Phoenix Ascendant - eARC

by Ryk E. Spoor

  And then she remembered the others and the battle that had raged about them. With a spurt of perfectly human fear that she embraced after that passage at inhuman coolness, she streaked away, back, back to the devastated forest, the fallen Retreat, feeling her heart beating, her limbs trembling, chest rising and falling, and taking back her life that she sensed had been within a knife’s edge of vanishing utterly into something else.

  Kyri-Myrionar looked down, and then breathed a sigh of relief. For there in a mostly undamaged circle, still shimmering with traces of her own red-gold flame, were Tobimar, Poplock, Aran; the Watchland, smiling up at her with vindication; and Bolthawk, collapsing with stunned relief to the ground.

  All about lay destruction; the Justiciar’s Retreat was an almost unrecognizable mass of pulverized stone, buckled steel, burning trees and wood, shattered glass. Even the remains of the Balanced Sword were broken, some of the silver taken by her in that last, desperate maneuver, some of it simply stripped and crumpled by multiple impacts.

  The sight weighed on her heart. It took twenty years to build it, it was said. And in a few moments, it’s been destroyed. Corruption had come here…but these halls were not to blame. The thought that even the Justiciar’s Retreat was gone, the great Balanced Sword thrown down, no home remaining for even the last Justiciar unless Evanwyl were willing to dedicate itself once more for decades to rebuild it? One more injustice that wrenched at her heart.

  But then she saw the wonder in the eyes of her friends, and suddenly remembered that, somehow, impossibly, she was Myrionar, was the living god of Justice and Vengeance and, she knew now in her heart, Mercy…and a god incarnate in the world did not always have to heed its limitations.

  Kyri laughed, and reached out into memory with golden Phoenix-fire. Flames leapt up throughout the clearing, flames that sparkled like gold and danced like joy, and the wreckage quivered, chimed, began to move. Kyri-Myrionar called to the remains of the Retreat, to the elements that made it, to the magic that still lingered, and reminded it of form, recalled to it strength, told it the tale of proud, high walls and strong doors and songs sung and stories recounted, of laughter and oaths sworn and victories celebrated.

  With the fire of the Phoenix the Justiciar’s Retreat rose from its ashes and wreckage, windows reforming, great halls rebuilding themselves out of broken stone that became whole and solid once again, and finally the great Balanced Sword rose up, its blade pure and shining silver, balancing two great pans of gold upon a solid bearing of imperishable sapphire.

  The shattered and burning forests flickered, and the burning became brighter, became auric flame as bright as the sun, a flame that did not consume but healed. Green grass followed golden fire. Brown, seamed trunks sprang anew from the earth and burned for a moment with gilded power that faded to emerald leaves that rustled quietly, joyously, in the untainted breeze.

  Kyri landed before the others, and they all—from Tobimar on down—dropped to their knees before her, save only for Poplock, who bowed as low as his squat body would permit and cast his golden eyes down.

  She reached down, drew Tobimar up. “Never kneel to me, Tobimar. Or you, Poplock.” She looked at the others. “Nor you, Watchland.” She gave a sudden grin. “Aran, Bolthawk—you can do it once in a while.”

  Tobimar burst out laughing, and his brilliant blue eyes shone at her as they had the first day she’d realized she loved him. “You’re…still yourself. I wasn’t sure.”

  She remembered those brief silver moments and shivered, then took his hands in hers. “I wasn’t, either. But now I am.”

  He embraced her so hard her armor creaked, and she returned the hug fiercely. “Now I am.”

  Chapter 46

  Poplock felt his heart finally returning to something approximating a normal rhythm as he saw Kyri and Tobimar embrace. “Glad to hear that,” he said. “But, um, what about Virigar? Is he dead? Is it over?”

  Kyri let go of Tobimar, and her joy faded. “I…no, he’s not dead.”

  “But it is, indeed, over,” said a deep, sonorous voice, accompanied by a chime.

  Poplock jumped and whirled to face the sound, as did the others.

  A tremendously tall man stood not ten yards distant, gripping a staff whose crystal headpiece rang softly. A five-sided hat with mysterious symbols shaded his face, but Poplock could see a smile on the mouth beneath.

  “Khoros!” Tobimar exclaimed.

  “Greetings to you, Tobimar Silverun, and you, Kyri Vantage. And of course to you, Poplock Duckweed.”

  “Nice to see you again,” Poplock said. “Steelthorn did pretty well for me after you put that charm on it.”

  The smile broadened, showing white teeth. “More than a mere charm, I assure you, but you are welcome.”

  “So,” Kyri said. “Is it really over?”

  “This particular war? Yes. Virigar has been utterly defeated, deprived of essentially everything he hoped to win in this war. He can, of course, be vengeful—but only when it suits his purposes. In this case, he has realized that his best choice was to, as a gambler might say, cut his losses. You may face him once again—in fact, I would be certain of it—but that will not be soon and it will not be here.”

  Aran spat. “I can’t call that a victory.”

  Khoros’ voice was grim, devoid of his usual humor. “That, young Aran, is because you have no perspective in the matter. Together you have denied him all his objectives. You have saved uncounted innocents he would have slain with the power he sought, and more, prevented him from corrupting and consuming the highest and brightest of the gods. That trick is the sort that works only when others are unaware of it. He will not try it again, and even were he to do so, it will take him many centuries, millennia in fact. You have faced the King of Wolves and you yet have your life, your health, your sanity, and even some of those you might call friends. That is something few enough have ever achieved, especially when he has chosen a guise of such power and guile.”

  Poplock found himself agreeing, despite his normal cynicism. “Aran, he meant for all of us to die, for Kyri to serve him up a god on a platter, and end up destroying not just your faith but about a dozen others, if I guess right about Myrionar’s connections. And if I heard what he said earlier, the rest of his plans came apart too.”

  Khoros nodded, and so did Kyri. “I felt it,” she said. “When the Black City’s presence here was broken, I could feel it, as though a leaden blanket had lifted from the whole world. And somehow I knew that it was the Five—our five friends, Tobimar, Poplock, Xavier’s friends!—that had somehow beaten Kerlamion himself!”

  “Terian’s Light. They did? The five of them? As simply as that?” Tobimar looked stunned, and Poplock couldn’t blame him.

  “It was neither easy, nor simple,” Khoros said. “They had passed through great trials before they gathered here, but none as great as the one that nearly destroyed them in the heart of the Black City, but pass it they did.”

  “And…begging your pardon, sir,” the Watchland said, “did I also hear aright that the Great Seal is broken?”

  “It is. Kerlamion is not only defeated this day, his greatest work was unmade, and can never be restored.” Khoros bowed to them. “But your battle was at least as crucial to the fate of the world, and all unfolded as it was hoped.”

  Poplock squinted at him. “Hoped? I thought you and the Wanderer knew how this all played out.”

  Khoros looked off in the direction Virigar had fled. “Virigar does not make idle boasts, Poplock Duckweed. Yes, Myrionar had taken me and the Wanderer and a select few others into confidence, given us more or less knowledge of Its past—which was also Its future—and begged with us to assist It in ensuring Its birth.

  “And that was, itself, a bold and risky undertaking, for it meant, as you now know, allowing Virigar to work his entire plot effectively to fruition, and never, ever tampering with any aspect of the timeline beyond that which we had reason to believe we had already done in that future.”


  Bolthawk grimaced. “My head was already hurting after today. This is not helping.”

  A deep laugh rolled out. “I cannot blame you. Such tricks with time are not easy to follow, even for those more versed in it.

  “But in the end, it was not certain. Once Myrionar was created—with the help of Virigar’s own realization—Myrionar had to face Virigar herself,” another white flash of a smile, “not, note, Itself now. And that outcome, despite what we knew, was not certain.”

  “That makes no sense,” Poplock said. “Paradox. If Myrionar hadn’t gone back in time, you—”

  “Not quite. First, I am unsure of Virigar’s true nature, even now. I do know this: the legends of something that must be him go back as far as anything the gods will tell me, anything the Dragons can recall. He is ancient, ancient, a destroying force that even the gods have always feared. And that implies, of course, that he has some means of evading even the final judgment of time that some of the gods would otherwise bring down upon him.

  “More importantly, the very nature of our counterplan was such that it could only work if it did not disturb Virigar’s own plan. That is, every significant event involved would happen in either case. Thus, the only ‘paradox’ would be Myrionar’s existence…but gods have been known to transcend time previously, so this itself was not a guarantee; it would simply mean that we would all have lost the knowledge that Myrionar had brought back, and would have suddenly found Virigar’s plan complete and irrevocable.”

  Poplock bunched himself up in a shudder. “I’m glad I don’t have to fully understand that. But I guess it means we did win.”

  Khoros bowed deeply before them. “You won indeed, and have my gratitude, and that of Terian, Chromaias, the Wanderer, and many others—even if some of them know it not. You have saved Kaizatenzei from a threat it never knew, salvaged souls born to darkness, and defeated a creature that expects to see defeat less than once in a Chaoswar’s time. Instead, you have handed Virigar his second defeat in a year—and yours a far more comprehensive one.”

  He bowed again. “And, too, Kyri Vantage, you have saved not only those precious to you here, but those precious to you in the past.”

  Her head snapped up, and Poplock saw a dawning, disbelieving hope. “What…?”

  “Myrionar has not fallen, Kyri Victoria Vantage. Myrionar was, and is, and shall be. And those who trusted in Myrionar, who were dedicated to Its Justice and Vengeance, will not have been forgotten. Virigar did not take what he sought, and so that place beyond death where Myrionar and Its allies gather the souls that are theirs still waits.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, spilled over, and she dropped to her knees as Poplock watched with a chill of awe. “Mother? Father? Rion?”

  “In the lands beyond the end that the gods rule, yes. For they were not felled by the hand of the Godslayer, nor his children, and though Rion’s soul was sorely torn by one who would have been a child of Virigar, still…” Khoros smiled briefly, “we did take that much of a risk, and Myrionar’s allies caught what Thornfalcon did not take.”

  Kyri stepped forward and without warning threw her arms around the tall mage.

  Khoros stood frozen; Poplock thought, by the stiffness of his stance, that this of all things was something he had neither foreseen, nor prepared himself for.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, then stepped back.

  Khoros was silent a moment, and Poplock saw one of the long-fingered hands rise up, pass over the invisible eyes, and was there a trace of moisture upon that hand? Then the ancient wizard straightened. “Thank yourself. Thank your allies.” He turned. “I assisted, yes…but it was for my own and broader purpose. Give thanks to those who truly deserve it.”

  He stepped away, and his figure became indistinct, as though journeying a thousand miles in a stride without even moving; but he paused on the threshold of the infinite, and turned his head the slightest bit. “But…you are welcome, Kyri Victoria Vantage, the Phoenix, Myrionar who is, and the world is a far, far brighter place with you and your friends in it. It will warm me…to know you are here.”

  And he was gone. For a moment, all of them stood still, staring at the empty space.

  Then Poplock bounced back onto Tobimar’s shoulder. “C’mon, people. Let’s get back to Evanwyl and let ’em know—we’ve won!”

  Bolthawk and Aran hesitated.

  Kyri looked at them, studying the two with eyes that glinted with more than mortal power. “Aran, you I trust without reservation now. And Bolthawk, you could have chosen to flee, and did not. You have much to expiate, many crimes to make amends for…but on this day, you have done well, and you will come with us, and they will know that I remember the most important part of the faith is not Justice, nor Vengeance, but Mercy.”

  Tobimar reached out and took her hand, and they walked—with Poplock balancing in his comfortable, accustomed place—towards the distant city.

  Chapter 47

  “I can scarcely take it all in,” Arbiter Kelsley said, shaking his head. “Kyri? You are…Myrionar?”

  She laughed, hearing the priest’s disbelief echoing her own. “I can’t believe it myself, really, but…yes, I am.”

  They were seated around a (relatively) small table in the Watchland’s private rooms. Kyri knew that a grand celebration was in preparation, probably to happen in the next two days, but for now, a quiet, private dinner to relax and talk with her friends and oldest advisors was what she really wanted. That and to go to bed soon and sleep for maybe a week.

  She looked over to Lythos, who had sat quietly throughout the recital of their final adventures, his expression scarcely wavering from its usual calm attentiveness. Lythos nodded thoughtfully, and took another bite of the pastry in front of him.

  This reminded her that she was still hungry—it had been a busy day—and she dug into the flashfry dish the Watchland’s cook had prepared for her. “Watchland, I hope your cook’s very happy, otherwise I may steal her.”

  “Yalina has always seemed very pleased with her position and treatment here, and I assure you I will match any offer you might make her,” Jeridan answered with a smile. “Unless you cheat and offer her something only a god could manage.”

  She shuddered. “Someone please warn me if I ever start showing signs of being willing to use my power for such petty reasons.”

  “I’ll bounce on your head for sure,” Poplock promised. “That should do it.”

  “Fear him,” agreed Tobimar. To her newly sharpened senses, he seemed unusually tense, given the fact that they seemed to have won a complete victory, but then, maybe he was just finding it hard to relax. “He’ll have no more respect for you as a god than he did before.”

  “By the Balance, please, don’t any of you treat me differently—”

  “That,” Lythos interrupted, “is not possible, Kyri, and it is extremely naïve of you to believe otherwise. We will endeavor to remain your friends and counselors insofar as we can, but you are changed, and over time I believe this will become more, rather than less, obvious, as you become accustomed to the new role that has become yours.”

  Kyri felt an irrational spark of anger at Lythos’ correction, but forced that down. He was right; the Sho-Ka-Taida usually was. I’m…a god. I’m my own god. An embarrassed giggle escaped from her lips.

  Tobimar looked at her. “What?”

  “I just realized that this means…I’ve been worshipping myself for my entire life! Does that make me the most self-centered person who ever lived?”

  Even Bolthawk burst out laughing at that. “Nay, Kyri, it makes you no different than ever you were,” the Child of Odin said. “And glad I am of that.”

  “I must admit, however,” Kelsley said hesitantly, “that I am still unclear on a few things. I understand—although only in a limited way—how Myrionar was able to arrange its own birth, and that this explains why Myrionar did not, and could not, act to stop the outrages the false Justiciars perpetrated.” The others nodded, and
Kelsley went on, “but what I do not understand is what the King of Wolves believed was happening. He must have had some reason that he believed Myrionar could not act, and obviously it could not have been the same reason that we now know was the truth.”

  “I spent a lot of our trip back here thinking about that,” Poplock said.

  “I thought you spent a lot of it sleeping and eating bugs,” Tobimar said.

  “Hey! That trip was like eight hours, I had plenty of time to do all three. Don’t interrupt!”

  Chuckles sped around the table; Poplock raised a tiny glass to the others, took a drink, then continued, “Anyway, a lot of the pieces fell into place once I started connecting things Condor—I mean Aran—said with other things we saw.

  “See, Virigar’s whole plan obviously relied on the gods not knowing what was happening, right?”

  “Right,” Kyri said. “Khoros confirmed as much, that if they knew about the plan it probably wouldn’t work—if for no other reason than that the gods wouldn’t swear such all-encompassing oaths to mortals until the danger was over.”

  “Right. And Virigar’s biggest power is to hide himself, right? His form and his power, right?”

  She remembered, dimly, that even the vast silver Someone she had almost become had lost the King of Wolves. “Definitely.”

  “Well, let’s fit all those pieces plus what we already knew together. Virigar had all these false Justiciars—people that he chose and carefully corrupted over the last couple of centuries, anyway, after he had whittled away the rest of the faith. We know he was providing them with the powers to act just like the Justiciars. We also know that—with the exception of old Thorny—all the Justiciars we know of started out worthy, at least reasonable candidates to be Justiciars.”

  “I see,” Lythos said. “You’re saying that he insinuated himself into the process while Myrionar was, in fact, still choosing the Justiciars. He could extend his power out and into other people—concealing, perhaps, shortcomings their minds or souls might have from Myrionar.”