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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.


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Framed