The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (13 page)

“As you command, my Lady.” His voice was almost fearful. “But what exactly is ‘this’?”

Kethe looked at the half of her blade that remained buried deep in the tree. The image of the blossoming flower faded from her mind, that exhilarating sense of strength and limitless power. She sagged, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know.” She hesitated, and suddenly felt drained beyond belief. She’d never be able to pull the shard of her blade out.

She looked down at her bloody palm, and then slowly squeezed it into a fist. Blood ran down her wrist and soaked into the hem of her sleeve. “But whatever it is, I welcome it.”

~~~

Half an hour later the three of them rode out of Greening Wood. The wind was developing some bite, and Hessa pulled her bright yellow cloak with crimson tassels tightly about her chin.

“Your calluses are going to give you away, you know.” She could barely keep the disdain from her voice. “Your hands are starting to look like those of a stable boy.”

Kethe frowned down at her palms. It was true. A ridge of calluses had formed at the top of her palm and the base of her thumb. “Well, I’ll wear gloves.”

“To dinner?” Hessa sniffed. “And, look, I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She turned in her saddle to fix Kethe with her gaze. “Your dresses. Honestly. That green velvet one? I thought you were going to burst the seams when you reached for your third plate of ham last night.”

Kethe felt her face burn. She searched for a sharp retort, but couldn’t find one. She couldn’t fit into half her gowns any longer. Her shoulders had grown. Thank goodness her thighs and calves were hidden by her skirts. If she wore leggings like Menczel, her mother would faint.

“Yes, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, a certain amount of strength is needed to wield a blade.” As retorts went, it was pretty weak.

Hessa shook her head and turned back on her saddle. “Given the way you look, who couldn’t help but notice? You do realize that you’re starting to become so muscular that you look like a man, don’t you? Is that what you really want? Really?”

Kethe set her jaw and stared ahead at the narrow trail. She was barely able to keep Hessa quiet about her training, and she’d yet to find a way to stop her mouth altogether.

“Kethe. Seriously. You can’t keep doing this.” Hessa stopped her horse, and a genuine note of plaintiveness entered her voice. “These three years that I’ve been assigned to you as your lady-in-waiting are going to be interminable for both of us if I can’t help guide you the way I should. I’ve tried subtle hints, I’ve tried forbearance, I’ve tried everything I can think of, but you seem more intent on escaping me than paying attention to what I have to say. Please. Listen. We’re meant to be like sisters, so take these next words to heart: with the shape your House is in, you’re going to need to wed, and soon. You are your mother’s greatest asset. A wise marriage right now could bring in a strong ally and shore up your weaknesses. But if you keep disappearing into the smithy—yes, I know about that—and hiding in the woods to chop down trees, what man is going to want you? You can’t sing, you don’t care to dance, you don’t play any instruments, you brood at the table and don’t laugh at Menczel’s witticisms. All you think about is fighting and killing and pretending to be a knight. This can’t go on. If you really want to help your family, stop this foolishness and start playing your part. The great Winter Shriving is coming up in two months. Have you even picked your dress? Your mask? If you don’t start preparing, you’ll have no choice but to go looking like a dancing bear.”

Dull anger beat at her temples. Kethe pulled on her reins and Lady came to a stop as well. Brocuff, she noticed, was keeping a wise distance.

“Look.” She’d tried explaining in the past, but each time had failed to make Hessa understand. “Everyone has a path they wish to walk. Mostly life sets your path, but sometimes, if you’re lucky and you try really hard, you can pick a different one. That’s what I’m trying to do.” She stared down at her hands. She could make out the veins on their backs. They were nothing like a true maiden’s hands. “I know you don’t understand. I know you think beautiful gowns and feasts and gossip and courtly love and a fine marriage are the most important things in the world. And that’s fine. I don’t judge you. You can have them.” Kethe looked over to her companion. “But I don’t. I don’t want any of it. Just accept that I want to walk my own path.”

Hessa sat still, and for a moment, Kethe thought she’d reached her. Then her companion sighed and shook her head. “The world is full of wonders. Very well. You can walk this path, but I tell you true: it’s unnatural, and the world will punish you for it. But enough. I’ve finally spoken my piece. From now on I’ll leave you well alone. Just don’t come to me crying when it all comes crashing down around your head.”

Kethe felt a sharp pain like broken glass in her chest. Not that she cared for Hessa. They’d sized each other up on the day that Hessa had come to stay at the castle a year ago, and known they were two very different creatures. But Hessa’s words, Hessa’s thoughts—they were everything she fought against.

“Don’t you worry,” she said, nudging Lady back into a canter. “I won’t come running to you. That you can count on.”

The forest path wound its way around the end of Greening Wood and then broke into view of the castle. It was monstrously large. Fearsome. Its walls were unscalable, and the great keep rose on its private hill, daring any army to break itself against its walls. Kyferin Castle. Her home.

Up ahead on the main road she saw two men riding up to the gatehouse. One was clearly a knight, clad in gleaming armor, a lance held upright by his side, a pennant fluttering in the wind. Kethe studied the man, then slowed to allow Brocuff to catch her. “Who might that be?”

Brocuff shielded his eyes against the sun and studied the distant figure. “A black wolf on a field of azure. That’s Ser Wyland’s coat of arms.” The constable smiled and ran his hand over his hair with excitement. “Ser Wyland. The Ascendant be praised! Now, that’s a stroke of luck!”

“Are you sure?” Kethe rose in her stirrups and laughed. “It is! Come on! Hurry!” She kicked her heels into Lady’s flanks and crouched in the saddle. Lady needed no urging; she burst forward into a gallop, and Kethe laughed anew, giving the mare her head. She pounded down the narrow trail and out onto the road, then turned and surged up the hill toward the distant gate.

Looking back, she saw that Hessa had refused to go any faster, forcing Brocuff to lag behind so as to not abandon her. No matter. The guards were accustomed to seeing Kethe come racing up to the gate in a most unladylike manner. Up ahead she saw Ser Wyland and his squire reach the massive drawbridge and cross over. A trumpet sounded, announcing his arrival, and Wyland lifted an arm in greeting. The portcullis rose, and the knight rode into the tunnel beyond.

Moments later Kethe reached the drawbridge herself and crossed at a canter, the wood resonating with each thud of Lady’s delicate hooves. The portcullis had remained raised, and she passed under its heavy teeth and into shadow. Up ahead she could see Ser Wyland dismounting in the bailey. Guards were spilling out of the base of the gatehouse, a couple of them laughing and cheering as they approached.

Kethe slid off her saddle as she emerged back into the sunshine, handing Lady’s reins without looking to one of the stable boys. Ser Wyland was surrounded by soldiers now, but he stood taller than all of them. Reaching up, he removed his greathelm and handed it to his squire Ryck. He grinned, and Kethe felt a thrill of joy. Her father had been served by a wide variety of men, but all had been marked by a certain lethal brutality. Lord Kyferin’s Black Wolves were feared as much for their skill in arms as their merciless nature, yet amongst that company Wyland had stood apart.

“Ser Wyland!” She waved, and he turned and on catching sight of her smiled broadly.

“Lady Kethe!” His voice was a rich baritone, the kind that with little effort could be projected across a battlefield. The soldiers parted and Ser Wyland approached. He looked every inch the perfect knight, his armor gleaming, his cloak the same peerless azure as his banner. Dark brown hair was cut close to his scalp and grew in a thick beard along his jaw and upper lip. Handsome, kind, and prone to laughter, Ser Wyland had easily been her favorite amongst the Black Wolves, and the sight of him standing once again within the bailey gave her a surge of joy and nervousness.

“My, one season away from the castle and you’ve grown an inch.” He beamed down at her. “And you’ve grown into a beautiful maiden as well. I see I’m going to be kept busy from now on, repelling all sorts of bothersome suitors.”

Kethe laughed. For a moment the world returned to some semblance of normal; she could almost imagine her father in the stable with a handful of his other Wolves, a feast set in the great hall to welcome the men home, and her mother descending from the keep to welcome and toast them in their latest victory.

Ser Wyland glanced about the inside of the bailey and up at the keep. “How is your Lord father? I’ve not heard from him since his summons to join the campaign. The Solar Portals are a riot of confusion, and I could barely pass through to Ennoia from Sige.”

Kethe swallowed, and like that, the moment passed. Even Ser Wyland couldn’t bring back the past. “He died fighting the Agerastians.” Her chest felt as if it had turned into two blocks of wood, and her voice was the strained groan that would be made by grinding them together. “With all the Black Wolves. Two weeks ago now.”

Ser Wyland’s eyes widened in shock and his jaw clenched. He looked as if she’d slid her sword smoothly into his chest. He didn’t say a word as he searched her face and then slowly lifted his head to stare past her blankly at the far wall. “Two weeks ago.” His voice was hollow. Kethe watched him, heart racing, feeling anew her pain and sorrow. Before her eyes she saw Ser Wyland master himself, absorb this news, internalize it, and then look back down to her. “I’m so sorry.” She saw pain in his dark eyes. “You have my sincerest condolences, my Lady.”

Kethe felt strangely adult and grave. Was it wrong to feel so thrilled at having Ser Wyland focus so intently on her? If only she weren’t coming from a training bout in the woods, but rather were clad in an elegant gown. She tried for a sorrowful smile. “I’m so glad that you’ve returned to us, Ser Wyland. We feared you dead with the other Wolves. Your presence has been sorely missed.”

Ser Wyland nodded gravely. “I was on a pilgrimage in Sige. Too far out in the mountains for word to reach me in time. I’ll never forgive myself for not being by your father’s side. But perhaps I can still honor his memory by doing your Lady mother what service I can render.”

Kethe nodded mutely. At that point Brocuff and Hessa rode in through the gatehouse. Ser Wyland looked up, and a wry smile returned to his face. “Constable!”

“All right, you men. You want the castle to fall while you’re out here mooning like fools? You’ve seen a real knight before. Back to your posts!” Brocuff’s bark sent the soldiers scrambling, though a number of them called out final welcomes to the knight before they ran away.

A groom helped Hessa dismount, but Brocuff simply slid from his saddle and strode over, a big smile on his square face. “Ser Wyland! I never thought I’d be so happy to see your offensively handsome face.”

Ser Wyland laughed and clapped Brocuff on the shoulder so hard the constable stumbled. “Watch yourself, Constable, or I’ll give you a hug that will snap your spine.”

“Just you try it,” said Brocuff, grinning. “I’ve not bathed in weeks in anticipation of just such an attack.”

Ser Wyland raised his gauntlets in mock surrender. “I yield! You’re a master of defense. No wonder Lord Kyferin handed the defenses of the castle to your capable armpits.”

Brocuff guffawed. “Where are you coming in from?”

“My pilgrimage to Ethering Woods.” The knight smiled sadly. “There’ll be time to catch up once I’ve presented myself to Lady Kyferin.”

“Aye, fair enough. She’ll be glad to see you.” Brocuff tugged on his ear. “We’re in dire straits. It’s good to have you with us.”

Ser Wyland nodded and looked up to the keep. “Thank you, Brocuff.” He took a deep breath, then sighed. “Lady Kethe? Will you escort me to your mother?”

“Of course.”
Curses.
She’d wanted to wash up first. Ser Wyland might be too gentlemanly to remark on her disheveled and unladylike appearance, but her mother would notice right away. She’d have to stay back by the door and slip away as soon as she could.

“Lady Hessa,” said Ser Wyland, turning as her companion emerged from the stables. “I’m glad to see that you still grace Kyferin Castle.”

Hessa simpered and curtseyed, then threw in a giggle for good measure. “Oh, Ser Wyland, having you back is like finally seeing sunlight after an interminable night. We’ve all been so afraid, haven’t we, Kethe?”

Kethe’s smile froze, but she forced herself to nod. “Oh, yes. Some of us have been terrified.”

Ser Wyland raised an eyebrow, but he gave no further sign of noticing the change in their tone. “You’re too kind. Now, shall we ascend? I must pay my respects.”

Hessa smiled, took a step forward, and tripped artfully right into Ser Wyland’s arms. He caught her smoothly, but found that she’d taken a strong grip of his arm and was now beaming up at him. Ser Wyland paused, raised an eyebrow in amusement, then smiled and began to escort her up to the barbican. Kethe shook her head and followed a few paces behind, listening as Hessa giggled and complimented Ser Wyland and asked an endless stream of questions.