Free Phoenix Rising by Ryk E Spoor

single chair was placed at the table. Two spheres of blue light glowed, suspended in nothing, above the farther corners of the table.
    In the center of the table was a scroll, partially unrolled and locked in a mounting that held it still, a scroll two feet high and opened four feet wide. A scroll that seemed made of purest gold, a scroll that shone like a metallic mirror—or, to be more accurate, like three mirrors, for the unrolled piece of enchanted metal was engraved such that it was divided into three equal portions. The engraving scrollwork, on close inspection, consisted of powerful symbols, runes, and mystical metals inlaid into the reflective surface, which within those three portions was inlaid with platinum or silver, shining white against the gold.
    The man seated at the table glanced back at the bed and dresser and smiled faintly. Well, one appreciates austerity on occasion, and a passage at austerity makes one appreciate luxury the more, as well.
    The door was closed, but not locked. The others knew not to disturb him in this chamber. Though they were, perhaps, his equals in many things, they knew that he directed their actions, that he was able to direct the favor of their patron as well. If any of them dared disturb him while that door was closed . . . well, it had best be deadly important. Or else it will become deadly important, indeed.
    He looked at the gemclock; its shimmering symbols showed that the time had arrived.
    And now the polished auric and argent metal did not reflect his face, did not show the mostly empty room. Instead, three other beings looked out from the reflection of other rooms than this.
    Beings—but not human beings.
    The central of these—a presence of pure blackness, a humanoid shape in a chamber so dark that the figure should have been invisible, save that the thing also had eyes of a terrible blue flame and its darkness made that which surrounded it appear merely the gloom of dusk—slowly surveyed the others. The man knew that while he only saw three other participants, each of those three had others—their second in commands, their assistants, advisors, or strategists—watching, perhaps even waiting to speak. It is a most deadly fence to walk, he thought. To say nothing risks little; to speak could gain you favor . . . or cost you your life.
    The same was true of the other two visible in the meeting-mirror, of course, but they had power of their own, and long history in speaking to that dark presence which commanded the central mirror.
    “Some of you,” the dark thing said, and its voice was the deep rumble of a vortex descending to unnameable depths, overlaid with the scream of tortured air. “ Some of you have already heard the rumors. We have commanded this meeting to examine the situation, and determine a course of action.”
    The blacker-than-black figure glanced to the left, at a creature that combined the worst features of lizard and mantis, or perhaps warrior ants. “Voorith has reported considerable losses of his forces, at a moment when we had been preparing other forces to move.” The burning blue-white gaze was unblinking, frightening even to the man seated at the desk, and he wasn’t the focus of that deadly regard. “We are most disappointed, Voorith.”
    The mazolishta bowed, chattering in its own tongue. The apology was long and detailed, and there was no mistaking the fear in the insectoid demon’s voice.
    “Enough of the apologies. They do not matter to us. How much has been lost?”
    The King of All Hells is no more fooled than I; all that apology was an attempt to evade giving these details. It must be worse than we had heard—and I had heard things were very bad . The being in the third portion of the mirror—humanoid in seeming—met the watcher’s gaze knowingly; the man returned the gaze with a nod, for this was his patron. It smiled as Voorith replied, “. . . there have been . . . significant losses, O Consuming Star.”
    The eyes if the