Skull Gate

by Robin W Bailey

  He lowered the blade, looked at her over the point. “You look about to cry."

  “Nonsense!” She forced a smile and waved at the sky. Not a cloud spoiled the deep blue. “Too beautiful a day for crying.” She pushed her memories away, an easy thing to do in the daylight. If only her nightmares could be banished so easily.

  But Tras Sur'tian was persistent. “What happened to him?” he probed.

  “I don't want to talk about it.” She started to walk away, but he reached up, caught her hand, and pulled her to a seat on the ground beside him.

  “I've been pretty grumpy, haven't I?” he said, changing the subject.

  She peered quizzically at him, then took the smile he wore as a sign it was all right for her to agree.

  “I've been afraid,” he confessed, and set a finger against her lips before she could say anything. “I've been a palace guard so long I was afraid I might not be much good in real battle.” His smile wavered, returned. “I still might not be; nothing's proven, yet. I'm old. I've kept the rust off my sword, but not off my bones."

  She hugged her legs to her chest, rested chin on knees. “You're as good as any ten men,” she assured him.

  “That's flattery,” he chided her good-naturedly. “Truth is, I'm not sure what I'm worth anymore. But this morning I finally decided to put my fear aside.” He gestured at the pile of his belongings. “It lies there, somewhere, with my armor."

  He was silent then, his keen gaze piercing, unflinching. She licked her lips. “You're trying to tell me something."

  He nodded. “Take off your armor."

  His meaning was clear. She wanted to open up to someone. She'd thought about it, nearly opened to Kimon, but couldn't. Why not Tras Sur'tian? The old soldier had always been kind to her, called her friend, and looked after her in almost a fatherly manner. In fact, he was much like her real father; his physical appearance alone had caused her no little pain during her first days at Mirashai.

  She opened the gate to her memories, let them out one by one. Each brought pain, guilt, refused to be studied dispassionately. They rushed upon her, images from her nightmares, visions that haunted her every waking moment. She tried to control them, and when she couldn't she tried to dispel them as she had earlier. This time, they would not be banished. She began to tremble; the air no longer felt warm.

  Could she ever tell? Could she describe those images and nightmares? Or would the tongue rot in her mouth and fall out before the words formed?

  Tras's eyes never left her. She saw the concern in them and the love. Even more than Kimon, she knew she could trust this old man. Yet he loved her in ignorance, not knowing what she was, what she had done! He'd run away when he knew the truth. Her sin would taint him. She shivered again. A drum throbbed in her skull; her heart raced.

  Tras had been truthful with her. Afraid, he'd confessed. Afraid. Keeping her secret now would shame them both. Despite her past, she had found a home and warm, good friends in Korkyra; she didn't want to lose them. Suddenly, her secret seemed an immense hammer poised to shatter everything and everyone who meant anything to her.

  Tras had taken off his armor and invited her to do the same. She shook visibly, felt shame for it. “What do you really know about me?” She hated the whine in her voice when she said that. It just slipped out. She bit a fingernail. Maybe he would say nothing and just let the conversation drift away.

  “You call yourself Frost,” he answered, “but your name is Samidar. You come from Esgaria. You're born of a noble family."

  She looked up sharply. “How do you know all that?"

  “The old woman spoke your name. Your accent betrays your nationality, and you speak a variety of languages. Commoners get no such education. You also mentioned a weapons master; that suggests your father kept a garrison of household soldiers as Esgarian nobles are known to do."

  She licked her lips. “What else do you know?” she challenged.

  “You're a fugitive from your homeland.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “You're a witch, or used to be. You've honorless enemies who would seek revenge through assassination.” He listed a few more obvious facts, looked thoughtful, and then held up one more finger. “And I think I know what haunts your sleep.” He spoke slowly, as if asking her permission to say more.

  She hugged herself; a cold dread crept through her. Could he possibly know? It distressed her how much of her secret she had given away to him. What of the others she'd spent time with? How much had Aki gleaned about her? Aki's councilors? The palace guards?

  Tras Sur'tian took her silence for approval. He swallowed. “You murdered your family,” he said, “or caused them to be murdered."

  She leaped to her feet, reached for the sword she wasn't wearing. Blood pounded in her ears, her vision refused to focus. She couldn't get a breath. Tras caught her hand, but she jerked free, stared horrified at the stranger who spoke her name, at the accuser who knew her deepest secret.

  “No!” she shrieked. Hysteria wormed its dark way through her; she fought to control it, a battle she sensed she was desperately in danger of losing. “How could you know?"

  Tras Sur'tian kept his seat on the carpet of grass. His expression stayed calm, steady, his voice soothing. But there was sadness and sympathy, too. She didn't trust his sympathy.

  “It's no secret, Samidar,” he said gently. “It never was to anyone who knew you or knew Esgaria.” He met her gaze evenly. “Esgarian law decrees that a woman who touches men's weapons must be put to death by her family. Something dark, terrible, has tormented you from your first day as a mercenary in the Korkyran regulars—and long before that, I surmise. I've seen it in your eyes, and men in the barracks heard you cry out often in your sleep at night, screams that threatened to wake the dead. Only by Aki's direct order did we let you sleep in her chamber when she named you her champion.” He hesitated, swallowed before going on. “I've seen your swordwork, woman. Your technique is unearthly strange, deadly. You're no piece of meat to just lay down and be butchered.” He looked her up and down. “Was it your father?"

  Her spine turned to ice. She stood stiffly, shivering all over, staring and seeing nothing but images and visions. Voices called to her, accusing, ugly voices that cursed her. She couldn't shut them out, refused to shut them out. This was the time; they had come to claim her. Let death take her and end it forever.

  Yet she knew she wouldn't die. Visions didn't kill; they just tormented, tortured, haunted, maddened.

  “My brother, first.” Her mouth formed the words; she could not stop herself. “He found me practicing and tried to kill me. It was his right, by law. There was no love between us, and I really felt nothing when my blade slipped under his ribs and punctured his jealous heart.” She saw the scene in her mind, that night in the dark bowels of the castle as she stood over him, blood dripping from her sword, spatters of red on her sleeve. “My father heard his scream and came. My mother, too.” She clenched her eyes shut; the chimera would not fade. Her voice sounded mechanical, empty of emotion. She no longer resisted the images. “I was his favorite child. I might have stood there under his sword and done nothing to save myself, I loved him so.” She rubbed at tearless eyes as she spoke. “He couldn't carry out the law, couldn't avenge his son, couldn't kill his daughter. So in shame or grief, he threw himself on his own blade in front of me. My mother's grief was no less bitter, no less extreme. I remember the hatred and hurt that filled her eyes as she disowned and cursed me. My sword had stolen her husband and her son. She stole my witch-powers and my name."

  “She was a witch, too?” Tras Sur'tian interrupted.

  “A sorceress,” Frost corrected. “The most potent in a land where only women study the arcane arts."

  “Then, you fled."

  The first tears began to slide down her cheeks. “No, there was one more,” she answered. “My weapons master. He had trained me in secret, flaunting the law because he loved me and because I wanted to learn. But he was my father's friend, too. He blame
d himself.” She sank to her knees. Tears flowed freely now, unchecked. Her body shook with the force of her sobs. “I didn't want to fight him! I tried not to! But he came after me, and something just possessed me!"

  She collapsed into his arms, buried her face against his chest. He held her tight, stroked her hair, and rocked her while tears stained his tunic. “The will to live,” he told her. “We all want to live."

  “It was just a game, my training, like sport, something to pass the dull hours!” she wailed. “I never expected to kill!"

  He said nothing, just held her close.

  After a while, her crying ended. She sat up, wiped her face. There was a hollow place inside her where the nightmares once had nestled. She felt drained. “I'm sorry,” she muttered softly.

  “We all cry,” Tras Sur'tian said. “Tears are as much a part of us as blood."

  “Even old soldiers?” she asked, forcing a weak smile.

  “Especially old soldiers."

  She hugged him around the neck and laid her head on his shoulder, the way she used to embrace her father. “I guess the armor is off,” she whispered.

  “I guess it is,” he agreed. “Now, you'd better sit up. If Kimon is the jealous type, he may get the wrong impression."

  She got up. Her gaze followed where Tras Sur'tian pointed. Kimon rode toward them, a bag bouncing on his horse's shoulder. His tunic was opened to the waist and a breeze rumpled his dark hair. A sudden warmth rushed through her, chasing away the last chill of her confession. She was pleased to see him.

  “Food!” he shouted brightly, riding up, passing the bag to her. “Cheese, sausages, bread, and wine."

  “You found a village?” Tras Sur'tian said.

  “A farmhouse,” he answered. “The farmer's purse is fatter by twice what all this is worth, but I was hungry and had spare coins. No dried fruit, I'm afraid."

  “What a shame,” Frost said sarcastically. Opening the bag, she extracted a large cheese. “Hobble your horse, but leave him saddled. After we eat we'll start out."

  Kimon swung to the ground as she spread the bag's contents on Tras Sur'tian's cloak. When his mount was hobbled he came close, bent over her, and frowned. “You've been crying."

  She looked at Tras, then at Kimon. “Nothing to talk about now,” she assured him. “Someday soon, I'll tell you everything.” His frown remained, but he straightened. His gaze flickered over each of them. “I promise,” she added, giving his hand a squeeze. “Now sit down. You can cut the cheese. Tras, you carve the sausages."

  Food had never tasted so good. They ate with relish, licking crumbs from fingers, leaving only a bit of cheese and some bread. A jug of wine shared among them washed it all down. Not a droplet remained. Tras rolled back, rubbed his stomach. “Your farmer was well paid,” he informed them. “The best cooks in Mirashai would be envious."

  Kimon grinned. “Then, at your leisure, you may reimburse me for your share of the meal."

  The Korkyran flipped him an imaginary coin. Kimon pretended to catch and pocket it. “My thanks,” he said, and Tras nodded. “And you, lady,” Kimon added, turning. “What of your payment?"

  She winked. “What would you ask?"

  He scratched his chin. “Let's walk down by the river and discuss it."

  She laughed and got to her feet. “We'll just have to defer your payment to another day. It's time we were moving out."

  “But it's not yet dusk!” Kimon protested.

  “No matter,” she answered, patting his cheek teasingly. “We can be nearly across Endymia by full nightfall. We know we're going into Kephalenia; we don't need a star to guide us to the border."

  “But—"

  She wagged a finger. “No buts ... or no payment later."

  Tras Sur'tian got up, lifted his saddle from his pile of belongings, slung it over a shoulder. “Give up, friend,” he advised. “No one wins an argument with her.” His horse was some distance away, hobbled, grazing. He started for it.

  She didn't need to look around for Ashur, just cupped her hands and called. The unicorn's weird cry echoed in her ears. She turned. Ashur raced over the earth, an ebon streak, streamers of flame trailing from his face, mingling with the thick mane that lashed the air.

  “A fine horse,” Kimon commented admiringly. “I've never seen his like."

  You certainly haven't, she thought with an inward smile. She took his hand in hers. He was special, too; she'd never met his like. “Look at Ashur closely,” she said, “and tell me what you see."

  He squinted, shrugged. “A magnificent piece of horseflesh,” he answered. “Strong, fast, well trained..."

  She sighed. Ashur thundered to a stop before her, kicking dust. The mane was a tangle, and she tried to smooth it. She stroked him along the withers, down the broad forehead, passed her hand between those bizarre and beautiful eyes. The flames shimmered near her skin, but she was not burned, for they gave off no heat.

  If only Kimon could see him and know how rare a creature he truly was! A horse? That was like comparing the stars to coals in a half-dead firepit. She sighed again and lifted her saddle.

  Chapter Eight

  Midnight brought them to the edge of a vast forest. The moon glinted on the beaten road, on the tops of swaying trees. Leaves shivered and rattled. The rasping of crickets echoed from the shadowed depths. Their own shadows stretched far behind them, as if reluctant to enter the wood.

  A sharp wind had risen early in the evening. Frost's hair whipped her face. She hugged her cloak tight around her shoulders and glanced upward. The green star seemed to have changed position, though she had not seen it move.

  “But the road goes that way,” Kimon protested when she mentioned the shift. They brought their mounts to a stop. The wind whistled shrilly around them.

  “Then that's the way we're going,” she decided finally. “I'm not plunging into that unknown in this dark. Gods know what we might find."

  “Or what might find us,” Tras Sur'tian added.

  “Maybe we should wait for morning, then,” Kimon suggested.

  She nudged Ashur into motion again. “No,” she said. “If I remember my maps, this forest separates Endymia and Kephalenia."

  Tras nodded. “A kind of no-man's-land, claimed by neither province according to an old treaty. It grows larger and deeper every year."

  “While the provinces shrink,” Kimon observed. “That can only lead to war one day."

  Tras Sur'tian answered with stiff formality. “There are no internal conflicts in Korkyra."

  Kimon snorted. “What do you call it when cousin murders cousin for a throne?"

  Frost interrupted before an argument could brew. Tras's mood had improved immeasurably since their talk in the afternoon. Yet Kimon's sharp tongue might still provoke her old friend into his customary sourness. She needed no more gripes or complaints. “This place has a name,” she said, “but I can't recall it."

  Tras Sur'tian's retort to Kimon was cut short. He looked thoughtful. “Kellwood, I think."

  The wind wailed a higher note and set their cloaks flapping. The trees bent, leaves rippled like waves on a stormy sea. Low in the west the bloating moon sent the forest's shadows yawning toward them as they entered Kellwood. Young saplings and scrub rose like gnarled hands clawing up through the earth. Huge, ancient trees, moss-dripping, swept the skies with twisted limbs.

  Kimon's horse whinnied pitifully, fought the reins.

  “Damn!"

  Frost jerked on her own reins, turned in the saddle, sword half-free of her sheath. “What is it?” she whispered tensely.

  Tras Sur'tian answered normal-voiced. “Nothing. Cloak caught on a bramble is all. Thought something had me!” She heard material rip as he gave a pull.

  They pushed on, following the narrow road. The chirping of insects was frequently drowned as violent gusts savaged through the branches overhead. Frost scrambled for something scratchy that blew down her neck, a dead leaf. The luminous eyes of an owl peered down at them, but the bi
rd kept silent. A few spears of moonlight penetrated the forest canopy, some on the road, more in the dense foliage to either side. Frost glimpsed a patch of flowers, a scampering nocturnal rodent, a serpent crossing the road, all in shades of black and gray.

  The green star was the only hint of color. Somehow, it seemed always to hover in a gap between the trees, never out of sight for long, as if insisting they return to the course it prescribed for them.

  But she would not plunge through the underbrush in darkness. She stuck stubbornly to the path, convinced she was right to choose the safer way. The leaves grew thicker, obscured the sky and the star. When the road took a sudden turn and the branches parted, it floated bright, twinkling, unobstructed, calling them down the trail.

  “I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I knew what that thing was,” Kimon said.

  “Or where it was leading us.” Tras hugged his cloak tighter.

  Frost kept her silence. There was nothing to gain by conjecture. She had her suspicions about the creature who was guiding them, but Tras Sur'tian, like most Korkyrans, dreaded the supernatural. She didn't know Kimon well enough yet to judge his reactions.

  But this she knew. The thing in the fireball was not human, nor wizard, witch, or sorcerer. Its power was far too great. She had dealt with gods before and learned that even gods had gods to worship and be manipulated by, hierarchy on hierarchy. Perhaps this being was a god. She couldn't be sure. But its motives were unguessable.

  It claimed it could lead her to Aki. That was enough to make her follow, but not enough to make her trust. There would come a time later, she felt sure, when it would exact a price.

  Her backside began to ache from too much riding. She leaned back on Ashur's rump, tried to stretch. “Tras, how far do you think we've come?"

  His saddle creaked as he shifted his weight. “I don't know,” he admitted, “In this cursed dark the wood seems to go on and on without end. I thought surely we'd be through by now."