43
Kyri let out her breath in a silent sigh of relief. Through the window of the Southern View (which mysteriously faced north) she could see the soft brown hair and long profile of Thornfalcon, nodding with a faint smile on his face to the rhythm of the entertainer of the evening, a girl about her own age who was singing and playing the winged harp. He’s there, and—for the moment—alone. With his reputation, that’s some luck right there.
It had taken her longer than she’d hoped—almost two days; she’d found the right region after realizing that the first town she was in was Skyharrier’s patrol area, and remembering that Thornfalcon was supposed to have a house just a little farther to the west.
She pulled the cloak up over her head to make her hair unnoticeable and hide her face from casual recognition; the heavy mist of this evening, from chill air coming off the Khalals, made this ploy reasonable. The Phoenix Raiment and Flamewing were packed away for now in the neverfull pack; she now wore the same armor and weapons she’d worn when she began her quest.
Myrionar and Terian, I hope I’m doing the right thing. On the one hand, she knew she had to give the Justiciars every chance, and her prior approach had been confrontational—almost calculated to bring things to a bladed end. But on the other hand, this was far more risky in that it inherently revealed her identity, and might leave enough clues for the other Justiciars and their unseen master to figure it out ahead of time, even if she killed Thornfalcon (and what a horrid thought that was).
She took a deep breath and moved, pushed the door and entered the inn.
The air was not that much warmer than outdoors—having experienced real cold now in faraway climes, she found this night much less chilling than she would have before—but the warmth was filled with the smell of baking rolls and bread, cooked meat and roasting vegetables, beers and wines and juices of a dozen types, a welcoming smell echoed by the double-chiming ring of the winged harp and the light songs of the entertainer.
She saw Thornfalcon’s gaze flicker in her direction when she entered. I’d expect no less. A Justiciar—or a false Justiciar—has to be aware of danger, even in a place that should be safe. But I’m not a threat to him right now, and he should be able to see that . . . good, he’s looked away, almost as fast as he looked at me. Saw me, categorized me as a traveller, decided I was of no immediate importance. Not enough to look away from the singer, anyway.
She walked up the side aisle as though headed for the far corner, then slid smoothly onto the carved bench that faced Thornfalcon across his booth’s table.
He instantly focused on her. “Sir, if you’ll pardon me, I was—”
Thornfalcon broke off as he identified the face under the hood, and she found that—despite the tension and deadly seriousness of the situation—she was barely able to stifle a laugh at the way his jaw sagged and eyes widened in an expression of dumbfounded shock that was only exaggerated by his long, mournful minstrel’s face. It was a tribute to his control that the shocked expression lasted only an instant—so brief that only someone else who had been watching him closely would have seen it.
“Kyri?” he murmured finally, barely loud enough to hear over the music and subdued conversations around them. “By the Balance, what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, actually,” she answered. “I need to talk to you, Thornfalcon.”
He gave her one of his famous smiles. “Ahh, now, if only I could believe that you came all this way merely to profess your adoration. But I suspect it’s something much more serious.”
She tried to match his lightness. “Oh, now, I would never dare; you’ve so many other choices, from what I’ve heard, that a girl like me would be wasting her time. But yes, serious enough.”
“As I always told your aunt, you insist on underestimating yourself. But this is not at all a good time, Kyri. There’s a—”
This time he managed to keep his expression mostly under control, but his face went nearly white. “You?”
“Yes. But please, we need to talk, that’s why I came here, like this, please, Thornfalcon!”
She saw his expression go through several shifts. A flash of understanding first, when he broke off, with simultaneous disbelief that it could be true. A deeper understanding, and at her words she saw what she thought was a flash of the same fear that had driven Mist Owl and Shrike. But he glanced at her again, and she thought that—because she had come in ordinary clothes, not the armor of an avenger—he was seeing, not someone judging him, threatening him, but the girl he’d watched grow up, and that made him hesitate.
Finally he nodded, his face back to its normal color and humorous expression. “Of course, Kyri. But not here.”
“Where, then?”
He looked undecided, then resigned. “This is my normal patrol area. I have a small estate of my own . . . well, that is far too grand a description, really, a house in the forest that protects the people from my caterwaulings that might charitably be described as practice by those with tolerance in such things.”
She smiled under the hood as he rose, and she followed, noting that he placed three coins on the table—vastly overpaying for the meal she saw before him. As they exited, she asked, “Why so much?”
He clearly knew what she meant. “Firstly, most lovely and mysterious lady, because he would normally expect my custom there to last all the night, and thus I am signifying that I did not leave due to a displeasure with the food or the entertainment; and second, because we do not wish him to speak of anything he may have noticed, and money is an excellent lever in this sort of game.”
He gestured as she opened her mouth again. “No more, please. We both have . . . innumerable questions, but until we are inside and safe, I cannot be sure what ears are listening, what eyes are watching.”
She nodded, and followed.
Thornfalcon was good. Better than she had thought. He moved smoothly, now that he had a goal and was not playing the clown to a crowd—which, now that she thought of it, was the way she had always seen him. She’d never actually had any significant time alone with him. But of course Rion had, and he told me just how formidable Thornfalcon was. Not that I ever really doubted it—he’d passed all the tests to become a Justiciar, after all. Thornfalcon led her quickly and silently through a back alley, down a narrow path, then reversed direction, took a few more turns, all maneuvers clearly meant to throw off any possible followers.
The final path he followed had branchings and twists enough so that no one who didn’t know where they were going was ever likely to follow the right route, and wound through the jungle for a straight-line distance of nearly half a mile—certainly enough to keep the privacy he wanted, she decided. The house itself was somewhat larger than Thornfalcon had implied, but still was, as he had said, nowhere near grand enough to be called an estate.
She did note, however, that it had a very strong and serviceable fence, with guard spikes, a sense of warding magic, and a formidable lock which he opened with a key hung about his neck. Finally the white-painted door was opened and she stepped in. “It’s quite nice.”
The hallway was polished brown wood, with a few lightsculpt paintings on the wall in carefully chosen locations. Thornfalcon smiled, though the tension in his face robbed it of its usual easy charm, made it look almost sinister for a moment. “Not quite the den of seduction and sensuality one might have imagined?”
She tried to laugh, and found her own tension turned it into a rough snort. “Well, no.”
He seemed about to respond, then shook his head. “Neither of us has time or mind, now, for the pleasantries.” He gestured to the next room, a small dining room, and offered her a chair. “Kyri . . . you are this ‘Phoenix’ we have heard about? The one who has been claiming miracles in our name, who has slain one of us already?”
She nodded, sitting down. “Two, now.”
“Two?” He shook his head again, then selected a bottle from the shelf and placed two glasses in front of them. “I abandoned my meal and you have had none, and most surely I need a drink if we are to . . . discuss what I think we are. Kyri . . .” He opened the bottle and poured a blue-and-gold stream into each glass. She recognized it; an Artan flower-and-fruit liqueur, called Goldsea. Auntie Victoria had some, but very rarely served it because it was so expensive. She’d tried it, and it was very good. But she didn’t feel very thirsty right now.
“Kyri,” Thornfalcon continued, “why?”
She looked him steadily in the eye. “You know very well why.”
He dropped his gaze. “But . . . then you know . . . that I have to kill you. Or, at the least, give the word to my brothers so all of us can do so,” he said slowly, sounding as though each word were being dragged from him.
“I know you don’t have to do that at all,” she said softly. She was trying to pitch her voice carefully, not to confront him with his evils, but offer him hope. “I am not called for only Vengeance, Thornfalcon, but Justice, and tempered always with Mercy. You know these words, now understand that they are true.”
His head came up slowly, and his expression was much like that which had touched Mist Owl’s for a moment, hope and disbelief at war. “Kyri . . . are you saying . . . are you really saying what you seem to be?” His facile words and banter were gone, too much emotion roiling within to allow him the face of the clown or minstrel. He took a large swallow from the glass in front of him, yet his eyes now never left her face.
“I am saying that just as you are no longer merely Wollin Venpa but Thornfalcon, I am more truly named Phoenix. I am saying that Myrionar Itself spoke to me, and named me the last and first of Justiciars, and has given me the charge to redeem Its name and Its temples and Its Justiciars—by Justice and Wisdom and Mercy, if possible, or by terrible and final Vengeance if not.”
A suspicion of a sparkle, a hint of a tear, showed at the corner of the older man’s eyes, and his smile and the faint tremor in his voice confirmed it. “Well . . . well, Kyri . . . I have no words! What a . . . an occasion that is, eh? But . . .” He raised his glass to her. “However this ends . . . Kyri Vantage, the Phoenix, I salute you. It is . . . a miracle.”
A burst of relief washed through her. He can be reached! She took up her own glass and returned his salute. She still wasn’t really thirsty, so she just wet her lips and put the glass down, but it was the gesture that mattered here.
After that burst of sentiment, Thornfalcon’s shoulders slumped. “But Kyri . . . Phoenix, I suppose I should say . . . You must know I don’t dare. I can’t. Didn’t you try to talk to Mist Owl or . . . which of us was your second?”
“Shrike.” The single word was surprisingly hard to say. It was only now sinking in that she’d really killed a man who’d been like an uncle to her.
“Ah.”
“Yes . . . I did, I did try, Thornfalcon, I tried to talk to them, but they were too scared. I know Mist Owl wanted to, I could never have beaten him by myself; he died because he didn’t want to kill me but was too afraid to join me. Shrike . . . had other reasons, I think. But I thought that maybe I was doing it wrong, facing and accusing . . .”
“. . . instead of coming to us like our little lost sister,” he finished, “asking her brothers for help. My dear, I am startled by your insight. An entirely correct judgment on your part; a shame it had to come after the first two . . . but few of us have made no mistakes in our lives. And you likely give yourself too little credit. Mist Owl and Shrike? You truly are your brother’s mirror. He would be proud, I think.” He rose from the table, strode to the window, looking out for a moment. “But I am much less a man than either of them. You look to me for courage that I fear I do not have, for you do not know what it is we serve.”
“Then at least tell me, Thornfalcon! Please! Even if we must come to blows . . .” she couldn’t keep the pain from her voice or the stinging from her eyes at the thought, “. . . even if it must happen again, do at least that much more than the others, and Myrionar will keep your soul safe in the Balance, out of even your master’s reach.” She felt suddenly terribly weary. It had been a long trek to reach Gharis, and not a short one to follow Thornfalcon here, but more, the thought that she might have to draw Flamewing against Thornfalcon weighed upon her.
“Ah, now, that’s the problem, is it not? Can a god who’s been so weakened, so tricked—or, on the other hand, who is beset by a power so great that the god could not oppose it openly—promise any such salvation, unless it has learned some new and key truth, or gained some power or ally that heretofore was lacking?” Thornfalcon stood tensely, seeming to fight an inner battle. “A part of me would very much like to at least tell you the truth—as much of it as I know. Very much indeed. Yet . . . where will I find assurance of even my soul’s existence? You must know how your brother met his end and what that meant.”
“I know that Myrionar swore me an oath—on the powers of all the Gods—that if I were true that I would see both Justice and Vengeance, in full measure, for all that I and my family have lost.” I really am tired, she realized. Too many nights of worry . . . and not sleeping very well . . . catching up with me. Still, she could see the import of that news strike him.
“A Gods-Oath?” he said, as thought trying to grasp the immensity of the implications. “Such a promise goes far beyond the one god, Kyri. That would extend . . .”
“. . . to those known to be allied in the heavens with Myrionar, especially to Chromaias and Terian of the Infinite, yes.” She barely restrained a jawcracking yawn; this would be a bad time to break the mood. “Thornfalcon, is even your master so great that he might disregard the Light in the Darkness with impunity?”
A long hesitation. “No. No, I would not say that. I have heard . . . it says things which would make me believe even it would be cautious about confronting any of the high gods directly.”
Now the yawn came despite her best efforts, and she felt herself sway. Now . . . wait a moment. I cannot be that tired.
Even as she thought that, she realized the only possible explanation. “But . . . I didn’t drink . . .”
Thornfalcon turned, and the long face was drawn in a smile so thin and cold that the sheer horror of the transformation momentarily shocked the rising mists of unconsciousness away. “Naturally, my dear, but I would hardly rely on that. Alchemical glass made with a number of sleep and paralysis venoms—my own creation, I’m quite proud of it. And by now, though you still have—surprisingly—some ability to move and speak, not enough to achieve the balance necessary for the gifts of a true Justiciar.”
Her horror rose as she realized the implications of those glasses. He did not make those for me; they were simply one convenient tool at hand! He strode forward, even as she fumbled to draw her sword, and picked up the goblet. “Activated by the touch of female lips, not male, as I see you understand. Thus no danger to me of choosing the wrong glass.”
She was desperately clinging to consciousness with terror and fury. “You . . . monstrous . . .”
“I take that as a compliment—and allow me to return that compliment; your family’s inhuman stamina is as freakish as ever I might have guessed. I’ve felled ogres with the same concoction as made that glass, and in less time.” He reached down, gently eased her hand down, forcing the sword back the few inches she’d managed to draw it. His hand drew back with a slow caress that sent a shudder down her spine. “Monstrous, exactly. You see, my patron has promised me that—if I do well enough—I shall become one of its people; it has already brought me far along that path. I have no intention of remaining human, even if there are certain human . . . amusements that I expect to enjoy for the rest of my immortal life.”
Following Mercy, did I fail to have Wisdom? Myrionar, help me! Horror, as well as unconsciousness, claimed her.