Phoenix Ascendant - eARC (19 page)

Chapter 27

At last I’m here
.

Aran looked down over the valley of Evanwyl with a combination of happiness, sorrow, and grim determination that he’d never felt before.
My home. But one I can’t really return to. I’m just here to do…two jobs.
He smiled bitterly, and felt the acid humor echoed by the Demonshard.
Both for vengeance, and one for justice.

But vengeance came first. The Phoenix was
near
. He was sure, now. She could not find her way to the Retreat without help. And maybe she never would. He had thought and rethought the plan along the way. Leading the Phoenix and her party to the Retreat carried its own risks; he would have to carry out a letter-perfect act of contrition and redemption in front of the one he’d been hunting for—was it a year, now?—and one who had every reason to believe him fallen beyond redemption.

And that was probably true. He felt the urgings of the Demonshard through him, and it was
hard
to resist, hard to shove the impulses of the black accursed blade to the background of his mind. Many times he’d nearly thrown the thing away, but always the knowledge of how powerful his adversaries were had stopped him. Sometimes he caught a faint amusement from the Demonshard at that. It
knew
he couldn’t afford to lose it, even though it was gaining a slow, sure foothold on him every time he used it, despite all his will and dedication.

Focus
. The problem was that he
could not
show himself in Evanwyl. He was a known traitor, a False Justiciar, and he would find no allies below. None to give him advice or aid. He considered disguising himself, asking around for the true Justiciar, but that was terribly risky. If any of his former comrades were still around, they could have assisted, but of course none of them were…

He stopped, wondering.
It just might be possible.

Stealth was the ally of a Justiciar—or a false one—and once night was falling he called upon all of it to conceal him as he made his way farther into Evanwyl, towards one of the border towns.
I visited there more than once. Now that I know…

Approaching the clearing, he could see the mansion still standing.
Good. They didn’t burn it; needed to keep it intact for searchers.

The question was how much had been looted, destroyed, or left intact. Revulsion at what Thornfalcon had done had undoubtedly given a lot of people the impulse to destroy everything he’d made, but it
was
a valuable estate, and searching burned ruins was a pain.

The grounds were a mess: dozens of holes had torn up the lawns, and a huge black scar stretched from near the house to the very edge of the jungle. But the front door was mostly intact, and had been mended where it was broken. No lights showed; no one had laid claim to the place or chosen to live here, then, unless they were an early sleeper. Aran opened the door, paused, listened. Cautiously, he made his way into the foyer, stopping every few steps to listen.

It took half an hour or more to make his way through enough of the house to be convinced that there was no one here. Knowing that the house itself couldn’t be seen from any other location, he conjured a light and started searching.

The first and most obvious place was Thornfalcon’s bedroom, but that had been stripped bare and, by the looks of the symbols placed on various of the walls, purified by everything
but
fire.
If they ever
do
sell this house, I must wonder if anyone will ever use this room again.
The runic pattern the False Justiciar had placed in the floor had been ripped out; whatever powers it had once had were now gone.

What Condor was looking for, fortunately, could be concealed in several places, and might be overlooked by searchers. It wasn’t in the basement—which
had
been cleansed by fire, at least to a large extent.
Possibly the Phoenix’s doing, since our leader said she’d killed Thornfalcon. If so…incredible control. Such power, yet the entire building remained intact.

He almost missed it. He had actually entered and searched the room and was about to leave when he suddenly froze, then turned to look across the room. And there it was, in plain sight on the wall of Thornfalcon’s ground-floor salon and study.
What incredible arrogance. But then…he almost never had visitors he intended to let live, other than us, so perhaps it simply was his preferred location.

Aran took the gold and silver scroll and concentrated on it. “I am here.”

Minutes passed, and he repeated the call.
He may be busy. I may have to be quite patient.

Three more repetitions. But Aran had indeed learned a lot about patience, and despite the distant mental chafing of the Demonshard, he simply sat in one of Thornfalcon’s remaining undamaged chairs and tried again.

Suddenly the silvery surface cleared, and their Patron gazed out at him. “Why, Condor! I had not realized you had…ahh, of
course.
One of Thornfalcon’s mirror scrolls. Clever. What
can
I do for you?”

“How can I locate the Phoenix?”

A broad smile. “Yes, I see. That
is
a challenge for one who cannot question the locals. Small though it is, Evanwyl’s very large for one man to search on foot. However, you happen to have the answer to hand.”

“I do?”

“The Demonshard, of course. While your so-called Justiciar powers are, ultimately, false, they are quite deliberately made to seem in virtually all ways identical to those of the real Justiciars. The Demonshard can sense other powers—”

Aran felt like hitting his head. Now that their Patron pointed it out, it was
obvious
. The Demonshard had not only been able to sense the power of the Elderwyrm tens of miles away, but instantly recognized
what
that power was. If Aran’s power was even
reasonably
close to that of a true Justiciar, surely the Demonshard could look for similar power sources…and there would be only those at the retreat, and the Phoenix. “Thank you.”

“It is all in accordance with the plan we discussed. I look forward to seeing you.” The scroll went blank.

That simple statement firmed Aran’s new resolve.
He’s too confident. He’s got a plan to deal with the Phoenix.

And in all honesty…I don’t
want
him in on it. Not him, not Bolthawk, not any one but me. This is
my
vengeance, my father’s honor.

Decision made, he drew his sword. “Demonshard, you know the touch of my own powers, those that I claim to come from the god Myrionar, yes?”

The cold, arrogant thought was instant.
Yes. And that it is a false claim, that too I can see, not only from your mind but from the power itself—though that is a subtle trick indeed.

“Never mind that. What I want to know is whether you could sense the
true
power of Myrionar at a distance, tell me in which direction I might—”

The sword
laughed
, an eager and malicious sound that echoed through Condor, resonated with the part of him that realized his long hunt was nearly over.
That I can do, yes, for some leagues, even.

He leapt to his feet. “Then show me. There is but one true Justiciar living, and she is not far from here—a mile, ten, perhaps twice that, but I think no more.”

Yes. Yes, I sense a power very like the one you pretend to. It is quiescent, inactive, but I have been with you for long enough that I am certain this is what you seek.

“How far? Where?”

The Demonshard stretched out before him, pointing to the south and a bit west. “There…twelve miles in that direction.”

Twelve miles. Twelve miles to finish my quest
!

“Then we will do those twelve miles tonight,” he said, and sheathed the sword.

Darkness meant little to him. To see through the night was something natural to a Justiciar, and to one who carried a piece of the King of All Hells’ sword, it was even less an impediment. He strode through the jungle, shoving aside brush, occasionally using the Demonshard’s power to obliterate more stubborn obstacles, and calling on the nigh-infinite power of the blade to support him, to banish weariness.

Even as his heart pounded with eagerness, another part of him acknowledged how hollow the victory might be. In his travels, Aran knew he had played the part of a Justiciar of Myrionar far too well; he’d even occasionally fooled
himself
into thinking he was one. Now he was accepting the help of the monstrous weapon he’d been given, and he could
feel
it trying—perhaps even succeeding—to take hold of him once more.

Doesn’t really matter,
another part of him whispered.
Just finish our oath, and then we can destroy the demon himself.

A smile that was more a snarl of joy crossed his face. If Viedraverion really
was
a son of Kerlamion, as his conversation with the Demon King had implied, then it would be a battle of true irony; a piece of his father’s sword would be the weapon used to kill him.

He felt a touch of weariness, drew dark, ecstatic power, strode forward with a smile now, tearing through the jungle. Time passed, but he did not weary.

Then he burst from the forest onto the southern road. Ahead he could see Trader’s Rest…

And two figures against the darkness.

He touched the hilt of the Demonshard, caressed it, then drew it slowly, sensuously. “Our time is come, Demon. Tell me I’m not wrong; one of those two is my Phoenix.”

You are surely right, Condor,
the black sword answered, its tone eager and more respectful.
I can feel her life, her power, she is indeed a Justiciar such as you played at being!

Buoyed up by the relief and triumph of reaching his journey’s end, he broke into a run, calling on the sword’s power to silence his movements, cloak his approach, consuming all trace of his coming.

Strange; it appears that the Phoenix is lying on the ground, wearing almost naught but a helm. Why?

It struck him that he might be seeing that most ironic of moments—the Phoenix betrayed and prepared for sacrifice by a false companion.
But there is
no
way I will let anyone else kill her!

False companion or true, the standing figure was the only thing in his way. He did not slow, but lowered his shoulder in the charge. The Demonshard protested, screamed at him, but he managed to refuse it to make his arm more than twitch. He had come here to kill one person, and one alone. Yes, if this man faced him again he might be forced to kill, but this time—

The impact was stunning to Aran Condor, enough to make him stumble and fall to his knees for a moment. But his opponent had it far worse: he flew through one tree, two, then collapsed limply to the ground.

He will be out of it long enough, if I have not killed him; but if he was with the Phoenix in the battle against a dragon, I think he will not perish so easily
.

Aran rose to his full height and felt adrenalin and joy and an alien, savage hunger rising. Fingers trembling with eagerness, he raised the Demonshard again and strode forward, looked down at the bound figure before him. Dawn was near, now, and he could see that she was a tall woman, as the reports had said, and clearly as well muscled as any he’d ever met. But he could not meet her gaze, for her helm was still on.

“No, murderer,” he said, voice shaking. “You’ll look on me as I look on you, as I take your
head
, and leave your body for the crows as you left Shrike!”

He reached down and tore the helm from the Phoenix’s head, raising the Demonshard for the final blow.

Kyri Victoria Vantage looked sadly up at him.

Aran froze, his brain unable to comprehend what he saw, and his arm began to descend, a stroke of death screaming with howling blue-white fire around a core of night.

“NO!”

With a supreme effort he caught his own arm, shoved the stroke aside, felt the Demonshard’s fury at being balked even as the long black blade plunged hilt-deep into the earth with a screaming flare of starfire.

The Demonshard was in his mind now, raging, no longer under control, clawing through his brain, forcing his body upright again, raising the sword again.
She killed your father! She is the one you swore to destroy! She is the Phoenix, the enemy of ALL False Justiciars! Kill her for your justice! Kill her for your vengeance! Kill her as she would kill you!

But under all the arguments was merely the imperative: Kill. Destroy. Rip asunder bodies and souls and continue to do so. Feel the power of others flow into him, make him more than man, more than demon, something that could destroy the one who tricked him, who thought to control him. The Demonshard promised this, and he knew there was truth in the promises.

But there were eyes of gray—sprinkled with strange, frightening yellow—and long flowing hair, and a tear flowing down the face that was not filled with hate, but sadness.

Impossible. Impossible! It cannot be her! Kyri could never have made it back to Evanwyl in time!

But the power of the gods could make a mockery of time and distance. He
saw
her, and at this range
sensed
her, knew that this was Kyri Vantage, knew how
right
it was that it would be her, sister to Rion, and then he remembered his patron’s smiles, his evasions, the denial of knowledge.

He
knew!
He
knew
it was Kyri, perhaps from the very beginning! He
arranged
with his allies that I never met her!
Fury burned within him now, but not at the bound figure below him—at, instead, the urbane, smiling mask of a demon.
He made sure I never passed through Evanwyl, had no
chance
to discover the truth! This was his plan all along, to have me destroy her and then be broken by the discovery!

Even as he thought this, his arm was rising, gripping the Demonshard, moving with a volition beyond his own. Kyri looked up and met his stunned, frozen gaze, and she spoke.

“Forgive me, Aran,” she said.

The words pierced through his anger and anguish and self-righteous justifications, reverbrated past even the impassioned and venomous urgings of the Demonshard, shattering the hatred that had squatted, vile and cold and corrupting, in his heart for all this time.