Phoenix Rising (15 page)

“Yes! Of course we have!” Condor was obviously offended as well as worried.

He sighed. “Then . . . Aran . . . how is it that he is asking
questions
? Someone has said
something
.”

With his newly increased and quite inhuman senses, he could sense the tension and fear in the Condor Justiciar. “No, it’s not that. I swear it! You’ve been
with
us a lot of the time! He’s asking about Silver Eagle.”

That
wasn’t the answer he’d expected. Four years was a very long time to continue to keep secrets, and some of the Justiciars simply weren’t naturally good at that task, even with their lives and souls at risk.

And his own life and soul might be at risk, too. It was
his
patron that allowed the Justiciars to mimic the powers which they would have otherwise been granted by Myrionar. Something about the Justiciars, or Evanwyl, was crucially important to his patron, and if this brought the masquerade down too soon . . . “What is our new Silver Eagle asking? Do you have any sense of what he’s hoping to find out?”

“I’m not sure,” Condor said, “but I
think
he may believe that the Silver Eagle who came before was involved in the attack on the Vantage house.”

As he most certainly was, along with the rest of the Justiciars,
he thought.
But it’s interesting he asks only of Silver Eagle
. “You think he
only
suspects Silver Eagle?”

“Right now?” Condor thought for a moment. He waited patiently, not wanting to disturb the young Justiciar’s thoughts.

“Yes,” Condor said finally, nodding to emphasize the word. “The way he’s been poking around, it’s like he’s trying to get us to admit something we all
want
to admit.”

He frowned. “That . . . is an interesting approach. And if I think of it from his point of view, it could even make sense. Unfortunately, if he keeps going along that line of thought, it will inevitably force us to the truth. And I do not think there is any likelihood of getting him to let the truth pass by.”

Condor shook his head. “No, I don’t think so either.”

“So. Strategy, secrecy, and safety dictate only one course. Justiciars are often at the forefront of dangerous missions; thus even with their powers they can, and sometimes do, die. I think it has been long enough; arrange the appropriate accident, my friend.”

When Condor did not move immediately, he realized there must be more, and his eyes narrowed.

“Forgive me again . . . but it may not be so simple.”

“How so, Condor?”

Condor took a breath so shaky that he felt a faint twinge of excitement and perhaps . . . not fear, but nervousness.
Truly it must be something of . . .

“Today . . . while he was with myself and Shrike . . . we came upon a small family, travellers, set upon by doomlocks.” He nodded; doomlock spiders were extremely dangerous creatures that sometimes travelled into Evanwyl from Rivendream Pass. “We of course drove the things off, but afterward . . . before either Shrike or myself could begin, Silver Eagle began
healing
the victims!”

Aran stood still for a moment, taking
that
in.
That changes everything.
As an ordinary man against Justiciars—or, being honest, against false Justiciars who wielded powers equal to the originals—even Rion Vantage, the Silver Eagle, would fall, and fall fairly quickly.
But if he has the true powers of a real Justiciar . . .

“You do not think we can . . . stop him, do you?”

Condor obviously wanted to say he could, but knew this was no time for false confidence. “No. Not certain enough. If he managed to get away, he could reveal the truth. We have a fair hold on Evanwyl, but nothing like perfect control.”

“I will . . . consider this problem. I may have to call in . . . outside help, I suppose.” He nodded slowly. “Aran, unless he seems to suspect you
directly
, it may be well to respond to him in a manner that indicates that you might know something, but are afraid to talk about it. Draw it out a bit; if he believes what we suspect he does, he’ll have to eventually realize he needs to reassure you that he won’t hold it against the
Justiciars
as long as we . . . took care of the problem. Getting to that point will probably take at least a few days.”

Condor bowed and left, clearly relieved.

He turned and considered the now-blank scroll. He
could
initiate a signal; only a few minutes ago his patron had been visible in the one pane of shining silver and gold. But to reactivate it now might bring him back into the middle of a conference, and the King of All Hells did not at all appreciate people coming and going from his view. Not at all.

More to the sharpest edge of the matter, my
patron
has yet to give me permission to contact it again . . . even using this speaking scroll. And I
have
been given full authority . . .

That decided him.
If I cannot deal with the problems that come before me, what use am I to my patron, or myself for that matter? I have been given the power; I have been making my own preparations for years. I need no other help.

Yes. That was the proper decision. His patron would not appreciate being called upon—assuming it would answer a call at all, which it might well not—to deal with a problem that he could have dealt with on his own.

Silver Eagle
. He smiled, even as he contemplated the next moves. Formidable, yes—he had crossed blades in practice with Rion Vantage, and the young man was fast and deadly. With the actual powers of a Justiciar, even ones newly acquired and thus still being learned, he would be extremely dangerous, and it was vital he not have the chance to communicate the truth.

Still, at the moment Rion was still focused on the idea of
one
rogue Justiciar, hadn’t yet grasped—or, perhaps,
allowed
himself to suspect—that all of his cheerful companions had been part of the butchery at the Vantage estate. There were a few days yet.
Just enough time to bring down some . . . special support from the North.

Support that I found on my own, bargains I made with my own resources, risking my own life to find and negotiate with certain forces that even my patron has not contacted.

And all the time he thought, his smile grew wider.
Alas, poor Silver Eagle. To be buried again, in so short a time!

14

Kyri stood, indecisive, at the front door.
I really should be at the Temple.
Still she stood there, unmoving. Something was wrong, and she didn’t know what it was.

Rion knew, of course, but he simply wouldn’t
tell
her. He had been strangely erratic of late. One day he had come home in a grim mood, silent, almost brusque even with Urelle, and retired to his room without a word after dinner. He’d disappeared for three days after that—and she’d heard rumors of the Justiciars’ deeds in that time, including a last-second rescue of a family from Doomlocks—and came home seeming ready to burst with happiness and pride, saying only that now he knew he was truly a Justiciar. Then, later, he came home quiet, contemplative, and over the next few days his mood seemed to become darkly resolute.

This puzzled her. With what they had discovered, she had
thought
they would get answers, that things would get
better
soon, but his reactions were . . . different.

Then today . . . with Aunt Victoria and Urelle off visiting around the country . . . he had come home, walked quietly through the entire estate for hours. Every time she saw him, he would glance up, seem about to speak, then turn away. Finally, she’d cornered him. “Rion . . . what is wrong?”

The blue eyes, so like Aunt Victoria’s, met hers, then looked away.

“Don’t try to tell me nothing’s wrong! You know you can’t lie to me.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” His voice was pained, both by the accusation and whatever he was hiding. “But I can’t tell you . . . I don’t
dare
tell you . . . not right now. I have to be sure. I’m very, very close now, Kyri. I . . .” He stopped with what appeared to be a physical effort.

“
You can trust me, Rion! I know what you’re doing.
I
figured it out, remember. Maybe I can help—”

“Absolutely
not!
” The vehemence was so extreme that she stepped back. Rion hadn’t used a tone of voice like that since . . . since their parents died. He shook his head, then continued in a slightly more controlled tone, “Kyri . . . I trust you. I trust my family, believe me. But this is dangerous, and it’s my job . . . as a Justiciar . . . to take care of this kind of thing. I . . .” he seemed reluctant, but forced himself to continue, “I
will
tell you everything once I’ve checked out a few more things. But not quite yet. It’s . . .” He shook his head again, then straightened. “Look, I have to go, Kyri. I’ll be back tonight, and then . . .”

“Then you
will
tell me, Rion. Or I’ll start following you, and you know I can do it.”

“You wouldn’t.” He drew a breath, then sighed. “You would. Of course you would. All right. I’d argue, but . . . all right. I’ll tell you. But . . . you won’t want to hear everything I have to say.”

Without another word he’d left, and she’d been wandering around indecisively ever since. The Balance was that evening, and she had been chosen as the Sword. Kyri glanced at the elaborate clock which was one of Victoria’s favorite treasures and shook off the mood.
I’m not going to let Myrionar down; that’s not a good way to convince your god to bless your family
.

Decision made, she hurried out, taking one of Victoria’s riding horses, Talad, to make up the time she’d lost in dithering around the house.
I’ll owe Talad a rubdown when we get back, too, making him stand around waiting for the whole ceremony.

Myrionar’s Temple was bright with light as she entered, just a little more hurriedly than she’d wanted, but she saw with relief that they were just finishing the assembly. The stage was empty, and that gave her enough time to make her way around the back.

“I was getting worried, Kyri,” Arbiter Kelsley said, his concerned eyes belying the severe precision of his gray-sprinkled brown hair and square-chiseled features. “You’ve always been so reliable.”

“I’m sorry, Arbiter. Got a little distracted.” She took the ceremonial robes, deep blue to either side with pure silver in the center, the gauntlets—also blue on the back, silver on the forearms—and struggled into them as she made her way behind the holy stage.

Just in time.
Kyri carefully moved onto the stage, the deep blue of the backdrop identical to the robes; with the side-folds pulled inward and the cowl dropped over her face, she would be effectively invisible to anyone in the congregation—necessary for the Service of the Balance. The effects could, of course, be managed far more easily by magic, or by the power of Myrionar Itself, but the effort and discipline to carry out the ritual without such aids was much more in favor.

She became aware, however, that something still seemed . . . off. The sense of something larger, of something omnipresent and vigilant, that she associated with Myrionar in these rituals, was . . . well, not
gone
, but fainter, weaker, muted, and that worried her terribly. Was it her lateness, her hurried entry?

Kelsley was now giving the service, and she straightened, listening for both the meaning and her cues. The exact
words
were not important now; the key was to understand the priest’s point. This was one of the traditional services, so the basic point would be one of—or, more likely, all three—of the Foundations, but the exact way in which it was expressed might be of importance.

But Arbiter Kelsley seemed to feel it was best to stick to the traditions closely. Justice with Wisdom, Vengeance with Truth, Mercy through Strength, all three of the Foundations and straightforward. Justice and Wisdom unveiled first—the Fandre brothers, two years younger than she was, trying not to giggle as they kept their arms curved to present the appearance of one of the scales; Vengeance and Truth—Gallire and Lehi Monn, girls of the same age, and then it was her turn, Strength of the Sword, lifting up, spreading the robes to let the silver blaze out, using her hands to raise the bar overhead that revealed the silver backing to join the two sides of the Balance to the upraised Sword.

She took a breath, steadying herself. This was one of the more demanding parts of the ritual, since you were supposed to stay still throughout the remaining several minutes—sometimes up to a quarter hour—of the service.

But now there was a commotion, shouting outside, running feet, and Kyri felt a terrible foreboding, even as the doors burst open. “Arbiter! Arbiter Kelsley, come quickly!”

She recognized with a shock that the voice was that of the Watchland. Even as she did so, she saw the blue gaze of his eyes across the room, somehow recognizing her, and something in that gaze sent a chill through her, even as the Watchland whirled, drawing his sword, calling for more aid from any who could come, and she heard the three-note clanging of the Watchland’s Cry, the warning that Evanwyl was under attack.

Even as she recognized that alarm, an alarm she had never heard rung for real in her entire life, she heard other cries.
Those are screams of pain—and I hear fighting!

She saw others backing away, the children in the ritual taking cover, looking for shelter, but to do that never occurred to her. Instead she looked desperately around.
A weapon! I don’t have armor, but I need something to fight with—

And it was so obvious, really, the great sword which was a part of the Balanced Sword at the altar. She leapt up and wrenched it free, whispering a prayer for forgiveness as she did so.
Well, I wasn’t blasted to ash, so I guess Myrionar thinks I’m doing the right thing.
The greatsword was solid and well-balanced, which was a relief; she’d been afraid that it was merely a show-blade, but apparently the main Temple of the Balanced Sword had felt real weapons were in order
.

She sprinted out the door, following the sound. The Watchland was vaguely visible ahead, and suddenly he stopped his run, his sword was up and something—several somethings—were slashing at him. Closer now, and the things were twisted creatures, something like caterpillars grown monstrously huge, but with a humanoid torso, massive arms gripping clubs or maces. The heads were worse, with flowing hair and high foreheads and calm blue eyes . . . and the mouth of a lamprey below.
From Rivendream Pass. They must be.