The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (26 page)

“I saw you fall,” Asho said to Kethe. “You took a blow to the side of the head that would have felled an ox. How are you still standing?”

Kethe touched the wound at the side of her head, then pulled her hand away and looked at her red fingertips. “I don’t know. I just got back up.”

Trumpets sounded and cheers broke out all over again. Ser Wyland bowed low to Kethe. “Come. There are rewards to be collected. Shall we?”

For the first time she smiled, and some semblance of the Kethe that Asho recognized appeared on her face once more. “Yes.” Then she laughed and covered her mouth with both hands. “We won.”

“Against all the odds. Yes, we did. Now, come!”

Ser Wyland started striding toward the stands in which Lady Kyferin and Lord Laur stood, the other knights limping and hobbling their way there too so as to form a crowd. Some required several squires to help them stand, but only one was carried off the field: the massive form of Ser Bero.

When all had been assembled, Lady Kyferin stepped forth, Lord Laur by her side, his face inscrutable. “Honorable knights, you have all performed most bravely on this field of battle. You have shown the gathered populace deeds of daring and skill that shall live on in tales and song. All of you displayed admirable courage and tenacity, and all of you did honor my late Lord husband as a result. Would that I could reward you all equal to your measure, but to do so would beggar the land. As such, it is my great pleasure to recognize the winning knights. Please step forth as you are named.”

Menczel nodded to the trumpeters, who gave a brief call and named the first visiting knight. One by one the men stepped forward to bow low as Lady Kyferin lay a white sash over their shoulders and praised them full and long. Each of the visiting knights was named, and then the trumpets sounded for a seventh time and Menczel called out clearly, “All honor to Ser Tiron, late Lord of Tiron Hall.”

Asho turned in shock and saw the Black Knight step forward. His helm was missing, and only now did Asho catch sight of his face. It was a hard visage, carved as if by the elements from granite, with a dense, shortly cropped black beard and roughly cut hair. One eye was swollen closed, his temple bruised and purple, but his other eye was sharp as light reflected from the heart of a ridge of ice. It was a harsh face, striking and fierce.

Ashe felt someone grip his forearm, and looked down to see Kethe’s gauntlet. He glanced up her arm and saw that she had turned so pale he thought she would faint. She was breathing rapidly and shallowly, eyes locked on the Black Knight.

Asho watched as the man stepped forward and bowed as the white sash was laid over his shoulders.

Lord Laur stared, mouth agape. “Lady Kyferin. Ser Tiron? Ser
Tiron
? The man who nearly slew your daughter three years ago?”

Lady Kyferin turned to him serenely. “The very same. I’ve forgiven him. Ascension preaches that we pardon our enemies, so that both they and ourselves may Ascend. I have seen fit to do so.”

“I—but—as you will, my Lady,” said Lord Laur, schooling his features into a frown so as to hide his shock.

“No,” whispered Kethe. “No no no.” She took a step back, then a second, then turned and ran back to the tents, fleet of foot in her light armor, clearly not caring for the curious stares that trailed after her.

Asho glanced up at Lady Kyferin, doing his best not to gape, and saw pain and uncertainty flash across her face before she regained her poise once more.

“Ser Asho of Kyferin Castle,” called Menczel, and as the trumpets sounded, Asho stepped up to receive his first honors. Despite everything, despite his scorn for these tournaments and all those who entered them, he felt his heart soar. The air was crisp, the pain in his shoulder remote, and for a moment he set aside all his doubts and misgivings and fought hard not to grin.

Lady Kyferin smiled. “You do my House much honor with your victory, valiant knight. My blessings upon you and your sword.”

Asho bowed his head and felt her sleeves brush his cheeks as she laid the sash upon his pauldrons. He straightened, inhaled till he felt his chest would burst, and then stepped back.

“Ser Wyland, Black Wolf and Lord of the Autumn Fort.”

The trumpets blared, and Asho couldn’t help but clap along with everyone else. The big knight made no attempt at dignity, but stepped forward with a wide smile on his face. He had to bow very low to receive the sash, and then he turned and extended his hand to where Lady Kethe had stood. He hesitated, realizing she was gone, and then recovered quickly to step back with a final wave.

Menczel glanced at Lady Kyferin, saw her nod, and cried, “Lady Kethe, of House Kyferin and Kyferin Castle!”

The trumpets cried their sweet song to the heavens, and despite her absence applause rang out. People cheered from both stands, and Asho stared after her, wishing he’d seen into which tent she’d escaped.

Lady Kyferin held up a hand for silence, and when the crowd had finally quieted, she spoke clearly for all to hear. “My daughter has retired to her tent to deal with her wounds. She has not only brought great glory to our House, and honor to Lord Kyferin, but has shown us all what a strong woman can do. She has shown us that there are no limits, that we each may forge our own destiny, that within each of us lies the potential for greatness. I name her in truth a knight of House Kyferin, and look forward with great pride to bestowing upon her the winner’s sash.”

The applause was mixed, with many people whispering amongst themselves. Lord Laur, Asho saw, did not look pleased.

“Now,” said Lady Kyferin, “as is customary, the golden cup will be awarded to the greatest knight of this battle.” Silence fell. “As your host and Lady of Kyferin Castle, it is my right to award it to the knight who performed with the most bravery on the field, and who exemplified the knightly code of chivalry. As such, I call forth Ser Laur to receive this highest of accolades.”

Asho gasped. He stared incredulously as Ser Laur stepped forth, smiling with what had to be false modesty. “What?” Asho looked up to Ser Wyland. “But why?”

Ser Wyland was smiling and clapping, though his smile was just as false as Ser Laur’s. “Politics, Ser Asho. There is far more at play here than a mere tourney.”

Asho frowned and turned back to where Ser Laur was kneeling before Lady Kyferin. She held aloft the golden cup, which gleamed as if with its own inner ruddy light. “Ser Laur, you performed admirably on horseback, lasting through all three jousts with great skill. You then fought beautifully in the melee, never receiving a serious blow, but better yet, when the odds were clearly too high for any mortal man to overcome, you displayed the grace and humility of a true knight, and surrendered with honor rather than ruin the moment with desperate defiance. For such chivalry, awesome skill at arms, and wisdom, it is my great pleasure to declare you the greatest knight of this tourney, and award you this blessed cup.”

The crowd cheered, but the sound was muted in Asho’s ears. Ser Laur rose and took the cup, then raised it high overhead. His fellow knights and camp followers roared their approval, and Ser Laur shot Asho and Ser Wyland a look of sublime smugness before turning to walk toward his camp.

“Well, we not only survived,” said Ser Wyland, turning to face Asho, “but we actually won. Come. The best part of any tournament is when you get to take off your armor.”

Asho watched Ser Laur as he entered the crowd of his men, receiving their hails and approbation with a raised fist. “This isn’t over, is it? The danger we’re in?”

Ser Wyland followed Asho’s gaze and then looked over to Lord Laur, who was escorting Lady Kyferin down from the stand. “Oh, no. Not by a long shot. The real danger is just beginning.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tharok groaned and turned his head. He was lying on hard-packed dirt, and pain was warring with weakness for his attention. He fluttered open his eyes and saw the sky above him, a pale morning sky of the kind of porcelain blue you only saw from the mid-slopes of the mountains. He felt as if his body were a great sheet of metal that a hundred apprentices had used for smithing practice. Dull fire smoldered in his shoulder and deep in his side, and just sitting up took almost all of his energy. A thick collar of metal was banded around his neck; with a growl he pulled at it, digging his fingers in beneath the iron and hauling to no avail. Ignoring his surroundings and the sound of voices, he turned and grabbed the heavy links of chain with both hands and hauled at them, trying with panic and fury to tear them apart, but they held firm, tying him to the bole of a great tree.

Only after his vision threatened to blank out did he release the chains and slump over, turning to regard the camp. It was a women’s permanent camp, female kragh sitting before their huts, children screeching as they raced about, the smell of campfires close by. There was a calm air to it all, as if this were but another day and he was not chained up in the camp’s center like a slave.

Tharok froze. Tried to think. The circlet was gone, the sword. Everything but his tunic and pants. The last he remembered, he had been hugging the wyvern, flying ever lower into the familiar valleys, vision blurring, growing double, the lance almost slipping from his hands. He had been trying desperately to direct the wyvern to where the women of the Grey Smoke tribe had last made camp.

After that, there was nothing. He must have fallen from the wyvern’s back, close enough to be found and then brought to this camp. From the number of males he saw sitting around campfires and walking around, it had to be this tribe’s mating season. Four times a year the roving male packs would be drawn to their women’s camp to celebrate the passing of the season, renew the bonds of the tribe, and to compete for the chance to mate. But which tribe was this? From where he was sitting, he couldn’t see any banners or familiar faces.

Tharok closed his eyes. It was hard to think, to string his thoughts together. Last night with the circlet on his brow it had been easy to figure out what should be done. One efficient step had followed another, their logic obvious. There had been no doubt in his mind, no hesitation. He had been able to gaze at the vast tapestry of being and understand its weft and weave. Now that was gone and he was left with his hunger, his pain, his rage. He wanted to trick somebody into coming close enough to him so that he could wrap the chain around their neck and choke them to death. It didn’t matter who. He wanted to roar and throw himself against the chain until it broke.

He was a slave. All of last night’s victories and now this, sitting near-naked and collared and without a tribe to barter for his freedom or raid for forceful liberation.

Footsteps approached. Tharok opened his eyes and saw that a small group had assembled before him. His heart sank at the sight of gray-haired Wrok, warlord of the Red River tribe and his father’s primary rival for power in the area. Wrok was old, nearing thirty summers, his once-large body wracked by age so that now he was but a shadow of his former self. His skin might have been as dark as any warlord’s, but his authority rested on the support of his three younger brothers. Together they buttressed his authority, keeping back contenders in a style that Tharok’s father had claimed was more lowlander than true kragh. But what he lacked in body he made up in mind, and his small black eyes glittered like the depths of the night sky.

By his side was his brother Krol, in his prime, his black hair pulled back in a glossy ponytail braided with bones, his barrel chest and shoulders as large as Tharok’s. He was as powerful as a mountain goat and just as stupid, his skin a shade lighter than Wrok’s. Next to him were the one-armed weapons master, Barok, almost as old as Wrok, and Toad, the misshapen tale-teller of the tribe, his skin nearly as light as a Tragon’s, his curved spine and gash of a mouth reason enough for his name.

But his gaze curved from these men and turned instead to the red-haired kragh woman who was standing to one side. Powerfully built, even for a kragh, she had her arms crossed over her broad bosom, forearms as thick as tree branches and heavily veined. She was wearing a great mantle about her shoulders, but her midriff and legs were uncovered, so that even in his state Tharok could admire the cut of her long muscles, their tone and strength. But it was her eyes, flat and evaluating, that gave him pause. She was Maur, the wise woman, the leader of the women’s circle and the heart of the Red River tribe. While Wrok would lead the males to war, he could do so only with the blessings of the wise woman and her council.