Phoenix Rising (39 page)

“But I had heard that soul-wounds . . .” she remembered Rion’s death, “. . . soul-wounds are almost impossible to heal.”

The Spiritsmith frowned, but his eyes were gentle. “Something close to you, I perceive. But here we speak not of soul-wounds in the same way. I place my soul into my work slowly and carefully as the work proceeds, and it is less a wound than merely a reduction, a sacrifice of current strength, which will rebuild in time. What you speak of are the results of attacks upon the very core of existence, the powers of the highest of the Undead, the weapons of the
mazakh
assassin-cult Ssivilisstass, the Hunger of the Great Wolves, the spirit-destroying powers of the most powerful and fearsome demons. From those, indeed, recovery is slow, perhaps impossible for some, and for those of magical or spiritual powers they are more terribly dangerous, for you may feel physically fine; yet make any attempt to use your powers, to channel magic through your soul, and your soul shatters as though it were cracked glass.”

She swallowed, remembering what had happened to Rion, and how Arbiter Kelsley had nearly followed him by trying to bind a soul together that was too damaged to save. “So the cost . . . isn’t the same. That’s a relief.”

“I am weakened, yes. But not to the same extent, and not in a way that makes me fragile; merely unable to do certain things until I have recovered. And by doing this,” he smiled again, with the razor-sharp teeth giving the smile its predatory edge, “I make the armor and weapons themselves become a part of the living will of the person who wears them, of the one who has the
right
to wear them and wield them.”

“You mean,” she said slowly, “that the armor, that my sword . . . will be alive?”

“Not . . . precisely.” The Spiritsmith pulled the armor from the coldfire and dropped it into a quench tank; the enchanted water hissed as though struck by red-hot steel, and vapors boiled out—but instead of rising like ordinary steam, the mist cascaded to the floor and flowed out. “Yet in a sense, yes. It will resonate with your will, support your soul and senses, impose itself between threats that lie beyond the physical, give you the ability, if you are strong enough in mind and body, to strike down even those things that are not of this world. The power is still dependent on you—your mind, your skill, your will and dedication—but a true Justiciar can cleave through spells, deflect or split demonfire, even break curses and ancient seals with a stroke of a blade, if their will and courage be enough.”

She looked at the armor with new respect as he lifted it from the tank, small shards of ice falling from it to tinkle on the stone beneath. “I thought that was either, well, exaggeration or the doing of Myrionar’s power itself.”

A smile of blades. “No exaggeration; and some of those feats can, in fact, be achieved by a warrior sufficiently trained that she can pit her own will against powers sent against her. As to the others, Myrionar—and the other gods—could of course achieve such ends, but they do not provide such protection at all times. That is, after all, the point of the gods appointing their champions, their Justiciars and paladins and high heroes; to have these be their eyes and ears and hands without the god having to directly perform all of the deeds.” The Spiritsmith examined the inlaid thyrium pattern carefully. “The gods support us, but even they cannot watch us all the time—and there are the other gods who oppose us. Thus, in the end, it oft-times is not the power of the gods, but the power of the mortals—Adventurers and champions, priests and sorcerers, rogues and skalds and sometimes simple farmers—and that which lies within them which will decide the day. And for those days, for those battles, you will find no finer weapons and no stronger armor than mine, forged with my soul and my arm and my will . . . and by your own.”

“Mine?”

“Why, do you think, you have stayed here, rather than being kept to the guest quarters and told, otherwise, to stay away from my work? You are no smith. You are quick of hand and eye, but scarce as useful as the greenest apprentice. But your hands I have asked to steady the ingots as I forged them, your eyes I have asked to help judge the angle and the choices of metal and design, your strength I have had deliver blows, your mind and will I have called upon to remember what it is we forge here and why. To you, the first Phoenix of Myrionar, I am binding this armor and this sword, and they shall be born, as are all children of our races, of two parents.” He nodded again, slowly, approving both of the dawning realization on her face and, it seemed, of the condition of the armor after this latest work.

“We shall complete this work, you and I; and in a few more weeks you shall give to your sword a name, and then,” he held her gaze, “and then—only then—shall the Phoenix Herself be truly born.”

“Not quite,” Kyri said slowly, as the nearness of her departure began to sink in. She looked to the northeast, where Evanwyl lay, not far off at all, no, much closer than she might have thought when she first began this quest. Though here she could only see the mist and smoke and stone of the Spiritsmith’s forge, still she could envision the houses and shops and Vantage Fortress as though they were before her. “Here the Phoenix was conceived, but the bird must hatch from its egg.

“And that will happen when I leave, when I return home . . . and when the Phoenix first speaks her name as a Justiciar.

“Only then will I have been truly reborn.”

37

Once more, the argent and auric mirror-scroll showed the night-black throneroom of the even darker King of All Hells. “A few more weeks,” the black-glowing figure said. “The alignment of the forces required could not quite be achieved yet.” A night-glinting smile. “Fortunately this was not necessary for the first stages.”

Normally the man was very happy—indeed, thrilled—to be a part of these conferences. A
small
part at this point, true, but with a slowly increasing importance as Evanwyl became more significant to his patron and, in the greater game, to Kerlamion Blackstar himself.

But today I must be concerned for myself. Yet I must not fear, nor allow fear to drive my decisions. I must trust that . . . my patron . . . will continue his policy of listening to even bad news fairly.

His patron was replying to the King of All Hells: “Indeed, Majesty.” It nodded, gesturing to place maps upon the mirrors. The other panels were dark, this being a conference solely between ruler and master planner—and the master planner’s most favored servant. “Without Voorith’s misfortune, the attacks would have been launched long since. I have become convinced, however, that this was a stroke of good fortune in disguise.”

“Perhaps. Show to me the way of things now.”

It pointed. “The Forest Sea is almost entirely emptied of the
Artan
. The only remaining stronghold—as one might have suspected—is Pondsparkle. Many were driven from it, but a surprisingly stubborn core of the Toads and some of their allies remain, and have found the Temple a particularly strong fortress.” The human-seeming figure glanced at Kerlamion’s image, seeking counsel.

“Well enough,” the Demon King said after a pause. “We shall destroy Pondsparkle . . .
and
its patron . . . in time. But for now we shall not challenge even so small a god as that directly, as long as the Golden-Eyed meddles no more. Go on, then.”

“Artania is mostly ours, but Nya-Sharee-Hilya resists.”

The darkness thickened, the cold blue fire of eyes flared. “Balgoltha promised a swift and final victory.”

“It appears,” it said with a sideways smile, “the Master of the Sea has promised more than he could deliver. I
did
warn you that I thought he was neglecting some aspects of their defenses.”

A subliminal pulse of pure darkness showed Kerlamion’s displeasure, but all the great Demonlord said was, “Do you believe he will fail in the end?”

“Oh, no. The swiftness has failed to some extent, yes, but without aid from outside, or some other threat to draw off the forces of Balgoltha, the seige cannot help but end in the total destruction of the
Artan
city, and thus their last hope of a homeland.”

“And is there chance of such aid?”

It laughed, a sound that seemed to make the very lightglobes flicker in fear. “I think not, Majesty.” It pointed, and the maps blackened. “The White Blade is assailed on all sides by your brother’s forces; I am sure he is most distressed by his success.”

The man could not quite restrain a smile at that thought.
Speaking professionally, I would say that the Curse of Blackness is one of the most artistic of Kerlamion’s creations—perhaps his greatest in a way, despite the undeniable power and symmetry of the Great Sealing.
He recalled the terrible simplicity of the curse that Kerlamion had placed upon his brother Erherveria, one of the few Demons who had chosen a lighter path: “Always shall you remain who you are, good and just and kind
in your thoughts
, while in actions and words and deeds you shall do the opposite, unmaking that which you once sought to build, slaying those you would protect, destroying that you sought to preserve.”
A positively inspired way of dealing with a traitor; making him useful, and punishing him at the same time.
He thought he detected a similar half-smile on his patron’s face.
We do share . . . certain tastes.

His patron turned, pointed again. “We could not act directly against the Mountain yet—that, I am afraid, must wait until we can devote our full attention to that problem. However, our forces in Dalthunia launched a simultaneous set of raids into the Empire’s territory, keeping the Archmage and his forces distracted, while the passage of magic across the borders is being severely interfered with.”

“And Aegeia?” This was of course one of the most crucial areas, as the Lady of Wisdom was incarnate.

It chuckled. “As I promised you, Aegeia is no longer a concern. Your other spies have undoubtedly noted the chaos of their pantheon, the . . . private little war that they’re having. With some fortune, it may result in that entire odious little country becoming a godswar-torn battlefield, in which case we shall have little to fear from them for a long time indeed.”

The black-on-black figure studied it for several moments. “And how was this achieved?”

It smiled. “My private secret, Majesty. We all have our own.”

It took most of his control to prevent
that
from triggering any sort of shift of expression.
You are practically
daring
the King of All Hells to suspect you? Who and what
are
you, really, my patron?
Despite that, he felt now more than ever that he had chosen his ally very wisely . . . or perhaps that his patron had been most wise in choosing him.

Kerlamion’s blank fiery gaze regarded the figure narrowly, but did not press the issue. “And Evanwyl?”

Oh no.

He dared not interrupt, though, as his patron replied easily, “Remains entirely secure. A peaceful refuge,” it said, with ironic humor, “in the midst of other countries at war. My Justiciars have seen no sign of any significant efforts in this area in all this time.”

“It is well, then. You believe that our forces will hold for the time being?”

“For some time, yes. But you do realize that they will mobilize soon enough; a new Sauran King has been selected, and he is already beginning to bring things under control in his own city. The Archmage of the Mountain will also not long remain on the defensive, and when
he
moves—”

Kerlamion smiled his light-destroying grin again. “Oh, indeed. But the time shortens apace, Viedraverion.”

A name! At last, I know its name!

He could see the momentary grimace of annoyance, but despite its apparently privileged position, Viedraverion obviously did not dare to chastise Kerlamion for mentioning his name in front of his servant. “The forces are aligning well, yes. When can we expect . . . ?”

“Unless something interferes . . . one month. Perhaps two.”

That inhumanly glittering smile from his patron. “Oh,
most
satisfactory, Majesty. I assure you we can hold things for that long, even if I must go and act myself to make it so.”

“It is well.” The head shifted. “I have other reports. We will speak again.” The mirror went blank instantly; the King of All Hells had no need of courtesy.

Only his patron’s image remained, looking at him. “Hm. Gained more than you expected today, did you not, my friend?”

Time to tread
most
carefully
. “I admit to having curiosity satisfied, though the name itself tells me little.”

A tiny smile. “At the moment. But I would be disappointed if you had no intention of researching it.”

“I will do so, of course. Unless you care to make it easier and simply tell me.”

“Ah, now, that
would
be far easier. But I did not choose you for your tendency to take the easier path. Now,” and the face grew serious, “tell me what bothers you.”

He swallowed, took a breath. “You are
most
perceptive . . . my patron.”

“Dear me. As bad as all that?” It studied him, leaning back in a carven chair. “You are rarely so hesitant. Out with it, then.”

“A thousand apologies,” he said. “Understand, if you allowed us to . . . approach you in any other fashion . . . but your rules are absolute, and I have not forgotten your lessons.”

The lethal smile, glittering below warm blue eyes. “I would think not. What was so urgent, then, that you would even have considered violating that rule?”

“We have a real problem. There is . . . another Justiciar.”

All of its lazy, genteel demeanor vanished instantly; it was on its feet and glaring down. “What do you
mean
, another Justiciar?”

He bowed, placatingly. “Patron, I am devastated to be unable to clarify it all that much. But rumors began . . . oh, a couple of months ago. At first we thought it was just confused retellings of things we’d been doing, but pretty soon we heard about a Justiciar driving out a haunting in Vardant.”

“The Twilight House?” Its expression was a tremendous relief.
It’s taking this seriously
. . .
and not blaming me, at least not yet
.