Ryk E. Spoor
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All-Patron Reward: First Draft of Phoenix Rising, Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2021-04-09 02:11:40 +0000 UTCAnd we continue this look at one of my books in its nascent form, from about thirty years ago (and about twenty years or so before its final version was written).
This chapter is a bit longer, and just as clumsy, including several sections from different points of view. I'll make a few more comments after the chapter.
-----
iv.
"Are you sure nothing could persuade you to remain, Lady
Ross?" Count Relion said, his handsome face concerned and
sympathetic.
Kyrie shook her head. The disquiet she sometimes felt around
the Count was absent today, and she was warmed by his sincere
regrets. "No, Milord. Ross Keep is no longer a home to me. Perhaps
for someone else it will be a place of happiness, but all I see
here is death and sadness."
The Count bowed his head and raised her hand to his lips. She
felt a tingle run up her arm, and only a strong effort kept her
from responding. "Then it will be Evanwyl's great loss, Lady.
Where will you go, then?"
"To the South." she answered. "My mother's family still lives
there. Lady Victoria will be accompanying Xavier and myself
there."
Terrell Relion nodded. "To the State of Elbon itself?" At her
nod, he raised an eyebrow. "A wondrous place, I have heard. But a
long journey. Do you journey to Zarathanton?"
"No, to Elfskeep."
The Count gestured, and a servant came forward with a small
coffer. "I have chosen to purchase the Keep myself; since I am
supposed to be the protector of Evanwyl, I feel somewhat
responsible for what happened to your family. Though treasure is
but poor recompense for your losses, I beg you to accept this as
payment and, perhaps, something of an atonement for my failure."
The blaze of gems from the little chest momentarily dazzled
Kyrie. The Count's payments were notoriously generous, but this
was even more than she had expected. Kyrie was speechless for an
instant, searching for something other than platitudes to say; she
failed. "You are more than generous, Milord Relion. I thank you."
Terrell shook his head. "I thank you, Lady Ross. For not
blaming me. May I hope that you may return someday to Evanwyl? For
Evanwyl without the Rosses will be a strange place indeed."
Kyrie managed a real smile this time. The Count's words held
more than the mere courtesies they expressed; she could hear that
the nobleman meant everything he said. "Perhaps, Milord."
He bowed over her hand again. "Thank you, Lady Ross. Then I
shall delay you no longer. Travel safely and well."
It took only a week to finish the preparations. Kyrie knew
that eyes full of pity and sympathy followed her everywhere, but
to her discomfort she realized that one pair of eyes -- Victoria's
-- held something else: disbelief.
On the day before they were to leave, she felt a hand close
on her arm and guide her to one of the private alcoves of the
Keep. "What is it, Aunt Vicky?" she asked.
"Don't 'Aunt Vicky' *me*, Kyrie Ross! This broken woman act
of yours may fool the rest of them, but I know that no Ross -- or
Thelian, for that matter -- ever gave up! What are you planning,
girl?" There was no disapproval in Victoria's voice, just
certainty.
Kyrie sighed. "You know me too well, Aunt Vicky. No, I'm not
giving up. But whoever did this killed three of us already. I
won't give them the chance to get Xavier. I want to get him far
away. Then I have to find the people who did this."
"The part about Xavier I agree with." Victoria said, looking
out the small window, "And I'm glad to see you've the same
backbone as the rest of our family, at any rate. But your own plan
leaves more than a little to be desired. In fact, it's not a plan.
It's just intent. Just HOW do you intend to find these people,
Kyrie, and what's to keep them from killing you as they did
Michael?"
She avoided Victoria's sharp gaze. "I don't know." she
admitted. "But I do know I'll have to come back; whoever they are,
they're in Evanwyl, that I'm sure of, and I don't think they'll be
leaving."
Victoria nodded. "Unless, child, it's the Rosses they are
after."
Kyrie froze at that. But then she shook her head. "No,
Auntie, that wouldn't make any sense. Even ignoring the fact that
Mother and Father had no enemies, at least none here, if they were
after the whole family they could have gotten us all much more
easily when we were younger."
"I'd have to agree there, Kyrie." Her aunt's blue eyes gazed
at her thoughtfully. "Yes, whoever they are, it's something here
they want, or are protecting. And let's remember that the people
we're looking for will have to be very good at what they do. Not
just because they killed your brother and your parents -- but
because they were able to tell when your brother was getting
close."
Kyrie was warmed by her aunt's *we*, the simple assumption
that she would not be alone. "I understand. They either have
warning and scrying spells, or they are closely tied to someone we
know."
"Better to assume they have both, child." Victoria's mouth
was set in a thin line. "I spoke with the priest of Shargamor,
Kyrie. He repeated to me what he told you, but I don't think you
listened."
"What do you mean, Auntie?"
"It wasn't the wounds of the body that killed Michael, Kyrie.
Whatever attacked him ripped part of the soul out of his body.
What was lying on that bed was only part of Michael Ross; the rest
was already gone."
**********************
"That's the last of them?" Condor asked.
Kyrie surveyed the area. "Just that one packing-crate,
Condor."
"I've got it, lass." said Shrike. The squat, massively-built
Saint grasped the large box and lifted. He grunted with surprise.
"By Myrionar's Sword, the thing's heavy as an obligation! What
under the sky do you *have* in here, Lady?"
Kyrie giggled. It was nice to have the Saints around; their
speech and manners reminded her that these, at least, had been
Michael's friends and peers. They'd be able to help her find his
killers. And some of them were handsome, too. "That's all of my
stonesheet hangings, Shrike."
"More like *leadsheet*, I'd say." he wheezed, smiling from
his reddened face. "Condor, you great towering tree, why don't you
lend a hand?"
"Why, I thought you were busy showing off for the Lady,
Shrike." The big red-haired Saint grinned, taking some of the
weight of the case into his hands.
Peregrine's laugh rang out like melody from the top of the
huge coach-wagon. "And I don't suppose you would ever do anything
of the sort, Carrion-catcher?"
Condor glared up at him in mock anger and shook his free fist
in the Peregrine Saint's direction. "You'd be singing a different
tune if you were down here, o sandpiper." His red, black, and
silver armor gleamed brightly in the sun, contrasting with the
more muted silvered brown of Shrike and Peregrine.
Kyrie laughed again, seeing the aptness of the nickname
Condor applied to Peregrine; the other Saint was tall and slender,
seeming to be mostly legs and arms. Peregrine, Michael had told
her, was physically the weakest of the Saints, but he had a
blinding speed and a skill with the rapier that was almost
inhuman. Condor and Shrike, she knew, were inseparable, the big
redhead and his barrel-shaped companion echoing the shapes of
their chosen weapons: bastard sword and battleaxe.
Condor and Shrike set the stonesheet case on the tailgate of
the wagon with a heavy *thump*. "Whoosh! Lady, I do not envy
whoever has to *un*load this." Condor said. He and the massive
Shrike put their shoulders to the case and shoved it tightly
against the other boxes packed within.
"I'll probably do it myself." Kyrie said. She leaned forward
and gave each of them a peck on the cheek. Condor blushed, while
Shrike just grinned roguishly. "Thank you for your help."
"The least we could do." Condor said.
"A kiss for them and not even a thank-you to me?" Peregrine
said, jumping lithely from the top of the wagon. His wavy brown
hair framed a long minstrel's face, with large eyes of different
colors; one was blue and one green. "I fear I shall have to fling
myself off the Spire! The shame! The humiliation!"
"Fling yourself into some maiden's window, more likely!"
Condor shot back.
Kyrie gave the sad-faced Saint his kiss. "Anything to save me
from more performances like that, Peregrine." she said, smiling.
The Saints had helped her in the past few days; in Michael they
had all lost a brother, and their understanding, and constant good
humor, made it possible for her to push the ache of loss and anger
away for a while. Now, at least, she could smile.
Condor handed her up to the driving seat of the wagon.
"Farewell and take care, Lady Kyrie. May the Balanced Sword guard
and guide you on your journey."
"Thank you, Condor. Thank all of you. Send my love to all the
others, will you? I know they'd have been here if they could."
"They surely would. And I shall give them all your message."
Shrike caught Xavier as he came running out of the Keep,
backpack slung over his shoulder, and lifted the youth high. "Now,
lad, you'll be watching over your sister there, aye?"
"Of course!" Xavier grinned, then did an effortless twist
that flipped him free of the muscular Shrike and over the Saint's
head.
Shrike looked startled, then laughed. "So it's a *lot* of
practicing you've been doing with that Elf, eh? Good, lad! Maybe
when you're a bit older you can be coming back here and join us!"
Xavier leapt up next to Kyrie. "Maybe." he said. "Or maybe
I'll be an Adventurer, like in the stories!"
Peregrine shook his hand and then took Kyrie's and kissed it.
"If you do, young Ross, then be sure to tell me of your
adventures, so I may pretend to the ladies that they were mine!"
Shrike helped Lady Victoria into the coach and stood aside as
Lythos followed her. "Good luck." he said.
Kyrie smiled at them all, waved, and then took up the reins.
*************************
The figure stood unnoticed in the doorway, watching the
Saints engaged in a game of cards. It smiled, then spoke.
"She's gone, then?"
There was a collective *crash* as chairs scattered
everywhere, a crash accompanied by the ringing sound of weapons
being drawn. The figure smiled, the deadly grin of a killer, and
watched the faces pale, the swords lower themselves.
Condor was the first to regain his composture, but even his
voice was not entirely steady when he spoke. "We... we did not
expect you."
"Obviously." The warm voice dripped with sarcasm. "Had I
intended that you expect me, I would have told you I was coming. I
asked a question. She is gone?"
"Aye." Shrike said, glaring angrily at the figure. Its smile
widened; it could sense the terror that waited behind that thin
shell of bravado. "Left yesterday morning, they did."
"Good. And does she suspect anything?"
Peregrine smiled and shook his head. Of all the Saints,
Peregrine showed the least fear of their hidden commander.
Perhaps, the figure mused, because Peregrine's facade of clowning
bard hid a soul that felt no pity, that would cheerfully seduce a
maiden and slit her throat the minute after if the mood struck
him.
It and Peregrine had that much in common, at least.
"Not a hint of suspicion, o mighty leader." the Peregrine
said. "In fact, she sent her love to us all; I suppose, by
extension, to you as well."
The smile the figure gave carried a joyful malice that made
even the Peregrine's cynical amusement freeze and die on his face.
"She could have been pretending, could she not?"
Condor shrugged. "It's possible, I suppose. But I wouldn't
have thought her good enough to do that, not without giving any of
us a hint. No, none of them suspect us."
"And if she comes back to pry, well..." Peregrine's smile
returned, and his rapier sketched a sensual path of steel in the
air.
"Not unless she gets close!" Condor snapped. "The *last*
thing we need are more deaths!"
"Condor is correct." the figure said. Its hand swept out and
tore the rapier from the shocked Peregrine's grasp. "Killing is
too much of a pleasure for you, Mhilas. A pleasure you have
indulged in a bit too frequently of late."
Peregrine glared sullenly at the figure, the mask of charm
gone. "You can't tell me you don't enjoy it yourself. We all saw
you after you dealt with Eagle."
The laugh it gave was not human; the Peregrine paled. "Indeed
I do. But for much different reasons, I assure you, little Saint.
Do not presume too much. You are useful tools and trusted spies.
You are *not* irreplaceable!"
Hawk spoke for the first time. He was the only Elven Saint,
and the eldest of them as well. "Listen well, Peregrine. You are
too young to remember how Condor's predecessor met his end, but
you *do* know what led to Eagle's demise. Question our leader at
your peril, for there is not one of us who will lift hand or sword
to aid you should it be decided that you can be disposed of."
"And no amount of aid could save you against me, little
Saint." the figure said, smiling. It turned to the others. "I do
not have enough time to hear your reports now; I shall expect that
your missions will be complete by the time I return, in three
weeks." Its gaze returned to Peregrine. "And for you, my friend,
a reminder of what *I* am to you."
It stretched out a finger towards the faintly-glowing armor,
enchanted metal that even a strong-swung axe could not penetrate.
The nail elongated, shimmered razor-bright crystal, and flicked
quickly across the breastplate. Then the figure walked away,
laughing, as the Saints stared in shock and fear at the long, deep
gouge the crystal claw had cut in the invulnerable armor.
*****************************
Even by the Great Roads, a journey of many hundred miles was
wearying. Though they had stayed in good inns most of the way,
Kyrie still felt exhausted; something about moving drained one's
energy.
Even so, she hadn't been able to sleep when Lythos had
relieved her at the reins. As it had so often on this trip, her
mind insisted on returning to the mystery of Michael's death.
It was still hard to believe he was gone. What could have
killed him? He was a *Saint*, by the Will! Even another skilled
warrior, or two, couldn't have taken him so easily... and no
matter how many warriors attacked him, no mere weapon could touch
a man's soul.
She shivered and drew her cloak tight about her. The
moonlight and the darkness reminded her all too well of that
night. She started as the coach jolted to a halt. Glancing out,
she saw a tall stone mansion, and realized that they had finally
arrived.
She nudged Xavier awake, and then woke up her aunt. "We're
there." she said.
Lythos entered first, activating the lightglobes with their
command words, and then began directing the servants to their
quarters as they arrived.
Kyrie felt a new burst of energy as she realized the journey
was over. Instead of waiting for the servants, she went to the
rear of the wagon and began to unload it. She smiled as she looked
at the stonesheet crate, then pulled it towards her and lifted it.
She wished Condor and Shrike could be there to see her; they might
have seen how strong Michael was, but she doubted they'd realized
that she'd inherited the legendary Ross strength.
Even so, by the time she had carried the crate halfway up the
stairs, Kyrie's short-lived burst of energy had deserted her. She
set the crate down heavily, rested, then heaved it up to the next
landing. She collapsed next to it, leaning back against the stone
of the staircase. Her eyes wandered across the crate's dark wood
surface, and in the dim gleam of the single lightglobe she saw a
faint silvery sheen, like a crescent moon, on the wood.
A slow, creeping horror began to dawn on her. She leaned
closer, seeing that there were two silver-touched areas, matching
shallow indentations in the hardwood; indentations made by Shrike
and Condor when they had pushed the crate into the wagon.
She knew where she had seen that ghostly silver color before;
on the edges of the splintered doors of Ross Keep. She felt like
she had just stepped over the edge of a yawning abyss.
She remembered the goodbyes, and though it had been three
weeks and more, she suddenly felt the urge to wash her hands and
rinse her mouth.
She grabbed the crate and dragged it up the rest of the
stairs to her room. Then she went to find Victoria.
One glance was all it took. Her aunt came towards her
immediately. "Child, you look like you've seen a ghost or worse.
What's wrong?"
Kyrie didn't answer until they were well away from everyone
else. Then she said,
"The Saints killed Michael."
Victoria went pale and sat heavily on a nearby windowsill.
Then she nodded slowly. "It makes sense. Who else could have known
how much he knew? And who else would be good enough to deal with
him?" She glanced up sharply. "But how do you know this, Kyrie?"
Her explanation garnered another nod. "Good thinking, child,
though I wish to all the gods that it had not been true. Horrible
to think that your brother was murdered by those he trusted."
"But they must have had help."
"Of course they must." Victoria said. "Soul-killing isn't
something they could do on their own -- and you can be sure that
it isn't Myrionar who's been letting them do the healing and other
tricks to make them appear to be true Saints. No, the Lord of
Justice would never make such a mistake. Mark my words, child,
your brother may have been the first true Saint in years." Her
eyes narrowed. "In fact, now that I think of it, new Saints have
had a disturbing tendency to die within the first year... but the
ones who get past that year seem to be untouchable. At least,
until they die of old age, like the old Eagle." Her head bobbed
once. "Yes, that's making sense now too. They have to take the
best-qualified contestant for the armor, and since everyone who is
anyone watches the contests, well, they can hardly cheat. So if
the candidate proves too honest..."
"I'll kill them all." Kyrie forced the words out through the
tightness in her throat. "I will ride back to Evanwyl and --"
"And die just like your brother." Victoria snapped. "Girl,
you're a wonder with that monstrous blade of yours, and it may be
you are as good as Michael was now. But Michael is dead."
"He didn't know what he was up against."
"Are you sure of that, child? He seemed to know *something*
when last you saw him. Perhaps he knew precisely who his enemies
were... and still died because he didn't know *what* they were."
Kyrie blinked at that last line. "I don't understand."
Victoria stood and gestured vaguely northward, towards
Evanwyl. "The Saints were a force for good, Kyrie. They were the
living representatives of Myrionar himself, given special powers
by the god to heal or kill as justice demanded; you've seen those
powers. And yet something managed to corrupt them all, or nearly
all, without anyone being the wiser."
A shiver went down Kyrie's spine. She swallowed hard, then
nodded. "I understand. For the Saints to have become the way they
are, they would have to have someone -- or something -- very evil
and very powerful helping them."
"Something that can rend souls apart, child. Even Michael
fell to them, Kyrie. And you are not even what he was."
A spark ignited in Kyrie's heart, a spark of determination
that abruptly flared up into certainty. "But I will be."
"What? Child, I don't --"
"I won't let Michael's dream die with him, Aunt Victoria!"
she said.
Victoria understood precisely what Kyrie was saying. "But
what if Myrionar will not accept you?"
Kyrie stared out at the slowly-lightening sky. "Then I'll
find some other way."
-----
What's really interesting to me about this chapter is how some of the elements changed very little, and others changed drastically.
What's MOST obvious is my clumsiness with, one might say almost nonexistent grasp of, character. While we show that Kyri's "broken woman" business is an act, and thus she might actually have a positive reaction to Relion's attention, Xavier (later Urelle) should never have been so cheerful with his favorite brother murdered days before.
The Saints/Justiciars also had more mundane bird names; I changed most of them to reflect the fact that while Zarathan has lots of similar animals, most of them aren't IDENTICAL to those found on Earth.
The deliberate parallels between Kyrie's family and that of Xavier Ross on Earth still exist, but they're much more subtle today, rather than being gigantic anvils dropped on the readers' heads.
Thornfalcon/Peregrine is SO much better in the final version. In the original, he's just the typical serial killer/loose cannon; in the final version, he is a master schemer with ambitions to become something far beyond human.
And while I have Kyrie discover the true murderers of her family in the same basic way, I have her be far too sensible and controlled in her response, which deprives the entire event of drama.
Still, I hope these little tidbits are of interest!
