Phoenix Rising (53 page)

“No,” Xavier said, “being caught in the mansion of a recently murdered guy doesn’t sound like a good idea to
me
.”

Kyri looked out, saw that the window did not reflect pure black, but had hints of shapes of the outdoors in it now. “You’re right, Tobimar, Xavier. Poplock?”

The little Toad bounced down the stairs, stuffing some last little object into his neverfull pack. “I think I’ve got most of the stuff that’s safe to take, valuable, and not traceable. I could set some of my flares—”

“No,” Kyri said.

Tobimar nodded. “Of course, it’s
your
right to—”

“I mean, no, we’re not going to torch the mansion,” she said slowly.

The other two goggled at her; a part of her almost laughed, because for a moment Tobimar looked nearly as pop-eyed as his Toad companion. “
What?”

“I think we have a perfect opportunity here, but we have to leave the evidence for what Thornfalcon
was
in order for it to work.”

Poplock frowned. “You mean I have to put everything
back
?” His distress was so comically exaggerated that Xavier failed to repress a snort of laughter.

She shook her head, and
did
smile. “No. We already argued that, and it’s true that he had no heirs except the Justiciars. Since I’m the one true Justiciar, that makes it mine to give away . . . especially,” and she was no longer smiling, “since he admitted to planning the deaths of my family, and
did
kill my brother . . . and with his monsters, a lot of other people in Evanwyl, too. Blood-debt, now paid. You didn’t take anything of the evidence, and that’s all that matters.”

“Oh,” said Xavier. “I get you. You’re going to try the straight-ahead move.”

Tobimar was looking at her speculatively, those brilliant blue eyes showing the beginnings of understanding. “You’ll be taking a
drought-damned
risk, if you want to do what I think.”

“Maybe . . . maybe not as much as you think,” she answered, and felt hope rising. “Thornfalcon was bad through and through, and I suppose Bolthawk and Skyharrier might be too. But I
know
that wasn’t true of Mist Owl and Shrike,”
and I’m sure it’s not true of Condor, please let it not be true,
“and even Thornfalcon was
shocked
to find out it was me. I can’t keep that secret forever anyway; part of the reason it’s worked at all is that they know where I went and why, and it would be almost impossible for me to
be
here again.”

“Oh, oh, I think I see where you’re hopping,” Poplock said. “Might work. If we can do it right.”

“It relies on what they already know—and what we know,” Kyri said. “And on what I’m betting that innkeeper, Vlay, would have done after you left.”

She could see Tobimar’s brows lower, then raise in comprehension. “That
look
. . . he
knew
about Thornfalcon!”

“Makes sense,” Xavier said.

“And if he knew
that
, he had to be one of their agents. Once he suspected what was going on, he’d have used one of the village messengers, sent someone straight to Evanwyl—the city—the man you saw, Xavier, and going probably to the Watchland, maybe to the Temple where the Justiciars would be sure to check in. He couldn’t send anything to Justiciar’s Retreat, that’s not accessible if you aren’t one of them, but the Watchland and the Temple would cover pretty much any chances.”

Tobimar suddenly grinned. “And we can use that—and me—against them!” The grin grew sharper. “And with Xavier as a reserve.”

“Something they’ll
never
see coming,” he said, with an answering grin.

The smiles, and the sudden certainty that they were
right
, wiped away the exhaustion. “Yes,” she said, returning the smile, “I think we can. Because we have one other ally . . .”

52

Tobimar strode out of the forest, holding tightly to the ropes. A quick glance showed that Poplock was in place on his prisoner’s shoulder, his slender but deadly blade resting against her neck. A glance ahead showed the main street. “You really
do
know your way around,” he murmured. “We’re practically
at
the Temple of the Balanced Sword.” He had to trust Xavier was in his correct location, but that wasn’t much of a worry; the native of Earth had proven his abilities to follow and stick with a plan—and improvise when the plan failed—enough in their journeys together.
I can trust him to do his part—or do nothing, if he’s not needed, so he stays a secret.

A shadow of a smile was just visible under the great beaked helm. Otherwise Kyri gave no sign of hearing, or of even being capable of much other than staggering along as she was pulled. Bindings tied her arms securely behind her back and wrapped around front; another line was connected to her legs in such a manner as to allow Tobimar to practically hobble her at need.

However, the blood streaking her armor, especially on the legs, showed that there probably
was
no need. She was limping and her shambling gait was that of a prisoner at the very edge of endurance and pain.

Tobimar knew he didn’t look much better, with a cut on his cheek, blood on his clothes, dirt and sweat smeared across his face, in his hair, and other parts of clothing tattered and ripped.
We cleaned up, then we had to mess ourselves up again. And we
still
need to be ready to run as though the Hells themselves were on our trail, if this doesn’t work.
Eating and the short rest they’d had during their talk had given him some reserves back, but they were all a long way from their best condition. But if this plan was going to work at all, they had to do it now.

Looking forward caused him to slow his pace for a moment. There was a
crowd
up ahead, dozens of people gathered in front of the Temple of the Balanced Sword. After a moment, though, he moved forward again.
I think this is just what we were looking for.

In front of the crowd, seated on a beautiful gold and white feathered Sithigorn, was a silver and green armored figure with gold-blond hair. “
The Watchland,
” Kyri whispered.

The Watchland was addressing the crowd. “. . . will ride with as many of you are ready. Whatever we fear may have happened . . . will have happened, or not, long before we can arrive.” As Tobimar got closer, he recognized two more elaborately armored figures:
Bolthawk and Skyharrier. No sign of Condor.

Kyri was obviously puzzled . . . yet just as clearly relieved. “I did not want to fight Condor,” she murmured. “I don’t know why he isn’t here now . . . but I am glad.”

“So am I,” Poplock said in Tobimar’s ear. “One Justiciar just about whipped us all. Three would be entirely too much of a bad thing.”

Tobimar made a gesture for them to both be quiet. Have to time this correctly . . . I think it’s time to move.

“So,” the Watchland continued, “we will move with haste and decision, but not rashly. We have . . .”

He trailed off, head raised to look down the road and staring in their direction.

The rest of the crowd turned to look, and a murmur began. Tobimar saw Skyharrier stiffen, then begin to move forward.

Tobimar ignored them, proceeded towards the steps of the Temple of the Balanced Sword. As he did so, the doors opened, Arbiter Kelsley emerging . . . and then stepping back in shock, nearly falling despite the cane on which he walked. “Adventurer Silverun . . . have you . . . is
this . . . ?
”

“You asked that I find the one responsible for Mist Owl’s death,” Tobimar said, entering, hearing the rustle and murmur behind him as the crowd began to follow—and the sharper, ringing sound of two pairs of armored boots, not
quite
running but moving quickly indeed.
Another pair of heavier, armored steps right behind them—that must be the Watchland.

About as good as we could hope . . . as long as Kyri’s right about Kelsley.
“You asked I do this, and so I have done. Before you is the slayer of Mist Owl and Shrike and—as of this past evening—Thornfalcon.”

Kelsley was alternating his stare between Tobimar’s prisoner, whose head was bowed, figure hunched, and Tobimar himself. “We had heard . . . a messenger had come from Gharis, with word that Thornfalcon might be in danger. I had hoped . . . But at least it is over now.”

“Indeed it is over.” Skyharrier’s voice was grim and hard, and his face as stony as the pillars supporting the temple. Bolthawk nodded, brows dark over furious eyes, and the crowd murmured; it was an ugly sound. The Watchland, Tobimar noticed, said nothing, and his expression was analytical, not angry.

“And now, impostor, you will face us without a mask to shield you from the Justiciars and our certain vengeance!” Skyharrier’s hand lashed out to rip the helm from the captive’s head. “We shall see what manner of—
Great Balance!
”

Skyharrier fell back, shock replacing anger, the helm falling from nerveless fingers, as deep-sapphire hair cascaded down, hair crowned with pure silver-white, and beneath that the furious glare of Kyri Vantage, the Phoenix.
Oh, that was perfect
, Tobimar thought, and at the same moment felt a tiny weight scuttle up his back.
And now we’re ready if it all goes bad.

Kyri straightened, the bonds falling away,
burning
away in golden flame, and the crowd withdrew, the murmuring filled with disbelief and confusion now. “We shall indeed see,” she said quietly.

For a long moment no one else moved; Skyharrier and Bolthawk’s faces ran a gamut of emotions, and Tobimar realized Kyri had been right.
They may be very bad men, perhaps almost as bad as Thornfalcon, or they may not; but they never expected to have to face
her
.

The Arbiter was the first to move. He stepped forward, eyes wide, and his voice shook. “Kyri? Kyri Vantage, child, is it truly you?”

She turned her head and looked down, and her expression softened; Tobimar could see a fond smile. “It is, Arbiter.”

“But then . . .” He seemed at a complete loss for words, mouth opening, closing, and finally he found only one last word to speak: “. . .
why?
”

“That,” the deep voice of the Watchland said, “is indeed the question, and a deadly one.” The crowd murmured agreement.

Kyri turned fully to face the Watchland and then dropped to both knees. “Watchland, I am Kyri Victoria Vantage, inheritor of my house, Eye and Ward of Evanwyl. Will you hear me, Watchland? Will you truly hear me, in the name of the Balanced Sword, in the name of Myrionar, in the name of Justice with Wisdom, Vengeance with Truth, Mercy through Strength?”

He stared down, and Tobimar saw his eyes flick towards the two Justiciars, who were now recovering from shock and clearly trying to figure out the right response. Then he looked back to the girl kneeling before him.

Moments went by, and no one else dared move; even the crowd was silent, holding its collective breath, waiting to see what the Watchland would do.

Then his hand came down and touched her shoulder, lifted, brought Kyri to a stand to face him. “I am Jeridan Velion, the Watchland and Ward of Evanwyl. My Eyes are my strength and the Vantages are my heart. I will hear you truly, in the name of the Balanced Sword, in the name of Myrionar, in the name of Justice with Wisdom, Vengeance with Truth, Mercy through Strength.”

Kyri bowed her thanks—and then whirled, finger jabbing like a spear. “Then I say to you that
these
are the true traitors, Jeridan! The Justiciars are corrupt and fallen. Thornfalcon
boasted
of it, for he
arranged
my parents’ deaths, killed Rion with his own hands, and Shrike . . .” her voice caught for a moment, then went on, “Shrike was the one who cut down both my mother and father.”

“
What
?” Skyharrier’s face was a perfect picture of stunned disbelief, and the crowd echoed that shock. “How . . . how could you
say
such things, Kyri?” He looked to the Watchland. “Watchland, you
know
what she says is . . . insane. Impossible. You have
seen
our powers, you have fought beside us, you
know
us! I don’t know what’s
happened
to her, but . . .”

“. . . but she’s completely off her head,” Bolthawk finished, a look of tormented sympathy on his face.
By the Seven and the One, they’re good. But I suppose being able to carry off such an act is something they’ve become very, very practiced in.

The Watchland was now standing a short distance from them, the conflict before him mirrored on his face. The people in the crowd were murmuring, and Tobimar couldn’t tell how the sentiment in that group might turn. He could see Kyri’s gaze flicking from one group to another, studying them, judging.

“Sir,” Tobimar said, “if I may?”

Watchland Velion raised an eyebrow. “If you can clarify this . . . horror for us, you may speak.”

“I am Tobimar Silverun of Skysand,” he said carefully; a nod from the Watchland showed that the older man understood what that name meant. “I am also an Adventurer—Zarathanton Guilded, sponsored by none other than T’Oroning’Oltharamnon
^h
GHEK R’arshe Ness, Marshal of Hosts—and now, I should inform you, King of the Dragon Throne.”

The Watchland stepped forward and tested the Guild Seal. “So you are—though your other words hint at news I would hear—later. Go on.”

“Sir,” Tobimar said, “I was hired by the Arbiter—for the Justiciars, ironically—to hunt down the killer of Mist Owl and, as it turned out, Shrike. I tracked the Phoenix and arrived, I thought, barely in time to rescue Thornfalcon.

“But it was entirely the other way around, and Thornfalcon very nearly killed me before Phoenix escaped from where Thornfalcon had imprisoned her.” He looked into the blue gaze of the other man. “As he had imprisoned many others before. The evidence you truly seek is there, on his mansion grounds.”

The Watchland nodded, then gestured for him to move. To Tobimar’s surprise, he found himself stepping aside without even really thinking about it.
He’s the ruler of a tiny country . . . yet he has that same . . . force . . . that my mother has, that Toron has. How strange.