by Phil Tucker
When Asho awoke, sunlight was streaming through the branches of a fir tree above him. The world was brilliantly lit, the panorama before him heartening in how low it showed they had somehow already come. But Kethe was gone.
Asho groaned as he forced himself to his feet. Every muscle hurt, every joint throbbed. It reminded him of his first brutal years as Lord Kyferin's page, when every other Ennoian squire and page had used him as a practice dummy in hopes of driving him away. It hadn't worked then, and the pain wouldn't keep him down now.
Asho stepped back onto the path and looked both up and down. There was no sign of her. "Kethe?"
"Here," came a voice from the bushes behind the tree. She stood, did up her breeches, then came around. "How are you feeling?"
"Me? How are you?"
Her face was still drawn, and there were deep purple smudges beneath her eyes. Blood was smeared across her jaw, and her armor looked like it had been worried by a pack of steel-jawed hounds. But it was skin that worried him - it had become strangely smooth, as if the pores had disappeared. Unnaturally so, with even the faint wrinkles at the corner of her eyes having disappeared.
"I'm fine. Sore, but nothing broken. What about you?" She stepped right up to him and took him by the jaw, turning his head from one side to the other. "You look fine. At least, like you're not about to implode, or whatever might have been happening up there."
"Yes," said Asho. He rubbed the back of his head and turned to look up at the peaks. It felt strange to have Kethe touch him so calmly, to stand so close. "That was... I don't even remember parts of it."
"Do you remember the fight? The demon?"
A vague but terrifying snatch of memory came to him: the Black Gate roaring like the world's greatest waterfall, the hordes of shambling demons, wings of flame burning his face. "Some." He shivered despite the morning sunshine. "I remember - Mæva! Where is she? I remember her falling. Ashurina? Did -"
He shook his head. It was all a jumble of broken images.
Kethe face became pinched and she looked away. "She's gone. She sacrificed herself to draw Ashurina away."
Asho rubbed his arms. "And that part about the Black Shriving? The demon we met - I don't recall what he looked like, just wings of fire. Am I remembering right that he's bringing it early?"
"Yes," said Kethe. "He's coming for us. I don't know why he let us go. Maybe he was surprised by how hard we fought back. Or..."
"He was enjoying himself," said Asho with quiet certainty. "I can remember his laughter. Maybe this is all a game to him. To it."
Kethe scowled and stepped onto the path. "All the more reason to get down to the Hold and warn the others."
"Kethe." Asho reached out and touched her arm. "Thank you. For carrying me down here. For - I don't know. Letting me channel all that magic."
Her gaze was enigmatic, the morning sunshine bringing out the deep red tints in her auburn hair. "I think we're past thanking each other. You saved my life. I saved yours. It's - it's what we do, now." A ghost of smile. "Apparently."
Asho smiled back. "So it would seem." They stood there in the sunlight, holding each other's gaze and smiling. Asho felt something unlock within his chest, a feeling of doubt or fear evaporating in the directness of Kethe's gaze, and then despite everything, he laughed and staggered onto the path. "All right. Let's get going."
It was evening by the time they stumbled onto Mythgræfen Hold's causeway, where the crushed white stones were luminous in the light of the moon. Hunger was gnawing at Asho's gut, pain was slicing through feet, and he felt as ragged as a scarecrow, but on he marched, Kethe a staggering shadow by his side. The ruined walls of the hold loomed up ahead of him, dark but for pinpricks of light shining through a few ground floor windows.
The sentry should have spotted them by now, thought Asho, and indeed a small delegation of armed men emerged from the gate as Asho stepped onto the island proper. He recognized Ser Wyland at the front of a small band of Hrethings, and relief at having finally arrived almost caused him to sink to his knees.
"Asho?" Ser Wyland hurried forward. "By the Ascendant, you look half-dead. Kethe! Where is Mæva?"
Brocuff stepped forward and offered his arm to Kethe, who gladly leaned on it. The band encircled them and escorted them up the grassy slope to the twisted oak that blocked the front gate.
"Mæva is gone." Asho didn't know how else to put it. His voice was a rasp.
Ser Wyland handed him a water skin, and Asho found enough dignity to turn and offer it to Kethe first. She made an annoyed face at his gallantry but took the skin and drank deep. Asho stood, swaying, and gulped down the cold water when she passed it back to him.
"She sacrificed herself so that we could live," said Kethe, meeting Asho's gaze. He nodded. No need to go into the details. "We found the Black Gate."
"You did?" Ser Wyland formed the triangle with both hands, eyes widening. "So, it really is up there? Incredible."
"We should tell Lady Kyferin," said Asho.
"She's gone," said Ser Wyland darkly. "Audsley found a means to open the Portals early, and she left with Ser Tiron to visit the Agerastians." His tone was such that Asho half-expected him to turn and spit. "I've been left in charge. She took Ser Tiron, Hannus and Ord with her. We're down to a skeleton crew here."
"Oh," said Asho. "That's good." Hope surged within him. "That's very good. She'll be spared what's to come. In fact - can we all use the Portal now? Escape?"
"Escape?" Ser Wyland frowned at him. "Why would we abandon the Hold?"
"The Black Shriving," said Kethe. "It's coming early this year."
Silence gripped their small group, and many more made the sign of the triangle.
"Come inside," said Ser Wyland. "I would hear this from the beginning."
Ten minutes later they were seated around the central fire in the grand hall, bowls of vegetable soup in their hands and flagons of Hrething wine at their knees. Asho wanted to sink into the warmth of his blanket, let his chin rest on his chest and sleep, but he fought to stay alert instead. Kethe had found a hidden reserve of energy and was recounting their journey to Ser Wyland, Brocuff, and Elon. The Hrethings had moved to take up watch along the walls, and the few servants who had accompanied Lady Kyferin in her exile from Kyferin Castle kept a respectful distance.
"We fought our way clear," said Kethe, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. "Mæva died opening a way out of the chamber, but I think the demon let us go. Wanted us to escape. As we ran though, he promised to come after us. To bring his demons to the Hold, and then beyond."
Her words were like stones being dropped into a pond, absorbed and followed by silence. Then all eyes slid over to Ser Wyland who was sitting hunched, elbows on his knees, staring into the fire.
"The Black Shriving," said Ser Wyland. "Now we know the truth of the matter. The demons will wash down from the mountains and besiege us. You mentioned escape, Ser Asho, but I fear that may not be an option. Audsley is opening the Gate to Agerastos each day in readiness for Lady Kyferin's return, but he isn't doing the same for us. As such, it could be a day or weeks till we're contacted again."
Brocuff stood up as if he wanted to stride away, then sat back down on the pony keg he was using as a stool. "We can't hold these walls against demons."
Ser Wyland lowered his chin onto the base of his palm as he stared into the depths of the fire, his face lit a ruddy red by the flickering flames. "Not successfully, no."
"What does that mean?" Brocuff's voice was sharp. "This is different from facing down Lord Laur's brat and his killers. These are creatures of darkness and evil. They're coming through a bloody Black Gate for us! How are we to know they won't tear our souls free of our bodies and use us as hosts?"
"We don't," Ser Wyland agreed in an almost placid manner.
"So? We leave. I'm all for dying for Lady Kyferin, but asking me to damn my soul is another matter altogether."
Elon rubbed his chin with his thumb. "It seems to me that our souls are safe as
long as we live righteously. Demons cannot damn us, only kill us. At least, that's what I recall from my lessons."
"You have the right of it," said Ser Wyland. "As long as we live righteously. Can we be sure we are doing that, however, with the alliance our lady is making?"
Kethe drew her blade, causing everybody but Ser Wyland to flinch at the suddenness of her gesture. "Do you see this sword? It was forged for me by Elon three years ago. There's nothing special about it, but it cut down demon after demon." She leaned forward, the blade gleaming. "They can be killed. Which means they can be stopped."
Asho shook his head. "That's not true, Kethe. Remember that demon we hunted with the Hrethings? The one that chased you into the woods? Nobody could hurt it but you."
Kethe opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut.
"That's true," said Ser Wyland. "Mæva enchanted our blades before we finally killed it. Without her with us, how would we repeat the deed?"
"We can't abandon the Hold," said Kethe.
Brocuff ground a fist into his palm. "What if we just depart for Hrething for the night? Come back after they've gone?"
"No," said Asho, his voice hollow. "I remember now. Something the demon said. This time 'round, he's not returning to the Black Gate when he's done cleansing the Hold. He's going to keep on. He said he would sweep out across the land and drown everything in flame and shadow."
"Well, fuck," said Brocuff. He stood again, and this time he did stalk off.
Ser Wyland rubbed at his stubbled jaw. He looked older, Asho realized. The fire highlighted the lines in his face, the touch of gray at his temples. "I have much to think on. I urge each of you to take some time alone to commune with the Ascendant. To ask him what our correct path is. Where our true and ultimately loyalty should lie."
Elon reached out and pulled a burning spar of wood from the fire. He turned it around in his hands, not seeming to mind the heat that must have been radiating from its charred surface. "Do you think there's a way for either of you to bless our weapons? Or a bolt for my ballista?"
Asho glanced at Kethe. They both shrugged. "I don't know," said Asho. "When I reach out to Kethe, it forms a connection between us. Maybe I could connect to an object as well?"
Ser Wyland raised an eyebrow. "I know you are fatigued. But could you try?"
Asho shared another look with Kethe, then nodded. He took a deep breath and searched for her in his mind's eye. Normally she appeared as a burning white flame in the dark, but this time there was barely a smoldering glow. She was completely depleted. He felt cracks open up within his soul, like barely healed wounds splitting open under duress. It hurt, a profound ache that throbbed worse than any real wound. Gritting his teeth, he connected with Kethe, then turned to stare at Ser Wyland's blade.
He closed his eyes. Tried to sense it, to reach out for it. He pictured it vividly in his mind, imagined white light extending from his heart to envelop the sword.
Nothing happened.
Instead, he felt the black blade buried almost hilt-deep into the rock in the rooms below, felt it as a swimmer might feel the pull of a current: insidious, powerful, continuous.
With a gasp he relinquished the bond. "No." He wiped sweat from his brow. "No. I can't do it."
Ser Wyland nodded, went to speak, but paused as Asho rose to his feet.
"Excuse me," said Asho. "I've... got to see to something."
He ignored the curious looks and stepped out into the courtyard. He veered immediately into the storage room, and went straight to the back wall, where a cunningly disguised door was propped open with a wedge of wood. Asho pulled it open all the way and stared at the steps that descended to the hidden rooms Audsley had discovered. He could see the faint glow of candlelight from below, set out in vigil against Lady Kyferin's homecoming.
Asho took a deep breath and descended. He'd not been down here since the night he'd buried the blade deep. Round and round went the steps, then he moved out into the central chamber.
The hilt and crossguards of the black blade gleamed in the candlelight. Asho stood staring at it, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears. He remembered the power it had granted him, how he had pointed its fell length down at Makaria, the Virtue of Happiness, and unleashed a torrent of black fire that had killed the Virtue where he stood.
It was evil, he had decided. A tool of damnation. And yet, the Black Shriving was upon them. He could not defeat that demon lord alone. Kethe's life depended on his strength.
He was already a Sin Caster. Would wielding this sword damn him any further?
Asho flexed his hands and approached. The blade seemed to be aware of him, somehow seemed to be awaiting him. Asho could sense power swirling around it like a vortex. Was he growing more attuned to this magic?
My soul to the White Gate, he thought, then reached down and clasped the hilt.
Black flame poured down the three inches of visible blade, and it slid free easily, as if from water.
Asho held the sword aloft before him and stared at its burning length, up to where the flames peaked and danced, down its whorled length. It was a vicious-looking sword, spiked and cruel, and within it something resided – a presence, a malevolent entity that welcomed him, Asho knew, greeted him as a long-lost brother.
Asho whipped the blade down and to the side as if flicking off blood, and the fires extinguished, returning the sword to its matte-black state. He picked up the scabbard that had been found with the blade and sheathed the sword, then undid his belt, removed his plain scabbard, and buckled on the new one.
In the faint glow of the candle, he stood still, letting himself adjust to the new weight at his hip, the sense of it merging slowly with him, attuning itself to his essence. If he spoke to it, he knew, it might respond. Was accepting help from this sword that much different from bonding with Ashurina? The very thought terrified him.
And yet, the Black Shriving was upon them.
Asho hesitated, then lowered his hand to rest on the hilt. He swallowed against the knot in his throat, then nodded. So be it. Whatever it took, whatever the cost, he would see Kethe and Lady Kyferin safe. If it lay within his power to do so, then he would accomplish that task, no matter the sacrifice.
He cast a look at the dead Portal, sent Lady Kyferin a brief prayer for good fortune and a swift return, then turned and climbed the steps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tiron couldn't rest. He pushed aside the billowing curtains that hung over the entrance to the balcony, briefly considering tearing them down as he stepped outside. Delicate and beautiful they might be, but they could provide an assassin with crucial seconds of cover if one came over the balcony and managed to kill Hannus quietly. The image arrested his movement. Then, setting his face in a grim expression, he turned back and yanked the curtains from their rods and tossed the fabric aside.
Ord was watching from the doorway, eyebrows raised. He understood and nodded.
Returning outside, Tiron stepped up to the stone balustrade and leaned forward, scrutinizing the city of Agerastos as it tumbled away down a gradual slope to the harbor. The sky was a languorous shade of umber and yellow that reduced the low-hanging sun to a ball of simmering gold. White gulls were wheeling over the cascading rooftops below and red-sailed ships of all sizes lay at rest beside the piers while slender skiffs cut back and forth from one side of the harbor to the other. Towers arose like daggers between the many rooftops, and smoke from evening fires was drifting like dirty cotton, rising up to soften the angularities of the architecture and reduce the city to a wondrous haze. The evening sunlight glinted on the great scaled domes that arose here and there. Even now, it was hard to credit that he was standing in Agerastos, the land of the hated heretics, the great opposition to everything that Ascension stood for.
Not that he cared any more. Once, maybe, he might have felt the appropriate disgust at being surrounded by heathens. Now? It seemed immaterial to him. What mattered was the danger that lurked in the shadowy stree
ts below, the faceless mass that might turn against the emperor when they discovered whom he was harboring in their midst.
And Iskra. Tiron set his jaw. By the Ascendant it was hard to restrain himself, from reaching for her, from dropping to one knee and swearing his fealty over and over again. And yet. To what end? What use in running down a hallway when you knew it was a dead end? He wanted to groan and close his eyes, to pour himself the first of many drinks. If only Sarah were yet alive to give him counsel. A pang of grief slipped into his chest like a knife. He saw her smiling face, heard her laughter echo from the depths of his memories. Tiron covered his face with his hands. How wretched had he become that he wished his dead wife returned only so that she may offer him advice on how to handle Iskra?
"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Hannus, stepping over to join him.
Tiron dropped his hands and looked over at the young soldier. Hannus' face was clear of concern, unriven by the cruel lines wrought by grief and loss. A young face. A blank sheet on which time would write its woes.
"Sure," said Tiron. He turned back to the city.
"Never thought I'd travel as much as I've done with the Lady," said Hannus quietly. "Always thought I'd serve as a guard at Kyferin Castle for a spell, then return home with enough wealth to buy a new plow, perhaps some cattle. Help my father make the most of our land." He lapsed into silence for a moment, then asked, "Do you think we'll ever get back, ser?"
Tiron took a deep breath, testing the pain that smoldered in his side. "I don't know. If we do, it will be at the front of an army."
Hannus nodded. "That's what I thought. I hope it's soon, then. Our return. I've a wife and daughter waiting for me back home." He ran both hands through his hair restlessly. "I asked one of the guards that stayed back the castle to let her know where I'd gone. For all I know, she thinks me dead. It would be good to get a message to her somehow." He didn't look at Tiron, just gazed down at the harbor below.
Tiron didn't know what to say. Maybe Hannus had his own share of grief after all. Once, he'd have given the young man a gruff speech about duty and honor. Now? He didn't know if he believed in such things. He knew how flimsy a man's honor could prove, how duty could be a one-way street that led to your ruin.