Phoenix Rising (11 page)

Balance and Blade! Enough of this!

She focused, drawing on that inner turmoil,
channeling
it instead of letting it churn queasily in her gut.
We are beings of passions,
she reminded herself, quoting Lythos’ own words.
But we must
rule
those passions, must never be ruled
by
them. When anger threatens to overwhelm you, turn it aside into strength,
guide
it, just as you guide the strike of your enemy and make his power work against him, turn his might into your own ally. When fear seeks to paralyze you, take its tightening grip and harden your body against danger, strengthen your own grip on your weapons and skill. When worry circles your mind like carrion birds, circle with it, turn its aimless curves into the smooth arcs of combat.
She traded blows with Lythos, felt the impact of a cut, but brushed the feeling of inadequacy and failure away, sent it spinning into the center of her mind with the other concerns.
Take them all, dark and light, storm and calm, hope and fear, hate and love, fury and peace, bring them to your hands, armor your
self
with their power, realize that they are
you
and that only you control them, find that peace and certainty within you, and there you find the key of paradox.

And then—in that single instant—she
felt
it, felt the paradox of the Calm Storm, the Ninth Wind, just for the most infinitesimal moment, as Lythos had told her she could, and time seemed to halt. She could
see
the
Artan
’s silvery blade in its perfect and inimitable path, gliding past her feeble defense, straight for her heart. She saw his silver hair streaming sideways, wind and his own motion making it spray out like a splash of argent foam from a stone; a leaf, falling from the quilli tree above the training field, seemed frozen in midair, locked in place as though the very atmosphere were crystal.

And in that endless instant, she had all the time of the universe to understand, to see, to decide, even as the strength of that perfect moment welled up within her, rising inexorably to furious motion.

She saw, and acted. She turned her head, swung her body
just
so
, and the blade passed harmlessly over her shoulder, so near the whisper of its passage through the air was like silken thunder. But she was still moving, her path of action laid out before her as though she had planned it ages before and practiced it a thousand times. Her own blade was deflected, yes, but along with her body she dragged her arm, pushing around, the pommel now leading her hand in a strike.

Lythos’ eyes widened—the first time she had ever seen an expression of surprise from the centuries-old master—and he tried to duck, but he seemed astonishingly slow; the pommel of her greatsword actually
struck
the slender
Artan
and Lythos stumbled, chose to fall and roll.

She followed up, letting the fear and anger and pain flow, but flow as
she
channeled, as
she
directed. Lythos came up, a shield now raised, and she focused the power of her spirit into her hands as he had taught her, dropping her sword, seeing his eyebrow rise like a wing of a startled bird, and
smashing
her hands against the shield with an impact that sent the weaponsmaster staggering back.

Now the expression shifted, and there was the tiniest of smiles on the ancient, yet unaged,
Artan
face, as he came to meet her. For a moment she stood toe-to-toe with a being who had been fighting since before the days her grandparents were born, and she did not give in.

But she began to think, try to look beyond the moment—and she saw Urelle’s face, and suddenly an iron-hard hand
whacked
into her head.

She went to her knees, trying to defend. To her surprise, the expected attacks did not materialize. She looked up to see Lythos standing with arms folded, studying her.

“You are one of the most
maddening
students I have ever had, Kyri Vantage,” he said, finally. “For a moment—just a moment—you achieved the
Ninth
Wind. I saw it. I could see it in your eyes, watch its flow in your movements, that for just a moment you touched the eternity within the soul.” He shook his head. “Something, I will tell you, that not your brother, nor your father, nor your mother
ever
achieved, and indeed precious few in all my years have I ever seen achieve it, even for such a brief moment.”

She was amazed and felt a flood of warmth rushing through her, an elation she had never expected, at a compliment so extravagant from the man whose usual comments of praise were drawn from words such as “adequate” and “not terribly bad.”

“And
then
you suddenly lose that focus and forget the other Eight in the bargain!” Lythos tossed his hair back and traced the curve of his ears in the same habitual gesture she remembered from her youngest years. “You
could
be one of the finest warriors I have ever trained, but you need something to
focus
you. You have to learn control, and constancy, and not rely on this excellent but most unreliable instinct to carry you through a combat.”

“I know,
Sho-ka-taida
,” she said contritely.
That rather adequately snuffed out any overconfidence I might have gotten from his compliments
. “But . . .”

The
Artan
master of weapons sighed. “Yes, I noticed. Something weighs upon your mind. Perhaps it is just as well that you tend to whatever distracts you; practice without focus can do as much harm as it could possibly do good, even if on occasion it produces admittedly spectacular results. I will not often be this lenient. You will have double practice tomorrow, and I will require meditation in at least four of the Eight Winds.”

“Yes,
Sho-ka-taida
.” She bowed and left, feeling his curious stare boring into her back until the door closed.

After paying respects at the shrine, she wandered slowly around the room, touching smoke-damaged wood and overheated metal remnants, pausing as something struck a chord of memory or to puzzle out the identity of some object that had been burned almost beyond recognition. A small object caught her eye and she found her hand reaching out, picking it up. She smiled fondly down at the little scorched box of toy figures—a golden phoenix, a dignified looking bronze griffin, a lightning-blue thunderbird, a sparkling dragon.
They were my favorite toys when I was little, playing with Rion . . . We’d pretend they were adventurers, I always took the phoenix and Rion the dragon and we’d share the others
.

She put the box down gently and looked around the room again.
What am I looking for?
she wondered. It wasn’t as though these items hadn’t been examined. The Justiciars had all combed through the wreckage. Rion had helped others sort through the pieces. Toron, an Adjudicator of the State of the Dragon King, had searched every piece, and none of them had found anything. The gods had been terrifyingly silent, even Myrionar, with its usual power to see through falsehoods and name truth, even Elbon of the Diamonds and the other dragon gods of the Sixteen had not spoken the answers to its child and servant Toron.
What am
I
expecting to find down here?

She found herself standing, as she always did when she came here, before the two doors in the center. She remembered how she’d done the same thing when it happened, stood staring for some unmeasured time at these two doors, the only things left untouched in the midst of devastation, portals that should have barred the entry of any hostile force, but that had somehow allowed them to break through, without the faintest alarm being given.

But having stared at them for so long, she also was annoyed by what she saw.
The
inside
of the doors haven’t a clue to offer
.

She understood why they lay that way—the bar which had held them together would make them rock unevenly if they were laid over it—but she preferred to look at the part where the house had actually tried to keep out the killers.

She bent over and lifted.
Balance
,
they’re
heavy
.

With a grunt, she hefted the first door—eight inches thick of wood bound with enchanted steel—and tipped it over. The other one followed a few moments later, crashing onto its back with an echo like doom. She stood still for a moment, catching her breath.
They talk about the Vantage strength, but that’s
still
hard to do.

The two doors shone in the lightglobes, smeared in places with soot and ash and dirt, but mostly still clean and smooth, marred only by the deep crescent-shaped gouges where whoever—or whatever—had killed her parents had battered down the door. She moved slightly to the left, and the light reflected back from the gouges, one set nearly a foot lower than the others. They looked faintly silvery, just as she remembered.

“Who’s down there?” came Rion’s familiar voice. “And what in the name of the
Hells
are you doing?”

“It’s me,” she answered.

“Kyri?” Footsteps, and her brother entered, the glittering armor of Silver Eagle still on him, beaked helm under his arm. “What brought you in
here
?”

She chuckled slightly.
We repeat each other
. “Urelle came down here earlier today, then I couldn’t get this place out of my head.”

He nodded, blond hair slightly matted from the helm but still shining in the light. For some reason Rion had gotten all their father’s traits—the light hair, the lighter skin, the blue eyes—while she and Urelle were both very dark, black of hair and with eyes of stormcloud gray which came from their mother’s side of the family. “Yeah, I sometimes get that too.” He sighed. “Not that I ever find anything,” he said, shrugging the shoulders of his armor, “but it doesn’t hurt.”

“I suppose,” she said, still looking at the doors. Something was still nagging at her. She reached down and traced the grooves. “Did you realize that Urelle didn’t
remember
any of what happened for . . . well, I’m not sure, maybe
weeks
afterward?”

“
Nothing?
” Rion stared at her. “No, I hadn’t.” He stared off, pensively. “But it does make some sense of a few exchanges I had with her off and on.”

Something about this feeling . . . reminds me of the party for some reason . . .

Suddenly she was staring at her brother, and he stepped forward, concern writ large. “What? What
is
it, Kyri? You look like you’re about to collapse!”

Terian, Chromaias, and Myrionar, it
can’t
be.

But even as she thought the denial, she realized that if it was true, it made sense—it explained why nothing could be said, why Myrionar could not reveal the truth, why no suspects could be found. “Rion,” she said, and she shuddered herself as she heard the terrible, dead tone in her voice, “Help me lift this door, would you?”

One more glance at her face convinced him to ask no questions, just helped her to raise the righthand door up on its end. “All right, Kyri. Now what—”

She held the door balanced, grabbed hold of his shoulder-guard, pulled. Slightly off-balance, Rion stumbled against the door.

And the shoulder-guard slid perfectly into one of the upper crescent-shaped marks. The marks that shone with a gentle silvery color just the shade of the guards themselves, of the shine-polish used on silver armor. She pushed him down, as though crouching for a second heavy blow, and there, too, his armor fit into the marks . . . as though it had made them.

She saw Rion look and go parchment-white. “Balance and Demons . . .”

Silver Eagle.

“It . . . could be.” The words sounded
torn
from her brother’s heart, and even in the middle of the cold fury inside her she felt her heart aching for him. “It . . . it makes sense. If he did this . . . then to preserve the name, preserve the
trust
, in the Justiciars, if he did this then they wouldn’t
dare
mention it, they’d have to deal with it themselves, behind doors at Justice’s Retreat, and wait, wait long enough so he thought he’d gotten away with it, wait so that people wouldn’t
connect
it with their deaths . . .”

And they’d have killed all his allies, too
, Kyri thought numbly.
Ripped the truth of who helped him, why, and where they were from him with the very power of Myrionar, and then hunted them all down for vengeance and justice.

He was so hurt—
she
was so hurt—by the thought, the idea that the Justiciars, the living warriors and symbols of Myrionar, the god her family had followed for generations untold, the Justiciars could possibly have had one so corrupt in their number, that she almost wanted to forget this hideous discovery.

But that would not be justice.

“Is . . . is there any way to find out?”

Rion was silent for a moment, several moments. Then he looked up, and to her astonishment he
smiled
. It was a hard, cold,
dangerous
smile, but it was a smile, and it lifted her up, wiped away despair and horror with hope of vengeance. “
I
am Silver Eagle now,” he said. “I am a Justiciar. This is the kind of secret they won’t easily tell a newcomer . . . but the kind they will
have
to tell me sooner or later, just in case. It’s been more than three years. They
have
to be getting to trust me now. I will have to be very careful . . . but yes. Of course there’s a way. Even if only a few of them knew, I’ll be able to get them to react. Ask the right questions.”

“But won’t they—”

He shook his head. “Kyri, they’re still the Justiciars. I’ve
seen
them use the powers—healing, speed, strength, truthsaying, others for each of us. The power comes from Myrionar. Perhaps they felt greater justice comes of keeping belief in the Justiciars strong. But for
our
family, at least, we must have the truth. If he did it, we must know. And we must know
why
. I think . . . if I’m careful, if I make sure they understand how much I believe in Myrionar even with this horrid possibility . . . I think they’ll understand and tell us the truth.”