Phoenix Rising (27 page)

“How can I
not
?” the little Toad’s voice was something between a scream and a croak, a pathetic sound that sent a shiver of sympathy up Tobimar’s spine. “I knew they were planning everything . . . I should have
made
people listen to me!”

The thought of little Poplock—dangerous though Tobimar knew he could be, in the right circumstances—trying to
force
someone like the Winnower to listen brought a faint, sad smile to the exiled Prince’s lips. “You know that wouldn’t have worked. And Khoros always told me that we must learn from the past, but not let it pain us more than the learning requires. For like any open wound, it will never heal if we do not let it alone.”

“Heed the words of your friend, Poplock Duckweed.” It was the
Nomdas
herself, highest priest of the mortal god on all Zarathan, the Shading Glory’s pearlescent glow blurring her features as all representations of Terian blurred his. She was clearly exhausted as well, but refusing to stop. “You cannot fault yourself for being who you are. Learn, but do not punish yourself. There is too much at stake for those who are already a part of this great game to abandon their places.”

“Great game? What are you—”

Yet the
Nomdas
had passed on, was bent over an injured
mazakh
, and Tobimar could tell the time for talk was already past. He saw how few of the priests were still up, still able to act, and realized that Poplock’s horrific prediction was all too likely to come true.

Deaths in the Temples.
It was a horror story, something to frighten children with. Yes, it could happen in the wilds, in places where there were few priests, but in the greatest city of the world, in the very temples of the Blessed Quarter?

But looking around him, seeing the refugees still trickling in, a slow but relentless flow of need and pain that was overwhelming even the servants of the gods, the alchemists, the sorcerers who practiced the healing arts, Tobimar realized that was going to happen. It
was
happening. And the very fact that it was happening told him that Master Khoros’ warning had to be true; somehow, the gods themselves could no longer act, could not step down from their realms and wield their supernal powers directly to stem the relentless tide of the injured and dying.

“I refuse,” he muttered.

“What?”

Poplock’s confused query shocked him; he hadn’t realized he’d actually spoken that aloud. “I refuse to accept this, Poplock. This is . . . monstrous.”

The little Toad looked at him with a wry tilt to his body that seemed at least something more like the old fearless, carefree Poplock Duckweed he’d come to know. “Well, yes, it is, but exactly how can you not accept it? If you close your eyes and put your thumbs in your ears you’ll still be tripping over the people.”

“I mean that
this
is part of what they—whoever they are—intended.”

Poplock narrowed his eyes. “Oh. Oh, my. You mean that the assassination—”

“Has to be part of it. It was all coordinated.” He whirled, strode over to the northern wall, picking his way carefully past healers and injured and sleeping, to point to the inlaid map of the continent. “Look. That first group of refugees . . . came from Pondsparkle. Right?”

“Well . . . some of them had ’ported or gated from farther in, but they’d come to Pondsparkle, yes. Couldn’t pop to Zarathanton for some reason.”

“So here . . . Pondsparkle’s about two hundred miles north of Zarathanton—but if you go about this far south you can take the river for a good long distance, which you would if you were refugees in a hurry. If they took that route, when did they start running, to get here when they did?”

Poplock thought for a moment, tongue flicking out absently, and he suddenly sat up. “That’s—”

“Exactly. The attack must have started almost precisely when the assassination took place.”

The little Toad bobbed slowly. “And the refugees . . .”

“They’re not trying to kill
everyone
. Driving so many people here will overload the Temples, terrify the population, demoralize people . . . and reduce support, because people will start to worry about protecting their own. Fewer nobility subscriptions because people don’t feel the privilege is worth it now, maybe established nobles retract their subscriptions . . . with the Sixteen not able to intervene and make a show, the State’s in trouble.”

“The Adjudicators?”

“They’ll do what they can, but they can’t support the defense of the whole city. If enough people lose faith, the whole system will collapse.”

“Oh, drought and quicksand.” Despite the grim situation, Tobimar felt his heart lighten a tiny bit. Poplock was sounding more himself, and somehow that made things better. “What can
we
do? I don’t think we can defend the city ourselves either.”

“No,” agreed Tobimar, “but right now we need to make sure the King sees the whole situation, and then . . .” he gave a weak grin and shrugged. “Then we do the best we can. He can’t leave. He’s the Sauran King, the living representative of the Dragon Father and the Sixteen. As long as he’s here, he might by himself be able to keep the people’s confidence. But he’ll need all the help he can get.

“Still,
someone
has to find out who did this, track them down, and stop them.”

Poplock hopped on his head and then leaned perilously over, looking down into Tobimar’s eyes. “That’s an awfully tall order for one exiled Prince and a somewhat height-deficient Toad.”

“True. But if we can at least find out
who
we need to stop, maybe after that we can figure out that little question of
how
.”

Poplock’s gaze bored into his own for an eternity of seconds; then the little Toad suddenly bounced off Tobimar’s head and onto his shoulder. “Then it’s a good thing we registered with the Adventurer’s Guild last week!”

“Helped to have Toron as the sponsor. Come on.” He turned, bowing to the remaining priests. “My apologies; we have just realized something of grave importance that needs to be told to the King.”

The
Nomdas
returned the bow wearily. “You have done much here already. Go, and Light Unto Darkness.”

“Light Unto Darkness,
Nomdas.
”

Tobimar strode out into the night.

25

Kyri looked up at the looming mountains ahead of her. It wasn’t the first mountain range she’d seen since leaving Zarathanton, but it was by far the most forbidding she’d ever faced.

Of course,
she admitted to herself,
that might just be because I know what it is.

Now, for the first time in weeks, she felt uncertain. There was no one near to help her, no one to advise her, and no one to reassure her that she was on the right trail . . . or tell her she had gone terribly wrong.

And when facing the gray-black, knife-edged spires of Hell’s Rim, the feeling of something gone terribly wrong was nearly the only sane reaction. Within that almost unbroken circle of mountains was a land of aberration and monstrosity, wracked by magical repercussions of battles and disasters that went back to the very Time of the Fall. The city of Hell’s Edge existed for the singular and sole purpose of sealing the only existing pass into—or out of—Hell.

It wasn’t, of course, any of the netherplanes that were variously called Hell by any of a dozen dozen religions, but by all accounts it was something maybe worse. It occurred to Kyri that the stories of Hell were very similar to those of Moonshade Hollow, on the other side of Rivendream Pass.

Maybe
too
similar.
The thought made her shiver.

The problem before her, of course, was to find the Spiritsmith’s forge. Unfortunately, given what Toron hadn’t been able to tell her, the best guess she could make was that it was probably somewhere between the Gyre River and the next river flowing from the Rim—a river which didn’t even seem to have a
name
on her map!

Kyri took a breath and got a firmer grip on both her pack and her resolve.
Myrionar promised that I simply had to be true to It, and have faith. Not that I had to be right all the time.
There would be small communities along the mountains—though not
too
near. And one of them would have to know
something
. After all, even the Spiritsmith, whoever and whatever he was, would have to get supplies from somewhere, unless he could just conjure them from nowhere. And even then, would he want to stay entirely alone for centuries?

Still, this could take a long time. I should be grateful for that wizard’s help.
Those few days had been terrifying and nearly fatal, and the old man himself had been disquietingly enigmatic . . . but without him, she’d still be . . . what, maybe not even to Elbon, certainly nowhere near Asgard’s Fortress, let alone all the way to the Rim past the Gyrefell Forest.

That’s
the part I should be most grateful for,
she thought. Dalthunia—or whatever that country had become—controlled the region between the Ice Peaks and the Gyrefell. No one sane entered the Gyrefell, and when she went through Dalthunia before she’d been in a carriage, with Aunt Vickie, Ingram, and Quester; even then, there’d been some close calls, when she knew Aunt Vickie was afraid they’d be halted, searched, or worse by the soldiers.
I might have been able to sneak through by myself . . . but now I don’t have to. Thanks, old man,
she thought to herself.

She paused, then turned, almost expecting to see that figure standing behind her. But there was nothing but forest and hills, wilderness bereft of any sign of civilization.
What did he want with me?

Despite the eerie and frightening nature of the encounter, now that she truly understood how very strange that part of her travels had been, she found herself certain that whatever the old man really was, he wasn’t an enemy. He’d certainly had the power to kill her at any time, especially now that she understood that the entire sequence of events must have been nothing more than his excuse to . . . what? Study her? Interrogate her? Place some unknown spell on her? Help her reach her goal, even though he shouldn’t have known anything about it?

She gave a little laugh—somewhat shaky—and shrugged.
I suppose I will only know if I ever meet him again. Or—

She topped a low ridge, and her train of thought was interrupted as she saw below her a village, wood and stone houses surrounded by fields with a reasonably well-defined center visible. It was close enough to make before nightfall, which was a definite plus.
And maybe they’ll have some answers for me.

But as she got closer, she heard the shouts, the screams, and realized,
It’s never quite that easy
.

Drawing her sword, she broke into a run.

Kyri skidded to a halt in the rough center of the village. It was easy to tell where the trouble was coming from, since most people were running
away
from that direction. A few figures, apparently the people who served as guards or sherriffs, were advancing a little ways ahead of her. A hissing, rattling shriek came from that direction, and the guards hesitated.

She took advantage of the hesitation to catch up. “Anything I can do to help?” she said to the leader, who jumped slightly as she spoke.

The short, brown-haired man in metal-scaled leather glanced up at her, taking in her stance. “Adventurer?”

“Zarathanton Guilded,” she said, uncovering the patch on her shoulder that glittered with the symbol of the Dragon King.
Thank Myrionar Aunt Victoria was able to convince the Guild to take me on short notice.

He looked back up the street, to where one of the houses seemed to squat threateningly, broken door like a gaping mouth, then sketched a complex symbol in the air which glowed slightly and settled on the patch; the crystal starburst-bolt glowed white. “Genuine, I see. Thank Chromaias, I don’t like this one at all.”

“What have you got?”

One of the other men, about the same height as the leader but wider, with a black beard and one brown eye—the other missing, a scar across the face showing what had happened—spoke up. “Not sure yet, ma’am. That’s Borshseth’s place. She’s still inside, think her husband is too. That,” he pointed to a body lying in the dirt in front of the house, “looks like Kimsha. Dunno what
he
was doing there, thought he was out on patrol these last couple days.”

Seeing her expression, the leader gave a wry grin. “I’ll run it down for you quick. I’m Varji, that’s Menka, these other two are Terrek and Fejri. Borshseth is Tinna Borshseth, she’s one of our healers; alchemist mostly, a little regular magic of some kind. Kimsha’s an
ayr-kin
.” Kyri nodded, showing she recognized the word; it meant roughly “sweeper” and was an
Artan
word for a person who was a sort of hunter, outrider, and scout for a village. Not necessarily an official post, but one that could be very dangerous but also very lucrative. “People running by said they saw
something
in the doorway that cut Kimsha down, something with a lot of legs and fangs.”

“Yeah, but not much past that,” Menka grumbled “And you
know
scared people ain’t much on seein’ what’s there, better at seein what they
think
is there.”

“What’s Borshseth’s husband do? And do they have any children there?”

“Mostly he does whatever she says, but to answer your meaning, old Quil’s a sage. He’s a researcher, used to be Guild but that was
way
back.”

Another screech, slightly softer this time. “So they’re old?”

“No, Tinna’s pretty young, actually. She’s always picked ’em for their brains more than anything else. Quil’s her third husband, see, since she came here ’bout ten years ago.”

That’s going through them pretty quickly.
She saw Varji’s raised eyebrow. He knew what she was thinking. “And . . . ?”

“Actually, no. Not as far as I can tell. Tinna’s tough and focused, but she’s not that type. Wouldn’t have gained anything from their deaths, as far as I could tell.”

Time’s passing fast.
“Have you ever heard that . . . cry before?”

Varji shook his head; the others followed suit. “There’s some things out there, especially right on the Rim, that sound sort of like that, but none that really sound the same.”