The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  Tiron again fought to keep a calm expression. "Whatever you deem most fitting, my lady."

  "I knew you would understand." She opened the door and then turned back to him. "I am so glad you have returned, Tiron." Her smile was genuine and warmed him to his core. "My bravest knight."

  Before he could respond, she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. Tiron stared at the bands of black iron that held its boards together, then strode to the window. Inspect the Hold? He shook his head. A waste of his time. The laborers clearly knew what they were about and needed no advice from him.

  The day suddenly seemed as long and dauntingly empty as a ruined hallway. He could seek out Patash and train at sword play with the man. Perhaps ride around the lake, making sure all was well. His blade needed care and his armor sanding after four days of rain and mist.

  Nothing appealed to him. I could fetch Iskra flowers, a wild wreath like the kind I used to present to Sarah after being gone on campaign.

  Yes. The thought filled him with vigor. When had Iskra last received flowers? Lord Kyferin had never been the type. Ah, the smile she would give him!

  Tiron strode toward the door, the weariness and doubt falling from him. Could he blame her for being busy? Of course not. He had to be understanding, had to show her that his love for her was true, and that he was wise and patient enough to love her even as he waited for that fateful day when she could devote herself as completely to him as he wished to do to her.

  Tiron took a deep breath and opened the door. Let the emperor send her wardrobes and dresses. He could not compete with Tiron's devotion.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hot, stinging pain. A wash of fire down her throat. Her whole body clenched, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't even cough. She snatched fistfuls of fabric and tore at them, but they gave easily, giving her no purchase. Her stomach roiled, liquid fire easing into her gut. A roaring filled her ears, as it had when she had last fallen from the sky with Asho, and her skin crawled, prickled, as if a million insects were stinging her at once.

  "...more gone than usual, hence the more dramatic..."

  A voice. She fought to focus on it. She still couldn't breathe. Her lungs were straining like a sword flexed to its limit. She gathered more bunches of fabric, clawed at them, and felt hands on her hips, on her shoulders, pressing her back.

  Light. Refracted through tears, swimming before her. More voices. Her back arched of its own accord, and then she collapsed and drummed her heels on something soft and giving. There were hands on her head, tilting it back, and then a sudden violent pressure on her stomach, and with a shuddering, horrifying gasp, she finally managed to inhale.

  Sweet air. She couldn't get enough. Deep draughts, sucked down as if she were drowning. The hands tilted her head back for a little longer, then released her.

  The prickling of her skin was starting to abate. The fire in her gut was no longer unbearable. She felt tears running down her cheeks, and then finally had the presence of mind to reach up and wipe them away.

  "...if you observe, my lord, the state of evanescence is not completely undone; clearly she was far gone, perhaps too far gone, for it seems that..."

  "Who?" Her voice was a rasp, a croak, unrecognizable. Perhaps unintelligible?

  The lights were starting to coalesce, become multiple sources – candles, it seemed, set around her on ledges. She was in a room, lying on a bed. White walls, coffered ceiling. People around her. Strangers.

  "Relax, Kethe. Relax." A wet cloth was pressed to her brow, and she wanted to sag from the sheer pleasure of it.

  "Where am I?" Her voice came more clearly now.

  What had happened? Asho? The demons? She struggled to remember. The walls of the Hold. Agerastian Sin Casters. Screams.

  "You are in Aletheia, my dear." The voice was kindly, educated, that of an old man. "Which means you are safe."

  Aletheia. Had she died? No. She remembered Asho leaping to challenge the demon lord. Audsley lifting her high up into the sky. Her blade – where was her blade? She tried to sit up, a moan of fear escaping her lips, and the blurred figures pushed her gently back down. She couldn't even resist them.

  "You are near death. You must conserve your strength." The old man was standing to her right, stooped and slender. She blinked, trying to focus on him. He extended his arm, and the wet cloth returned. "We have given you a healing draught, but it is not enough to pull you completely back from the brink."

  The demon lord's wings had been made of fire. She had fallen – no; Audsley had dropped her – right onto its back. The world had tilted and leaped as the demon bucked and tried to shake her off, her blade sinking into its flesh. Its terrible screams...

  "Asho? Where is Asho?"

  There was a moment of hesitation, and then she could make out looks being exchanged. "Who is that, my dear?"

  The very memory of how much magic she had channeled caused her bones to throb. The burning in her gut was now just a smoldering pain, but one that kept back the numbness that threatened to wash her thoughts away. She was so tired. She wanted nothing more than to sleep. But that fire – it pulsed and forced her to stay alert.

  "You are Kethe Kyferin." This voice was different, coming from her left. A young man, redolent with casual authority, almost bored, the words spoken like an indictment.

  "Yes." Aletheia. How? Near death? Had her mother –?

  "Daughter of Iskra Kyferin, widow of Lord Enderl Kyferin, and so on and so forth."

  Not a question. She blinked again, rubbed her eyes, then stared at the youth. White hair? A Bythian? No, pale gold, unruly, crowning a handsome face. Cruel eyes, a sensuous mouth. Not handsome. Beautiful.

  "We should give her more time, my lord." The old man's voice was chiding but nervous. Fearful of evoking displeasure.

  "My brother was sent to claim Mythgraefen Hold. He left a month ago. We have not heard from him since. What has happened?"

  Kethe recoiled. Shrank toward the old man and his side of the bed. "Your brother?" She knew who he meant.

  "Makaria. The Virtue of Happiness." The young man's eyes were a cerulean blue, cold and distant. "Where is he?"

  A Virtue. Her heart stuttered in her chest. A Virtue, here, before her, and a powerful one at that, more powerful than Makaria. Oh, by the Ascendant, Makaria had been terrifying enough, but this man, this boy, he burned, he flamed...

  "Answer me." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even bend over. Yet she felt his command hit her like a whip.

  "Dead." Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  Silence fell. The wet cloth disappeared from her brow. The youth didn't move. She watched him like a mouse might watch a cindercat, praying, hoping that the cat had fed and would not shred it apart.

  "How?"

  She saw in him a flicker of anger. A flicker of horrified pride. This man was a paragon of Ascendancy. He was the epitome of everything she had come to hate.

  "I killed him."

  "Oh, dear," said the old man, and he faded back to press against the wall.

  She kept her eyes on the Virtue. His mouth thinned, his eyes narrowed but a fraction, and she thought, in time with the hard thuds of her heart, I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die.

  "You killed Makaria." His gaze was as pitiless as the glare of the sun. "What of Lord Laur's knights?"

  "Defeated. Those who surrendered were allowed to return to the Talon unarmed."

  Should she be telling him this? Should she be lying to him? There was something about his intensity, his superlative confidence and expectation of being obeyed that made her wish to answer him honestly, however, and she hated both him and herself for it.

  The Virtue pursed his lips and stared off into the distance, absorbing this.

  Kethe watched him. It was like standing before a forge, feeling the waves of heat pouring off the coals, but instead of heat she felt a sense of power, of controlled, precise might. Which Virtue was he? How did he dwarf Makaria in power so? All urge
to spit bile at him, to laugh in defiance, to put up a front, died away. She was too weak, too sick, too scared to act brave.

  The young man looked toward the far end of the room, where a servant clad in white was standing, eyes wide. "Send word of this to the Ascendant and the Minister of Perfection. Have a courier prepared to seek the Ascendant's Grace in Ennoia as soon as the Portal opens. Ask Ainos and Synesis to meet me in my chambers."

  Ainos. Synesis. Virtues both, names out of legend, figures from Myth. Even in her sickened state, Kethe fought the urge to shiver. She'd grown up hearing tales of the men and women who had born those names over the centuries, the heroes of the Empire.

  "Who are you?" The question left her lips before she could help herself.

  For the first time, the young man seemed taken aback, as if the very idea that someone might not know instinctively who he was had never occurred to him. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised, and she thought she saw amusement in his eyes. No, not simple amusement. Amused pity. "I am Theletos."

  Of course. Kethe felt as if she were falling down a well. Theletos the Longed For. Just as Makaria had been the Virtue of Zoe, so was Theletos the Virtue of Aletheia. The most noble, the most pure, the most everything. The leader of the Virtues.

  "Oh" was all she could manage.

  "How long does she have?"

  The old man stepped back to the side of her bed and touched the side of her neck. He peered into her eyes and then shook his head. "Already the draught is wearing off. I would give her an hour at the very most."

  "An hour? Till I die?" She fought to sit up. "I won't die here. Send me home, send me to my mother –"

  "Then we have no time to waste. Arrange for her escort. Send word to me after of the result."

  "Escort? To where?" Were they going to throw her off the side of Aletheia? Into a dungeon? But why?

  Theletos had already begun to walk toward the room's sole door, but he paused at her questions and looked over his shoulder at her. "To the White Gate, of course. You are to be Consecrated."

  "I – what?" Kethe fell back on her pillow. This was all too much. She wanted to laugh, to cry. "But I killed Makaria. I hate you, all of you."

  Theletos shrugged. "That is of no matter. If it is the Ascendant's will, you will pass your Consecration." He considered her. "Somehow I find that unlikely. Goodbye, Kethe Kyferin."

  There was a terrible finality to his words. He doesn't expect to ever see me again, she realized, watching his back as he left the room. Despair washed over her, followed by panic, and then she drove it down with an iron will, determined not to cry, not to break down and bury her face in her pillow. She was Lord Enderl Kyferin's daughter. She had fought demons, had seen a Black Gate, had killed a demon lord. She would not cry. She wouldn't.

  "There, there," said the old man rather helplessly.

  She looked up at him and saw a look of mingled horror and fascination on his wrinkled face. Wisps of white hair had escaped from under his hat, like steam from under the lid of a pot.

  "What – what does Consecration involve?"

  "It isn't for me to say, my dear. You will find out soon enough."

  He turned then to a side table on which a black leather case lay open, its interior filled with molded red velvet which held three vials of black liquid. He stoppered an empty vial that lay on the table and inserted it into the final space.

  "Those vials. What are they? Can you give me another?"

  He snapped the case closed and fastened the latches. "I'm afraid not, my dear. Another dose would most likely kill you. The first one almost did. No, I'm afraid I can help you no more." He didn't sound particular apologetic.

  Kethe heard the tramp of many feet, and then a man and a woman entered the room, leaving what sounded like a regiment waiting outside. The old man hurried out, passing the two with a respectful nod as they approached Kethe's bed.

  "So. You're to be Consecrated."

  The young woman sounded mildly incredulous, crossing her arms over her chest and peering frankly down at Kethe. She was slender and short, with a shock of wild black hair that looked as if she had just stepped out of a gale. Her features were sharp, her brows were arched, and she had the lithe and nimble frame of a dancer.

  "We were told to hurry," said her companion. "Not interrogate her with redundant questions."

  He was as slender as the girl, his hair an ash brown so pale it was almost gray, carefully arranged so that half of his face was obscured by a falling shock while the rest was done up in a tight topknot. He was wearing a complex outfit composed of many layers, ranging from umber and bronze to dove gray, over his robe and sash. There was something of Theletos' easy authority in his manner, though it was undercut by a strange melancholy on his fine-boned face.

  "Are you Virtues?"

  "Virtues?" The girl gave a bark of laughter. "Us? Not yet, at any rate. Come on, get out of that bed. I don't want to haul you the whole way to the White Gate."

  The young man reached down and gently took Kethe by the arm. "I am Gray Wind, one of the temple's Consecrated, and a student of Makaria's. We shall escort you to the Gate while your strength yet lasts."

  "Makaria's?" Kethe darted a look from one to the other.

  "Yes, what of it?" The girl helped Kethe sit up and then hurried around her bed to join Gray Wind. Together they hauled Kethe to her feet and looped her arms over their shoulders.

  "I – haven't you heard –?" She searched their faces. Both of them looked at her in confusion. "Never mind." It took all her strength to keep her head up.

  "Don't think we're going to drag you like this the whole way," said the girl. "There's a palanquin awaiting you outside. You're going to ride up in fine style."

  They walked her down the length of the austere room. Kethe's legs felt like broken reeds, and she broke into a sweat just trying to force her feet to take one step after another.

  "Am I really going to the White Gate?" The edges of things were starting to become a little blurry, and a fine glow like dawn seen through tears had started to emanate from everything.

  "Yes," said Gray Wind. "It won't take long. We are on the Second Level. It is but a short climb to the First."

  They emerged from the room into a broad hallway, where a regiment of soldiers clad in white and gold was standing to one side. An escort? There had to be twenty men and women, four of whom were standing beside the promised palanquin.

  "Come on, then," said the girl. "Get in there. Though why we're bothering to rush you to the Gate when it looks like you're fit to drop dead is beyond me."

  "Dalitha!" Gray Wind shot her a furious look.

  Dalitha ducked her head, then scowled and glared right back at him. "What? You know I'm right. Look at her! She's nearly translucent."

  They reached the palanquin and eased her into the cushioned seat. Kethe heard the two Consecrated continue to talk in hushed whispers as they moved to the fore, and then the palanquin arose and started forward.

  Oh, but to close her eyes for a moment. The seat was so comfortable, and her eyelids were as heavy as stones. But no. She'd not slip so easily into this deathly sleep. Gritting her teeth, she clenched the side of the palanquin and forced herself to sit up.

  The soldiers moved quickly down the hall, then out into an open courtyard. The wind there was damp and brisk, and Kethe felt her heart expand at the sight of the golden-tinted clouds that were drifting overhead. Glorious. She lay back, eyes wide. Was it dawn, then, that they should be so buttery yellow? They were so close that she thought she could reach out and touch them.

  They passed through the courtyard, down a set of wide steps, then over a narrow bridge and into a tunnel. Despite her resolve, Kethe closed her eyes, and when she opened them again they were somewhere else entirely.

  Voices were raised in song, a chorus of clear, pure, harrowing voices singing the Hymn of Ascension. She was being carried down the center of a huge hall, its incredible width made to appear narrow by the soaring, impossible hei
ght of the room. She looked up, and up, and up, and still the room climbed, hundreds upon hundreds of yards high. Impossible. Eagles could have soared in those heights. She could never have imagined, never dreamed of such scale.

  Her eyes were drawn to the end of the hall, to an effulgent diamond light that blinded her without being painful. The White Gate. It was as tall as the room, a glow without form that shone through webbing of silver and steel that were arranged before it in graceful and angelic form. Hundreds of steps climbed to the light, as broad as Kyferin Castle itself at the base and ever narrowing, the light of the Gate streaming down so that the few figures moving up and down the stairs cast massively elongated shadows behind them.

  The singing rose, crystalline and chilling, and still the palanquin bore her on, down the center of the hall. Kethe stared at the White Gate, mesmerized by the purity of its light, a hue beyond white, grander and more august than anything she could have imagined. She roused herself, fought the numbness that was threatening even now to engulf her, and sat up. By the Ascendant, she had never dreamed, had never thought that it could be so majestic and awesome.

  The palanquin reached the first steps and tilted as the soldiers began to climb. Dalitha was to her left, Gray Wind to her right. Officials, priests, all manner of people stepped back as they climbed, up and up. This wasn't a bad way to die, she decided – to be immolated by such beauty. To be consumed by such purity. She felt her soul rising within her, a tremulous, hopeful shade, and all her doubts about Ascension, all her scorn and reasoning felt insubstantial, naive and beyond foolish in the face of this wondrous Gate.

  New soldiers were swapped in for the original set, who fell to the side, gasping for breath, and on she climbed, ever upward, the walls of the hall closing in on both sides, the light filling even more of her view. Was the Gate held back by the vast webbing of silver that lay before it? Or was that mere ornamentation? Father Simeon back home had told her of this, but she had never listened, had never paid attention, and, oh, if she could go back now, could swap all those hours of swordplay for one hour of careful attention to his words, she would do so in a second.