Phoenix Rising (40 page)

Of course, his patron
should
take this seriously. While it, naturally, didn’t care a bit about clearing away taints of supernatural evil, the Twilight House was a local legend and center of dangerous happenings that normally confined its destructiveness to those stupid enough to enter the grounds of the old madman’s mansion.

“I see,” his patron said finally. “Due to . . . certain events, it might have been spreading its influence . . . and anything that could destroy or drive out those influences is not an ordinary warrior; a very powerful adventurer at the least.” It slowly seated itself. “And few indeed are the adventurers seen in
this
remote region of the world.”

“Exactly.” He felt the tension on his face relaxing. “It hasn’t ended there. He or she—the reports aren’t clear on this—hasn’t come to Evanwyl’s center, the city itself, yet, or at least not that we know, but this so called . . . Phoenix Justiciar . . . has been sighted all around the area otherwise.”

It leaned forward. “Phoenix?” it repeated. A pause
.
“Have there been any reports of . . . healing?” it said, slowly.

He nodded. “Man and his daughter, ambushed by leafaxes, he was taken down, then this Phoenix shows up, kills the whole swarm single-handed, then heals the man with a prayer.”

“And what have you done?”

“I have had those I could spare out looking. But the other . . . projects . . .”

“Understood.” There was new tension in the humanoid figure now. “But this now takes absolute priority. I want you to drop the other projects. I want you to find this new Justiciar. If you can, find out his—or her—purpose. But above all,” it said in a low, hissing tone, “this new Justiciar needs to
die
.”

He was somewhat surprised. “Of course he, or she, does, but you seem . . . much more upset than you were—”

It snarled, and he stopped in midsentence. “I will not call you
stupid
, my friend, for you are not, but you do not see the entirety of the picture. Even so, you
should
realize how different this is. Silver Eagle was
ours
. We could watch him, divert him, see where he was going, what he planned to do . . . and be prepared to counter any move he made.

“We do
not
control
this
Justiciar if indeed that is what he is! And that, my friend, means that he or she may do
anything
. Including, I will point out, becoming a new
focus
for Myrionar, and that would be
most
unfortunate for you and all your brother Justiciars, I assure you.”

He bowed low. “I . . . I will gather the others immediately. We will begin the searches at once.”
My patron is right. I should have seen this
instantly
. If the true God of Justice and Vengeance begins to regain Its power . . .
“My apologies again. With your permission . . . ?”

“Go. And . . .” It smiled again. “This is not
all
bad news, my friend.”

“It . . . isn’t?”

A chilling laugh. “To risk this, so close to your center of power? This is the move of desperation, the god’s last fading hope, a single thrust to the heart of its enemy before the god itself passes. Now,” the smile widened, and he felt his own smile return, hungry and dangerous, “now, my friend, the fun can
truly
begin.”

38

“Halt and turn, stranger!” The shout echoed through the twilight-gloomy clearing.

Kyri heard the sharp, clear voice and her heart seemed at once to both leap and sink.
Of all the Justiciars it could have been . . .

She turned slowly, until she faced Mist Owl fully. The other Justiciar was fully arrayed, as was she, with his broadsword drawn and shield partially raised. She knew that he could see only a tall figure in similar armor, the predatory “beak” serving to cover her features, the molded breastplate and loose armored skirt serving to confuse many as to whether she was man or woman.

The
Artan
Justiciar pointed his sword at her. “I am Mist Owl, Justiciar of Myrionar; I seek one not of our number, who has claimed to be a Justiciar, and I believe you are that one, that has been called Phoenix.”

She gave a short bow, heart pounding.
Please, Myrionar . . . if ever I needed your help, I need it now.
Mist Owl, nearly as old as Lythos, oldest and possibly the most dangerous of the Justiciars.
But maybe I won’t have to fight him.
Gathering her courage, she answered.

“I am the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar, Mist Owl.” She spoke in a low, measured tone, not wishing to give away anything of who or what she was until the time was right. “Your eyes are still sharp, I see.”

“You do not deny it. Well enough. Then perhaps—just perhaps, I say—this can be resolved without your death, ‘Phoenix.’” Mist Owl advanced a few more paces, but was still very cautious. “Cast your weapons upon the ground and remove your armor, and submit yourself to the justice of the Justiciars and Myrionar. I have heard no tales of your doing wrong—other than using a name and title to which you have no right—and perhaps you have no evil within you.”

“I make you a counteroffer, Mist Owl,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and level, and show no sign of the tension or, yes, fear that she kept within. “
You
disarm and take off that armor, and submit yourself to
my
justice. For you know, as I do, that to submit to Myrionar’s justice you can no longer accept that of the Justiciars.”

There was the barest hesitation before Mist Owl responded. “What nonsense are you speaking? We are Myrionar’s chosen representatives, Its Sword and Balance on this world.”

“Then tell me, Mist Owl, what justice of Myrionar directed the Justiciars to attack and destroy the Vantage estate?”

Now
the other was silent, and stood immobile for several moments. “If you know
that
, then you must know that I cannot permit you to leave here alive,” Mist Owl said finally.

“It is not too late for you, Mist Owl.” Her voice was more urgent now.
Please let him listen.
“I am Vengeance, but I am also Justice. If you would turn from whatever your true master is, and join the one you have claimed to serve, then you may be redeemed, for you have much knowledge of the enemy and can help us to defeat him in turn.”

“You claim to be a true Justiciar? You expect me to believe that a single new Justiciar has been sent, to try us all?” Despite his grim and mocking tone, Kyri thought she heard a faint trace of hope—or fear—that this impossible thing could be true.

“I do, and I am, and I have. Myrionar answered my call, and I answered Its; a Justiciar I am, with armor new-forged by the Spiritsmith himself, and it is within my power to save you.”

Mist Owl laughed, a bitter laugh and cold, cold enough to send a chill down her spine. “Myrionar could not save the Justiciars before. For a hundred years and more It did nothing, and It can do nothing against the powers that have moved against it. You are either deluded—though with knowledge deadly enough to require your death—or you are the last pathetic throw of the dice that Myrionar can muster. In either case, how can you offer me anything?”

She pulled off her helm and glared at him, letting her hair cascade down. “I can offer you
redemption
for your crimes, Mist Owl—or by the Balanced Sword, I’ll have to give you death, for all that I used to trust you!”

That
startled him; he stepped back a pace, and his voice was touched for a moment with emotion more gentle than contempt or resignation. “
Kyri Vantage . . .
of course it would have to be you.” The sword and shield sagged down slowly. Then they rose up as his face hardened. “Once more your sister will be bereaved, I fear.”

She reached back for her own sword, but her voice was pleading. “Please, Mist Owl,
don’t make me do this!
Let Myrionar protect—”

“Myrionar cannot protect Its own
temples
, you stupid little girl!” the
Artan
Justiciar snarled, coming to full guard position. “And the
worst
you can offer me is death; what
he
threatens—and can do—is far, far worse, as Silver Eagle found out all too late.” His voice dropped back to the cold-iron of a warrior prepared for battle. “Draw your sword, Phoenix Kyri, or die a pathetic death trying to argue with my blade.” His sword, Cloudweaver, came up in the ritual salute.

She felt tears sting her eyes as she slammed the helm back on her head and pulled Flamewing free.
Blink them clear now! No time for blurred vision!
The great two-handed weapon glowed faintly in the falling night, showing the red-gold pattern that looked like ascending flame, and she brought it up in salute.

No sooner had she finished than Mist Owl was moving, circling. She had watched him fight on two occasions and understood his tactics; use the terrain, use the lighting, maneuver and confuse the enemy, make him believe one tactic while unleashing another. Now he circled, watching, looking to see where
her
weak spots were, and formulate a plan to take advantage of them.

Don’t play his game.
She remembered Rion saying those words when they trained, and Lythos, too, though in terms more flowery than Rion’s blunt description: “Mist Owl’s a thinker and a planner. Give him enough time, he’ll beat the living hells out of you.”

She charged forward, whipping Flamewing in a circular arc that made it difficult to parry, forcing Mist Owl to leap aside.
Keep him moving, off balance. Force him to improvise.

The problem, of course, was that even if Mist Owl didn’t have time, he was still old and yet unaged, an
Artan
deadly and savage.

An
Artan
. . . maybe . . .

She focused on the speed within, praying that Myrionar would support her here. Warmth rewarded her, warmth that drove heaviness from her limbs, lightened Flamewing in her hands, and she suddenly parried and cut as though she were wielding a dagger, not a greatsword; her opponent was taken aback, driven entirely on the defensive as a storm of metal edges seemed to descend upon him. “Lythos trained me for most of my life, Mist Owl. I am a Vantage. You know what that means.”

She could see Mist Owl’s mouth tighten; he had known her brother, too. “Myrionar is with me. You can
see
that, Mist Owl. Maybe whatever monster you serve could withstand It, but you cannot.”

The lips compressed even more, then spat out a curse in
Artan
that she did not recognize. “Do you think we are able to play the part of Justiciars without the
power?
”

And now it was
her
turn to be driven backwards by a hail of blows that flicked out and back like lightning. A stinging on her cheek from one barely deflected, another shock of pain in her upper arm as Cloudweaver tried to bite deep; but the Raiment of the Phoenix, the newest work of the Spiritsmith, was far too strong to be cut even by Mist Owl’s blade—at least with a single stroke. Even so, the impact staggered her and left her arm half numb.

Mist Owl stepped back a half pace and spun Cloudweaver three times; gray mist flowed from the blade like water from a fountain, and Mist Owl’s next series of cuts sent cold, clinging fog in all directions, shrouding the area in almost impenetrable gloom.

I’m an idiot. Of course they have all the powers. The charade would never have lasted. Rion would have seen through them immediately.

Mist Owl had disappeared; his armor had been designed for this, just as his namesake would appear from night fogs and strike its prey.
And he’s very quiet. Fast and silent.

Cloudweaver tore through its mists, the Mist Owl’s talons outstretched. Something, perhaps only the sound of wind on steel, warned her with not a single fraction of a second to spare. Even as she dove aside, Cloudweaver sheared through her hair as it trailed behind, and then he was gone again.

I can’t play this game his way,
she reminded herself.
But the mist is everywhere . . .

She grinned suddenly.
Not quite, I think!

With a leap, she was in the trees edging the clearing, climbing the ancient oak, climbing . . . and at only twenty feet she came into clear air. At the next branch she stopped, waiting.

A low, hard chuckle came from below. “Ah. Well played, Kyri Vantage.”

She concentrated.
As I am balanced, so you balance me. These trees are no more to me than the ground below. You are my guide and balance, Myrionar!

The sound of boots on bark,
running up the tree
. She sprang aside, landing with the surety that proved that the Balanced Sword had heard and answered her prayer, just as Mist Owl streaked through the space she had been. Her return stroke, however, nearly cleaved him in half, rebounding from his armor with an impact that sent him skidding off the branch and plummeting towards the ground below; he somersaulted and landed with an impact that shook the tree slightly. She was sliding down just behind him, trying to follow up on the attack before Mist Owl recovered.

She found she was once more in balance, strangely so, with herself. Half of her was filled with a fierce joy in this battle, the first blow she had been able to strike against the people who had slain her family, betrayed everything she believed in; the other part was crying in pain and aching sympathy, for one thing she had heard in Mist Owl’s voice: a moment of longing, of wishing for what she offered, and a fear that would never let him accept it.

And with that balance of vengeance and justice—or even mercy—came the renewed determination to finish this.
I accept the pain and the responsibility, Myrionar. They are yours, now they are mine as well.

And even as Mist Owl’s sword rebounded from her helm with an impact that made her ears ring and the world go momentarily dim, she realized the path to that ending, at least for this duel. Mist Owl was better than she was, but—surprisingly—not by nearly as much as she had feared.

And he was
Artan
, not Vantage.

Now she attacked with her full strength.
That
was something that he could not counter easily. Oh, he might pray to whatever dark god was providing false Justiciars their powers, but she could be strengthened in the same way—and the differential would still be in her favor. Skill could negate strength . . . sometimes. But she was not that unskilled, and Mist Owl’s mouth was set in a grim line so narrow that his lips were all but gone. “Surrender, Va-Nye-Kimda,” she said, using finally his name, a name all but forgotten in the years since he had become a Justiciar. “You never wanted this. You are
Artan
, a protector, not a killer and a false friend!”