The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1)

by Blayde, Morgan

  “It is only that I am a doctor, and though I hate to intrude upon your affairs, it seems to me that you are showing signs of illness. You should let me help you.”

  “And do you have some leech to thin my blood or a tonic to lend vitality?”

  He let a hand flutter up between us like a great pale moth. “If you’d only let me examine you…”

  His image split in two as I fought to focus. Strength bled from me as if from some gaping wound. My head ached, as the sound of cathedral bells burst across me. They were ringing just for me—quiet until I fought for my life. I was in serious trouble. My sword tip grounded. I wavered on my feet. Trembling, I swayed to the side and caught myself against the wall of the red brick building at my back.

  The doctor followed my steps. He touched my sword hand and it lost sensation. I heard my blade clatter on the street, then clatter once again, kicked farther away from me. Fear took me by the throat and shook me—no, it was the doctor! He gripped me with steel fingers, pinning me to the wall as he stripped away the thorn whip riding my hip, casting it aside.

  He did not let me suffocate, loosening his hold, allowing shallow breaths. My life meant more to him than my death—I knew this as my sight cleared, and I saw years sloughed off his face. Wrinkles faded with the infusion of youth and his hair darkened close to his head, lengthening visibly in a frenzy of growth. His back lost its stoop, and his muscles swelled, tearing the seams of his clothes.

  Without a mirror’s help, I understood that in some way the very energy of my life escaped, flowing into him, healing him. He was a leech, right enough, though no kind I had ever heard of. Unless I stopped him, I would be left a withered husk, spent and useless, my quest unattainable. Worse than dead, he might leave me an aged wreck, hobbling these streets without strength, an object of ridicule to one and all. And my child would be lost to me forever.

  No!

  As though sensing my thoughts, he laughed, his creaking voice thickening to a booming timbre. “There is nothing you can do.”

  His hand released me and I slid down the wall. He removed an item from a pocket, a ring with a serpent face, gripping a sickly yellow stone in its fanged mouth. This vampire of the soul was a player of the game that I had known nothing of, so he had to be alive after all, though he regenerates as the dead do.

  In a few moments, he would return to feeding. I had only seconds to act. My hand went to the one hope left me, the silver mask in my pouch. I fumbled at the bag as shod hooves clattered closer. My opponent turned to look for the sound’s source, and I offered a prayer of gratitude for the distraction, desperately needing the extra time. The wretched lethargy from his touch encased me in the heaviest of armor, but I extracted the mask and set it against my face, softly breathing out Silver Wolf’s true name. “Altair!”

  His skills were mine to invoke, one time only. But I dare not save the option for later; unless I stopped the Leech now, all hope of finishing my quest died here.

  As the mask sealed around my face, strength returned. I breathed freely. Either the shade I summoned shielded me from the draining, or some charm lay in the silver mask itself. Had I weapon in hand, I might not have needed to use the name, just the mask that clung to my features all on its own.

  An icy coldness settled on me, but it was a clean, refreshing sensation, replacing the weary ache of the Leech’s touch. A knight’s shadow-shape hovered over me. I recognized the spectral face of the Silver Wolf. He rotated, sinking, copying my posture as if to sit in my lap. The shade sank into my flesh, and I heard wind-song in my ears, like the voices of spirits in limbo.

  My thoughts turned amorphous and distant as another will drove me to my feet. My body answered this call with its old speed and sureness, and perhaps a bit more. Either my sudden movement or the end of the energy he drew returned the Leech’s attention to me.

  The loudness of hooves suggested an immediate arrival, but I would not let myself get distracted. Hunched forward, I jammed my shoulder into my enemy’s midsection, driving away his breath, forcing him back several steps so I could fall upon the closest weapon. It turned out to be the barbed whip. Its handle came to my hand as I rolled, the energy of the fall carrying me to my feet again in a smooth roll. I suspected I was doing it correctly this time, and would have no bruises from the spill.

  I had no experience with using a whip, but the ghost within me had no trouble. The lash cracked like the break of Judgment Day, slashing across the Leech’s face. The braid cut to the bone, twisting him into a defensive posture with his arms reflexively guarding vital targets. Acting with a relentless fury, my arm repeated the maneuver and more cracks reverberated in the narrow street. I became a relentless machine, finding purpose in motion as I struck out at the abomination. Soon the creature’s clothing became blood-drenched tatters that matched the skin underneath.

  The Leech fell under the rain of blows, huddling face down as his back ripped open, spurting blood. I flayed deep muscle from bone while the miserable worm sunk in upon himself, turning old and decrepit once more. His bellows of pain shrunk to piteous mewling, but my arm did not slow its vengeance. Even when I would have changed over to the sword to finish him mercifully, my body continued, driven by another will, that of Silver Wolf.

  He knew and hated this creature. I felt a backwash of vicious satisfaction and a rage that went beyond any I had known before. The doctor had at least one death coming to him, and Silver Wolf was making sure he got the most unpleasant one available. Whatever past issue fermented this black savagery, being the instrument of its delivery left me soiled and violated--though I’d invited this upon myself.

  Unicorn and rider barred my way. The elf slid from the saddle with fluid grace, confronting me without a weapon as the unicorn went off to the side to wait. The elf looked at the mask I wore and spoke to the spirit within me. “Enough, Wolf. Do not destroy yourself by destroying him. Besides, avenging Myla is my right, no matter what oath you swore. You are her friend, but I am her husband.”

  My arm relaxed, dropping to acknowledge his superior claim. Breath ragged from exertion, I coiled the whip, unmindful of the scratches I gathered from the barbs. I held the ugly thing out to him as my lips formed words I could not anticipate, “Take it then, and let justice be done.”

  He refused to take the whip. “There are not enough deaths to fill the void in my life. I have no time for useless indulgence that cannot bring her home.”

  “Hold!” a young voice cried. “Who breaks the sanctity of the game? This interference is intolerable!”

  I shifted my weight to the side and pivoted to see the latest intruder, recognizing his midnight-blue robes, the silver chain he wore, and the scythe in his hand. He was identical to the miniature image from the game board at the tavern. The Gamesman had finally stepped out of the wings, taking center-stage. My stare of hate clung to him, for here was the one who had stolen my son’s soul, callously condemning his body to a lingering death.

  Unimpressed by the Gamesman, the elf answered with cold contempt. “Silence whelp! My affairs will ever take precedence over your piddling wishes. You and your cursed game are nothing but a break of wind. As for your father, Death shall be held accountable for holding captive a princess of Avalon. Tell him, ‘Death-slayer is coming.’”

  A princess of Avalon. All of us were fighting for something precious it seemed.

  The Gamesman said, “Amberyn, I might have known it would be you causing this ruckus, breaking my rules. This city is as far as you will ever travel. My father’s wards will see to that.”

  “Ha! I think not. I have found a weakness in Death’s defenses, which is your precious city itself. It breaks the warding just by being. Once I find the Key, I will destroy this place, and then the Courts of Death will fall!”

  The Gamesman drew closer, lured by the obsessive anger of the elf lord. “You expect to fight your way past legions of reavers, alone?”

  “Who said I needed to fight? The ancient magic serves me. You are not the
only one who knows how to bend the walls of time and space.” The elf lifted a foot and brought it down sharply on a hand that was reaching for his ankle. It was the Leech, seeking enough strength to crawl away, failing yet again. Without looking at the wretched doctor, Amberyn strode to his mount and sprang, mounting.

  He brought the unicorn over and handed me a flask from his saddlebags. “Take this.” I sensed that Amberyn spoke to me this time, and not Silver Wolf. “It is water from my world. It will sustain your life and grace your efforts. I know not why my old friend allies himself with you, but it is enough that he has. So long as you carry his mask, you carry my blessing.”

  He added unknown words that flickered in the air like fire, resonating in every corner of my mind. I thought this to be Elvin, the language of pure magic. His benediction complete, he reached down and touched my head. Weakness and hunger left, and I felt a reserve of strength I had not known since stepping on the bridge. He kicked his mount into motion, returning to the furious haste that stylized his passing.

  The mask I wore slipped loose and I lost the sense of another within my body. I caught the mask before it clattered to the bricks. I felt the urged to stare in wonder at the silver wolf face, but forced away the desire—there were more pressing needs. I held the flask under my chin while gingerly slipping the mask into my pouch. The flask followed.

  Next, a flick of my wrist shook blood off the fouled whip, letting it snake out as I advanced on the Gamesman, ignoring the Leech. The Thief of Souls had far more to answer for than the doctor. I shouted at Abaddon, “How dare you speak of this game as having sanctity, you cheat! You have set forth a puzzle with no solution. Your only purpose is to destroy hearts by offering false hope.”

  My arm lifted to deliver a blow with the whip, but I hesitated as the Gamesman lifted hands to purchase a moment. “Wait!” he cried. “What you say touches upon my honor. I assure you, the riddle of the gates can be solved—most easily in fact—though putting the solution into practice will be infinitely harder.”

  “Why should I believe you?” I demanded.

  He shrugged. “It does not matter if you do or not. My champion is here.”

  Before I could look around, my wrist was seized in an iron grip. I gasped from the pain, then came a sharper cry as the bones threatened to break. A dark presence lifted me off my feet. I swung against a black-armored giant that—if sundered—would have made three normal men. A visor hid his face. Through tears of pain, I saw that the Black-Heart Knight had approached without sound. I could not understand how anyone so big, in full armor, could be so silent.

  His other hand caught my chin, holding my face toward the Gamesman, forcing me to give him my undivided attention. I was getting exceedingly tired of helplessness being thrust upon me. The Gamesman crossed to stand immediately before me. Did my vulnerability excite him? It was hard to tell since his features were hooded and shadowed.

  Thankfully, it seemed to be the day for heroic intervention. Beyond the Gamesman, I saw Azrael. He had returned. His eyes were bright, stabbing from the darkness of his hood with a glare that hazed the air between us. Extending from his cloak, his hands were clenched. They trembled with a frightful fury. His voice thundered, “Release her!”

  Can they hear him? Can they see him?

  Apparently so—the Gamesman turned swiftly, drawing his sickle. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I ordered you not to…”

  “…Interfere? That is your crime, not mine.” The dark angel snatched the Leech up by the scruff of the neck, and dangled him from one hand. “This one’s duel is not over as yet. He is still officially in play. You are interfering in his match. I challenge your right to do so.”

  “You dance upon the head of a very fine technicality, reaver.”

  “Never-the-less,” the dark angel continued, “I am right in my challenge. Now, unless you want me to tear your champion apart with my bare hands, you will make him wait for the appointed time.”

  The Gamesman did not answer with voice or gesture, but the Black-Heart Knight released me, letting me drop and sprawl on the hard bricks—something else I was tired of doing. The Gamesman turned my way, crouching to speak to me. His tone held an amazed curiosity, “What is it about you that commands the loyalty of imperfect strangers? Not beauty alone, though you have enough of that. You are warping my game beyond reason. I should impose a penalty and banish you.”

  “Do it!” I said. “Do it a thousand times, and a thousand times I will return, and a thousand more besides! You cannot take the light of my world without finding my blade flying forever at your heart. I am fated to destroy you. Shall I call your secret name and prove it to you?” I massaged my aching wrist, rotating and testing its function. “Throw me back to my world and I will summon you there to face me where you have little advantage.”

  “You cannot know my true name.” He sounded uncertain, before strengthening his voice. “That is a lie upon your lips.”

  I did not truly know his name, but I could make an excellent guess from the way he had laid out the game, and the city, requiring everything to revolve around him, as the stars of night revolve around the pole star, Polaris. I lowered my voice, murmuring provocatively. “Shall I whisper it to you?”

  His eyes avoided mine, as he deferred the test. “You have no time for jests. The reaver is right. You have a match to finish. And since the elf lord gave you assistance, it is only fair that I balance the scales.”

  The Gamesman stood and walked away from me, his black giant a step behind. They joined the reaver. The Gamesman extended his weapon, setting the flat of it against the Leech’s sunken chest.

  The doctor’s wounds closed instantly. His thin limbs swelled with power as Azrael released him. The Leech wavered on his feet for a moment, but then grew steady. He lifted his head and offered me a look of such deep hatred, there had to be no room left in his heart for any other emotion. With help, I had beaten him and hurt him, leaving him humiliated—as he had left so many others.

  “White Rose!” He spat my title as if it had become his favorite curse. “I will destroy you!”

  I climbed to my feet and went to retrieve my sword. With it in hand, I felt immeasurably better. I answered the vile physician, “Easy enough to say, Leech! But where is your weapon?”

  The doctor wrenched the hand-scythe from the Gamesmen, breaking toward me in an all-out charge. After taking only a few steps, he flung the weapon, hoping to catch me by surprise.

  Had I tried to tell my sword hand what to do, the slowness of the thought would have ensured disaster. Fortunately, years of conditioning made a quick, unthinking response second nature. Even as the glittering whirl of danger registered on my mind, I pivoted my blade on its balance point to deflect the scythe. With blinding speed, I took my sword through a spin which flung the hand scythe back where it came from.

  The crescent blade buried itself in the Leech’s chest, releasing a spurt of blood. The man crumpled with bulging, empty eyes, face slack with disbelief.

  I walked over, ready to kill him again, expecting resurrection any moment. I needed to force an eternal surrender from him, as I had from the Red Dragon. This was the only hope I had of reducing my enemies in a city where being killed only inflicted a most fleeting inconvenience.

  I put my foot on the Leech’s throat and bent to grip the scythe’s handle. A sudden, hard wrench freed the blood-splattered weapon. I waited. Nothing happened. Finally, I lifted my gaze to the Gamesman. “What is wrong with him? Why does he not heal?”

  “He died from my weapon. Those that taste its edge are removed to my father’s realm. Soon, his illusion of flesh will fade and his shade will not be back. This game piece is permanently retired. Pity...”

  “Pity?” I stepped toward him, making no effort to hide my murderous intent. “There is no pity in you or you would never have stolen my son from me.”

  Sword in hand, the Black-Heart Knight stepped in to shield his master. I advanced anyway. With the scythe in m
y hand, the ironclad giant no longer daunted me.

  Ever silent, he used an arm to sweep the Gamesman back, retreating into the street. The knight’s visor stayed centered on the small crescent blade I brandished. He seemed to fear it. This encouraged me to lunge, picking at the vents in his helmet with my sword’s point. I knew I needed to draw his broadsword into play so I could slip past it and use the scythe to deadly effect. The knight failed to cooperate, falling steadily back, step-by-step, wary of my tricks and my blade.

  “You are not playing fair.” The Gamesman’s complaint lacked heat, echoing with laughter.

  I felt disappointment that he was unafraid of me.

  He said, “I am going to have to insist on you giving me back my property.”

  “What if I do not?”

  “Then your son’s spirit shall suffer heavily for your intransigency.”

  The threat stopped me cold. I eyed the distance to the

  Gamesman. If I could kill him fast enough, Phillippe would be safe. But the Gamesman might vanish in a blink, leaving my son to take abuse for my conduct. I could not chance it. I believed the Gamesman capable of carrying out his threat. Defeat left the taste of ashes in my mouth.

  “And you speak of fairness? Very well,” I cast the weapon at the knight’s feet but spoke to Abaddon, “take it, you vile little monster, and choke on it for all I care!”

  “My Lady,” He stepped forward to claim his prize and wag a finger, “you should not lead with your heart. The game is an intellectual puzzle. Reason alone will serve your ends.” He picked up his scythe and straightened. “I really ought to be angry with you, mucking up my duels as you’ve done, behaving in the most outrageous manner as a guest in my domain. But the truth is—things were getting stale. I like your fire, your passion and desperation, and your cunning … oh, my! We have never had a White Rose quite like you.”

  “It thrills me to be your plaything.”

  “Oh, you snarl with such irony!” The Gamesman uncovered his head, baring a pale hairless face framed with ebon hair. His eyes were glossy onyx stones, dark and bright at once. He looked about four years younger than my Phillippe, but I had no doubt that he was eons older.