The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (56 page)

Asho’s heart was racing. Ser Wyland’s words resonated with power. He wanted to deny them, decry them as unfair. To scream his resentment and pain. But the words would not pass his lips.

Ser Wyland smiled and stood. “Don’t forget your sister. Honor her. Don’t forget the insults; rise above them. Don’t turn away from your companions; embrace them. Don’t hate Lord Kyferin. Prove him wrong.”

Asho couldn’t breathe. His every instinct fought Wyland’s words. But, whose fault had his failures been?

He saw Shaya turn and ride away into the night. He saw Kyferin’s broad face with its mocking, hooded eyes. Heard the thousand insults. Felt the blows. Remembered the endless nights he had spent staring up at the moon and vowing futilely to never cry again, to never ask why the world was unfair--instead, to get revenge, to hurt everyone as much as they had hurt him. He felt that pain, sharp and vital and burning within his core, that anguish and anger that had fueled him through so many challenges, lifted him when he wanted to give up, given him strength when he wanted to die.

It was him. He was that rage.

He reached for it. He sought that anger, but Wyland’s gaze was inscrutable, and the older knight’s words stood between him and that bitter strength. He couldn’t embrace it. Couldn’t hide in it. Couldn’t lose himself in its all-consuming self-righteousness.

Again, Asho saw Shaya’s face. Her silver-green eyes. Her heartbreaking love for him. The sorrow he’d seen in their depths for abandoning him. His whole body shook as he was suffused with his overwhelming love for his sister, his soul mate. That final look—it had been the last time anybody had looked at him with love.

Who had she seen? What was it in him that she had loved?

Asho gave a terrible cry and covered his face with his hands.
Shaya
. At his most basic level, he still wanted to merit that love. He didn’t want to be alone.

He dropped his hands to see that the larger knight was watching him carefully. The wind gusted past them, and finally Wyland nodded.

“I see you, and mark you as my brother. I shall help you stand if ever you should fall. My shield shall always be at your back and my sword at your side. We are Black Wolves. We live and die for the Kyferins.”

A shiver ran through Asho, but he straightened. “I see you, and mark you as my brother.” His voice shook with emotion. “I shall be here to help you stand if ever you should fall. My shield shall always be at your back and my sword at your side.” His voice grew strong and sure, and a thrill ran through him. “We are Black Wolves. We live and die for the Kyferins.”

Wyland grinned and clasped Asho’s forearm in the warrior’s grip. “Brother.”

A happiness Asho had never dared dream might be his own flooded through him. He grinned foolishly and laughed. “Brother.”

Wyland grinned and crouched down by the horn. “Now, there’s much to do. Let’s not leave this out here to foul up the field. Help me get it to the town square. It’ll serve as an ongoing reminder as to the course the locals have chosen.”

Asho grabbed one end, glad for his leather gloves, and hefted it with a grunt. Following Ser Wyland, he felt light and clear and focused like never before. In some ways nothing had changed, but in others he felt like he’d been given a chance at a new beginning. It didn’t matter that they were opposed by seemingly insurmountable forces. Together, he knew that they could somehow defeat all of it—and would.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Iskra pulled Kethe behind her, fear driving her through the crowd without regard for her station. She fairly ran through the streets of Hrething, but in her mind’s eye she seemed to be racing down the streets of her peak city in Sige once more, diving through the solemn crowd in the desperate hope of catching a glimpse of her brother Bron as he was led away to be consecrated.

She turned into Gunnvaldr’s doorway without bothering to knock, simply stepping up and through and then turned to pull Kethe in behind her and slam the door shut. The house was empty, the fireplace filled only with ashes and coals, and in the sudden stillness she examined her daughter and wondered how she hadn’t seen the signs. Kethe trembled, her eyes moving from side to side in minute movements that betrayed the panic just beneath the surface. Reaching up, Iskra touched the smoothness that had appeared around her eyes, noting for the first time how the skin there had lost its texture. Just like Bron.

“Oh, my dearest love,” she breathed, and then pulled Kethe into a tight hug. She didn’t care about the chain and leather, the sword at her hip. This was her daughter, her precious child. Too many memories and images cascaded through her mind, a life spent loving someone, caring for them, feeling pride and hope and a terrible tenderness in light of the cruelties of the world. She held Kethe tight, breathed her in, and wished there was something she could do, anything at all that lay within her power to spare her daughter from her coming trials.

“Mother,” said Kethe at last, pulling away. “What’s happening to me?”

Iskra pulled her down to sit beside her on one of the wall benches and held her hand tightly. “You’re manifesting an affinity for the White Gate, my love.” It was so hard to say those words, but she managed, speaking smoothly and calmly, to her own surprise. “My brother suffered the same fate. When I was just fifteen, he started to show the signs. Since we were both in Sige, those signs were quickly recognized, and he was taken.”

“Your brother?” Kethe frowned. “I have an uncle?”

“Had, my love.” Iskra brushed her cheek. “He was taken from us before I met your father. When we realized what was happening, it was too late. Not that we could have done anything. It’s meant to be a source of pride, to have a member of your family taken and consecrated and raised to Aletheia. My father acted proud, but I know he was crushed, as were we all. I always meant to tell you about him. Bron.” How many years had it been since she’d said his name out loud? “But there never seemed to be a good time.” She looked down at her hands. “Perhaps on some level I hoped that I could protect you and Roddick from his fate if I simply pretended he’d never existed.”

Kethe was sitting very straight. “He became a Virtue.”

“No.” Iskra sighed. “He didn’t survive the consecration. We never saw him again.”

She felt the old shock and horror rise within her again from when word had finally reached her family, the blank nullity of knowing that smiling Bron was gone, dead, and that she would never, ever, no matter how long she lived, hear his voice or see his face again.

Kethe rocked back as if weathering a blow. “I thought…” She paused, swallowed, and tried again. “I thought that manifesting this power meant you were destined to become a Virtue.”

“No, my love. It only means that you are destined to be put through the consecration. Nobody outside of Aletheia knows what that involves, but very few survive the process. They say that it is a mercy, that if the candidate is not worthy of becoming a Virtue, that it’s better they pass away quickly so as to earn the glory of direct Ascension with all honors, regardless of their current cycle.” Her voice shook. Never had the rites and dogma of Ascension struck her as more foul than when she’d heard the smug Aletheian deliver those words to her family.

“So, I have to go to Aletheia?” Kethe tried to steel her voice, but Iskra knew her too well. Far too well. She knew how close the tears were, could feel them.

“Yes. As soon as we can get you there. They say the sooner you are consecrated, the higher your chances of survival. But I don’t know how we’re going to get you to Aletheia.” Iskra felt her heart cramp. “I will go through the Raven’s Gate when it next opens to explain the situation to Laur. He won’t kill me in plain view above the keep. He’ll understand that this transcends our struggles. He’ll give you safe passage to Ennoia.”

“No!” Kethe pulled her hands away. “I won’t abandon you. Not now, not with everything that’s going on.”

“You must.” Iskra tried to smile. “Don’t you see? It would kill me more surely than anything Laur could throw at us to see you suffer. And, my love, this is something you cannot fight. The White Gate will claim you, slowly but surely. You have to go to Aletheia. You have to be consecrated as soon as possible.”

Kethe stood and backed away. “You don’t know me if you think I’ll leave.”

“You will leave.” Iskra fought to keep her voice soft. “You have no choice in the matter.”

“I do have a choice!” Kethe clenched her hands into fists. “Everything I’ve fought for these past few years, everything I’ve done, was to assure me that I’d always have a choice! That nobody would ever be able to force me against my will again, that nobody would ever make me feel helpless or weak! If I have one thing, one single thing under my control, it’s my own life! And nobody, not even you, can tell me what to do with it!”

“Oh, my love.” Iskra stood, and would have taken her hands if she could. “Your choice was taken from you the moment you started to manifest your powers. You’ve been chosen by the White Gate. Like my brother, like your father’s ancestors. If you don’t go, you will die. You will age faster and faster as the life is sucked out of you, until you are a withered husk. You’ll burn brighter than any flame, but your fall will be terrible. You must do this. Ascension requires that you accept your destiny.”

Kethe opened her mouth to retort, and then looked down and away. Iskra strove to find something with which to comfort her. “Think of it this way: if you become a Virtue, then you’ll be able to end this war between Laur and me. You will discover abilities beyond that of any normal warrior - you will become a force for good to which all must bend knee. This could be our best way to find peace.”

Kethe snorted bitterly. “I’m not a child, Mother. I know it takes time to become a Virtue. Time we don’t have.”

“Time
you
don’t have.” Iskra placed her hands on Kethe’s shoulders and forced Kethe to meet her eyes. “What’s happening to you is more important than any of this. You have to understand that. You have to see that you’ve been chosen to perform mighty deeds. This is a terrible honor, and you can’t damn your soul by turning away from it. You must accept your fate. You must get to Aletheia. You have to survive, you have to live, and you have to respect the force that singled you out from amongst the millions alive today.”

A flood of emotions washed across Kethe’s face; Iskra saw panic, fear, fury, denial, and helplessness. Iskra pulled her into a hug again and held her tight. “We’ll survive Laur’s attack, then I’ll go through the Raven’s Gate when next it opens. There’s no choice. I swear, if there was any other way, I would take it in a heartbeat. But there isn’t. Promise me you’ll go. Please, Kethe. Promise me.”

Kethe stood stiff and awkward, but finally nodded. “All right.” Her voice was soft, and Iskra felt something break deep inside her.

“Good.” Iskra pulled back and smiled. “Now, go help the others with the feast. We have to make the most of the time we have left. I won’t have you hiding in here. I’ll be out in a moment, and then we’ll celebrate your victory. I want you to tell me all about it.”

Kethe nodded, but she didn’t really seem to hear. She walked to the front door, hesitated, then pulled it open and stepped out into the dusk.

As soon as she was gone, Iskra’s knees gave away and she nearly collapsed to the floor. She managed to pull herself to Gunnvaldr’s armchair and sank into it, misery rising up to clutch at her throat. First Roddick, now Kethe. How could she keep fighting when the most precious things in her life were being torn away from her? She wanted to bury her face and weep, wanted to crawl into a small, dark place and curl into a ball. What sort of world was this that wed you to a beast and then tore your children away one by one?

Iskra closed her eyes tightly and focused on her breathing. There was no time for weakness, no room for breaking down. Survival depended on her being strong. Her men and women looked to her for leadership, to justify the faith they had placed in her and see them through this challenge. The Hrethings needed her strong so they could justify the sacrifice they were about to make. Everything would collapse in a second if they thought her broken and weak.

The door opened. She stood, wiping away the few stray tears that had slipped down her cheek, ready to greet Gunnvaldr or whoever had entered with a cheerful tone—and stopped. It was Ser Tiron. He was standing in the doorway, his expression haggard, his shoulders hunched, eyes sunken and staring at her.