The Phoenix Unchained (44 page)

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Authors: James Mallory

Tags: #Fantasy - Epic, #Fiction - Fantasy, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Epic, #Fantasy Fiction, #Magic, #American Science Fiction And Fantasy, #Elves, #Magicians

BOOK: The Phoenix Unchained
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At least if he wrote to them tomorrow, he could tell them about this.

The Caves of Imrathalion lay a few miles outside the city limits of Ysterialpoerin. According to the history book Tiercel had promptly purchased in the street of the booksellers once they decided to go, several important battles against the Endarkened had been fought there by Kellen Knight-Mage himself, and the caves and much of the forest around them were now a Protected Park.

To spare their own animals, they rented a pair of job-horses for the ride out to the caves from the same stables where their own horses were being kept. Though he felt just a little silly doing so, Harrier wore his sword. He’d been wearing it in the horse-market this morning, too, and he was sure people had been looking at him, but after last night, he’d promised himself that he was never going out without it again, and that was a promise he intended to keep. He wasn’t really surprised to see that Tiercel brought his wand and his workbook with him either, although Tiercel hadn’t brought them this morning. He supposed it was pretty much the same idea.

“This is a stupid idea,” Harrier grumbled, once they were on their way.

“It’s a Protected Park. There are tours of the caves. There’s a Light-shrine there. What can possibly happen?” Tiercel answered equitably.

“If you didn’t think something could possibly happen, you wouldn’t be going,” Harrier said inarguably.
And you wouldn’t have brought your Mage-stuff
.

“I just want to know why I had that dream.”

“It was probably the fish-rolls you had for dinner last night,” Harrier answered, just to be difficult.

“Well, you had mutton pie, and you had the same dream.”

THE Imrathalion Protected Park was faintly disappointing to Tiercel, though even he wasn’t certain what he was expecting. Certainly not to see Elven armies massed for battle, with Star-Crowned Ancaladar soaring overhead.

A thousand years ago, according to the histories, the whole area around Ysterialpoerin had been untouched mountain wilderness, for the Elves had built much smaller cities than humans now did. But modern Ysterialpoerin was a sprawling modern city and the largest city east of the Mystrals, so fields and orchards ran right up to the edge of the trees that marked the boundary of the park. They weren’t the same trees that had been here a thousand years ago, of course: greenneedle trees had short life-spans, and lived only a few decades—a century at most—before succumbing to age or storm. But the forest that bounded the park was impressive, none the less.

Despite the fact that they were visiting the park late in the afternoon on a work day, they were far from the only guests. The Caves of Imrathalion were famous throughout the Nine Cities, and any visitor to Ysterialpoerin was almost certain to visit the caves as well. They shared the road to the park not only with humans but with Centaurs, Brownies (to Tiercel’s surprise), and even Fauns. Both he and Harrier regarded the Fauns warily, but the little creatures made no trouble for anyone on the road—aside from getting constantly underfoot.

THE gates to the park stood open, though even closed they could not have barred entrance, for they were purely ornamental. They were anchored by two stone pillars carved in the shape of gigantic Elven Knights, and the tall wooden gates themselves were carved with a fanciful scene of battle, in which unicorn-mounted knights slew hordes of winged Endarkened. Tiercel regarded the panorama
and swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Scenes like this were just decoration to everyone else—even, he suspected, to Harrier—but to him they represented something that was out there
right now
.

Inside the gates they left their horses at the stables, paying two copper demi-suns to have them rubbed down and given fodder. At Harrier’s insistence, they also stopped at a vendor selling meat-pies and cider, while Tiercel, naturally, bought a guidebook.

“It’s the same one you bought in Ysterialpoerin,” Harrier said, around a mouthful of pastry.

“No,” Tiercel said patiently. “This one’s different. It’s about the park. Come on. I want to see the Light Temple here.”

A few minutes’ walk brought them to the Imrathalion Temple of the Light.

“Just don’t make anything glow,” Harrier muttered, wiping his hands on his trousers and tossing his empty cup into a nearby barrel.

Tiercel snorted. He had no intention of doing anything that stupid. But Light Temples were often dedicated to specific saints or great events, and according to the park guidebook, the Imrathalion Temple was the oldest Temple of the Light in what had once been Elven Lands. It had been built soon after the Flowering, to honor not only the humans who had died here—so legend said—but to memorialize those who had not merely died, but surrendered near-immortality in the battle. Tiercel wanted to see if it was any different from every other Temple of the Light he’d ever seen.

Besides, he had a plan.

The guidebook he’d purchased said that there were guided tours given of the Caves of Imrathalion. It also said when the last one started. The tally-board they’d passed on the way to the Temple
said they’d just have time to take a quick look at the Temple before joining the last tour of the caves.

And then what?

He didn’t know.

THE Eternal Light was without form, its only symbol the flame on the High Altar, and for that reason, Light Temples did not contain depictions of objects from the natural world. But the Imrathalion Temple was unique, dedicated to the victory of the Light over the Darkness.

There was an hour yet before Evening Litany, so the Temple was quiet and nearly-deserted. A few of the long plain wooden benches were occupied by those who had come to offer private prayers to the Light. There were a handful of others who, like Tier-cel and Harrier, had simply come to see the place.

“It looks different,” Harrier said simply, standing in the doorway.

The entire back wall of the temple, framing the High Altar and the Eternal Flame, was made of thousands of tiny pieces of colored glass, all making up a picture of a flower-filled forest. The sunlight coming through from outside flickered over the intricately-set pieces, making the leaves of the vitreous forest seem to shift and move.

On the paneled walls of the temple, carved unicorns danced and played among graceful robed figures that Harrier realized, after a moment, must be Elves. Harrier wondered if the unicorns had been depicted life-sized; he’d always assumed that unicorns were as large as horses, but the ones carved on the wall seemed to be no larger than deer when contrasted with the Elven figures.

“Look up,” Tiercel said, and Harrier did.

The domed ceiling had been painted in the likeness of a summer
sky. At its apex, the likeness of a glittering black dragon wheeled in joyous flight, wreathed in a cloud of glittering butterflies. Involuntarily, Harrier took a step back. The painted image almost seemed to move. . . .

“Wow,” he said. “It must be really hard to pay attention to the Litany here.”

“I suppose the priests get used to it,” Tiercel said.

“That wasn’t exactly . . .” Harrier began, and shrugged. He walked over to the nearest wall to get a better look at it. There was a sign asking visitors not to touch the carvings, but it was obvious that hundreds of generations of visitors had been unable to resist, for the wood was worn so smooth in places that it glowed like amber. Even so, it was still possible to make out details of the once-intricate carving. The petals of a flower. A bird in its nest, tucked carefully into the branches of a flowering tree.

“Hey . . . Elves wore earrings!” Harrier exclaimed.

Several people turned and glared at him.

“They probably still do,” Tiercel said. “They aren’t all dead, you know. Come on. We’ll be late for the tour of the caves.”

THERE were about a dozen people, including Tiercel and Harrier, gathered for the tour, which was led by two of the park’s caretakers. There was a cheerful family of Centaurs—the younger of the two Centaur colts still stilt-legged and awkward—a docent from Ysterialpoerin University with a cluster of his students—all of whom looked very solemn and earnest—and three stout white-haired sisters who spoke with the broad flat accents of the High Reaches. They’d sold the family farm last year and were traveling now on pleasure, they said, finally seeing all the sights of the wide world.

“And you?” the eldest of the three sisters—her name was Mereel—asked. “Are you here on business—like Old Prune Face there—” she indicated the docent with a jerk of her chin “—or do you visit the park for pleasure?”

“Well—” Harrier began, but was saved from answering as their guide summoned them all to order.

She introduced herself as Mistress Amalgar, and began with a short lecture on the historic importance of the Imrathalion Caves. Her words were not exactly interrupted, but underlaid, with a constant steady muttering from the Ysterialpoerine docent, who seemed to disagree with almost everything she said. Harrier found himself moving away from the man and his little cluster of students—not because he was particularly interested in Mistress Amalgar’s lecture—because he wasn’t—but simply because he found the sound of the man’s voice so annoying. If the man’s lectures were anything like this, Harrier sincerely pitied his students.

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