Phoenix Rising

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Her body armor was being laid gently, piece by piece, on the floor as he spoke, and his smile grew slightly wider, the tone of his voice subtly more excited, as he removed each one. Inlaid in expensive woods and metals in elaborate form on the floor—revealed only in pieces, even now that his words and actions had drawn attention to it, because many soft rugs were scattered here and there—was a mystic circle, perhaps a pentagram, and some of the symbols she saw brought an even deeper chill to her heart. I knew he was going to torture me to death. The fact that the structure that held her was meant to hold her in various positions on the bed told her that he would be doing . . . other things, as well. But it’s worse, even worse than I thought. This is not just a place to satisfy appetites I can’t even begin to imagine . . . it’s a ritual circle. He’ll use my pain, my fear, my soul in the end, for something even worse!

  Myrionar, help me! she thought. Fully awake and undrugged, she knew she had her Balance now, at least for a few moments. But at the same time, she didn’t know exactly what to pray for. She did not have the Phoenix Raiment on—it was within her neverfull pack, up against the far wall, so no true godspower could be sent through her without possibly killing her outright. And even if she had the strength to break free, it would take too long; Thornfalcon’s rapier was still on his hip, and she suspected that even . . . later, he would never be without a weapon close to hand.

  He shook his head. “The Balanced Sword is weak, Kyri. And remembering the magnificent strength you showed off to us when moving, I’ve reinforced the bindings.”

  “So you’d target adventurers—the women among them, anyway—and especially those who were alone or known to go off on their own.” She returned to the prior subject, trying to buy herself time. “And I’ll bet you’d do it after they’d done whatever they were here to do, so everyone expected them to leave anyway.”

  “Or before, sometimes, if they had the mad ambition to enter, say, Rivendream Pass. In that case, I might have been actually more kind to them than they were planning for themselves.” The irony of the word kind was emphasized with another smile. “I know more of what lies beyond that pass then you, or any other in Evanwyl, I assure you. Now, I—”

  Faintly, from below, came a sound of someone hammering on the door, and for a moment Kyri’s heart leapt in hope. But then the shouted words came through: “Thornfalcon! Justiciar Thornfalcon! Answer! Are you there? Thornfalcon!”

  Thornfalcon closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to wipe away the savage snarl of frustration, and the whipcord-slender, perfectly sculpted muscles tensed and twitched. As the pounding and shouting continued, he opened his eyes, gave a smile as gentle and welcoming as ever he had.

  “Tsk, what a shame, my Lady, our private moment is interrupted. Yet . . . momentary reprieves, solitude in anticipation of what is to come, these have their place in the entertainment as well. Fear not . . . or fear greatly, but I shall return . . . shortly.”

  45

  Gharis, in light, warm evening rain, was a faint misty glow ahead, that resolved into a village of several houses, at least one large smithy, a wide-fronted building that probably combined warehousing and labor resources for several local businesses, and the lightglobe-illuminated sign of the local inn, the Southern View.

  “Looks quiet,” Poplock said as they walked down the street.

  “Phoenix is neither stupid nor impulsive,” Tobimar answered, glancing around. Unfortunately, we don’t really know what we’re looking for. “Neither of the first two fights occurred anywhere that witnesses were possible, and unless he’s just a madkiller, he’s not going to get sloppy now.” People who killed for the sake of killing, he knew, usually grew more bold as they succeeded, but he doubted that the unknown Phoenix was anything like that. “If anything, he’s going to get more careful, now that the Justiciars have started hunting for him and put up adventurer contracts.”

  “You’re probably right,” agreed Poplock, turning around on his shoulder and looking behind them as he often did, “but then what do we do now?”

  “Luckily our information bundles included summaries of all the Justiciars—since they were clearly potential targets of our quarry. So we know what Thornfalcon looks like and something of his personality.”

  “Noticed there’s aspects about that which weren’t emphasized in the packet, though. They talk a lot in there about his acting and performance talents, but not so much about his hopping from one pond to another, if you know what I mean.”

  Tobimar shook his head. “They seem a lot more sensitive about that kind of thing here in Evanwyl.” He shifted course slightly. “This is his regular patrol area; he’s got to be known at the inn.”

  “And you want to get in out of this nice rain. What about in Skysand, what do they think about that kind of thing?”

  “Yes, I do. In Skysand?” He grinned. “You don’t even want me to start on that. The Way of Sacred Waters is pretty complicated.”

  As they reached the doorway, Poplock turned up his warty head in a manner that somehow conveyed a snort of disbelief. “You’re just evading the subject. So your people are pretty tight on that kind of thing.”

  “Yes, and no, and still it’s complicated. Now shut up.” He pushed the door and went in.

  No one really took notice of the entry, though there were a few who looked mildly surprised after a moment, recognizing that he was a stranger. On the job now. Focus.

  He extended his senses as Khoros had taught him. When seeking among others, there are always lies, the old man had said with a cynical smile. You need to be able to steer your course around them.

  So I’ll be able to sense lies?

  Khoros had shrugged. That is possible, but that is an ability that is often overrated. It is not the lie that is your enemy, for people lie about many things, especially when questioned; they may believe you are seeking some secret they hold which, in truth, matters not at all to you. More, they may say something that they believe to be true, when in fact it is false or a misleading portion of the truth. What you need to sense is when something is wrong with your course, when something is sending you astray. That is what I will teach you.

  I . . . don’t understand.

  Many people sometimes have a sense of danger that warns them just in time of some terrible event about to happen. It is unreliable, and for most people it works but once or twice in their lives. But it is a part of becoming one with the universe around us—or, more truthfully, of making the universe attuned and one with us. I will show you how to extend that sense. It is not easy, it is not—at the level you shall reach in ordinary time—foolproof or a panacea—but it will serve you well.

  Tobimar could feel it now, as though all the people—all the elements around him—were connected and connecting at levels most of those present could not even imagine. And through those connections, maybe, just maybe, he could get to Thornfalcon in time. A quick look around, however, did not reveal anyone with the gangling frame or long features that the images of Thornfalcon showed.

  Smaller than the Balanced Meal, the Southern View combined the welcome desk with the main counter, so Tobimar headed there. A dark-haired woman with a streak of gray down the center of her head looked up from a plate she was preparing. “Yes, sir?”

  “Excuse my interruption, please, but have you seen the Justiciar Thornfalcon?”

  “Frequently, sir.” She smiled at his momentary blink. “But I’m guessing you mean if I have seen him this evening. And indeed, he was here, earlier.” She nodded to a booth now occupied by what Tobimar assumed was a local couple.

  “I have an urgent need to find him, ma’am.”

  “Vlay was on then. Vlay!” she called over to the far end of the counter with unnecessary volume, and the large, somewhat tired-looking man with brown hair at the other end turned.

  “Cinders, Gam, you don’t need to screech like a raven. What?”

  She nodded to Tobimar as she finished filling the plate in front of her and started off a
cross the room with it. “This boy, looking for Thornfalcon!”

  Vlay came over, wiping his hands off on his apron and leaving streaks of the sauces he’d been working on. “You missed him, youngster.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “A while ago.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Usually it’s the ladies asking that question, but I’ll give you the same answer: even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. Not my place.”

  A sense of urgency was rising in Tobimar, even though he couldn’t put a name or reason to it. “It’s very important I find him, as fast as possible.”

  “He’ll be on patrol tomorrow, I’m sure. Sorry.” Vlay began to turn away.

  “Wait, sir!” Tobimar bared the patch on his shoulder. “Tobimar Silverun. Adventurer, Zarathanton Guilded.”

  Vlay looked mildly impressed, but not nearly as much as others often were. “Young to be an Adventurer, but all right. If I see him, I’ll pass on your name.”

  He doesn’t expect to see him again tonight, though. And he’s not telling me where . . .

  Suddenly it hit him, and he caught Vlay’s arm as he turned away.

  “Let go my arm or I’ll break it, boy!”

  He let go, since he once more had the man’s attention. “Thornfalcon—he didn’t leave alone, did he?”

  Vlay laughed. “Never does, eh?”

  That stopped him for a moment. “You mean he left with a woman?”

  “That’s his type, yes. Not you, if that’s what you’re after.”

  Tobimar restrained a roll of his eyes, and suddenly it hit him, as Poplock’s grip on his shoulder suddenly grew painful. “No! Listen, the person he left with—tall, very tall, six foot three, six foot four, moved like a fighter?”

  Now he really had Vlay’s attention—and part of him felt there was something sinister in the man’s gaze, but that wasn’t important now. “Might be, ’Venturer.”

  “And you’re sure it was a woman?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that by Sand and Sea you’ll tell me where I can find Thornfalcon or you might never see him again!” Tobimar hissed, trying to keep his voice down. No point starting a panic or too many rumors, even if I might be too late now. “I’ve been hired by the Justiciars and the Temple to find the false Justiciar that’s already killed two of the others.”

  “Two? I heard ’twas one—”

  “Two, and you may be the first one other than me to know, because I’ve been tracking him since I found Shrike’s body. And what you’ve just told me means he left with the person who means to kill him!”

  “Great Balance.” The man’s gaze shifted, then came back. “All right, but if you’re having me on, boy, I’ll send word all the way back to the Guild and have you stripped and hounded.” He gave quick, precise directions on how to find Thornfalcon’s home. “Luck to you.”

  “Thank you, Vlay. Pray to your Balance that I won’t be late.”

  Outside now, he focused, drawing on his reserves. Time to move.

  “He might be dead already.” Poplock observed cheerfully.

  “Let’s hope not. If our mystery Phoenix really is a woman and she’s taken this tactic, well, there will be dinner first before he’s in the most vulnerable position.”

  “Hmm. Yes, he’s known as setting quite a table, I hear.”

  The dark, wet jungle streamed by on either side as Tobimar ran, enhanced senses guiding him more surely than ordinary sight would have. Please let us be in time, let us be in time . . .

  And then they were through, into a wide clearing with a large house, surrounded by a high and solid fence of slatewood, in the center. The gate to the house was closed and locked. Tobimar looked around. “He’s got guard spikes all around and I’m not sure I can jump that. It’s warded too. Just breaking through is not going to work. And his callcharm’s showing a privacy seal—even if we send a call, it’s not going to signal inside the house. Drought and Death! So close—”

  “No need for cursing, not yet.” Poplock hopped up to the gateway. “Hmm. Yes, looks tough. Wards are panel-and-post wards, though. Not perimeter. Except for verminseal—which still is pretty expensive, and slow going—perimeter’s very hard to do, very expensive, takes a lot of work. Easier to do panel-and-post, and lots cheaper usually, even if you have to have the panels and support posts shipped all the way from Zarathanton.” He indicated the massive pillars supporting the sections of solid wood fencing.

  “So?”

  “So that means he only has verminseal perimeter wards here.”

  And Poplock squeezed himself straight through the three-inch gap between the gateway posts and the main fence, getting only momentarily hung up when Steelthorn tried to turn sideways. His voice came back through the hole. “And verminseal isn’t all that strong, and anyway doesn’t stop anything that’s thinking much.”

  A pause. “Urk. He needs to oil the inner latch. Why do you . . .” a Toadish grunt, “. . . humanoids . . . always make things hard . . . to . . . turn?”

  There was a click, and suddenly the gateway popped open. Tobimar ran through and caught up Poplock, dashing up the path to the front door. “You know, you’re more dangerous than I thought. And I thought you were pretty dangerous before.”

  “Fear me,” the little Toad agreed, with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

  The callcharm on the door was showing privacy as well. “Darkness and Death.”

  “Not hearing anything much from inside right now. Maybe a little movement upstairs. Want me to—”

  “No, no time for subtlety.” Tobimar raised his fist and pounded on the door. “Thornfalcon! Justiciar Thornfalcon! Answer! Are you there? Thornfalcon!”

  For several moments he was sure he was too late, but then he heard an answering voice—one filled with annoyance. “Very well, very well, enough!”

  The door was yanked open and Thornfalcon stood there, bare to the waist but with a long, keen rapier in his hand. “I know not how you’ve come past my wards and wall, boy, but if you have no explanation that pleases me, I’ll cut the clothes from your back and leave you with scars you’ll have to explain for all the rest of your life. And if it displeases me enough, you’ll never leave.”

  It was clear, from the faint sheen of sweat already visible on the Justiciar’s face and the somewhat disordered hair—not to mention the state of semi-dress—that they were just barely in time. “Sir, I’m sorry, very sorry.” He reached to his shoulder, and saw that the rapier twitched at that sudden move, but was restrained. He pulled down the patch covering. “Tobimar Silverun. Hired by the Justiciars and Temple to chase that false Justiciar.”

  “What of it? That does not give you authority to enter my estate.”

  “No, sir, but this does: the woman you brought home with you tonight is, almost certainly, the Phoenix, and she intends to kill you.” Why is it that my sense of unease is not gone? It almost feels worse.

  Thornfalcon’s long face only emphasized the comical drop of his jaw. “What?”

  “She’s very tall, six foot three, slender-looking, maybe two hundred pounds or less soaking wet, and I’ve just tracked her from Shrike’s body. Sir, you have to believe me!” The sense of imminent peril grew even as Thornfalcon slowly backed away and let them enter. What is it? What is wrong? Has the Phoenix recognized that the interruption means her disguise has been penetrated? Are we all at risk now?

  That thought made sense . . . and yet there was no sense of rightness about it; indeed, it seemed completely against the connections of past and future.

  But Thornfalcon’s expression had slowly shifted to unwilling acceptance of possibility. “You speak with conviction, and while I am loath indeed to imagine the young lady—indeed, any young lady—could harbor such dark designs against me, I would be foolish to ignore a warning so earnestly given.” Thornfalcon turned and reached out, and Tobimar saw that his Raiment was on a stand
nearby. The mystical and symbolic armor seemed to flow from its resting place and garb its owner in a smooth combined motion that ended with Thornfalcon’s arms stretched above his head.

  Thornfalcon lowered his arms, tugging at the gauntlets as though adjusting their fit just so. “Well, then, let us proceed to discuss this with the lady who awaits us. But you shall owe her an apology of staggering dimensions if you prove wrong in this, I assure you!” He gestured to a wide stairway farther down the hall. “Shall we?”

  As Tobimar turned, three things happened almost at once:

  One: A tiny weight disappeared from his shoulder with an inarticulate croak.

  Two: Points and connections drew infinitely tight, an array of meaning and possibility frozen in crystal, and he saw horror and dropped, rolling aside in the same instant.

  Three: A streak of cold light, steel and sorcery intertwined, speared through the point his skull had occupied in the infinitesimal past; the steel withdrew, the magic continued, shattering a hole in the carven-wood staircase.

  Tobimar continued his roll, coming to his feet, drawing the twin blades even as the shock of understanding and the nearness of death sent nausea and terror through him.

  Thornfalcon regarded him from beneath the upraised helm, one eyebrow quirked high, a cruel smile on the face that before had been so welcoming. “Oh, well done, Adventurer. The Guild has not lowered its standards, I see. And I must say, it is rather appropriate that the young lady have someone arrive at the very proverbial last minute.” The shimmering rapier came up in an ironic salute. “Yet I fear that the ending of this play would not please the crowd. Fortunate, is it not, that I play now only to an audience of one?”

  “You . . . you’re a Justiciar! How . . . why?”

  The other man shook his head slowly, smile broadening.

  Oh.

  “It’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

  “Very good, Tobimar Silverun.” He could sense more power now, something that made his skin crawl, a power that was not mere magic and energy, but born of darkness, and he no longer saw—exactly—a man before him, but something else, something more—or less. “You have found the true solution to the riddle. But that, I am afraid, will be the final—and never-known—victory of your tragically short life.”