolute, and I have not forgotten your lessons.”

  The lethal smile, glittering below warm blue eyes. “I would think not. What was so urgent, then, that you would even have considered violating that rule?”

  “We have a real problem. There is . . . another Justiciar.”

  All of its lazy, genteel demeanor vanished instantly; it was on its feet and glaring down. “What do you mean, another Justiciar?”

  He bowed, placatingly. “Patron, I am devastated to be unable to clarify it all that much. But rumors began . . . oh, a couple of months ago. At first we thought it was just confused retellings of things we’d been doing, but pretty soon we heard about a Justiciar driving out a haunting in Vardant.”

  “The Twilight House?” Its expression was a tremendous relief. It’s taking this seriously . . . and not blaming me, at least not yet.

  Of course, his patron should take this seriously. While it, naturally, didn’t care a bit about clearing away taints of supernatural evil, the Twilight House was a local legend and center of dangerous happenings that normally confined its destructiveness to those stupid enough to enter the grounds of the old madman’s mansion.

  “I see,” his patron said finally. “Due to . . . certain events, it might have been spreading its influence . . . and anything that could destroy or drive out those influences is not an ordinary warrior; a very powerful adventurer at the least.” It slowly seated itself. “And few indeed are the adventurers seen in this remote region of the world.”

  “Exactly.” He felt the tension on his face relaxing. “It hasn’t ended there. He or she—the reports aren’t clear on this—hasn’t come to Evanwyl’s center, the city itself, yet, or at least not that we know, but this so called . . . Phoenix Justiciar . . . has been sighted all around the area otherwise.”

  It leaned forward. “Phoenix?” it repeated. A pause. “Have there been any reports of . . . healing?” it said, slowly.

  He nodded. “Man and his daughter, ambushed by leafaxes, he was taken down, then this Phoenix shows up, kills the whole swarm single-handed, then heals the man with a prayer.”

  “And what have you done?”

  “I have had those I could spare out looking. But the other . . . projects . . .”

  “Understood.” There was new tension in the humanoid figure now. “But this now takes absolute priority. I want you to drop the other projects. I want you to find this new Justiciar. If you can, find out his—or her—purpose. But above all,” it said in a low, hissing tone, “this new Justiciar needs to die.”

  He was somewhat surprised. “Of course he, or she, does, but you seem . . . much more upset than you were—”

  It snarled, and he stopped in midsentence. “I will not call you stupid, my friend, for you are not, but you do not see the entirety of the picture. Even so, you should realize how different this is. Silver Eagle was ours. We could watch him, divert him, see where he was going, what he planned to do . . . and be prepared to counter any move he made.

  “We do not control this Justiciar if indeed that is what he is! And that, my friend, means that he or she may do anything. Including, I will point out, becoming a new focus for Myrionar, and that would be most unfortunate for you and all your brother Justiciars, I assure you.”

  He bowed low. “I . . . I will gather the others immediately. We will begin the searches at once.” My patron is right. I should have seen this instantly. If the true God of Justice and Vengeance begins to regain Its power . . . “My apologies again. With your permission . . . ?”

  “Go. And . . .” It smiled again. “This is not all bad news, my friend.”

  “It . . . isn’t?”

  A chilling laugh. “To risk this, so close to your center of power? This is the move of desperation, the god’s last fading hope, a single thrust to the heart of its enemy before the god itself passes. Now,” the smile widened, and he felt his own smile return, hungry and dangerous, “now, my friend, the fun can truly begin.”

  38

  “Halt and turn, stranger!” The shout echoed through the twilight-gloomy clearing.

  Kyri heard the sharp, clear voice and her heart seemed at once to both leap and sink. Of all the Justiciars it could have been . . .

  She turned slowly, until she faced Mist Owl fully. The other Justiciar was fully arrayed, as was she, with his broadsword drawn and shield partially raised. She knew that he could see only a tall figure in similar armor, the predatory “beak” serving to cover her features, the molded breastplate and loose armored skirt serving to confuse many as to whether she was man or woman.

  The Artan Justiciar pointed his sword at her. “I am Mist Owl, Justiciar of Myrionar; I seek one not of our number, who has claimed to be a Justiciar, and I believe you are that one, that has been called Phoenix.”

  She gave a short bow, heart pounding. Please, Myrionar . . . if ever I needed your help, I need it now. Mist Owl, nearly as old as Lythos, oldest and possibly the most dangerous of the Justiciars. But maybe I won’t have to fight him. Gathering her courage, she answered.

  “I am the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar, Mist Owl.” She spoke in a low, measured tone, not wishing to give away anything of who or what she was until the time was right. “Your eyes are still sharp, I see.”

  “You do not deny it. Well enough. Then perhaps—just perhaps, I say—this can be resolved without your death, ‘Phoenix.’” Mist Owl advanced a few more paces, but was still very cautious. “Cast your weapons upon the ground and remove your armor, and submit yourself to the justice of the Justiciars and Myrionar. I have heard no tales of your doing wrong—other than using a name and title to which you have no right—and perhaps you have no evil within you.”

  “I make you a counteroffer, Mist Owl,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and level, and show no sign of the tension or, yes, fear that she kept within. “You disarm and take off that armor, and submit yourself to my justice. For you know, as I do, that to submit to Myrionar’s justice you can no longer accept that of the Justiciars.”

  There was the barest hesitation before Mist Owl responded. “What nonsense are you speaking? We are Myrionar’s chosen representatives, Its Sword and Balance on this world.”

  “Then tell me, Mist Owl, what justice of Myrionar directed the Justiciars to attack and destroy the Vantage estate?”

  Now the other was silent, and stood immobile for several moments. “If you know that, then you must know that I cannot permit you to leave here alive,” Mist Owl said finally.

  “It is not too late for you, Mist Owl.” Her voice was more urgent now. Please let him listen. “I am Vengeance, but I am also Justice. If you would turn from whatever your true master is, and join the one you
have claimed to serve, then you may be redeemed, for you have much knowledge of the enemy and can help us to defeat him in turn.”

  “You claim to be a true Justiciar? You expect me to believe that a single new Justiciar has been sent, to try us all?” Despite his grim and mocking tone, Kyri thought she heard a faint trace of hope—or fear—that this impossible thing could be true.

  “I do, and I am, and I have. Myrionar answered my call, and I answered Its; a Justiciar I am, with armor new-forged by the Spiritsmith himself, and it is within my power to save you.”

  Mist Owl laughed, a bitter laugh and cold, cold enough to send a chill down her spine. “Myrionar could not save the Justiciars before. For a hundred years and more It did nothing, and It can do nothing against the powers that have moved against it. You are either deluded—though with knowledge deadly enough to require your death—or you are the last pathetic throw of the dice that Myrionar can muster. In either case, how can you offer me anything?”

  She pulled off her helm and glared at him, letting her hair cascade down. “I can offer you redemption for your crimes, Mist Owl—or by the Balanced Sword, I’ll have to give you death, for all that I used to trust you!”

  That startled him; he stepped back a pace, and his voice was touched for a moment with emotion more gentle than contempt or resignation. “Kyri Vantage . . . of course it would have to be you.” The sword and shield sagged down slowly. Then they rose up as his face hardened. “Once more your sister will be bereaved, I fear.”