Eric Flint's Blog, page 283

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 02

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 02

Chapter 2.

“Down!” Kyri shouted.

Tobimar reacted just in time; the huge serpent’s venom sprayed above his head, striking the grass and bushes behind them, almost instantly turning them gray and brittle. “Terian and Chromaias!”

If that struck him, he could be killed! Not that getting hit by the thing’s immense teeth or caught by coils the thickness of a strong man’s thigh would be any better, but the virulence of the poison stunned her.

Also somewhat stunning was the pain in her heart at the thought of Tobimar dying. She was aware that this was something she should think about, should understand – but this was not the time.

The green-black monster’s head swayed back uncannily fast, evading Flamewing’s strike, then lunged forward; its teeth, in turn, rebounded from the Raiment of the Phoenix, and drops of venom dribbled harmlessly down and away. Still, the impact sent her tumbling away, a shock of pain echoing through her frame. It’s even stronger than I thought. And I thought a fifty-foot snake would be awfully strong.

Tobimar took a twin cut at the creature, distracting it from Kyri momentarily, but the monster’s scales rippled and deflected most of the force of the blow; what should have been crippling wounds became mere scratches. It slewed around and sprayed more venom at him, but the Skysand Prince anticipated the move and leapt over the downward-slanting spray.

Then the gray, dead bush reached out and grasped Tobimar.

Kyri charged forward, even as part of her stared in disbelief. The bush became its servant upon death? What monstrous thing is this?

The monster was forced to turn away from Tobimar at the last moment or have Flamewing’s blazing blade take its head, but now Tobimar was struggling in earnest. The hideous corruption in Rivendream Pass is worse than I imagined. I never thought of anything such as this. Poplock, where are you?

“Come forth, Son of Fire, and consume our enemies!” shouted a voice from somewhere in the greenery.

A glittering little red crystal flew out and shattered, expanding into a low, squat, four-legged sinuous form that was formed of pure white flame. “Ssssooo it sssshall be,” it hissed, a voice of water striking white-hot steel, and lunged at the huge serpent.

Astonishingly, the monster’s scales were at least partially proof against fire as well, for though it let loose a steam kettle whistle of pain and rage at the salamander’s attack, it did not appear terribly burned.

But it had reflexively turned towards the source of pain, and that gave Kyri the opening she had sought. Flamewing streaked out and around, a meteor and lightning bolt in one, and with a terrific impact the titanic greatsword sheared clean through the serpent. She leapt back to clear the thing’s death-throes, and the salamander scrambled up and down the twisting coils, directing its flames and reducing the corpse to ash. It then bobbed in her direction and in the direction of the voice from the bushes, and vanished in a puff of smoke.

“Well, drought, Kyri!” the little toad said plaintively as he emerged from the bushes. “If I’d known you were going to kill it that fast I might have saved him for another time.”

She shook her head with a grin. “It was that distraction that permitted the blow, o most cautious of Toads.” She looked to Tobimar, who was now standing; the gray bush had fallen apart once its master was slain. “Are you all right, Tobimar?”

“Not… entirely.”

She saw grayish trails across his cheeks and hands; fortunately the thing’s tendrils had not reached the eyes. “Hold still.”

She called upon Myrionar’s power as she touched her friend. The power came, golden light that erased gray, eased pain, restored strength and health.

But she felt resistance this time – both from the dead grayness, a pushing and denial that tried to shunt the power of the God of Justice and Vengeance away, prevent it from touching the parts of Tobimar it had claimed, and from outside, as though Myrionar were more distant. She set her jaw and drove her will against the grayness, and it shattered, passing into darkness like that which she sensed all around, and then dispersing.

The strain on her face did not escape Tobimar’s observation; one of his greatest talents was to see that which others hid, she’d noticed. “That was harder than usual, I see.”

She straightened and nodded, looking around warily. “Yes. We were warned it would be.”

She remembered how they’d finally decided it was time… A bright day, a good day, a day when things seemed right…

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 22

Spell Blind – Snippet 22

“I thought we’d stop here,” I said. “Maybe watch the sun go down before driving back for dinner.”

She nodded. “Sounds great.”

We sat on the stone, which was still warm. A nighthawk flew over, bobbing and weaving on narrow wings, and a yellow butterfly floated past. It occurred to me that I hadn’t thought about Claudia Deegan or the red sorcerer since driving out of the city.

“This was good for me,” I said. “Thanks for coming along.”

She was sitting cross-legged, and she had her eyes closed and her faced tipped toward the sun. “Thanks for bringing me.” After some time she turned to me, shading her face with a hand once more. “Can I ask you about your investigation? Off the record?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you think this man they arrested is the Blind Angel killer?”

“I know he’s not,” I said, without thinking.

Her eyebrows went up. “You know it?”

Trust and comfort could be dangerous at times.

“What I mean is I’m pretty sure he’s not the guy. He had his reasons for hating the Deegans, but that doesn’t explain the murders that came before Claudia. I just don’t think it’s him.”

I didn’t know if she agreed with my assessment or not, but I could tell she was curious about the certainty with which I’d answered the question. To my relief, she didn’t press the issue. Instead she asked, “Don’t you find it depressing spending so much time investigating killings like these?”

“I wouldn’t call it depressing,” I said. “There’s something sad about any crime, and killings are the worst. But when you’re investigating a murder, you don’t think about it that way. You try to figure out why and how, and who, of course. It’s a puzzle. And when I solve a case I feel like I’ve given something to the victim, and to the victim’s family.” I tried to smile, but I don’t think I succeeded. “These days, though, I mostly work for insurance companies, and corporations, and families falling apart at the seams.” I glanced at her. “This is the first time I’ve worked a murder since leaving the force.”

“Really? So then I suppose you’re sort of enjoying yourself.”

I gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah. Sick as that probably sounds, I’d rather be doing this than insurance work.”

The sun was slipping down behind the distant mountains — the Sand Tanks and the Saucedas, the Craters and the Mohawks — coloring each ridge line in successively paler shades of blue and purple, and painting the western sky orange and red.

“I draw,” I said, blurting it out. As soon as I spoke the words, I felt my face begin to color.

A small smile touched Billie’s lips. “Excuse me?”

“I said, that I draw. I’m not sure why I told you that. I was watching the sun go down and it popped into my head.”

“What do you draw?”

I shrugged. “Landscapes mostly. Desert scenes. I use colored pencils and charcoal. Sometimes I use watercolor paints, too.”

“Can I see your drawings?”

“Sure,” I said. “And I’d like to see more of your photos.”

Billie nodded, then turned back to the sunset.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, which is fine until twilight rolls around, at which point it makes for somewhat plain sunsets. But Billie seemed happy, and as we walked back to the car in the deepening blues of dusk she slipped her hand into mine.

I glanced down at our hands and then at her, unable to hide my surprise.

“Do you mind?”

“Hardly,” I said.

“So where are we having dinner?”

“Your choice,” I said. “My treat.”

She grinned. “All right. I know just the place.”

#

“The place,” turned out to be a Mexican dive in the western part of Mesa, on a side street off of Southern. I had to hand it to her: It was one of the few Mexican restaurants in this part of the Phoenix area that I didn’t know, and it was crowded with a mix of University students and Latino families. I had no doubt that the food would be excellent

Upon returning to the city, though, I felt myself growing tense again. I made us wait for a table in the back of the restaurant, though there were a couple of open ones near the front when we arrived. And then I insisted on sitting against the back wall, so that I could watch the door and windows.

By the time we were seated and the waitress was handing us our menus, Billie was frowning at me. No half-smile either. This was all frown.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“What?”

“That bit with the table? The fact that you practically raced me over here so that you could sit in that chair?”

“I don’t like to sit with my back to the door,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough detective flicks to know that I’m not the first person to be like that.”

“That’s a load of crap, Fearsson. What’s this about?”

I put down the menu and met her gaze. “I really don’t like to have my back to the door. And since this case has started, I’ve had the feeling, at times, that I’m being watched, followed.” Hunted.

“Do you think you’re . . . in danger?” Her frown deepened. “I feel so weird even saying it. Now I feel like I’m in one of those movies.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m scared for you, not for myself.”

Hadn’t Namid said much the same thing? Nice to know everyone was so worried about me.

“I appreciate that. I don’t know if I’m in danger or not. I haven’t been threatened or anything like that. I haven’t even seen anyone following me. It’s a feeling; nothing more.” I picked up the menu again and shook my head, eager to find some way — any way — to reassure her. “Who knows? Maybe it’s the strain of working a murder case again. I’m getting paranoid.”

She still wasn’t reading her menu. “Was that a problem for you before? Paranoia?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. You don’t seem like the paranoid type. And you also don’t seem like the type to act this way unless you were really concerned.”

Did I mention that she was smart?

“You’re right,” I said. “That’s why I wanted to sit back here, and why I feel better having a view of the door and the street.”

“Should we leave?”

I shook my head. “No. That would be giving in to my fear, and that’s exactly what I don’t want to start doing.”

She nodded.

“So what’s good here?” I asked.

Billie smiled and picked up her menu. “Everything.”

As it turned out, the food was great and the place had Dos Equis amber on tap, which you don’t find in a lot of restaurants. We stayed for two hours, talking, laughing a lot. We even spent a little time just sitting, looking into each other’s eyes. I swear. I don’t think I’d ever done that with anyone.

After dinner, I drove her home. I went so far as to walk her up to the door. My dad would have been proud.

She got out her keys, but then leaned against the door frame. “What are you doing tomorrow, Fearsson?”

“Not sure yet. I have some more digging around to do, and I have to go see a band play tomorrow night.”

Her eyebrows went up. “A band?”

“It’s work, not pleasure. I need to speak with the manager of Robo’s about the guy the police have arrested, and as it happens, Randy Deegan’s band is playing there.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I like music.”

I laughed. “I told you it was work.”

“But don’t you need a cover, someone to make it seem like you’re a regular guy going for the music?”

“You mean my girl, Friday?”

“Something like that.”

“Sure, why not? Eight o’clock?”

“It’s a date.”

Silence. Our eyes locked again.

“This was fun,” she said. “More than fun. It was . . .”

“It was the best day I’ve had in a really long time,” I said for her.

“For me, too.” She stepped forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Good night, Fearsson.”

“Good night.”

I waited until she was in the house before walking back to the Z-ster. And as I approached the car I slowed, trying again to sense the red sorcerer. Once more, I felt nothing. He was out there, of course. Somewhere. But for tonight at least, he had let me be.

I peered up at the moon, which was radiant and big, shading toward full. Just seeing it made my head start to throb. I climbed into the Z-ster and closed my eyes, taking long, slow breaths.

One more night. I’d have my date with Billie at Robo’s. And then the phasing would begin.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 22

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 22

Chapter 7 – Old Times and New Beginnings

Allenson toyed with his lunch. He regretted choosing a dish that turned out to be bacon wrapped around some sort of spiced herbal stuffing. Hawthorn eagerly cut his double-sized steak into large chunks. He pushed them greedily into his mouth, swallowing each morsel before it was properly chewed.

They chose to patronize a modest chophouse some way from the Assembly Hall and the prying eyes of other delegates. Allenson studied his friend. Hawthorn had filled out but looked solid rather than fat.

He waited until the man satisfied his immediate hunger before starting a conversation. He wasn’t sure what to say. He and Hawthorn had once been as close as brothers having grown up together and fighting side by side in the Terran War. But the man had disappeared decades ago after becoming more and more withdrawn. Hawthorn had always been something of a loner who needed time on his own but he never vanished for more than a few weeks.

“You were ravenous,” Allenson said, embarrassed at the banality of the comment but unable to do better.

Hawthorn grinned and paused, waving a chunk of meat on his fork for emphasis.

“If you’d nothing between your teeth for two days but a tart’s tongue then you’d be pretty hungry as well.”

Allenson couldn’t help but smile back despite his disapproval. He knew other gentlemen would consider him a prude because of his opinion on the use of prostitutes. And what consenting adults chose to do in their private life was hardly his business. Hawthorn had the gift of drawing Allenson out of his shell. He had missed that intimacy. He realized for the first time in a sudden burst of self-awareness how much Destry’s emigration had affected him. Allenson was a man with many acquaintances but few friends.

“You never answered my question back at the Assembly Hall. Where the hell have you been?”

Hawthorn chewed and swallowed before replying.

“Oh, on some mud ball way out in the Hinterland running a one-man trading station. You won’t have heard of it. There was no way of sending a message home and I guess I had nothing to say.  I tried to contact you when I got in this morning but the Nortanians had you all incommunicado in your meeting.”

“They are understandably worried about security. No doubt they half expect or maybe hope that the meeting will come to nothing. In that case they don’t want to be left holding the political baby if Brasilia found out and demanded explanations.”

Hawthorn laughed and shook his head before cutting off another generous piece of steak and consuming it.

“What’s so funny?” Allenson asked, slightly nettled.

Hawthorn wiped his lips on his napkin.

“It’s the naivety of you gentlemen that always astonishes me. You are like children compared to the political nouse of the average parlor maid.”

“And you aren’t a gentleman?” Allenson asked, rhetorically.

“I suppose so,” Hawthorn conceded, “by birth at least but I consort with low folk and it must have rubbed off or perhaps I just have a nasty mind.”

He laid down his utensils.

“I would bet you any odds that the head of Brasilian intelligence will have half a dozen independent transcripts of what was discussed this morning before the Paxton clerks have finished drafting the minutes. Terran Security will have copies a month later. At least three of your delegates will be Brasilian double agents. Another three will sell you out simply as insurance in case your plot fails.”

“That could help our case,” Allenson said. “Once Brasilia sees that we are serious it may bring them to serious negotiations. War’s to no one’s benefit so, logically, compromise is in all our interests.”

“There’s going to be a war,” Hawthorn said with the air of a man stating the sheer bleeding obvious.

Allenson opened his mouth to protest but Hawthorn held up a hand to check him.

“When have human beings ever chosen the sensible and logical course simply because it is in their interests. Something will go wrong or some hot-headed fool will start shooting on some imagined point of principle…”

Here Hawthorn’s lips curled displaying what he felt about those who stood on points of principle.

“and the fight will be on. When war starts it takes on a life all of its own. Who precisely did Old Earth’s Biowars benefit pray tell? They destroyed civilization and damn near caused human extinction but did that stop the ancients fighting them? Did it hell!”

There was a break in the conversation while Hawthorn polished off his meal. Allenson pushed his food around the plate some more. Hawthorn was always unsettlingly frank with his friends. He had a habit of telling truths people did not always want to hear.

“Why did you leave the ‘Stream?” Allenson asked, carefully keeping his tone flat and unemotional to disguise the hurt. “You took off without so much as a goodbye and I thought we were close friends. I thought you could confide in me.”

“We were – are – close friends, you, me and Destry,” Hawthorn replied. “That’s why I had to leave.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Destry had his societal commitments and you were building the estate and a career but after the end of the Terran Wars I had no purpose. My drinking got worse and the scrapes I got into became more embarrassing.”

He shrugged.

“It wouldn’t have ended well.”

“If you think I or Destry would abandon a friend simply because he caused us embarrassment then you didn’t know us at all,” Allenson said, hotly.

“Of course you wouldn’t abandon me. That’s the point,” Hawthorn replied. “Don’t you see? That’s why I had to leave before I did your reputations real harm by association. I had to go somewhere far away where you couldn’t find me and talk me into coming back.”

There was another pause while Allenson digested that information. Actually looked at in a certain way it made a sort of sense.

Hawthorn turned the conversation away from himself.

“So tell me about your life while I’ve been gone. I guess you and Trina are still married?”

Allenson smiled.

“One of my more successful decisions.”

“Then I suppose you have raised a brood of young Allensons. I know you always wanted children.”

Allenson lowered his head but there was no avoiding the issue.

“No, we haven’t children.”

“But Trina is fertile. As I recall she already has…”

Hawthorn firmly shut his mouth before continuing.

“Sorry, living in the back of beyond has eroded my manners.”

Allenson lifted his head and looked his friend in the eye.

“You recall there was always a puzzle about where my brother Todd had come into contact with the bioweapon residues that eventually killed him.”

“Yes,” Hawthorn said sharply.

“I believe the mystery is solved. It wasn’t Todd who was exposed to molecular damage but our father or even someone further back in our shared heritage.”

There was a deadly silence. Allenson forced himself to smile.

“Don’t look so concerned. There’s no evidence that the problem will manifest itself in me as a wasting disease like Todd. In my case the effect is more subtle.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawthorn said.

“No matter, what can’t be cured and all that, so tell me why’ve you returned now?”

Hawthorn seized gratefully on the change of subject.

“Because there’s going to be another war and you being a damned fool man of principle will be in it up to your neck. Someone has to protect your back while you strike noble poses.”

“Indeed,” Allenson laughed.

Now it was Hawthorn’s turn to reveal private matters.

“Actually I’m still drinking heavily but not so much that a course of genosurgery can’t fix any issues. And I reckon that the drinking will take care of itself with some activity to occupy my time more meaningful than measuring out cloth for clan chief’s wives.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 21

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 21

He sat back and let the delegates argue, confident that he had scored a point. Self-interest and avarice focused minds wonderfully. It was also understood that vested interests in Brasilia would hardly welcome the breaking of their cozy trade cartels so some degree of political rupture with the Homeworld was inevitable.

Buller ranted for some time on his favorite subject, the injustice caused by preferment of inbred Brasilian aristocratic half-wits blocking the rightful rise of those who deserved advancement due to superior ability. Many of the delegates nodded and muttered “hear, hear” at Buller’s eloquence, clearly identifying themselves with the group demonstrating superior ability. Allenson wondered how they would react when their own social inferiors demanded similar opportunities.

A great deal of hot air got expended over what form the governance of the independent state might take. The lower colonies’ gentry wished to preserve the status quo while the Heilbronites pushed for social revolution. For Allenson this was like debating the flavor of the icing before you decide how to bake the cake. He let his mind drift with just one small subroutine of consciousness monitoring the exchange.

Allenson came to with a start when he realized that the meeting had gone quiet. Everyone looked expectantly in his direction. He ran the recorder of his memory to extract the discussion. The delegates had been agonizing about war and whether they could ever beat Brasilia. A Heilbron Ascetic with no experience of warfare had announced that one free man could beat a hundred professional soldiers because his heart was pure and his cause just.

A cynical delegate from a Lower ‘Stream world replied that the hypothetical pure at heart colonial would indeed have to be superhuman as there were more than a hundred Brasilians for every ‘Streamer. Buller chipped in that a professional army could only be fought by a professional army with a unified chain of command, a blatant job application.

The reputation Allenson earned in the Terran War, undeservedly in his opinion but there it was, made him the local authority on colonial warfare to Buller’s obvious annoyance. That was why all the delegates waited upon his opinion. Fortunately the prolonged pause before replying made him look statesmanlike and thoughtful rather than slow-witted.

“It depends what you mean by victory,” he finally replied. “I take it no one has delusions of crossing the Bight and conquering a Homeworld?”

This provoked the expected laughter.

“To win we do not have to beat Brasilia. We merely have to survive and make a Brasilian victory too costly to be worth the effort. Military power is eroded by distance and the Bight is a sizable obstacle. Brasilia would have considerable logistical difficulties supplying large conventional forces here given the low industrialization in the colonies. I saw that for myself in the Terran War.”

Buller nodded in support, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

“There is also the fact that Brasilia has far more powerful rivals than us to contend with who are much closer to home – Terra for one.  For all these reasons then, yes, I believe we could beat Brasilia provided we define victory carefully. I would also add that in my opinion Colonel Buller has a point. Revolutionary fervor is fine but is no substitute for discipline, training and professionalism.”

Here he paused and looked around the chamber at each delegate in turn.

“However, no one who has seen the brutality and wastefulness of war would ever want to provoke another one. Provided we are reasonable in our demands and don’t push Brasilia too far I believe we can achieve effective political and economic independence while leaving Brasilia a face-saving formula recognizing its nominal sovereignty. Frankly, we are not important enough for Brasilia to go to the wall over. I would add that political negotiation is recognized as completely different from armed rebellion in one important sense. They don’t hang you for it or confiscate your property if you lose.”

#

The meeting ground on but eventually broke up for lunch.  Allenson noted a messenger hurrying to the Heilbron delegates once the hall doors were unlocked. He idly wondered what could be so urgent. However Todd intercepted him by the door so he put the matter out of his mind.

“No doubt you recall that you have a luncheon meeting with two Paxton bankers,” Todd broke off to check his datapad.

Allenson inwardly groaned. The things he did for his country. A networking lunch with a couple of merchant bankers was about as attractive as catching his privates in a rock grinder. Todd flicked his finger over the pad, sifting through pages.

“They are Sar Josson of Bank Agricole and Sar Huang of Emerald Office.”

“Fine, lead me to them,” Allenson said, practicing planting a phony smile on his face. He would have master this skill in the next few days.

Todd guided him to where the two men sat in the anteroom. They rose and extended their hands as Allenson approached. Josson was tall and lean, almost cadaverous with sunken cheeks and a concave chest. Huang was physically his opposite, a short tubby rolly-polly sort of man who looked as if he would bounce upright if pushed over. In his head Allenson christened them Little and Large as a mnemonic aid. He couldn’t help thinking that they would cut an impressive figure if fused into a single body.

The men presented their cards. Allenson patted his pocket prior to explaining that he had omitted to bring his own when he discovered a pack in his pocket. Boswell must have printed some on his own initiative. He sneaked a glance as he handed a card to each man. The style was more florid than Allenson would have chosen but who was to say that Boswell was wrong. The man was on home ground after all.

Allenson glanced over Huang’s head, not a difficult task. A tall man with blonde hair and pale blue eyes leaned patiently against the door frame. He stood out not just because of his appearance, which was far from the human norm of brown eyes and hair, but also by his casual wear. A line of white hair from an old wound ran across his scalp almost hidden by his blonde coloring. Allenson blinked, half expecting the figure to disappear, to be a phantasm from his memory. It was still there after the blink, grinning at him. The man raised a hand to his brow in an ironic salute.

“Sar Josson, Sar Huang, I must convey my abject apologies but I regret that something urgent has come up at the last moment. I have to cancel our meeting. I deeply regret the inconvenience to yourselves and assure you no slight is intended.”

He turned to Todd.

“Lieutenant, please take these gentleman to the best restaurant in town at my expense and make a careful note of the issues they wish to raise. Then reschedule our meeting at a time convenient to them. They are to have absolute priority.”

The last comment was a polite fiction. He was either free or he wasn’t but it was politic to smooth ruffled feathers and he did dislike rudeness. He waited until Todd took the bankers from the building and then walked over to the door.

“Hello, Allenson,” the blonde man said.

“You bastard, Hawthorn,” Allenson replied. “Where the hell have you been? I thought you were dead.”

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 21

Spell Blind – Snippet 21

“I hardly said anything.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I noticed that.”

“I think you must have been a pretty good cop.” She ran a hand through her hair once more. She seemed to do that a lot. “I suppose the short answer to your question is that I wanted to get away from my dad.”

I waited, knowing there was more.

“He drank,” she went on. “A lot. And most times when he was drunk, he’d end up beating my mother.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Billie shrugged. “Mom eventually got up the nerve to kick him out. I think it broke her heart. She really loved him, and when he wasn’t drinking, he was a decent guy. But by the end, we only saw him when he was smashed. He’d go on a bender and show up at our door, and Mom would let him in. She’d try to take care of him, get him sobered up. But it always ended the same way, with Mom crying and sporting another bruise, and Dad leaving again. I got to the point where I didn’t want to be anywhere near either one of them.”

“Your dad still drinking?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He died about ten years ago. Liver gave out on him. If you ask me it was a mercy killing.”

I had no idea what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Guess we’re both damaged goods, huh?” she said.

“Do you know anyone who isn’t?”

“That’s awfully cynical.”

“It’s realistic,” I said. “There isn’t a person alive who doesn’t have something lurking in their past or in their family that they’d rather ignore or erase. Life is about coping with all the crap that comes with being human. Some of us cope better than others. That’s all.”

She shook her head. “Maybe you’re right. But that seems like an awfully dark view of life.”

“I guess it is,” I said, feeling that I’d failed some test. We had turned off of the main road onto the rural two-lane that would take us into the monument. “Listen,” I said, “should I keep on driving, or turn around now?”

“God, what is it with you? Have you decided you don’t like me or something?”

“No!” I said, taken aback. “Not at all. I just–”

“Have I done anything to make you think that I don’t like you?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. “We were arguing,” I said weakly.

She did that half-smile, half-frown thing again. I was starting to like it. “We were not! We were talking, expressing opinions, disagreeing with one another. You mean to tell me you never disagreed with your partner when you were a cop?”

“No, we disagreed all the time. But that was different.”

“Why? Because he was a man?”

“Actually, she wasn’t.”

That brought her up short. “Oh. Right. Kona Shaw.”

I had to laugh. After a moment, she did, too.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” she said.

“Very much.”

“I deserved it. But still, I can’t spend time with someone who’s not willing to disagree with me. I’ll get bored. And you don’t seem like the kind of person who’d bore me.”

“I’ll try not to,” I said. But I sounded uncertain.

“Arguing is normal,” Billie said. “Didn’t your parents fight?”

“Not that I remember. My mom died when I was twelve. After that it was just my dad and me, and he wasn’t around a lot.”

“Oh. My turn to be sorry.” She seemed at a loss as to what else to say. “Well,” she finally began again, “take my word for it. People argue. Everyone except my mom. She refused to fight at all. She accepted everything, and look where it got her.”

“So,” I said. “When I think you’re full of crap, you want me to say, ‘You’re full of crap’? Just like that?”

She liked that a lot. God, I loved the way she laughed. “Yes!” she said. “Exactly!”

I shrugged. “I can do that.”

We both fell silent and she looked out the side window. We were near the entrance to the monument now. There were saguaro cacti everywhere and in the distance we could see the ridges of the North Maricopa Mountain Wilderness.

“My God!” she said. “This is gorgeous.”

I was starting to fall in love.

A few minutes later we entered the monument. Billie hadn’t said another word, although she kept on mumbling something that I couldn’t quite hear. There were several new trail heads in the monument that had been developed in the years since the area’s designation as a national facility, and I stopped at the first of these.

Even after I had turned off the Z-ster, she continued to sit there, staring, shaking her head, and muttering to herself.

“What is it you keep saying?”

Her head whipped around in my direction, her eyes widening. “Was I saying that out loud?” she asked.

“You were saying something. I couldn’t make it out.”

She gestured vaguely at her window, shaking her head. “This is so beautiful. And I can’t believe I didn’t bring my camera.”

“So you are a photographer,” I said. “I saw the work in your place and I wondered if it was yours.”

“It’s mine. But I’m hardly a photographer. I have my dad’s old Nikon FE and I fool around with it some. I wish I had it now.”

I grinned. “We can come back.”

Billie nodded and smiled, and we got out of the car.

It was hot still, though the sun was low. It angled across the hills, casting long shadows and bathing the sandstone and saguaros in rich, golden light.

She was wearing her denim jacket and she took it off now. I chanced a quick peek at her shoes, realizing that I hadn’t even bothered to check if she was wearing something suitable for hiking. Turns out she was wearing flat soles, which, while not the best for a desert walk, were far better than, say, heels. I hadn’t thought that she was the stiletto type.

I still had my pack with me and I grabbed that now. The water I’d put in the bottles this morning would be warm, and would taste of plastic. I didn’t expect us to walk far enough to get thirsty, but a person should never go into the desert without carrying water, and I wasn’t a skilled enough weremyste to conjure a spring for us if we needed it.

We started up a small hill and, clearing it, descended into a shallow basin filled with saguaros and ocotillos, teddy-bear chollas and prickly pear. A lizard sunning itself on a rock scuttled out of sight, and a Canyon Wren sang from some unseen perch, its call cascading downward, liquid and melodic. Billie stopped, and shading her eyes with an open hand, turned a full circle, drinking it all in.

“It always looks so empty from the road,” she said.

“It does,” I agreed. “You can’t appreciate the desert from a car. You need to wade out into it. Feel the heat, smell the air, listen to the sounds. I think that’s another reason why I like it so much. You have to work at it a little bit. You have to earn it.”

We walked on, neither of us talking. The sky was shading to azure, and everything seemed to be glowing in the late afternoon light. A Red-tailed Hawk circled lazily overhead, twisting its tail in the wind.

“You know what all these are called?” Billie asked, pointing at the ocotillos and chollas.

“Most of them, yeah.”

“So, tell me.”

I started rattling off the names, pointing out each plant to her. A pair of sparrows popped up on top of a brittlebush and then vanished again just as quickly.

“Black-throated Sparrows,” I said.

“How do you know all this?”

“My dad taught me a lot when I was young, and I’ve spent a lot of time hiking. You pick stuff up.”

“I like that you know it.”

I smiled. “Then you’ll love this.”

I pulled out one of the water bottles, walked off the trail to a cluster of bright green shrubs, and poured some water over the leaves. Instantly, the air was redolent: a sweet, pungent scent that I couldn’t possibly describe.

“My God! What is that?”

“Desert Creosote.”

She frowned. “I thought creosote came from coal.”

“Some does. Some comes from trees. But this is different. Creosote is the name of the plant. I forget the Latin name. But if there’s a single scent that makes me think of the desert, this is it. After a rainstorm the entire basin would smell like this.”

We walked on, crossing through a second basin and then climbing another gentle incline to a rocky ledge that offered a clear westward view. The sun hung low above the horizon, and already the breeze was growing cooler.

Billie’s face was flushed from the climb, but she didn’t seem at all winded. I had the feeling that she worked out.

 

Polychrome – Chapter 27

Polychrome – Chapter 27

Chapter 27.

I couldn’t help but grin as Pearl of Gilgad pulled up to the docks of Pingaree. In some ways it was exactly as I had pictured it; in others, it was far better.

The pearl-fishing kingdom lay on an island, but one considerably larger and grander than Baum had depicted. Still, it was mostly low, with a sea of green palm trees running to the edge of brilliant white sand beaches, surrounded by a magnificent reef breached only in three places, where three small, swift rivers ran down to the sea. Dozens of ships and boats, ranging from sleek little rowboats or sailboats to dual-hulled catamarans and many others, were moored at the docks, or casting off for another voyage even as we entered.

The major difference was one I’d always suspected – and, in fact, was one of the few areas I’d envisioned differently even when I was a very young man. Despite O’Neill’s illustrations, the description of Pingaree, its tropical climate, the primary occupation of its people, and its surrounding countries had led me to expect what I now saw; a civilization of more Polynesian than European style, with dark-haired, dark-skinned people vastly predominating.

But this was no simple desert island paradise; I could see on a rise a mile and a half from the port a great marble palace, somehow combining many architectural styles from around my old world without seeming a hodgepodge. The city before me wasn’t a collection of palm-roofed huts, but proud houses of light stonework, open courtyards, white stone streets running straight and true through the city. Gilgad had been impressive, but I wasn’t sure if Pindaras (the name of the capital city of Pingaree) wasn’t even more so.

The Pearl had of course been recognized far out at sea, and so I accompanied Inkarbleu and his party as they were immediately escorted to the Palace. My odd armor, light skin, and blond hair naturally drew notice, but mostly they seemed to accept me as just a member of Inkarbleu’s guard.

Pearls were everywhere in evidence, even in the ornamentation of the houses and on all the people, young and old. In truth pearls were what brought me here – three Pearls in particular, gifted to the rulers of Pingaree by the Sea Fairies: the Pearl of Strength, the Pearl of Protection, and the Pearl of Wisdom. If I had interpreted the Prophecy correctly…

Our party was led through the main gates and straight into the castle. I heard both the tinkling of many fountains and, as we continued, an increasing background of music and many people talking. A set of immense double-doors, appearing to be marble-faced with steel interiors, were thrown open before us. “Lord Inkarbleu and party!” our escorts announced.

Inside was a huge, long table, with room for well over a hundred guests; most of the spaces were in fact full, and we had quite an audience for our entrance. Musicians spaced around the polished white and black hall paused as we walked forward.

At the far end, I could see seven very distinct figures, sitting at a raised section of the long table. A slender old man, white hair contrasting splendidly with dark-teak skin, sat next to an equally old woman; both had slender circlets of gold on their heads. Similar circlets of gold adorned the heads of two much younger people, a girl and a boy seated opposite each other. Both were dark-haired and dark of skin, the girl appearing to be about seventeen or eighteen, possibly taller than anyone else at the table – about six feet, I’d guess, though she was sitting down – while the boy was tiny.

They sat to the right and left hand of the pair of seats at the very head of the table, which were occupied by a tall, handsome man with black hair, wearing a larger crown; next to him was a beautiful woman of the same age but with lighter skin, almost an Italian cast to her face.

Seated across from the older couple in a chair so wide both of them could have easily fit in it at once, was an immense man, not terribly short and very much terribly wide, with a great bushy mane of white hair, rosy cheeks and a red nose, who was apparently in the midst of an animated conversation with the others when we had so rudely interrupted.

The latter heaved himself to his feet and glared down the table at us. “INKARBLEU!” he bellowed, in a voice both deep and resonant and with higher overtones that helped it cut across all other speech. “Inkarbleu, you faithless dried-up scurvy dog of a Chancellor, have you deserted your post again? What have I told you about that? Eh?”

“That I will be executed for such flagrant and terrible abandonment of my post, Your Highness,” Inkarbleu replied with equanimity. “But I hope perhaps you will forgive me, or at least wait to carry out my execution until such time as your Highness has finished your dinner.”

King Rin Ki-Tin dropped back into his chair, threw back his head, and gave vent to a long series of laughs. “Ho, ho, ho, hee-hee-hee! When I am… Ha, ha… finished with my dinner! Ahhh, ha! Ha! Finished! With my dinner!” He laughed longer. “Seeking a stay of execution… ha, ha, heeee! … a stay of execution long enough to outlive me, I see! Finished with my dinner? I am never finished with my dinner until it is finished with me, and eventually it’s become breakfast, I think!”

“King Rin Ki-Tin,” the tall man at the far end said, with a fond smile on his face, “Perhaps we should let the doomed Inkarbleu at least tell us what dire errand has brought him here.”

“Oh, indeed, indeed. No executions at dinner, I agree!” the fat King said cheerfully. “Inkarbleu! Justify your conduct, then, to my good friend King Inga!”

I thought so. King Inga. I guess Kitticut retired and handed his son the throne. Which would make the woman with him Zella, I’d bet, if the subtext I got was right.

“A matter of deep policy, Your Majesty.” Inkarbleu said. “And one best discussed in more privacy.”

The look Rin Ki-Tin shot Inkarbleu was sharp and shrewd, greatly at variance with his clownish exterior, and the way his gaze shifted to me showed he might have already guessed some of the essence of my mission. “Policy is so tiring. You know, I believe I once made a song about –” he broke off at a glance from Inga, “– but enough for now. Ah, well, I suppose we could retire to the inner chambers long enough for the extra dishes to be tidied up and the next course laid.”

He moved with surprising ease for a man so fat and old, following King Inga who gestured for us to follow; the tall girl started to rise, but a glance from the King – her father, I guessed – dropped her back into her seat. Inkarbleu motioned for me to accompany him but left the rest of our entourage behind.

The next room would have looked quite large had we not just come from the immense dining hall. King Inga, Queen Zella (if my guess was right), and King Rin Ki-Tin seated themselves on one side of a wide conference table and indicated that we should sit as well. I see. The former King and Queen will remain with the festivities.

Inga turned immediately to me and bowed. “Sir, it is clear that faithful Inkarbleu has risked much to bring you here. I am King Inga, and this is my Queen, Zella. You now have the advantage of us.”

“Erik Medon,” I said, returning the bow.

“An emissary of Iris Mirabilis himself,” Inkarbleu finished.

All trace of the clown vanished as Rin Ki-tin sat up. “Now indeed I forgive you, Inkarbleu. Though undoubtedly I shall threaten you with execution later, just for form’s sake. Deep policy and dangerous, dangerous. So the Rainbow Lord moves at last, does he? HA!” The jolly face was, for a moment, transformed to grim savagery. “Long have I thought my days would end before that day came; you have already brought me great joy, just to hear that hope has not abandoned us.”

“Rin Ki-Tin speaks of hope,” Zella said cautiously, “but we know well the power of our adversaries. What hope is there, truly, Erik Medon?”

I turned to her. “Enough. A prophecy from a source well-trusted by the Rainbow Lord. I may not look precisely as a hero of legend, but I have… certain advantages over others.”

At this range, I could see that the royalty of Pingaree wore – as one might expect – many jewels, especially pearls of all sizes and colors. The King himself wore two earrings with magnificent matched pure-white pearls of extraordinary size. Now, I saw him tilt his head slightly, as though listening to something. He nodded his head and sat a bit straighter. “A True Mortal?”

Excellent. “You see clearly, King Inga.”

“So what can Gilgad do for the Rainbow Lord and yourself?” Rin Ki-Tin demanded.

I grinned. “Already done, and cleverly by your Lord Inkarbleu. What I really needed was to get here. What he needed was to do that without actually committing Gilgad to such a radical cause.” Quickly I explained Inkarbleu’s decision.

The three monarchs looked at Inkarbleu with such approval I saw a faint blush on the old cheeks. “So clever a statesman should have been King himself.” Rin Ki-Tin said, with a gentle laugh.

“Such a clever statesman knows far better than to want the post, Your Majesty,” Inkarbleu responded, garnering a gale of laughter from his ruler.

“Hooo, hooo, hoo! Too true, too true! As I know, from trying in my manful way to flee from the dread and terrible responsibilities.”

Ignoring the byplay with the same fond smile, Inga leaned forward. “So it was to Pingaree you wished to come. What do you seek here? We have no formidable army, in truth, and while something of a naval force we have acquired, that would do you no good against the Usurpers of Oz.”

“Nothing so obvious or direct, your Majesty,” I said. “Here, I seek only two things – besides of course a trip back to the mainland. First, I need your people to build me a ship, a boat of a very particular design. Nothing too terribly large,” I hastened to assure him, “indeed, just something suitable for a long journey for one person. And to have it transported to a particular spot.”

“And that is all?”

“Well, no, that was really one thing – I mean, getting the ship won’t do me any good if I can’t use it where I want to. The second thing I seek… is the wisdom of Pingaree.”

The King and Queen both straightened and looked sharply at me – as did King Rin Ki-Tin. “How exactly do you mean that?” the King of Pingaree said finally.

I grinned.

Inga looked at me for a moment, and then stood. “Excuse me for a moment.” He stepped to the side and through a door which, it appeared, led to a small side alcove.

Zella studied me curiously. “Do you know what you are asking?”

“I think I know exactly what I am asking.”

The door opened again and King Inga resumed his seat. He reached up and – as I had expected – removed the righthand earring. Not without reluctance, he placed the earring with its magnificent white pearl into my hand. “If wisdom there be in Pingaree, you now hold it in your hand,” he said slowly. “No other has ever carried that which I give to you, save only those of my family.”

The Pearl of Wisdom. “I know of this… and I can guess how difficult my request is for you.” I raised the Pearl to my ear. “You advised him to offer yourself to me, didn’t you?”

From the Pearl came a clear, though distant, voice. “You are correct, Erik Medon.”

I grinned, and then tossed the Pearl back. Inga was so startled he almost failed to catch it. “What…?”

“King Inga, these are perilous times indeed. I will not deprive you of what is undoubtedly your greatest resource, especially when – if I fail – you will need wisdom more desperately than ever. I only have a couple questions to ask the Pearl, and that is all.”

The relief on his face, and that of Queen Zella, matched his surprise. “You are a man of some depth, I see,” Inga said after a moment, with a smile. “Ask, then.”

I had thought about this for quite a while. Really what I needed here was validation. I had thought everything I could through, but there was so much I might not know. I couldn’t ask for things of too great detail – that pesky question of over-working the prophecy and making it backfire on me was always looming above me.

“Pearl,” I said, “First, tell me: are my guesses about … a certain individual… correct?”

Inga listened, then nodded. “The Pearl says ‘yes’.”

Good. “Then… The course of action I have planned… is it a good one?”

“Yes.”

I sagged back in my seat. “Then that’s all I needed. That plus the boat, which I’ll sketch out tomorrow.”

King Inga looked at me with a curious expression. “So… you needed only verification of a particular course of action and this boat? You need nothing more from Pingaree?”

“Nothing.” I said. Well, nothing I could ask.

“And you will travel alone… where?”

“After I get back to the mainland? Well, eventually to Oz, of course… but the Nome King’s domain is my next destination.”

For a moment, everyone was silent. Finally, Rin Ki-Tin said, gently, yet with a puzzled air, “Lord Medon… You do realize that the Nome King will help no one, even for the Rainbow Lord?”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “Yet I have no choice. There is no other force sufficient to even have a credible chance against what Ugu and Amanita have to throw at us. Combined with the Rainbow Kingdom’s, it might be enough.” I can’t tell them the whole thing. Partly because the whole thing, in the end, comes down to a big throw of the dice, and whether I’m tough enough to survive the pain and take action at just the right time.

“And do you have… any plan to find the Nome King, let alone convince him to involve himself in this war?”

I grinned. “Oh yes. And that’s what I was asking your Pearl.”

“If the Pearl says it will work, then it’ll work!” a new voice broke in. “So, Father, I’m going with him!”

I turned, startled.

The tall girl from the end of the table stood in the doorway, grinning confidently at us all.

King Inga glared at her. “Zenga, have you been eavesdropping?”

“You said I should take more interest in the running of the kingdom, Father.”

“Not by spying on secret councils!”  Inga sighed. “You have no idea what you are saying, anyway. You are far too young to be getting involved in –”

“You were younger than I am when you saved Pingaree, liberated Regos and Coregos, and faced the Nome King yourself!”

“That was entirely –” Inga broke off. I was working very hard to keep a smile off my face, because I was pretty sure grinning at a royal family spat would be very impolitic. “No. I will not play this debate game with you, Zenga.”

Queen Zella spoke up. “Let her go.”

Inga stared at his wife. “I beg your pardon, my love – did I just hear you correctly?”

“Let her go with him.” She rose smoothly and bowed to us. “But this is a discussion for more privacy. My lords – dear Rin Ki-Tin, Inkarbleu, and Lord Medon – please, return to the dining hall. The King of Gilgad never refuses a meal, and I am sure that after weeks at sea both of you would be pleased with a feast. We shall resolve this discussion anon.”

I bowed back. “Of course, Queen Zella.”

We filed out of the conference room and returned to the dining hall, where two seats were placed for us near King Rin Ki-Tin. Inkarbleu glanced at me, shaking his head with a smile. “An interesting development, that. How do you think it will go… and will you take her with you, if that is the decision?”

“I,” I said, reaching out and grabbing a piece of bread, “have gotten about as far ahead of myself as I want to right now, so I’ll leave that decision for when it happens.”

Inwardly, I grinned. I admit I didn’t exactly foresee these details… but even so… all that has transpired here has done so according to my design.

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 20

Spell Blind – Snippet 20

“I was thinking about a walk in the desert.”

She wrinkled her nose. “The desert?”

“You’ve never taken a walk in the desert?”

“Well, no. I mean, why would I?”

I stared at her, shaking my head. “Amazing. Why did you come to Tempe if not for the desert?”

“I came for a job,” she said. “An editing position at a publishing house. I stayed for the sunshine. But the desert . . .” She gave a shrug of her own. “I guess I’m kind of a city person. A Northeastern city person.”

“One walk in the desert will change that,” I said. “You game?”

She smiled at me, and I knew she’d say yes. “You still taking me to dinner?”

“Of course. No sense walking in the desert if you’re not going to eat afterward.”

“All right,” she said, pushing the door open so I could come in. “I need ten minutes to finish and post the piece I’m writing.”

“What’s the piece about?” I asked, stepping past her into the house. Her smile faded as she stared at me, and I knew. One question: that was all it took to put me on my guard. “It’s about the Blind Angel case, isn’t it?”

Billie nodded, as wary as I was.

“Do you mention me in it?”

“No. We’ve been off the record, and I’ve been focusing on other aspects of the story.”

“Like what?”

“The Deegan family mostly. The Senator is getting a lot of sympathy right now, but the fact that his daughter was using drugs might come up eventually. I’m writing about the risks his opponents would be taking by raising the issue, and how he might deal with it if they do.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said, relaxing a bit.

She exhaled, her relief palpable. “Thanks. I won’t be long. Make yourself at home.”

Her computer sat on what appeared to be her dining room table, surrounded by piles of papers, several magazines, a newspaper, and a dictionary. She sat down in front of it, stared at the screen for a minute, and then began to type.

I wandered around the living room. The house was as nice inside as it had appeared from the street. Wood floors, high ceilings; she didn’t have much furniture, but all of it was tasteful. Her walls were covered with framed black and white photos of people and city scenes. None of them was signed, and I wondered if they were Billie’s. I turned toward her to ask, but she was typing furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. I figured I’d be wise to leave her alone.

After about ten minutes she sat back. Still she frowned at the screen for another few seconds, before hitting the ‘return’ key.

“Okay,” she said, standing and grabbing her denim jacket off the back of her chair. “I’m ready.”

“Will you get lots of comments on your blog?” I asked.

She nodded. “Hundreds probably. Some of them will say that I’m brilliant; others will call me a stupid bitch. I make a point of not reading them. I get to have my say with the article. My readers can say what they want after I post it.”

“That’s a mature attitude.”

She smirked. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

We walked out to the Z-ster, with which she appeared only mildly impressed. Not a car person. That was okay. She wasn’t a desert person either, but I was about to cure her of that. I started up the car and on the spur of the moment decided to go south. I put us on Interstate Ten.

“So, where are you taking me?” she asked after we had driven for a few minutes in silence.

“Sonoran Desert National Monument. It’s between here and Gila Bend on State Two-thirty-eight.”

She nodded. “All right.” Another brief silence. Then, “Tell me what you like so much about the desert.”

“What?”

“Well, I want to know what I should be looking for.”

I considered this for some time, taking the exit off the interstate and getting on the state road.

“Fearsson?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m thinking. It’s a bit like asking me why I like chocolate.”

“But that I understand.”

“The desert is uncompromising. It’s so severe and it forces everything that lives there to be the same way. It says ‘die or adapt.’ There’s no middle ground, no getting by. And yet, it’s also incredibly beautiful. Some of the beauty is harsh, austere, you know? And some of it is as delicate as a spider web.” I glanced over at her, only to find that she was watching me, her expression unreadable. I faced forward again and shrugged. “Anyway, that probably doesn’t really explain it very well.”

“Sure it does. You’ve spent a lot of time at this place we’re going to? Sonoran Monument?”

“Some. I’ve spent more time in the Superstition Wilderness, but that’s a longer drive.”

“Is that where you took the last woman you wanted to impress?”

I laughed. “Is that what you think this is about?”

“Isn’t it?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s not. To tell you the truth, I can’t remember the last time I took a woman anywhere.” I smiled. “At least not one who I wanted to impress.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

Because I’m a weremyste who doesn’t take blockers. Because my father’s nuts and someday I will be, too. Because my life is wrapped up in so many secrets that I can hardly tell anymore where the mask ends and where the real me begins. “It’s complicated,” was all I said, staring at the road once more.

“You’re strange. One minute you’re as open as a kid, and then bang, it seems like you shut some door somewhere inside you and I find myself staring at a wall.”

“It’s not intentional.”

“Isn’t it?”

See? This was the problem with getting involved with smart people. Or maybe it was the problem with getting involved at all.

“We’re still off the record, right?”

“Yup.”

“All right,” I said, eyes fixed on the double yellow. “Then what do you want to know?”

She didn’t answer for several seconds, and I started to hope that she’d let me off the hook. No such luck.

“What’s the real reason you stopped being a cop?”

Smart. That was the sixty-four-thousand dollar question, wasn’t it? That was the one that led to every other secret in my life.

I glanced at her. “After this it’s my turn, right? I get to ask questions, too?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“All right,” I said. Deep breath. “I left the force because I was going to be fired. The department’s Professional Standards Bureau had determined that I was incapable of fulfilling my duties as a police officer.”

“Why?”

“Because I was having psychological problems. Breakdowns, sort of.”

Silence. I chanced a quick glance at her, expecting that she would be gaping at me with fear and pity. But she was just sitting there, chewing her bottom lip, watching the scenery slide by.

“Are you still?” she asked, her voice very low.

There was an easy answer to this, a cheap out. And I took it, because at this stage of our relationship explaining the phasings and my choice to endure them seemed unthinkable. “Problems like that never fully vanish,” I told her. “You learn to control them, to live with them.”

Billie nodded. “Are you on medication?”

“No. The drugs I could take have . . . side effects.” They’d make my magical abilities go away. “And I’m not willing to deal with them.”

“So these problems can be dealt with through therapy?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that one. Were my training sessions with Namid a form of therapy? Were my visits with my dad? In the end I decided that they were. I wasn’t seeing a therapist, but Namid was better equipped to help me through the phasings than any psychiatrist on the planet. Again, it was a cheap way out, but I didn’t want her thinking that I was doing nothing to take care of myself. “Yes,” I said. “I have someone who helps me through the rough patches.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For telling me the truth.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, knowing that I had cheated and gotten away with it. I felt unclean. “Do you want me to take you back? I’d understand if you did.”

“No.” She shifted in her seat, turning so that she was facing me. “Your turn.”

“Okay,” I said. “Why were you so eager to leave home? Connecticut, right?”

She blew out a breath through pursed lips and ran a hand through her curls. “Wow, Fearsson.”

I smiled in sympathy. “Now you know how it feels.”

“I guess. Why was I so eager to leave Connecticut?” She shook her head and regarded me with something akin to admiration. “How did you even know that I was eager?”

“From the way you talked about home the other day.”

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 01

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 01

Chapter 1.

Aran felt cold, cold inside, so cold that he was able to ignore his fear entirely. There is nothing to fear here, not now. For what I want and what It wants, they must be the same now.

Even so, he had to steel himself to knock at the great stone and metal portal which was the Hall of Balance, the innermost area of the Justiciar’s Retreat… and the chosen quarters of their leader. He remembered the last time he had entered there, practically dragged by Shrike…

“Enter, Condor.”

The voice sent a new bolt of fear through Condor’s heart. I’d expected Thornfalcon. Expected that I’d have to argue with him to reach… It.

But in a way, this was better. He had no idea why Thornfalcon’s patron would be here now, and even less as to why Thornfalcon would not be present, but at least now there would be no impediments to his purpose. He shoved the fear away, replaced it with the cold-burning rage, and entered.

The room was dimly lit, as it nearly always was. Part of him wanted to believe it was because the creature feared light, but he’d watched It in the sunlight far too many times. “You must know by now.”

It raised an entirely human-looking eyebrow over a pure-blue eye. “How bold a beginning; not even a hint of the courtesies. But yes, I know, Condor; Shrike has fallen. A terrible loss for you.” The last words carried an almost sincere note of sympathy, that nearness to human feeling making it even more jarring.

He gritted his teeth. I cannot get into a duel of words with It. It will enrage me if It so pleases, and then humiliate me, and I will still need to ask this of It. “I apologize for my failure in diplomacy; I am empty of thanks or courtesy this day, for he was my father in all but blood.”

“Of course.” There was little irony in the voice now. “And I will tolerate … for the moment … a certain amount of personal clumsiness, Condor. But you did not come here to speak of the dead, I think, but of the living.”

He knows, or guesses. Of course. Aran, the Condor, laughed suddenly. “Yes. Of those living who must soon die. This… this Phoenix,” he spat the name out as though it burned his tongue, “killed Shrike, left his body lying in the woods, didn’t even burn it or bury it, like you’d leave some animal in the woods, no ceremony, nothing.” Even as he said it, he heard his voice rising, and suddenly felt no inclination to restrain himself. “Well, I’ll do the same to him!”

“Or her,” the other responded with maddening equanimity. “And really, why the rage? You know perfectly well that in all likelihood this is the TRUE Justiciar of Myrionar. You’re the traitors and monsters. Didn’t you say something like that… perhaps even here in this room?”

“Do not patronize me, monster! I’m beyond fear of anyone, even you!”

Its eyes narrowed, and the blue was like frozen sea. “Have a care, Condor.”

“I have no care at all, for all that I had left to care for – once you and Shrike had done with me – is gone. I will at the least follow, for once, the true path of my name, for I want vengeance.”

It raised an eyebrow. “As do we all, in our own way. I have hardly barred you – any of you – from hunting down this Phoenix. Indeed, I urge you all to the hunt frequently, and have begun… my own little investigations as well.”

“NO!”

Actual surprise showed in the falsely-human eyes when it found Skyvault at its throat, and Condor continued. “I don’t want you involved at all! Phoenix is mine!”

It stood still, studying him.

“But I’m not stupid. This Phoenix killed Mist Owl, killed… killed my sirza.”

“And Thornfalcon, but hours agone,” the creature said, its voice unaffected by the threat of the blade.

Aran paused in his rage, momentary shock forcing him to re-evaluate the situation. He knew – none better – just what a monster Thornfalcon had been.

But this just reinforced his current point. “So, he killed your favorite, too. Phoenix broke Shrike’s axe, carved up one… no, two other Raiments now. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

It reached up and gently pushed the blade down with irresistible force. “Interesting. If I choose not to take your soul for daring to draw sword on me, what then is it you want?”

“You know perfectly well. I want power to match Phoenix’s, to OUT match anything that Myrionar can give its last servant. I want to face Phoenix down, myself, and kill him or her and spit on their grave. I want to rip out their guts and let them die slowly and rot on some forgotten hillside the way Phoenix would have let my father rot.” He had to force the words out through tears and a snarl of gritted teeth.

Their leader suddenly burst out in laughter, a sound so warm and human that Aran shuddered despite his rage and determination. No wonder that no one suspects a thing.

“And you think I can give you that power, Condor? Do you realize what Thornfalcon was? That I had already given him much power the rest of you lacked, and still he was finished – and rather handily too, or so it would seem – by this Phoenix?” It was smiling in a way that sent shivers down his spine, and a distant part of him was screaming that he should back down, change his mind, run. But in the front of his mind he saw a beloved face in a death grimace, black-caked blood around a shattered piece of metal, and flies hovering for the feast.

“If you can’t, then you are finished too, because the Phoenix will find this place – and you – eventually, even if they don’t catch you outside when you’re fooling the rest of the world! You’ve openly mocked the Balanced Sword enough – are you going to back down? Tell me that Myrionar is, after all, more powerful than us, and we’re all doomed?”

For a moment it regarded him, still with that gentle smile that seemed to imply terror beyond imagining. “No… no, I would not say that. Myrionar’s power is vastly diminished, for in these centuries at my work it has been eroded, slowly, surely, but nigh-completely. This is a final desperation move, the only one left to a deity in Myrionar’s position. But just as a cornered animal, even wounded, can be surprisingly dangerous, so it is with a near-ended god. All they have left will be devoted to this final Champion. I have many things to devote my own attention to, for – as you learned some time ago – this is but one small part of the grand design. I have such power, perhaps, but I cannot give it to you – especially since, alas, I have seen you are less than dedicated to our ideals, unlike Thornfalcon.”

Condor wanted to lash out again at the urbanely-smiling mask in front of him, but he knew that would end any hope of revenge by ending his life. “So you’re saying there’s nothing you can do?”

“I am afraid…” it stopped, tilted its head, and the smile suddenly widened. “Perhaps. Perhaps there is. Not something that I can do, no, but…”

“What… what do you mean?”

The figure turned slowly and considered the polished mirror-scroll set on the desk at the center of the room, and Condor felt as though his guts were going to freeze. It looked back at him with that same smile. “Normally I would not call… but it is true that this Phoenix could be a significant hindrance to our cause, given time. HE has the power you seek, do not doubt it.”

“But…” He shuddered, but shook his head. “He has the power, but how could he give it to me?”

“We can but ask.” Before Aran could object, the human-seeming figure passed a hand over the mirror. “Great Kerlamion, your servant begs your attention.”

The shining surface blackened, became a room of darkness with something darker than any darkness seated upon a throne, the only light from eyes of screaming blue-white. “Viedraverion.” The eyes shifted. “Why is this one before us again?”

“A … small problem has emerged in Evanwyl, oh Blackstar.”

The eyes narrowed. “You begin with circumlocutions we expect from others such as Balgoltha. Do not follow that path, for we have no patience for it, even for one with such a record as your own.”

Viedraverion – if that is its real name – shrugged and smiled. “You are of course right, King of Demons. As I had expected, the Balanced Sword is forced to make its final move, and has produced a true Champion. Now, while I believe I can maintain all as we desire it, this is certainly a crisis of minor but perhaps significant import.”

The barely-visible head of blackness nodded. “Go on.”

“I have many other duties you wish me to attend to, of course. There are so many … details involved across the world.” He gestured to Condor, who flinched as the alien, deadly gaze turned back to him. “The champion, called Phoenix, has slain three of my false Justiciars. One of them was, in essence, the father of Condor.” It smiled more broadly. “We can, of course, appreciate the strong bond between father and son.”

The laugh from Kerlamion Blackstar was the sound of the very rending of air, and the smile a blue-white void of pain, and Condor very nearly did run then. “In our own way, yes, we can.” It leaned forward, and though the mirror-scroll did not change at all, Condor felt as though something immense was looming over him. “And so from us you seek the power to avenge yourself, to counter the final throw of a failing god? Answer us!”

Condor swallowed. “Y… yes, mighty Kerlamion.” I am already damned, my soul must already be his as a false Justiciar. “Something that will give me the strength to face the Phoenix, to shatter his or her power, their new-forged Raiment, break their sword and… and tear their soul apart.” If my sirza will find no rest in the afterlife, no more will Phoenix, no salvation by Myrionar or by its allies in death.

“And this is the one who thought to abandon us, that was drawn by the Light?” Kerlamion spoke to its servant.

“Even so. By a noble and courageous girl, even.” It smiled.

Kerlamion chuckled again. “Then we are pleased, and we see that, though you tremble, Condor, you stand firm. Viedraverion sees that the time is nigh, and he is right. Come, then, to us, and we shall give to you the power you desire.” The mirror went blank.

Elation warred with terror and confusion. “I… thank you, mighty King…” But there is no way to Kerlamion’s Throne that the living and human can travel!

“Fear not, Aran,” their leader said, with a smile even more chilling, and answered the unspoken words with a darker mystery. “You shall walk there on your own living feet, and stand alive before the Throne of All Hells itself.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 20

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 20

“Half now, half on satisfactory completion of service,” Allenson said firmly, not wanting to give the impression that he was an easy mark.

Boswell agreed with alacrity suggesting that he expected Allenson to have driven a harder bargain.

“What’s first, guvnor?”

“I’m going to take a short walk to clear my head. I want you to unpack my military dress uniform and press out any creases. No doubt your niece can give you a key to my room.”

“Right you are, squire.”

Boswell touched his cap brim with his forefinger.

#

Allenson sat quietly in the convention hall, checking through the agenda of the meeting. He was early so delegates still filtered in. Most of them looked at him with curiosity. Boswell had done a fine job with the Honorary Colonel of Militia dress uniform. He managed to get Allenson into it without overly disturbing the knife edged creases. Gold braid around the neck and on both sleeves shone brightly against the purple and grey of Manzanita. Parades of flashes in various colors down his arms denoted the militia regiments of which he had been voted honorary colonel.

Buller was the only other person in a military uniform but he wore a crumpled field combat dress. Perhaps the Brasilian thought the uniform would emphasize his credentials as a regular soldier or possibly he didn’t care what image he presented. Either way his demonstration was not likely to impress. The other delegates wore business or colonial official clothes. Some sported brighter garments than Allenson but none were more splendid.

One group stood out in a display of Spartanism and simplicity by wearing one-piece garments of unrelieved charcoal grey. No lapels or cuffs let alone jewelry or marks of allegiance disturbed the effect, the severe style underscored by unadornment.  The Ascetics of the Heilbron Colonies came from some of the wealthiest and most developed settlements this side of the Bight. Not every Heilbron Delegate was an Ascetic but even the independents wore clothes that were somber by Lower Stream standards.

The Heilbron colonies attracted voluntary immigrants in greater numbers than the other Cutter Stream worlds. They tended to be a special sort of colonist, the disgruntled dissatisfied with Homeworld society or their place within it. These discontents created a social and economic class quite distinct from the impoverished gentry and exiled criminals who had provided the bulk of the lower ‘Stream populations. Ascetics were simply the most powerful group of these radicals.

Allenson had little direct experience of them but from what he read they opposed the activities that ordinary people thought made life worth living. A dour lot, they were sure of their righteousness with an unfortunate tendency to preach. Their social values were of little import to Allenson, of more significance was that they had a strong political ideology favoring independence. They intended to build a new society without social class distinctions and the ostentation that went with an aristocracy.

Personally Allenson thought they deluded themselves that any human society could be classless. The best you could hope for was a relatively flexible class system that allowed reasonable social mobility. Something that avoided ossifying into a caste structure. Any society that left no legitimate path to advancement for talented, aggressive, ambitious young men was doomed to violent revolution. Whereas a society where gentlemen invited potential revolutionaries into their clubs and upper class ladies invited them into their beds was likely to be as stable as anything built by human beings even if it was no utopia.

The Ascetics desire for independence made them potential allies for Allenson’s political goals provided their radicalism could be kept in check. The Lower ‘Stream gentry were unlikely to take kindly to revolutionary social policies.

The delegate chairs in the Assembly Hall were arranged in a horseshoe with the chairman’s podium between the open wings. An outer ring of seats for observers and officials perched on a raised balcony around the edge of the hall. The circular walls were windowless and painted with fantastic agricultural scenes of verdant greenery. The Paxton Ruling Council met here and the artwork presumably reminded everyone where the money came from. Natural light filtered through the semi-transparent crystalline dome of the roof. Strip lighting around the base of the dome reinforced the illumination, eliminating possible shadows.

Allenson surreptitiously checked his data pad for security. Recording and signal nullifiers blanked the hall. Anything said in the Assembly would be confidential.

The Chairman of the Assembly, a Nortanian called Evansence, called the meeting to order. His duties included an introductory address welcoming the delegates. He managed to talk for twenty minutes without actually committing himself to anything or even expressing a view. The Nortanian establishment appeared fairly happy with the status quo and just wanted to be left alone. There was a subtext of fear in Evansence’s evasions that rippled through the room like a fast flowing ebb tide. Another word for failed rebel was traitor and all right thinking people agreed that traitors must be punished to the limit of the law.

Allenson understood the delegates’ apprehensions and to some degree shared them. He was not afraid of being executed, after the Terran War death held little fear. Once you reached the mind-set of expecting sudden random termination at any moment you either accepted the inevitable or went mad. What did concern Allenson was the shame and ignominy that execution as a traitor would bring to him and by extension to his family. That was not to be tolerated.

A number of “hear, hears” sounded from delegates from the smaller colonies. The Heilbron delegates frowned. One with a face like thunder slammed his hand down and opened his mouth.

Allenson cut in quickly to stop the meeting falling apart before it had properly commenced.

“If I may make a point.”

Evansence looked grateful at the interruption.

“The chair recognizes Colonel Allenson,” he said, quickly.

Allenson looked at each delegate as he spoke.

“Nortania has a reliable business supplying genosurgeoned crop extracts to Brasilia and it is understandable that Nortanians are alarmed at any threat to this trade.”

“Quite,” Evansence said.

“The products sell for a considerable mark up in Brasilia but how much of that value added accrues to Nortania?”

Falco, one of the Nortanian delegates, jumped in before the chairman could reply.

“Off the top of my head less than five per cent,” he said.

“But we just supply the raw material,” Evansence protested. “The complex chemistry is carried out in Brasilian factories. That’s where the market is.”

Allenson tilted his head.

“But suppose you manufactured the finished products here?” Allenson asked. “After all, they’re low volume, high value, cheaply transportable organics.”

Falco looked thoughtful.

“Then we would get nearer forty or fifty per cent of the mark-up,” he said. “More if we controlled the transport and wholesale distribution to the Homeworlds.”

Evansence shook his head.

“But what if Brasilia simply refused to purchase finished products?”

Allenson replied. “Then you sell to any Homeworld with the money to buy but I doubt that Brasilian business would cut off its nose to spite its face by prolonging an embargo.”

“But that would take capital that we don’t have,” Evansence said. “Lots of it.”

Allenson laughed

“You don’t think that financial institution all over the different Homeworlds wouldn’t rush to invest in such a lucrative business and break the Brasilian cartel’s monopoly?”

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Prologue

Phoenix In Shadow – Prologue
Phoenix in Shadow

Second in the Balanced Sword trilogy

By Ryk E. Spoor

Prologue.    

     This is… most interesting.

It surveyed the clearing, smoke still drifting from multiple scattered fires which had – mostly – died out by now, dozens of bodies of monstrous, twisted… things lying everywhere, and a huge scar of blackened earth that stretched from an underground opening to fan out all the way to the edge of the clearing; ash, dust, and blood coated everything black, gray, and red-brown, shocking against the vibrant green of the jungle. It appears I have arrived rather late for the party. What a shame.

     It … well, sniffed would have been an appropriate term, but while it did think of the perceptions it gained as scents, they were not; the senses it extended were far beyond those of ordinary creatures, born of its essence and power, and not limited to the physical. A mighty battle indeed, and much more than I would have expected…

In all honesty it had expected that – when the conflict came – one of two things would happen; either Thornfalcon would kill the Phoenix, or the new-minted Justiciar would somehow overcome Thornfalcon. If the latter, well, then his expectations would be fully met. But it had thought this confrontation still a bit in the future, and its arrival here was purely fortuitous – a morning conference with its most useful acolyte to make some further arrangements… which, it seemed, would no longer be necessary. So let us see what really occurred.

As the senses of magic and power, tracery of traces of past conflict, began to impress itself upon the being’s consciousness, it raised one eyebrow. Oh, now, not nearly so simple as I thought. No, not at all.

There certainly was godscent here – it knew the particular tang of Myrionar well. Of necessity, it thought with a smile, for it is rather hard to fool others with a counterfeit unless one truly understands the original. But there were a myriad of other scents. Alchemical concoctions and materials had been used with abandon, and it was impossible – with the god-fire’s interference – to tell if it had all been Thornfalcon’s work, or someone else’s. Other types of magic… and was that another god-scent? It frowned. No, it’s possibly more than one. Or a mixture, magic and god-power. Not familiar directly… but there is a touch of the Mortal God about it that I do not like at all.

While it did not – precisely – fear any of the gods, there were those it was very wise to take extremely seriously. The Greatest Dragons, certainly, Chromaias and the Four… but of them all, perhaps the most to be feared by those – like itself – which walked the darkest paths was Terian, the Nemesis of Evil, Light in the Darkness, the Mortal God, the Infinite. Yet it is not the touch of a priest or a god-warrior. Something else, and that is intriguing indeed.

Finally it found one of the things it was looking for; Thornfalcon’s body, headless and now burned almost beyond recognition. Now, let us see… It frowned. Scarce anything remains. I can barely sense his soul now. It desperately clings to the remains still, which is why I sensed not his defeat before I came… but it is nigh-obliterated.

Reaching out, it drew in what remained, or tried to. But even the effort of pulling in the traces caused them to fade, shatter, just as touching the ashes caused them to collapse into shapelessness, losing whatever they had kept of their shape in life.

It smiled with an edge of apology. I had promised you power, Thornfalcon, and of your people you had shown much promise… and begun to learn true mastery. I am surprised your life has truly ended. This should not have happened.

One – or more, it corrected itself – of the weapons used upon Thornfalcon must have been made in such a fashion as to break even the most unique changes that the being had made to Thornfalcon’s essence, to shatter that particular soul-hungry pattern and make it impotent. Were it otherwise, Thornfalcon would rise again, though it might have taken time. I would do well to remember this myself, for when the time comes.

This did leave another problem, in that it could not simply ask Thornfalcon what had happened, what he had learned in that final and titanic conflict. Must do this the harder way; depending on what the Phoenix learned, and how he, or she, chooses to act, I may be on a rather limited timetable now!

It extended its senses farther, to make sure there were no witnesses. I do not want interruptions now; there are things that would need explanation. Fortunately he had come here early in the morning and Thornfalcon’s little estate was set at a distance from other residences, but there would be gawkers, or more purposeful visitors, soon enough.

I can see that someone took Thornfalcon’s head. Single cut, very clean, large blade. Definitely this “Phoenix” as described.

     But were you fighting him alone, avenging Justiciar of Myrionar? True, you have killed two others, and it smiled to think of what would come of that second killing, one it had sensed only a short time before, but Thornfalcon was undoubtedly much more challenging an opponent, and I did not read your prior battles as ones in which you had no difficulty. No, you had help, I think.

It shifted form to one more comfortable for careful inspection of the perimeter. It was at the edge of the clearing that traces would remain of those who had come in… or left. It took some time, but finally it found what it sought: a faint set of marks and tracks leading away, into the jungle.

Two sets of feet.. no, three… left here. And, it would appear, at very much the same time. Yes, my little Phoenix, you have acquired friends… and here, I have your scent.

It laughed aloud suddenly, a sound that was more tearing metal and shattering bone than human amusement. Kyri Victoria Vantage! A perfect symmetry, and oh, it makes so very much sense of all things. Yes, an excellent choice, Myrionar, a well-played choice of your final piece in our game.

The creature could now understand the exact way in which the prior Justiciars had died; they had been undone by their own sentiments, slowed or confused by the child they had known all their lives confronting them with their crimes. Mist Owl would have allowed his death as a sort of futile penance, while Shrike… It smiled. Shrike would have become emotional and desperate for another reason.

However, Thornfalcon… The figure shook its head. Thornfalcon would not have been so affected. He did have other interests which might have led him astray, but that of pure sentiment, no. She would have needed help, indeed.

It considered the scents of the companions. Both young men, yes. Of a similar age, it would seem. The first… there is a general familiarity about it, but the individual is unknown. But it has been a long time since I scented this particular… could it be?

It moved along the trail, finding that the three were traveling in a nearly straight line, and very purposefully… Towards the capital, I think. Yes. Interesting. That may make things difficult… but I must learn more before I act.

It retraced its steps, looking for additional clues that it might have missed. Why is there a hint of the Mortal God on this one? There was no immediate answer, though the faint scent taunted him maddeningly. Never mind. Let us examine the third.

The third young man… Now that is most interesting. There is a scent with him of… plastics. Electronics. By my Power, this boy must be from the other world!

Something about that bothered him. After a moment, he recalled what that was. Zarathanton… the five young people who had been, as they might have said, “framed” for the assassination of the Sauran King… his agent had been emphatic that they claimed to come from Earth. It would be ludicrous to suppose that another such traveller could have come so soon, so this must be one of those five – one who has either escaped the inescapable, or been released.

There was also some other energy, a sense, that sent a tingle of warning and anticipation throught the creature. Traces of something ancient, ancient indeed. Yet I cannot quite make it out.

But that was not all. There was another trace of presence, another spirit-scent… And this, too, something hinting of the familiar. It allowed itself another good-natured internal complaint about the limitations it was currently saddled with. Necessary for the way things must be done, yes, but there are times I am tempted…

Too many feet – humanoid and otherwise – had trampled these grounds in that combat, especially in that endgame against a tide of unnatural monstrosities. And that was very well-done, Thornfalcon. I have a suspicion as to the source of these things, but for you to have found it, been able to make the appropriate bargains… it truly is a shame you are dead. It quickened its pace, criss-crossing the entire clearing, walking, sensing, sniffing…

A very faint scent caught at its senses now, and it glanced around and down, found itself looking at a tiny thing that glittered on the ground. Changing shape back to human, it reached down and gingerly picked up the little metal shaft. Pointed. Notched at the other end. It sniffed carefully. Alchemical bolt. But how tiny. Now what could…

For a moment it was no longer smiling. Now that is too far for coincidence; first the child of Zaralandar finds his way here and is working with the last Justiciar, and now this? From the center of the Great Forest to here? With the Phoenix and whoever these others are? Voorith had no visible connections here, so what would have led this one hence?

Its eyes narrowed and it looked around, suspicious. And if that is the case, other aspects of the plan may be in more danger than it appears. It sniffed again at the ground, and now, with its senses fully alerted, it caught the faintest hint, a chime and a flicker in the background.

That it recognized instantly, and it grinned savagely, realizing that all of their plans were in more jeopardy than it had imagined… and it was glad of it, in truth. My oldest mortal enemy… is it truly you again, Khoros? Have you dared to try your hand once more? I must discover if it is so!

It was even more glad, now, that its true goals were still buried layers deep, hidden behind the dozen other plots in which it was involved. Kerlamion, o King, your plans proceeed apace… yet they may be doomed to failure.

As might be true of the other three branches of the conspiracy. It nodded. I must find a way to have this possible connection discovered, brought to their attention. It would not do to make it easy on our adversaries, yet the King of Demons and our other … allies do not have any need to know how I have learned these things.

It glanced up at the sky. Time to leave; I have learned what I could here.

More importantly, it guessed what the Phoenix was about to do, and if it was right, there was little to be done to stop her now. However, if it moved very swiftly, it should be able to arrive at Justiciar’s Retreat just ahead of someone else who must be even now approaching.. That should be very entertaining… and useful, if his performance is as expected.

It strode into the jungle, chuckling, shape becoming something swift and terrible, arrowing towards the once-holy sanctum.