The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (64 page)

Audsley backed up against the wall, holding the sword tightly. “No.”

Kitan sighed with impatience. “Now, Magister. This is a fight I’ve been relishing.”

“No sword, Kitan?” Tiron sounded darkly amused. Audsley could barely make him out as an approaching shadow. “What a pity.” He spoke to his companions over his shoulder. “This is between him and me.”

“A moment, Tiron, and we’ll see which of us is truly the best.
Now,
Magister!” Kitan stepped forward, and Audsley swung. His sword clanged against Kitan’s armored arm, knocking it away, but was followed by a blow that smashed across his face. Audsley cried out and crumpled, but did not let go of the sword.

Then Kitan let out a cry of pain and shock and whirled away. “How dare you?”

Tiron laughed. It was a dark and frightening sound. “Come on, Kitan. Time to see what the Ascendant’s got in store for you.”

“I don’t have my sword!” Kitan sounded outraged. “This is—” He cut off and stumbled back, swiping his dagger in front of him as Tiron lunged at him.

Aedelbert scooted up along the edge of the wall to where Audsley was lying. He pressed up against Audsley’s cheek, and Audsley felt something cold and smooth in his firecat’s mouth. “Oh, bless you!”

He took his spectacles with trembling fingers and fumbled them on. The world leaped into focus. Kitan was dancing back, face livid, while Tiron stalked after him, blade slick with other men’s blood. Three of their guards were standing at the stairwell, their faces hard, watching the fight. Audsley took the sword with both hands. The pain in his head was nauseating him, yet it strangely felt very far away. Kitan kept backing away, long dagger held before him. Tiron was wounded, Audsley saw; his armor was dented and spattered with blood, his cloak torn, and he was hunched over as if his side pained him. But his expression was clear, his eyes bright and focused on Kitan.

“You coward,” said Kitan. “Give me a blade. Fight me with honor!”

“I don’t want to fight you with honor,” said Tiron, voice calm. “I just want to kill you. See the difference?”

“I hope Enderl killed your wife slowly,” spat Kitan. “And you know, I bet she enjoyed it, getting it hard by a real man—”

Tiron let out a roar and charged awkwardly forward, his wound hampering him. Kitan spun, his dagger flashing, and somehow Tiron was staggering past him, his blow evaded. Kitan raised his dagger to strike down at Tiron’s back.

Audsley closed his eyes, stepped forward and swung his blade. It connected with another clang across Kitan’s back and knocked him into a stumble.

Catching himself, Audsley gasped and backed away in time to see Tiron recover and slam his blade deep into Kitan’s side. He stepped in close and shoved the sword in another six inches.

Kitan gasped and rose to his tiptoes, dagger falling from his hand. “Almost had you, Tiron.” He somehow managed to smile. “Even with just a knife.”

“True.” Tiron didn’t seem concerned. “But you’re the one who’s dying, aren’t you?”

“Taken down by a fat magister.” Kitan grimaced. “Pathetic.” He winced and rose higher on his tiptoes as Tiron twisted the blade. Blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. “Promise me, as one knight to another. Promise you’ll have my body sent to my father.”

“No,” said Tiron, his face made brutal by his disgust and hatred. “I’m going to dump your body in the woods for the animals.”

“Please,” whispered Kitan. His hands were clasped around the blade. “Mourning. My father.”

“You don’t deserve it.”

Tiron placed his foot on Kitan’s stomach and shoved. His blade tore free and the other knight collapsed loudly to the ground. His blood spilled out over the older stain. Kitan gasped, his breath bubbling wetly, and then lay still.

“Iskra?” Tiron dropped his sword and staggered to where she was rising to her feet, her sword held before her. She was staring at the fallen knight, eyes wide, jaw clenched. “Iskra, it’s over. It’s done.”

She shook her head. “Never. I swore nobody would ever touch me like that again.” Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

“He’s dead. It’s all right. He’s dead.” Audsley had never heard Tiron sound so tender. He took the blade from Iskra’s hands and pulled her into an awkward embrace. “It’s over.”

Iskra shuddered, but couldn’t take her eyes away from the fallen Kitan. The side of her face was swelling horribly. She rested her hands on Tiron’s breastplate, but seemed unable to relax.

Audsley suddenly dropped his sword. It bounced loudly on the rock. Tiron glared at him sharply over Iskra’s shoulder, but Audsley ignored him. “The Gate,” he said. “The Gate.”

The empty arch had flooded with black, undulating ink. Its surface was choppy, as if gusts of wind were blowing sharply across its surface. How long had it been open? Moments, Audsley thought. Ten seconds, perhaps. Fifteen?

Iskra pulled away from Tiron. “A Half-Moon Gate. How long do we have?”

“Forty seconds,” whispered Audsley, stepping up to it. “Maybe less.”

His pain was a distant throb. He felt nothing but unmitigated wonder. His first true mystery gate—it could lead them anywhere in existence. Any city. Any ruin. He’d spent his whole life reading about mysteries, lost stoneclouds, hidden Lunar Gates, the myths and legends that might or might not have had a grain of truth to them. And now here he was, face to face with magic and wonder. He could barely breathe.

He turned to Iskra. “I’m going through.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “You’re wounded. We don’t know what’s on the other side. You can’t just—”

“I’m going through.” He felt absolutely certainty wash over him. “Even if we defeat Laur’s men tonight, you know we can’t go back. Not with a Virtue and the Grace on Laur’s side. We need help. Something. Anything. I’m going to get it.”

Iskra opened her mouth to deny him, to argue, but there was nothing for her to say.

“Fifteen seconds,” said Audsley. “Look for me a month from now. I will return, my fairest Lady!” He felt giddy with excitement—and, possibly, blood loss. “I, Magister Audsley, do hereby swear it!”

“Then we’re going too,” said Tiron. “You’re not going alone.”

Audsley blinked. For a moment he thought Tiron meant Iskra, and then he realized that Tiron was talking about the three guards, who had all gone pale. “You are? I mean, are you sure? Because—”

“Ten seconds,” growled Tiron. “Go!”

Aedelbert flew up onto his shoulders and dug in his talons as Audsley turned toward the Gate. He took a deep breath as he heard the other four men step into place behind him. “Our souls to the White Gate,” he whispered, and then, with awe and terror rising to a crescendo in his soul, he stepped into the rippling surface of the Lunar Gate.

CHAPTER FORTY

Asho ran. The causeway stretched interminably before him, a hundred miles long and Kethe at the far end of it. He’d never reach her in time. The rocks crunched under the balls of his feet, his armor felt weightless, and the Everflame trailed behind him like the tail of a comet. They had cleared out the Hold, had fought brilliantly, bravely, madly against the remaining knights and against all odds destroyed them all—but he’d spotted Kethe falling on the causeway far too late. The Virtue stood over her, sword raised, his intent clear. A hundred miles had contracted to fifty yards, but he was still too far away. She was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to save her.

The Virtue’s sword began its downward swing, and the world seemed to slow. A rushing roar filled his head as he saw Kethe raise her arm in a futile attempt to block the blow. Everything sprang into terrible, lucid detail: The swirling melee beyond them where the causeway reached the mainland. The Virtue’s dark features, grim and remorseless. Kethe’s own terror and desperation, her eyes wide, her mouth pulled into a feline snarl of defiance.

Asho could
sense
them both. Twin suns burning brightly in a jet-black sky, each called to him in the same way that heights made him want to jump. He felt a heady, feverish desire to bleed his very essence into their souls. The Virtue was the roar of a tremendous waterfall, drowning out the world, obliterating his ability to think—and yet, beside Makaria’s annihilating force, he could still sense Kethe, smaller, fiercer, and familiar.

The Virtue’s sword continued its inexorable descent, but Kethe sensed him. She tore her eyes from her imminent death to look at where Asho was approaching. Their eyes met, and he felt a shiver pass through him as if his whole being were a bell that had just been struck. Her eyes widened. The Virtue’s blade was but ten inches from her neck. There was no time, left, no time at all.

Asho held Kethe’s gaze and reached out to her. Through the cacophony and madness of the invisible forces at play, he struggled to connect, to latch on to her brightness—and he felt her reach right back. Their souls locked tight and mingled, and in that instant he felt a terrible power surge up within him which he channeled through his sword.

The causeway erupted.

Rocks flew up into the night sky in a straight line from him to the Virtue. The roar was shattering. The force of Makaria’s blow was lost as he reacted with impossible speed, spinning and crossing his arms over his chest, forming an ‘X’ behind which he steeled himself just as the line of power smashed into him.

Asho felt the Virtue absorb his force, drink it deep, and destroy it. Asho screamed and staggered to a stop. The rocks and boulders that had been thrown high into the sky, some the size of Asho’s fist, others as large as the ballista, came crashing back down. They plummeted down from the sky, sending up white gouts of water which flowed into the jagged scar he’d carved through the causeway.

Asho slowly straightened. Water surged around his feet. Kethe scrambled up and away from Makaria, who was staring at Asho with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

The waves surged and slowly settled. Thirty yards of cratered water lay between them, broken by the occasional rough ridge or outcropping of stone. Makaria straightened from his crouch and lowered his arms. Asho heaved for breath. Kethe backed away, sword in hand once more, eyes wide.

“You.” Makaria pointed with his sword. “I know you.” He paused. “Ser Kyferin’s squire. The Bythian.”

Asho took a deep breath and stepped up to the water’s edge. “I’m Ser Asho. Lady Kyferin’s knight.” His voice sounded tremulous in the darkness, nowhere near as rich and confident as Makaria’s.

“You’re no knight,” said the Virtue. “You’re just a Sin Caster.”

Asho clenched his jaw. He couldn’t refute it. “And you’re no Virtue. You’re Lord Laur’s dog.”

“Brave words,” Makaria said, and stepped back. “Say them to my face.” Then he ran forward a half-dozen steps and
leaped
.

Asho raised his black blade as he stumbled back. The Virtue sailed through the night air, his white cloak snapping behind him, impossibly high, and landed on the ragged end of the causeway with a crunch. He fell into a crouch, one fist planted on the rock to catch himself, and then stood. This close, his power was oppressive, the sense of his inhaling the magic from the world a muted roar that sounded like a thousand tree trunks splintering.

Asho stepped back again, fear flickering within him. The runes of his blade were muted, a dull cherry red. He couldn’t sense Kethe.

Makaria swung his blade in a tight circle by his side and advanced.

“Why are you doing this?” Asho gave way before him. He had no hope of besting him in a fight.

Makaria came on, implacable. “How did you sin cast without suffering?”

Asho thought of the Agerastian Sin Casters, how they had grown sick and vomited blood by the end of the battle. He felt winded, raw, but nowhere near as devastated.
Kethe
, he thought.
She’s draining the sin from… from my magic. Why can’t I feel her now?

“Work with us,” he said. “Join with Lady Kyferin. Don’t fight us.”

Pity flickered across Makaria’s face. “Work with a Sin Caster? No. This corner of the world needs cleansing and healing. I am glad now that the Grace saw fit to send me here. There is much work to be done. Starting with your death, Bythian, and the reclaiming of the Everflame.”

Asho stopped backing away. There was no retreating from this fight. He took a deep breath and felt his anger churn within him. Makaria symbolized everything he’d always admired and resented about the world: the unfair system of Ascension, the pinnacle of knighthood, the perfection of an enlightened soul.