The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (50 page)

“Me?” Asho blinked. “I’m—I’m Asho. What do you mean, who am I?”

Kethe had risen and moved over to stand with them. “What was that? I felt something. Like… a surge of heat.”

Mæva studied her. “Pick up the sword, Kethe.”

“What?” Jander stepped forward. “No! Why?”

Mæva regarded him without concern. “We don’t know what she is, but she has power. I’m sure the sword cannot hurt her.” She turned to Kethe. “Pick it up.”

“Don’t,” said Jander, but then he clamped his mouth shut as Kethe crouched and picked up the blade.

She rose slowly, sword extended, brow furrowed. “It feels… strange. I feel strange. Feverish.” She was breathing deeply. No runes appeared on the sword’s surface; instead, it began to turn a dull iron gray from the central fuller out.

“Drop it,” said Mæva sharply. “Quickly!”

Kethe’s eyelids lowered slightly. She took a heavy step backward, and the sword began to waver. “Strange,” she said. “I feel…strange.”

Tiron took a step forward and slapped hard at her wrist. Her arm jerked down and the sword fell to the ground. Kethe gasped sharply, and her eyes snapped open. She blinked, put her hand to the side of her head, and then sank down into a crouch.

“Kethe?” Asho was immediately by her side. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. I’m feeling better.” She inhaled deeply through her nose. “It felt like a wave of nausea. It’s passing now.”

Jander turned angrily on Mæva. “You said it wouldn’t harm her.”

“Well, I guess I was wrong.” The witch stepped up to the blade and stared down at it. The matte-black color was returning slowly. “The demon actually stirred when she held it. Fascinating.”

Tiron felt irritation and fear stir his soul. “You have no idea what that sword does, do you?”

Mæva looked up. “An idea, perhaps. Kethe drains magic from the world. In Asho’s hand the blade lit up. In hers it turned gray. It is clearly a weapon of power. Beyond that? Idle speculation. The kind I know you love so.”

Her smile was beyond irritating. He turned back to Asho, who helped Kethe stand and then moved over to where the blade was lying. His pale face looked gaunt. “Why do you think it did that when I held it?”

“She’s already said she doesn’t know,” said Tiron. “It was a mistake for me to bring it. Come, I’ll toss it over the cliff’s edge and we’ll use our normal blades.”

“No,” said Asho, his voice quiet but firm. “It felt right for me to hold it. Like I was opening my eyes for the first time.” Before anybody could protest, he scooped the blade back up. Again the air began to shimmer along its length, and the red runes blazed into existence. Without a word, he walked to the edge of the clearing. Nobody followed him. He stopped before a sapling, bit his lower lip, then swung the blade with both hands.

The sapling fell, its four-inch-thick trunk neatly severed in twain.

“Well,” said Jander after a pause, “looks like Ser Asho has found a new blade.” Tiron saw deep concern in his eyes. “It surely falls under our Lady’s order to use whatever tools we have at our disposal. I just hope it doesn’t damn his soul.”

Kethe stepped closer to Jander. Asho was still studying the sword at the clearing’s edge. “He’s a Bythian. He’s got nowhere left to descend to but through the Black Gate.”

Jander grimaced. “I know.”

“We’re running out of time.” Mæva stepped forward again and sat. “Bring me the goat and let’s be done.”

Kethe walked over to where the goat was tethered and brought it over. Nobody wanted to look at it. The creature sensed some impending danger and began to bleat. Jander’s sword and Tiron’s family blade lay before the witch, who closed her eyes and placed her hand over them in the air.

“Sin Casting,” said Tiron with disgust. “As if we couldn’t fall any further.”

Mæva opened one eye and glared at him. “Shut up.”

Tiron turned away. She’d better not ruin his sword. Well, it wasn’t like he was bound to be reborn in Nous, at any rate. Not after the life he’d led. With a little luck he’d just be reborn one step down in Zoe. Or maybe Agerastos. Who knew? Who cared.

He turned at the edge of the clearing, Jander by his side, and together they watched the witch. She sat in silence, brow furrowed, her whole body taut. She had a good body, he had to admit: lean, muscled arms, full breasts under that leather wrap, a slim torso. He shook his head in annoyance. What was wrong with him? He scowled and crossed his arms, then the goose bumps raced down his back and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Green light wove its way down from her palm in undulating waves to sink into the blades. The goat’s bleat took on a plangent tone and it began to tug fiercely at its leash. Kethe grimaced and held on with both hands. The light continued to fall lazily from Mæva’s palm, and Tiron saw thick beads of sweat form on her face. Her entire arm was shaking. He realized he was forming the triangle with his fingers, and saw that so was Jander.

The goat let out an agonized bleat that tore halfway through into a wet gurgle. It collapsed suddenly onto its side and lay heaving for breath. Tiron grimaced in disgust as it flopped its head about and then lay still. Its ribs ceased rising and falling. Even in this thin mountain air Tiron could make out the stench of spoiled meat.

Mæva let out a cry and fell back. Kethe dropped the leash and crouched by her side. The blades now oozed a faint green necrotic light.

Tiron’s heart was pounding like a battering ram at a castle gate. He took a step forward, then another. “Is it done?”

“By the Ascendant, it had better be,” rasped Jander.

They approached cautiously. The surfaces of their blades roiled and bubbled as if a cauldron of green muck were boiling just under their metallic skins.

The witch pushed herself upright and stared down at the swords with an expression halfway between a snarl and a frown. “Toss the goat over the cliff.” Her voice was husky. She was still breathing hard, Tiron realized, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Your swords are safe to pick up as long as you don’t touch the blades.” She stared at him and Jander as if they were to blame for some personal affront. “Don’t stand there gaping like village idiots. Pick them up. The magic will only last half an hour. You’d all best hurry.”

Kethe’s face paled. “All right. So—now?”

Mæva nodded. “Follow the path I showed you. Keep your mind open. You should sense it when it senses you.”

Asho had rejoined them. “And if she doesn’t? She didn’t last time.”

Mæva reached out and curled a strand of Kethe’s auburn hair behind her ear in a surprising display of affection. “Oh, she will. This time she’s alert; she’s looking for it. And I get the feeling she’s coming into this power of hers quite rapidly.”

Tiron scowled. “The same feeling you had over her holding the blade?”

“Enough,” said Kethe. “I’m going. I’ll be back in ten minutes. The demon will be right on my heels, so you’d all better be ready.” She hesitated, bit her lower lip, then turned to go.

“Kethe,” said Asho, reaching out to touch her arm but then drawing back his hand at the last moment.

She turned to look back at him. “What?”

Asho hesitated. “Nothing. Just be careful. And good luck.”

Kethe stared at him suspiciously, and then nodded. “You too.” Then she turned and jogged away from the clearing.

Tiron watched Asho. “Be careful? And good luck? She’s way above your station, boy.”

Asho blushed and turned away, moving quickly toward his designated hiding spot.

Tiron grinned, amused, then saw Jander’s hard look. “What?”

“Nothing. Get in position.”

Tiron wanted to spit. Now even the emotions of the Bythians were sacrosanct? He stomped over to the outcropping of rock he was to hide behind and crossed his arms once he was behind it. Sin Casting. Flaming swords. Tender Bythians. The whole damn world was going to hell.

The next ten minutes took an age to pass. Tiron resisted the urge to peer out from behind his rocks. He’d been in too many campaigns to make such a greenhorn mistake. Instead, he settled in as comfortably as he could, relaxed, and listened carefully.

His mind wandered. What was he doing? Why? He thought of Iskra, her back to him as she gazed out over the lake all yesterday morning. Then he thought of Kethe, running bravely to face a demon out of legend. These Kyferin women were worth a hundred Erlands. Were they worth more than his Sarah and son?

He pressed his forehead against the damp, rough rock. He was avoiding the decision he had to make, busying himself with this suicidal hunt so as to not think of his oaths and obligations. And if they killed this demon, what then? Would he continue to help Iskra on her impossible quest?

Tiron gritted his teeth. He’d grown weak in that cell. He’d lost his resolve, his courage to do what was right. No, to
know
what was right. Down in that cell, he’d been clear on his loyalties and loves. Up here in the waking world? He pressed his brow harder against the rock till it hurt. He didn’t know. Sarah. Iskra. His son. Kethe. What should he do?

Fight. That, he understood. That was simple. Battle. Killing. No room for thoughts, doubts, stupid quandaries. If he should die here, now, fighting this demon? A noble death! He’d take that. He’d let that answer his questions.

Tiron’s heart stilled as the thought hit home and resonated powerfully. Death would solve his problems, and solve them honorably.

He straightened and stared at his glowing blade. This was a way out, the only way to end his torment without betraying someone important to him. He grasped his cursed blade with both hands and felt a powerful surge of certainty and calm.

This demon was his answer. This demon was his escape.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Kethe walked slowly through the trees as if wandering through a dream. The fog wreathed the trees and hid the canopy, muffled the few sounds that filtered through the trunks and filled her nose with the rich scent of loam and rot. She held her blade out before her with both hands, taking scant solace from its clean, sharp length. Now that she was alone, their plan seemed ludicrous. How was she to find this demon? Was the Ascendant to guide her to its lair? Would she truly be able to sense it before it attacked her?

There was the faintest hint of a path beneath her feet. Raw rock rose almost vertically to her left, damp and dark and scrawled with pale green lichen. Knobby branches reached down to pluck at her cloak and catch at her armor. To her right the ground fell away sharply, dropping down ten yards to a rough slope covered in rocks and evergreen shrubs.

Her heart was beating with slow, powerful thuds. Her breath came in light gasps. It was too easy to recall her headlong flight from the demon last time. How it had bowled over trees in its determination to kill her. Now she was walking toward it.

Madness.

And yet, there was nowhere else she’d rather be. This was her chance. On some level she didn’t quite understand, she knew that this one deed could somehow redeem her father. She thought of him as she stole forward: massive, booming, strong beyond all measure and afraid of nothing. She knew now that there had been sides to him that she had never guessed at, aspects of his character that were beyond abhorrent. And yet on some base level, the man he had been revealed to be was not the father she had loved. If she could only succeed at this mission, if she could only master her fear long enough to defeat this demon, then her valor would reflect glory back onto her father, and in so doing vindicate his approach to life.

He had stood alone, strong and brave, needing nobody and fearing nothing. He was her exemplar, and this was her last opportunity to finally stand beside him and not find herself wanting.

The trail bent around to the left, curving around the rock face, and then climbed a steep rise to a shallower slope. Kethe swallowed. The fog was so dense that the demon could be standing twenty yards away and she’d not see him. Instead, she was surrounded by looming and threatening shapes. To her left a massive shadow resolved itself into a tumbled boulder. Up ahead, a vague silhouette laden with menace became a simple blasted oak. Kethe wiped her brow and quickly gripped her sword again. The demon was somewhere out here. Somewhere ahead.

Then she felt it: a vague prickling on the borders of her mind. An itch. She stopped and stood still. Was it her imagination?