The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (10 page)

It wouldn’t be enough, not in the long run, but for now, it just might allow him to ascend to the Dragon’s Breath. Why the Hell not? If he didn’t bleed out, he might even reach the Valley of the Dead.

Tharok left the Dragon’s Tear behind, the bodies of the Tragon kragh, the whimpering of the hounds. He began to climb, following the narrow waterfall that trickled from the base of the Breath high above to form the Tear, the water so cold it could freeze a hand solid if one were foolish enough to plunge it in. Black rock, harsh edges, hands clasping and muscles contracting as he pulled himself up. Thoughts of those behind him receded and were gone. The moon sailed overhead, crescent and casting a serene light over the mountains. Above him, calling him on, were the Five Peaks, the sacred home of the gods and where legend had it the kragh had been birthed. Only dying shamans, blind and wizened, would dare climb this high when they knew their death was upon them. As far as he knew, he was the first to attempt this climb alone and without the blessings of the spirits. He didn’t care. Let them kill him if they were offended.

Soon he was high up above the Tear, which gleamed below him like an ax blade before a fire. He paused to survey the world spread out at his feet, swaying with fatigue and pain. Beyond the lake the dark crevice that was the gorge fell away into the depths, while across from him and all around surged the ragged peaks of the mountains, caped in snow and as harsh and unyielding as life itself. He saw the flitting silhouette of a lone wyvern, high up on one of the peaks. He was far above the tree line now, having left the last of the stunted firs behind, and the air this high was so thin that he had to breathe deep just to walk, just to place one booted foot before the other.

Tharok took one last look at the world. He thought of his tribe, his dead relatives, thought of the wrongs that would not be righted, of the wars and battles he would never fight, and then turned his back to it all and faced the glacier known only as the Dragon’s Breath.

Its face was a shattered wall of ice, splintered cracks cutting deep into its body, a crown of warped ice spokes and slivers emerging from its upper edge. From beneath its body came the cold water that fed the world.

Tharok took a deep breath, reached out, and grasped hold of a spar of ice, hiked a boot up and dug it into a gap, and then hauled his body up. Another handhold; he kicked his other boot deep into another crack, and then he was moving, ignoring the penetrating freeze that entered his hands, moving up and up until he reached the summit and crawled out onto the Dragon’s Breath itself.

Legend had it that at the end of his life, Ogri the Uniter, the kragh who had gathered all the tribes to his banner and forged the Ur-Tribe, had ridden his dragon mount Jaermungdr high into the Five Peaks. He had returned to the home of the gods from whence he had come, had landed Jaermungdr and died, falling into the snow of the Valley of the Dead. Jaermungdr had roared its grief, and with every roar had let loose a blast of ice, a gout of pure cold so powerful that they had become the Ice Roads. It had reared up high one last time, its old hide scored by countless scars from countless battles, and then fallen and died next to its master. From the Valley of the Dead the three Ice Roads had ever since descended, with the Dragon’s Breath being the greatest and reaching the farthest down below. To ascend the Dragon’s Breath was to ascend grief made manifest, to walk alongside the ghosts and spirits of every kragh who had passed away and were returning to the Valley of the Dead. With Ogri’s death the Ur-Tribe had split, fragmented, and never since had the kragh been of any consequence in the known world.

By the light of Dead Sister Moon Tharok stood and gazed up the sweeping curve of the great glacier. It was a great, sinuous snake whose ragged and broken surface was hidden beneath a mantle of snow. From here it looked as smooth a road to ascend as one could desire, but Tharok knew that climbing it would kill him. He had crossed glaciers before, smaller Ice Roads in other valleys, off other mountains. He knew the peril of the sudden crack that heralded a drop into the blue heart-ice deep within, how easily an ankle could twist and snap, how shards of ice could puncture and pierce. It would not be the ghosts or spirits or gods that would kill him for his effrontery; it would be the very fact that he was climbing the road itself that would do him in, if his body did not give out first.

Still, there were worse ways to die. Climbing to the Valley of the Dead on foot was as good a way as any. His death arrow had flown. There was no returning once he set foot on the greatest Ice Road in the world.

Finding some small measure of peace with his own death, finally casting away his last regrets, fears and doubts, Tharok took his first step upon the Dragon’s Breath and began to climb.

CHAPTER SIX

Iskra Kyferin hesitated at the entrance to her chamber, her hand stopping but an inch from the heavy wooden door. The bell would soon toll to summon the castle to Mourning. She had to dress, prepare herself, assume the calm and confident mien that would convince everyone from her lowliest stable boy to Father Simeon himself that Kyferin Castle was not without a ruler. And yet, her heart fluttered in her chest like a panicked dove. She hesitated a moment longer, and then pressed her palm to the door and pushed it open.

The first time she’d entered this room had been in Enderl’s arms. She’d been fifteen, and he’d been drunk. The entire castle had rung with their wedding celebration, a thousand torches banishing the night, and raucous catcalls had followed them each step of the way from the great hall to the top of the keep. Enderl had breathed deeply but never flagged. His strength had always been prodigious. He’d smelled of spiced Zoeian wine, the anointing oils from their ritual, and a deep, masculine scent that had unnerved and excited her.

Iskra paused in the doorway and smiled with bitter pity for her younger self. How little she’d known. She’d been a child. A foolish, naive child. Twenty years had passed since that awful night. An entire life. And now Enderl was dead and gone and she was alone. She raised her candle so that its soft glow spread over the furnishings, dimly outlining the huge bed on which he’d stripped away her virginity and so much more. It didn’t take much effort to bring back the memory of her cries. Her pleading. The sobbing that she’d tried to bury in her pillow for fear of awakening him.

She moved from wall sconce to wall sconce, lighting each candle in turn, till the whole silent room was bathed in a delicate white glow. Enderl had always preferred the roar and dance of the hearth fire, not caring if the room filled with smoke and the illumination was poor. She never lit the fireplace when he was gone, no matter how cold it got.

The thick stone walls seemed to ache with his memory. She’d never again hear his bellow of laughter. The high ceiling would never echo with his snores, his sighs and muttered curses of as he forced himself to read through Bertchold’s reports. This was his room. His tapestries hung on the walls. His weapons gleamed on their hooks. His armature stood by the fire. Twenty years she had slept here, but still it was his chamber.

Iskra moved to one of the narrow windows and gazed out into the night. Doors were opening in her mind, memories tumbling free now that she was alone. Enderl was dead. She thought of him as he’d held Kethe for the first time, his massive hands awkward, his expression tentative and then transforming into one of delight. How seven years later he’d raised Roddick in one hand over his head and bellowed, “This is my son! This is my son!” His beaming pride had warmed her even as she’d begged him to lower the babe back to her arms.

Goosebumps raced down her arms. She’d lived her life in opposition to him. Now that he was gone, she felt as she were suddenly stumbling. She didn’t have to plan for his return. Steel herself against the whispers. Compose her face in just the right away to avoid arousing his ire or interest. She didn’t have to hide the castle accounts. Didn’t have to plan his favorite meals. Didn’t have to sit by his side each night, or worse yet, sit alone when he’d left on his supposed errands. Didn’t have to gaze at him and hide her true feelings from his searching eyes. Reassure him when he doubted. Fight the warmth she felt when he dreamed of a future for their children. Dread the fury that might break forth at any moment and ravage the world.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, then ran down her cheeks. A certain man was rotting in the dungeon cell beneath the Wolf Tower, placed there by husband for reasons both good and foul. She’d have to deal with that man sooner or later.

The bell began to toll. It was time to descend and pray that Enderl’s soul had Ascended. She’d always considered herself superior to him in every way: more educated, more self-aware, more compassionate, a Sigean where he was but an Ennoian. Yet on a basic level he’d always been more alive than she, more vital, more entrenched in each and every moment, whereas she’d been frozen, fighting always to repress her true self, her every instinct. Now he was gone, and she hated this feeling of loss, of bewilderment, of fear.

Turning, she wiped her cheeks with her palms. Phye had left her dress laid out. Custom demanded that the Lady of the castle be tended and pampered at every opportunity by numerous ladies-in-waiting, but that was one of the few customs she’d insisted on breaking when she’d first arrived here. She’d not abandon the simplicity of her Sigean upbringing; having another woman comb her hair and dress her as if she were a child was intolerable.

The dress was monochromatic and stark, black at the hem and then gradating up through the grays to become white just shy of her chest. An allegory for Ascension, of course. She dressed quickly. The bell was still tolling.

Drying her face, she stopped at the door to cast one last look over the room. The furnishings stood mute. They were not to blame for what had transpired here over the years, but she decided then and there that she would have everything dragged away and burned.

The chapel was already full when she arrived with Kethe and little Roddick in tow. Almost a hundred members of the castle staff were in attendance, packed into the pews and wearing their Mourning clothes. The thick candles at the front had been newly replaced, and what seemed like a hundred more were burning along the walls. Father Simeon was standing at the front before the great gleaming Ascendant Triangle, and he nodded when he saw her. Heads turned and the murmurings ceased as she stepped forward, chin raised, eyes locked above the Father’s head. She led her children to the very front and dipped one knee to the Triangle. Kethe did the same, her movements neat, while Roddick simply stared at everyone and had to be urged to comply.

There were no Aletheians in attendance, so she had the honor of sitting at the very front. Magister Audsley, as the only Noussian other than the Father, had the entire row behind her to himself, and then came the Ennoians, who composed the vast bulk of the gathering. A few Zoeians were behind them, with the Bythian slaves at the very back. Everything was as it should be. Iskra watched Father Simeon as he nodded to himself and then raised his hands to gather their attention.

“We are gathered here tonight to mark the passing of Lord Enderl Kyferin, an Ennoian of good standing who died but seven days ago in defense of the Ascendant Empire and its ideals. That he died fighting the Agerastian is a further testament to his devoutness; if death in defense of the Empire is the highest goal of an Ennoian, then dying while fighting the heretics is the most perfect expression of that ideal.”

Kethe was staring fixedly at Father Simeon, her face pale and intent. Iskra saw her nod slightly at his words, and felt her old conflict arise anew within her. She had decided soon after Kethe’s birth to shield her daughter from the worst of her father’s nature; at the time that had seemed the most loving and kindest course. Now, seeing the fevered intensity in her daughter’s eyes, she wondered again if that had been the right course of action.

“We cannot, of course, be sure, but I believe that a week ago an infant was born in Nous whose cry echoed with the might and command of our fallen lord. Somewhere even now, at this very moment, the spirit of Lord Enderl Kyferin is housed within the fresh and innocent body of a newborn babe. Shorn of his memories, he begins the next stage of his Ascension with every blessing, coming one step closer to passing through the White Gate and into eternal bliss.”

Iskra looked down at her hands. Everything in her soul rebelled against that idea. No, not Nous. Not even Ennoia. If the Ascendant had any wisdom or sense of justice, then Enderl would have been hurled down to Zoe. Perhaps somewhere in that great port city he now lay, swaddled and dark-skinned. Or perhaps Agerastos. Or even Bythos. What justice that would be. Enderl Kyferin, a Bythian slave.