Phoenix in Shadow

by Ryk E. Spoor

Bolthawk nodded, and it continued, “I carve my way through the forest I now find myself in, a trackless jungle that I travel with ease yet with no clear path or destination. And then I hear . . . a noise.

  “Something is there. Something is coming. Behind me.” It closed its eyes, remembering. “I whirl, looking, gazing with all my intensity. My other senses say there is still nothing, nothing there at all, but then I see something. A flash of eyes.

  “But not just any eyes, oh no. Gray eyes, eyes like stormclouds and steel, cold and grim yet transcendently certain, with not a trace of doubt or fear or hesitation, eyes that penetrate all my deceptions, and I know that my pursuer sees me, knows me for what and who I truly am, and yet does not turn back, does not recoil, does not pause, but comes on, ever closer.” It drew a breath, one that actually held the faintest tremor of excitement or even, perhaps, fear. “And I feel a shock through my very soul, for I know—know—the truth. That these are the eyes that could end me.”

  It smiled and shrugged. “And then—always—I awaken.”

  Bolthawk considered. “So, you’ve never seen the person with those eyes?”

  “I have never seen my pursuer’s face,” it admitted candidly. “Never descried the hands or body, never even sensed the nature of the soul that must accompany that body. For all my life—and that has been, you realize, a very long life indeed—whenever the dream or vision comes I see only the eyes, that wide, gray, unwavering gaze.”

  The false Justiciar hesitated momentarily, then shrugged. “You know, Kyri Vantage has eyes just as you describe.”

  It laughed. “Oh, not quite, my friend. Or, to be fair . . . not quite yet. I have met many, many with gray eyes before, but never those eyes. Sometimes the wrong shade; other times the wrong gaze, too gentle, too uncontrolled . . . never quite the same. Phoenix Kyri’s eyes are too heated in their vengeance, too passionate. These eyes are those of one who has contemplated my destruction not for mere months, but for uncounted years, and who knows precisely my nature, and yet feels neither fear nor uncertainty; he, or she, or it, knows that they will make an end of me. This does not describe her. Yet.” It smiled. “But on the positive side, Bolthawk, the dream—which I believe fully, mind you—gives me much comfort. For I then need fear neither demon nor dragon nor god, but only that unknown pursuer. On the day I see those eyes in life, on that day—and no other—I will discover if I can ever die.”

  It raised its blade again, seeing the understanding on Bolthawk’s face. Yes, my friend, this confidence also reminds you that any plans you and yours have for turning against me are futile. “Shall we continue?”

  A few minutes later, It smiled inwardly. It sensed Condor’s approach long before he reached the clearing in which the Justiciar’s Retreat lay, but allowed him to come nearer without giving any sign of awareness, continuing its sword practice against Bolthawk’s axe. It was therefore Bolthawk’s sudden glance of startlement that apparently alerted it to the new arrival.

  “Condor! What a triumph, you have returned from Hell.” The creature allowed his voice just that edge of derision that he knew would be most galling.

  But Aran’s expression was . . . changed; there was a confidence and a narrow-eyed appraisal, so extremely different from that which he had worn prior to departure, that it found itself studying him with a more attentive eye.

  “Returned from Hell twice, yes—as you must have known.”

  Bolthawk stared from one to the other, then said to it: “So the rumors . . . they’re true?”

  “Ask your brother in arms, Bolthawk,” It said. “For he has been there, it seems.”

  “Rumors?” Condor laughed, but the sound was cold, cold. “What rumors? Do they say that the sky darkened and the land called Hell shuddered at a horror to make that very land seem a refuge of sanity and safety? Do they say that Kerlamion Blackstar has found a way to violate the very boundaries of life and death and the gods? Do they say that the Black City rests here, its gates opening onto Zarathan itself? Then what they say is true, Bolthawk, for I crossed into the center of the land of Hell, and thence walked straight through the Gates of the Black City.”

  Bolthawk blanched at these words, spoken both with a casual venom that was too matter-of-fact to be doubted . . . and too cold and mocking for Condor.

  But It merely cocked its head slightly. “And did you find what you sought?”

  So swiftly that mortal eye could never have followed it, Condor’s sword sprang from its sheath and was there, in his hand, the point barely a hairsbreadth from the creature’s throat.

  But not Condor’s sword, in fact. The blade pointed at it was dark as night, shimmering faintly with blue-white and accompanied by a dim moaning as of air falling to its doom. “Ah. I see.”

  “I think you do, yes.”

  It looked into Aran’s green eyes but let its smile return. “A mighty blade indeed. But are you going to waste your time and energy killing me, or will you seek your vengeance?”

  For a moment, It thought that Aran, the Condor Justiciar, might actually do it—kill the true source of his pain, the corruption of Myrionar’s chosen, the one who had pulled all the strings and brought him to this point. But to truly do that, Condor would have to admit, fully, that both he and his foster father had no right to complain against any act by the defenders of Evanwyl or, indeed, the rest of Zarathan.

  The black blade returned to its sheath in an instant. “Not yet. You still have answers I want, and information.” Unspoken was also the fact that the creature before Condor was also the source of his false Justiciar power, power he would still need in his mission.

  It gestured, and Bolthawk bowed and left immediately; It could sense the other Justiciar’s fear and relief at not being involved in this. “I know what information you seek. The Phoenix has departed Evanwyl. I did, in fact, lose Phoenix’s track for a short time, but by good fortune only a day or so ago I found that Phoenix’s party had taken the path I had expected, given what they found at Thornfalcon’s mansion.”

  As a native of Evanwyl, Aran could not repress a shudder as he realized what it was saying. “You mean . . . Rivendream Pass?”

  “It is the obvious and, even, inevitable path. They know that they cannot yet find the Retreat; they know that Thornfalcon had some sort of connection to the other side of the Pass; they know, too, that Evanwyl’s fortunes were tied to that which once lay beyond the Pass, and Myrionar is no doubt guiding them.”

  “When did they enter the Pass?”

  “Two, three weeks ago, I believe.”

  Condor cursed. “Then they are far ahead of me. Reaching the Pass from here will take most of a week as it is.”

  It smiled, and was pleased to see that Condor still found that expression disquieting. As well you should, little Justiciar. As well you should. “That, at least, I can assist you with.”

  Condor’s eyebrows rose visibly. “How?”

  “Within this realm, I have gained . . . considerable power—as one might suspect. Go, replenish your supplies from our reserves, and meet me in my chambers and I will be prepared.”

  * * *

  It did not, in fact, take much preparation, but it was best for Condor and the others to have mistaken ideas about Its powers, Its nature, Its goals, and effectively everything else. So Condor entered to find an elaborate mystical circle laid out in the center of the huge dark room. “You can teleport me to them?”

  “Not to them, no. I have hardly had any direct contact with Phoenix or any companions the true Justiciar of Myrionar may have—that would be . . . unwise, at the least. But I can cut your travel time, by sending you directly to Rivendream Pass.” This would also have the absolutely vital effect of keeping Aran Condor from discovering the actual nature and identity of the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar. It had to get Condor well away not merely from Evanwyl, but from his fellow false Justiciars, since they knew the truth and would certainly tell him as soon as the topic came up.

  Aran would learn the truth, of cours
e . . . but that had to happen only at the precisely correct moment.

  Aran stepped carefully into the circle, making sure to neither rub out or smear any of the symbols; experienced as he was around things mystical, he was not going to take chances on such a ritual being disrupted. “I’m ready.”

  “Then I wish you . . . good hunting, Condor.”

  There was a flash of light, and Condor was gone—on his way to a rendezvous he desperately wanted . . . and would undoubtedly regret, once it occurred.

  If he was even Condor anymore, by the time he found his quarry. A gift from the King of All Hells was not, exactly, a safe thing to receive. Especially not for a young man who thought he still wanted to be a hero.

  It laughed and gestured, cleansing the floor of the ritual circle. There were other amusing things to attend to. It wasn’t quite time to talk with the King again; It was still deciding how, exactly, the next sequence of events must be played. The grandiose overarching plan was, of course, going to start coming apart; while Aegeia still seemed well enough in hand, there were a few points that indicated things might start turning around soon—even though the agent It had in place claimed all was proceeding as planned.

  But that would still be some time yet. The real key decision was when, precisely, It would have to admit failure and be cast on its own by Kerlamion as the King of All Hells sought to finish by sheer brute power what could not be completed by manipulation. Too early, and It might lose support that would be useful for its own endgame. Too late, and Kerlamion might realize that he was the one being played and throw all plans off. While It thought that even Kerlamion could be dealt with, having the King of All Hells as a direct and immediate threat while trying to complete its own plans would be a serious problem to properly executing the last stages of the plan.

  Oh, It knew the King would eventually discover the truth. It looked forward to that moment, properly staged; the right denouement of the play was the key to its enjoyment, after all. But it was a challenge to make sure all the cast played their parts when most of them didn’t know they were part of the performance, and when the few that did, such as Khoros, would do their best to ruin the final act.

  Unfortunately, there were so many elements to be balanced here—and elsewhere, and “elsewhere” required just as much attention as its plans did here; that was, naturally, one reason that It was often unavailable for the Justiciars and other allies—sometimes it simply wasn’t there.

  After another quick check with all Its agents—especially Kalshae and Ermirinovas, who should be having new visitors soon—the creature felt that it would have to make another trip and hope that everything continued on course. It could not neglect the other game, already in progress, on a far more distant playing field.

  But time enough for that game when said time came; the last skirmish had been surprisingly painful, if instructive, and thus well worth continuing. For now, however, It had plenty of things to do here. It sat down and placed the golden scroll in its holder, and smiled.

  So very many things to do here.

  CHAPTER 14

  Kyri forced herself to step forward, belatedly following Miri as the much smaller woman strode quickly in the direction of the beautiful city below them. She exchanged a disbelieving glance with Tobimar, and could see even Poplock’s eyes wider than usual.

  This . . . makes no sense at all. Yet I can sense nothing dark. My powers may be reduced here, but they are not gone, and the only darkness I can sense at all is the forest that lies behind us, barricaded on the other side of that wall.

  It was more than that, she admitted. It was not merely the absence of darkness; that was the way of the world on the other side of the mountains, of Evanwyl and most parts of Zarathan not immediately under the sway of something demonic or otherwise corruptive. This “Kaizatenzei,” or at least the part of it they were now in, shone to her senses. Everything—from the armor on Miri’s shoulders to the grasses bordering the pathway down which they walked to the great trees that grew like sentinels throughout the city—glittered with promise and strength, a rightness that she had only felt in moments before, when Myrionar Itself touched upon her, as though this entire city was holy ground, infused with the essence of the divine.

  As they approached the town, a tall young man with a long yet handsome face, dark brown skin, and ebony hair, in armor which seemed as ceremonially delicate as Miri’s but less brightly colored, in muted shades of green and brown rather than Miri’s brilliantly shining sapphire and emerald, stepped forward and waved, performing a perfunctory bow which Miri returned. “Light Miri, welcome back! We had not expected your hunt to end so soon!” His voice was strong and clear, reminding Kyri somehow of Rion’s when he had become a Justiciar.

  “No more had I,” Miri said with a laugh. “But that is the least of surprises today. Shade Danrall, allow me to present Tobimar and Phoenix, who saw me facing a nalloshoth and thought me endangered, and so came magnificently to my rescue.”

  “Truly?” Danrall looked curiously at them. “Well, courageously done, even if unneeded. From which Sha do you hail?”

  “Ah, there is the true wonder,” Miri answered. “For they say they come from beyond the mountains, and I believe them.”

  Kyri saw Danrall’s jaw drop, stretching his already-long face into comic disbelief. “From the—”

  “Yes,” Kyri said, unable to keep from smiling herself. “And allow me to say that for us, this is just as much a surprise. We thought all of this great valley was like the forest outside your walls.”

  Danrall recovered quickly. “Then I am doubly surprised that you dared even enter!” he said with a smile.

  “Truly said,” Miri agreed. “Now, Shade, I want you to keep this quiet. I cannot avoid some attention, of course, but I don’t want our newcomers bothered until they have had an opportunity to rest; they have traveled through the Pass of Night and the belt of corrupted forest twixt there and here, and surely they need some time to recover and refresh themselves.”

  Kyri couldn’t argue, though a part of her was still concerned about just what the whole impossible situation meant.

  “I understand, Light. What would you have me do?”

  “Tell the current Color—it is still Kerrim, is it not? Yes, I thought so. Tell Kerrim that we have two visitors, heroes I think, from beyond the mountains, and that we should have a proper welcome and council with them upon the morrow; I expect he’ll have you notify his Hues and the other Shades of the city. I will inform the Lady of Lights myself, once I am done here.”

  “As you will, Light.”

  Miri turned to them as Danrall jogged off. “I hope I am correct in thinking you need some rest—and perhaps time to readjust your expectations and thoughts, yes?”

  Tobimar laughed. “You are certainly correct, Miri. This is completely opposite to our expectations, and we have indeed been exhausted by our journey through what you call the Pass of Night and what we call Rivendream Pass. If you have only sent scouts up that place before, I do not wonder that you believe nothing good exists outside.”

  “Good. Then I’ll guide you to the Sunlight Rest—the best lodging house here—and you may take your ease until the meeting is arranged, probably tomorrow at this same time.” She turned and led them past the small, open shelter that Danrall had been sitting in—obviously a guard post—and down the path which was now becoming a paved street running straight into the center of the wooded city.

  “So your title is that of Light, and from what I heard you have your other . . . what, military ranks? . . . of Colors, Hues, and Shades, yes?” Kyri asked.

  “Military is a bit grandiose,” Miri answered with another smile. “The Tenzeitalacor are more guardians of the Sha, or cities. We resolve any arguments, investigate crimes, deal with monsters and such problems.”

  That at least provided an opening. “More police than soldiers then. But crimes and monsters? Those seem hardly imaginable here, from what I see,” Kyri said. They were now passing
one of the great trees, a massive red-brown trunk wider across than two wagons placed end-to-end, holding aloft branches that stretched hundreds of feet wide and high. Beneath, multiple buildings—houses and shops—were arranged along the streets that branched off from the main roadway they walked along. Multiple people—mostly human, though Kyri saw at least one or two that appeared to be Artan and possibly one Child of Odin—waved or nodded to Miri, who returned their greetings cheerfully but showed no tendency to pause or talk, leaving the various people to stare curiously at the two figures walking just behind the Light.

  Miri shook her head. “Kaizatenzei is beautiful and peaceful, but people are still people. And in the regions between the seven great cities and the Unity, there are wilder areas, not nearly so hideous as that jungle we met within, but still not places without danger.”

  Tobimar pointed to some other figures Kyri had noticed, ones that had not waved, bowed, or even stared. “Who are those?” he asked. “I notice they are doing the more menial tasks.” The nearest of the figures, clad in a simple gray tunic and apparently bald of head, was sweeping up dust from the street; that explained, at least partially, the cleanliness of the city.

  Miri looked where he pointed. “Oh, now, say not who, but what,” she said with a laugh. “Come, I will show you.”

  The diminutive warrior quickened her steps to bring her in front of the working figure, which straightened up as it noticed her. At this range, Kyri could see that it was indeed not a living creature. The body appeared to be made of something like fine pottery, with glints of metal at the joints; there was a face, but mostly just painted or inlaid, with only bright green crystal eyes and a mouth that could move. It bowed to Miri. “I recognize you, Light,” it said, in a calm, even voice. “Do you require a service?”

  “Merely that you tell these strangers of yourself, then you may return to work.”

  It repeated the bow; Kyri found it somewhat eerie to watch, because unlike a living being, the repetition was absolutely exact, yet the fluidity of the thing’s movement was nearly equal to that of a human being; even its hands were detailed and fine enough for the most delicate operations, while their material hinted at the potential for immense strength. “I am an Eternal Servant, number fifty-seven of those assigned to Sha Murnitenzei, named Patina for my finish.” It held out an arm, so they could see the patina of fine cracks in the glaze of its body. “I was created one hundred twenty-two years ago by Master Wieran and assigned to this city one year following. My primary duties in the time since have been maintaining the cleanliness of the streets and building exteriors.”