Eric Flint's Blog, page 238

The Seer – Snippet 47

The Seer – Snippet 47

Restarn had to name her, formalize the transition. Soon. How to get him there?

Innel could not, he now realized too clearly, let Cern name him lord commander. When the king was healthy and active it would have been clear that Cern had made the appointment with Restarn’s tacit consent, but if she did so now, everyone would think she was trying to grab the throne out from under him while he lay ill, which would open the door to challenges they could not yet face.

She might be the heir-apparent, but he was still the mutt.

He must get Cern to the throne.

#

At Innel’s direction, the doctor began to intercept the king’s advisers, explaining to them that he needed rest with no disturbances and hinting that there was a chance the disease was contagious. The king’s visitors quickly dwindled down to none.

No advisers, no servants.

No beautiful blond slaves.

Only the doctor, who Innel continued to watch for signs of disloyal behavior. He made sure she knew how well cared-for was her grandson in House Eschelatine, and that there was a position for her with the new monarch, but only if the old one did not die unexpectedly.

Innel now stood outside the king’s door, having decided it was time to see him. The doctor ran a hand through her hair, cut traditionally short, pink scalp showing through dark strands to demonstrate how healthy she was. For the sake of the listening guards, she explained to Innel that the disease might be contagious.

“My devotion to His Majesty will protect me,” Innel answered, loud enough to be heard. Then more softly: “You have all the herbs you need, yes?”

“Yes, ser.”

Inside, the room stank of illness.

“I’m sorry, ser,” the doctor said at his expression. “Perhaps we should open some windows.”

The windows were shut, heavy drapes across them, keeping it warm against the winter. But now it was spring.

“The princess would not want to further risk his health with the cold air.”

Cern, he suspected, would be happier yet if her father were bricked up in deep dungeon cell to rot. But they needed him alive, at least for now.

The shape under the covers stirred, eyes coming half open in a wrinkled face. He stared intently at Innel.

“You may go,” Innel told the doctor. The doctor bowed to the king and left, closing the door behind her.

Restarn esse Arunkel. The man who across fifty-six years of rule had extended the empire from the Dalgo Rift to the ocean, united the warring provinces, and held the seas from Perripur to Chaemendi. Was it really possible he was now so frail?

Innel bowed. “Your Majesty.”

The eyes blinked, seemed to struggled to focus, found him. Innel felt himself tense.

“How do you feel, Sire?”

“You fool. How do you think I feel? Where’s Cern? She doesn’t visit. No one visits. This your doing, Innel?”

“She is busy, Sire. Taking on the essential work of governing the empire while you recover. It is a trying time for us all.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” Restarn said sourly.

“I’m certain she will have more time after the coronation.”

“Coronation?” Restarn frowned.

Anxiety sparked in Innel. Had the illness taken the king’s memory? Had he changed his mind?

“You directed the council to begin the process of crowning her, Sire –”

“I know that,” he snapped. “I’m sick, not stupid.” A coughing fit took him. When he was done his head fell back on the pillow, breathing hard from the exertion. He turned his head sideways to look at Innel.

“So you buried your brother and married my daughter.” He chuckled, then wheezed. “Not bad for the son of a down-city mapmaker and his wet-nurse wife. Aren’t you fortunate that I took your family in, all those years ago.”

Dragged them from their home, their family business given away.

“A mapmaker whom you made a general, sire,” Innel said quietly. “A hero, you told me.”

“But not so good for your brother, eh?” Restarn said, ignoring Innel’s words. “I was betting on Pohut, you know. Not you.”

Innel struggled to keep calm, forcing a smile to his face. “And yet, here I stand, Sire. Perhaps we could discuss some of your unwritten agreements with the Houses, so we could –”

“I can just see it,” Restarn continued, starting to look pleased, “you and Pohut galloping across the empire to ask a snot-nosed commoner brat to tell your fortune. Did you ask her for the blessings of the wind and the mercy of sea as well, while you had the chance?”

With effort, Innel kept his breathing steady, letting only a shadow of confusion show on his face.

“Yes,” Restarn said slowly, watching Innel closely and ignoring — or perhaps seeing through — his show of bemusement. “I know where you went. I knew the first time you fucked my daughter. I know every boy and girl she takes to her bed. What she likes, what she hates. You thought you could keep something from me?” He laughed, then coughed again, curled in on himself while his body was wracked with another fit. Then he wiped spittle from his lips, looked at Innel. “I know everything that happens in my palace.”

“Knew,” Innel said softly.

Restarn’s smile faded.

“I have taxed you enough, Your Majesty. I will leave you to rest.” He turned.

“Innel, no. Stay. What’s happening on the borders? Tell me.” Wheezing, the king struggled to sit up. “The Gotar rebellion. Sinetel. The Houses. This foul illness has kept me flat. No one tells me anything. I don’t even have my slaves. Stay and talk to me.”

Innel turned back. “There’s a rumor, majesty. About your mages.”

“I never had mages.”

“Rumor says otherwise.”

“My enemies seek to dirty my good name.”

“Then,” Innel said, backing a step to the door, then another, giving a small bow, “you’ll be pleased to know that there’s nothing happening in Sinetel and the Houses are still standing. Rest easy, Sire.”

The king’s eyes narrowed as he inhaled sharply, no doubt to say something, but instead he started coughing again. The pain showed on his face. He turned a furious glare on Innel. “I will not have it said of me that I used mages.”

“I have no desire to give voice to such filthy lies, Your Majesty.”

“Horseshit,” Restarn said. “Give me your oath, Innel. Not that it’s much, coming from a man who would kill his own brother, but I’ll take it anyway.”

At this Innel’s anger welled up hot from deep inside. He wrestled with it for a moment. Truly, the king deserved his admiration; even sick as he was, the man still knew the exact words that would infuriate Innel. “You have my oath,” Innel said evenly.

“Gotar?”

“They are rebelling in Gotar.”

Restarn hissed. “I know that.”

“The mages. Names. Details. Sire.”

Innel wanted to be sure that any mage he hired had not previously worked for Restarn.

The king glared at him a long moment. For decades this particular royal expression had often preceded extended executions. To see it thus was extraordinary. Like a rare view from a high, thin cliff ledge, sharp rocks and ocean churning below. Innel felt something like vertigo.

Then go in with all you have.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he said with a bow, backing to the door where he turned on his heel, took the handle, and pressed it until, in the silence of the room, there was an audible click.

“Yes, yes, all right. I’ll tell you what you want to know. You may want paper. I doubt your memory is as good as mine, even now.”

Innel turned back, his own anger transformed into hard resolve. “Test me.”

At this Restarn smiled wide. While his sunken eyes and pallid skin would not have looked out of place in any down-city street beggar, no beggar’s eyes could hold such arrogance. “Sit down, Innel. I miss our talks. Tell me what’s happening in my kingdom.”

Innel felt a cold trickle of uncertainty. Restarn was not yet out of the picture. He could still shake their plans if he had a mind to. “I had understood it was to be Cern’s kingdom, and soon, your majesty.”

 

The Seer – Snippet 46

The Seer – Snippet 46

But no — had Pohut been here, he would have been fiercely proud. At least the man his brother had been before Botaros.

Innel had not forgotten the seer’s predictions about the king’s abdication to Cern.

The spring after next, or the summer following. Mere months from now.

In the anteroom, a swirl of aides separating them, Sachare hovering protectively, Innel caught Cern’s eye and smiled. She returned a glare that he knew was not meant for him. The seneschal was too busy lecturing someone else to give them any last minute instructions about the feast to follow, so Innel waded through the sea of people to reach her side. He took her hand, a gesture uninvited, one that he felt he could now risk.

“I hate this, Innel,” she whispered to him.

“One step closer, my lady,” he whispered back. To the throne.

At that she grimaced a bit, a brittle smile, but he saw through it to something like desire. He wondered what expression her face would take on when a crown was put on her head.

#

Within a month the king had changed his mind again. To wed was easy, he said, but best for Cern to make an heir first. Better yet, two or more. Don’t make my mistake, he said. A few more years of seasoning. Make her better suited to rule the empire.

Innel was unsurprised, but as the days passed Cern became more and more livid. She wandered the palace in a tight fury, clenching her fists and saying things that should not be said about one’s monarch, certainly not an Anandynar, as fond as they were of elaborate executions. Innel did not think Cern was in real danger, given how much faith the king put in his own bloodline, but it would not be wise to test that certainty.

It was now, finally, the spring of the seer’s prediction.

Innel mused on the plans that he had spent so many years assembling. Should he wait?

The spring after next, or the summer following.

He looked out his small office window to Execution Square to see how things were progressing. The twitching man was on day two of his dying efforts, suspended four feet off the ground, some thirty hooks embedded deeply in his flesh, from fingers to toes. Innel had found that a long look at one of the king’s executions helped him order his priorities.

Act now, or wait? He considered the question for a day, and then another.

If he had the girl, he could simply ask her.

At last, while Cern’s storming temper swayed him, it was the seer’s words that decided him: it was time.

On the fifth day, when the man in Execution Square had stopped moving, Innel began. He sent Srel with herbs to calm Cern. She quieted, sitting for long hours in the glassed-in gardens, staring at her birds. Innel saw to it that she was carefully watched by his guards as well as her own.

As a result of meticulous planning and sand-clock timing, Innel was nowhere near Restarn when the old king stumbled, was caught by his guards, and carried to his bed, hot with fever.

The slave who was sent to tend to him knew to kiss him as he slept, but only after applying the lip rouge Innel had given her. She didn’t know why, only that if she did as she was told, her sister would not be sent from the palace into House Helata’s navy, to serve sailors at sea.

The apothecary knew a little more: to mix with the many ingredients for the tincture for the king’s fever a new ingredient, by itself a perfectly benign herbal extract, in exchange for Innel making sure that no one would care about his drunken rant in the kitchens a few months ago in which he described the various compounds he had assembled for members of the royal family to treat various maladies, some of which were rather embarrassing.

The final ingredient was the doctor herself. He had chosen her with care; she was neither brilliant nor clumsy, and had few enemies. For her, Innel had brokered a quiet agreement with his Cohort sister Malrin of House Eschelatine to take the doctor’s newborn grandson, a baby from a match not crown-approved, and have the boy tucked into the lesser House, to seem to have been born to an approved match that wanted a baby. In exchange, the doctor would put a bit of a certain powder on her fingertips before she inspected His Royal Majesty’s mouth, to be sure his gums weren’t bleeding.

They weren’t.

The king’s condition worsened over days, and then weeks. Bedridden and still feverish, Restarn was approached by his closest advisers, many of whom Innel had spoken to, to be sure they knew which way the wind was blowing. They asked the king, might it not be time to consider abdicating to Cern?

That is, unless he had another heir in mind?

Innel had been told that even as ill as he was, Restarn had been adamant in his reply. At his command the strongbox had been brought out from under the bed. He unlocked it, thrusting the succession letter at them.

Cern was at the top of the list. The rest of the names should have stayed quietly behind the eyes of those in that room, but of course that was not the way the palace worked. Now everyone knew the entire list.

Innel gave Cern no more herbs, needing her alert. But even sober she seemed uninterested in the process by which she might become queen, despite her anger at being denied it before. She only grudgingly participated in the council sessions that the king from his bed also grudgingly allowed. The planning sessions that might, if all went well, lead to her coronation.

With the affairs of state floating between an ailing Restarn and a sullen Cern, trade and House negotiations stumbled, contracts frayed and needed focused grooming to survive. As Innel struggled to keep Cern somewhere between too tense and too withdrawn, taking on as many administrative tasks as he could, he also made sure those who supported the king most closely knew there might be a place for them under the new queen. When she was crowned.

It was like juggling oiled knives in a dark room: any slip could cut. Or kill.

#

In front of Innel was a barely touched plate of food. He rubbed his head, trying to ease the ache and strain of a day already too full.

And now this.

“Be ready,” read the simple message, written in the down-city broker’s hand. He crumpled it and tossed it in the fire along with his sense of having been given an order.

This was how it worked; money was not enough to hire a mage. Even the appalling amount with which Tok had supplied him. They must be persuaded. Seduced.

He considered who he might send to do this. Sachare, Tok, Sutarnan, Dil, and even Mulack were all quite capable of convincing people to do things they didn’t want to do. Pohut had been the best of the lot, of course. Had he been here, he would be the one to send.

No, there was no one else he could trust to do this. He would have to go himself.

Somehow. There did not seem to be an hour of the day in which he was not acting in some way essential to support Cern’s cause or to undermine one of the others’ on the succession list. Now that there was no secret who would take the throne if something happened to Cern, there were too many people eyeing the throne with interest and eyeing Cern speculatively.

He doubled her guards, taking the time to interview each one. Sachare and he had long talks about security.

He brought Cern with more rods and flats and hooks for her various and delicately balanced in-air creations, hoping to keep her entertained in her own rooms.

The other royals on the succession list — two of the king’s cousins, a great nephew now married into one of the Houses, and a toddler niece — were subject to more attention as well, which had the advantage of keeping them busy with new and fawning friends, but it also put the thought in people’s heads that there might be options to Cern becoming queen.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 13

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 13

Chapter 13

“Gharis again,” murmured Tobimar.

“Appropriate. It was the easiest of the outlying towns for us to get to from Rivendream,” Poplock said. He was feeling perhaps unreasonably cheerful and optimistic; getting out of the vile, sanity-eroding nastiness of Rivendream had that effect. Maybe Evanwyl wasn’t the sparkling perfection of Kaizatenzei, but compared to Rivendream Pass, well, close enough. “How do you want to do the reconnaissance?”

Tobimar frowned. “People there might recognize me, so I can’t go too far in.”

“Neither of us can even get close,” Rion said reluctantly. “We are…were, in my case…known throughout Evanwyl, and there’s no one that would mistake us for anyone else unless we try disguises.”

Kyri shook her head. “And against the forces we’re worried about, I don’t know if disguises would help. You’re not really much better off, Tobimar, except that you’re not so tall that you’ll stand out.”

“That’s why I’m going to only go in close enough to be able to hear if things go too badly wrong. It’s really going to be up to Poplock.”

“Yep,” agreed the little Toad, checking his pack and making sure it was well settled and its subtle camouflage was working. “As far as I know, no one except maybe the Watchland himself ever twigged to the fact that I was something more than a pet. And I’m small enough that people often don’t even notice me.”

“True,” Kyri said. “All right; Rion and I will stay back here and wait for you two. Do not take any chances you can avoid, Poplock. I don’t want an alarm or a fight if we can evade it.”

“Hey, I don’t stab people who don’t deserve it. Trust me.” He gave her a pop-eyed smile so she knew he wasn’t really annoyed; she returned the smile and bowed, then kissed Tobimar quickly.

It wasn’t a rainy night, as it had been the first time they approached the little town. Poplock pointed out a dark street that led to a tiny copse, a sort of park, not even a stone’s throw from the Southern View, the main inn and gathering spot in Gharis. Tobimar nodded. “Okay, I’ll wait there. Good luck.”

“See you in a bit.”

Poplock dropped from the Skysand prince’s shoulder and scuttled through the grass. He could make better time bouncing along the main road, but that would make him more visible. Toads didn’t stay on streets often, not when they had a choice.

A few minutes took him to the wall of the Southern View. Constructed of large logs carefully fitted and laid in an interlocking pattern, the inn also had verminseal wards on it, with some security webbing in place as well, as he could see by looking at it through one of his special lenses. But it hadn’t changed since the time they’d come here searching for Thornfalcon, as far as he could tell.

He squinted up. Sure enough, there were a couple of vents under the eaves. That allowed air circulation through the building, which could get stuffy otherwise. He climbed swiftly up to the roof using the log ends, which were also the anchors for the security and verminseal wards; this meant their outer edges weren’t inside the wards, but normally that wouldn’t matter much; the only vermin that attacked big wood blocks were kept out by the preservative paint.

Fortunately, the fact that they were relying on the cheaper security webbing meant that there were significant gaps in the coverage–significant to a toad who was less than four inches across. The webbing had a six-inch spacing, which made it almost easy to get through and enter the vent.

Remembering the mazakh ducts, Poplock looked carefully inside, but this wasn’t even really a duct, just an opening to permit good air circulation through the building; he just had to remove and replace the grating that kept debris like dust and leaves from entering.

The attic was filled with various dry goods–beans, gravelseed flour, smoked meats hanging from the ceiling, and such. It didn’t take long for Poplock to figure out how to ease his way into the gaps at the side of the floor and drop down, first to the second floor and then to the first. They build everything so open in Evanwyl. Almost unfairly easy.

He reminded himself that he was just about to hit the hard part of this job. He was now hanging upside down, looking into a pantry with a half-open door through which came the sounds of cooking, someone moving about, stirring something, rattling of pans. “More tineroots, and where’s the roast for Gillie?”

“Coming!”

Poplock poked his head back up, found that–as he had hoped–the ceiling down here was a thin layer of boards concealing the supporting beams and braces. It was only about six inches high, but that was more than enough space for him. He scuttled along, following the sounds of movement and the structural components until he figured he was over the common room where most people would gather. Hopefully I’ll get some idea of what’s going on around here.

For the first time he had a problem. Listening was all well and good, but seeing people was really important. Words could say one thing while expressions, gestures, and body posture said another, something that old Hiriista had proven when he figured out that Poplock wasn’t an ordinary toad.

The problem was that the ceiling boards were really well fitted. There was barely a hint of light seeping through them. That left only a few choices. He could try to lever one of the boards so that there was a gap he could look through; he could bore a hole through the wood and peek through, either by eye or using a small mirror; or he could take a chance at being spotted and just go to the edge of the ceiling and peek down from between the gap between the ceiling and wall.

After turning the possibilities over in his mind, he opted for the last. Levering boards you hadn’t fitted yourself could break them or cause obvious sounds or movement. Boring a hole could easily end up with splinters or shavings dropping down where someone could see them.

He scuttled quietly over to one side, which he thought would give him the best view, and then very slowly and cautiously lowered himself until he could just make out the room below.

The initial glance was encouraging; there seemed to be about as many people in the little inn as he remembered from their first visit, which meant that business was reasonably good. People’s expressions also covered the gamut but were tending towards good cheer, something he would definitely not expect had, say, a Demonlord announced its overlordship of the country and begun crushing the citizenry.

A young man and young woman–both black-haired and dark-skinned, like the majority of people in Evanwyl–were waiting tables and taking orders, directed partly by an older woman with graying hair who was also going in and out of the kitchen. I remember her…Gam, I think it was?

The man who had been here on that visit, of course, was gone; Vlay had been a collaborator with Thornfalcon, one of the few who knew of the Justiciar’s very unheroic tastes and assisted him in the procurement and disposal of people when necessary. Gam must not have known, if she’s still here.

Poplock settled himself down and listened. Tobimar knows I’ll be here a while. You couldn’t gather good intelligence if you weren’t patient. Momentarily, Poplock wondered about Kyri and Rion, but shrugged. Rion had had plenty of opportunities to betray them before. If he was really in league with their enemy, his best bet was probably to just go along with them and then backstab the party when they were already in battle with Viedraverion. If he wasn’t, well, the two had plenty to talk about; sometimes even in Rivendream Pass they’d ended up discussing their younger days to the point that Kyri almost seemed to have forgotten Tobimar was there.

“Hey, Pingall, how goes it? Have a few days next week?”

“Ah, so it’s the harvest you’re ready for? Sure, I have a day or three. Good weather we’ve been having.”

“Not like three years ago. Remember that drought? Like to have lost the whole crop.”

“Oh, yeh, that was bad. Now, not as bad as the one in 2112, though…”

Poplock moved around from point to point along the edge of the rafter space. Most of the discussions were like that–talk of crops for farmers, shipments and manufacturing points for merchants and smiths, a few children out with their parents demanding treats, an apprentice mage of some sort trying to study while her larger companion kept interrupting with questions that showed that he wasn’t perhaps bright enough to understand her answers.

Then he heard something that would have made his ears prick up, if that was something physically possible for a Toad. “…war’s not going well, I hear.”

“Oh, have you heard something since the last quarter-year?”

“My son works the road to the south, you know, and a runner came through–about beat, he was, too. Seems the rumors are true.”

Silence; Poplock noticed the whole inn had suddenly quieted. The protests of the youngest child at the far table were being shushed.

“You mean…” the questioner’s voice dropped to a penetrating whisper, “the Black City?”

“That’s what he said,” the first person, an older woman, answered. Her tone was that of someone both horrified, and incredibly pleased to be the one bearing important news. “Said that the City’s sitting right in the center of Hell itself. Said that the Sauran King marched an army right through Hell’s Edge, had them open the gates that were never opened so they could pass through.”

“Great Balance, Enn. That sounds like…”

“Chaoswar, so they say,” Enn continued, with that same horrified relish in her voice. “And that’s not all. He says the Empire sent an army through right after. Both the Dragon and the Archmage are on the move. What does that say?”

“I don’t believe it,” a deep-voiced man said, though his tone was uncertain. “The Black City’s the center of All Hells, not something sitting on this world.”

The debate went on below. The bit about the Black City wasn’t news to Poplock; he, Kyri, and Tobimar had been at the Spiritsmith’s when it happened, and the Spiritsmith himself had told them what they had seen. But the idea that the massed armies of the Dragon and of Idinus of Scimitar himself had gone together to face the threat…that was news, and not really good news. Well, it was good that someone was facing the forces of Kerlamion, but Poplock had a bad feeling that once the King of All Hells had a foothold on Zarathan he wasn’t going to be easy to kick back off.

The smiles were fewer and the atmosphere of the inn had changed. The discussion of a Chaoswar that might already be upon them had thrown a pall over the entire crowd. Some were already leaving.

Then Poplock caught a fragment of another conversation.

“…to believe. Haven’t been any travelers through Evanwyl in months.”

“Not quite true. There’s that group of youngsters that showed up over to the Balanced Meal.”

“Strange ones, those are. Though they say the one boy’s been here before.”

Been here before? Could that be…

“Oh, aye, I know the one. Looks like he could be a by-blow of old Kyril Vantage, eyes just like Miss Kyri he has.”

Poplock felt his broad face trying to split into a grin.

Xavier’s back!

 

The Seer – Snippet 45

The Seer – Snippet 45

That would make for some very interesting social events the next two evenings. Innel could imagine fights breaking out among Houses at taverns and pre-wedding celebrations, reflecting quiet arrangements made in the shadows about who should infuriate whom and how much, and what they would get in return for such efforts. The Houses could be impressively cooperative when they wanted something badly enough.

Innel had been granted only two invitations, one each for his mother and sister. He would have been insulted if there had been anyone else to invite, not already on the list. There wasn’t.

His mother had been profoundly relieved when he handed her the threefold envelope, expression as near pleasure as he had seen. For a moment it almost seemed she would look at him.

Cahlen, of course, didn’t care. He must remember to have someone dress her, in case she decided at the last minute to come anyway.

“I was in the Cohort,” he said to the seneschal. “You may have heard. I spent my life studying the damned Houses.”

The seneschal handed more papers to Srel, who exuded his usual calm. Innel again made a mental note to buy something extravagant for Srel as soon as he had the means.

“Do not swear. Not about the Houses, not about anything. Not until your wedding night, and then only if it pleases Her Grace the Princess that you do so. Do you understand me?”

Innel clamped down on the many replies that leapt to mind.

Don’t push until you must.

“Yes.”

“Now — attend to this map. It shows the locations of all the Houses in the Great Hall –”

“Because I won’t be able to tell who they are by their colors?” He could feel himself losing his patience. He looked at Srel, who was smiling faintly, as if everything were right with the world.

“Because, ser Royal Consort-to-be, I have worked very hard to achieve an equal count and arrangement among both Greater and Lesser Houses. Who stands next to whom is no accident. The ordering of the presentation of gifts was harder to arrange than the Charter Court’s opening day feast — no trivial matter that, and I have arranged three of them in my life — and you will learn the locations of the Houses so that you know what to expect and when.”

Innel clenched his teeth against what he wanted to say.

The seneschal seemed, for a moment, to be out of breath. He inhaled, then handed the last sheet to Srel with a pointed look, as if he would hold Srel personally responsible for any mistakes.

Then, to Innel: “The tailors will be in shortly to measure you.”

“Again? Do you jest?”

“Never. Innel, do attend carefully to my next words: she can divorce you far more easily than she marries you. Watch where you put your feet.”

He felt himself warm at this condescension and wondered what the man would think when Innel was made Lord Commander.

When Cern was queen there would, Innel resolved, be a new seneschal. And perhaps a new kitchen scullery boy as well.

For now, though, he would comply.

“I will step only where and when I am told to, seneschal.”

#

On the day of the his wedding Srel woke him at the fourth bell, in full dark, a lamp in his hand, and presented Innel with a message sealed with the king’s mark.

A shot of apprehension went through Innel. He ripped it open, his mind dancing across various possibilities, read it once, read it again, and handed it to Srel.

A strange, bitter feeling settled over him.

“Congratulations, ser Colonel.” Srel looked at him. “You are disappointed?”

The smallest possible promotion. In time to prevent his daughter marrying a captain. Barely.

Having had the lord commandership dangled in front of him made this seem a meager achievement, where it should have felt a victory. Innel wondered if that had been the king’s real intention, to keep Innel wanting more than he could have, with no plan of ever passing the throne to his daughter, or letting her make Innel lord commander.

But how long could the man keep ruling? His famous grandmother Nials esse Arunkel had stayed on the throne until she found someone she wanted to succeed her: her grandson Restarn. She had passed over her own children and their generation, dismissing them as unsuitable, then passed over Restarn’s older siblings as well. She stayed tight by her grandson’s side while he secured his throne, alive and active in palace politics until she was well over a hundred.

A long time.

And while it seemed unlikely, Restarn could still name someone other than Cern to succeed him.

Srel moved around the room with the ease of a silverfish, selecting underclothes for Innel, setting out various jewelry for the ceremony.

As he looked out the window at the late winter snow, he asked Srel: “Do you think it’s too late for him to cancel it again?”

“Entirely too late, ser.” Srel smiled, a rare expression on the small man.

It occurred to Innel only now that his steward had been waiting for this day nearly as long as he had.

#

In short order Innel’s room began to fill with people. Houses Sartor and Murice had both sent so many people to dress him that they could not all reach him at once. The Houses clearly wanted to make their mark on his outfit and began sniping at each other about matters of buttons and tucks.

Finally Innel growled, “I can rip it all off and let you sew it back on.”

After that they were more polite. Another hour went by with needles and other sharp objects moving around him, making Innel even more testy. All this in order to adjust an outfit that looked much the same to him as it had an hour ago.

When at last they left he was rushed to one of the Great Hall’s antechambers to wait.

Like a working animal, he thought, not liking it much. He stepped out into the hallway and found a door that opened to the Great Hall, prying open a crack to look through. For a moment all other thought fled his mind.

In the hall stood a thousand murmuring aristos, packed tight in knots of House colors, each jacket and glove, cravat and earring bright in appropriate hues, long hair swept into elaborate towers draped with chains and sparkling gemstones. In stance and expression he could read the strains and linkages between the Houses.

In the galleries above, royals sat up front, the Lesser Houses standing behind. From the banisters draped chains of the various metals from which Arunkel derived wealth, red and black flowers woven through.

It came to him then that this whole event was going to cost the king a very great deal. It was an immensely satisfying thought.

The mutt was worth something.

Then the ceremony began. First a speech by the king about the necessary patriotism of every Arunkin, then a list of the accomplishments of the Anandynar line and a summary of the history of the empire. For a time it seemed he intended to discuss every one of the nine-hundred eighty-three years.

Next, loud, brassy music from the corners of the room, followed by a long and quite tedious gift ceremony for which Innel was ready with his practiced nods.

Next, the vows, which were impressively one-sided, with Innel promising his loyalty to the king, the royal line, the empire, the Houses, and finally to Cern, while the princess offered in return the vague possibility that Innel would be allowed to come near her from time to time.

The important part, though, was when the king said the final words.

“It is done.”

And then, like that, Innel was married into the Anandynar line. Children, if Cern and he ever had any, would be legal heirs with a chance at the throne. He himself was now an almost-royal.

One more rung up the ladder.

For a moment, before he and Cern were swept out of the hall and into the now-crowded antechamber, he thought he saw his brother in the back shadows of the halls. The ache he felt within took a bite from the victory.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 12

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Tobimar heard the triple twang-twang-twang as Poplock’s clockwork crossbow fired. “Behind you!”

Tobimar whirled, silver-green swords out, slashing across the shadow wraith which was already burning white in three places, shattering it to fading shards of night. “Close.”

“We’re not done!”

Two more shadow wraiths, graverisen affected by the dark powers in Rivendream Pass, had materialized from the dimness beneath the twisted trees–trees that were now ripping their roots free of the soil and bending towards them. One wraith raised a hand and gestured, carving symbols of light in the air. It’s a mage! What–

The symbols blazed up, and instantly a roaring sphere of flame streaked towards the little party.

To Tobimar’s surprise, it was Rion who acted first. Bracing and focusing on his sword’s edge, Kyri’s brother cut down and split the attack, both fiery pieces passing harmlessly to either side. Justiciar or no, he’s damned good. The skill to cut enchantments isn’t something learned easily.

That pause had given Kyri her chance. She charged out from behind her brother, Flamewing carving straight through an outstretched, coiling branch, and bore down on the shadow wraiths. “Myrionar!” she shouted, and the immense sword burst into its own golden flame. The shadow wraiths flowed back, trying to disappear into the gloom, but the fire of Myrionar left precious little to hide in.

By then Tobimar had caught up. He sprang across the remaining distance, focusing his awareness and strength through the swords the Spiritsmith had forged, and felt the essence of the creature resist, then fail. It, too, exploded in fading mists of night. Rion harried the third while Kyri kept the hostile trees at bay; then Poplock put another of his alchemical flame-darts into the shadow wraith’s half-substantial head and Rion’s swords finished tearing it apart.

With that, the trees shuddered, sinking slowly back into the ground, moaning and leaning away from the terrible flaming sword, one of them beating ponderously against its own branches that had caught fire. Gradually the poisonously green, dimly lit jungle subsided into its eerily watchful near-silence.

Rion wiped his brow, shaking slightly. “I had wondered…if you were exaggerating. I started to think you had not when we left Kaizatenzei. Now I know you did not describe this abominable place well enough.”

“To be fair,” Poplock said soberly, “I don’t think anyone could describe this place well enough. You have to be here to understand. And honestly, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“Oh, there’s a few I would wish it on,” Kyri said grimly, looking around warily. “If I wasn’t afraid they’d find it pleasant.”

“I don’t suppose we could go back to Sha Murnitenzei?” Rion said with a wan smile. “It’s only a day and a half. They’d probably welcome the chance for another party.”

“We’d just have to come back out here again,” Tobimar said with an answering grin, as the little party began to move cautiously up the slowly increasing slope of Rivendream Pass. “And I don’t know about you, Rion, but I think I’d find it worse, having gone back into Kaizatenzei for but a day or so.”

“I can’t disagree,” Rion said after a moment, with another shiver. He looked up the tangled slope where only the faintest of trails was visible. “How far is it?”

Kyri answered, though her eyes were still scanning the brush as they moved upslope. “Well, we didn’t measure it…but that’s the pass through the Khalals, so we’re crossing through a mountain range, at least partly–even if this valley sort of dents the Kalals in. A hundred and fifty miles? Two hundred? Weeks of travel, anyway. Maybe we can move a little faster since we’ve done this before, and we’ve got you with us, but…”

Rion’s eyes widened, then his jaw set. “Weeks. In this place. Myrionar’s Mercy. And you three came through here without even knowing that Kaizatenzei was on the other side? Maybe I wasn’t really worthy of being a Justiciar, because I’m not sure I’d have had the courage to do that.”

Kyri flashed him one of the smiles that seemed reserved for her big brother–filled not just with affection, but admiration that only a younger sibling could have for their older, better brother. “You would’ve done it alone, if you had to. I know you, Rion.”

Rion glanced at Tobimar, as if to say well, if she says so, and then chuckled. The sound was both a relief and somehow alien in Rivendream Pass. “I suppose if anyone does, it’s my sister. So…” he glanced around, including Poplock in his survey, “…do we have a plan as to our next moves?”

Poplock shifted on his shoulder; Tobimar caught Kyri’s eye; she nodded. At that, Poplock relaxed slightly. “Okay,” the little Toad said. “I guess we should bring you up to date. Sorry, but we’ve done those kind of discussions mostly among us three. We should probably include you from now on.”

Rion shook his head. “I can’t blame you. I wouldn’t entirely trust me either, yet.”

“I trust you, Rion,” Kyri said firmly.

“You are prejudiced,” Poplock said just as firmly. “And you know it. It’s good you trust him. Just as long as you know we don’t, yet. Honestly, until we’ve dealt with this Viedra guy, I’m not going to relax.”

Kyri sighed, then stuck Flamewing into a suspicious-looking bulge on a tree root; the bulge screeched and splayed multiple clawed legs before collapsing. “Agreed. You shouldn’t.”

“All right.” The Toad shifted to the shoulder nearest to Rion. “So, our next moves–after not dying in Rivendream, that is. The plan’s pretty simple, based on what we’ve learned. Oh, first–that other figure that Thorny was talking to when you caught them out. Could it have been the Watchland?”

Rion thought, then shook his head. “No. My gut feeling was Skyharrier, and the height and build…they’re not right for the Watchland.” He looked apologetic. “Of course…there’s no certainty that I remember everything right either.”

“No, there isn’t,” agreed Tobimar. “Given that you’re at least in some way a construct, there’s a lot that Wieran could have changed, especially with a major demon helping.”

Kyri frowned. “So, no evidence one way or the other on the Watchland there.”

Tobimar shrugged. “No, but honestly? Miri’s evidence is more than enough, if we trust her–and I do, and I think the rest of us do, too.” Kyri nodded.

“Anyway,” Poplock said with a slight emphasis, “the plan is first to scout out Evanwyl–see if everything looks okay. If it is, we’ll sneak in a little farther, see if Xavier and any of his friends have shown up.” Poplock gave the broadest grin his not-terribly-mobile lips allowed. “They’ll kinda stand out, so that’s not going to be too hard.”

“If they are there?”

“Well, we make contact right away, clue ’em in. Believe me, if we can get Xavier in on the party, we want him in on it. You’ll like him, he’s a neat guy, warrior, looks kinda like your sister Urelle, fights like Tobimar.”

“Except better,” Tobimar said.

“Different,” Kyri corrected him. “You both learned the same basic discipline, but he was taught different parts. It’s true he has a couple of pretty frightening tricks, though.”

Poplock looked at them like a sage interrupted in a lecture. “If I could finish?”

“Sorry,” Tobimar said contritely.

“So, as I was saying, if Xavier and his friends are there, we make contact. Might have to spend some time talking with them, get to know ’em–you can’t work well with people you don’t really understand, after all.

“After that, or if they’re not there, we’ll be ready to start the dangerous part of the operation–the parts that might or will tip off our enemies that we’ve got ’em pegged. First, we go to the Temple of Myrionar and see if Arbiter Kelsley will let us dig through the Temple records. Somewhere in there they’ve got to have some idea of where the Justiciar’s Retreat is.”

Rion nodded. “We can’t confront our enemies if we can’t find them.”

“Right. So, whatever comes of that, our next stop is the Watchland himself. Preferably not in his home, of course.”

“You’re going to confront him before going to the Retreat?”

“Of course,” Kyri said firmly. “There’s only three possibilities, Rion. The first is that I’m right that there’re two sides to the Watchland, good and bad–and maybe we can use the good side against the bad. The second and third possibilities come from the chance that either I’m wrong, or whatever’s good in him can’t really stand up to Viedraverion. In that case, either he will decide to take us on immediately, or he’ll decide to run for the Retreat. I am pretty sure that no matter what tricks he may have in place, he will not be able to keep me from finding the Retreat if I’m following him closely enough. If he leads us to the Retreat, or we beat him and can find our way there with Kelsley’s help…well, then the final chapter of this plays out one way or the other.”

Rion nodded. “I see. But what if…well, he’s made his move? What if Evanwyl…isn’t Evanwyl?” He was obviously tormented by the thought, and Tobimar couldn’t blame him; Tobimar probably had the same expression when he wondered what had happened to Skysand in the time he’d been gone.

Kyri’s face was suddenly cold and hard as stone. “Then we go straight for the Watchland, no pauses, no chance for anyone to raise an alarm or prepare. At the most we try to scout things out as carefully as we can beforehand, but we can’t take a risk of alerting them. There’s only four of us; we can’t afford to give them time to get a larger force against us, even if we’re stronger individually. And yes, Rion, Tobimar, I understand that depending on…what Viedraverion is, and what allies he may have and powers he may use, we may end up fighting our own friends.” She held them all with her gaze. “If that’s the case…we try not to hurt them. But we have to win, or this was all for nothing. We continue until we are all down…or we’ve won.”

The three others looked at each other, and then nodded. “Agreed.”

Rion touched her arm. “You know…that means we might have to fight Lythos.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“He could kill us.”

She looked momentarily infinitely sad. “No, Rion. I don’t think he could. Not me, anyway. Oh, he’s a better warrior than me–than probably all of us put together. But if you remember, Lythos himself told us ‘enough skill can overcome power. But enough power can overcome skill. Those who have both…they are the masters.’ Well, Tobimar and I fought an Elderwyrm and lived. I think we’re…well, out of his reach, no matter what his skill.”

Rion stared at her, then shook his head with a grin. “I…still have a hard time grasping that.”

Tobimar snorted. “So do we. There are times it still doesn’t seem quite real. Even though we fought it, and you and I crossed the scars on the landscape the monster left. I don’t think our minds are really meant to be able to comprehend something on that scale.”

“Oh, it happened,” Poplock said calmly. “Otherwise I’d still have that crystal, and wouldn’t have had to replace that Gemcalling matrix.” He patted the elaborate ring around his upper arm, a ring with a glittering blue-purple gem set in it. “And wouldn’t have the scars where my arm got shattered.”

“In any case…don’t worry about it, Rion,” Kyri said, and hugged her brother. “Time enough for that when we get there.”

Tobimar agreed with her. Right now, they had to stay alive–though that really should be easier now, given the powers they’d learned to use. But no point in borrowing trouble from the future.

Whatever was waiting for them…wouldn’t be waiting much longer.

 

Eric Flint Newsletter – 6 JANUARY 2016

First, I need to explain some recent changes in my schedule of appearances. I was planning to attend comic cons in Miami and Pensacola in January and February, but that’s fallen through. The people organizing my schedule for those events didn’t have enough time to get it put together. Instead, they’re scheduling me for appearances at two other comic cons later in the year:

Salt Lake Comic Con, which takes place in Salt Lake City, Utah on March 24-26.

Indiana Comic Con, which takes place in Indianapolis, Indiana on April 29-May 1.

See the Appearances section in the web site for more details.

In other news of the day…

I just turned in the manuscript for The Alexander Inheritance. That’s a novel I wrote with Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett, with whom I’ve also collaborated on three novels in the Ring of Fire series: 1636: The Kremlin Games, 1636: The Viennese Waltz and the forthcoming (no date set yet) 1637: The Volga Rules.

The Alexander Inheritance is not part of the Ring of Fire series, but is related to it. Like the novel Time Spike, which I wrote with Marilyn Kosmatka, The Alexander Inheritance posits that another Assiti Shard strikes the Earth, this time in the near future, and transposes a cruise ship in the Caribbean into the Mediterranean just after the death of Alexander the Great. That period in history is often called “The Age of the Diadochi”—that’s a Greek term that means “successors”—and it was one of the most savage periods in human history. By the time Alexander’s generals finished carving up his empire, Alexander’s entire family had been wiped out—wife, sister, mother, half-brother, son, you name it—and only three generals survived out of the dozens who started the civil war.

Think of it as Game of Thrones on steroids.

I’m now back to work on The Gods of Sagittarius, which is a novel I’m writing with Mike Resnick. This is unrelated to any other work I’ve done. For lack of a better term, it’s a space opera—although one with its tongue firmly in its cheek. Think of it as Galactic Indiana Jones and the Alien Terminator Seeking the Divine Old Ones For (respectively) Enlightenment and Vengeance and you won’t go too far wrong.

Here’s an excerpt from an early chapter in the novel:

It took Occo less than fifteen medims to reach orbit and not more than another twenty to dock with their spacecraft.

Getting aboard the spacecraft was not difficult, leaving aside the task of squeezing out of the flyer itself. The spacecraft was also of Chlarrac design and manufacture, but the Naccor Jute had been willing to expend more credit to have it configured for Nac Zhe Anglan occupants. Senior castigants like Occo were hardly showered with luxuries, but they weren’t subject to the worst frugalities, either.

They received a few perquisites, too. One of them was the privilege of naming their spacecraft. When Occo was given this one after her ordination, she had named it Kurryoccoc: Shadow Wife.

It now needed to be renamed also. As she began the launch sequence, she pondered the possibilities.

Battan Kruy: Widow of Slaughter. That had a nice reek to it, like the stench of butchery.

Or possibly she should stray farther afield, sever all ties to her personal history…

Perhaps… Hrikk u Cha? Trader in Death?

Then a whimsical thought came to her. She swiveled her head to face Bresk. “What did you say that Human monster was named?”

“Grendel.”

“Grendel it is, then.” She brought her head back to face the computer. “Record name change of spacecraft. Eradicate Kurryoccoc. Replace with—”

Her familiar farted derision. “If you insist on pursuing this madness, at least name the ship after the greater monster in the legend.”

She paused. “There’s a greater one?”

“Sure. Grendel’s Mother.”

A new question occurred to her. “That’s right, I forgot. Humans have two genders also. Which was Grendel?”

“Male.”

That wouldn’t do at all.

“Ship,” she commanded, “rename yourself Grendel’s Mother. And set course for the wormhole terminus.” She didn’t need to specify which terminus since Flaak’s system had only one. Which, of course, was another reason it had been chosen as the location for the home cloister.

Again, in vain. Now that she was finally leaving, having settled on her course of action, she allowed herself to be flooded with sorrow.

To sorrow, alas, was added vexation.

“Oh, yes, Grendel’s Mother was by far the nastier monster!” Bresk enthused. “Just listen to this:

“                                Grendles mðdor,

ides, āglæc-wif                yrmþe gemunde

sē þe wæter-egesan        wumian scolde…”

Although I only write one story at a time, because I do so much collaborative work I’m always simultaneously working on other manuscripts, mostly in an editing capacity. At the moment, I’m engaged in three such projects:

Also with Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett, I’m working on a novel titled The Demons of Paris. This is something of a cross between alternate history and urban fantasy—allowing for medieval values of “urban.” Due to some sort of (as yet unexplained) cosmic disorder, two universes seem to have intersected with each other. One of the effects is to send a minivan full of modern teenagers back into a fourteenth century Paris which has suddenly been afflicted by demons. A number of these demons discover that modern gadgetry, mechanical as well as electronic, makes for a marvelous symbiosis.

So, the van is now Albert; one of the cell phones claims to be the angel Raphico, and a teenager with a hearing problem discovers that his cochlear implant is now answering to the name of Merlin…

Gorg and Paula are writing the first draft, and so far they’re up to about 80,000 words. Parts of it need a little reworking, but overall it’s shaping up very nicely.

I’m also working with Alistair Kimble on our (unrelated) urban fantasy Iron Angels. And I’m helping Anette Pedersen finish her novel in the Ring of Fire series titled 1635: The Wars For the Rhine.

I hope to turn in Anette’s novel soon. We’re just working on the final polish. Some of that is needed because I wound up using a character Anette introduced in this novel as one of the two lead characters in my short novel “Scarface,” which appears in Ring of Fire IV, which will be coming out in May of this year. This won’t be the first time in the Ring of Fire series that a sequel got published before its prequel, and I doubt very much if it will be the last.

In short, I am not idle. And thus, doing my bit to thwart the Debbil.

The Seer – Snippet 44

The Seer – Snippet 44

“No, no,” said Tok helpfully, pouring a liberal amount of ale into Mulack’s goblet.

Glass number five. Ale, not wine.

“To our brother, Innel,” said Taba, raising her glass to Innel with a sideways look at Mulack. “May he continue to bring honor to our beloved empire.”

“And may the stench of his astonishingly good fortune permeate all our lives in like fashion,” said Sutarnan with uncommon passion.

Innel remembered something Pohut used to say: Poverty and power both require arrogance. Moving between them, though, often requires the appearance of humility. He gave Sutarnan what he hoped was a modest smile.

“Good fortune!” cried Mulack with a large grin, the gesture overly wide, glass raised so quickly there was wine dribbling over his fingers. “To the heir’s new and virile stud-to-be. May he succeed where all others have failed.”

It was close enough to what should never be said aloud, about the king’s lack of heirs, that the laughter at the table died suddenly.

For some reason everyone looked at Innel.

“Do explain your meaning, Mulack,” Innel said pleasantly.

“Why — marrying the princess, of course.” He gestured around the table with his wet hand still clutched around his goblet. “A feat at which every one of us has marvelously failed.” As if he were a lamp suddenly snuffed out, Mulack’s drunken expression and smile vanished. “Where you, Innel, have succeeded so splendidly.”

Looking over the rim of his goblet at Innel, Mulack emptied his glass.

#

The wedding, initially postponed because of Innel’s campaign, was postponed again. First a tenday. Then two.

There was always a good reason, and of course it was always the king’s decision.

Innel was sorely tempted to push, to point out that he’d done everything the king had commanded. Had butchered Arteni townspeople to prove his loyalty to the crown, to demonstrate his leadership ability.

Had gotten Cern to say yes.

He already knew what his brother would say; he had said it often: Don’t push until you must. Then go in with all you have.

It was not time to push, so he must be patient. He had Cern’s good will in his pocket now, and prudence dictated holding steady, seeming to be confident in the outcome. He put his focus on keeping both Cern and the king happy, as he gathered what support he could.

An odd position, this one in which he found himself: as long as he was on track to marry Cern, and she on track to become queen, his influence grew, but his coin did not.

With one notable, recent exception. “Make your hire,” Tok had told him softly. “I have funds in hand.” Meaning the mage.

He would have Srel send word to a down-city broker he knew, rather than go through Bolah. Best not to always use the same path to a destination.

No, on second thought, he would tell Bolah as well and see which pathway succeeded first.

Best to have them search outside the city. Any mage in Yarpin was likely already aligned with the old king. Innel needed someone new, someone who did not already know the Anandynars.

Then, one evening, alone with Srel, frustrated, he asked, “Is this damned thing going to happen or not?”

Outside swirls of snow flew sideways past the window. In the gardens below a dusting of white collected.

Srel followed his look, then poured hot spiced wine from a flagon with one hand while he dribbled cream from a small cylinder with the other.

“Coin has been committed to the feast, and a fair bit of it. That would seem a strong indicator of yes.”

“Then why is the king still delaying?”

“Oh, that. Well, ser…” A small smile.

“He has mixed feelings?”

“Very much so, I think.”

“The mutts,” Innel said, using the title no one would now dare speak.

Srel made a sound indicating disagreement. “I think he likes being king, ser.”

After all the times Restarn had pushed Cern to choose a mate and promised her the throne if she did, a wed Cern was one less excuse. He wanted his daughter to continue his bloodline, but was loathe to give up the crown.

There was, Innel suspected, another reason. He thought Cern weak.

It was no secret he had long hoped Cern would blossom into a replica of the Grandmother Queen Nials esse Arunkel, a powerful ruler who kept the empire strong and expanding.

Innel had watched the king as he scrutinized his dogs in the fighting pits to determine which would be given the chance to sire the next bitch’s litter. Innel had seen the intensity of his attention. Restarn cared about one thing: winning. As long as you managed that, some rules could be bent along the way.

Suddenly Innel understood that bringing back his brother’s body had not made the king doubt Innel at all, but rather the opposite; it was what had convinced him that Innel was a suitable mate for Cern. The king thought he had sacrificed his brother to win her.

At this thought Innel felt sickened, closely followed by the fear that if he looked deep into himself, he would find it was true.

He pushed it all away. It didn’t matter; it was the past. There was one direction open to him now, one path, and he’d staked everything he had on it. Unlike the rest of the Cohort with their Houses and wealth, he had no second-best option.

#

“After that, the Lesser Houses will enter here and here, march around the columns here, stand staggered thus and so behind the Great Houses.” The king’s seneschal looked up sourly from his diagrams at Innel as if doubting he understood.

One wedding date had replaced another so many times that Innel had stopped paying them much attention, so he was more than a little surprised to be standing in the seneschal’s office surrounded by a handful of assistants, the wedding still scheduled for the morning after next.

Might it actually happen?

Most of those who directly served the king, like the seneschal, had offices lining the side of the palace that looked over the walls of the palace grounds onto Execution Square. Innel was looking out just such a window, wondering when they were going to take down the two ice-covered torsos hanging on the square’s display wall.

“And so the Great Houses are in front, represented by a count of — Innel, what is the count from each of the Houses?”

“Twenty-five per House,” he answered, without looking away from the frozen bodies. “The Lessers each have ten.” It was like being drilled, back in Cohort days; a part of his mind was always ready with a correct answer, trained by pain and hunger to never be without.

“Everything must be done exactly as specified. Any mistake will reflect poorly on the king.”

How many times had he heard that admonition?

“Yes,” he said.

“You must nod your head exactly the same amount for each gift from each of the Greater Houses. And likewise, but in lesser measure, for each of the Lesser Houses. Did you practice with a mirror?”

In his peripheral vision, Innel could see the gaunt man look at Srel for an answer.

“Yes,” Innel replied, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt.

“Now we will review the vows –”

“I know them.”

“We will go over them again. There must be no deviation. Not a word. You see where this mark is between the words? That means you inhale at that time. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Innel wondered if the Grandmother Queen had been as creative in her executions as was her grandson. He should ask his Cohort brother Putar, who had made a particularly detailed study of those histories.

“Srel, be sure he has them memorized.” A rustling sound told him that the seneschal had handed Srel yet another set of papers. “Now — the roster of attendees.”

A paper was being held up in front of Innel’s face, blocking his view.

“I know them,” Innel said.

“Be sure you do, ser. This list is as if chiseled in stone, and yet it may change at the last minute. So memorize also this secondary roster — “Another piece of paper with hundreds of names on it,” — of those who have requested to attend should something happen to those who have been directly invited.”

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 11

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Once more the scroll remained silvery, blank, even as the voice spoke from it. “A few weeks only, now.”

“Really? You have made good time. The matrix remains intact?”

“Astonishingly so. I need only focus on my intended path and impression, and it brings forth the words, the posture, the gestures…everything I need.” The voice paused, and in the silence it read something else.

“You sound troubled, my friend.”

“It brings forth…feelings, as well. I cannot fight those any more than the thoughts, without risking discovery. Yet…”

“You are not being…affected by these feelings, are you?”

The hesitation was a far clearer signal than the answer. “I…I am trying not to be. I know the penalty for failure. But…she was…very important to him.”

“Of course she was. But you must not allow this to affect your own emotions. You know how dangerous that would be–and not merely because you might be discovered.” It was just as well that its unseen agent could not see it either, or it might have found the broad, vindicated grin the creature wore to be incongruous, even eerily unsettling, in comparison with the concerned, warning tone of its voice. Perfect. He will hold out for a bit longer, but fall eventually–as I have expected.

“Yes, I know. I will not allow it to affect me. Other than that, everything seems perfectly on schedule. They…” A pause, in which the creature could hear some other distant sounds. “…sorry, I must go.”

The scroll went inert, now a simple metallic object. It leaned back and laughed, then shook its head. Only a few weeks? I will have to prepare soon!

It stood and began to leave, but it had taken no more than two steps when the scroll chimed an emergency alert–something most unusual. It immediately returned to the table and passed its hand over the surface. “I am here.”

The face revealed on the scroll was of Chissith, a sand-demon of moderate power but excellent tactical skills, second or third in command of Yergoth’s forces–forces that were supposedly in the process of crushing Skysand.

Chissith did not look like someone who was busy crushing a country; on the contrary, the congealed, unshifting mess on one side of its normally fluid visage looked like someone else had been doing the crushing. “L-Lord Viedra…help me…”

“What a surprise, Chissith. I hadn’t expected Yergoth to hand this scroll over to anyone else.” It smiled broadly.

“Yergoth…dessstroyed,” Chissith said, voice slow, hissing and moaning like the wind over sand in pain and disbelief. “Mosssst of the forcesss…annihilated…” It glanced away, as though fearing pursuit.

“Dear me. And last I had heard there was just ‘a little unexpected resistance,’ and ‘we are assured of victory shortly.” What terrible powers could have intervened there, Chissith? Did one of the gods violate the Pact?” It couldn’t keep its grin from widening yet more.

“No…gods…jusssst two–” The sand-demon’s remaining eye widened. “Noooooooo–”

There was a momentary flash of movement that to the creature’s eye looked like a river in flood, and the connection abruptly ceased, leaving the scroll as reflectively blank as ever.

Well, well. That was a bit of a surprise. Not entirely, true, but I would have expected something not quite so utterly overwhelming. But…the same sort of thing seems to have happened at Artania. Balgoltha’s forces were abruptly shattered just yesterday and none of the survivors gave a coherent account of what actually happened.

It seems that the plan is–

Without warning, the scroll darkened, to show a figure visible only as the darkest outline within darkness, the eyes blank wells of brilliant blue fire; an eerie, sussurant howl accompanied the vision. “Viedraverion.”

“Ahh, Your Majesty, I had been expecting your call.”

Kerlamion’s rumbling, echoing voice, the sound of an endless fall and the destruction of air, held no trace of levity or amusement; it was filled with tightly leashed rage. “You would do well to moderate your tone, Viedraverion. I have tolerated your behavior due to your successes, but I now see a series of failures, and the armies of the Empire and the Dragon both surround my walls.”

“We knew that turn of events was to happen already, however.” It was still smiling, and the blue-flame eyes narrowed dangerously.

“That turn of events, yes, but your plan also included other events–ones that would also have freed other forces to act to assist against this siege. Instead, I have heard a litany of failures!”

“A litany? How terrible.”

The shadowy figure leaned forward, and the unseen lips drew back in a snarl that showed the same deadly glow within the mouth. “Have a care, Viedraverion! Neither your record nor your blood makes you immune to my wrath, and I near the end of my patience! This very moment I felt the fall of Yergoth of the Endless Desert; a short time agone, Balgotha fell and his spirit has not been seen in my halls; no word has come from the Academy, and I have heard stirrings from far Aegeia that things are not all as they should be. Explain yourself, or you shall suffer my anger first!”

As good a time as any; the King will be most busy from now until at least a few weeks hence…and it seems that a few weeks is all I will need. “Explain myself? Very well, Kerlamion. The explanation, really, is quite simple. I gave you a plan that stood a reasonable chance of success on its own, and allowed you to follow it, as your success–or failure–did not matter at all to me, but keeping you occupied with something did matter. Now, however, I have no more need to waste time with your puerile dreams of conquest, which are–as I expected–coming apart at a rather startling rate.”

Kerlamion leaned back slowly, glowing eyes narrowing. “You are not insane. Yet these actions would seem to shout of insanity. You say the plan had a reasonable chance of success, yet it is failing almost simultaneously across all of Zarathan. Why would you do this? To weaken me? Are you entertaining a mad belief that you could usurp my throne?”

It laughed long and loud. “Oh, Lord Kerlamion, I have not the faintest interest in your throne. I said the plan had a good chance of success on its own. But many other factors are involved besides that one plan–most particularly, perhaps, Konstantin Khoros. I think you can lay the blame for the debacle of Skysand and Artania at his door, and perhaps that of Aegeia as well, though I would be unsurprised to discover that the Lady of Wisdom had a hand in it as well; that is, after all, her territory. But I have other, more pressing matters to attend to, matters in which your Hells mean really nothing at all.”

Kerlamion suddenly stood, glowering down at his own scroll. “You…who are you?”

“And now you begin to understand, Kerlamion. A bit slow to realize, but then, I have had some practice in fooling others.”

“What have you done with my first son?” The King of All Hells clenched his fists, and the air howled in blue agony.

“I? Found him nigh-dead already, defeated in his mission, humiliated by his own plans, and took what remained for my own purposes. But that was long, long ago, mighty Kerlamion, long before it was reported to you that his task-in-exile was complete.”

It allowed itself to smile broadly as Kerlamion sagged back into his throne. “You have been playing my own son for four hundred thousand years?”

“I have. And you have only suspected now because I have allowed you to.”

The massive black form bent forward, and the mouth was a blazing slit with jagged fire for fangs. “I will destroy you, whatever your true form. I will seek you out with all the power of the Hells, and there will be no place in all the myriad worlds, in all the universes beyond the Veil, where you can hide.” Kerlamion’s voice rose to an echoing thunder. “I will call forth the hosts of the Black City to search for you, yea, for a thousand times a thousand years if I must, even if I give up all I have gained and more! I will discover your name and erase you and it from–”

“Oh, but you know my name, little one,” it said, and dropped the human guise, grinning now with a mouth of blades and eyes of its own inhuman flame.

Kerlamion’s eyes widened and he staggered back. “Lightslayer.”

A light laugh. “How charming; the second time I’ve been reminded of that lovely old nickname. But yes, you know me now, Kerlamion. Now do you think you can threaten me?”

The huge dark head shook slowly from side to side.

“Excellent. Then I will not have to listen to your bluster anymore.” It began to rise.

“Wait!” Kerlamion’s voice shook with restrained rage. “You planned for my failure. Why?”

“Oh, no, Demon-King. Even now, it may be that you will find victory. My plans were sound, so far as they went, and while it is true I did not intend to stay the course, so to speak, you have managed to accomplish what has not been done in ages: bring the Black City here to Zarathan, and this time without the other gods to intervene. You have the best chance to achieve your conquest that you have ever had.”

“Why did you do all of this? What do you seek?”

It raised an admonishing finger. “Oh, now, where would be the fun in telling you? Some questions should remain unanswered. I’m sure you’ll learn when the time comes. Fare thee well, o King of All Hells; I doubt we shall speak again, at least in this age.”

It passed its hand over the surface, erasing the visage of the furious and shaken Kerlamion, and threw back its head for a thundering, inhuman laugh that shook most of the Retreat.

And so the endgame is begun.

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 38

This book should be available now so this is the last snippet.

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 38

“Which he can have, for as much as I can bargain the bribe up to. What you said was you were going to Newcastle and then Hamburg on the next collier from there, since there wasn’t a ship direct to anywhere in Germany today. And you stopped along of me because I offered Mistress Mason here when she was asking yesterday, why are them folks wanted outlaws? Well, I never, they looked so respectable an’ all. I can keep that up all day and half the night at need, everyone expects the big fellow to be a friendly idiot. Worked for me since I was big enough to get a tun up over my head on a dare, that has.”

“Well, you’re fool enough to lift a tun on your own, what do you expect people to think?” That was one of Rob’s younger brothers, whose name Darryl hadn’t got in his head, and he wasn’t much smaller than his big brother. If it came to tipping ships up and giving them a good shake, he’d probably need the help of the littlest billygoat Rob, whose name Darryl had caught as Paul. While he wasn’t much bigger than a normal human being, the size of breakfast he put down showed he was serious about catching up. If civil war did come to England, Darryl could see the MOS for these guys right way. Give ’em a cannon apiece, none of them would have any trouble firing a galloper gun off the shoulder, armor ’em up and there you go. Instant tanks.

“Whatever. You going to go looking after any false constables by the wharf? Seems to me we need a clear coast for these good people and it’s time you two got to it. Just the downriver end, mind, nobody’ll be blabbing on purpose but you know how people gossip and don’t care who’s listening. Then, when everyone’s safe aboard, we’ll go sell the story to the false constables.”

A little grumbling and the two got up and headed out to look over the neighbourhood.

Mackay insisted on being the one to write the bill of sale for the horses, since he wasn’t to have the fun of haggling a good price for them himself, and took time to give Rob a long list of instructions for the dickering he would be doing. When the tide of words ebbed, Rob blinked, was silent a moment, and then said: “When I said I wanted education, I didn’t mean right now!”

“Welcome to my life, locked in the tower for a year with Miz Mailey,” Darryl said. “I swear, that woman figured any minute she didn’t spend pounding facts into my poor brain was a minute wasted.”

“She didn’t think the time she got while you were at school was enough, did she?” Gayle asked, mischievous.

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna have me some words on that subject, next I see her. She tried to teach me a bunch of history and now I’m here livin’ it, some of it turns out not quite the way she said it, now does it? You got Puritans who’re revolutionaries in secret, Oliver Cromwell only got a year of college and spent most of that playing sports, and half of those are as likely to kill you as not, and don’t think I didn’t see what you done to that guy back in the fen, Oliver, would’ve been kinder to shoot him.”

“His own fault. I was college champion at singlestick. Nobody forced him to take up that cudgel. Wouldn’t mind another go-round with an Irishman, mind, it’s an interesting style.”

“My point exactly. Sport where you can put a dent the size of a damned fist in a steel helmet, played without helmets, and let’s see if I got this right, you win by drawing an inch of blood out of the other guy’s head? And you thought playing it at night, in a swamp, with guys who had guns, was interesting? This is why I got a problem with history. It all got made by crazy guys. Like this one.”

“Who’s after being a new Hereward, eh?” Rob grinned.

“I had more of a mind for Robin Hood,” Cromwell said. “How can I Wake if I’ve been hit on the head so much?”

“Ah, true,” Rob said, “You can go here-ward and there-ward in Lincoln green instead.”

“And now puns,” Darryl groaned. “My day is complete.”

Apart from the puns, and a little light chat about what life was like on King’s Lynn these days — tough — and conditions for dock-workers — tough, but improving with a little pressure from below — they got to where Rob’s brothers came back with the news that the Irishmen had arrived in town and were asking along completely the wrong end of the river wharf. They were starting to spread out, though.

“Aye, well, let’s be about it,” Cromwell said, rising. “I could ask, though, how is it that the justices don’t have you before them for restraint of trade? Enticement of servants?”

Rob laughed as he showed them out the door. “That’s the best part. The wharves used to insist on day-labor. Can’t entice day-labor, nor restrain trade if every man decides to refuse to work of his own accord, and who’s to say what passed between him and friends over ale the day before? They can prove nothing. And then when one wharf finds he may only have workers by engaging men for regular wages on agreed terms — and always before witnesses — then suddenly another wharf finds no day-labor will apply to him. They know what goes on, mind, but can prove nothing unlawful on oath. Perhaps a couple of fellows thought to have a shilling for informing falsely, but there’s more still will inform on the informers. And I can be a most persuading sort of fellow, when I’ve a mind.”

“Persuading?” Cromwell said, an eyebrow raised. Darryl privately thought it was a bit rich him wondering about whether or not this sort of thing was legal when he was dead set on turning rebel against the king. But he let it go.

“Thou shalt not bear false witness,” Rob said, suddenly a lot less cheerful-sounding. “A text I can preach on at very, very great length.”

“Rightly so,” Cromwell said, after a pause.

****

Half an hour later, they were aboard the Magpie, a tidy little ship made to carry a hundred and eighty tons of coal at a time. She was, of course, completely filthy with coal dust, despite the efforts of her crew of fifteen. Darryl couldn’t really follow the nautical stuff that was getting yelled as she got under way, not least because the accent was so damned off. The dialect almost sounded like some of the north-west German guys he knew, but the accent had him wishing for subtitles.

None of the other English guys understood much of what the collier’s crew were saying either, apart from Leebrick, who’d run into Tynesiders before. Mackay averred that he’d had a couple in his company, because although Newcastle was a bit outside the traditional Borders area, it was close enough that a few of them had been around when they’d been recruiting. And he’d never been able to understand a bloody word they said either, which was something coming from a man, who, when he decided to really come the Scotsman, was flat-out incomprehensible to one Darryl McCarthy, esquire.

So they all gathered at the stern rail, inhaling the pungent stink of coal — that took Darryl back to simpler times — and watched for Finnegan and his boys to get the message that their quarry was now at sea and beyond hope of capture. And, yes! Rob’s timing had been perfect. Four of them, suddenly, in the gap at the wharf where the Magpie had been, just as she edged, under nothing more than a single sail, into the current of the Great Ouse and began to drift gently down to the Wash and on her way.

“Would you say that was about fifty yards?” Cromwell asked, of nobody in particular.

Mackay gave the matter a considering look. “A little over, Mister Cromwell.”

“And, of course, we may not open fire, for fear of harming the innocent.”

“A commendable caution on your part, Mister Cromwell,” Mackay said, gravely.

“And, do we provoke them, we are too distant for them to do injury to this fine vessel, I think.”

“That would be my conclusion also.”

“Excellent,” Cromwell said.

And, to Darryl’s frank amazement, the man cupped his hands for an impromptu trumpet, and without once uttering blasphemy or obscenity, nor even violating the Profane Swearing Act all that much, let Finnegan know precisely what he thought of the man.

And he was right. None of the answering pistol fire so much as scratched the ship.

****

“That’s a collier, right?” Finnegan blew the smoke away from his face. Cromwell was still yelling, but getting fainter all the time.

“That’s what the man said,” Tully answered, “and look at the dirt of her. She carries coal, all right.”

“And high in the water, too. Ask around, but I think you’ll find she’s heading home, back to Newcastle.”

“That where we’re bound next?” Tully asked.

“No, there’s nothing in Newcastle for them. But that was for certain sure Mackay there stood by Cromwell. And that means Edinburgh. The earl’s packet on that one says he took his daughter to Edinburgh, where she fell ill. And lived, but he’ll not have brought the mite with him here to do a prison-break.”

“Edinburgh, then.”

“Aye. Even if the others take another ship from Newcastle, he and that bitch of a wife of his, her and the rifle, will go on to Edinburgh to pick up the brat. Do we lay hold of them, we’ll know where Cromwell went, which will be something, and where Leebrick and his men went, which is another thing. And, pardon my pessimism, I for one want to report failure to the earl with something to offer him to soften it.”

“And from a long way away?”

“Aye, from a long way away.”

****

“Well, we got away.” Darryl looked around at the others. “And don’t you ever tell me about harsh language again, Mister Oliver so-called-Puritan Cromwell.”

Cromwell grinned back. “Harsh language, where it is deserved, is no impropriety. It’s filth and blasphemy I object to.”

Darryl harrumphed. “I know Alex and Julie have to go on to Edinburgh, and I don’t reckon it’d be right for me not to go along in case Finnegan and his mob recognised ’em, but what about you and the kids? Can we get you away to safety?”

“For me, no. Robert?” Cromwell called his son over from where he was watching the sailors getting a full spread of sail on.

“Father?” the younger Cromwell said, presenting himself as smartly as any soldier.

“It will fall to you to look after Oliver and the little ones while I attend to my duty.”

“Aye, father. In Newcastle, perhaps? It’s our next port. The captain says we needn’t worry about pirates on this journey, with the ship empty.”

“We might be able to arrange better, actually,” Gayle put in. “We’ve got all tonight to get messages back home, and these fine tall masts for an aerial. I’m pretty sure we can find somewhere for the kids in Grantville. My brother Arnold would take them in, I think. He makes a good living in mining administration. He’s got three kids of his own but that’s a big house he’s got.”

She hesitated a moment. “I’m sure my sister Susan would take them in, too, but she’s Catholic since she married into” — here a nod toward Darryl — “that big McCarthy clan he belongs to. I don’t know if that’d be a problem for you, Oliver.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Might not be, if they don’t insist on pushing their creed onto my children. What is your brother’s faith?”

“He’s Disciples of Christ, like me.” Again, she hesitated. “That’s… ah, well, we’re Protestants and congregationalists. I’m not sure if you’d consider us ‘godly’ the way you use the term, but…”

He nodded. “Much closer than Catholics, certainly. Well, see if he’s willing. If not, I’ve no great objection to your sister.” He gave his son a rather sly smile. “I dare say Robert can withstand the blandishments of papistry.”

His son looked quite stern, in response.

Gayle chuckled. “All right, then. I’ll make the call tonight. If they can wait in Newcastle for a ship going the right way. You up to that, Robert?”

Robert nodded, now looking more solemn than stern.

Leebrick cleared his throat. “While I should like to come to Edinburgh, and I won’t speak for the other two, I’m keen to get me over to Germany. I’ve Libby to support, and I’m not doing it here. The poor girl left all her livelihood behind when she left London, and the money she had of me won’t last forever. I could go with Robert, here, help him with the guarding of the littl’uns in Grantville?”

After that, it was settling of details.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 10

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Zogen Josan stared at them from wide eyes. He hadn’t moved for several seconds.

It is, Kyri admitted to herself, an awful lot to take in at once, even if some of it tells you that you weren’t crazy.

Reflect Jenten also had the glaze-eyed look of someone hit in the head hard during sparring. He was the only other person they’d brought in to hear the story of what had happened in Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar. The ruler of Jenten’s Mill had a right to know the truth, but none of them wanted to deal with the questions the whole town would be asking.

Not entirely to her surprise, Zogen recovered first. “By the Seven Lights, Phoenix. You…you swear to us that this is all true?”

“As true as anything I have ever said, Zogen,” she said emphatically.

“It is…still so hard to believe. Our rulers demons? Yet demons who changed their minds? A Great Dragon of legend? Master Wieran the enemy?” He shook his head.

“Yet we have our own evidence for her story,” Namuhuan Jenten said with a nod in her direction. “For did not many of us see her, blazing with golden fire, stopping a moving mountain of water? Did not the Temple of Myrionar itself come awake in blue and gold and silver in that moment? Lady Phoenix, we must once more thank you and your patron Myrionar; it seems that you did not come merely to unravel small mysteries, but to set right things vastly darker.”

I’m at least getting used to the compliments so that I don’t blush all the time, but it still makes me feel so…so…fake sometimes. “Thank you, Reflect. I hope you will understand that we intend to continue on as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Zogen said, with a nod to the Reflect. “You have said nothing directly, but both the Reflect and I can hear beneath the words; you have a terrible task awaiting you on the other side of the mountains.”

“Terrible enough,” she agreed. “I felt that we had to tell the two of you the truth ourselves, though. I have only one other task here: I must speak with those who have chosen to serve in the Temple of Myrionar.”

Zogen glanced at the Reflect, who smiled. “Of what must you speak?” the former Unity Guard asked. “For while I may be a very poor imitation at the moment, I have undertaken to become a servant of Myrionar, and have been studying your writings–and praying–for the proper guidance. It may be very long before I might call myself an Arbiter, but perhaps I might claim the title of Seeker Josan without being entirely arrogant.”

“You?” She felt a huge grin spreading across her face, and heard Tobimar chuckling behind her. “Oh, Zogen, that’s…I’m so honored, I–”

“Oh, enough of your humility! Take the credit for being such an example that I had not a choice but to follow you if I were to keep my self-respect.” Despite the sharpness of his words, Zogen’s smile was affectionate. “Now ask.”

“Well…they have chosen to found a Temple in Valatar. They need the full copies of the writings I have given you–and I promise you that I’ll send copies of the real holy writings as soon as I get home–so if you could possibly…?”

“Transcribing the words and principles would seem an eminently reasonable thing for me to do, my lady Phoenix; I will learn the words more clearly, and achieve your goal. Worry no more on it, then. I will make sure that a proper and full copy of your words reaches Valatar as soon as possible.”

“So, I guess that means you’re not going back to being a Unity Guard, huh?” Poplock asked.

Zogen shrugged. “Immediately? Certainly not; I must focus on this new path until it is as clear to me as the Necklace. But later…perhaps. There will still be much work to do. Unless,” he turned to Kyri with sudden concern, “there is something in the Way of Myrionar that would forbid me to do so?”

Kyri thought. “No, I don’t think so. It’s clear that Terian himself has accepted the title of the Light as you view him, and Terian is one of Myrionar’s oldest and most renowned allies. Your ultimate loyalty would of course have to remain with the Balanced Sword, but I cannot see that properly serving the interests of the reawakening Kaizatenzei, with its rulers now serving the Light for real and true, could in any way conflict with Myrionar’s goals.” She smiled and looked over at Tobimar.

He returned the smile and turned to Zogen. “Kyri and I even discussed the possibility that someone who serves another–Terian, of course, in my case–could become a Justiciar; there seems nothing that forbids it. Myrionar, Terian, Chromaias, and the Dragon King himself all accept and work with each other; they expect us to do the same here on Zarathan. I think that Myrionar would consider it an honor to have a servant of Terian choose the calling of Justice and Vengeance…and that Terian would be equally honored to have a Justiciar choose to follow him in prayer and worship.”

“Then…perhaps I shall return to the Guard, one day. Once I feel I have truly understood the new calling I have chosen.” Zogen rose and bowed to both of them. “I thank you again, Phoenix, Tobimar. Rest assured, I shall myself carry the transcribed materials to Valatar.”

Kyri rose and took his hand. “Thank you, Zogen. To know that someone like you has taken up the Balance…it means a lot to me.”

“And to all of us,” agreed Reflect Jenten. “He’s gone from our strange recluse to our new holy man, and we have needed one. Now go, go. You traveled far out of your way to come here, and you don’t need to be mobbed by all our citizens and slowed again. Take the side door from my mansion; no one’s likely to see you there.”

“If you don’t think it will be a problem–”

“Oh, there’s plenty who will be disappointed. Just promise me you’ll return here to visit once your mission is complete, and I’ll explain it all to our townsfolk.”

She smiled, relieved. “That I can promise. Tobimar and I very much want to come back.”

“Then it is done. Go, now, and may the Light follow you.”

As they exited the meeting room, Rion looked up from where he had been playing cards with Poplock and Nimally. “Done? Just as well. These two have succeeded in halving my meager resources.”

“Oh, just a little luck,” Poplock said unconvincingly, as he scraped coins into his little pouch.

“I begin to suspect that there is no such thing as ‘luck’ where you are concerned,” Nimally said. “I cannot believe you hid your nature for your entire passage across Kaizatenzei.”

“Not entirely. Old Hiriista figured me out almost at a glance. Sharp old lizard.”

“That he is,” Nimally agreed. “And a kind healer, as well. I followed his advice and I am finally healed.”

She said these words with only a hint of a shudder. I don’t think I could speak of it so casually if I’d been through her ordeal. Nimally had been the host of the master-itrichel, the horrific mind-parasite that had used the children of Jenten’s Mill for its brood. The nightmares she must have; I would never wish that on anyone. “It is very good to see that you are healed, Nimally.”

“Thank you. I see you are leaving already?” She sighed. “And I was just thinking of the appropriate seating arrangements for the banquet.”

“Not another banquet!” said Tobimar in mock horror.

“Get on with you, then,” Nimally said with a smile. “The side door’s just that way.”

As the Reflect had indicated, there were none to see them leaving from the side door; a few minutes brisk walk took them into the woods, and an hour of more sedate progress led them to the road that would bring them back to the Necklace.

“I don’t think you’ll escape a banquet in Sha Murnitenzei,” Rion said. “From what I’ve heard, anyway.”

“No,” she agreed, “we probably won’t. That’s the first city of Kaizatenzei we saw, and the last one before we have to leave and enter the corrupted forest and go through Rivendream Pass. They’ll want to hear something of our story and celebrate, and–honestly–I’ll want one more night here in Kaizatenzei before I have to go back into…that.”

She shuddered. Rion reached out and touched her shoulder. “Is it that bad?”

“You have no idea, Rion. It’s…it’s like…” She paused a moment, searching for a way to describe the hideous wrongness of Rivendream Pass that her brother could grasp. “It’s like…that moment when Thornfalcon let you see what he really was? That instant when something normal and safe and sane suddenly turns to be completely, utterly corrupt and evil? That. Imagine the entirety of nature, every tree, every beast, every insect, the very air itself being as corrupt and hostile and lethal as Kaizatenzei is pure and uplifting.”

Rion frowned as he tried to imagine what she described. She saw a slight shiver. “If it’s that bad, I’m amazed you got here.”

“I wouldn’t have without Tobimar and Poplock.” She nodded at the other two, walking some distance ahead.

“So…do you love him? Really?”

I must really believe he’s Rion, because that question doesn’t feel like an intrusion. More like Father questioning me. “Yes, I do. Really. I know it seems abrupt to you…and I guess in a way it was. He and Poplock saved me from Thornfalcon.”

“Hm. They tell the tale slightly differently. Tobimar says you saved him.”

“Well…both are true. If Tobimar and Poplock hadn’t arrived just in time, Thornfalcon would have…tortured and sacrificed me.” She saw no point in detailing just how Thornfalcon had obviously intended to carry out the torture, but Rion’s expression showed that he could probably guess. “Then when I got free, I guess I did save them. And then all three of us barely killed Thornfalcon. After that it took all of us plus Xavier to deal with the gateway of monsters Thornfalcon had left behind.”

He looked at her, then shook his head again with a smile. “And they say you did it by yourself, with the power of Myrionar. My little sister…a Justiciar.” Rion looked at her armor. “But why Phoenix?”

“You ought to know that.”

“Well, yes. Rebirth.”

“And…?”

He looked…blank for an instant, then smacked his head. “Ugh. I’m not quite…perfect, I guess. Whatever they did to bring me back. Took me a second to remember. Things are foggy…” He blinked. “But…yes, of course. You were always the Phoenix and I was the Dragon.”

She felt a slight creeping chill. She had almost managed to forget the macabre nature of Rion’s reappearance, but this brought the disquiet back in full force. The association of Dragon and Phoenix went back to her youngest memories. It’s Rion…but is it all of him? Or is there something else there as well?

“Does this mean you’ll be having a whole new set of Justiciars?” Rion continued, apparently unaware of her thoughts. “Dibs on being Dragon, then.”

Kyri forced the thoughts back. No point in second-guessing. He’s still Rion. Just maybe a little…injured. “If you meet the qualifications.”

“Oh, ouch. Am I going to have to go through all the Trials again?”

“We’ll see. If we all live through this, I think that’ll probably qualify as trials.”

“You’re likely right.” He looked up to where sunlight trickled in green-tinted gold through the canopy. “The old Justiciars were named after birds; you’re going for, what? Legendary flying creatures?”

“Makes sense to me. Phoenix, Dragon, Thunderbird, Eonwyl–if I can get the blessing of a temple of Eonae, anyway–Griffin, things like that.” She made the sign of the Balance. “We need a clean start, and the old Raiments will at the least need to be reblessed and probably reforged by the Spiritsmith.”

He looked at her with the fond smile she remembered so well, and the cold discomfort faded almost entirely away. “And reforged in the image of our old toys.”

She realized that he was right; that set of figurines hadn’t just had the Dragon and Phoenix but all the others she had named, and more. “Oh, by Myrionar, did I actually do that?”

He laughed and impulsively flung an arm around her, hugging her close. “Of course you did, little sister. But with perfectly good reason and symbolism even a god couldn’t complain about…and,” he looked serious again, “with the heart that a Justiciar needs. I’m not a Justiciar now–I’ve tried, but the power isn’t there–but if one day I am…I know my sister’s made an example for me to live up to.”

She hugged him back; for now, things were exactly as she’d hoped, and she thanked Myrionar for that. “And I know you will live up to it.”