Phoenix Rising (23 page)

“Your Majesty!” Toron’s voice was powerful and formal now. “I present to you Tobimar Silverun of Skysand, Seventh of Seven, Seeker of his people; and with him Poplock Duckweed of Pondsparkle.”

Tobimar took a deep breath and advanced steadily forward. The
Sauran King
. The most powerful ruler in the entire world—save, possibly, the God-King of the Mountain—and the holder of the throne which had seen all the history of Zarathan unfold since the very beginning. He hoped he wouldn’t screw this up.

When he’d reached what he guessed to be ten paces, he stopped, whipped his cloak off (almost upsetting Poplock, but the little Toad was very nimble) to expose his twin blades’ scabbards, and bowed low, extending his foot as far behind as he could. A moment later he completed the ritual pirouette and stood, looking upward.

A moment passed. Two. Still the King did not move.

Toron moved up to them, puzzlement clear on his face. “Majesty?”

There was still no response, and now a deep foreboding came over Tobimar’s heart.
Something’s badly wrong.

Toron apparently felt the same way, for suddenly he was moving briskly up the Hundred And One Steps towards his King. Poplock had bounded from Tobimar’s shoulder and was hopping his way up faster, outpacing the massive Sauran. Tobimar ran after both.

“Stay
back
, both of you!” Toron bellowed, and even the little Toad stopped dead in his tracks. Toron reached the top and advanced carefully to stand before the King. A few moments passed, and then he whirled suddenly and gave a roar that was amplified to deafening intensity by the empty vastness of the Throne Room.

A glow of light materialized before Toron, and he began speaking quickly into it, mostly in the tongue of his people. Tobimar cautiously advanced to where Poplock stood, on the Hundredth Step, and picked up his friend.

From this range, he was only about twenty feet from the Throne, and he could see the King, head bowed almost to his chest.

And in the chest, showing dark-red against dark gray-green, four perfect holes in a curving line.

The Sauran King was dead.

20

The jungle below was thick and green, breathing with life in the brilliant sunshine. As he watched, a flock of brilliant birds burst from the canopy, pursued for a short distance by a bat-winged shape, a
merinam
or least dragon, before it grew bored and settled down onto the top of a tree like a giant crimson flower.

It’s not working.

Usually Aran came here to . . . well, recover, to let beauty and quiet soak into his soul and alleviate the pain that still sometimes came to him when they were called upon to do something for their patron which was . . . well . . .
evil.

And usually it worked. He’d long since realized that the power of Myrionar had faded, that the Justiciars were one of the few forces of order left in Evanwyl and that keeping that force alive—even through deception—was better than just allowing things to fall apart. He’d managed to erase the roiling in his gut after that terrible night years ago when they’d taken the Vantage estate. A few days here had always managed to bring some peace back to his soul, every time he’d needed it.

Until now. Aran sighed, still gazing at the sea of emerald and flowers that extended from the Khalals all the way to the rampart of Hell’s Rim; he sat on a low ridge of the Khalal foothills, and for that reason did not look too far to his left, because if he did, Rivendream Pass would intrude upon the perfect view.

He remembered Kyri’s face, shattered and devastated, streaked with tears when they first saw her after . . . after it happened. Then helping her load the coach . . .
and of course she was leaving. It makes perfect sense. Why
wouldn’t
she leave?

And he remembered the lies they’d told her.
Not
all
lies. I . . . I really wish we hadn’t killed him. He was a
true
Justiciar. Maybe . . . maybe if I’d said something to him . . .

“Still up here, lad?”

He jumped slightly, then tried to pretend he’d just been stretching. “Shrike? How long have you been there,
sirza
?”

The older man pulled off his silver-gray helm with the short, hooked beak and dropped to the ground next to him, puffing. “Just . . . got up the Balance-damned hill.” Despite the virtues of the Justiciar armor, Shrike’s bald head was trickling sweat, which he mopped up with a cloth from his belt. “Never fails that I’ll find you here when you’ve got that look about you.”

“Usually makes me feel better. The quiet . . . the beauty of the world.”

Shrike’s sharp brown eyes studied him from above a nose that rather resembled the front of his helm. “But not this time, eh?”

As if I could hide it from him.
Aran sighed and shook his head. “No. No, not this time.”

“Did you think it’d ever work, boy? You and I, we helped finish her parents.”

He gritted his teeth and turned away. “That was . . . before. I didn’t know her. Didn’t know the family.”
Didn’t have any real reason to reach
out
beyond the Justiciars.

Shrike snorted. “You think that’d’ve leveled any balance for her, Condor? If she knew—”

“There was never any need for her to know. She’d . . . healed. Her family had healed. I’d . . . I’d almost managed to forget—”

“
Forget?
” Shrike’s voice cut through his protests with icy fury—fury with no small trace of fear. “You can’t afford to forget a Balance-damned thing, Condor. You’ve got too blasted many ideals as it is—”

“Ideals
you
taught me!” He was suddenly shouting, with tears stinging his eyes, pain and anger directed at the man who’d raised him, part of him wanting to blame Shrike for everything.

Shrike met his furious gaze . . . and then his eyes dropped and he sighed, and drew his knees up to rest his chin on the shining metal of his armor. “Aye. That I did. Taught you the Justiciar’s creed, made sure you went to temple . . . but by the Fallen Balance, Aran, what choice did I
have
?” He rolled to his feet and stamped a few paces away. “Even now y’r nothing much of a liar, not good at hidin’ anything without death hanging over you. Back then . . .” his face softened for an instant and a smile flickered over the weatherbeaten face, a smile that reminded Aran of long-past times. “Back then, you hadn’t a trace o’ deceit in you, boy. Eyes as bright as new leaves and a heart about as green and untested, too. You couldn’t’ve kept the secrets if you’d known about them then. You know you couldn’t.”

“I . . .” They’d had this discussion before, though never so intensely—except for the first time, when he’d nearly left in fury, stopping only when his foster father and best friend had literally thrown himself in his path, crying, begging him to stop, for the sake of both their lives. “I know. No, I couldn’t.”

“So I raised you . . . right. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should’ve given you to the Temple. But . . . you were . . .” Shrike stopped, seemed as though he was about to give up, but then set his jaw and plowed on. “You were the last moral decision I got to make for myself, I guess. Last one before I accepted that everything had to follow a plan, be a choice that fit the plan . . . or else. Mist Owl warned me there’d be trouble, and there was. If I’d known just how bad trouble could get, maybe I wouldn’t have made that decision . . . but then I’m glad I didn’t know then.” He reached out and patted Aran’s shoulder awkwardly.

Aran seized Shrike’s hand. “
Sirza
, let’s just get out of here. Go somewhere else. To . . . to Zarathanton, even.”

For a moment he thought his head had come off his shoulders. He looked up, dazed, from the ground, to see Shrike glaring down at him, face white as the dead under his dark tan, Condor’s own blood smearing the gauntlet on his clenched fist. “Do not say that. Do not even
think
it, boy. You fear
him
, you do, but you don’t fear
him
enough, by all the gods and demons you don’t. You don’t know what
he’s
become. You know what happened to Silver Eagle, but you haven’t
felt
what happened to him, and that makes all the difference.”

He’s actually
shaking
with fear,
Aran realized with a creeping sense of horror. He knew how formidable his foster father was, and—with no false modesty—knew that he was probably even more dangerous.
Is it really that hopeless? We cannot even flee?

Shrike’s jaw tightened, and he reached down and pulled Condor roughly to his feet. “My mind’s made up. It’s far past time, and I can see that damned girl’s got your mind turned around to the point you’ll go do something stupid if someone doesn’t set your head straight.”

Still groggy from the backhanded blow that had laid him down moments ago, Aran shook his head. “What . . . what are you going to do?”

“What should’ve been done years ago.” Shrike’s gaze was unyielding, and his hand hovered near his axe. “You need a talk with our leader. A
private
talk . . . like his master had with me, once.

“Like he had with me, after I’d adopted you.”

Though Shrike said nothing else, Aran felt a slow and rising dread as they passed into the shadows beneath the trees.

Beauty was gone, and he was gripped with a sudden conviction that, even if he were to turn around and run, there would be no beauty left to see.

21

Kyri turned and looked back, finally unable to keep herself from doing so as the shadows of morning had shortened, shortened, and then begun to lengthen again as they passed to the afternoon. She had been walking all that time, forcing herself not to look.

But just once . . .

She had come a very long way; the Great Road here was as smooth as a ballroom floor, with just enough added roughness to be an ideal surface for walking or riding, and she had long strides. Zarathanton was now sinking below the horizon, only the tallest spires visible now, with the rolling hills of the landscape and her distance coming between her and the high walls of the city. She could see the bright lines of the Dragon’s Palace shining in the sun, but to the north she could only see the Forest Sea; it was cut back from the Road, a full ten miles on either side, but the road curved and the Forest Sea was high and dark, a bulwark of green that filled the entire center of the continent.

She turned away, feeling as though she was swallowing a ball of ash.
You silly! You’ve hardly been there a few days!

But that wasn’t it. She was leaving her family behind, leaving Urelle who wouldn’t know where she’d gone for days, long enough that she could be convinced not to try and follow. Leaving Aunt Victoria. Leaving
home
, because home really was where your family was, and she realized that
Rion
had left home, but she never had.

That’s what you’re crying about, isn’t it?
her sharp inner voice said.
That you’re all alone now, the little girl in the dark.

“It’s hardly
dark
now, is it?” she answered the voice aloud. There were few people on the Road now, this far from the great city and not yet approaching Eastern Twin, so no one else was there to hear her talking to herself. “And I’m not a little girl . . . in any sense of the word,” she added, looking at her shadow stretching off to her left, exaggerating her already excessive height.
On the other hand, if I wasn’t that tall, I wouldn’t be able to use a greatsword.

The greatsword, a small backpack, and a few pouches and common tools—a knife, a flamestick, and such—were the only things she carried visibly. Aunt Victoria had insisted that she take Victoria’s adventuring pack—a neverfull model that, while not quite literally never full, could hold more equipment and supplies than she was ever likely to need.
And she shoved what must have been a small fortune in there, when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Which, she had to admit, was just as well. She looked to her right, the west, which was where she was headed—though technically the road led south for the first few dozen miles.
Then the Twin Cities—across the lake from the Eastern to the Western—and keep west until I reach the Dragon’s City, then north . . .
She remembered much of the journey, and just how long it had taken.
It will be months before I get to the Spiritsmith, and who knows what I’ll need money for on the way
.

No point in musing on it, though.
A bird doesn’t fly by looking over the edge, she does it by spreading her wings.

Eventually the sun
did
begin to go behind the distant hills of trees, and she started looking for a good campsite.
I think I remember . . . Ha!

There was, in fact, a waystation—a large, open-sided roofed structure, with space for several groups to camp under it, and three firepits. She felt that small satisfaction that comes from having a faint memory vindicated, then reminded herself that the same faint memory said there were a lot fewer waystations maintained along the later parts of the route.
Enjoy it while I can.

There was another figure already under the waystation, sitting near one of the pits with the fire already going. She approached slowly and obviously—it was unwise to surprise anyone on the road, especially alone.

As she got closer, she noticed that the firepit was burning cleanly with no fuel.
A mage, or he had something with enough magic to run it—fire essence, maybe.
The figure nodded, his strange five-sided hat emphasizing the gesture. “Good evening, young woman,” he said in a deep, sonorous voice.

“Good evening, sir,” she said. Looking carefully in the dwindling sunlight and firelight, she saw that the long hair streaming from beneath the man’s hat was pure white. His hands, partly wrapped in some ritual fashion, were weathered and tanned, the hands of an old but still healthy man.

“Join me, if you wish,” he said. “It will save you the trouble of building your own cooking fire.”

“I thank you,” she said.
He could be dangerous . . . but most people on the road aren’t, and there’s no particular reason he would be one of the few that are.
She corrected herself.
Many people are dangerous—myself included, I guess—but most of them aren’t hostile.