Ryk E. Spoor's Blog, page 49

Phoenix in Shadow: Chapter 13

And what's an epic fantasy without a villain? Let's see what our Bad Guy is up to.

 

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Chapter 13.

     "You are tense this morning, Lord."

It raised an eyebrow and smiled. With the false Justiciars no longer free to roam Evanwyl, it no longer cared about the use of words that might reveal its secret guise; the Justiciars could no longer accidentally reveal anything.

What was surprising and amusing was Bolthawk's observation, and the fact that it was true. "You see clearly, Bolthawk. How did you know?"

The Child of Odin gave a tight grin, even as he whirled his axe around in a quick cut that necessitated an immediate dodge. "Seen it before, truth be told. Usually you're fluid as water, clean as air. This morning, though… your movements are just a touch jerky, your glances stray wider, as though seeking something." He barely blocked its return stroke, but continued, "I see it only in mornings, so I think… a dream, yes?"

Perceptive indeed. The true irony is that each and every one of these people… with the exception of Thornfalcon… could have been excellent Justiciars in truth. "Yes."

"Would you care to speak it? Or is this a different dream each time?"

The creature considered as the two of them had a few more passes at arms during their practice. I have never told this to a mortal before, and indeed only to select few others. Yet… why not? They have much fear of me, yes, but fear is not the best or only way to control. And he shows considerable courage in daring to ask such personal information, as a dream can give hints of weakness.

Finally he decided and disengaged. "No, you guess aright, friend Bolthawk. It is the same dream, always the same dream, that causes me a few hours of… tension, every so often." It leaned on its sword and looked off into the distance. "The preliminaries may vary, but always the true… nightmare, if you will… begins with the same realization:

"I am being followed."

It placed so much emphasis on that phrase that Bolthawk raised his own thick eyebrow. "Is that so unusual, then?"

"Oh, indeed. A most novel sensation, actually. No one ever follows me… not unless I want them to, of course… and in the dream, I cannot remember inviting any pursuit.

"So I look about, extending all of my senses – my true senses, you understand – and yet I find… nothing."

It found to its surprise and amusement that gooseflesh had risen on its arms. This body's reactions still can go beyond expectations.

Yet the reaction was not, in fact, entirely inappropriate, for the dream itself was emphatic and clear, and it could feel the certainty waiting in that memory: despite the failure of its senses, something was following, out there in the darkness that was darker than any night.

"I quicken my pace; whatever follows me, the proper course is to meet my adversary on more advantageous ground. And it is then that it strikes me: I do not know where I am going! I am unclear as to my goal." It smiled one of its least-comforting smiles, and was rewarded with Bolthawk swallowing nervously. "You understand, of course, that I always know my goal, and have for… well, much, much longer than you or any of your people have been alive."

Bolthawk nodded, and it continued, "I carve my way through the forest I now find myself in, a trackless jungle that I travel through with ease yet no clear path or destination. And then I hear… a noise.

"Something is there. Something is coming. Behind me." It closed its eyes, remembering. "I whirl, looking, gazing with all my intensity. My other senses say there is still nothing, nothing there at all, but then I see something. A flash of eyes.

"But not just any eyes, oh no. Gray eyes, eyes like stormclouds and steel, cold and grim yet transcendently certain, with not a trace of doubt or fear or hesitation, eyes that penetrate all my deceptions, and I know that my pursuer sees me, knows me for what and who I truly am, and yet does not turn back, does not recoil, does not pause, but comes on, ever closer." It drew a breath, one that actually held the faintest tremor of excitement or even, perhaps, fear. "And I feel a shock through my very soul, for I know – know – the truth. That these are the eyes that could end me."

It smiled and shrugged. "And then – always – I awaken."

Bolthawk considered. "So, you've never seen the person with those eyes?"

"I have never seen my pursuer's face," it admitted candidly. "Never descried the hands or body, never even sensed the nature of the soul that must accompany that body. For all my life – and that has been, you realize, a very long life indeed – whenever the dream or vision comes I see only the eyes, that wide, gray, unwavering gaze."

The false Justiciar hesistated momentarily, then shrugged. "You know, Kyri Vantage has eyes just as you describe."

It laughed. "Oh, not quite, my friend. Or, to be fair… not quite yet. I have met many, many with gray eyes before, but never those eyes. Sometimes the wrong shade; other times the wrong gaze, too gentle, too uncontrolled… never quite the same. Phoenix Kyri's eyes are too heated in their vengeance, too passionate. These eyes are those of one who has contemplated my destruction not for mere months, but for uncounted years, and who knows precisely my nature, and yet feels neither fear nor uncertainty; he, or she, or it, knows that they will make an end of me. This does not describe her. Yet." It smiled. "But on the positive side, Bolthawk, the dream – which I believe fully, mind you – gives me much comfort. For I then need fear neither demon nor dragon nor god, but only that unknown pursuer. On the day I see those eyes in life, on that day – and no other – I will discover if I can ever die."

It raised its blade again, seeing the understanding on Bolthawk's face. Yes, my friend, this confidence also reminds you that any plans you and yours have for turning against me are futile. "Shall we continue?"

A few minutes later, it smiled inwardly. It sensed Condor's approach long before he reached the clearing in which the Justiciar's Retreat lay, but allowed him to come nearer without giving any sign of awareness, continuing its sword practice against Bolthawk's axe. It was therefore Bolthawk's sudden glance of startlement that apparently alerted it to the new arrival.

"Condor! What a triumph, you have returned from Hell." The creature allowed his voice just that edge of derision that he knew would be most galling."

But Aran's expression was… changed; there was a confidence and a narrow-eyed appraisal, so extremely different from that which he had worn prior to departure, that it found itself studying him with a more attentive eye.

"Returned from Hell twice, yes – as you must have known."

Bolthawk stared from one to the other, then said to it: "So the rumors… they're true?"

"Ask your brother in arms, Bolthawk," it said. "For he has been there, it seems."

"Rumors?" Condor laughed, but the sound was cold, cold. "What rumors? Do they say that the sky darkened and the land called Hell shuddered at a horror to make that very land seem a refuge of sanity and safety? Do they say that Kerlamion Blackstar has found a way to violate the very boundaries of life and death and the gods? Do they say that the Black City rests here, its gates opening onto Zarathan itself? Then what they say is true, Bolthawk, for I crossed into the center of the land of Hell, and thence walked straight through the Gates of the Black City."

Bolthawk blanched at these words, spoken both with a casual venom that was too matter-of-fact to be doubted… and too cold and mocking for Condor.

But it merely cocked its head slightly. "And did you find what you sought?"

So swiftly that mortal eye could never have followed it, Condor's sword sprang from its sheath and was there, in his hand, the point barely a hairsbreadth from the creature's throat.

But not Condor's sword, in fact. The blade pointed at it was dark as night, shimmering faintly with blue-white and accompanied by a dim moaning as of air falling to its doom. "Ah. I see."

"I think you do, yes."

It looked into Aran's green eyes, but it let its smile return. "A mighty blade indeed. But are you going to waste your time and energy killing me, or will you seek your vengeance?"

For a moment, it thought that Aran, the Condor Justiciar, might actually do it – kill the true source of his pain, the corruption of Myrionar's chosen, the one who had pulled all the strings and brought him to this point. But to truly do that, Condor would have to admit, fully, that both he and his foster father had no right to complain against any act by the defenders of Evanwyl or, indeed, the rest of Zarathan.

The black blade returned to its sheath in an instant. "Not yet. You still have answers I want, and information." Unspoken was also the fact that the creature before Condor was also the source of his false Justiciar power, power he would still need in his mission.

It gestured, and Bolthawk bowed and left immediately; it could sense the other Justiciar's fear and relief at not being involved in this. "I know what information you seek. The Phoenix has departed Evanwyl. I did, in fact, lose Phoenix' track for a short time, but by good fortune only a day or so ago I found that Phoenix' party had taken the path I had expected, given what they found at Thornfalcon's mansion."

As a native of Evanwyl, Aran could not repress a shudder as he realized what it was saying. "You mean… Rivendream Pass?"

"It is the obvious and, even, inevitable path. They know that they cannot yet find the Retreat; they know that Thornfalcon had some sort of connection to the other side of the Pass; they know, too, that Evanwyl's fortunes were tied to that which once lay beyond the Pass, and Myrionar is no doubt guiding them."

"When did they enter the Pass?"

"Two, three weeks ago, I believe."

Condor cursed. "Then they are far ahead of me. Reaching the Pass from here will take most of a week as it is."

It smiled, and was pleased to see that Condor still found that expression disquieting. As well you should, little Justiciar. As well you should. "That, at least, I can assist you with."

Condor's eyebrows rose visibly. "How?"

"Within this realm, I have gained… considerable power – as one might suspect. Go, replenish your supplies from our reserves, and meet me in my chambers and I will be prepared."

It did not, in fact, take much preparation, but it was best for Condor and the others to have mistaken ideas about its powers, its nature, its goals, and effectively everything else. So Condor entered to find an elaborate mystical circle laid out in the center of the huge dark room. "You can teleport me to them?"

"Not to them, no. I have hardly had any direct contact with Phoenix or any companions the true Justiciar of Myrionar may have – that would be … unwise, at the least. But I can cut your travel time, by sending you directly to Rivendream Pass." This would also have the absolutely vital effect of keeping Aran Condor from discovering the actual nature and identity of the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar. It had to get Condor well away not merely from Evanwyl, but from his fellow false Justiciars, since they knew the truth and would certainly tell him as soon as the topic came up.

Aran would learn the truth, of course… but that had to happen only at the precisely correct moment.

Aran stepped carefully into the circle, making sure to neither rub out or smear any of the symbols; experienced as he was around things mystical, he was not going to take chances on such a ritual being disrupted. "I'm ready."

"Then I wish you… good hunting, Condor."

There was a flash of light, and Condor was gone – on his way to a rendezvous he desperately wanted… and would undoubtedly regret, once it occurred.

If he was even Condor any more, by the time he found his quarry. A gift from the King of All Hells was not, exactly, a safe thing to receive. Especially not for a young man who thought he still wanted to be a hero.

It laughed and gestured, cleansing the floor of the ritual circle. There were other amusing things to attend to. It wasn't quite time to talk with the King again; it was still deciding how, exactly, the next sequence of events must be played. The grandiose overarching plan was, of course, going to start coming apart; while Aegeia still seemed well enough in hand, there were a few points that indicated things might start turning around soon – even though the agent it had in place claimed all was proceeding as planned.

But that would still be some time yet. The real key decision was when, precisely, it would have to admit failure and be cast on its own by Kerlamion as the King of All Hells sought to finish by sheer brute power what could not be completed by manipulation. Too early, and it might lose support that would be useful for its own endgame. Too late, and Kerlamion might realize that he was the one being played and throw all plans off. While it thought that even Kerlamion could be dealt with, having the King of All Hells as a direct and immediate threat while trying to complete its own plans would be a serious problem to properly executing the last stages of the plan.

Oh, it knew the King would eventually discover the truth. It looked forward to that moment, properly staged; the right denoument of the play was the key to its enjoyment, after all. But it was a challenge to make sure all the cast played their parts when most of them didn't know they were part of the performance, and when the few that did, such as Khoros, would do their best to ruin the final act.

Unfortunately, there were so many elements to be balanced here – and elsewhere, and "elsewhere" required just as much attention as its plans did here; that was, naturally, one reason that it was often unavailable for the Justiciars and other allies – sometimes it simply wasn't there.

After another quick check with all its agents – especially Kalshae and Emirinovas, who should be having new visitors soon -- the creature felt that it would have to make another trip and hope that everything continued on course. It could not neglect the other game, already in progress, on a far more distant playing field.

But time enough for that game when said time came; the last skirmish had been surprisingly painful, if instructive, and thus well worth continuing. For now, however, it had plenty of things to do here. It sat down and placed the golden scroll in its holder, and smiled.

So very many things to do here.

 

 

Phoenix in Shadow: Chapter 12

 

Time to get our friends THROUGH this pass and to the other side!

 

 

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Chapter 12.

     Poplock tasted the air. Definitely more humid. "I think we're nearly down. Look at the mountains."

Tobimar's gaze flicked to both sides, then he paused. "He's right, Kyri. This canyon's coming to an end, and the warmth, the feel of the air… I think we're almost there."

Almost in Moonshade Hollow.

It hadn't been – quite – a nonstop series of battles from one side of the pass to the other, but there had sure been more than their share of ambushes by things that might look ordinary but would be more savage, malevolent, or lethal than their ordinary equivalents, and sometimes by things that weren't in any sense ordinary. One out of every three nights was disrupted by some thing that couldn't let people get a decent night's sleep.

Poplock shook his head slightly (which was about as much as a Toad's anatomy allowed). Even though he could often take naps on Tobimar's shoulder, he was still exhausted; he couldn't imagine what it must be like for the two humans. Kyri was constantly called upon to heal any of them – though Tobimar could heal himself to a limited extent, and Tobimar had to keep his unique senses constantly attuned.

How in Blackwart's Name are we going to get through this place alive, let alone in any shape to deal with, well, whatever things are hiding here, and find the key to Tobimar's quest?

He knew Kyri's answer to that, and – to a certain extent – he understood and agreed with it. Her mission was based on maintaining faith in her god Myrionar and that if she maintained said faith, somehow things would work out. And it was true that if you couldn't rely on the gods to carry through with their promises, they weren't much good to anyone.

On the other paw, though, was the fact that Myrionar had been systematically weakened by some truly monstrous enemy that managed to corrupt Myrionar's own order, and either did this without Myrionar realizing it until too late, or under some kind of circumstance that prevented Myrionar from telling anyone. Either of these possibilities was pretty shocking… and caused Poplock to privately doubt that Myrionar could absolutely guarantee anything.

Which meant they had to make their own luck. Which seemed pretty challenging in this place.

It was warmer here, as Tobimar had noted, but the comfort to which they were accustomed didn't do much to make the little Toad relax. The very atmosphere made him feel prickly all over, as though he'd rolled in a bed of groundthorns.

He caught movement from above, ducked aside. A tendril from the tree nearly caught him – and was neatly bisected by a blow from Tobimar's blue-green glittering blade. The entire tree shuddered, then started to reach forward, a low, wood-tearing rumbling issuing from it.

The clearing was suddenly lit by golden light as Kyri drew Flamewing, and not only that tree, but several others, suddenly leaned back, away, moaning. Yeah, you're a tree, and that's a flaming sword seven feet long. A holy flaming sword.

"Stay back, corrupted forest," Kyrie said, tense but sure. "Touch my companions, touch me, and fire will cleanse this place from one side to the other."

It was something of a bluff – if Myrionar had the power to cleanse entire valleys with fire it probably wouldn't have its current problems – but Poplock saw with great satisfaction that none of the trees wanted to call her bluff. They drew aside, fell into inaction, and moved no more than ordinary trees as the three continued their journey.

After a few moments, Kyri sheathed her greatsword. "Myrionar's Balance, the forest itself is against us."

"I know. And… I must speak honestly, Kyri – I have no clear idea of where we must go from here," Tobimar confessed. "We only knew the homeland must exist somewhere, but I need proof that I have found it. From what the Wanderer said, the Seven and One were held by my people, and we do not have them, so they must still be here. But all the Seven could have been held in two cupped hands, and the Sun itself in two more, so they are small enough clues to search for here."

Kyri nodded. "I know. But there can't be just monsters and jungle here. We already know that – Thornfalcon arranged for that gateway. Someone lives here and creates monsters even worse than the ones we've met thus far. I can't believe they're completely alone. So there must be people here, good or bad, and if we can find anyone native to this place, they'll be able to guide us."

"I hope you're right," Tobimar said, impaling a black and gray scorpion, about the same size as Poplock, as he spoke.

They continued on; Poplock's ears suddenly caught a hint of a new sound. "Hold up." He turned slightly on Tobimar's shoulder. "Over there. I hear a river or big stream."

"That could be good," Tobimar said as they shifted their course somewhat. "Almost all cities and villages are built close to water sources. Follow this one down and we should meet up with someone."

"Probably," Poplock agreed, "but you'd better watch your step closely, because with what we've seen so far, what do you think's living in the rivers and streams?"

Kyri grimaced. "An excellent point. Let's not get too close to the water, then."

It was a small river – fifty yards across at the point they emerged from the jungle and found themselves on the banks. "Whoops. That's too close."

On a sandbar a few hundred yards away, Poplock spotted a very large reptilian shape, ridged and sharp with a long, blunt head and lots of teeth. "Way too close."

The others agreed and quickly backed away from the shimmering, poison-green waters. Based on sound and occasional sights through the trees, the little group followed the river at a distance of twenty or thirty yards from the edge.

For several hours they followed faint game-trails through the jungle, and were mostly unbothered; given that some of the trees seemed to not only be able to move but made sounds, Poplock suspected that word had spread through the forest that the three newcomers were not easy prey. The sun was becoming low, as shown by slanting beams of light through the canopy, and Poplock began to think about camping and how to keep themselves safe during the night in this place.

Without warning, Kyri and Tobimar pushed through the next line of greenery to find themselves standing at the edge of a small clearing, about two hundred yards across. Looming up not far away was a monstrous thing, an armoured grub with wide mandibles, gleaming red eyes, and hissing breath, large as a house, glowering down at a tiny figure – Poplock guessed no more than five feet high – in delicate blues and greens, seeming frozen before it, scarcely fifty feet from them. The creature gathered itself and screeched.

But it never had a chance to complete the lunge. Kyri and Tobimar had reflexively sprinted forward, and the creature balked as it found itself face-to-face with two armed opponents, one holding a blade seven feet from pommel to tip, the other with two swords gleaming cold and bitter. Glancing backwards, Poplock saw a dumbfounded expression on the green-blue clad girl, a look of disbelieving shock that told clearly how very little she had expected any intervention.

But the creature was only momentarily taken aback; it gave vent to a rippling roar and flowed forward, extending its body as grubs do. The great mandibles rebounded from Kyri's armor but sent her tumbling; Tobimar, however, leapt up, bounding from the mandibles to the top of the creature, and then spun, bringing both swords down at the juncture of head and abdomen.

The roar turned to an ear-piercing shriek of agony, and the thing began to whip its body back and forth, Tobimar barely maintaining his grip (and Poplock hard-pressed to keep a grip on Tobimar). Black blood oozed from the sword-wounds, as the creature turned to writhe on its back; Tobimar barely yanked his swords out and rolled clear in time, with Poplock almost getting squished beneath the Skysand Prince's body.

Their attack had been more than enough distraction, however, and before the monstrous grub-thing could do more than turn towards them, the golden fire lit up the clearing with promise and peril. "Myrionar's FLAME!" Phoenix Kyri shouted, and the flaming blade impaled the creature, detonating fire throughout its body; it stiffened and fell limp.

Tobimar immediately turned to the little figure. "Are you all right, Milady…?"

Poplock now realized that the figure wasn't a little girl, but a young woman, just a very diminutive one. Her blue and green outfit was a strange combination of diaphanous clothing and what appeared to be crystalline armor. She had short golden hair, a bow tied in it to one side of her head, and no weapons in evidence unless something was concealed in a few small pouches at her waist, or, possibly, the wand or tube by her side that glittered with multicolored gems.

Her expression was startling – somehow both annoyed, amused, and impressed. "I am perfectly fine." Her voice was a sweet soprano, even more startling for its purity and beauty in this distorted forest. "I am surprised you and your companion are unharmed, and I am quite unaccustomed to being interrupted in my hunt."

Teeth as bright as sunlight on flowers flashed as she gave a sudden smile. "But I see the interruption was well meant, and you had no idea of what you did, so I thank you for the thought." Her brow furrowed. "Yet… which of the Sha do you come from? Your speech is strange, an accent I do not know, and your clothing the same; yet I thought I knew them all."

Of all the things he'd expected, this wasn't one of them. Poplock, as usual, kept his mouth shut; best to let the others talk.

Tobimar shook his head in bemusement, then bowed deeply. "My apologies for what I now see to have been a crude interruption in your own quest. I am Tobimar, and this is my companion, Phoenix." They had agreed that there was no immediate reason to reveal any possible connection between Tobimar and the past; it might be dangerous to do so, given the fact that demons were hunting his people and trying to prevent him from completing this mission. And, of course, when on duty as a Justiciar, Kyri was not Kyri Vantage, but merely the Phoenix. No reason to give her name, either.

"We come from beyond the pass in the mountains," Tobimar continued.

Now her eyes widened. "From… there? But we are taught that none live beyond any of the Mountains, not from the North to the South nor East nor West. Do you speak truly, Tobimar?" Before he could answer, she shook her head. "Yet it must be true, for how could you be so strange to the world that you did not recognize one of the Lights themselves? And I am remiss!" She bowed to them, a gesture with one arm across her body, the other gracefully held more aloft. "I am Miri, Light of the Unity. I thank you for your aid, needed or not." She glanced about. "This is not a place for talk or questions. Come, let us go to the city."

"So there is a city?" Phoenix asked, a relieved tone in her voice. "We had begun to fear there was nothing here but monsters and evil."

Miri laughed. "A city? Say, rather, the greatest of cities, and her children. Follow, and you will see."

Inwardly, Poplock had to smile. Perhaps these people had somehow survived and built themselves a civilization, but as the three of them had been to Zarathanton, it would be rather hard to top that as the "greatest of cities".

Following Miri, it took only a relatively short time – perhaps fifteen minutes – to arrive in front of a startling wall of shining green-gray stone, fifty feet high. A wide, solid gate was set in that wall, of solid steel, or so Poplock thought. That would be quite a challenge for most things to get through, he had to admit.

Miri stepped up to the gate and put her hand to it; Poplock, watching her carefully, could see that she was inserting a ring on her middle finger face-first into an aperture in the gate. It instantly clicked and the gateway swung open. A wide corridor led through the wall a short distance, and the three humans' footsteps echoed sharply on the polished stone as they walked to the ending of the corridor; the gateway at that end swung open as they reached it, and a haze of golden light greeted them.

Poplock blinked his eyes in disbelief.

They stood atop a ridge, looking down on a sprawling town dotted with great trees amidst a sweep of pure, green grass that stretched down to the blue-green of the river that passed through the middle of the town. Great white, fluffy clouds drifted through a sky bluer and more pure than he remembered even from Evanwyl; in the distance were tilled fields, and a winding road extending to the horizon. Birds flew, trilling, and he could smell the purity in the air, in the land.

A buzzing insect flew near, and he snapped out his tongue. Even the taste of the creature was like something new, something born pure and unique into the world for the first time, and Poplock could see the stunned surprise on his friends' faces too as they gazed on the world about them, smelled the fresh and untainted breeze, looked upon even stones and earth that seemed more right than anything they had ever seen. The setting sun cast a glow over the clouds and everything else that touched all with the wealth of the heavens.

"Welcome," Miri said. "Welcome, travellers from afar, to the Unity of the Seven Lights; welcome to Kaizatenzei."

 

 

Phoenix in Shadow: Chapter 11

 

The extended flashback is over, and new developments await!

 

 

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Chapter 11.

     Kyri shook herself, breaking out of a reverie of remembrance, seeing again the darkness of Rivendream Pass, the serpent's corpse, the burned bush. The memories of how they had come here seeming to have streamed by her in a moment, and she shivered anew at the oppressive wrongness that now weighed upon her. "We were warned," she repeated. "Warned that even Myrionar's powers would be weakened here."

"True… but the Wanderer had said that was inside Moonshade Hollow. Instead, we're barely halfway through Rivendream, and it's already affecting you." Tobimar looked at where the charred corpse lay. "And these things… "

"Almost familiar, aren't they?" Poplock commented.

"Yes…" The three stood, contemplating the remains for a moment, and then Tobimar snapped his fingers. "I have it. The things we fought in the clearing, after Thornfalcon died."

"Very similar in feel," agreed Kyri. The same feeling of wrongness and ancient evil pervaded most of the things in this pass. "But yet…"

"Yeah. Yet," agreed the Toad. "These things are disgusting monsters, but all the one's we've seen have been, well, normal twisted disgusting creatures, if you know what I mean?"

Kyri blinked. "Umm… I'm not quite sure I do, actually."

"Well, a lot of the things that attacked us in the clearing weren't… well, they weren't one thing, if you know what I mean."

That made sense. "You're right. There were those nameless monsters like men crossed with centaurs and something worse, the bilarel with a crab's arms, and so on."

"And there were a lot of them," Tobimar said. "If that was a gateway, there had to be just an immense herd of the things waiting to come through."

"Bad news twice over," observed Poplock. "First, means someone has a heck of a lot of monsters – and probably made the things, too, somehow. I've heard of lifestitching of various types, but … that's hard magic. Not just dark, though the way those things were made it's definitely dark, but really, really difficult. Playing with life – changing it – that's one of the harder parts of magic. Second, means whoever it is can keep these things from fighting each other, or they'd have ripped each other to shreds as soon as they came through."

"By the Light, you're correct. I hadn't thought of that, but it makes sense. And it's ugly."

"This whole thing is ugly." Kyri couldn't keep from shivering, and not just from the air which was cooler than she was used to. "Tobimar, if the maps we have are even close to correct, Moonshade Hollow is hundreds of miles across in all directions. Can we even survive in that place, with what we've seen so far?"

"Do you have faith in Myrionar?" he asked her quietly.

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

"Then believe in him and the Wanderer. They said we COULD get through this, and while the Wanderer said he wasn't going to be able to help us, I'll bet he'd have at least given us a decent hint if he thought we'd underequipped. Somehow there's a way through this."

Kyri nodded and smiled at him. He knows how to support me, support my faith, even when it isn't his. That meant a lot to her… especially now. "You're right. I must have faith, and I will have faith. Somehow we will find a way through even the Hollow." She glanced back at the charred area. "Honestly… we've been sort of lucky, I think."

"You've got a strange idea of luck!" Poplock muttered.

"No, really. Most of the things we've run into have been, well, obviously dangerous, actively hostile. I think that thing was a voromos originally, or its ancestors were."

"Voromos… Yes, I think you're right. The poison spitting fits, and the three ridges on the head look close."

Tobimar nodded. "It was bigger, more hostile, and its venom was actively controlling things it touched instead of just making them docile and eventually killing them, but yes. So…?

"Ohhhh, I think I get her point. These things, they're all up-front killers. How'd you like to deal with Rivendream's version of a forestfisher or a, what's the name, itrichel?"

Tobimar shuddered, and so did Kyri. "A mindworm? No thank you. Nor the other. You're right. Let's hope we stay that lucky, at least."

Kyri shivered again. Forestfishers, or jilyesh, were giant spidery creatures that would use their webs to drop poison onto sleeping victims; itrichels were worse – intelligent parasites that used guile and stealth to acquire new hosts. Both were fortunately extremely rare. But they were, indeed, excellent examples of what she meant. "Yes, let's hope so," she agreed.

They continued along the deceptively green and bright valley; a few flat blocks, here and there, were the only reminder that a great throughfare had run from one side to the other of Rivendream Pass, once Heavenbridge Way. Kyri watched ahead of them carefully; she knew that Tobimar was checking the sides, and the little Toad was watching their rear. But the discovery that the Wanderer's warning had been true weighed on her. "Poplock, are you feeling the same resistance to your magic that I was feeling with Myrionar's power?"

"Hm. Haven't tried yet; summoning crystals use mostly power you stored up before, you know. And they're sorta aided by the use of the crystal medium. Not as much as gemcallers, though. Let's see…" He mumbled some words, sketched a symbol in the air; shimmering light twined in mist, touched with fire, descended over both her and Tobimar, cleansing them of the mess from the last battle. "Whooof! Yes, that was tough. Normally that'd be really easy to do, but that felt more like it was a spell twice, maybe three times that complex." The brown toad rubbed his broad chin thoughtfully, looking back behind them. "No, that's not quite it. It didn't feel more complicated, but like I was having to … drag the magic out of the world, instead of it just flowing. Like walking up a flowing stream, how the very nature of it fights you. Right?"

That described the feeling she'd gotten very well. "I think you've got it. Perhaps also like trying to draw a breath underwater through a long tube." She glanced to Tobimar before returning her gaze forward. "Your abilities are unhindered?"

"They seem to be so far. This fits with what we were told."

At least one of us will be at full strength. She knew that even with this handicap, her sheer power would probably exceed that of Tobimar – weakened or not, Myrionar was still a god, and she was Myrionar's last, final hope, to which all power might be directed in extremity. And she still had the Vantage strength; nothing could take that from her unless it were something like poison. And anyone else trying to use magic in here will be handicapped as well.

The real problem, she thought, still remained food and drink. Purifying what they found here to be safe wasn't easy, and now it would be even harder. Moonshade Hollow was supposed to be worse than Rivendream Pass – the source from which this stuff at the edges came from.

She honestly wasn't sure she wanted to know what could be worse.

Then she saw what was ahead. "Oh, Myrionar's Balance."

Here, near or perhaps just past the crest of the pass, halfway to their destination, the mountains had lost part of their great battle with the elements, and unleashed their fury on the valley below. The pass was filled with jumbled, sharp-edged rock and earth to a depth of seventy to a hundred feet – a recent, massive landslide, probably no more than a few weeks, maybe less; in the relative stillness of the area, she could still hear muffled but definite sounds of shifting, settling rock.

It was clear there was no going around the slide; they had no choice except to go over it or through it. Briefly she thought of the unstoppable power she had unleashed in the final strike against the army of abominations on Thornfalcon's estate, but shook her head; that had been a truly justified action, one of vengeance finally attained. Using that level of power just to clear the road – even if she could reach that level of power here – would not be looked upon kindly.

"Sand and grit," muttered Tobimar. "That's going to be an absolute gem of a climb, let me tell you. We'll be lucky to get over it with only one of us crippled."

"Might not be so bad for me," Poplock said, eyeing the massive tumbled wall of fractured stone. "It's settled enough that a little Toad of my weight probably won't bother it. But you guys… that's not going to be a fun climb."

What had she just been thinking? Go over it.

"I've got an idea," she said. "I haven't tried this before, but I think it should work."

"What? Remember the power –"

"I know. It's probably going to be pretty hard to do here, if I can. But if I can it'll save us time, and potentially injury. Honestly," she looked again at the unstable mass, "I can see too many ways this wall of shifting rock could kill us outright." She looked up and took a deep breath. "So let's see if I can fly us over."

Tobimar looked at her and his eyes suddenly showed a child's wonder. "Fly? You can fly?" He looked suddenly embarrassed. "I mean, I'd heard the stories, but Thornfalcon didn't fly, so I wasn't sure…"

"I think I can. It's one of the powers of most if not all of the Justiciars; Thornfalcon knew I was right there with him, so he probably didn't think it was worth the risk to become an aerial target." She felt her own heart starting to beat in anticipation, not just in tension for success or failure, or in fear of what might be waiting. Flying. Wasn't this one of the greatest dreams? And by his expression, one that Tobimar shared. "Let me try, anyway."

She closed her eyes and concentrated. "Myrionar, God of Justice and Vengeance, hear me. Give me the Wings of the Phoenix, wings strong and true enough to carry me and my friends over this barrier, carry us into the sky and to the lands beyond the wall before us."

A shiver of anticipation washed down her back, and then suddenly it was more than anticipation; between her shoulderblades a warmth, a tingling fire that energized her, even as she felt the effort of drawing the power through, and threw her own will into dragging the energy through the interference of Rivendream Pass. And as the power slowly yielded, the sensation became warmer, spread, and she saw a golden glow beginning to illumine the world through her eyelids. She let her eyes open slowly, but still did not look behind her, only focusing on her need, seeing only what was before her, cast into brilliant relief and sharp shadow.

Tobimar was staring in awe, and even Poplock turned to take his time to stare.

With a final effort she felt the blessing complete, and looked.

Gold-flaming wings stretched glittering, shimmering pinions fifteen feet on either side of her, and she could feel… she knew… how to use them. She laughed, even as she felt a little trembling in her knees from the effort she'd just expended. "It worked."

"It would certainly appear so," Tobimar said, still staring. "Can you carry me? Poplock, obviously, will not be a problem."

"I'm sure I can. But let me just test the wings first…"

With a spring she leapt from the ground and found herself arrowing upward, wings both beating and simply lifting with a marvelous lightness that made flight simplicity itself. She glanced down, seeing that behind her she left a trail of auric light that only slowly faded.

The height, without anything below her, was a bit dizzying, but she focused on direction, on motion, on understanding how to move in the air. It was something like swimming, something like running, something like swinging by a rope, but at the same time nothing like any of them, a glorious speeding through the air that was as natural as breathing and as wondrous as dawn.

She alighted in front of Tobimar, and wondered if her eyes were shining like his, and suddenly laughed. We're still young. I can laugh for joy if I want, and here, in this place? It's needed.

Tobimar echoed her laugh, his voice joining hers and sending echoes of pure wonder chasing through Rivendream Pass. "You're amazing, Kyri!"

"Me? It's Myrionar, not me."

"Myrionar may have the power, but this is you," he said firmly. "So… can you lift us?"

"I'm sure I can. That felt no harder than walking or running, and I could carry you easily enough for quite a distance." She held out her arms. "Let's try it."

She was surprised to see his already-dark skin flush darker, but Tobimar stepped forward and let her pick him up. "Hold on – I don't know how my balance will be affected when I do this," she said.

"Hold… on? Um… Oh, of course."

His right arm slid easily behind her neck. She found her heart beating faster. What am I…

Oh, by Myrionar, I'm not…

But as she felt his other arm come up to clasp his hands together, forming a strong, solid loop around her neck, pulling his head in to rest against her shoulder, she realized that she must be blushing too. Oh, I think I am. Of course I am. How stupid of me not to have noticed before.

"R… ready?" she asked.

He looked up at her, and their gazes met.

It was at least several seconds before he blinked, and shook his head. "Oh, yes, I'm ready. Sure." He muttered something that she couldn't quite catch.

"Oh, for Blackwart's SAKE, what's WRONG with you two?" burst out Poplock, who bounced on her head and then dropped back down to Tobimar's chest. "Kiss already!"

Kyri dropped Tobimar in startled mortification; fortunately his reflexes kept that from being total disaster. Poplock, of course, landed perfectly. "Don't tell me neither of you noticed it. I have watched the two of you since you met. No, don't you even start arguing, Tobimar, I know your people have all sorts of formal stuff there but this isn't the time or place. I'm not going to have you hopping around the bushes avoiding it for the next few months! Now get up and go kiss her. Unless you want to tell me you don't want to do that?"

"Tell you I… no, of course I… Shiderich! You… toad!"

Kyri just stared at Poplock, unsure as to whether she wanted to laugh, cry, or … or what she wanted to do. "I… but I didn't know if…"

"Stop the stuttering!" The little Toad's voice was startlingly loud and yet completely in control. "By the Helpers, I have no idea how your people manage to breed as fast as you do. Kyri, you tell me if I'm wrong when I say you find Tobimar exactly your type?"

"Well… No. I mean, yes." She could feel enough heat on her cheeks that she was certain water would vaporize on them, like on a hot griddle. "Balance! I mean, you are not wrong!" She found herself feeling almost defiant as she stared at Tobimar, who had picked himself off the ground; his hair had come unbound from its usual restraint and fell in an ebony waterfall around his face.

"And Tobimar, you've been staring at her practically constantly ever since you met her – whenever you didn't think she'd notice. But I had to notice. So?"

She couldn't believe this… and yet, she could. This was… exactly how Poplock handled everything, so directly that no one ever saw it coming. "You're ordering us to…?"

"To understand that both of you feel the same way, yes," Poplock said, and there was a twinkle in the golden eyes. "So you don't have any doubts about what you feel."

Tobimar looked at her. "I wish I'd had to courage to do this myself… but I didn't want to intrude on your mission with my feelings."

Kyri giggled suddenly. "I didn't want to intrude on your mission!"

The dark-skinned young man took a hesitant step forward, but his brilliant blue eyes were locked on hers… and she saw no hesitation there. "So…?"

"So I think we'd better do as the Toad tells us," she said, and before she could change her mind, stepped forward and bent down.

It wasn't maybe the best kiss – in technique – because, well, she wasn't sure how you did this. But his arms did go around her neck, twining in her hair, and hers did the same to his, and even if they didn't know exactly what they were doing… that didn't matter nearly so much as the fact that they were doing it.

Finally they separated, and she looked down into blue eyes that were a thousand times brighter than she'd remembered, and wondered how they could shine like that.

"Terian, you have beautiful eyes," he said. "The way they shine…"

I suppose we look the same to each other, she thought, and realized then just what that meant he was seeing in her, and paused for a moment in wonder. I… never thought of this before. Not really. There was Aran, for a short time, and Jeridan's occasional hints… but those chances never became anything. But this…

"Kyri," Tobimar said softly, breaking into her thoughts, "I'd like – I think we'd both like – to continue this… but we've got things to do, and this isn't the safest place. So… if you could…?"

She laughed suddenly, and felt a fierce joy. No more uncertainty. Just the surety that he's with me, and I'm with him. She reached out to him again, even as the little Toad bounced back up to Tobimar's shoulder. "Hold on, then!"

Together, they blazed a trail of light into the sky.

Phoenix in Shadow: Chapter 10

Kyri and the others had somewhere to go...

 

 

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Chapter 10.

     The crumbling path stretched up, up, between slopes dotted with trees that were touched with a stronger, somehow virulent green, and then vanished into shadow cast by the mountains about.

"Rivendream Pass," the Wanderer said quietly. "This is as far as my magic can take us, as close to your mystery as I can go without travelling with you."

"So, will you?" Poplock asked. "Because that would be really useful, even if you're only half of what they say you are."

He felt Tobimar jerk slightly under him at the casual question and could see Kyri shoot an outraged glance at him from beneath her helm. The two still held the Wanderer in some awe, and Poplock was being rather informal.

The Wanderer merely chuckled. "Sorry, Poplock. I can't go much farther; I've got other places that need me, and as I said, I can't tell you what's going on. Going with you, with what I know, that would be potentially worse."

He raised the rune-covered staff and pointed. "The only good thing about Rivendream is that it's not a tricky maze. It's the one decent, halfway level path through the Khalal range, and if you stick with the reasonably easy pathways, you will most certainly emerge in Moonshade Hollow. No getting lost, as can happen crossing through mountains in other places."

He turned back to the group and looked at them. Looks more serious than usual. "I can't even give you much more advice, let alone direct aid. Kyri… just remember, this is part of the mission you follow for Myrionar. While this is also Tobimar's quest, much of what is to come is yours as well, part of your own journey, and a terribly important one.

"Tobimar, I can only tell you this: you are, indeed, the true descendant of the Lords of the Sky, of their rulers. That much have your people remembered and kept true and pure. You were chosen by the turn of a card that represents Terian himself; I cannot watch over you… but he may."

Finally he looked at Poplock. "I don't underestimate you, Poplock, but be careful." He reached inside his clothing and took out a strange ivory colored cylinder with peculiar writing on it below an outline of a sailing ship; the cylinder – a container of some sort – rattled. He unscrewed the top and poured many somethings that glittered into his hand, selected one, and poured the rest back, putting the container away. "Take this."

Poplock reached out and took the sparkling object. Ooh, it's a crystal. Shiny, natural facets… not quite so sparkly as diamond, though. Water-clear, though with a few black inclusions – not perfect. Six-sided, double termination… "Quartz crystal? No offense, but I've got –"

"—none like that one, my amphibious friend. That crystal I mined, with my own hands, and have carried with me ever since first I came to this world."

Poplock almost dropped the sparkling stone. "You… this is from Zaralandar – what you and Xavier call Earth?"

"It is indeed. One such as yourself might do many things with that. Save it. Think on it. Use it when you are certain. But it carries with it some of the essence of my world – some of my essence, in fact, for as I said I dug it from the stone by hand, broke the stone from the earth and split it with hand-forged steel wedges and a sledgehammer. My sweat – and maybe a little blood – was shed getting that very nice crystal out of its stone. It's a part of me. That by itself makes it unique."

The little Toad bowed as deeply as his anatomy permitted. "I'll be very careful with it. And I'll think real hard on what I can use it for."

"Good." He bowed to all of them, a dramatic gesture with a flare of his cloak. "I hope we shall meet again… when you return."

He took three strides… and vanished.

Poplock shook his head. "Makes it look so easy. Well, let's get moving, right?"

"Right," Kyri agreed, and Tobimar nodded, hitching his pack up and making sure it was settled properly. "No point in waiting."

For a while as they moved farther up and into Rivendream pass, Poplock studied the crystal. There was something strange about it, an aura that interacted strangely with his attempts to divine something about it. Finally, though, he put it away carefully into his pack. Figuring that thing out will take more than an hour riding on someone's shoulder. Quartz has its own virtues, but a crystal from the Wanderer? That's gonna be something special.

Rivendream Pass continued up – a relatively steep incline at first, but one that abated after a mile or so. The air was somewhat cooler here, and Poplock noticed something. "Look at those trees."

"What?" Tobimar paused and looked. "You're right. Different, not what we're used to at all. I think, from something I read in Skysand's library, that this one's an oak."

"It is," agreed Kyri. "Lythos taught me to identify the higher-slopes trees. That's a maple, over there, and the dark-barked one over by that rock is santki." She frowned. "But all of them look…"

"Wrong. Yeah, I noticed," Poplock agreed darkly. "Branches growing at funny angles. Leaves not quite right. Trunks not really straight."

Tobimar stiffened. "And listen."

Poplock sat up and listened – and looked, no point in not looking.

At first he didn't get what Tobimar was pointing out. There were the faint sounds of movement that you hear in any forest – little creatures, occasionally a larger one…

… But…

… but they were somehow not right, as well. Poplock couldn't clear the mud off it, so to speak, but he could just tell that nothing in this place was quite the way it should be. Reflexively he let his tongue snap out and snag a passing fly, and suddenly he found himself gagging, spitting the mangled insect back out. "Ack! Uggh! That was vile."

"You couldn't eat an insect?" Tobimar studied him with growing concern. "I've never seen anything you wouldn't eat."

"You haven't seen enough, then. But that was in a special class all by itself."

"Poisonous?"

"Don't think so… not exactly, anyway. But… lemme catch another. Without eating it, this time."

He managed to snag another fly, but transferred it to his front paws instead of his mouth. Kyri came over to watch. "Umm… Not the fat, sleek shape I expect. Narrower. Faster, maybe. But more importantly…" he mumbled a few words, took a look at the thing. In his eyes, the insect dimmed, a pattern of dark lines rippling around it. "Dark, dark magic influencing it. Don't know how eating it would affect me. Not going to try it to find out."

Kyri's face went grim. "That means we don't dare eat anything we catch here. Or we have to find some way to purify it that we can afford to use."

Tobimar nodded slowly. "A good thing we did pack a lot of provisions."

"Even so…" Poplock frowned. "There's a lot of Moonshade Hollow on the other side, isn't there?"

"You're right." Concern deepened on both the humans' faces. "If we take too long, we could easily run out."

"Depending on how long it takes to get through the pass, it could be not long after we get there," agreed Poplock.

Tobimar nodded again. "Well… we can think about possible solutions as we continue. We've got a few more hours until nighttime, I'd like to move on."

"Yes. We've got to get going," agreed Kyri.

But she slid Flamewing from its sheath, and Tobimar drew his new, shining blades as well. Poplock didn't draw Steelthorn, but he did make sure it, his clockwork crossbow, and a few other things were close to hand.

This isn't going to be fun at all.

 

 

 

Phoenix in Shadow: Chapter 9

 

It's been a while since we looked in on our villain...

 

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Chapter 9.

     "All went well, then?"

The light-destroying figure in the mirror-scroll smiled. "Exactly as we expected, yes," Kerlamion said in the eerie deep, howling tones of tortured air. "Condor is on his way back to you even now."

It nodded, smiling; despite the human form, anyone watching would have known there was something desperately wrong from that smile alone. "Excellent, my King. I will keep an eye out for him; it would not do for him to meet up with anyone else along the way who might reveal some unfortunate facts."

"Even so. But enough of your private projects."

"My apologies, Majesty. If I can only be assured of the one other –"

"Yes. I have given the directions. Balinshar is not entirely pleased, but you have assured me of the necessity, and so what you requested you shall have. Now, of the other matters…?"

Very good. Very good indeed. With the Black City now arrived and all wars progressing, Kerlamion had been delegating more of the details of remote operations to it, trusting the humanoid yet inhuman figure with completing the plan which, admittedly, had been more its than Kerlamion's. This did unfortunately demand rather more of its time than it had expected, especially with the promising and extremely capable Thornfalcon now regrettably out of the picture. "Aegeia is in complete chaos now; I expect the endgame of that little farce to play out in, oh, the next few months. The Academy appears to be out of the picture, or so I am assured by Kurilidis and, indeed, no communications other than Kuri's have been forthcoming, so I'm reasonably confident that the job has been done."

It gave a sigh and shook its head. "There has unfortunately been some sort of … disruption in Skysand; forces that we were unaware of. Shangvaldi thinks she can still prevail with the additional resources granted her, but I am, regrettably, dubious. Whenever someone starts in on that 'everything's under control, I just need a little help' approach…"

Kerlamion frowned and nodded slowly. "But if they are delayed even a few months…"

"Yes, that's how I view it. Even if Skysand recovers fully, it will take them months to get any of their forces anywhere that matters, and by then the battles should be decided. Same for Balgoltha and his debacle. All he needs to do is keep the Artan busy for even the fourth part of a year and his failure need not be fatal." Though depending on how things are going at that point, it may well be fatal for Balgoltha in any case. That one's been dodging the consequences for failure since the Fall, and I think his time's just about up.

"So. What of our greatest adversaries?"

"The Empire of the Mountain, I am afraid, cannot be prevented from mobilizing, though they, like the Dragon-King's State, must keep some of their forces busy bottling up our puppets in Dalthunia. News of the emergence of the Black City will reach Zarathanton soon enough; in the Empire, well, it will be heard there as well in very short time, if the Archmage has not sensed it on his own."

"No matter. We have anticipated this, and their armies will be ineffectual by the time they reach us. But –"

"—yes, Majesty, I was just getting to that. Of Khoros… I must candidly say I cannot find him. I did not expect to, honestly; he is… very good at evading detection. The Wanderer is in fact on the move as well, but I cannot say precisely where he is, either; you know how hard he is to track. Nonetheless, he will tend to be both more straightforward and more cautious. I would expect him to choose some group or location to aid and travel there directly. Khoros is undoubtedly playing the puppetmaster as usual, and thus his hand may be felt anywhere, even if his actual location is far distant." He shrugged. "Our plans attempt to take him into account; his, presumably, attempt to do the same for us."

"And the Gods?"

"The Cycle of the Dragon is not in their favor, as we hoped. Elbon Nomicon sleeps now, and will not be easily roused; so, too, for many of the others of the Sixteen, and of those awake, several were not incarnate on Zarathan when your bargains were struck, so they cannot face you directly." He debated momentarily with himself on whether to reveal some details, decided that it was wise to continue to appear as honest as possible. "The Mortal God, on the other hand… there are signs of his activity. I have sensed something of his essence in several locations, and you are of course aware of the Skysand Prince."

Kerlamion's eyes narrowed. "Yes. But if he follows the path you expect, that should… eliminate the problem entirely, yes?"

"It should indeed. As you have agreed to my one request, I am confident things will proceed according to plan. Myrionar continues to weaken; the other gods will react as we expect, but the pact limits them. Only the Golden-Eyed and the Reclaimed Temple remain unknown factors in those realms, but while they are definitely in opposition to us, they are also not terribly powerful."

"Acceptable. I expect you to continue to direct events outside of the Black City; my attention will be focused here."

"As you direct, so it shall be, Majesty."

The communications scroll went blank, back to silver-on-gold. It leaned back and chuckled quietly. Ah,the excitement of beginning the real game at last. It had not – precisely – lied to the King of All Hells, but the way in which it had reported certain facts, deductions, and expectations was certainly misleading. For example, while indeed there had been no new communications other than those of Kurildis from the isolated valley of the Academy, it had also been a significant time since Kurildis had communicated at all. Kurildis always did seem a bit overconfident; when planning an assault on the institution that trains Adventurers, one would be wise to remember what Adventurers are best known for doing.

The fact was that while the figure did not in any way oppose Kerlamion, Its goals were not those of the King of All Hells, and it was important that Kerlamion not grasp exactly what It intended, until it was far too late to change the outcome.

Time to set the rest in motion. It touched the scroll, spoke several words in the demonic tongue with which the scroll had been forged, and saw the silver fade to cloudy gray. You had best answer, my friend.

"You interrupt me again? Speak, then, but quickly. I have little time to spare for distractions, and my other patrons demand enough as it is." The voice was sharp, yet despite the annoyance it was also dispassionate, cold and measured in words and timbre in a way that the inhuman figure found extremely comforting. Here is someone who will be unswayed by any considerations other than his own.

"My apologies. But I have excellent news. I promised you an assistant, and have found one that I believe will meet even your… extremely demanding requirements. One who also has knowledge that touches on your speciality."

The voice was suddenly a touch warmer. "Really? One who could understand my work?"

"I believe so. At least as well as I understand it."

"Hmph. Well, you understand it better than any other I have met, vastly more than these idiots I currently work for. If it were not for the challenge and the resources –"

"I understand. But truly, would you give that up?"

"Never!" the voice snapped. "This has brought me close indeed; even with their demands and distractions I have made great progress." A hesitation, then, "And… I will thank you for assisting me to find this place. They do, at least, appreciate what I can do for them, even if they place far too much importance on the trivialities." The unseen speaker's tone warmed again. "So when may I expect my new assistant?"

"In a few days. I am arranging the transport. Also… you may expect the key you have been seeking soon, perhaps in a month or three. I cannot control this, you understand, but I have every reason to believe it to be true."

"Excellent. Excellent! I must begin preparations for the unlocking. Thank you for this news."

The scroll cleared abruptly, making the figure laugh and shake its head. Unable to even bother with the niceties. I doubt he will remember, or care, to mention this to his main employers. Well, he will play his part nonetheless, and I can attend to his minor lapse of courtesy.

Once more a gesture and a few words and the mirror turned to gray, and then showed the person he had expected.

"Ermirinovas, how kind of you to answer my call."

"How could I refuse, Viedra," she asked, with a brilliant flash of a smile, "given how rarely you have called of late. Besides, Kalshae is currently … occupied."

"Our King has given me… many assignments in the past centuries. But I have not forgotten you. What news of you and your sisters? How goes your extraction operation? Has my little referral to you given you assistance?"

"He is arrogant and insolent and one day I will likely kill him, but yes, he has achieved much. More power have we gained than I had imagined possible, especially given the circumstances. But there are… side effects." She grimaced and gestured at herself.

"Well, yes, a pity – though there are those who would find the effect quite pleasing. Still, given what you are working with, there are many dangers from the… waste products, so to speak."

"And not just in appearance. I have lost at least three of our own people to… well, you can guess." Her face fell for a moment.

"Sentiment? I hope you are not –"

The face hardened immediately. "Certainly not. But the waste and loss of capable labor are extremely regrettable. Unfortunately, the last and greatest source has proven difficult to extract."

"You may expect the key to that extraction soon enough; I informed our mutual friend of it just ere I called you."

"Oh, wonderful!" Lit up with such anticipation, she was quite lovely, the humanoid figure thought with wry amusement. "And then –"

"Then I believe you shall achieve what you seek, indeed. I hope you will remember me fondly."

"If we succeed?" She laughed, and though the sound was light and airy, something within and behind that laugh could have sent chills down an ordinary man's spine. "Oh, then, Viedra, I will perhaps have my own offer to you of something even our King cannot give."

"Indeed? Then I wish you all luck, indeed. I am sending a new aide to assist in the project, and he will also carry details of what to expect and my advice on how to handle the matter."

"You really should call more often, Viedra, if all such calls would be so hopeful!"

It chuckled, and the lights about the room flickered. "You are too kind, Ermirinovas. But I must go; much to do, much to arrange."

The scroll blank again, it nodded, a satisfied smile on its face. Ermirinovas was powerful, even by demonic standards – one of Kerlamion's second-generation children, rumored to be spawn of Kerlamion and one of the Elderwyrm. But like so many demons, she wanted more – enough to carve out her own realm, either within the Hells, or on Zarathan itself. Her current project – if it succeeded, and nothing went terribly amiss – might give her both. That would be amusing, and for other projects It was contemplating, could be useful as well.

To make that happen, of course, required arranging one more thing. He waved and spoke to the scroll once more, and this time the scroll cleared to show a face – one proud and handsome yet twisted, horned and gray of face, muscled like a warrior but with the wisdom of ages in the hate-filled eyes, one of those that exemplified the word demon. "Ah, Balinshar, how good of you to answer."

"Viedraverion." The Demon's voice echoed tightly-leashed anger. "So you have managed to kiss your Father's … feet enough to get him to order one of my finest servants into your hands, have you?"

"Oh, very good, his Majesty has already told you." It smiled broadly at Balinshar, not rising to the bait in the least. You, yourself, are of much less account than you wish, Balinshar, and think yourself of greater power than you are. You are not half so interesting as your favorite servant. "Send the boy through, then. I have many things to do today."

"I look forward to the day when you stumble, Viedra," Balinshar hissed. "On that day many of us will compete for your soul, if the King of All Hells does not take it himself."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. Send the boy through." It stood and held the scroll up sideways, left it hanging in midair. "Or must I call Father for more… encouragement?"

The answer was a rather pedestrian insult, but then Balinshar had never been terribly creative. A major flaw of most demons, really. "Very well."

At Balinshar's gesture a tall, slender figure moved forward hesitantly. "My lord?"

"Do not be afraid, Tashriel," It said. "I have a unique task for you."

Still looking nervous, the figure – appearing to be a human youth in his late teens or very early twenties, with long white hair and a face whose sharp-carven features reminded It strongly of someone else – stepped forward, and in a blaze of light emerged before It.

The being then passed Its hand over the scroll, returning it to inert blankness, and smiled. It saw the young man shiver slightly. At this range, the yellow eyes revealed some inhuman blood within Tashriel, but he still looked mostly like a young man.

How very deceptive. Even the shiver is deceptive; he would be a most formidable opponent if he chose to be. "Tashriel, I have need of your unique knowledge – your most ancient unique knowledge."

His eyes went wide. "My lord… I am forbidden to –"

"Tsk, tsk, Tashriel. The King of All Hells himself has assigned you to me, for this very express reason. I assure you, in this case I have pressing need for the talents you learned… in Atla'a Alandar."

There was still a trace of uncertainty, but much more of excitement and anticipation in the eyes of the boy-who-was-not-a-boy. "Truly, Lord Viedraverion?"

"Truly, Tashriel. I have a… most fascinating assignment for you. One that you will carry out as honestly and humbly as if it were truly what you wished, and have to act otherwise only if the enterprise fails. And in that case…"

As It explained, the yellow eyes began to dance with excitement, and It knew that success was assured.

Come, Phoenix and your friends. All will be ready when you arrive.

 

 

Phoenix In Shadow: Chapter 8

They were at the Spiritsmith's...

 

 

------

 

 

Chapter 8.

     "What, young Prince? You thought my skills suited only to metalwork?" The Spiritsmith was dipping a pearlescent cloth into some other liquid that shimmered like moonlight.

Kyri saw Tobimar give a wry smile. "I suppose I did assume that, yes. Clearly I was mistaken."

"When making armor, can one neglect the padding, the straps, the parts that make it truly wearable and secure? And if these be weak, will they not define the weakness of the armor?" The Spiritsmith's voice, she noted, was not angry or sarcastic, merely instructive, as he watched closely the way the cloth swirled and coiled without even the slightest touch from his hand. "And many are the forms of armor; I know them all, from woven bamboo and leather to chain and scale, solid plate and metal cloth, all the forms and types that have ever been imagined, these I know, as I know all weapons, forge all weapons, here, whether they be blades of metal or mauls of kerva wood, nets woven of shadow and light or a bow to call down the stars."

"And a good thing, too," said Poplock from a different corner of the forge. The little Toad was sitting on an anvil, surrounded by hundreds of tiny gears, springs, levers, and other less identifiable components; he was hammering on some new piece of metal even as he spoke. "If you were always working metal, I wouldn't be able to use your anvil."

"Ha! True enough, my friend. But for one such as yourself, who has already taught himself much of the craft of metal and the way of machines, I am glad to lend you the use of the forge and what materials you find; even building your largest creations will take but little of what I have."

Kyri was glad to hear that cheerful tone in the Spiritsmith's voice again. For the first few days after the Black City had arrived, it had seemed he might not emerge from his shock. But on the fifth day, he had strode out from his private chambers and slammed his massive fist on the table so hard it had cracked the solid stone. "Enough!" he had said. "Terrible the days upon us, and worse to come; but that calls me to action such as I have not had in ages gone, and you are the first who need me."

She saw Tobimar look to another part of the workshop, where two new swords sat within a glowing pit that glowed with soft golden radiance; they were nearly ready, according to the Spiritsmith.

"So," she said, "what exactly is that stuff?"

"This?" the massive Sauran said, indicating the swirling material in the vat. "Woven from the webs of the stormsnare, the great spiders of the Khalals. One of the strongest of cloths, and capable of holding strongly to great virtues of power."

"Stormsnares? You mean the Charahil, the Winds that Walk?" Tobimar said in surprise. "I've never encountered anyone who successfully took any of their webs; those who claimed to be hunting them… never returned."

"Hunting them? How barbarous. The Charahil are wise and ancient as a people, and nothing like the Doomlocks and other monstrous spider-kin. I killed none for these webs; rather, I trade with them, and gain much from the exchange."

Kyri smiled, remembering a similar question about a vat of Dragon's blood. "Do you get all your materials voluntarily?"

The Spiritsmith bared his immense bladed teeth in a grin. "Not nearly all, no. Just those that I can. Demon blood and bone and hide, these are not given willingly, to name one obvious example. Many indeed are the monstrous creatures whose bodies yield materials peculiarly appropriate for my work, and most of them will not donate of themselves so freely either."

He reached in and pulled the stormsnare fabric from the vat; the liqid seemed to bead and run off as though the cloth was waxed… but there was now a new moonlight sheen to the material. "Excellent. This will be a fine foundation for your new armor, Tobimar."

"I don't want to impose –"

"There is no imposition," the massive scaled smith replied, spreading the cloth wide on a granite table. "Soon enough I will have to travel elsewhere – for surely my King and kinsman Toron will have need of my skills now. But you three will be traveling into the heart of much of this evil, and I will ensure that you are all three well protected." He managed a wry smile. "Khoros knew this would happen, and thus your presence here is as clear a command to me as though he were here to give it."

"Not to pressure you… but how long until the swords and the armor are done?"

"Your swords… another day and a half. Most of that, however, is infusing the various powers and assuring that they are permanently affixed to the blade in their essence. I expect that I shall complete this armor in that time. It is not, of course, nearly able to match the Raiment of a Justiciar in most aspects, but it will protect you far better than your current equipment and will have certain virtues of its own… as well as being exceedingly light and not bulky, so as not to interfere with your style of combat."

Kyri nodded. "You mean unlike my style, which is generally more to hit things harder until they break."

Both Tobimar and the Spiritsmith gave a snort of laughter. "You do yourself something of a disservice, Phoenix Justiciar," the Sauran smith said, "but yes, in essence. You have more need of mighty defenses and slightly less of movement – though as you are already aware your Raiment impedes you very little."

"Yes," Kyri agreed. "For its bulk it is very light, yet strong." She remembered other things she'd felt in battle. "And has that peculiar trait of my sword, as well."

"Peculiar… ah, indeed. You mean the fact that its lightness is only perceived by yourself, but that it retains all its mass to resist blows as the metal from which it is forged."

"I'd noticed that," said Tobimar, "though more its opposite, with Thornfalcon."

"Yes, the lighter blades of the Justiciars are forged with the ability to strike and withstand blows as though they were much greater than they are," agreed the Spiritsmith. He began to mark the cloth – delineating a pattern for the armor purely by eye, it seemed to Kyri. There were no templates, nothing to show Tobimar's measurements and ensure its fit, yet she was certain that when the Spiritsmith was done the new armor would fit Tobimar as though it were a second skin.

"So in two days or so, you will be ready to depart," he said, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. "You may make free with my supplies for that journey; I myself will be departing shortly after."

"Departing?" Kyri repeated, bemusedly. "I remember you saying something about that earlier, but honestly I thought you lived here always!"

"In the normal way of things, I do," the huge Sauran agreed, going over and checking the swords sitting in their shining pit. "But the Black City has come to Zarathan, and I know that my King will be mobilizing all he can muster to confront the armies that will – beyond doubt – soon march from those gates. I will go to them, that they can have my aid; perhaps I, who have walked the world far longer even than they, can help them find other allies, even call the Great Dragons themselves to awaken – if they can, for the cycle turns, and not in our favor, I think." He looked distant. "So I have gone to them before, I can sense, even through the faded memories of the Chaoswars past. When the great wars have begun, then I must heed the call of those who need my arms and armor to stave off the darkness that ever threatens to fall."

Tobimar nodded. "Of course, that makes sense. So we'll be heading for Moonshade Hollow while you head for Zarathanton." He shook his head. "I just wish we knew more about the place, but Kyri says no one knows anything about it – that even Rivendream Pass isn't known much past its entrance, and there's a lot of miles of the pass to go through."

Kyri nodded, looking into the nonexistent distance. "Rumors in Evanwyl say that the Hollow's really a pretty big place, ringed with mountains, and in the middle there's supposed to be Darkmoon Lake, but… that's rumor. No one's ever confirmed anything except that there's really dangerous things that like to come out of Rivendream Pass."

"There is one who may know something of the Hollow, and perhaps even of its past," responded the Spiritsmith, returning to the table with the cloth laid out upon it. "Knowing that you would wish such counsel, yet have little enough time left to waste in travel, I have called to him, in the hope that he will come here, rather than force you to journey thence. And I believe he shall."

To say she was startled was putting it mildly; everyone who had ever journeyed into Rivendream pass had either never returned, or retreated to safety after going no farther than a few miles. And its past was before the last Chaoswar, which meant that no one should be able to recall anything of it clearly. "Who, sir?"

"That would be me," said a voice from behind them, at the entrance to the forge.

Kyri whirled.

Standing in the entry, holding a staff nearly covered with glittering runes and bound with black metal, blond hair flowing to his shoulders, with strange blocky armor that reminded her of that which young Ingram had worn and a black cloak slung over his shoulders, was a figure out of legend, a picture from a storybook.

"The Wanderer," Kyrie breathed, feeling a thrill of awe through her.

Tobimar was also staring in disbelief, and even the usually relaxed Poplock's eyes were wider.

He bowed low before them. "I suspect that my reputation exceeds me, but I am, indeed, Erik Arisia, the Wanderer."

Kyri found herself opening her mouth, and knew she was about to start absolutely babbling questions. No! she told herself sternly. The last thing he needs is someone asking him questions about his old adventures – whether he really had struck down the great dragon Frostreaver with a single blow of his staff, or outwitted one of the Nine Kings of Night by simply accepting his soul within, or whether he and Larani Darkwood had…

"I… Sir, I had never expected… you came here?"

He laughed – a very human and ordinary laugh,and suddenly she didn't see a legend, just a young-appearing man of about twenty-five to thirty, leaning on a staff and amused by her stuttering question. "Relax, Kyri. I know I've got quite a rep, but don't be overawed. And yes, I came here instead of lurking in my stronghold waiting to mess with you on the way in. When the old lizard makes that kind of request I figure he's got a good reason for it."

There was something familiar – yet alien – about the way he spoke. Tobimar's eyes narrowed. "Forgive me, sir… but you sound almost like…"

"… like your friend Xavier? Yes, he and I share something of the same background."

"So it is true! You came here from the sister world too!"

"Most of what they say about me is true," he agreed. "And most of it is false, and most of it's also exaggeration and confusion. Some of that's my doing, a lot of it's just the way things get repeated."

"How did you know my name?" she asked after a moment, trying to figure out if he was just being obscure or meant something by all that. "Oh, wait. The Spiritsmith –"

"Didn't have to tell me. Evanwyl's not very far from the Broken Hills, and once you started raising something of a ruckus I made sure I know who was who over there."

A thought struck her. "Do you know how to find the Retreat?"

The Wanderer chuckled. "Know how? Well, sort of. I could probably do it myself, if I wanted to. But I can't tell you how to do it. I have … a kind of unique position with respect to godly magics, something I can't lend to you. And I've got some other work to do, now that I've been pulled out of my shell." He tilted his head, then nodded. "But I think – when the time comes, which isn't yet – you'll find a way in yourself."

"What do you know about this whole situation?" Poplock asked.

"That's a nice generic question," the Wanderer said with a grin. "I know quite a bit about parts of it – a lot of parts you won't care about. But I can tell you something interesting about Moonshade Hollow. Not details – I haven't actually been very far inside and that once was a while back – but there is something in there – a god, a mystical ward, something – that suppresses or at least affects the operation of various mystical powers. I think that applies to godly powers, even."

Tobimar frowned. "So Kyri's powers… won't work?"

"I don't think it's quite that bad, but my guess is that they'll be more limited. Moonshade Hollow isn't the only place like that – Elyvias, for instance. If Moonshade Hollow is like Elyvias, you probably will find a lot more, oh, gadgetry – magic placed into items in one way or another. Summoners and Gemcallers will be a lot more common than your standard wizard like me."

"Ha! You, a standard wizard," said Poplock. "That's funny."

The Wanderer acknowledged that with a laugh. "Okay, fair enough. I use a lot of standard wizardly tricks, though, and those were pretty damped down in both Elyvias and Moonshade Hollow."

"What about Rivendream Pass?"

The Wanderer grimaced as he wandered up and glanced into the pit where Tobimar's swords were sitting. "Oh, that's as nasty as you think it is. Moonshade Hollow's definitely got something of really dark nature in it, and the Pass is like a crack in a tank of something nasty; the nasty stuff flows along it until it dries out. And when it dries out it hardens. In this case, that means you keep getting monsters showing up. It's a dangerous route, but about the only one you can take."

"Toron said you might know something of the Hollow's past?" Tobimar asked.

The Wanderer turned and looked at Tobimar quietly for a moment; Kyri was suddenly struck by the intensity of both mens' blue eyes, eyes that were as nearly identical as hers and Xavier's. "I am not immune to the effects of the Chaoswars," he said finally. "But I am… more resistant, I suppose you could say, than others. So I do know a bit. I remember Heavenbridge Way, and that it was a green and pleasant place, a fine journey with a great road that ran from one side to the other, to end in the realm of the Lords of the Sky." He nodded to Tobimar. "A land that was called Silavarian, which in the ancient Dragon's tongue means, roughly, the Land of the Eight-Starred Sky." Tobimar heard the Spiritsmith repeat the name, as though recognizing something of distant memory. The Wanderer went on, "Or maybe of the Sky of Eight Stars on the Land – it's clearly a contraction of some sort and figuring out the missing pieces isn't easy."

"Silavarian," repeated Poplock. "That could become 'Silverun' very easy."

"Very," agreed Tobimar. "Anything else?"

"Some. Though both Evanwyl and Silavarian were small, they both had power and influence considerably greater than their size. Myrionar was at its peak of power then, worshipped by many across the continent, and Evanwyl was the center of the faith. And the Lords of the Sky…" he grinned again. "There was a good reason for that name. They had either discovered a secret, or developed a technique, which allowed them to make airships, that traded across the continent, and by the end were well on their way to helping to unite most of the countries – not under one flag, but in trade and better understanding. Powerful enough to travel without concern of attack by any save a Dragon in the air, swift, much more reliable and less able to be interfered with than teleportation or other such spells, the airships of the Lords were the bedrock of trade and diplomatic communications."

Kyri felt cold and knew Tobimar had the same thoughts. "And that's why it was singled out by the Demons in the Chaoswar."

The Wanderer was grave. "I would guess so, yes. With the usual disruption by the forces unleashed in a Chaoswar, only the Lords' ships could have maintained any sort of cohesion between countries. They had to be taken down. The fact that – according to strong rumor – they were blessed of Terian and held the Seven and the One merely made them a greater target."

Kyri saw Tobimar nod, at once more solemn and more confident. Of course. This is what he and his people have been searching for, and now the Wanderer's finally confirmed everything he hoped to believe.

Then Poplock said, "So… what are you hiding?"

The Wanderer raised an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

"You're good at ducking and weaving, but so am I." The little toad squinted at him narrowly. "You didn't answer my question, really. Just diverted off into talking about what you knew about the Hollow, but I didn't ask about that, I asked what you knew about the situation. And I think you know a lot. You're the guy they say the gods tread lightly around, that's not bound by destiny, that's faced down Dragons and devised weapons against demons, that's tricked one of the Nine Kings with a handful of sand and his own pure will. You're living a hop or two from Evanwyl. I think you know what's going on."

Kyri turned to look at the Wanderer, who was smiling bemusedly at Poplock. "Cogent and well stated, little Toad. I don't know everything that's going on. But I do know a lot more about it than you do. And I'm not going to be able to tell you much."

"Why not?" Kyri demanded. "Do you like playing games with people? That's not what the stories say!"

Now there was no sign of a smile on the Wanderer's face; instead there lines of worry, of pain that had not been visible before. "No, I don't. It is not that I don't want to tell you, Kyri, Tobimar… Poplock. It's that I cannot. I dare not." His gaze caught hers. "Recall the words that Myrionar spoke to you, the night It called you to its aid: 'What I know would be too dangerous for you now, and there is still much hidden from me,', yes?"

She was stunned. Only five people other than herself had she ever told of that particular speech: Aunt Victoria, Toron, Tobimar, Poplock, and Xavier Ross. "How do you know that?"

"Because Myrionar told me," he answered, and his voice was cold iron. "And those words are just as true now. There are truths you cannot – you must not – know."

Tobimar's fists clenched. "So. You, like Khoros… perhaps even with Khoros… are playing a chessmaster, using us like pieces on your board, pushing us to perform some set of acts you need done."

"Yes… and no," he said quietly. "Your wills are your own. In fact, they must be your own. It is just that there are things you must do in your own way, without direction or control. In fact, if I were to attempt to direct you, to tell you everything I know, or part of it, I would likely destroy everything we all hope to accomplish. Even though I know that there will be points at which not knowing something could get you all killed, and that, too, will destroy everything we hope to accomplish."

Kyri stared at him, anger, concern, and confusion making a nauseating mix in her gut. "What do you mean?" She made a leap of intuition. "A prophecy. You have a prophecy."

For a moment, that smile returned, sharp and lopsided, too knowing yet edged with sadness. "Not… precisely. Though, perhaps, close enough for your purposes."

"A prophecy we cannot be told?"

He sighed, turned away, looked at the cold fire on the other side of the room. "Telling… can change the actions of others. Sometimes knowing can be worse than not knowing."

"Explain that," Poplock said after a moment.

The Wanderer rubbed his neck. "Hmm. How to put it… All right. Imagine that I had dropped by Pondsparkle a little before you guys hit your panic mode. I come in, let you know what's going on, maybe give you some assistance in getting that group shut down. Then what happens?"

Poplock scratched his head. "Well…"

"Poplock doesn't leave his hometown," Tobimar said slowly. "Or at least he doesn't leave it at the same time. So he's not there in the Temple when I'm cornered."

Kyri felt a dull ache of grim understanding and continued for him. "So the two of them never meet, and aren't there at the murder of the Sauran King. And don't join with Xavier. So nobody's there to distract Thornfalcon…"

The Wanderer nodded slowly. "I don't like the term 'playing' in this circumstance… but at the same time, it's appropriate. We – including you – are playing a game of bluffs, of shadow-moves and strategies and tactics that interact with each other on a thousand layers. Even an apparent disaster may lead to victory, but if someone KNOWS about that apparent disaster, they may choose the apparently better path, and lead us to real disaster. It's bad enough that I know all of this!" The Wanderer slammed his staff down in frustration, an impact that echoed throughout the forge. "Do you think I don't want to just set things right? Hell, it's what I came here for. It's my job." He looked up, into a sky beyond the stone above. "But we don't know everything, especially about our adversary, and one wrong word… could ruin it all."

Kyri closed her eyes. She thought she could – vaguely – understand what the Wanderer was trying to get across, and it was terrifying, and frustrating, at the same time. But… "Wanderer, can you tell me one thing?"

He looked at her steadily. "I don't know. Depends on the one thing. But ask."

She looked at her two friends, then took a breath. "Did Myrionar tell me truly otherwise? If … we have faith in this, will we come through? Can I truly have full measure of justice and vengeance, can I find the true enemy behind everything and take them down? Can we all survive this?"

He looked at her steadily, his expression now so carefully controlled it gave away nothing. "I can answer that. You can come through. You can survive. But there is no certainty that you will, and much will depend on your choices – all of your choices. We don't know all the details; Khoros doesn't tell anyone everything – sometimes I wonder if he tells himself everything – Myrionar hasn't revealed everything It knows to me, I've got secrets I can't tell them, and of course our opposite numbers do their level best to tell us nothing at all. I can't warn you, even if I wanted to, of many specifics. A lot of this really, truly is on your shoulders, not just a set of moves plotted out in advance. I honestly do not know exactly what waits for you in Moonshade Hollow… just that you three, and only you three, can face it and emerge to victory.

"And that is all I can tell you."

Kyri felt for a moment that she might burst from the frustration, but then took a breath. Let it go.

Tobimar looked little different, and she saw him do something very similar. "Well… I thank you for what you could tell us, sir," he said. "You did, in fact, tell us some things that will be very useful. Being warned that our powers will be limited in the Hollow… it's sure a lot better to know that ahead of time."

The Wanderer nodded, then smiled again. "Another minor correction… I didn't say that all your powers would. Unless I miss my guess, your abilities should be very little affected, as yours – and your friend Xavier's – are not, precisely, magical in origin, nor from some outside source like the gods."

"But I'd better prep and load up now," Poplock said wryly, looking at his stuff spread out over the anvil, "because I'm starting out behind and now my brand-new magic's going to have a brand-new handicap."

 

 

POLYCHROME: Chapter 30

 

Our Hero was in grave danger...

 

 

------

 

 

Chapter 30.

     Polychrome stood with a jerky haste uncharacteristic of her, and Iris looked at his daughter with a raised eyebrow.

"Well!" she said, a bright and brittle smile on her face. "I… don't think we should be prying into any private life of our hero!" She gestured to close the viewing pool as she walked quickly away. "I… I really should be practicing. Nimbus says I need more training!" The doors of the Rainbow Throneroom closed behind her.

I do not know whether to be relieved, or worried. Or furious. It was not usual for the Lord of the Rainbow to be indecisive. He turned back to the Pool, which despite Polychrome's gesture had remained open; Iris Mirabilis intended to see the truth for himself. Did I mis-read the Prophecy? Is he something other than I thought? Less constant, or weaker, or simply with a weakness all too common for Men?

The beautiful Princess of Pingaree was leaning close to Erik Medon, and one of his hands was slowly reaching out, touching the night-blackness of her hair, so different from the golden sunshine of Iris' daughter.

And in that moment the hand pulled back, Erik rolled to his feet, and backed off, muttering a curse from his own land.

Zenga looked shocked, and not a little disappointed, even hurt. "Lord Erik –"

"Sorry. Sorry, Zenga. And believe me, part of me will be and already is telling me how stupid stupid stupid I'm being… but I can't. I just… can't. I… you're beautiful. There's nothing wrong with you at all, I mean, you're like any fantasy a guy like me might have…" he trailed off. "Damn, that doesn't sound good either. I…"

Iris felt a chill stealing back over his heart. No relief. No reprieve.

Zenga rose slowly and looked at him, hurt and disappointment giving way to real concern. She could see that whatever was bothering the older man was not some random impulse or anything having to do with her. "Are you all right?"

Erik laughed hollowly. "No, I'm stupid, that's what I am. I'm here in the wilds of Faerie with a talented, smart, beautiful princess who can match me stride-for-stride and who's just told me that she likes me enough to make a play for me that even I can't miss, and I go throw it in her face for… for what? Some fantasy that's impossible even here?"

Gradually, Zenga's expression changed from concern to a sort of tragic amusement. She giggled and then clapped both her hands over her mouth, but that still didn't stop the giggles.

Iris watched as Erik's face registered hurt puzzlement. "Hey, come on, this isn't all that funny to me!"

"I… I'm sorry, Lord Erik, but…" another unladylike guffaw came from her, "… oh, by the Pearls themselves, you poor man. You've fallen in love with the Daughter of the Rainbow!"

Erik stood frozen in position for several seconds before he finally bowed his head. "It's that obvious."

"With what you said… yes." The Pingarese Princess brushed strands out of hair from her eyes, pearl-and-gold bracelets chiming slightly.

"I don't see what's so funny about it, though."

"It's not really…" Zenga seemed to be struggling to figure out a way to explain it. "It's just that… Erik, a Faerie Princess like her, a true Faerie, they can't fall in love with a mortal."

"What? Then how is it there's so many mostly-mortal, part-faerie types out there?"

"All right… it's only almost impossible. It's happened, oh, three or four times. But love among the true Faeries… it's almost instinct. Usually they don't meet anyone they love, though they can have lots of friends – I've heard Polychrome herself does. When they find the right person, if there is a right person, they'll be drawn to them by a… resonance, a tie between them. And it's almost always another Faerie. Even that doesn't always work out," she continued. "One of the stories in the library is about Infiernos and Undine – a Fire Faerie who fell in love with a Water Faerie."

Iris saw that penetrate despite Erik's personal upset. "Oh, ouch. Neither one's realm or even personal essence compatible."

Zenga nodded. "It's a tragedy. I don’t like reading those much."

Erik gazed up into the night sky. It seemed for a moment that he was looking straight at Iris, and the Rainbow Lord felt a pang of guilt. "Yeah. A tragedy. I wish I could be sensible about this… but I can't. I was with her for a year, Zenga. She saw me as I came here, and she brought me to Faerie, and she never said a single word to let me know how disappointed she must have been at first. And she spent I don't know how long helping me. And…" he shook his head. "I dunno. I just know I can't accept even a marriage of convenience with someone if every time I see them or touch them I see someone else. If all I can see is her."

Zenga was looking at him sympathetically, but he turned away. "That's the truth, you see. I tried to tell her father… but I chickened out. The truth? I'm not going to go out there and get myself killed just because of Oz, even because of my childhood dreams. I'm going to do it for her, because Polychrome is all of my dreams in a single one, and dying to protect her is worth it all, every bit of it, and maybe it's better that way because I don't know how I'd live after I go back to my life without her."

Iris did close the pool that time, because he had truly seen enough. A part of me hoped, indeed, that he was untrue. That he could be swayed, and many men would have been. But I was told differently, and truly here is my proof.

And no one but myself to blame in any case. Who gave her tasks that kept her in close contact with the mortal? Who encouraged her and advised her in her work with him? No, King of the Rainbows, this is as much your doing as that of any prophecy…

…because you knew, full well, what kind of motive your daughter would be for such a man. You have turned him into a fell and dangerous weapon, one that is driven by the sole purpose of preserving your daughter's life.

And that, of course, was the key. She would insist on being present at the battle, and risking her life against forces more than capable of killing her. No better protection could he give her than people whose motive to save her life was even greater than his own, and who were – in the cold light of policy and reason – far more dispensable than either his daughter or himself.

He was not sure how long he sat there brooding when the door opened. "My lord King," Nimbus said quietly. "Might I speak with you?"

"What is it, Captain?"

"I am wondering exactly what has possessed your daughter, sir, that has caused her to injure seven of my men in practice so severely that they have all gone to the healers?"

"What?"

At his startled expression, Nimbus gave a small wry smile. "I would presume it has something to do with the Hero because she was muttering various disjointed things under her breath. But for whatever reason, she became quite the menace this afternoon."

"Hmm. Yes." As I had feared. There is no escaping the ending. "She witnessed the Princess of Pingaree make an… offer of close alliance to Erik Medon."

Nimbus' eyebrows vanished into his helmet. "So. And by her reaction we know her heart. I would have hoped Lord Medon be more constant, or at least more considered."

"He was. Polychrome left at a poorly-timed moment."

"Ah. The comedy does write itself, I suppose." Nimbus was silent for a time. "So what do you intend to do about this, Sire?"

Iris sighed and shook his head slowly. "I am afraid… nothing." He glanced, with a combination of resentment and pity, at the Pink Bear. "I have attempted all the resistance that I dare. The Prophecy seems unaffected.

"So it must play out as it was foretold… and if the best happens and Oz is freed, still will I be mourning in that hour."

Phoenix in Shadow: Chapter 7

 

Let's check in on another character, shall we?

 

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Chapter 7.

     Aran stumbled, fell to his knees, remained in that position, unmoving, for long moments, waiting for his head to clear. I've been … driving myself hard. Far too hard.

A part of him tried to force him to lunge back to his feet, but now he knew that much of that was anger at himself, rage and guilt. "Sit still," he told himself, and sat down. He was near his destination, though he saw nothing to indicate that a path to the Hells lay here, in the tangled jungle of the land that was, itself, called Hell; but if there was, he would not be wise to come before Kerlamion exhausted, weary of mind and body both.

He forced himself to sit, to eat of his rations, to drink water. But even sitting still, in the quiet greenery, he was tense, trying to watch everywhere, for he had learned all too well in the last weeks that danger could be anywhere.

This place deserved its name, he felt. He had spent years as a Justiciar of Myrionar – or, as he was now being honest with himself, as a false Justiciar empowered by what was almost certainly a great demon, perhaps drawing power directly from the King of All Hells himself. But though his true nature as a Justiciar had been dark, he had in fact spent much of his life as a defender of Evanwyl, protecting it because Myrionar, the so-called patron of Evanwyl, was too weak, or too uncaring, or both, to do so.

In that time he had faced many enemies – bandits and murderers and other ordinary people turned against their own kind, yes, but also many worse things. The blade-legged doomlock spiders, monstrous creatures which could lash out with cutting forelegs to drag you, slashed and bleeding, to their deadly venomous fangs, or who might first entangle you in paralyzing webs before closing in; graverisen, fearsome shambling undead things that seemed slow, clumsy, until they would suddenly scent the living and rush upon them with terrifying speed, rending men limb from limb and feasting on their entrails; flame-ants, dwelling within the earth and carrying the fires of the interior with them, swarming and consuming everything they touched like a conflagration; even, once, something for which he had no name, an armored monstrosity the length of a dozen wagons that came ravening out of Rivendream Pass, with a mouth like a cavern of blades and claws that cut stone like grass, and healing so swiftly that wounds closed even as the blade passed through the flesh.

But such things were the ordinary here. All his powers had been needed, every day, as he made his way through the twisted, hideous contradictory terrain of the Circle of Hell. He could not imagine how the true Hells could be much worse than this place, where he had seen a floating black cloud, like a thunderhead come to earth, turn and pursue a creature, rend it apart with screaming wind and crackling bolt, leave a shriveled, dessicated, scattered corpse behind; where a great stone had suddenly moved, become a hunger-howling mass of granite which he had to trick into a fall and shattering hundreds of feet below; where a lovely flower had suddenly bent down towards him, opening a maw that dripped corrosive sap upon him that even left a scar on his nigh-invulnerable armor.

He had often thought of turning back; but now, he knew, there was nowhere for him to go back to. The false Justiciars knew he had been sent on a special mission; if he returned without that power he sought, they would know his will and courage had failed, and worse he had given up on the oath so fiercely and publicly sworn to their … patron. And before he left he had been told, by that same patron, that Thornfalcon's fall had torn the veil of secrecy, and because of that he knew that Evanwyl itself was now no longer his home. He could never walk the streets again as Condor. There was little he knew of the lands beyond, and he didn't know how he could have made his way through the lands elsewhere, even if their patron allowed him such a simple escape.

And even if he would have, he now held himself in utter contempt, unworthy to return until he truly redeemed himself. Whatever the excuses of rage, of revulsion and terror and denial, he had himself betrayed his father, Shrike. Oh, he had excuses – shock, white-hot anger, unthinking escape from a horror he had never imagined – but the last comment of their patron as he departed had struck deep and reminded him of how Condor was as guilty as the one he sought. "You have little time and a long distance to cover," their patron had said, smiling falsely from beneath blonde hair and blue eyes, "so make haste. Worry not; we shall tend to Shrike's body and hold a funeral in your absence."

I who was so furious at this … Phoenix for leaving my father to rot… I did the same thing in my anger and need to find vengeance.

There were even brief moments he wondered if he deserved to find vengeance. I've helped murder people. Should I seek vengeance if there are those out there who would seek the same on me?

The worst of those, of course, would be Kyri Vantage. Condor faced that truth. He'd helped kill her parents – even though it had been Shrike who struck the killing blows. And he'd known what was going to happen to her brother, even though – in all honesty – he couldn't have done anything about it. He wondered how she was. Maybe she's found some peace in faraway Zarathanton. I hope so. As long as she's alive, I know there's a bright spot out there, somewhere.

He rose and dusted himself off, finally, feeling much more himself. Food, drink and rest; a soldier, or a Justiciar, needs these to keep going. He'd neglected himself from shock, pain, guilt, and desperation, and that could have gotten him killed.

I have to be almost there. Their patron's directions had been clear and simple – follow specific landmarks that, despite his fears, had been easy to spot, and even in thick jungle he'd been able to find spots to verify his heading often enough to not get lost.

But he had no idea of what to look for after he got there.

Green sunlight gave way to unfiltered gold, and he stepped from the edge of the jungle to see a plain of waving green and rose grasses – with some rippling movement that was not just wind – before him. The plain stretched several miles before him and to either side; towards the horizon, low, jagged, bare mountains rose abruptly, smoking faintly in the lowering sun. On his right, the meadow gave way to a dusty, cracked plain with what appeared to be ancient ruins wavering in the distance through the heat of the day. On his left, the plains reached a river, on the other side of which lay a dark-green forest of pines. He shook his head at the warped and contradictory sights. The monsters are bad enough, but this place is insanity incarnate.

Without warning, shadow seemed to boil up from the ground, flow from the air above, and the ground shuddered. He was suddenly assailed by a feeling of such terrifying foreboding and evil that the darkness he had known all his life seemed light and friendly.

And then there was a concussion, a roar and scream of earth and air rent and crushed, and he was blown from his feet, deafened, battered, cast aside like dust before a storm. He tucked and rolled, but all around him he heard creaks and tearing, rending, ripping sounds as the screaming manic wind blasted the forest flat, sending the boles of mighty trees smashing down around him, shattered limbs battering Condor, trying to crush him even through his Justiciar's Raiment.

The air was cold now and the sunlight gone, and he smelled chill of ice and the scent of decay of eons, and looked up.

He came to his senses slowly, aware by the stiffness in his limbs and dryness of his mouth that he had been gazing in unbelieving horror for minutes with no thought at all, just absolute disbelief and terror.

Before him loomed the Black Wall as told in some of the oldest tales, polished like an obsidian monolith a thousand feet high and more. But even as tall as it was, still beyond it he could see twisted spires, dark buildings, and far beyond, in the center so far off that it would be beyond the horizon, a tower of pure ebony that rose towards the roof of the sky and faded into… elsewhere.

Now he understood his patron's knowing smiles, Kerlamion's laugh. There was no passage here to the Hells.

The Hells had come here, to Zarathan itself.

The forest was deathly silent now. Even the worst monstrosities he had seen would have fled, be cowering in their burrows or still running, flying, swimming through the ground until they dropped of exhaustion.

And then there came a sound: the sound of an incalculably huge lock opening.

Directly before him a gate began to slide open in the impregnable black wall. Sterile, sharp white light poured from within that gate, a light so cold and dead that its touch seemed to leach away color and life. Silhouetted against that light was a black form, round in outline but with hints of much worse.

As Condor's eyes adjusted to the fell light, he could see the Thing more clearly, and wished he couldn't. An ovoid, leathery-skinned body was supported by four talons like those of a gargantuan bird of prey, and sported night-black wings like a monstrous bat. A long, flexible, wattled neck held a long head that shone like black bone or perhaps the carapace of an insectoid abomination; the dead-white glowing eyes certainly had the pupilless, faceted look of the eyes of most insects, but the mouth was long and jagged, as though the beaked mouth of a snapping turtle had been crossed with that of a wolf, or perhaps a dragon. The long, slender tail included black, bladed spines.

And then it spoke.

"Condor False-Justiciar, step forward."

The voice was startling. It was pleasant, gentle, sweet, like that of a young girl – though beneath and behind it, almost beyond the range of hearing, was an undertone that sounded like distant screams. It was the last sort of voice he would have expected from that monstrosity, and it added a crowning touch to the horror.

But I long since left my choices behind. Shakily, he walked towards the monster.

It smiled, a flexing of a face that should be incapable of flexture, another horrifying tiny detail. "Well done. You have arrived precisely as directed. The King of All Hells will be pleased indeed, for to cross the land called Hell is a considerable feat." It turned and moved a wing down, an ebony ramp. "I am to bring you to the King immediately."

The wing was frighteningly solid beneath his boots; it did not feel like a leather pinion, but rather a bridge of stone. The creature's back was softer, dry and flexible as the hide of the elephant Condor had seen once; yet there was something repellent about it, perhaps a faint scent of dry decay, as of a house abandoned in the desert for centuries.

Smell of decay or no, the Demon – for such Aran knew it had to be, and a powerful one indeed, to be sent on a personal errand for the ruler of the Black City – leapt up and arrowed into the now-darkened sky with speed and agility a smaller creature would envy.

Now Aran could see the city from above, and knew his horror had not reached its limits. The Black City stretched from horizon to horizon, a ten-mile circle of blackness – black walls, ebony buildings, night-shadowed streets, all arranged in perfect circular arcs. The city rose slowly, a vast cone-shaped arrangement of structures and roads all converging on the gargantuan castle in the center, itself echoing the design of the whole: a ring of walls, a ring of towers, and in the center a great single keep that rose up and somehow faded away; it hurt his eyes and mind to look at how it went from something that was to something that was not. At intervals along the great outer walls were guard towers, posts with guards and with great engines of destruction that looked like nothing he had ever seen.

Below, demons – monstrous forms of all shapes and sizes – moved busily. Many were marching, drilling – parts of an army so huge that Aran couldn't grasp it – but many others seemed to be going about their business as though they lived in an ordinary city. Yet even there something seemed wrong, off, as though even in living daily lives there was something terribly twisted and unnatural about them.

The Demon upon which he rode flew straight up one of the great throughfares, a road running true as a sword-stroke to the central tower. The gates of the castle were already open, and nothing challenged his mount as it flew directly up to the door of the central keep itself.

"Here you dismount," it said in its eerily pleasant voice. "None save those granted audience may enter the Tower of the Black Star."

Condor said nothing; he wanted to save his breath and his courage for the coming confrontation.

The doorway to the Tower was open, yet nothing could be seen within; it was deadly black. Aran glanced back, but knew there was no choice. I made this decision as soon as I demanded I be given the power for my revenge.

He brought the image of his foster father's face to his mind, drew strength from the anger he felt as he contemplated that face as he had last seen it: glaring open eyes beneath a fragment of Shrike's own axe, plunged lethally into his forehead.

With a deep breath, one scented with old decay and something sharper but no less deadly, Aran strode through the doorway.

The echoes of his footsteps… changed as he passed into the Tower; they whirled upward in pitch, then dropped so low as to be beyond hearing, chasing themselves in a rumbling, squeaking chorus around the interior. Within a few steps, the darkness lightened, slightly, and now he could see the Throne.

It stood in the center of the Tower, and the Tower was but a single titanic room, an empty, unadorned space of pure black polished stone a quarter-mile across. The black Throne was simple, a cone that rose from the floor, carved out so that Someone could sit in it, and then continuing up, up, out of sight into darkness, impossibly fading, blending into the void above.

And in the throne sat Kerlamionahlmbana, the Black Star of Destruction, a figure hewn from the darkness darker than his surroundings, with only blazing, eerie blue-white light showing where his eyes were. The black figure was itself surrounded by a faint blue-violet aura, and a distant wailing howl emanated from Kerlamion, as though the air itself feared his presence.

Aran, the Condor Justiciar, felt his heart hammering faster than ever before in his life, even more than when he was confronted with his patron and Thornfalcon's true power. This was the King of All Hells, and no name had ever been spoken with greater fear, save perhaps only that of the Slayer of Gods, the Hunger without End, the King of Wolves, Virigar – and even he, it was said, would not care to casually offend the one who sat upon the Ebon Throne.

Aran knelt and bowed his head.

"Rise and approach, Condor," the King of All Hells said, and his voice was both rumble and howl, the sound of air or water being sucked into a void, screaming and growling at once.

Aran stood, feeling his knees trembling. I asked for this. I asked for this. I must move forward. Doomed and damned I may be, but at least I must not fail in following my own course. I will not collapse and be shown a coward here, not now.

Somehow he found the courage to stride forward as though at a review, steps rhythmic and steady as a drumbeat, ignoring the eerieness of the echoes and the deadly darkness that loomed ever higher before him.

"Stop," commanded the King of All Hells, as Condor had come to within fifty feet of the Throne, and Kerlamion rose to his full height, his nigh-invisible head thirty feet above Condor's own.

Kerlamion looked down upon him, and there was power in that gaze; the mere regard of the Ruler of the Hells was enough to feel as though a leaden blanket had fallen over Aran. But Condor held tight to his pride and purpose, and raised his head to meet that terrible, blank, flaming stare.

Kerlamion chuckled suddenly, and that was perhaps the most horrid thing Aran had ever heard, causing a sick sweat to spring out across his brow; it was a laugh that had humor and understanding in it, yet mixed with malice and hatred, all twisted and warped by the distortion of sound around the King. "So, Condor, called Justiciar, you come seeking power, power to match and outmatch your enemy, the slayer of the father of your heart?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

He nodded. "Know, then, that this is a great boon you seek; for you wish a power sufficient to withstand the power of a god, and return against it enough power to break that god's wards on its last champion. Yet," and suddenly a blaze of howling blue-white showed as Kerlamion smiled, "yet, in truth, it is well within my power to grant you this boon; for I am called "demon", but I am as much god as Myrionar. Indeed, I am greater by far, and have faced the Light in the Darkness himself, contested power with Elbon Nomicon, and still I hold my throne and none dare oppose me here."

I must not be utterly cowed. He is volatile – this I know – but he will not respect weakness at all. "This is true, Majesty, yet the boon was already asked, and you bid me here to receive it, not to impress me with your power, which is indeed beyond compare."

The deadly blazing eyes narrowed, but the tone showed it was with more amusement than annoyance, and Aran permitted himself to relax the slightest bit. "So. I have devoted some small time to contemplating how best to provide that which you have asked. And seeing you, I now see the best – perhaps the only – true choice. Give me your sword."

Aran's hand was already complying, even before he realized it. Disobeying him would be almost impossible. The sensation was itself frightening; he had never found himself so unquestioningly obedient to anyone or anything before. He extended the blade to the King of All Hells, hilt-first.

Kerlamion did not bend down; the Justiciar's blade Skyvault floated up and hung before the burning blue eyes.

Then Kerlamion reached back and drew forth his own Sword. The blade blazed as black as Kerlamion himself, devouring any light that approached. "The Sword of Oblivion, the Consuming Blade," the King of Demons said. "Greatest of all weapons, before which none may stand."

To his astonishment, Aran saw that the outline of the Consuming Blade was nearly identical to his own, merely immensely larger. "There is a kinship between us, Aran of Evanwyl," Kerlamion said, with another touch of that monstrous humor. "We wield similar blades in much the same way, and for much the same purpose of vengeance against those who have wronged us. So to you… I give much the same power."

There was a rending sound as though something had torn sky and stone, and a tiny shard split from the Blade of the Demon King and dropped slowly. It shimmered with the terrible blue-white fire, and descended until it touched Skyvault –

And Skyvault vanished. In its place was an identical sword, save that the blade was black as night, glinting with the deadly azure-tinted white power. "A piece of my own weapon I give to you. The Demonshard Blade will strengthen you, guide your hand, and deliver absolute force to your blows. Even against the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar it will be unstoppable."

The Demonshard drifted down to Aran's upraised hand, and as soon as his fingers touched the hilt he felt a surge of strength, of confidence and power such as he could scarcely believe. Even the King of Hell, while still awe-inspiring, seemed less fearsome. Stunned, he raised his head. "I thank you, Majesty. Is there anything that can withstand this weapon?"

The eyes narrowed and that terrible smile drew a line of consuming dead fire across the face of night. "Its source and parent, my own blade, of course. But other than that? Aran Condor, even were Terian himself to come before you, he would be cut, yea, and the wound pain him for ages to come. Once you have left my presence, I do not believe you shall find anything to withstand the Demonshard. Wield it well in our service, Condor, and I shall be well content."

Slowly, the King of All Hells seated himself. "You may go."

The confidence of the Demonshard allowed him to bow calmly and turn, striding to the exit.

But inside, he desperately wanted to run. And a part of him thought, perhaps, that he would be much wiser to cast this blade aside, and keep running.

 

 

Phoenix in Shadow: Chapter 6

 

Well, their destination involves climbing a certain mountain...

 

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Chapter 6.

     "You're sure about this, Kyri?" Tobimar said, glancing involuntarily downward. The base of the mountain already seemed a very long way away.

"As sure as I can be about anything which has not yet been proven," the blue-haired Justiciar answered with a smile. With the helm off and the Raiment mostly cloaked, she looked less like the Phoenix Justiciar, deadly avenger of Myrionar, and more like the young woman he'd come to know in the past few weeks. "And even if this doesn't work out, I am sure we can get some of the best advice on Zarathan here."

He nodded, following her lead up the mountain. He suspected that he could climb at least as well as she could, though she wasn't bad, but she'd been up the mountain before, and he hadn't, so he let her keep the lead. "I can't argue that. Though I don't want to infringe on your honor against these false Justiciars."

She paused as they reached a small ledge and looked over at him, those amazing gray eyes serious. "Tobimar, I guess… I would have been worried about that before Thornfalcon. But if I believe in Myrionar at all – and I do now, with all the faith my heart can hold – then I must believe that It arranged for you, Poplock, and Xavier to be there, either Itself or through Its allies, Terian, Chromaias, the Dragon Gods, even," she flashed another smile at his shoulder, "Blackwart the Great or the Three Beards. And however it was arranged, it is a sign. You came seeking justice and vengeance, and with wisdom you saw past Thornfalcon's lies just in time, and saved me from – oh, very literally – a fate worse than any ordinary death. You are a part of this, and – by the commands of justice – I am now bound to your mission as well. So nothing you gain here can infringe on my honor; it is my honor."

He blinked. "Kyri, my quest might be a never-ending one, a fool's mission. I may never find the answers, the homeland we left, the Stars or the Sun. There have been dozens of such seekers exiled from my homeland. I would not have you bound to something that may take you from your clear and urgent duty."

She shook her head. "Justice requires balance. Nor can either of us ignore the fact that too many things appear to be happening at the same time. The power behind these false Justiciars may be the same one – or related to the one – that has set all these other plans in motion. And your 'Khoros' already links us. I think, if I'm going to resolve the mystery of the False Justiciars, I will in one way or another have to enter the heart of your mystery, as well." She gazed upward, judging the angles. "And as Sasha determined, that gateway under Thornfalcon's mansion went somewhere into Moonshade Hollow, which you believe – I think rightly – is what's left of your homeland."

"She's right," Poplock said, moving to his other shoulder as they continued the climb. "We'd already come to that conclusion, and it makes more sense the longer I think about it."

Tobimar shrugged. "I can't argue that. But… Kyri, while I respect Myrionar – now that I've met you and seen Its power in you, and heard Its tenets, I respect It very much – I'm dedicated to Terian Himself, as are all my family. I can't be one of your Justiciars, so…"

"Don't say can't," she said with a smile thrown over her shoulder. "I've been thinking about that, and do you know, I can't find a single word in the Teachings that says all the Justiciars have to be dedicated solely to Myrionar. The power of the Justiciars is from Myrionar, yes, and obviously you have to conduct yourself in a manner that the Balanced Sword would agree with, but a follower of the Infinite, the Light in Darkness, would hardly do anything that would disappoint a Justiciar."

I hadn't exactly thought of it that way. "You mean a Justiciar could be a follower of another god?"

"I mean I don't see anything that says he or she couldn't be such a follower. But don't worry, I'm not trying to force you into that decision."

"But then what…"

"… do I think we can gain from this?" she finished. "The Spiritsmith is one of, if not the, greatest armorers who has ever lived. He's also normally very jealous of his privacy and his knowledge, so much so that he made things work the way I described – such that many who sought him must have died in the attempt. But he did not extract from me any promise to keep his secrets, or place on me any of the requirements or commands he did on the nearby villages. If you aren't going to become a Justiciar, I don't know if I can convince him to help you… but I'm very sure he'll at least have some good advice, a name or three of those who can help us."

She paused to catch her breath, and so did Tobimar, grateful for the respite. Where does her family get their stamina? Her strength, her speed, her toughness… they’re just stunning. Without Khoros' training, I couldn't keep up at all.

Once they reached the chimney she had described, Tobimar realized they were now only a short distance from the top… and minutes from a legend. The Spiritsmith.

He emerged from the narrow vertical tunnel, breathing hard, and heaved himself upright.

The massive form of an Ancient Sauran loomed over him, scarcely ten feet away and standing over eight feet high, taller than Toron himself, his scales having a patina of depth and iridescence that Tobimar guessed indicated his age far more clearly than any wrinkles could have.

"So you have returned, Phoenix Kyri, and with true blood of false Justiciars upon your sword. It is well. It is very well indeed. Yet you also bring another…" he paused, narrowing his gaze, and then smiling, "two others, with you."

"Good eyes," murmured Poplock. Tobimar nodded, impressed; most others didn’t even notice the Toad, let alone realize Poplock's significance.

"So, Phoenix," the Spiritsmith continued, "Is this boy – or this toad – to be the next of your Justiciars?"

Even Kyri, serious though she was, could not keep a straight face as Poplock leapt onto Tobimar's head and struck a grandiose pose. "Indeed, behold the next of the true Justiciars of Myrionar, and my trusty steed!"

The explosive snort of laughter from the Spiritsmith almost blew the little toad off Tobimar's head. "I see, I see indeed; yet such as yourself are already so mighty that one such as I can do little for you."

"In seriousness, sir," Tobimar began, not without some lingering smile on his face, "I do not intend to become a Justiciar – at least not at this time," he amended. Why cut off the possibility? Many things may yet happen. "But various events have made it clear that my path and Kyri's are joined, and thus I may face her enemies, and she mine; and," he drew his blades and presented them, "I have far too clear evidence that my weapons are inadequate to the challenge."

The Spiritsmith looked very interested in his swords – more so than Tobimar had expected. "The twin curved swords… interesting." His gaze traced the blades carefully, visibly pausing when reaching one of the dents or minor cuts on the blade. He then gestured for Tobimar to sheath the swords. "I see indeed your reason for travelling here. And you have done well to have wielded your blades with such skill and power that they sustained such slight damage, overall."

"He helped me slay Thornfalcon," Kyri said simply.

The huge Sauran studied him for several moments, then turned and strode slowly, thoughtfully, across the plateau. Tobimar could see that to the West, other peaks rose, but there seemed to be one clear path – which, if it was truly clear, might actually provide a narrow, straight glimpse at the land called Hell itself. The Spiritsmith was not, however, looking in that direction, but rather pacing with slow, measured strokes towards the rocks that surrounded the entryway to his underground forge, his massive tail swinging in time to the steps.

"The intersection of heroes at a battle is not unusual," he said finally. "What other events or circumstances link your two causes?"

Tobimar glanced at Poplock and Kyri, trying to figure out how to go over all of it in the shortest amount of time. It was the little Toad who finally said, "Well… have you ever heard of an old wizard named Khoros?"

The pacing stopped as though the Spiritsmith had run into a stone wall. For a long moment he stood silently, staring seemingly at nothing except a distant peak to the south. At last, he said, "Konstantin Khoros taught me much of my craft, in the days when the world was younger, when Elbon had only the Fifteen and none of the T'Teranahm had betrayed their hearts and souls. And after all had fallen into darkness, he came again, no longer a man of mirth and gentle humor, but grim and fell, and taught me other ways of guiding the powers I was still just beginning to understand. I have forged for him many times, and his designs have guided others; indeed," he nodded to Kyri, "it was he who spoke to me of the designs which became the Raiment of the Justiciars, as well as others. You mean to say, then, that Khoros himself has brought you together?"

Tobimar stared at him, trying to answer while his mind tried to grapple with the implications. Khoros taught the Spiritsmith… in the days before the Fall? But that's… He could see the same stunned incredulity on Kyri's face, and realized once more how deeply laid were the plans of his old teacher. "I'm not quite sure we can say that exactly… but Khoros taught me to wield these swords – instructed our people in how to forge them, in fact -- and he helped Kyri to reach this place originally at a much greater speed than she could have managed otherwise, and even Poplock ran into him once. And there were some others we met who were connected to him."

The huge reptilian creature gave a sigh that sounded almost like a snarl. "Then truly there is a connection. I must think on this. He would have expected you to come here, I believe, and in that he would expect and require that I assist you in some other manner."

"You don't have to –"

"hGrrrk'HA!" The Draconic obscenity cut Kyri's protest off instantly. "There is nothing to be said against it, Phoenix Kyri. I owe Khoros much. Two worlds owe him much. He, too, owes the worlds, but his debt is not yet due, while mine is, and has been for many millennia past. Come," he gestured, turning back to his caverns, "Let us go inside, and you may rest and be refreshed while I consider what I may do."

Tobimar did not object to that thought at all. For three days they had been climbing and – training or no – he could use a real sit-down meal, rest, maybe even a bath or shower. A cleansing spell was all well and good, but it simply wasn't the same.

Kyri had mentioned that the Spiritsmith's delvings were extensive, but even so, Tobimar was startled by the size and number of caverns and tunnels. Of course, if he's been here since the Fall… or a little after, since these mountains were created around then! … he could have dug only a foot a year and still have honeycombed half the mountain.

With that much space, it was perhaps not so surprising that he not only offered them guest quarters, but quarters of great size, decoration, and luxury. Even the air, normally thin at over three miles above the lower plains, was heavier and richer here. Tobimar took advantage of the time for a truly marvellous bath; an hour later he emerged, towelling his hair off, to find all his clothes on the bed and Poplock cleaning them off with mutters, gestures, and a bit of bouncing that invoked a mixed-elemental cleaning enchantment.

"Thank you very much, Poplock."

"Well, didn't have that much to do while I waited, and I can use the practice. I'm still learning a lot about magic, and after all the Summoning practice I need to keep up on the elementalist side. So you're welcome."

He watched as a swirl of airy water wove in and out through one of his travel cloaks, a flickering thread of fire somehow encased within. "You may still be learning, but that's pretty impressive. Three-elemental cleaning is a pretty fancy trick, instead of just doing the usual selective displacement."

"Elemental's a lot easier for us Toads, usually, and I figured fire for heating the water, water for the cleaning, air for drying. You already had enough earth in there."

"Ha! Indeed." He picked up one of the finished outfits. "Looks like it worked pretty well to me." He sniffed. "Smells like there might be food waiting outside somewhere, too."

"Then get dressed and let's go!" The little Toad, of course, didn't really have to dress, and even his miniature pack and items tended to conceal themselves magically. You had to look carefully to notice he was carrying anything.

A few minutes later they found their way to a small dining hall; Kyri was just sitting down, her hair and a change of clothing showing that she, too, had taken advantage of their host's amenities. The blue hair cascaded over her brown shoulders in sky-colored waves, with the white flash over her forehead like a cloud drifting in the vault of heaven. She is gorgeous, Tobimar thought. Beautiful and strong as …

At that point it suddenly dawned on him – really dawned on him – where his thoughts were leading. Sand and dust… that could be a complication. I don't know what her thoughts are on the matter, but we don't have time to follow the path of Learning the Other. Don't know what her people's traditions are, either.

He shook himself mentally. This certainly isn't the time. She can't be bothered by my attentions when perhaps the whole world is at risk. Focus! Pay attention to what is now. Dismissing the distraction – as much as he could, which was far less than he wished he could manage – he returned his attention to the dinner.

The Spiritsmith was at the far end of the table – as was common with Ancient Saurans and Dragons and their kin, his eating area was well separated from the rest, as their diet and manner of eating was often… unsettling to others. Tobimar sat down and, after examining the several dishes available, selected a blaze-and-honey style mixed flashfry, one of his favorite types of food. He didn't recognize all the vegetables in this particular recipe, but the meat smelled like hopclaw… and there was some sort of seafood in it too. He seems to live here alone. Must have some very interesting food preparations charms and devices, or he's a very good cook.

"Sir… Can you tell me something?"

The Spiritsmith looked up from his platter, and swallowed the ten-pound chunk of meat his teeth had just torn from the boar's leg. "Perhaps. What is it you wish to know?"

He wasn't quite sure how to phrase it. "Well… As I said, Khoros taught me – not just how to fight, but how to use this… internal power of mine. And a lot of other little things, ranging from philosophy and logic to theory of magic. I always rather liked him, even if he could be pretty maddening in the way he preferred to answer a question with another question and force you to figure it out yourself.

"But… everyone else who's known him seems almost, I don't know, afraid of him. They talk about him manipulating people, using them, and then they seem really careful about telling us anything at all. What do you know about him? Is he… well, not on our side somehow?"

The Ancient Sauran gave another of the snarling sighs and took another bite from the raw meat. Finally he raised his head again. "It is… not that simple a question, and thus the answer you seek is not simple either.

"How much evil must a man do in the name of good before he is, himself, no longer a good man?"

Kyri looked troubled. "You can't do evil deliberately and remain good."

"You are a child of direct faith." The draconic Spiritsmith smiled – in a manner that was probably meant to be tolerant, perhaps even fond, but the sharp teeth covered with fresh blood made it disquieting. "Then how much good must evil achieve before it is no longer evil? Is there no repentance, no salvation for a soul once lost?"

"Well, you can repent… but you can't keep doing evil and actually be good! You have to actually repent of your evil, and try to make amends for it, and stop doing bad things!" A slight flush touched her cheeks as she seemed to realize how naïve those words made her sound, but she didn't retract them.

"And you, Prince of Skysand? How would you answer this riddle?"

Poplock spoke first. "We all do little evils to achieve good, I think. You killed that boar so you could live. Trees get chopped down to build houses."

Tobimar nodded. "We killed Thornfalcon – and killing people is pretty much one of the absolute wrongs. But by doing that we prevented him from killing who knows how many people, and avenged those who had been killed before." Tobimar shook his head. "But that's a long way from the kind of thing people imply Khoros does."

"Then, Tobimar Silverun, I can say only this: that Konstantin Khoros is, I believe, on 'our side', as you put it, but that he will manipulate both sides to achieve his goals. It would not be beyond him, for example, to have realized what would happen to the Artan in the months past, and to have not only allowed it to happen but even have guided the method of its happening, if that apparent victory of darkness would, in the long run, lead to a greater victory of the forces of light."

Kyri shuddered. "How could anyone live with such choices, if they understood what they chose?"

The Spiritsmith looked at her gravely. "I do not think he intends to live with such choices; he simply postpones his death until all such choices are finished, and – I hope and believe – so that never again will any need to make such choices." He stood. "But he will tell you nothing unless it fits his plans. You will meet him again – of this I am certain. But you will not find him, he will find you. This guides my own decision, you see."

Tobimar looked up. "You have made a decision, then?"

"I have." The Ancient Sauran gazed at each of the three in turn. "You have need of new weapons, yes. And those, I believe, I can supply, for I see the design Khoros used, and understand what purpose lay behind that design; so, in his way, he has arranged that I do this, by sending his designs in your own equipment – echoes of work done so long ago that the world was a different place, then.

"But more, you must begin to oppose the entirety of this plan that has undermined the power of the Balanced Sword, which has beseiged Artania, thrown Aegeia into chaos, and soaked the Forest Sea in blood, and that means preparing to face them in all their guises and in those places where their evil is most ancient and strong, where they began the work of felling the powers of light."

Tobimar looked at Kyri; for a moment both exchanged puzzled gazes, but Kyri's eyes suddenly widened. "You mean –"

"Khoros' commands to you, Tobimar, were clear enough; you simply had not the knowledge to understand them. But the same forces are moving now, and you have met them, and in the end you must face them down, drive them from the lands of your forefathers."

Now he undersood, and saw the Phoenix' face pale. "So it's true?"

"I know little of it; Chaoswars have passed, and even this memory was faded from my mind until your presence and urgency made it clear. But there is no doubt; why else do you find the threads lead here? What importance is there in Evanwyl, what importance was there ever in that small country, save for two and only two things: the first the presence of Myrionar, the highest holding of the Balanced Sword, and the second being that singular gap, the only passage through the Khalal range, through which once flowed riches and heroes, and now is a place of terror and death, Rivendream Pass and, on the other side, Moonshade Hollow, what is left of the lands of the Lords of the Sky, whose name echoed your own, Tobimar Silverun."

As the Spiritsmith spoke these words, so heavy with ancient legend and fear, Tobimar felt as though the cavern swayed with the import.

Then he realized that the cavern had swayed. The hanging lights were swinging, and both he and Kyri were suddenly on their feet. "What…"

The earth shuddered again, and this time a wave of nausea and foreboding washed over him, pressing on his spirit. As he fought it off, he saw Kyri stagger and lean against the table. Poplock shivered.

The Spiritsmith looked even sicker; he stumbled, fell to the floor, took long minutes to rise. But he lunged back to his feet and charged for the exit. "Come. Quickly!"

The three raced after the Ancient Sauran, as yet another shockwave of force and wrongness passed through the mountain. "What's happening?" Kyri asked, nameless dread in her voice.

The Spiritsmith did not answer. Poplock was muttering something that Tobimar couldn't catch.

They burst out of the entranceway onto the plateau. At that moment a final concussion of earthshock and evil knocked them from their feet, and the sky overhead flickered, as though the sun itself had been momentarily stunned.

Tobimar picked himself up slowly, reaching out and helping Kyri, who seemed even more affected. He became aware that the Spiritsmith was staring off to the West, walking almost as though in a dream towards the far side of the plateau. The massive draconian form slowed, then – shockingly – collapsed to its knees, still staring in numb disbelief.

Tobimar followed the Spiritsmith's gaze. Through the narrow gap in the mountains, a thin sliver of land was visible, cracked and seamed plain interrupted by virulent green tangle of growth, jagged tumble of stone shards hundreds of feet high, steaming pools of water and mud, flat and empty desert – an impossible and repellent patchwork of terrain that could not possibly exist together… yet did.

But it was not this which the huge creature stared at in mute horror. Beyond the abominable landscape, far away, at the very horizon or even beyond, was … darkness. Tobimar blinked. The bright sky dimmed there, dimmed and went to complete blackness, a darkness that rose up in the center to a knife-thin line that seemed to stretch upwards to the roof of heaven, draining the very light from everything around it and turning it to ebon shadow. And despite being so far away, something about the sight pressed in on the Skysand Prince's senses, as though merely to look upon it was enough to weaken life and break hope. The land shuddered again, this time with the groaning motion of an earthquake, and pebbles and rock cascaded down. "What is it? What's happening, Spiritsmith?"

The question, spoken so urgently, managed to penetrate the creature's shock; he turned his head slightly, and the deep-set eyes were wide, with a fear that nothing so ancient and powerful should be able to feel. "T'Ameris Kerveria," the Spiritsmith said quietly. And then he translated, and Tobimar understood the true meaning of horror. "The Black City. The Fortress of Kerlamion Blackstar.

"The Gateway and Nexus of all Hells is come once more to Zarathan, and Kerlamion its King sits in his throne and gazes out upon our living world."

 

 

 

POLYCHROME: Chapter 29

 

Our Hero was searching for a key…

 

 

 

——

 

 

Chapter 29.

     “Ha! You’ll need to be faster than that, Erik!”

Yeah, no kidding. Zenga was dodging most of the blows I sent at her, and I couldn’t do nearly so well dodging hers. My armor did make up some of the difference, though.

This was worthwhile practice, I had to admit. My workouts in the Rainbow Kingdom had been against Sky Fairies, and mostly near-pure blood, which meant that my True Mortal advantage was tremendously pronounced against them. Zenga, on the other hand, was more human than Faerie, and in sparring with her I almost had to invert what I’d learned in the Rainbow Kingdom. She was quicker than me, but only in a human sense; she had the reflexes of a 17 or 18 year old girl, while mine were those of a late 40s man. On the other hand, since I’d spent a year working out under the Master At Arms of the entire Kingdom, I was now in superlative shape for a late-40s former geek, which meant that even though Zenga was young and in top shape, I was undoubtedly much stronger than she was.

Still, it was basically an even match, and she’d hit me hard. I still did have a little edge with my Mortal nature, but nothing like I was used to.

We were sparring mostly hand-to-hand, since I was missing my sword – there being no point in trying to replace it with the ordinary weapons available, as those Gilgad could offer were either so mundane that they’d never survive conflict with major magic, or magical enough that I’d shatter them the first time I swung. Also, sparring with edged steel in the wilderness just didn’t strike me as a good idea anyway.

As I parried a flurry of attacks, I noted that I didn’t have any advantage in range, either. She was just about exactly my height, maybe an inch or so taller, and with long arms and legs she probably had a slight edge on me in that area.

I ducked and covered, then bulled my way forward, taking a clip on my jaw that sent pain rocketing through my ear, but didn’t stop me from barreling into her with a crude but pretty much unblockable body-check. She cushioned the blow and tried to roll off, but I caught her arm, went with her attempt to throw me and grabbed the long braid that ran down her back, pulling her off-balance and slamming her to the ground. Without armor to cushion the impact, I could hear the breath whoosh out of her, and I rolled and came up, arm drawn back, hand in blade formation. “Yield.”

She laughed. “Yield!” she agreed, bounding upright. “That’s one fall each, Erik; best of three?”

I smiled back, breathing hard, then held up my hand. “Give me a few moments first.” I pulled out my inhaler and took a couple of puffs a minute apart. The building tightness slowly retreated.

Zenga regarded me curiously. “What is that?”

“One of my Achilles’ heels,” I answered. “My own body has it in for me if I expend too much effort too fast.”

She stared. “In truth? You run or fight for too long –”

“—and I stop being able to breathe, yes. Been that way all my life.”

We started the next match, but she seemed more tentative until I kicked her in the shin. “Don’t you dare baby me, Zenga! None of our enemies will!”

With a yelp of pain, she stared at me, at first angrily and then with a devilish smile.

She won that match, too, managing to get my arm twisted up behind my back and me pinned in a way that didn’t allow me the leverage to get her off me without giving her the chance to break it. “Yield!”

“Ouch! I yield!” I smiled at her as I got up. “That’s more like it. Now let’s get some dinner; that sure worked up an appetite.”

The sun was now down past the mountains and the light starting to fade. We returned to the little fire we’d built before starting our sparring match, and I got out a round-bottomed pan something like a wok and the bottle of oil. Quick-frying or roasting was pretty much the rule on the road, unless you just ate jerky or waybread or something like that. We were carrying enough stuff to live on for a while, and if we ducked in and out of Gilgad territory we could probably catch some game or maybe buy something from farmers or woodcutters along the way.

Zenga watched with approval as I stir-fried a mix of vegetables, some dried, some reasonably fresh, some dried meat, and a couple of sliced potatoes, then added just enough water to let it cook for a bit, moistening the meat and dried veggies. I’d also made sure to bring along a few packets of dried spices; I like flavor in my food. “I’d heard that many countries consider cooking to be women’s work,” she said finally.

“Used to be the case where I came from. That actually mostly changed in my lifetime. But I’ve been cooking for most of my life; my parents always said that if I didn’t like was was for dinner, I’d better cook it myself.”

I served up the stir-fry, which hadn’t turned out badly at all given the improvisation I’d had to try with the mix of ingredients, and we ate in silence for a few minutes.

This was the first night we were truly in the wilderness; up until now we’d always been able to find a family, a cabin, somewhere to stay for the night. Without anyone else to distract me, I found myself looking at Zenga more. Which made me distinctly uncomfortable, since there was no denying she was very much worth looking at, but she was also as far as my gut said considerably less than half my age, which was definitely putting me into dirty old man territory. Yeah, Polychrome didn’t look much if any older, but after spending a year around her I knew that it would be entirely wrong to look at her as being anything like an ordinary girl her apparent age. Zenga, on the other hand, did still strike me as a teenager, or at best a very, very young woman, albeit with some considerable hardheaded common sense and discipline.

“So now we are undoubtedly alone, Lord Erik,” Zenga said, breaking me out of this uncomfortable reverie, hopefully not because I’d been staring at her too hard. “Can you tell me anything new? About this key, or about the advantages you’ve talked about having in this enterprise?”

Ah, a reasonably safe topic of conversation. “I can certainly tell you some things. As your father mentioned, I am a True Mortal – not even just a distant descendant, as you are or as were those other outsiders who came to Oz and surrounding lands over the years, but someone with, as far as any can ascertain, not a single drop of Faerie blood in him.”

I summarized the advantages this gave me, with Zenga asking a few questions that showed she actually grasped the ideas quite well. When I was done, she was looking at me with new respect – and an almost appraising look that brought back that uncomfortable feeling. “Now I do indeed understand why a single man can be so important, Erik.” She moved slightly over around the fire, closer to where I sat. A part of me had the impulse to scoot around and keep my distance, but I rejected that as just plain stupid. “What does this Prophecy say about what you are to do, though? For you have – I think quite rightly – kept much of that to yourself, but if I am to travel with you to the end, as I intend to, I would think I should know what to expect.”

She has a definite point. Well, I don’t have to tell her everything, but I can summarize that, too. I tried to soft-pedal my own potential downfall, but I couldn’t avoid the concept entirely. I’m generally a terrible liar.

She looked at me with wide eyes. “But… how can you possibly hope to win, sir? Ugu and Amanita have spent centuries mastering their powers, and you – as a True Mortal – can’t even try to use magic until… that one crucial moment. At least if I understand you correctly.”

“You’re correct,” I said, smiling slightly.

“Then… I don’t understand. Any warrior knows that sufficient skill can overcome even a vast disadvantage in strength, and even if you claim the power of Ozma herself and her connection to Faerie, still will they have great powers of their own, and hundreds of years of skill to pit against you.”

I grinned. “Imagination is the key, Princess Zenga. And of all the things I have brought from my world – of all the knowledge and skills I have ever had – that one is the greatest I have.” I remembered having a similar conversation with Poly, months ago, and for a moment I felt a terrible pang of loneliness despite Zenga being so nearby. I wanted nothing more than to see spun-gold hair and violet blue eyes laughing, talking to me, even for a moment, even though I would never dare tell her the truth. “The Prophecy promises that I have a chance to win, and so the essence of it comes down to my being able to envision ways of using that power that is given to me. You’re perfectly right; if I just try a sledgehammer without any control against them, it’s almost certain that they’ll have more than enough finesse to beat me. But… where I come from, leisure time has gone far beyond anything you know. It’s become an artform, many artforms, all devoted to entertainment. Some of these… involve a lot of imagination. And I was and always have been darn good at imaginative games. Plus…” I patted my pocket where my inhaler sat. “That kept me pretty much housebound as a child. I did very little other than read, and I read a lot of books of imagination, including of course the books of my world that dealt with Oz. So I not only have my own imagination; I have the accumulated imagination of a thousand others, and more.” I looked up into the sky, seeing the patterns watched by a hundred cultures; the might of the Zodiac as seen through a dozen sets of eyes. “And that is a weapon that none of them have ever seen.”

Zenga seemed to be trying to understand. “But how can that work? That is, surely we are not all unimaginative here.”

“Not at all,” I assured her, “but you’ve never codified it, so to speak, to the point that it was as valuable a commodity as food or weapons; it damn near is, where I come from. And when… it happens, I won’t be learning to do magic, I will become magic. Magic held in a burning case of mortal essence, but basically pure magic to be directed by thought and will. That’s the only answer that really makes sense of the Prophecy, you see.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh! That does make sense.” I noticed that somehow she seemed to have moved a bit closer without my noticing. “And what exactly are we doing here? Where is the ‘key’?”

I looked at the mountains, which were now just pure black silhouettes against the dark sky. “Somewhere out there. We need to find him.”

She blinked, something I could see clearly because she was quite nearby. “Him? Your key is a person?”

“Yes.” I looked back out into the darkness, and it struck me suddenly how isolated we were. If we’re attacked here, it’ll be just me and Zenga, and I don’t have much experience protecting anyone else. Part of me very much wished I could have left her behind. Sure, the Prophecy had led me to believe I’d find a companion there, but it didn’t state that outright. Maybe I should have considered asking someone else – say Huru, he’d have been overjoyed – to accompany me and sent Zenga back.

I glanced back at Zenga, who was waiting to see if I’d say anything else. The fact she was leaning slightly forward did not help me stay focused on the matter at hand. Why the hell did Inga send her out with me, when –

And then I remembered Polychrome, and her story of Cirrus, and Inkarbleu’s laugh, and it suddenly all made a terribly comedic sort of sense. “Oh, Jesus H. Particular Christ on a pogo stick. He did NOT do that.”

“I … beg your pardon, Erik?”

Whoops. Mr. Evil Overlord, Sir, you’re monologuing out loud again! I shook my head. “I … have suddenly had a rather disconcerting thought as to why your father and mother might have allowed you to come with me on this mission, when it could easily get you killed.” I looked up, and suddenly she was quite close. Very close.

“Disconcerting?”

“Um…” Dammit, I am not very good with words in this kind of thing, not that this kind of thing has ever really happened to me, but I know what I mean! “That, well, you’re a Princess, and if I manage to keep from dying in this mission, I’d be… well, a most eligible bachelor, so to speak.”

“And that’s disconcerting?”

I took a deep breath, which might have been a mistake, because it brought her scent to me – some sweat, but mixed with a coconut sweetness and something warmer, spicier. “Dammit. It’s disconcerting that a girl might be sent out to basically possibly get married to me because it would be a political advantage!”

She pulled back slightly. “Lord Erik, do you have an objection to women?”

“No, no, not at all.” Far from it. “But I think they should be entirely able to choose who they marry, or even just who they want to spend time with, not be ordered into it.”

She leaned back towards me. “Lord… Erik, you are correct that my mother and father partially agreed to this because of careful consideration of what our position could be if the Usurpers are defeated. But I am not a child, no matter what you may think, and the decision is entirely mine to make. And in the few weeks we have travelled, I have decided that there are many far worse choices I might make.”

She was very very close now, and her eyes were firelit pools of ebony, like the hair that tumbled over smooth chocolate shoulders and trailed down towards shadowed curves…