The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2)

by Phil Tucker

  Kethe raised her head. "To cast your taint into animals?"

  "Yes." Asho grimaced. "It sounds awful. But then I wouldn't have to burden you." He looked down at the ground. "Wouldn't make your situation worse."

  She fought down a burst of anger. "You can't save me, Asho. Even if you never Sin Cast again you can't prevent what's happening to me."

  He stared at her. "Why are you so eager to doom yourself?"

  "Excuse me?" This time her anger broke through, sharp and fierce. "Since when is acceptance of reality a bad thing?"

  "Acceptance of reality would have us all waiting in the Hold for your uncle to come kill us. But instead we're up here. Your mother is exploring every possible angle to try and win through."

  Kethe looked away. "Yes, well. This is different."

  "Different how?"

  "Different as in this power of mine is definitely, without a doubt, going to kill me." Grief arose within her chest like a drowning swimmer fighting for air. "I'm going to die, and the thought terrifies me. It makes me want to curl into a ball and give up. I'm going to die, and there's nothing you or my mother or anybody can do about it." Hot tears brimmed and ran down her cheeks. Her whole body was shaking.

  "Kethe." Asho's voice was but a whisper. "You have to have hope. You can't give up on yourself."

  "Damn you, Asho!" She rose to her feet, hands balled into fists. "I'm here, aren't I? I'm doing everything I can to save my little brother. Don't ask more of me. Don't ask me to have hope because I can't!"

  "Yes, you can." He rose to stand before her. "Ser Wyland taught me that. You don't think I feel it too? A feeling of despair that wants to drag me down? But I won't let it. A true knight accepts his suffering and lets it redeem him. A true Ennoian knight doesn't let the world -"

  "Oh, enough!" Kethe's cry cut through the night, sending a dozen large birds scattering loudly from a tree above them. She pressed her hands to her temples. "Enough! Can you for the love of the Ascendant keep your sanctimonious preaching to yourself? You're not even an Ennoian! You don't and can't know what it means to be a true knight!" She dropped her hands and glared at him, at his wounded, open face. The sight of it made her feel sick but she couldn't stop. "Ennoian knights don't Sin Cast! Ennoian knights don't kill Virtues! I don't care what Ser Wyland says to you. My father would never have considered you one of his men, would never have made you a Black Wolf, so stop already!"

  The silence between them stung with the intensity of her words. Asho stood there, chin raised, eyes wide, jaw clenched. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She wanted suddenly to apologize, completely and unconditionally, to just fall to the ground sobbing and cover her head.

  "Your father," said Asho, voice shaking, "would have called you a coward." Then he walked past her, shoulder almost brushing against hers, and was gone.

  Kethe stared blindly out into the valley below. Asho's words had hit her like a fist to the gut. She thought of her father. Enderl Kyferin, Lord of the Black Wolves, a man she'd come to understand differently since setting out on this exile. A brutal man. A rapist. A murderer. And yet, even the men and women who hated him the most had to admit his strength of will. His resolve. His disregard for anything that barred his way.

  Would he have called her a coward? She recalled his image. Massive, broad-shouldered, heavily bearded, a bear of a man, a force of nature. She tried to imagine explaining her pain to him, her fear, her despair. She couldn't. He wouldn't have let her finish. She could feel his disdain.

  Tears ran down her cheeks afresh. Her stomach quivered and she folded her arms tight over her chest. She'd wanted to be a knight so she would never feel weak again. Never let anyone take advantage of her or determine her fate. How was she supposed to fight this power of hers? It was an enemy she couldn't kill.

  Father, she said to the image in her mind. I don't want to die.

  She saw his eyes gleam. No one does.

  I'm scared of dying.

  That is natural. Common men are ruled by their fear. But you are a Kyferin. A killer. Master your fear. Scorn it. Death stalks us on every battlefield. Be unnatural. Laugh in its face. Remember who you are.

  Kethe's heart was thudding hollowly in her chest. She hugged herself tight and stared out into the darkness that had swallowed the valley whole.

  "I am a Kyferin," Kethe whispered.

  The image of her father faded away. The wounded, howling beast that had been born in her heart the moment she'd learned of her fate had grown silent. She swallowed the knot in her throat and inhaled deeply of the cold mountain air. Her fear hadn't disappeared. She still didn't want to die. But something had changed, some internal balance of the forces that ruled her.

  Numb and weary beyond belief, Kethe turned back to the cave mouth. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in sleep. Everything else, including her apology to Asho, could wait till the morning.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tiron had to struggle not to let awe show on his face. The sheer scope of the room was intimidating, the alien architecture and the elegant, fey beauty of it all. He felt like a mud-footed Bythian come tromping into the inner sanctum of an Aletheian Perfecti, crude and boorish and unable to appreciate the artistry and majesty around him. So instead of gaping, he adopted his customary scowl and followed Audsley as the magister ascended the broad steps.

  Audsley seemed to have come into his own. The plump, diffident magister was walking as if alone in a dream, distant and confident both, curious and incisive. Tiron had never seen him like this, and found the change both welcome and disconcerting. They'd wandered off the battlefields that were Tiron's home and into a place in which Audsley was their leader. Good. At least one of them could make some sense of this labyrinth.

  The other three guards followed, and their footsteps were lost in the moan of the wind and the tinkling of the dozen or so miniature waterfalls behind them. Up they went, the steps awkward and spaced too far apart for comfortable climbing; had the Sin Casters flown up instead of walked, and if so, why carve the steps in the first place?

  Tiron switched his dagger to his left hand and then back. He tried not to think about his family blade and its unknown fate at the bottom of that airshaft. Passed down from father to son for countless generations, it was his one sole treasure and only link to his shattered past. He'd not leave this stonecloud without it.

  The steps narrowed as they climbed, until finally they were but a few yards across. Audsley reached the small platform at their peak first, stepping out carefully and stopping to marvel. When Tiron joined him, he saw why. Glass surrounded them on all sides and above - and below as well. It was as if they'd stepped into a bubble that was affixed to the face of a cliff, the glass segmented with fine wires like the greater panes overhead, giving them an almost complete view of the sky into which they traveled.

  The view was glorious. Dawn was fast approaching, and the dull grays that painted the cloudscape were slowly giving way to the roseate light pouring in from the far east. Humps and tussocks of cloud cast elongated shadows across the sky, and even as Tiron watched the colors shifted, growing warmer, purples glowing into salmon pinks, the faintest hints of buttery yellows tincturing the far edges of the eastern clouds. It was like nothing he'd ever seen, ever dreamed; they had to be impossibly high up in the sky, for when he looked down he saw no land, but rather a stomach-turning series of canyons stretching down between the clouds, which rose up in furious towers all around them, a delirious and fantastic landscape that defied the imagination.

  "Ah," sighed Audsley. "Now, that is a sight I shall never forget."

  There was reverence and even gratitude in his voice, and for once Tiron didn't strive to disagree; he simply nodded, mute with wonder, and watched as the dawn banished the night, sending the shadows fleeing ever westward. They floated toward an outstretched arm of cloud, and for a second Tiron felt a surge of panic - they were going to collide! But they passed straight into it, their view growing soft and muted, and emerged again on t
he far side. Beads of water streamed down the glass panes.

  "This must be what lies on the other side of the White Gate," breathed Meffrid. "Have we strayed into the realm of the Ascendant himself?"

  "Perhaps," said Audsley. "But I doubt it. We are in Starkadr, which was considered the home of the enemy. More likely we are simply flying high over Ennoia, or Sige, or some other part of the empire. High enough that we might as well be lost and alone in the vastness of the world."

  "No wonder this place is only talked about in children's tales," said Temyl. "If it's this high up, it might as well have fallen into the ocean."

  "True," said Audsley. "Very true. Lost and abandoned, set on its own wandering course for all of eternity until someone stumbled upon one of its hidden Gates like we did."

  Meffrid shook his head slowly. "How come we no longer create wonders like this? How come we no longer build floating cities like Aletheia, or raise them out of the ocean like Nous?"

  Tiron felt a spike of sadness pierce his scarred soul. "Because we killed off those who could do it, didn't we? We butchered the Sin Casters till there were none left."

  "But... but..." Temyl trailed off. His face contorted with thought. "If the Sin Casters were evil, then how'd they make such beautiful things?"

  Audsley shrugged uncomfortably. "Think of your catechisms, Temyl. 'The fairest face may hide a twisted heart, and only through right action do we play our proper part.'"

  "Yes," said Bogusch from behind them. "But why do the Perfecti still live in Aletheia, then, if it was made by the Sin Casters?"

  Temyl turned to him scornfully. "That's where the White Gate's located, obviously. Why'd we abandon that?"

  "Peace," said Tiron. "We'll debate theology long into the night once we're all safely home. For now, let's finish scouting and see if we can find food and drink. Audsley, you think those pools below are safe to bottle?"

  "Hmm? The ones without the corpses in them, possibly."

  The magister had turned toward the sole objects within the glass bubble, the pedestal and throne. Tiron examined them both. The throne was carved from obsidian with the same brutal angles as the rest of the damn stonecloud, though the glass seemed to bear its weight easily enough. The pedestal before it rose to waist height, a sphere of gray stone resting on its concave top. There were no markings on the sphere's surface, but a circular groove ran around its top.

  "What do you think this is, then?" Tiron crouched beside it. "You think it's safe to touch?"

  Audsley was rubbing his chin. "Simply due to its location, I'd speculate that it's some kind of navigation device, but... well. Hmm. No obvious means of manipulating it. I don't know."

  "Perhaps it's like the sword, then." Temyl grimaced. "You got to touch it to talk to it."

  "Astute, my good friend." Audsley licked his lower lip and glanced at Tiron. "Shall I try?"

  Tiron hesitated. Leave it well alone, a voice cautioned him from the depths of his mind. But if they could gain the means to control this stonecloud? If they could direct it as they would, what a weapon, what a presence it would prove in battle! He nodded to the magister.

  Audsley extended his hand to the gray sphere. Gulped audibly, then rested his hand on the coarse surface. Tiron stared fixedly at his face. After a moment Audsley opened his eyes and shook his head. "Nothing."

  "Hmph," said Tiron. "Very well. Let's break up into two teams. Audsley, Temyl, you're with me. We'll check the right side of the room. Meffrid, Bogusch, you're on the left. Look for food or anything of practical use. Let's meet again back at the entrance in fifteen minutes. We're going to need to rest soon, and I don't think this looks like the place to do so."

  They moved down the steps and made their way over the pools, pausing to examine corpses and explore the far reaches of the room. The bodies were of the same desiccated nature as those they had found below, except for the ones that had fallen into the water and had rotted away down to gleaming bones. The figures wore both black and white robes, Tiron noted. He picked up a few blades, but they were too rusted and old, and so he discarded them.

  A call from Temyl caused Tiron to straighten up from the body he was inspecting. "What is it?" he called back.

  "It's gone!" Temyl was casting wild looks about him. "That ugly statue thing. Where'd it go?"

  The others converged on him. There was no sign of the black rock pillar.

  Tiron rubbed the back of his head. "You sure it was here?"

  Audsley nodded. "It was. I remember quite clearly. But, ah, it seems to have... well. Vanished."

  They stood around, an air of uncertainty hanging over them. No one seemed to know what to say. It had been a massive hunk of stone; Tiron remembered that much. No one would have been able to move it without causing a ruckus.

  "No matter. Nothing we can do about it now. Keep searching."

  The eventually met back at the base of the entrance balcony. Bogusch had found a well-preserved dagger, and all of them had refilled their water skins and drunk deep of the cleaner pools. Still, the water sloshing around in their stomachs served only to remind them how hungry they were.

  "What next, ser?" Meffrid was clearly fighting to remain alert, but even his eyelids were beginning to droop.

  Tiron rubbed his face roughly in an attempt to invigorate himself. "We need to find a place to rest."

  Already the great command room had filled with bright morning sunlight. The glass overhead proved to be iridescent, and gleamed with chromatic hues in a way that was startlingly beautiful but also contrary to any attempt to find sleep.

  "Audsley, do you feel capable of wrestling the platform down one more level?" Tiron asked.

  The magister looked distinctly unhappy at the prospect, but nodded. "I think I have its measure."

  "Good. We'll go down one floor. If these Sin Casters followed basic hierarchies like all people, then that will be where their elite had their quarters. We'll find some rooms to camp in, get some sleep, and then reassess from there."

  Tiron paused, searching the faces around him, but saw little sign of emotion. Their eyes were dull and their shoulders sagged. If they got into trouble they'd not put up much of a fight. He almost changed his mind and ordered them to hunker down in one of the room's corners, perhaps to sleep under the table, but the air was growing brighter and the dull howling of the wind coming through the broken glass made him think he'd never rest easy in here.

  "One last push, men, then we'll rest. Let's go."

  He climbed the curving staircase up to the top, and paused to grip the railing so as not to sway from exhaustion. He felt a wave of nausea pass through him. If they didn't find food soon, they'd be in serious trouble.

  Calling on his years of discipline and self-control, he pushed away from the balcony's edge and stalked back into the tunnel and out onto the platform. He was the first onto its iron surface, and hunkered down as the others assumed their positions.

  Audsley took a deep breath, flexed his hand, then gripped the sword hilt. Nothing happened at first, though Audsley's face grew stern with effort, and then he gasped and opened his eyes and Tiron relaxed a fraction. Aedelbert licked Audsley's cheek and the platform lifted, eased back out into the dark shaft, and descended gently about fifty yards till they reached another tunnel entrance. They floated across the shaft and into the tunnel, but Audsley didn't set them down immediately; instead, he directed the platform to continue floating into the tunnel, taking them deeper and deeper into the gloom until they reached a room that was small by Starkadr's standards, with many tunnels leading off from it, and there he set them down.

  "A hub," said Audsley, releasing the blade. "And look. The walls are carved with something."

  Tiron could barely summon any interest to look closer, but he stepped off the platform and followed Audsley to one of the walls. The room was shaped like a hexagon, with three tunnels extending into the darkness beyond the fourth through which they'd entered. The black walls were inscribed with deep and cunningly wrought etc
hings. Not runes, Tiron saw, but pictures. They were massive and intricate, and seemed to depict some manner of story or scene; to be honest, Tiron didn't care enough to look deeper.

  He picked a tunnel at random and strode into it, dagger held before him. The others followed suit, and after only a dozen steps he emerged into what appeared to be a small warren of low-ceilinged rooms. The lighting here was different, not gloomy like the rest of Starkadr but rather soft, as if small, invisible candles had been set in random corners. Living quarters, Tiron realized, and felt a small and pathetic surge of triumph. They were sparsely furnished, but one room held a low bed, while another had several padded seats along the walls and cushions on the floor.

  Audsley gave a little cry of delight, and Tiron poked his head into one of the neighboring rooms to see the magister eagerly reading the titles of ancient tomes lined up on black stone shelving – hundreds and hundreds of books. He almost cursed in annoyance, but another excited yell from Temyl caused them both to leave the library for what appeared to be a small dining room, with a pantry filled with preserved foodstuffs. They found cured strips of beef, bottles of wine, hard nut brown loaves, tureens of butter, and bags of seeds, all of it fresh.

  "How can this be?" Meffrid broke a loaf in half. To Tiron, it looked stale but edible. "Do you think... Nobody could have stocked this recently, could they?"

  Audsley glanced around the edge of the pantry door. "I see small runes carved here. How very strange. Perhaps they preserve the food?"

  "Doesn't matter," said Tiron, then he took a savage bite from a wedge of waxen cheese. He washed it down with the wine. It was sharp, almost bitter, but tasted delicious. "I'm going to eat all of it. If I die of poisoning, I don't care. I'd rather die happy with a full stomach than waste away over the course of weeks."

  As if that had been a signal, the others dug in, and soon they were all chewing enthusiastically and occasionally moaning with delight as they discovered a pot of fig jam, or a little jar of wildflower honey. They each opened a bottle of wine, and Tiron thought of commanding them to watch their drinks, but he was too damn tired and in too much pain to care. Soon his head was swimming, the pain had receded, and his belly was happily filled with a mixture of different foods, all of them once fine, now stale or old, but there was nothing that didn't seem to be settling well.