Ryk E. Spoor
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All-Patron Reward: Chapter 2 of an early draft of Phoenix Rising
🕑 Added 2020-12-02 01:43:18 +0000 UTCOriginally, I started Kyri's story much earlier -- gave a glimpse of her family before disasters started in on them. Eventually I realized this slowed the book down, and started trimming and trimming until we ended up with the final version -- her parents several years dead and Rion just having achieved the rank of Justiciar.
But that was far in the future with this draft. So, alas, was my grasp of writing that avoided clumsiness and cliche. Zarathan was less clear in my writing than in my head, and a lot of things were different in this draft -- names, specific images of things like the Temple of Myrionar, and so on. But it may be amusing to read how things were... before they changed.
ii.
“Kyrie Ross, get down here this instant!”
Kyrie could barely make out the words; besides, keeping her grip on the rock was taking most of her attention.
“Mother, please!” her brother’s voice shouted down past her. “This is the tough part, don’t distract her.”
“Michael!” Kyrie forced the grunt out. “I can ... argue ... perfectly well... myself!”
Their mother shouted up again. “If it was just you, Michael, it would be on your own head! But when you’re encouraging your brother and sister --”
“Brother?” They both glanced down. “Raviel!”
Raviel, only eleven years old, was already sixty feet up the cliff face. Unlike his sister and brother, however, he wasn’t using a rope or spikes, just doggedly climbing his way up.
“Myrionar’s Balance!” cursed Michael.
Raviel looked up, and that threw him off balance. His left foot slipped out of the tiny depression he’d found, and with a rattle and a scrape, the little boy was suddenly dangling in midair by one hand.
“Hold on, Raviel!” Michael plummeted past her, the safety rope screaming through his hands. Just as he came level with the boy, Raviel’s grasp failed. Michael’s right hand whipped outwards, catching his little brother by the tough embroidered tunic he wore; the rope twanged its protest, but held.
“Thank the Gods.” Kyrie muttered, echoing her mother’s words. No longer interested in climbing, she began a more leisurely descent.
Her mother was fussing over Raviel when she touched down. “You scared us all there, little man! I hope you learned a lesson about climbing!”
Raviel looked up at her seriously. “Use a rope.” he said.
“A rope indeed! I --” Lady Ross cut off, staring for a moment at a dark splotch on the embroidery; then she reached out for Michael’s hands.
The sudden descent and stop on the rough rope had cut straight through the thin gloves Michael wore, leaving a deep and bloody rope burn on both palms. “Myrionar above, Michael! We must see to these at once!”
Michael shrugged. “I’ll gather some drawing plant and rimeweed, Mother. But this is as Myrionar wills. I didn’t think about the consequences or watch Kyrie and Raviel closely enough, and so Justice and Vengeance both require I pay a small price for that.”
Her face was still that of the concerned mother, but Kyrie knew that Lady Ross felt the same burst of pride that she did. “I can’t argue that, son. And if you’re set on being a Saint of the Balanced Sword, then it’s no less I’d expect from you.”
“But what if there’s no room for him in the Saints?” Somehow to Kyrie the thought was terrifying. Her brother HAD to be in the Saints. But there were only so many suits of the blessed armor...
Lady Ross smiled. “Now, that’s some time to wait yet, Kyrie dear. A few of them are getting on in years; I’m sure one will retire or die before the time comes that Michael needs to be tested.”
“Oh, I hope so!” Kyrie suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth.
Michael laughed. “Relax, sis. I don’t think Myrionar’s going to believe you were really wishing one of Its Saints dead.”
“Sorry, Michael. It’s just --”
His hand scruffed her hair. “--just that you’re always my one-girl cheering squad. Swords above, Kyrie, I wish you’d get out more. I mean, with someone other than me.”
Kyrie almost pouted, but she stopped herself in time. That was for little girls, not for fourteen year old children of one of the five Holding Lords. “Most of the others are ... well, they’re boring!”
“She means they’re too scared.” Raviel interjected. “Kyrie likes playing with swords and even sneaking into --” This time it was the youngest Ross child who clapped his hand over his mouth. Kyrie gave him a glare that could have melted steel before their mother spoke.
“Into... what, Raviel?”
Raviel kept his silence, but Lady Kerrie Ross simply transferred her gaze to her daughter. “Never mind, I can guess. The training gantlet, yes?”
Reluctantly, Kyrie nodded.
Kerrie smiled. “Oh, well... it was to be expected, I suppose.”
All three children stared at their mother. “But you --”
“Of course I’ve always objected to your constant focus on fighting, Kyrie -- and Raviel. But that’s because I’d hoped you wouldn’t end up just like your father and me.”
“We,” said Michael, “would be very proud to be just like you.”
“Just what I was afraid of.” Kerrie Ross’ smile took the sting out of the words. “I suppose that with both of us being warriors, there wasn’t much hope we’d raise pure scholars. Perhaps I’ll have to ask around for less sendentary companions for you, Kyrie.”
“MO-ther,” Kyrie said, “I don’t want YOU to choose my companions!”
Kerrie laughed. “Forgive a lady for trying, dear. At least give some of them a chance.”
Mollified, Kyrie nodded. “Okay.”
“Now that we’ve settled all that, shall we go to Temple? And then home?
“Temple’s BORING, mother!” Raviel objected.
“It wasn’t boring last month, was it?”
“That’s different. There was a big healing then. That was neat.”
His mother sighed. “Healings and such mean that someone got hurt, Raviel. I’d much rather things be boring, in that case.”
Unwillingly Raviel nodded. “I guess.”
“Good. It’s not that long today anyway, so be a patient boy. We’ve got opalfruit iced cream for dessert tonight, and if you do the Balance well, you’ll get an extra serving.”
“Wow!”
“You’re spoiling him again.” Kyrie observed. “I didn’t get extra servings of iced cream.”
Kerrie smiled. “He’s my youngest, and I’m having no more. Let me be a mother a few years longer, eh?”
“Where’s father?”
“He’ll meet us at Temple. Count Relion wanted to talk to him earlier.” As she turned, Kerrie said, “And Michael, don’t forget about your hands!”
“Yes, mother.” As they walked through the warm, moist jungle, Michael’s gaze flicked back and forth across the undergrowth. Twice he darted out and grabbed a handful of greenery, ignoring the pain in his hands.
He handed Kyrie the fat-stemmed succulent leaves of the drawing plant and the frost-colored rimeweed; Kyrie twisted the two together and then squeezed, blending the juices of the crushed plants; the greenish-silver liquid chilled to an almost painful degree. She then bound some of the twined mixture of plant around each hand. “Better?”
“Thanks, yes.” He demonstrated how much better by helping her into the carriage that was waiting on the shoulder of the Central Road.
The Central Road was, as usual, only slightly bumpy; it was said that once, long ago, a minor spur of the Great Road had run through Evanwyl’s valley, and that it was the lingering force of its foundation that made it possible for the Count’s workmen to keep that road relatively smooth and level. Certainly the other roads were either much bumpier or took a huge amount of effort to keep passable. Those who doubted the tale of the Great Road opined that it was just good fortune that there was a level ridge of rock running roughly in the right direction.
The carriage pulled up in front of the Temple of Myrionar. While there were naturally other temples to various gods in Evanwyl, whenever someone said just “Temple” or “The Temple”, it was Myrionar’s that they meant. Kyrie had heard that in the distant, nearly mythical city of Zarathanton there were temples to a thousand gods, and Myrionar’s was one of the smaller; there, her father said, they worshipped the Mortal God Terian, Chromaias, and of course the mighty Dragon Lords, Elbon and the Sixteen.
But here, the simple half-black, half-white marble Temple of Myrionar was the center of nearly all worship. As she passed beneath the silver-on-blue symbol of the Sword Balance, Kyrie remembered to bow and make the appropriate T-shaped gesture. Privately, she agreed with Raviel; Temple could be boring. Myrionar wasn’t one of the most obvious of gods, encouraging Its worshippers to carry the word and actions of Justice and Vengeance themselves rather than relying on the deity to do so. And It was odd in other ways...
She was still musing on this while the Priest droned out the ritual welcome. The ritual question at the end caught her interest for the first time:
“... and if any have a question for Myrionar, let them speak now.”
In all her fourteen years, she’d never seen anyone stand up and ask. So, with a question suddenly on her mind, she stood up and opened her mouth. Only then did she realize how silent the room had become, and felt her cheeks warm suddenly with embarrassment.
Arbiter Kelesy, the Priest, regarded her with mild astonishment. “Yes, Kyrie?”
“Umm... I...”
“Hardly a question, young lady. If you have something to ask, do so.” Kerrie’s words were tartly spoken, but Kyrie thought there was a faint smile on her mother’s face.
Kyrie swallowed. “Arbiter, it’s probably a very silly question... but...”
“Kyrie, my child, the ritual doesn’t say you may ask only intelligent questions. There’s no guarantee of answers, you know. So ask away.”
“Why is Myrionar ‘It’?” she blurted out. “I mean... almost all the other gods are... well, Him or Her. Or at least something alive. All we see is a sword balancing a pair of scales. Is THAT‘Myrionar’? Or is Myrionar a someone, but we don’t know who?”
There was a faint mutter of sighs, and a few titters of laughter, until the Arbiter held up his Balance-crowned Staff. “Laugh not, my friends. It is not so trivial a question as appears at first light.” At that remark even Kyrie felt surprised. The question was nagging her, but it didn’t seem important.
Arbiter Kelesy surveyed the assemblage. “No, it is not at all a foolish question. For is not much of religion -- much of worship -- based on symbols? And is it not true that we can look up to, believe in, worship in truth a being like ourselves, far more easily than we can an abstract concept? So why, then, does Myrionar show us no face? Why is It ‘It’, and not She, a great warrior and judge, or He, a scholar with a sword? Surely if Myrionar wished to show a face to us, it would not be beyond Its power to do so.” He glanced over the crowd again. “I have my own answer to this riddle, but do any of you?”
Michael rose. “Justice.”
The Arbiter smiled. “I think you understand what you mean. But to elaborate... yes. If Myrionar were to show a face -- to be male or female, dark or light, Toad or Elf or Dragon or Human, whatever... it would represent a favoring of that chosen form over others. To represent Justice fully, Myrionar must remain the symbol of unbiased Justice.
“Does this mean that Myrionar will always be faceless? Perhaps, perhaps not. It may be that in time, when Its worshippers are widespread and the world is confident in the image of pure Justice, then Myrionar may remove Its mask, if mask it be, and show us Its true face. But whether such a day will ever come -- whether it will be today or tomorrow or a thousand years hence -- none save Time and the Wanderer know.” He gave a most undignified grin. “And I’m not sure about the Wanderer.”
“No one is.” muttered Moril Ross, trying to slide unobtrusively into his seat next to Kyrie. Since he was by far the tallest man in the Temple, there was more comedy than subtlety to this action. “I’m not sure he even exists.”
“But I’ve got pictures of him in the library, Father.” said Raviel.
The Arbiter glanced at the two, who quieted immediately, then looked at Kyrie. “Do you feel justly answered, Kyrie?”
“Justly.” she agreed. “I’d still feel more comfortable with a real face to associate with the name.”
“Even a mazakh?”
The thought of one of the horrific demon-snake hybrid faces over the altar gave her pause. Then she bowed. “You’re right, Arbiter.” And, she admitted to herself, a mazakh would probably have the same reaction to imagining a human face above one of their altars. Though humans worshipped the Dragons...
“Kyrie, service is over.”
She gave a guilty start. “What? But...”
Raviel glared at her. “I did the Balance perfectly, and you didn’t even watch me!”
Kyrie dropped her gaze. The Balance was a difficult ritual to learn; Raviel was justly proud of having done it successfully, and for her to have missed it... “I’m sorry, Raviel. I was thinking on the answer I was given, and I guess I thought about it too much.”
Raviel tapped his foot a couple of times, and then grinned. “Oh, don’t worry, sis. It’s okay. I guess I’d be thinking a lot too if I asked a question like that. Hey, father, what did you mean about the Wanderer?”
“You are as persistent as a myrizz, boy.” Moril led the family out of the Temple, absently bowing the Balanced Sword to the Arbiter. “Legends have a way of growing, Raviel. Oh, I have no doubt that the Wanderer existed, back in the old days. But that’s a long way from saying that he still exists, somewhere in those godsforsaken Broken Hills, and cloaks himself in mystery and all that rubbish. The Wanderer of the legends was a grandstander of a magician -- an oddity, no doubt, but most surely a man who enjoyed his chances to be the hero of the moment. Why would such a man become a recluse, dispensing aid and advice only to those capable of passing some bizarre set of tests? That’s more the way of the Archmage of the Mountain.”
“Well,” said Michael, “I’d think there must be some of his companions still alive. They’d be able to say for sure.”
Moril shrugged. “Aye, but try finding them. Assuming they’d talk more than riddles about him, anyway. Lots of things said about people like that -- it’s hard telling what’s truth, half-truth, and complete nonsense.” He turned to Kyrie. “So what was it that you were thinking so hard about, Kyrie?”
“Symbols.” she answered.
“Indeed?” Her mother raised one eyebrow, an emphatic question mark.
“Myrionar shows no face, just symbols and words. The Great Dragons live here on the world itself, so their worshippers can actually seek them out. The Mortal God, Terian, shows a human figure but his face is obscured; and Chromaias is wed to the Four, and their temples make all five equal. But all of them have worshippers of many races.” Kyrie stopped.
“Go on, Kyrie.” Moril said. “What of this?”
She shook her head. “I... I’m not sure. There’s something there, I think -- I can almost tell you what it is -- but it’s just not quite clear. I guess that’s what’s bothering me.”
Moril helped his wife into the carriage and then climbed in himself. “Well, don’t worry overmuch about it, Ky. You’ve got years to spend thinking ahead of you. And the best ideas come when you’re not looking too hard for them.”
“You’re right.” Kyrie made an effort and pushed away the niggling thoughts, then offered Michael a helping hand. “You first, this time. And stop using your hands so much, Michael!”
Michael winced, more at her tone than at any pain; the coldness of the rimeweed dulled any sensation. “You’re sounding more like Mom every day.”
“And a good thing, too, if you’re going to stop listening to me.” Kerrie said. “Maybe your sister can pound sense through your head.”
“Don’t know why she could,” Moril Ross said as he twitched the reins to start the horses, “You couldn’t manage it with me, you know.” With a small jolt, the carriage began to roll smoothly down the road.
Kyrie glanced out the window, watching the town pass by. A tall, golden-haired man was checking the harnesses on his own carriage as they passed. Count Relion glanced up and nodded to Kyrie, smiling a greeting. She waved back, wondering what he thought of her. The young ladies of Evanwyl made it almost a contest to get any sign of recognition from the twenty-two year old ruler, and he was certainly aware of it. Kyrie grinned suddenly, remembering Aunt Victoria’s comments on the situation: “Reminds me of the days when your mother was still unmarried, Kyrie. Every young man for a hundred miles came up with more and more outrageous ways to try attracting her attention; her carrying the Ross title and lands, and being beautiful besides, what man wouldn’t look on that as a perfect combination, even if he would have to give up his own name? But your father, now, he never seemed to pay much attention to her, went walking with a dozen other girls, then one day when those shadespiders came boiling out of Rivendream Pass and he was leading a fight on a dozen fronts he shows up at Ross Keep, covered in blood, shoves a sword in her hand, and tells her: ‘I’m out of regular soldiers, get out to the East Gap and rally the farmers! Move!’. He’d seen her at practice, you see. Of course they were married two months later... what a spectacle THAT was... anyway, your father always claimed it was part of his plan; he’d known that SOMETHING would happen sooner or later that’d give him an excuse to look like a hero.”
She sighed. Too young to be playing that game, anyway; the Count would be married in a year or so for sure, even if he would consider looking at a girl eight years his junior. And the next-most-interesting bachelor was out of the question too, she thought, glancing at Michael. Oh, well, it was a silly game anyway. “Mother, if I do well at my training, can I go on Adventure?”
Kerrie Ross had just tipped a small flask of rubyjuice to her lips; the question caused a minor explosion of crimson droplets. “Ad... Adventure? Sword and Balance, child, don’t be ridiculous! You’re far too young!”
“But Mama, Larani Darkwood travelled with the Wanderer when she was only --”
“Quiet, Raviel! Legends make for poor logic!” Kerrie turned back towards Kyrie.
Kyrie met her gaze. “Mother, age isn’t supposed to be the only guiding factor. I can’t join the Saints, even if I wanted to -- Myrionar has never chosen a woman as a Saint. I’m the middle child, so I won’t get the title -- that will go to Raviel. And I’d soooo like to see the rest of the world -- is Zarathanton really what they say it is?”
Kerrie shook her head. Moril’s laughter boomed out. “Kerrie, both of us had the same dream at her age, eh? I followed it for a while. Kyrie, Adventure is a hard, hard road. Worthwhile, certainly, and if you’re lucky, profitable in one way or another too. But if it’s the world you want to see, there’s a mountainfull of simpler ways to see it than to put your life on the line fighting against every evil you encounter.”
“I’m not afraid of that.”
Moril snorted. “Then that’s one good reason to say ‘no’. Ky, believe me: being afraid is one of your greatest weapons. Not being paralyzedwith fear, mind, but being afraid in a healthy way. You have to be afraid -- afraid of what will happen to those you’re protecting if you fail, and afraid for your life and even your soul -- when you go up against some things. When a Great Wolf stands revealed before you, taller than any man ever was, with claws of adamant and a roar that rips magical wards to shreds in an instant, only a soon-dead idiot doesn’t feel fear.” Moril raised a hand before she could speak again. “But it’s certainly an honorable goal. Let’s see what happens. I think you may find another path more to your liking -- call it a hunch.”
“What, father?”
Moril Ross grinned. “Oh no, I’m not about to be tricked that way. If I tell you, contrary as you can be, you’ll make a liar out of me just for the sport of it!”
“Father!”
