The White Song (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 5)

by Phil Tucker

  “I have,” said Kethe. “She brought our forces back to life, as promised. She knows that she lives at our sufferance and feels that the demons are a threat to her as well as to us. She said she has an offer to make that could change the tide of battle, but she will make it to you alone. Will you grant her an audience?”

  The Ascendant turned to her, and Iskra fought the urge to bite her lower lip. For a moment, her mind was a complete blank, and she had no idea what to say; then she found Tiron in the crowd and saw him give the slightest of nods.

  “We should examine all options,” she said faintly.

  “Very well,” the Ascendant said stiffly. “Bring her in, Virtue.”

  He slowly lowered himself back into his throne, and Iskra stepped in close, placing a hand on the back of his chair as she stared at the far doors. As one, the Virtues placed their hands on the hilts of their blades, but it was in Tiron that she placed her faith – Tiron and his black dragon. Would it be able to intervene, though, if the medusa chose to strike at them?

  The doors parted, and the hundred or so people gasped in dismay and awe as Kyrrasthasa glided forth.

  While the Hall of Light was all austere beauty, refined stonework and elegant hues, the medusa was a smoldering brand of impossible vitality and majesty. She dominated the room the moment she appeared, her hair hissing and writhing, her eyes searing in their intensity. Her upper torso was feminine and shockingly bare, and her serpentine coils were muscular and otherworldly. She was the old world thrust into the new, a heretical assertion of a past that had not been effaced by Ascendancy’s tenets, a violation of the august sovereignty of the Ascendant by simply daring to exist.

  Nobody spoke as she slithered forward, broad enough that the people had to crowd back from her, pressing against each other in their desire to maintain some distance from her brilliantly hued body. Iskra’s grip on the chair back tightened as the medusa’s gaze washed over her; the air seemed to grow hot, and Kyrra’s eyes left an afterburn on Iskra’s vision, so that twin motes of burned yellow hung in the air long after the medusa had looked away.

  “Kyrrasthasa,” said the Ascendant, and Iskra felt a burst of pride for how steady his voice was. “Be welcome to my court. I thank you for the aid you have rendered us, and am willing to hear any new propositions that might aid us in our war with the demons.”

  Kyrra stopped perhaps five yards from the base of the dais and reared up so she was gazing down upon the Ascendant. Hers was an alien majesty, an impossible ease and confidence that defied the Virtues and every other source of strength the Empire had at its beck and call. Her hair undulated, and, completely unabashed by her nudity, the medusa smiled down at the Ascendant, revealing her slender fangs.

  “Your Holiness,” she said, her accent strange but clear. “It is good to meet you again.”

  “Again?” The Ascendant’s shock was fleeting, quickly masked. “You have met me in a previous life?”

  “I have had that honor,” Kyrra said with a smile. “You said yourself that we would meet once more, but on your terms and not my own. It amuses me to see that you were correct.”

  “Please explain,” said the Ascendant. “I have not the memories that you do.”

  “Centuries ago, you visited my land,” said Kyrra. “You were not yet the Ascendant, but you had an enormous faith in yourself – a faith, I might add, that was apparently justified. You wandered amongst the kragh, and while you were gathering your strength so you might return and form your Empire, you divined my existence. You sought me out in my chambers, and there we conversed for a night. It was... an interesting exchange. Twice I thought to slay and eat you, but each time I held back.”

  “You speak of the original Ascendant?” The Ascendant’s voice was hushed. “You spoke with him?”

  “With you,” said the medusa. “And yes. He prophesied that we would speak again, many years later, and that I would render his Empire a great service. He said that my nature, my powers, heretical as they might be to his creed, would ensure the survival of his creation, and in doing so demonstrate that even creatures such as myself fall under the auspices of your religion.”

  Iskra held on to the chair as if they were in the midst of a wild storm. Her mind reeled. The first Ascendant? Was the medusa speaking the truth? Everyone knew that the first Ascendant had wandered in the land of the kragh for three years, only to return with the army that helped him conquer the city-states and forge his Empire. It was possible that he had met her, had conversed with Kyrra, but if that were so…

  Iskra forced herself to relax. This could be a ploy. But who could tell?

  The Ascendant remained still. Only then did Iskra realize the brilliance of the medusa’s offer. He had three choices, none of them good: to agree with her, demonstrating mastery of his own past lives, but in doing so greatly bolstering her authority in his court; admit ignorance and expose himself as being at a disadvantage to her on an issue fundamental to his own faith; or accuse her of lying, immediately confront her, and end any chance of a partnership.

  How would he respond? Would he endorse her inserting herself into the heart of their faith, the object of a prophecy of the very first Ascendant?

  “Alas, I have no recollection of what you speak of.”

  Iskra felt a pang of disappointment. Was he admitting fallibility, weakness?

  “I need not recall it, however, for its veracity to be put to the test. The proof will be in the very offer you are about to make.” The Ascendant’s voice rang clear. “If your offer is indeed righteous, then it will vindicate your claim that the first Ascendant foresaw and approved of it. If not, I’m afraid you will have proven yourself false, for no one can believe that the Ascendant would have approved of an ignominious offer. Tell us, Kyrrasthasa — what is the form of your offered salvation?”

  Iskra bit down on her gasp of relief. Well played!

  Then the murmurs of the court picked up, and she saw Kyrra’s eyes narrow. She’s starting to get the measure of him, Iskra thought. If she asks for too much, she’ll risk being rebuffed and her claim being declared null and void. Is she scaling down how audacious she was planning to be?

  “We medusas were once worshipped openly as goddesses,” said Kyrra, lowering herself back onto her coils. “The kragh sacrificed themselves to our pleasure, and in some corners of your Empire, humanity itself still venerates us.”

  If she was hoping for a rise, she wasn’t going to get one. Iskra listened with as much equanimity as she could muster.

  “The reason,” continued Kyrra, “is due to our nature. Few are the creatures with a direct affinity for what you call the Black and the White Gates. All are dedicated to one: your Virtues to the White, your Flame Walkers to the Black. Demons, dragons, trolls — all are connected primarily to one pole, but not the medusas. Our affinities extend to both Gates, and that flexibility, that mastery of the world’s most basic magics, is what elevates us above all others.”

  Again, Iskra chose to remain silent. Fortunately, so did the Ascendant.

  “As such, we can petrify any living creature, bleach them of their living essence with the force of the White Gate,” said Kyrra. “Or we can return them to life, filling them with the forces of the Black. But we have another power. It is known as the medusa’s Kiss. Through it, we can remove the natural protections of each creature, allowing an excess of Black and White energies to suffuse them. We can grant them a taste of godhood, if only for a while, and all the powers that goes with it.”

  Kethe spoke up, and her voice was stony. “That’s what you did to the kragh shamans, isn’t it? And to Tharok and his warlords?”

  “Yes,” said Kyrra. “And look how far they came.”

  “You take credit?” asked the Ascendant. “For the success of Tharok’s attack on my Empire?”

  Kyrra smiled lazily. “In large part, yes. Do you think Tharok would have been able to withstand the corrupting influence of the circlet without my fire in his blood? That his shamans would have
been able to slip the bonds of their traditions and wage war with such efficacy?” Her blazing eyes went half-lidded. “Yes, I do take credit. And that is the very form of success I am offering: the ability to rise above your mortal coils and make war with the demons on a more even footing.”

  “Then, I would hear from Tharok,” the Ascendant said quietly. “Since he has directly experienced what you offer.”

  Kyrra canted her head to one side, considering his words, then shrugged. “As you wish, Your Holiness. Though he is kragh. Only kragh. His words, his experience, will be limited.”

  “Limited?”

  The voice was inhuman, a low growl that caused the crowd to turn in consternation. The Uniter himself stepped through the doors, emerging from the antechamber beyond. Almost seven feet tall, his skin soot-black and glimmering with crimson undertones, his shoulders as massive as a bull’s and his chest as deep, he strode forward with the inevitability of a rockslide.

  If Kyrra was fazed by his arrival, she didn’t show it. “Why, yes, Tharok. Without your circlet, you are nothing if not limited.”

  The Uniter moved forward to stand abreast of the medusa, fearless and composed. “There is one thing you can expect from her,” he said. “And that is to be manipulated to her ends. She’s not as good as the circlet was, but she is good.”

  “What do you think of her offer, Tharok?” The Ascendant’s voice quelled the whispers. “You received this Kiss, did you not?”

  “I did,” said Tharok. “And it saved my life. I was badly wounded and would have died without it. Her Kiss gave me tremendous strength, increased vitality, and more. I believe it’s made me resistant to the black flames thrown by the demons and your magic users alike.”

  “What?” said Kethe. “Asho’s flames? But you always put up that white shield.”

  “Not always in time,” said Tharok. “Once, while I was fighting him in Bythos, his flames got through. They burned me, but not badly. I believe that was the Kiss’s protection.”

  “Strength, endurance, and resistance to magical flame,” said the Ascendant. “Those are worthy gains.”

  “I do not believe the exchange to be a fair one,” said Tharok. “The Kiss makes you other. It sets you apart. It draws you into her realm. Through the circlet, I was able to fight off her influence, but others fell under her sway more easily once they had received it. My shamans are now hers, body and soul. Many of my kragh worship her as a goddess. To allow her to give the Kiss is to allow poison into your heart.”

  “Superstitious nonsense,” Kyrra said smoothly. “He is but kragh. His kind has no writing. They live out their entire lives in little more than thirty or forty years. They are like nomadic animals, worshipping the clouds and the dirt with no sense of their past or their future, just the ever-present and illimitable now: the desire to conquer, to rut, to eat their fill. Simple, base creatures. Why do you think that in your first incarnation, you did not see fit to allow them into the cycle of Ascension? Because you knew they were little more than beasts.”

  She spread her arms. “I swear this, Your Holiness. Allow me to bestow my Kiss upon your greatest and most powerful, and their might will double and double once more. And when the demons come, they will find themselves driven back, and your Empire will rise from the ashes.”

  Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Tiron stood rigid but silent, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He gave no sign of his thoughts. The Virtues themselves were clearly conflicted. Could they turn away such aid when their position was so imperiled?

  “Thank you, Kyrrasthasa, for your offer.” The Ascendant’s words were smooth, controlled, but hard. “I appreciate your concern for our Empire. Yet your offer, while it might save us, would doom us in time just the same. We do not place survival over all other considerations; our sole aim is to purify our souls so that we may Ascend, whether in this life or the next. It would be a sin to accept your Kiss in order to live a few years longer, only to damn our souls in the process.”

  He rose to his feet. “No. I do not accept your offer. Thank you for the aid you have rendered us thus far, but that will be all.”

  Kyrra’s serpentine hair hissed sharply, lashing back and forth, though she herself remained still. Iskra held her breath. The medusa’s face was utterly alien, and she couldn’t read the creature’s expression, couldn’t fathom the depth of her rage or frustration. Would she lash out? Would she seek to kill all who stood before her?

  “Very well,” said Kyrra. “This has been an interesting encounter. My offer stands. Here is a prophecy of my own, however: the next time we talk, it will be you who comes begging for my help. And I will grant it, but at a price.”

  The Ascendant remained silent. Kethe and the other Virtues took a step forward, and at that signal, Kyrra flowed back toward the great doors, her posture erect and uncowed, and then she passed through into the antechamber and was gone.

  Iskra allowed herself to sigh in relief. The Hall of Light seemed washed out and drab without Kyrra’s incendiary presence and vivid coloration. She felt as if she’d been holding her breath ever since the medusa was introduced, and could only now breathe freely.

  “Thank you, Uniter,” said the Ascendant, lowering himself back into his seat. “Your counsel was much appreciated.”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Tharok. “It’s no longer my title.”

  “What?” Iskra couldn’t hide her shock. “You’ve been deposed?”

  “No,” said Tharok, keeping his gaze on the Ascendant. “I’ve decided to no longer lead the kragh. That is why I’ve come: to tell you that I am no longer the kragh with whom you must deal. That honor now falls upon Maur, Wise Woman of the Red River tribe and rider of Flamska.”

  Again, whispers and murmurs filled the hall. Iskra struggled to absorb this information. “But why, Tharok? Why now, just as we’re about to be attacked? When your genius in battle could be of the greatest use?”

  “Not my genius,” Tharok said flatly. “That was the circlet using me. It is done. Maur now carries World Breaker. She is speaking even now with the warlords and chieftains. Soon, she will send word that she is ready to meet and coordinate her strength with yours.”

  “That’s it?” Kethe sounded outraged. “You march your kragh across the world, slaughter and destroy everything in your path, and then, when we need you the most, you simply... quit?”

  “Yes,” said Tharok.

  Kethe opened and closed her mouth several times. Akinetos laid a gauntleted hand on her shoulder and drew her back.

  “Thank you for telling me,” said the Ascendant. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I came to ask for permission,” said Tharok, then he halted, looking down.

  “Permission for what?” asked the Ascendant.

  “Permission to visit the White Gate.” The kragh’s voice was rough. “I understand if that request offends you.”

  The Ascendant stiffened, and Iskra saw Mixis and Synesis both startle, their hands dropping to their blades once more.

  “Your Holiness, no,” said Synesis, her voice shaking with emotion. “This kragh — I saw what he did in Abythos. I fought him. He thought he killed me, and he — he laughed. Don’t be fooled, please.”

  Iskra looked over to Tiron. His face was closed, his brow lowered, but he didn’t seem outraged — neither did Kethe, for that matter. She, too, looked pensive.

  “Why,” asked Iskra, “do you wish to visit the White Gate?”

  Tharok’s eyes flashed. Clearly, he was not used to being questioned. “That is my business, and no one else’s.”

  Mixis let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Is this how the kragh request favors? Why not draw your blade and use that to convince us?”

  Tharok hunched his massive shoulders, and Iskra saw his fingers flex. But he was bearing no blade. His infamous scimitar was now with Maur.

  “Why, Tharok?” She tried to keep her voice soft. “Why do you ask to visit that which you sought to destroy?”

  Tharok gl
anced at her, then he lowered his gaze to the floor. “As I said, it is my business.”

  “Between you and the White Gate?” asked the Ascendant.

  “Yes,” said Tharok.

  “Then I grant it,” said the Ascendant.

  “Your Holiness!” Synesis took another step forward. “You — you can’t —” She took a deep, almost convulsive breath, then bowed her head. With obvious pain, she lowered herself to her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor. “I cry your pardon, Your Holiness. Forgive me my transgression.”

  “You may visit the White Gate,” the Ascendant said, ignoring her. “On the condition that you speak with me afterwards.” He smiled wryly. “If, that is, we are both still alive. Agreed?”

  Tharok studied the youth warily, and then gave a curt nod. “Yes. Agreed.”

  “Very well,” said the Ascendant. “That is all for now. We shall convene our military council to review our fortifications and the deployment of our soldiers. Please, Tharok, if you can: ask Maur to join us.”

  The huge kragh gave another nod, and then turned to march down the aisle to the rear doors. The crowds closed behind him, and heads pressed together as people discussed what had just transpired.

  “There,” the Ascendant said so that only Iskra could hear. “Was that the effect you were seeking? Did I reassure our people that all is well and as it ever was?”

  Iskra smiled sadly. “No. But, then, that would be a lie.” She looked out over the Hall of Light, watching as the crowd slowly flowed out the great doors. “But you have left your mark. There can be no doubt that you are an Ascendant with his own mind and convictions, and that will spread. The people will soon hear how you are in control, and from that they will derive great comfort and strength.” She hesitated. “You are, after all, the Ascendant.”

  “Yes,” he said, and he sounded so weary, that she gazed at him in concern. “So I am told. Come, my Grace. We cannot rest. Let us plan for the coming battle.”