Phoenix Rising (48 page)

The door was yanked open and Thornfalcon stood there, bare to the waist but with a long, keen rapier in his hand. “I know not how you’ve come past my wards and wall, boy, but if you have no explanation that pleases me, I’ll cut the clothes from your back and leave you with scars you’ll have to explain for all the rest of your life. And if it displeases me enough, you’ll never leave.”

It was clear, from the faint sheen of sweat already visible on the Justiciar’s face and the somewhat disordered hair—not to mention the state of semi-dress—that they were just barely in time. “Sir, I’m sorry, very sorry.” He reached to his shoulder, and saw that the rapier twitched at that sudden move, but was restrained. He pulled down the patch covering. “Tobimar Silverun. Hired by the Justiciars and Temple to chase that false Justiciar.”

“What of it? That does not give you authority to enter my estate.”

“No, sir, but this does: the woman you brought home with you tonight is, almost certainly, the Phoenix, and she intends to kill you.”
Why is it that my sense of unease is not gone? It almost feels
worse.

Thornfalcon’s long face only emphasized the comical drop of his jaw.
“What?”

“She’s very tall, six foot three, slender-looking, maybe two hundred pounds or less soaking wet, and I’ve just tracked her from Shrike’s body. Sir, you have to believe me!” The sense of imminent peril grew even as Thornfalcon slowly backed away and let them enter.
What is it? What is wrong? Has the Phoenix recognized that the interruption means her disguise has been penetrated? Are we all at risk now?

That thought made
sense
. . . and yet there was no sense of rightness about it; indeed, it seemed completely against the connections of past and future.

But Thornfalcon’s expression had slowly shifted to unwilling acceptance of possibility. “You speak with conviction, and while I am loath indeed to imagine the young lady—indeed,
any
young lady—could harbor such dark designs against me, I would be foolish to ignore a warning so earnestly given.” Thornfalcon turned and reached out, and Tobimar saw that his Raiment was on a stand nearby. The mystical and symbolic armor seemed to
flow
from its resting place and garb its owner in a smooth combined motion that ended with Thornfalcon’s arms stretched above his head.

Thornfalcon lowered his arms, tugging at the gauntlets as though adjusting their fit
just so
. “Well, then, let us proceed to discuss this with the lady who awaits us. But you shall owe her an apology of
staggering
dimensions if you prove wrong in this, I assure you!” He gestured to a wide stairway farther down the hall. “Shall we?”

As Tobimar turned, three things happened almost at once:

One:
A tiny weight disappeared from his shoulder with an inarticulate croak.

Two:
Points and connections drew infinitely tight, an array of meaning and possibility frozen in crystal, and he saw horror and dropped, rolling aside in the same instant.

Three:
A streak of cold light, steel and sorcery intertwined, speared through the point his skull had occupied in the infinitesimal past; the steel withdrew, the magic continued, shattering a hole in the carven-wood staircase.

Tobimar continued his roll, coming to his feet, drawing the twin blades even as the shock of understanding and the nearness of death sent nausea and terror through him.

Thornfalcon regarded him from beneath the upraised helm, one eyebrow quirked high, a cruel smile on the face that before had been so welcoming. “Oh, well
done
, Adventurer. The Guild has not lowered its standards, I see. And I must say, it is rather appropriate that the young lady have someone arrive at the very proverbial last minute.” The shimmering rapier came up in an ironic salute. “Yet I fear that the ending of this play would not please the crowd. Fortunate, is it not, that I play now only to an audience of one?”

“You . . . you’re a Justiciar! How . . . why?”

The other man shook his head slowly, smile broadening.

Oh.

“It’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

“Very good, Tobimar Silverun.” He could sense more power now, something that made his skin crawl, a power that was not mere magic and energy, but born of darkness, and he no longer saw—exactly—a man before him, but something else, something more—or less. “You have found the true solution to the riddle. But that, I am afraid, will be the final—and never-known—victory of your tragically short life.”

46

The room was now empty except for Kyri and waiting horror.
This is my only chance.

Kyri looked at the bindings; they were light, wide straps of some soft, pearlescent material, but the softness did not mean lack of strength. When she tried to pull, they gave hardly at all.
Might be shadespider silk. I could break about
half
that much. Maybe. On a good day.
The material was ideal for bindings; wouldn’t cut into the person’s arms or legs—
or head, now that I notice
—or cut off circulation as long as they didn’t struggle, and it was very hard to hurt yourself struggling against it . . . but it was also stronger than the best ordinary rope by a great deal.

I will not fail. I will
not!
I will find
some
way out of this.

She cast desperately around, her glance falling on the open keepsake box. The blades glittered back at her.

He’s not here controlling everything. Maybe . . .

She stretched her body, threw it to one side as far as she could flex.

The floating platform moved slightly, tilted a bit.

Yes!
She tried to gauge the way the unseen, immaterial supports shifted.
Meant to allow him to position his victim in any way he wants, and do it easily. He can probably lock it down if he likes, but he didn’t before he left.
The keepsake chest was near her head.
Have to tilt and spin so my one hand can reach into the chest.

She raised her chest, arching her back slowly, then slammed down and to the right.
There!
The platform shifted, tilted just a little more. Again. And again!

Suddenly, through the partially open door, she heard a shout, and a clash of blades.
Whoever it is might have found out too much. Maybe they’re good enough . . . but maybe not. Got to get out of . . . here!

The last slam of her body forced the strange suspended structure past a minor tipping point, and it revolved sideways and down, perfectly lined up. Kyri felt a savage grin starting across her face as she saw the chest getting closer, and stretched her fingers out, out.
I just need one thing,
anything
, with a sharp edge—

But as her fingers were within an inch of the chest and still dropping, the glittering trays of blades and needles
retreated
, the elaborate carven lid slid shut, and her fingers struck only solid wood.

“No!”
For a moment she wanted to curse and cry at the same time.
Of
course
he’d spelled it against anyone else touching his toybox.

A tremendous shattering crash echoed from below, and she realized someone or something had gone through one of Thornfalcon’s huge picture windows. She wanted to believe it was the false Justiciar, but she remembered Rion’s description of fighting Thornfalcon and her hope faded.
Whoever that is, they’re fighting
my
battle . . . and they’re about to get killed for it.

A terrible cold fury rose up, but she controlled it, balanced it.
Myrionar, give me strength. Give me all the strength my mortal body may handle. I have sought Justice, offered Mercy, tried to follow Wisdom.

Now there is only Vengeance.

Smoke suddenly rose from the floor, but the spell-wards of Thornfalcon—though they must have been strong—were not equal to stopping the blessing of a god. She felt strength flowing into her, filling her with power, and she threw her entire body against the bindings that held her.

The elaborate frame itself creaked and seemed to bend slightly under the strain. The webbing tightened, pulled in soft yet imperative resistance, stretched perhaps . . . but did not break.

No good,
she thought, horror starting to return.
Even twice my strength isn’t enough to break those bonds. He knew I was a Justiciar. He knows how much I can hope to gain from Myrionar, so he’s made the bindings that much stronger.

But even in incipient despair, something hovered, nagged at her.
Made the bindings stronger . . .

Creaked . . . seemed to bend . . .

Made the
bindings
stronger . . .

And despair was gone in a rising tide of furious hope. “There’s two things you didn’t think of, Thornfalcon,” she said as she took deep breaths, preparing herself.

“The bindings are stronger . . . but did you make this prisoning
frame
stronger?

“And do you really know everything Lythos taught us?”

First the meditations. I can’t afford mistakes.
She ran through the Winds of Direction and Winds of Seasons, the Eight Winds, and she felt her mind becoming focused, calm, certain; behind that, the strength of Myrionar waited, patient, eternal, for her to call it forth again.

Her whole body tensed once more, but this time in a smooth, controlled, focused effort, building, building, the power of the Living Will, not merely the Claw of Stone, the
Body
of Stone. For a moment she thought she could see Lythos, with that single tiny smile, nodding to her, as she pit her strength, and the strength of Myrionar, and finally the strength of the human soul, of her living and unbreakable will, against the silken-steel prison of abomination she was bound within.

Thornfalcon’s bindings of shadespider silk held softly firm, but the structure itself creaked again, seemed to bend . . . and now there was no seeming about it, a bend, a screeching of metal, and suddenly something broke, and the framework fell, no longer intact, no longer supported. She grunted in pain as she hit the ground, but now the structure was weakened. Pull and bend again. And again!

With abruptness that startled her, one arm came entirely free, remnants of metal and wood suspension still bound to her. She rolled, added that arm’s pull to the other, and
that
one came free, and she sat up, the remaining pieces of that grisly horrific trap falling away as the structure’s integrity completely failed. Trailing the sound of the pathetic remnants, she leapt to her pack and yanked it open. Flamewing first, and the huge blade made short work of the shadespider bindings.

And then she reached in again, and pulled forth the Raiment of the Phoenix.

47

Tobimar’s twin blades flickered back and forth, following the sense of motion, flick of eye and intent, and even with two weapons it was all he could do to keep that terrible rapier from impaling him or cutting him to ribbons with its double-edged blade. The exiled prince leapt backwards, a midair reversed somersault barely clearing another stroke of Thornfalcon’s weapon, landing with a skid atop a display table.

“You’ve marred a near-priceless Imperial table, you barbarian,” Thornfalcon said, still smiling, showing none of the tension Tobimar felt. “I’m tempted to take that price out in pain, but I also,” the smile widened, “hate to keep a lady waiting.”

He unleashed a flurry of blows that backed Tobimar up a step, and suddenly cut lower, much lower.

The slender rapier cut
through
the solid silverwood legs of the table as though they had been reeds, and Tobimar leapt up and over the false Justiciar as the table collapsed, parrying a weak and surprised stroke in midair, taking a cut at Thornfalcon’s back with the other blade; unfortunately it rebounded from the Raiment armor.

“You complain about
me
marring your table?” he said, as his senses and mind tried desperately to figure out a way to finish this without dying. Poplock was nowhere to be seen, at least not at a sideways casual glance, but then, he was very, very good at hiding.

“My compliments on your agility; you have already evaded Lightning longer than many. As to my table, once marred, the value is gone. No point in trying to repair perfection; finish its destruction when the time is right.” The long face which made him a perfect choice to play the sad and lost also stretched other expressions, emphasized Thornfalcon’s malice.

And that must be the way he views everything. All or nothing, his to keep or throw away. Terian’s Light, what sort of a monster is he?
Tobimar focused, reaching for what Master Khoros had once called the
High Center
, where he could touch again the web of possibility and certainty. The focus cost him in accuracy and speed, perhaps lethally, but he had little choice. He could not win against the Justiciar as things stood.

The rapier smashed against his defending blades like a bludgeon. One part of Tobimar registered this, was astounded by the force.
This weapon . . . it gives up nothing against heavier blades. He has all the speed and maneuverability of a rapier, but none of its weaknesses. I
must
separate him from that blade.

The other part of him was rising higher, extending outward, touching the essence of the world around him again. The course of the world was now his course . . . if only he could chart it.

The next strike of Lightning he met with a perfect cross-parry and twist—and the lethal blade flew from Thornfalcon’s grasp.

To Tobimar’s shock and dismay, the slender Thornfalcon stepped forward as dark possibility and darker power enveloped him, blocking Tobimar’s own swords with his armored forearms and then
hammering
a blow into Tobimar’s gut that staggered him, only the realization that to yield to pain would mean death keeping him from doubling over.

“
Where
,” an elbow smashed across his face, bringing a flare of pain and salt-iron taste of blood, “are
all
,” a kick to the ribs that tumbled him over the wreckage of the table, “these overtalented children
coming
from?”