Phoenix Ascendant - eARC (20 page)

He froze, the Demonshard upraised, fighting the weapon of the King of All Hells one final time.
NO.

YES! I was created for
this
! You will not—you
cannot
—deny me this kill!

I can and I do
. He forced his body to turn—not even an inch, but he turned, turned
away
from the woman he had hunted.
I renounce that oath. I renounce my vengeance. I renouce my oath as a false Justiciar. I renounce it
all
. And most of all, foul weapon, corrupter, Demonshard, monster-blade, I renounce
YOU
. You have no more power over me, for I am no longer Condor. I am
Aran
.

I am Aran.

I am Aran!

“I am
ARAN!
” he screamed, and with all his might spun, flinging the Demonshard away. He toppled, rolled down the hill, and lay there, sobbing, feeling both the revulsion at everything he had done and the slow-emerging wonder that he had somehow stayed his hand…and that the Phoenix, the true Justiciar, was by some miracle Kyri Vantage, the one person it
should
have been.

The sun finally sent its first beams across the broad expanse of the world to touch upon Trader’s Rest, and for an instant Aran felt it was Myrionar’s own symbol, telling him that he had finally, at very long last, emerged from darkness.

But then Kyri began to scream.

Chapter 28

“Bolthawk, Shrike, Mist Owl, Silver Eagle, Skyharrier—thank you for coming so swiftly.”

Shrike made no attempt to conceal his sour expression. “Aye, but not as if there were a choice.”

“Tsk, tsk, Shrike, there
are
still niceties to be observed,” it said, wearing the smile he knew they all found most galling. “It is true it would be exceedingly unwise for you to reject my summons, but still, I am not—and I believe you would all agree, have never been—an
unreasonable
being.”

“True enough,” Bolthawk said, with a sharp glance at Shrike. It was interested to see that after the events of the past year, Bolthawk had become the unquestioned leader of the False Justiciars; even Mist Owl and the old Silver Eagle had accepted him.
Surprisingly capable in the role, too; the crisis brought out something in him that had never come to the fore previously.
“You don’t gather us like this without reason, sir. What do you ask of us?”

“It is time for us to prepare to welcome some new guests who will be arriving very shortly,” it said.

“You mean Phoenix and her friends,” Skyharrier said.

“In a while, yes. But somewhat before that I expect at least one other visitor—an old friend and ally of ours.”

Shrike started up. “Condor?” he said, with an eagerness that was utterly at odds with his prior sullen look.

“Indeed, our long-departed friend Condor. He is nearing Evanwyl—in fact, has already entered it. But I am not
entirely
sure that he will be arriving to
assist
us, if you understand my meaning.”

Shrike looked up. “He doesn’t know who the Phoenix is.”

“Not yet, no.”

The broad, frowning face suddenly creased in a wintry smile. “Then maybe the lass’ll wake him up.”

It laughed. “Oh, dear, Shrike! You are
hoping
for my defeat? For your son’s
salvation
, after all he’s done?” The creature wagged a finger reprovingly at the false Justiciar. “For shame, now. That would just mean that you’ll have to kill him
for
me when he comes. You don’t want
that
, do you?”

Shrike met its gaze with a sullen glare. “Maybe I’d just fall before him, an’ then it’ll be
you
he’ll be after.”

Its hand lashed out, lifted Shrike effortlessly. “You think
he
has the power to defeat me? Even with those allies he has gained? Oh, Shrike, you truly
are
amusing. If you die facing him, I will make
certain
you rise and get to fight him again, until he wearies of slaying his father, or his father wearies of
dying
!”

Tossing the warrior aside casually, it turned away. “I assure you, Shrike, your
best
course of action—for both your sake and his—will be to kill him
swiftly
, before I am actually forced to take a hand in the battle. You know what I can do now. Unless you wish that on your adopted son and the girl who wears Justiciar’s armor, you know it would be better they died before that.”

It could sense the anger from Shrike, and not just him; all of the false Justiciars were reaching the limit of fear. But then, it only needed them for a short time longer, and having them
break
at the right time would be artistically correct; if it had to either leave them intact, so to speak, or directly deal with them after the rest was done? Not as elegant as the plan demanded, though such an outcome would not directly affect the major goal of the whole plan.

It paused, then turned. “Very well, Shrike; you, Mist Owl, and Silver Eagle may retire to your own rooms. I will not involve you unless it becomes
necessary
.”

Bolthawk looked up. “Why not
us
?”

It shrugged, with an easy smile. “Because
you
are known to be alive and in service to me—though they do not, of course, know who I truly am. If
you
are not seen, our adversaries will have good reason for suspicion. If and when Condor appears, ascertain which side he is on before allowing him passage. I would
prefer
no battles within the Retreat itself. I will sense if you require aid soon enough to send the others to you, or come myself. If he is alone, there is a decent chance he is on our side. If not, you will know his intentions.

“All of you ready your weapons, your defenses, your resources of all types. The coming battle will be the last you need be concerned with.”

The three he had named first paused in the doorway at that, and Shrike turned. “An’…if we survive this battle…what then?”

It smiled. “Why, then I will have no further need to bind you to me. I will release you—on your sworn oath to never impede me and mine in the future, of course.” It turned away again, dismissing the False Justiciars, who quietly filed out and let the door of the inner sanctum close.

Yes, that was the last touch needed. The hope of actual
release
from my service will balance their hatred and anger towards me. They know they have little chance to kill me, and I have many ways to punish them beyond the merely physical. They—with the possible exception of Shrike, poor man—will fight with everything in their possession to win through and gain their freedom.

It smiled and leaned back in the chair.
Almost all pieces are in place. Just a few last things to arrange.

It was in the middle of one of those “last things” a few hours later that it heard the door open. But the soul it sensed was not one of the False Justiciars. It passed its hand over the mirror-scroll, erasing the insectoid image, rose from the desk, and turned, grinning.

Watchland Jeridan Velion stood there, a curved, glittering blade gripped in his hands. The point of the blade dipped fractionally as the creature completed the turn. “So. A true duplicate. You and I are as alike as a mirror.”

“Necessary, of course,” it said, coming slowly out from behind the desk, leaving space between it and the Watchland. “I presume you simply walked past my guards, with an appropriately arrogant pose?”

“Yes. A bit of a hole in your security, others might think. But I believe you
expected
this. You called me here for some reason.”

It let the smile broaden. “Indeed, Jeridan. I think you should be here for the
denouement
, as it were.” It studied the blade in the Watchland’s grip, and raised an eyebrow. “But I compliment you. I had gone to some trouble to move
that
weapon out of sight and mind, even though for various reasons I could not arrange its complete disposal.”

“I was able to force some of my foggier memories to the surface,” the Watchland replied, blue eyes measuring the creature’s pose. “I remembered how the legendary Earaningalane had dwelt on the wall of my chambers for decades, yet I had a vague memory of it being moved, more than once. I knew you
must
have had a reason to make that weapon, of all weapons in the castle, disappear.” He raised the blade higher. “I think this can hurt you.”

It laughed. “You are
entirely
correct, Watchland. Most weapons of this land would be useless, but that one…ahh, that one was forged by the same hand that made the Raiments themselves, and gifted to the Watchland of Evanwyl in the days the first Justiciars walked the land. Oh, yes, if you can strike me with that blade, I will find it
most
unpleasant.”

The Watchland began a cautious advance. “Then why do I have no compulsion to stop?”

“Oh, now, that would be rather unsporting of me, don’t you think?”

“Unsporting? Is this a mere amusement for you, then?”

It smiled again, but now that smile was broader, the teeth glinting in a way no human teeth would ever shine. “Oh, indeed, an amusement, little creature. Let us see, then, how long
you
can survive, against
me
.”

The look of horror on the Watchland’s face as it finally revealed its
true
form was…
inspiring
.

Chapter 29

Kyri had
wanted
to stay silent—to suffer the agonies with dignity, without inflicting the pain of her cries upon her friends. But as the fiery agony of the beautiful dawn washed across her, searing like a wave of boiling oil, she found her resolutions impotent; a shriek of anguish burst from her lungs, in that instant sending a minor spike of pain through her throat from the sheer volume of the scream.

Instinctively, desperately, Kyri called up Myrionar’s power, and
that
burned too, burned and flamed both cold and hot, even as the glory of the Sun ignited her skin in smoking ruin.

But Myrionar’s power was still with her, still answering her prayers, and she begged for one thing, one thing only:
Let me stay myself! Let the pain not drive me mad, nor the Curse take my mind! If I must die…let me die as
myself!

The agony ebbed, just enough for her to gain control, clamp her mouth shut, reduce the screams to tormented grunts and muffled curses. She saw, in the instants before the torturous, all-destroying, all-renewing light took her eyes, Tobimar stumbling into view, Condor on his knees with horror and contrition, Poplock crawling to his friend’s side.

I can’t! I can’t survive this!

She forced that thought back with desperate will.
I can. I must. I believe in Myrionar. All other cures failed. Only the sun remains.

But I’m
burning away!

She could feel that was nightmarishly true. Though the power of her god dulled the sensation—barely—the agony was not fading as nerves were destroyed. The pain and erosion extended throughout her being, consuming her with flame. Her legs were already blackened, her fingers around the figurines becoming skeletal.
Myrionar! By the Balance, how can I
exist
like this?

But she forced
that
question back, too. That was not faith, it was not focus. There were—there
had
to be—only two things in her mind: the first was faith that Myrionar’s oath, sworn in the name of the very power of the gods, could not be a lie. She had not yet had her justice and vengeance, and thus a way out for her existed—
had
to exist.

The other was simple: the end of her quest was in sight. She had kept faith, and Myrionar had provided the last thing she needed to have her rendezvous with their true enemy.

I cannot die before I have faced him! Before I have faced Viedraverion!

But her body was dissolving like mist before the dawn, corrosive brilliant fire causing her skeletal hands to collapse, her bones to begin crumbling. She
felt
that happen, a crushing agony as though a dozen hammers were pounding on every fiber of her being. She screamed anew, a horrid dry croaking wheeze that spoke of the dessicated, charred flesh and cartilage which was now her face and throat. Myrionar’s power was weak, weak indeed now.

Too weak to save her.

She realized that with horrific certainty as she remembered all the efforts she had put forth through the last months, spending whatever reserves the god had remaining to it with reckless abandon in the name of her quest…and now, at this last point, she could tell that even Myrionar no longer had the strength to rebuild what was lost. The Curse would be broken, yes…the moment the last of her mortal form went to ash, then her soul might be freed, might find some destination beyond. Or might not, for her oath also bound her, and she had failed. Without Myrionar to hold the paradise beyond open for her, without the fulfillment of her oath, she could not be released, nor could see find refuge; she would be a condemned spirit, fading and weakening, seeking an end to a quest that could never be concluded.

No
.

Myrionar had
promised
there was a way out. And even now, as she heard with ears that were themselves nearly gone the dry-stick crumbling of her chest, she knew that the god had not—
could not have
—lied to her. She knew that, and refused to give up her hope, to release her faith.

But if Myrionar could not do it—

She thought for a moment of the other gods, allies to Myrionar. Surely Terian had the power. Chromaias, as well, and the Dragons, sleeping though they were, might respond with slumbering might to sweep aside injury and death. Fire burned through her skull, evaporated the remainder of her eyes in pure brilliant torment, and her screams were silent, yet she did not yield her
self
to the pain.

No, the other gods cannot help.
By the Balance, the
PAIN!
I am not sworn to them, and their pact prevents them from acting for those not so sworn. I am the Justiciar of Myrionar, and none other. But soon there shall be nothing left of me…

Nothing?

For a moment all seemed still—even the incendiary agony was frozen, distant, inconsequential.
No
.
Only my
body
will be gone.

My soul remains.

She remembered Xavier’s white-blazing power, Tobimar’s senses beyond the physical that guided him through battles of darkness and death; she recalled the moment of a dozen, two dozen,
more
of her ranged about the southern shore of Enneisolaten, all of them as
real
as anything that ever was, and she remembered the cold, precise lecture of mad Master Wieran.

My soul. Our souls, the foundation of the power of the gods, that is given to them in worship, returned to us in blessings. The soul that is our link between the mortal and the transcendent.

If I can find the strength…

Even as she thought that, she could
sense
, suddenly, the connection between her and her friends. Tobimar, crying, praying to his own god, entirety of his being
focused
on her. Poplock, golden eyes closed and weeping tears as he, too, prayed for her to the god of his people.

But…but there is more!

Condor—Aran—kneeling next to her, his only thoughts being how he had failed her and how he wished it were otherwise. Beyond him…Seeker Reed, cleaning the temple, silent yet thinking of her when he glanced at the Sword Balance above; Arbiter Kelsley, isolated in his study, praying for forgiveness for his failures. Lythos, looking into the dawn and wondering if his best student had survived the night, and others, tiny glimpses of the people of Evanwyl sparing a thought for the Phoenix who was also their beloved Kyri Vantage.

And farther: the little girl Hulda, suddenly seized with worry about the Phoenix and her party, offering a prayer to the Light; Zogen Josan, in the small temple of Jenten’s Mill, praying and seeing in his eye Kyri Vantage and her party; Miri and Lady Shae, standing together as they watched another tower rising, rebuilt, and thought for moments of those who had led to their salvation.

She reached out to these thoughts and
felt
them, their strength, their spirits, yearning to return to her something that she had given them. And though she did not in her heart think she was truly worthy, still she accepted what was offered, and remembered one more thing:

The warm fire of wings of flame, and the shining eyes of Tobimar Silverun as that moment (and a small Toad) brought them to accept what lay between them.

I will not die!

Her own soul caught those threads of belief, the power of faith, and accepted them,
drew
them in, even in the moment that her last bones were collapsing to dust and ash, and spun them out again, a weave that covered the detritus and charcoal that had been a body.

Myrionar, guide me! I have the power! I believe that
WE
have the power! And I have faith that you can show me how to do what no mortal could imagine!

The answer came to her in a burst of gold, and she
screamed
once more, a cry of tearing agony but of triumph and ecstasy as fire enveloped her very soul now, and the dark, dark cord that sought to bind it broke, tore apart, a curse now impotent and useless against the flames of the living spirit. Her shriek rose to the heavens, a call of vengeance and life, and exploded into pure red-gold flame.

The fire waned, and dancing through her was a feeling of victory. The voice of Myrionar had not spoken to her, and she knew the god was weaker than ever; yet there was surety singing in her veins, echoing through her heart, as she opened her unburned, reborn eyes and saw the awe and wonder in three faces before her, three faces lit by the dawn behind…and the golden fire of rebirth before them.