Phoenix Rising

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Kelsley was alternating his stare between Tobimar’s prisoner, whose head was bowed, figure hunched, and Tobimar himself. “We had heard . . . a messenger had come from Gharis, with word that Thornfalcon might be in danger. I had hoped . . . But at least it is over now.”

  “Indeed it is over.” Skyharrier’s voice was grim and hard, and his face as stony as the pillars supporting the temple. Bolthawk nodded, brows dark over furious eyes, and the crowd murmured; it was an ugly sound. The Watchland, Tobimar noticed, said nothing, and his expression was analytical, not angry.

  “And now, impostor, you will face us without a mask to shield you from the Justiciars and our certain vengeance!” Skyharrier’s hand lashed out to rip the helm from the captive’s head. “We shall see what manner of—Great Balance!”

  Skyharrier fell back, shock replacing anger, the helm falling from nerveless fingers, as deep-sapphire hair cascaded down, hair crowned with pure silver-white, and beneath that the furious glare of Kyri Vantage, the Phoenix. Oh, that was perfect, Tobimar thought, and at the same moment felt a tiny weight scuttle up his back. And now we’re ready if it all goes bad.

  Kyri straightened, the bonds falling away, burning away in golden flame, and the crowd withdrew, the murmuring filled with disbelief and confusion now. “We shall indeed see,” she said quietly.

  For a long moment no one else moved; Skyharrier and Bolthawk’s faces ran a gamut of emotions, and Tobimar realized Kyri had been right. They may be very bad men, perhaps almost as bad as Thornfalcon, or they may not; but they never expected to have to face her.

  The Arbiter was the first to move. He stepped forward, eyes wide, and his voice shook. “Kyri? Kyri Vantage, child, is it truly you?”

  She turned her head and looked down, and her expression softened; Tobimar could see a fond smile. “It is, Arbiter.”

  “But then . . .” He seemed at a complete loss for words, mouth opening, closing, and finally he found only one last word to speak: “. . . why?”

  “That,” the deep voice of the Watchland said, “is indeed the question, and a deadly one.” The crowd murmured agreement.

  Kyri turned fully to face the Watchland and then dropped to both knees. “Watchland, I am Kyri Victoria Vantage, inheritor of my house, Eye and Ward of Evanwyl. Will you hear me, Watchland? Will you truly hear me, in the name of the Balanced Sword, in the name of Myrionar, in the name of Justice with Wisdom, Vengeance with Truth, Mercy through Strength?”

  He stared down, and Tobimar saw his eyes flick towards the two Justiciars, who were now recovering from shock and clearly trying to figure out the right response. Then he looked back to the girl kneeling before him.

  Moments went by, and no one else dared move; even the crowd was silent, holding its collective breath, waiting to see what the Watchland would do.

  Then his hand came down and touched her shoulder, lifted, brought Kyri to a stand to face him. “I am Jeridan Velion, the Watchland and Ward of Evanwyl. My Eyes are my strength and the Vantages are my heart. I will hear you truly, in the name of the Balanced Sword, in the name of Myrionar, in the name of Justice with Wisdom, Vengeance with Truth, Mercy through Strength.”

  Kyri bowed her thanks—and then whirled, finger jabbing like a spear. “Then I say to you that these are the true traitors, Jeridan! The Justiciars are corrupt and fallen. Thornfalcon boasted of it, for he arranged my parents’ deaths, killed Rion with his own hands, and Shrike . . .” her voice caught for a moment, then went on, “Shrike was the one who cut down both my mother and father.”

  “What?” Skyharrier’s face was a perfect picture of stunned disbelief, and the crowd echoed that shock. “How . . . how could you say such things, Kyri?” He looked to the Watchland. “Watchland, you know what she says is . . . insane. Impossible. You have seen our powers, you have fought beside us, you know us! I don’t know what’s happened to her, but . . .”

  “. . . but she’s completely off her head,” Bolthawk finished, a look of tormented sympathy on his face. By the Seven and the One, they’re good. But I suppose being able to carry off such an act is something they’ve become very, very practiced in.

  The Watchland was now standing a short distance from them, the conflict before him mirrored on his face. The people in the crowd were murmuring, and Tobimar couldn’t tell how the sentiment in that group might turn. He could see Kyri’s gaze flicking from one group to another, studying them, judging.

  “Sir,” Tobimar said, “if I may?”

  Watchland Velion raised an eyebrow. “If you can clarify this . . . horror for us, you may speak.”

  “I am Tobimar Silverun of Skysand,” he said carefully; a nod from the Watchland showed that the older man understood what that name meant. “I am also an Adventurer—Zarathanton Guilded, sponsored by none other than T’Oroning’Oltharamnon hGHEK R’arshe Ness, Marshal of Hosts—and now, I should inform you, King of the Dragon Throne.”

  The Watchland stepped forward and tested the Guild Seal. “So you are—though your other words hint at news I would hear—later. Go on.”

  “Sir,” Tobimar said, “I was hired by the Arbiter—for the Justiciars, ironically—to hunt down the killer of Mist Owl and, as it turned out, Shrike. I tracked the Phoenix and arrived, I thought, barely in time to rescue Thornfalcon.

  “But it was entirely the other way around, and Thornfalcon very nearly killed me before Phoenix escaped from where Thornfalcon had imprisoned her.” He looked into the blue gaze of the other man. “As he had imprisoned many others before. The evidence you truly seek is there, on his mansion grounds.”

  The Watchland nodded, then gestured for him to move. To Tobimar’s surprise, he found himself stepping aside without even really thinking about it. He’s the ruler of a tiny country . . . yet he has that same . . . force . . . that my mother has, that Toron has. How strange.

  Kyri stood still as the Watchland strode to her and stopped no more than a pace away, gazing at her intensely.

  Kyri met his gaze, then slowly turned her head. “Hello, Gallire, Lehi. It’s a long time, isn’t it, since that day in the Temple when we were doing the Balance?” She smiled fondly. “You’ve both grown so much.”

  Tobimar saw the two girls—twins, with dark hair twined with flowers—staring at Kyri in confusion. The second twin, Lehi, smiled slowly, and then her sister joined her.

  Behind them, a man and a woman—obviously their parents—stirred, moved forward. “Yes, they have. And . . . we’ve watched them do that growing, thanks to you, Kyri.”

  “We do not,” Skyharrier said, and his voice was gentle, not angry now, “argue against the courage, the valor, or the kindness of the Kyri Vantage we knew, or, in some ways, the one we see now. Tragedy can break any of us, and surely she and her family have seen tragedy beyond that which any should.”

  Subtle, and well thought out, Justiciar. Had he not known the truth, Tobimar was sure the words would have made him uncertain. The crowd was also torn, that much was clear, and that made things far worse. Kyri had made it clear she would tolerate no killing on their part of the citizens of Evanwyl, unless it was absolutely certain that they were knowing and willing accomplices to the false Justiciars. If the crowd turns on us . . .

  “Tragedy can break us,” Kyri agreed, pitching her own voice low, yet in a carrying tone that Tobimar knew would be heard far back in the mostly silent crowd, “but I was not broken by tragedy; I was only driven by it, and I did not make for myself this armor. I stand before you in armor of the Spiritsmith, new-forged for my name and station, the Raiment of the Phoenix.”

  “A bold and necessary claim,” Bolthawk said, “for one who claims the station of Justiciar. But a claim hard indeed to prove, unless the Spiritsmith himself were present to support it.”

  A murmur was beginning in the crowd, and the words were not what Tobimar hoped. A consensus—either way—would be better than a division, a split, but that was what he was hearing. “. . . always helped us, never cruel, always fair . . .”; “. . . Justic
iars healed me just last week, that’s the power of the gods, you can’t argue . . .”; “. . . daughter knew her all her life and she would never . . .”; “. . . if it’s possible to fake being a Justiciar, how do we know which one . . .”

  She swept the crowd with her gaze once more, then returned it to the Watchland. “Jeridan, you said once you knew us far better than I would have believed. You are the Watchland. You have watched us, and watched over us. Who am I, Jeridan Velion? You must judge me. Am I broken and mad . . . or am I the Phoenix?”

  He said nothing, just looked at her for a long moment, as though by sight alone he could find the truth in the young Justiciar’s eyes.

  Without warning he whirled and pointed. “Lay down your weapons, both of you.”

  The false Justiciars stared in disbelief. “What? Are you gone lackwit now? How dare you—”

  The Watchland’s sword was in his hand, and the crowd was murmuring more loudly . . . and some of the eyes that now turned towards Skyharrier and Bolthawk were hardening. “I said lay down your weapons. Kyri Victoria Vantage, a Justiciar? That I can believe. A murderer, one who could kill three Justiciars, she not a Justiciar? That I do not believe.”

  Tobimar saw a conflicted mass of emotions crossing the faces of the two Justiciars . . . and Bolthawk glanced sharply off to one side.

  Too late, Tobimar saw the figure at the rear of the crowd, a figure with a wand raising, pointing directly at Kyri, and there was no time, not even a fraction of a second to warn her, he saw the hand already steadying and light beginning as his eyes were widening, his mouth trying to open . . .

  A thunderbolt split the air, singeing the heads of several in the crowd, screams rising, people dropping to the ground, with the lightning arrowing straight for the exposed back of Kyri Vantage, the Phoenix—

  —And stopped dead in midair, caught on two leaf-green blades, cast aside like a parried sword-blow to spatter harmlessly against the thick, carved stone wall of the Temple. “Not a chance,” said Xavier Uriel Ross, and the false Justiciars stared in shock at the impossible.

  “And now the Balanced Sword speaks to me.” The new voice cut through all others, louder than mere human speech, no longer shocked and uncertain tenor but as hard and cold as steel. Arbiter Kelsley stepped forward, and his face was like carven stone in his fury. “Now it speaks, and says but three words, and those words are your doom, Skyharrier, Bolthawk, for Myrionar says: ‘She speaks truth.’”

  Bolthawk was unmoving, perhaps unable to believe that the deception was coming apart in mere moments. Skyharrier, however, seemed to recognize a hopeless situation.

  Great gold and white wings whipped out, wings edged with bladed metal, and the false Justiciar spun, forcing the entire crowd to duck backwards from the lethal span, making even the Watchland and Kyri leap back. At the same time he drew his bow forth, an arrow appearing from nowhere, already nocked, the golden bow being drawn—he’s aiming for her! He couldn’t get there in time, and Xavier was behind, protecting her from assassins in the crowd, not from the Justiciars in front, and it would be too late—

  Blue-silver light slammed into Skyharrier, knocking the bow skittering away. “You shall harm no one,” Kelsley said, and from his hands—and the great Balanced Sword behind him—another bludgeon of argent-sapphire power smashed Bolthawk backwards. “You have betrayed the Balanced Sword.” Another bolt of power, even brighter, and Kelsley strode forward, cane discarded, his voice now thunder, his hands blue lightning. “You have defiled your names. You have spoken lies in the name of the Balance.”

  Even the Watchland was backing away, Kyri with him; no one dared stand between Arbiter Kelsley and the false Justiciars. Skyharrier’s wings blocked the next blast—and the armor shattered. “You have tried to speak lies of this child, you have killed her family, performed only the gods know what unspeakable acts, and still you thought to trick the Watchland, trick us all?” Kelsley spread his arms wide, and Tobimar saw blood trickling from his nose, and remembered Kyri’s story; the priest wobbled unsteadily, weakened or dizzy. “Never more. Never again.” The false Justiciars saw him waver, took two steps forward, and Kelsley’s head came up, proud and certain. “Not in my Temple!”

  There was a blaze like burning diamonds in the sun and a concussion that staggered Tobimar, drove him to his knees. Screams and curses filled the air, and the Prince of Skysand blinked, desperately trying to clear his vision. Then he felt his jaw sag.

  A hole had been blown clean through the Temple, in line with and above the great doorways, missing all the nearby crowd. Through the still-open doorway he could see Skyharrier and Bolthawk, nearly a hundred yards from those portals. Bolthawk was literally smoking, his armor almost completely gone. He must have thrown himself between Kelsley and Skyharrier. Skyharrier dragged himself to his feet, seeing the crowd turning towards them, and desperately grabbed up Bolthawk. He leapt skyward, great white-gold wings beating furiously. Arrows streaked in his wake, and from a crystal in the hand of a woman who had tears streaming down her face a flaming spirit was unleashed, burning its way through the air after him. But even that’s going to take a bit to catch him . . . and I don’t think it can kill him.

  “Arbiter!” Kyri caught Kelsley as he slumped to the ground.

  “Don’t . . . worry,” he said painfully. “It was . . . a dangerous strain . . . but Justice demanded it. I will live.”

  The Watchland sheathed his blade. “And there is the proof, even had Myrionar not spoken. A true Justiciar would have waited, for lies can be shattered by truth, and if the evidence you spoke of was not to be found, they would have been freed.” He looked out to the crowd. “And the assassin?”

  Xavier emerged from the crowd, with several of the citizens dragging a body that Tobimar recognized as the Gharis innkeeper, Vlay. “Dead. Sorry about that, but he was fighting to kill us.”

  “Do not concern yourself with it; death would have been his penalty in the end for such treason and dishonor.” Velion turned and knelt. “My most abject apologies, Kyri Vantage. I had sworn to find your parents’ killers . . . and instead I have harbored them.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Kyri said, with a tired, relieved smile. “They fooled us all, and they must have had help.” She wavered on her feet. Xavier didn’t waver, but looked as though he probably couldn’t move another step.

  “By the Balance . . . are you hurt?”

  Tobimar had the distant, fogged feeling of utter exhaustion himself. “No,” he managed to say, “we’ve just been going for more than a day and a half, maybe two days, with fights along the way . . .”

  The Watchland caught Kyri’s arm and helped support her; Tobimar found someone else—one of the Seekers of the temple—at his side; another was helping Xavier. “The Temple is closest,” the Arbiter said, “and also most appropriate. You will rest.” He smiled fondly at Kyri. “Time enough later for explanations.

  “For you all have done the work of the Balanced Sword today.”

  53

  “Boy, you look tired,” Poplock said.

  Tobimar also looked rather cross-eyed, but that, Poplock was willing to concede, probably had to do with the fact that the little Toad was sitting on top of Tobimar’s head when he made the statement.

  “Unlike you,” Tobimar said with a tolerant grin, “I can’t decide to take a nap when parts of the proceedings get boring. Parties crossed with debriefing the Watchland and other local lords, the Eyes, those are getting pretty tiring.” He glanced askance to Xavier, who was leaning against the gate. “And I can’t just go invisible and run off, either.” Xavier grinned at him, showing no sympathy at all.

  “She doesn’t look tired,” Poplock observed, seeing Kyri still talking to a small crowd that surrounded her at the entrance to the Watchland’s castle. “Of course, this is her home country.”

  The Skysand Prince snorted. “That isn’t it. And I think you know perfectly well how exhausted she is, even though they gave us a few days to recover before starting
in. She knows that with the original Justiciars gone, she’s got to show Myrionar’s presence a lot. She has to be all the Justiciars in one.” He gazed at the tall girl in the glittering armor, giving blessings of the Balance to each of the crowd, talking with them, nodding her understanding.

  Poplock bounced his agreement, then slid down to Tobimar’s shoulder. “I guess it wouldn’t work at all if she wasn’t someone they knew already.”

  “Not a sand-burned chance, in my opinion. The only way our confrontation at the Temple worked was that the Watchland and the Arbiter knew her family and couldn’t believe Kyri could have gone entirely bad. Oh, I could see someone else finding a way to prove the other Justiciars had betrayed their faith, especially if they beat Thornfalcon and had the evidence—but they’d have a long, long time to prove themselves otherwise trustworthy, retain belief in the Justiciars as . . . hmm, as an institution.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Xavier. “And that seems pretty central to the way they work here, too. I mean, they’ve got a temple and that priest, but the Justiciars are the real symbol.” He shook his head. “Still takes getting used to, that the gods really play a part in things . . .”

  “. . . but,” Poplock said, not without some “I told you so” in his tone, “you gotta admit Kelsley was pretty convincing.”

  Xavier nodded. “Your gods still aren’t quite my idea of a ‘god,’ but I can’t argue they’ve got some style, and boy, Kelsley’s one badass bastard when he decides he’s had enough and Myrionar’s backing him.”

  Tobimar nodded. “I’m not sure I’d use your . . . particular language, but I certainly agree. About Evanwyl itself . . . I think you’re right; if they lost the Justiciars, it might have finished breaking the faith entirely. So right now, that means Kyri’s the only true symbol of Myrionar, so she’s got to constantly keep herself looking confident, comfortable, wise, and just. I sure don’t envy her that.”