All-Patron Reward: First Draft of Phoenix Rising, Chapter 4

And 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.

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                               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!