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

by Phil Tucker

  Their bard, Menczel, was sitting to one side, idly plucking a quiet melody from his lute and singing of the legendary trials of the Virtue Theletos. Her mother was seated on her pale chair, with the steward and his assistant standing before her.

  Kethe rushed into the hall and then caught herself and stopped, took a breath and pushed her shoulders back. Her mother had been leaning back in her chair, chin resting delicately on an extended finger, listening to Bertchold as he recounted some issue regarding their stocks. At Kethe’s entrance, however, her mother sat up, and both Menczel and Bertchold fell silent, turning to regard her.

  “Kethe?”

  Her mother was the most intelligent person she knew, and the most perceptive by far. Kethe’s whole life had been one long struggle to find privacy, to shield her thoughts, to not give everything away to her mother without realizing it. She had no hopes of doing so now.

  Lady Kyferin rose gracefully to her feet. In her mid-thirties, she was still a strikingly beautiful woman, her eyes the blue of stark winter midday skies, her skin as pale as fresh milk and her mien effortlessly noble. It was from her that Kethe had inherited her own auburn hair, a dark brown that the right angle of sunlight could set to smoldering like fireplace coals; but while Kethe tended to wear her hair in a rough braid thrown over one shoulder, her mother’s mane was luxurious and intricately braided. Born and raised in the august mountain peak cities of Sige, Lady Iskra Kyferin’s descent to Ennoia and her presence in the castle and by his side had been a source of great pride to Kethe’s father. Dressed today in white accented with gold, Lady Iskra stared at her daughter, and her eyes grew wide.

  Kethe fought back her tears anew. As realization dawned on her mother’s face, she stepped forward, unsure what to do with her hands, what to say, where to stand.

  “Father is dead,” she managed at last, and at this the tears finally spilled.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Asho had yearned for and dreaded this moment in equal measure since quitting the battlefield a week ago. His weary mind had played out a thousand scenarios as he’d ridden south amongst the flood of demoralized soldiers and peasants, hunched over Crook’s back but refusing to rest. At times he’d imagined the blowing of trumpets as he rode up to Kyferin Castle’s gatehouse, the sunlight golden, the castle folk and Lady Kyferin turning out to grant him a hero’s reception. Other times he despaired and could only imagine being received as a traitor and coward, castigated by the Lady for not having died by her husband’s side, his weapons and arms taken from him before he was hurled out the postern gate if not dropped into the Wolf Tower dungeon itself.

  Despite his despair, he’d ridden for the great city of Ennoia, which gave its name to all those born on this plane of existence, the roads growing more choked with every passing mile. How different this journey was. It had been only a month since he had ridden along this same road as part of Lord Kyferin’s proud retinue, head held defiantly high and convinced that he would return, if not covered in glory, then at least part of a victorious band.

  Instead he rode alone and turned east just before reaching Ennoia’s vast walls. Covered in mud, body aching and wounded, Crook nearly lame from how hard he’d been ridden, Asho had persevered, ignoring the groups of soldiers who eyed him and wondered if he was an escaped slave. The days had merged with nights spent sleeping in dense thickets and behind hedges, until finally he had reached the Flint Road and turned his horse north for the final day’s ride to Lady Kyferin.

  Voices murmured around him. Asho blinked. He’d nearly fallen asleep, hand still on Crook’s pommel, leaning against his weary beast. Pushing away, he wiped vigorously at his face and nodded as Nenker, one of the stable boys, stepped up to take Crook’s reins.

  Familiar faces were all around him, glaring at him as if he were to blame. He could feel the crowd simmering, waiting for some provocation to step forward and accost him with angry questions that could quickly turn to violence. He saw a flash of pale hair at the back. It was Chikko, one of the other Bythians, watching with muted pity and no intention of helping. Asho took a deep breath. He was used to being disdained, but this open hatred he saw on people’s faces was new. He looked past them and saw Kethe disappear into the barbican. His throat tightened. There had been many times over the years that he’d quietly seethed at her thoughtless arrogance, but the way her eyes had flashed with pain as he’d delivered his news had cut him to the quick. Her face had grown pale, her thick freckles stark and her lips bloodless, and he’d wished for something comforting to say. Anything. But her glare had forbidden it and reminded him that while their worlds had shattered, some rules would never be broken.

  A heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see Brocuff by his side. The castle constable was a short man, level with Asho, but stocky and built like a bear. Grim at the best of times, prone to frowning even when receiving a gift, he’d nevertheless been one of the few on the castle staff to treat Asho with a gruff directness that was free of malice.

  “Come on, lad,” said the constable. “Let’s bring your news to the Lady. I’ll walk up with you. Save her from having to summon me right after.”

  I’m a knight, thought Asho. Not a lad. But he couldn’t be bothered to correct the constable. He simply nodded and began walking toward the barbican.

  “Hold up,” said Brocuff. Asho turned. “You’re injured.”

  He’d grown so used to the pain and the awful stiffness that he’d almost forgotten. The cut down his back was more messy than grave, but he knew it had soaked his aketon and caused it to stick to his chain. Only extreme exhaustion kept him from hissing when the ruptured links of his hauberk caught in the wound. “Oh. Yes. But it can wait.”

  “Can it, now?” Brocuff sounded skeptical. “I’ve seen men die of lesser wounds due to infection. You should go straight to Father Simeon.”

  “It can wait,” said Asho again. The stubbornness that had seen him through the last week was all that was keeping him on his feet. If he should turn from his purpose, he’d collapse and never rise again. “After I’ve done my duty, then I’ll find the Father.”

  “Fair enough.” Brocuff studied him as if seeing him anew. “Lead the way then, good squire.”

  Not a squire, thought Asho again, but he simply turned and plodded up the stone ramp. How strange it all looked! The great curtain wall, the bulwark of the barbican, the drawbridges and drum towers, all of them guarding the impregnable keep. Before the battle Asho had thought it overdone; he couldn’t imagine a force that could pierce the outer wall, much less the interior defenses. But how well would stone hold up against magic?

  Shivering, he entered the barbican. Word had preceded him, and he saw faces at the murder holes, and the iron door leading into the guts of the barbican was open. A number of guards stood there, men-at-arms he didn’t recognize. They watched him approach, and one with rotten teeth and the look of a drowned rat stepped forward to block his way.

  “Where are the others, then? You a runner? Tell the truth now, Byth-grub.”

  Asho stopped, swaying where he stood, and stared straight through the man. He’d learned that answering only led to more insults and then shoves and even kicks. Unless he drew his blade to defend himself, and then he’d be hauled before the Lord and asked to explain why he was attacking the castle guards.

  Luckily he wasn’t alone. Brocuff stepped up behind him. “Back to your posts, men.” The constable’s growl was soft but brooked no questioning. Brocuff was in charge of castle security while Lord Kyferin and his Black Wolves were away. For all that he was not nobly born, he was respected by his men. The guards melted back into the darkness, and Asho strode past them, putting them out of mind.

  The steps up through the drum towers to the keep door were interminable, and the rich smells coming from the ground floor kitchen set his mouth to watering and almost made his knees buckle. When had he eaten last? What had he eaten? He didn’t want to remember. Turning, he climbed the stairs to the Lord’s Hall and
stopped just shy of the doorway on the third floor. He could hear voices within. Kethe’s voice, broken and tearful. This was it. The moment he’d been fighting to reach.

  Slowly, painfully, Asho straightened. He pulled his tabard down and hissed as cloth tore away from dried blood. There was no chance of making himself presentable. He was what he was: a man returned direct from war.

  “I’m right behind you,” whispered Brocuff. In the close dark he smelled of leather and pipe smoke. “Just deliver your news, then you can rest.”

  Asho nodded and stepped out into the light. The sight of Lady Kyferin caused his stomach to clench. Oh, she was beautiful, impossibly so, and now, having heard the news from her trembling daughter, she was standing before her raised seat like a marble statue, untouchable and remote, regal and elegant beyond measure. She was wearing a form-fitting white dress that was delicately embroidered with gold, with a broad golden belt hanging about her hips. Her pale hair was intricately tressed, and her eyes were locked on him as if he was bringing death and not merely news of it into her hall.

  “My Lady,” he said, voice faltering, and stopped a good five yards from her dais, falling to one knee. There were others already gathered here: the steward, his assistant, and the bard. He ignored them all. “My Lady, I bring terrible news.”

  His words hung in the silence, and he stared at the wood grain beside his right foot. Don’t fall, he told himself as he felt his balance rock. Just a little longer.

  “Rise, squire.” Lady Kyferin’s voice was impressively controlled, rich and soft, with the strange accents of Sige. “Tell me your tidings.”

  Asho took a deep breath and looked up. He’d not risk rising just yet. Kethe was standing behind and to one side of her mother’s chair, face pale, eyes glassy. Swallowing, he met Lady Kyferin’s striking blue eyes. “For three weeks we chased the Agerastians across the fields and farms north and west of Ennoia. We thought they might escape and reach the coast, but the Grace drove us hard, and we finally forced them into a confrontation a week ago.”

  Asho paused, trying to decide how best to select his words. To criticize the Grace was unimaginable—and yet… “They took a stand on top of a hill between a copse and the village of Utrect. Our forces arrived and positioned themselves on the lower slopes of a facing hill. Lord Kyferin was confident that we could wait till morning to attack, giving our men the chance to rest and allowing the entirety of the Grace’s army to gather—at least half the infantry were still strung out behind us on the roads. But the Grace was forced to give the order to attack when one of his lords broke rank and led others down the slope. Lord Kyferin took the vanguard, along with his Black Wolves, and we charged the enemy line.”

  Everybody was listening, spellbound. Menczel the bard stood with furrowed brow, memorizing every word. Lady Kyferin was staring right through him; she knew how this tale turned out. All that remained to learn were the details.

  “Magic, my lady.” Asho’s voice sounded raw in his own ears. Even now he couldn’t believe what had happened. “The Agerastians had a dozen Sin Casters with them. They threw black fire, and the Grace’s army was destroyed.”

  “Magic?” Bertchold’s voice was sharp with indignation. He was an older man, well into his fifties, with the beginnings of jowls and a square, stocky frame, clad in black furs with his chain of office hanging thickly around his neck. “Impossible. There have been no Sin Casters in over two centuries.”

  “I swear it. I saw the flames engulf Lord Kyferin and his men. I was only spared because I was riding at the back with the other squires.” Asho saw the scene again, heard the hissing sound of ebon flame scorching flesh and iron alike.

  “Nonsense!” Bertchold’s voice dipped into scorn. “I’d hoped for an honest account, but if you’re going to twist the tale with your debased imaginings—”

  “You saw my Lord husband fall?” Lady Kyferin didn’t raise her voice, but Bertchold immediately fell silent.

  Asho nodded. “I did, my Lady.” Years of anger and revulsion wrestled with his conscience. Here was a chance for him to strike a blow against his former Lord, twist his memory with a lie nobody could contest. But Lady Kyferin was watching him. Asho grimaced. “He died facing the enemy, running at one of the Sin Casters. He died bravely.”

  Lady Kyferin closed her eyes and sat slowly on her chair. A knot arose in Asho’s throat. Of all the people in the castle, she was the only one who had suffered as much as he and Shaya had at Lord Kyferin’s hands. Her shock was genuine, but he would bet his life that deep down she had to be feeling a wild song of unbelieving joy.

  Father Simeon hurried into the hall. He had taken the time to don his robes of pure white, his silver triangle hanging prominently on his narrow chest. As one of the only two Noussians in the castle, he exuded a benevolent contempt for everybody but the noble family, but held Lady Kyferin in special regard for her being a Sigean and thus one step above him in Ascension. “I am sorry for your loss, my Lady.” His voice was sonorous, rich with compassion and redolent with the authority of his office. “Yet even in sorrow we must rejoice. Know that your Lord husband is now one step closer to Ascension. He travels before us to the peak of the Triangle. Scant comfort, I know, but our grief is but the stepping stone to joy.”

  These last words were murmured by everyone but the Lady and Asho. Even Kethe whispered them silently to herself.

  Lady Kyferin opened her eyes and smiled. “Thank you, Father.”

  He bowed. “Shall I prepare the chapel for tonight’s Mourning?”

  Lady Kyferin nodded. “Yes, though Kethe and I shall hold the vigil in my chapel upstairs.”

  Father Simeon hesitated, as if about to protest, and then bowed again. “As you wish.”

  “A week,” said Lady Kyferin, turning back to Asho. “Seven days since my Lord husband and his Black Wolves perished. Tell me, were either Lord Laur or Lord Lenherd at this battle?”

  Asho shook his head. “No, my Lady. Lord Kyferin thought that his brothers were still on the road behind us when the order to attack was given. I never saw them.”

  “So, their forces remain intact.” She leaned back in her seat, her smooth brow marred by a slight frown.

  Brocuff cleared his throat and stepped up next to Asho. “My Lady, when news reaches the families of the Black Wolves, they’ll no doubt ask that their men stationed here at the castle be sent back to their homes.”

  Each Black Wolf had been a landed noble with enough wealth to arm himself and answer Lord Kyferin’s call with retainers and soldiers of his own. Their families and properties formed the quilt that was Lord Kyferin’s land; their simultaneous deaths would throw the entire countryside into chaos, as brothers and uncles and sons began to contest for the now empty seats of power. The next few weeks would see numerous deaths take place, as the less scrupulous and more ambitious relatives ensured that they would gain the title by any means necessary.

  Kethe stepped forth. “Surely we don’t have to release them.”

  “No,” said Brocuff, rubbing his jaw. “You’ve the right of that. We could order each man to stay at his post. But there would be consequences. The families that demand the return of their men would be gravely offended. They’re going to want as much strength as possible over the next few weeks as they fight off rivals and seek to consolidate their power. They’ll remember our leaving them undermanned at this crucial time, and harbor resentment.”

  Bertchold scowled. “They owe their loyalty to Lady Kyferin in hard times as well as good. We can’t strip the battlements of our men and send them home.”

  “How many soldiers do we have right now?” Lady Kyferin’s voice remained quiet, almost calm.

  Brocuff didn’t have to think. “We’ve sixty-two men, all told. The vast majority of our forces rode out with our Lord.”

  Lady Kyferin watched her constable with half-lidded eyes. “How many of these might we expect to be recalled?”

  “Thirty, most like.” Brocuff nodded. “Replacements may str
aggle in as they return from the war, and some requests might take longer to reach us than others.”

  “This is not a time to be generous,” said Bertchold, smacking his fist into the palm of his other hand. “We’ve no knights—”

  “That’s not true,” said Asho.

  Bertchold faltered and then turned to him. “You said the Black Wolves died with Lord Kyferin to a man.”

  “They did.” Asho felt his heart begin to hammer. “But I was knighted after the fighting.”

  Everyone stared at him. Lady Kyferin raised an eyebrow. “Knighted? By whom?”

  Asho swallowed. “By the Grace himself, my Lady.”

  Bertchold snorted and Father Simeon smiled. Brocuff frowned at him, and Menczel strummed his lute with a mocking flourish.

  Asho took a deep breath and held his Lady’s eye. “I swear it, my Lady. He knighted me before quitting the field. He asked that I enter his service, but I told him my loyalty lay with you.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Bertchold. “You expect us to believe this nonsense? Next you’ll be telling us that the First Ascendant himself descended through the White Gate to gild you with lightning. If you can’t keep your fantasies in your head and your tongue in your mouth—”

  Asho opened the satchel that hung by his side with stiff fingers, never looking away from Lady Kyferin. His fingers fumbled with the clasp, and then he drew forth a folded square of white cloth. Bertchold fell silent as Asho unfolded the war banner.

  “The Everflame,” whispered Menczel, stepping in closer.

  The Grace’s banner was torn and muddied, but there was no mistaking it. Asho held it out to Lady Kyferin, who reached down as if in a dream and took it.