The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1)

by Phil Tucker

  He lay still and stared at the sword. Its blade was once again matte-black.

  He recalled the fire pouring in a torrent from its blade to engulf Makaria mid-leap, a fire that had continued to burn even underwater. A fire that had destroyed the Virtue of Happiness.

  Revulsion swarmed through him. He was a Sin Caster. He was damned to fall through the Black Gate upon his death. He was anathema to his own religious beliefs, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  With a cry he sat up and seized the blade. His horror and fury welled into a crescendo, and the blade caught fire anew. Holding it reversed in both hands, Asho slammed it down into the stone floor. It sank down till only a hilt of flaming metal was left showing.

  Gasping, he rose to his feet and snatched up the candle. A splitting headache assailed him. He had to get out.

  He turned and staggered up the steps.

  Behind him, the blade guttered and died. The chamber was plunged into darkness anew.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Kethe awoke reluctantly. For a long while she simply lay still, eyes closed, allowing the murmur of conversation in the great hall and the crackle of flames to wash over her. In the near distance she could hear the soft moans of the injured as they tried to sleep, and beyond that the cruel caws of the ravens. They had survived the night, but to what end? An arm was draped over her shoulder; for a moment she thought it might be Asho’s, and then she recognized her mother’s breathing.

  She carefully extricated herself, stifling a groan as the pains in her body flared back to life, and rose to her feet. Wan sunlight was filtering in through the high cracks in the wall and ceiling. Early afternoon, she guessed. Several guards turned to nod in her direction. Kethe didn’t want company, needed to be alone. With a tight smile she picked up her cloak, swept it over her shoulders, and padded out of the room.

  She climbed to the battlement and walked to the side opposite the lone guard. There she huddled down in the lee of the wall to sit with her knees beneath her chin, arms wrapped around her shins. She could see the massive mountain slopes that cupped the lake and the Hold just over the walls; their stark cliff faces and ice-bound peaks were walls that she could not escape. A sob formed deep in her chest and fought to escape her throat. Biting down, she lowered her face to her forearms and closed her eyes.

  She was going to die. That thought beat at her like Elon’s hammer at the anvil, over and over. She was going to die, and badly.

  Last night she had helped kill a Virtue. Again she saw him go down, wreathed in impossible black flame, Asho suspended high over the causeway, hair flaring and eyes blazing. She’d been connected to him, had enabled his final attack. How was she now to present herself to Aletheia and ask to be consecrated? That road was forever closed to her. There was no escaping her fate. Her powers would continue to manifest until they burned her out and left her a guttered ruin.

  Tears brimmed and then spilled down her cheeks. Her soul wanted to cry out at the unfairness of it all, but she bit down that cry, refused to let it sound. The world was anything but fair. She wouldn’t shame herself further by mewling like a child.

  Asho emerged from the far stairwell and turned to her, and she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Had she known he was coming? On some level she must have, just as he seemed to know where she was sitting. He approached slowly, trailing a hand over the battlements, his face guarded, his mouth a thin line. He looked battered and low.

  She pushed herself to her feet. He was the last person she wanted to talk to, but she knew there was no denying the need for them to talk.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice little more than a rasp.

  “Asho.” She pushed her shoulders back. She was her mother’s daughter, even now.

  He moved up beside her and turned to gaze out over the lake, so she turned to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. She could barely make out the thin line of knights as they reached the faraway Erenthil, their squires and pack animals a ragged line behind them.

  “We won,” he said simply.

  “Yes.” Neither of them sounded overjoyed.

  The wind whipped up and caused small waves to scud across the lake’s surface toward them. Asho hunched his shoulders, but Kethe welcomed its cruel chill as they stood in silence watching the retreating knights. A raven circled the Hold and disappeared into the oak tree’s canopy to roost.

  “We need to talk about last night,” he said at last.

  She fought down the immediate rejection that arose within her and instead simply tightened her hands into fists. “What about it?”

  “What about it?” He chuckled. “Well, you’ve got the powers of a Virtue. I’m a bloody Sin Caster.” Kethe opened her mouth to interrupt, but he powered on. “You’re the supposed pinnacle of goodness, while I’m damned and doomed for the Black Gate when I die.” He stared down at his pale hands. “We’re bound, despite all that. I can sense you. We can connect, somehow, and when I cast my magic, you drain away the sin.”

  Kethe looked away. “We killed him—the Virtue. You and me. We’re both damned. I’m not the pinnacle of anything.”

  “Damned and stuck out here together,” he said softly. “The only way I can make sense of what’s happening is if we use our… powers… to help Lady Kyferin.”

  She felt her eyes burn and wiped at them angrily. “Obviously.”

  “We’re going to need to work together,” he said, his voice growing harsh. “I know you don’t like that, but you’re going to have to get over it. We’re bound, you and I. By—”

  “Shut up!” She rounded on him. “We killed a Virtue! I saw you burn the flesh right off his bones! He’s still there! Nobody’s dared touch his body. You and your black sword, throwing Hell fire, and me helping you!” She shook him. His face was closed off, his silver-green eyes flat. “Don’t you understand? We’re going to die, and we’re going through the Black Gate. There’s no Ascension for us, no eternal bliss. We’re damned, and yet here you stand talking about—”

  “You think I don’t know that?” He stepped forward, and despite herself she gave ground. “My whole life, people have been falling over themselves to remind me how close I am to damnation. I’m a Bythian, one step away from Hell. And now I discover I’m a Sin Caster. You think the subtleties elude me? I’ve been one step from Hell my whole life, and now I know I’m going to be hurled into damnation the moment some Virtue manages to cut off my head.” He was glaring at her, showing true anger for the first time. “And, you know what? Fine. I’m damned. These are the cards I’ve been dealt. But I’m done with apologizing for who I am. I’m done with accepting what others think of me. I’m going to do everything I can to help get us out of this situation. So, the question is, are you going to do the same? Or are you going to spend your time sulking and feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “Sulking?” Her fury and pain was a storm that was buffeting her to pieces. “Feeling sorry for myself?” Her outrage knew no bounds.

  “What else are you doing up here?”

  Kethe let out a cry of pure fury and threw a punch toward his face as hard as she could. Asho caught her blow in the palm of his hand an inch from his face, stopping it cold—and in that moment their bond exploded to life, washing out from their hands to flare out into the world, a wave of blinding white that thrummed with power.

  Kethe’s eyes widened in shock. Their energy was endlessly circling through them. Her fist was burning with white fire, his with black, and the harder she strove to push through his palm to strike him, the brighter the flames grew.

  Asho was forced into a fighting stance, legs bent, thighs flexing as he leaned into her punch, his face drawn with effort, his eyes narrowing. Black fire coruscated around his hand, and despite herself she could feel the taint of his strivings sinking into her, bleeding out of the world and saving him from the worst of the backlash.

  She could sever that bond. She could kick him out into the cold to suffer the full effects of his sin casting. Punish him by tur
ning away.

  Slowly, she backed off, straightened and pulled her fist away. The flames remained around their hands, but they had diminished in size. Their bond remained, however, vital and true. She could feel him, sense him as if he were an extension of herself. It was as intimate a feeling as if their naked bodies had been pressed together, a union that verged on terrifying.

  Asho lowered his hand. His face was grave. His silver-green eyes had turned flat white, burning with the same fire that wreathed her fist. His frame trembled as power flowed through him.

  “I’m not asking you to like me,” he said. “I don’t need or want that. But work with me. Help me understand this thing we can do. Accept that we are bound to each other.”

  Kethe raised her hand and stared at the pale fire that flickered over her skin. Her weariness was washing away. The longer she stayed connected to him, the stronger she felt, and it felt good. It felt right. She stared at his somber face, at his burning, blank eyes, and reluctantly nodded. “All right. We’re bound to each other. But if you dare accuse me of sulking, I’ll pound your Bythian face in.”

  He grinned and ended their connection. The white fire flickered out of existence, leaving only his mocking silver-green eyes in its place. “Agreed.”

  Kethe sighed and turned back to the lake, gazing out at where the last of the knights were finally disappearing from view. “Be honest with me, Asho. Do you think we have a chance of surviving this situation?”

  Asho stepped up next to her. “I don’t know. But I intend to do my best.”

  As they watched, the last of the enemy knights turned to gaze back at them. The tiny figure stood still for a moment, then stepped down and disappeared from view.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Iskra had only just fallen asleep when someone shook her awake. Kethe was gone, and Iskra rose in confusion. Afternoon sunlight was pouring thinly through a high crack in the wall. Ser Wyland was crouched by her side, hauberk over his aketon but without his plate.

  Moans of pain came from the courtyard. People were gathered around the two fires, holding plates that were being filled by Jekil.

  “Food’s being served, my Lady.” Ser Wyland smiled apologetically. “I’ve come to learn that a full stomach does more good on the campaign than sleep. Can I fetch you a plate?”

  Iskra rubbed at the corners of her eyes and rose. She felt like she’d been sleeping on a bed of rocks, which wasn’t far from the truth. “Thank you, yes. Have you seen Kethe?”

  “Yes. She’s up top. Taking some time alone, I believe.” He stepped away and cut to the front of the line, and returned with a bowl of stew. “Kitan’s men weren’t planning to rough it. No more black gruel for us, I’m happy to say. At least not for a few weeks.”

  Iskra took the bowl. The warmth leached into her fingers. “I wouldn’t put it past them to poison their own stores as a last strike against us.” He greeted that with a raised eyebrow, and she nodded. “I know, I know. Have you eaten?”

  “I have.”

  “Good. Please summon Brocuff, Kethe, and Ser Asho. Ask them to join me in the guard room of the main gate. Mæva and Kolgrímr, too.”

  Ser Wyland bowed and stepped away.

  Iskra ate as she walked. She stepped outside into the courtyard and stopped. Two dozen men turned to gaze at her from where they were lying. She recognized the first man: Ord, one of her own guards. Smiling sorrowfully, she stepped up beside him and cast around for something to sit on as he struggled to sit up. She managed to pre-empt him by sitting on a small chest, and spent the next few minutes asking him about how he felt. She then moved on to the other men, most of whom were Hrethings. She had precious little to say to them other than to offer her thanks, but they received her words with awkward smiles and bobs of their heads.

  When she left the last man, she found the small guard room full. Brocuff and Ser Wyland were standing to one side, while Asho and Kethe were standing awkwardly beside each other, as if they were unsure how to inhabit the same space. Mæva was leaning against the wall, her firecat twining itself between her ankles, while Kolgrímr stood by himself close to the door.

  “Good afternoon, everyone.”

  Part of the ceiling was missing, and it was from there that the light and fresh air was flowing. She moved to stand in the sunlight, and for a moment simply stared at a burst of purple flowers growing from a crack in the wall. She turned at last and linked her hands behind her back.

  “Thank you, all of you. Thank you for your role in last night’s events. All of us have played a crucial part in our success. This victory is ours.”

  She looked from one face to the next. “I will come to the point. Ser Kitan came to destroy us with a far larger force than was necessary. He planned to remain and rebuild the Hold. It seems Lord Laur takes our family responsibilities more seriously than my late husband did. Worse, he came accompanied by a Virtue.”

  Iskra looked to Ser Asho and Kethe. Neither matched her gaze. “Makaria is dead, but what he symbolized cannot be ignored. Lord Laur has procured the complete support of his Grace.”

  Everyone stirred at this. Ser Wyland rubbed at his jaw. “Bad news indeed. It makes our return to Kyferin Castle all the more… difficult.”

  “Difficult?” Brocuff shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “Do we need to go back?” Kethe’s voice was hesitant. “Perhaps we can make a life for ourselves here.”

  Iskra shook her head slowly. “His Grace won’t leave us alone. He can’t afford to. We’ve defeated one of his Virtues, and he can’t afford to let that stand. Despite everything that’s going on, he will have to make a lesson of us. The next army that comes through will be far too large for us to defeat alone.”

  Kolgrímr stepped forward. “You aren’t alone. The men and women of Hrething stand with you.”

  Iskra smiled. “And I welcome that support. Without you and your men, noble Kolgrímr, we would not be here today. But Lord Laur will desire to avenge his son, and the Grace his fallen Virtue. We cannot stand against them.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” Asho’s voice was almost a whisper. He was still wearing his battle armor, and if anything his face was more drawn than her daughter’s. “Flee the Hold and live in the wild?”

  Iskra shook her head. “I have been foolish. I realize now that I made two mistakes. The first was to rely on the Ascendant and his Grace. The second was in trying to emulate Enderl and defeat our foes through strength alone. But I’m not him, nor do I wish to be. We need allies with whom we can stand against the Grace. We cannot survive alone.”

  Brocuff shook his head. “That’s a bad business, turning against the Grace. You might as well ask all of us to jump through the Black Gate now.”

  Kolgrímr raised an eyebrow. “As different as our interpretations of Ascendancy might be, you’ve got to admit that the Grace isn’t acting as a spiritual leader. He holds no authority over us Hrethings; only the Ascendant himself can judge us. I don’t think resisting him and striving for Ascendancy are at odds.”

  Mæva gave her one-shouldered shrug. “The Grace is just a man, and all men are fallible. The loss of his Virtue proves that.”

  Iskra turned to Asho. “You shared something in the rooms below before leading the charge against the enemy. Why don’t you tell us again what you saw during your first battle?”

  Asho frowned. “The Grace was mortally wounded. He drank a potion that healed his wounds and saved him from death.”

  Ser Wyland smiled tolerantly. “I find that hard to believe, Ser Asho.”

  “As hard to believe as his aligning with Lord Laur and sending a Virtue against us?”

  “That - well. That is political manuevering. Every man, even his Grace, must make hard decisions on occasion.” Ser Wyland’s flace had grown flushed. “But cheating death? That I cannot believe.”

  Iskra slashed at the air with her hand. “Enough. I believe Asho’s tale. I find the scales are dropping quickly from my eyes. If we are to survive the coming on
slaught, there is only one group that is large and powerful enough to stand against the Ascendant: the Agerastians.”

  Even Ser Wyland looked taken aback. “The Heretics? The men who killed your husband and are besieging Ennoia?”

  Iskra nodded. “Before he left, Audsley told me more about the Hold’s final days during the rise of Ascendancy. Not enough for me to understand the particulars, but enough to realize that what we’ve been told about our past may not be completely accurate.” She raised her hands to forestall argument. “I’m not questioning Ascendancy, but rather the details behind its rise. We’ve been told our whole lives that the Agerastians are called heretics for their role in fighting the first Ascendant’s rise to power. For their wicked role in that war, they were banned from using their Solar Gate, prevented from ever leaving their city of Agerastos, and treated only one step above Bythians.”

  “Aye, and rightly so,” said Brocuff. “They destroyed their Solar Gate, for crying out loud!”

  “And in doing so freed themselves from oppression,” muttered Asho.

  Brocuff glared at him. “Their doing so has threatened Ascendancy itself – who knows what destroying the Gate has done to the souls that must rise from Bythos or fall from Zoe?”

  Asho’s face burned and he looked at the floor. Once he would never have responded. His days of silence were over, however. “We’ve spent centuries punishing them for the actions of their ancestors and branding them heretics. Why are we surprised when they fail to care about our religion?”

  Brocuff threw up his hands in disgust and turned away.

  Iskra stepped forward. “There is much for us to learn. They have used Sin Casters in battle, yet Asho has cast magic in our defense. Does that make him evil? If not, then why must we condemn them? I don’t claim to have answers. I merely have questions and a complete lack of options. If we are to survive, we will need to learn more about the Agerastians - and perhaps side with them.”