by Phil Tucker
“We are gathered here tonight to mark the passing of Lord Enderl Kyferin, an Ennoian of good standing who died but seven days ago in defense of the Ascendant Empire and its ideals. That he died fighting the Agerastian is a further testament to his devoutness; if death in defense of the Empire is the highest goal of an Ennoian, then dying while fighting the heretics is the most perfect expression of that ideal.”
Kethe was staring fixedly at Father Simeon, her face pale and intent. Iskra saw her nod slightly at his words, and felt her old conflict arise anew within her. She had decided soon after Kethe’s birth to shield her daughter from the worst of her father’s nature; at the time that had seemed the most loving and kindest course. Now, seeing the fevered intensity in her daughter’s eyes, she wondered again if that had been the right course of action.
“We cannot, of course, be sure, but I believe that a week ago an infant was born in Nous whose cry echoed with the might and command of our fallen lord. Somewhere even now, at this very moment, the spirit of Lord Enderl Kyferin is housed within the fresh and innocent body of a newborn babe. Shorn of his memories, he begins the next stage of his Ascension with every blessing, coming one step closer to passing through the White Gate and into eternal bliss.”
Iskra looked down at her hands. Everything in her soul rebelled against that idea. No, not Nous. Not even Ennoia. If the Ascendant had any wisdom or sense of justice, then Enderl would have been hurled down to Zoe. Perhaps somewhere in that great port city he now lay, swaddled and dark-skinned. Or perhaps Agerastos. Or even Bythos. What justice that would be. Enderl Kyferin, a Bythian slave.
“Tonight,” continued Father Simeon, “We mark and mourn his departure from our lives. We shall recount his great deeds, and any who wish to speak fondly of him may step to the fore and do so. Allow your grief to flood through you. Let go of all grudges and petty resentments. The man you once knew is no more. He is gone, his soul fled to wherever the Ascendant has deemed right, and that judgment is greater and more righteous than any emotion we might have.”
The silence lay heavy over the crowd. Had Enderl’s Black Wolves been present, then Iskra was sure there would have been a contingent who would have fiercely mourned the death of their master. But few here had any reason to feel fondness for her late Lord husband. She could feel their gazes behind her, stony and hard and as pitiless as the sun.
“Tomorrow morning at dawn, we shall gather to rejoice his passage and celebrate the glory of ascension. From the lowest Bythian slave to the most august Aletheian, all are fated to rise and fall through the seven stations of being, until one day we either pass through the White Gate into glory, or are cast down forever through the Black Gate into eternal perdition. Tomorrow we shall rejoice, but tonight we give vent to our sorrow. Lady Kyferin, would you care to speak first?”
Iskra blinked and stood automatically. Father Simeon was smiling benignly at her with false commiseration, and she suddenly felt a clear and cool hatred for his hypocrisy. He knew the truth of her relationship with Enderl, yet still he played his part. Stepping forward, she smiled tightly at him. But hadn’t she done the same all these years?
Turning, she regarded the crowd. She knew all of their faces and most of their names. From the steward to the constable, from the magister to the marshal, and down through the carpenters, gardeners, smiths, grooms, cooks, butlers, porters, pages and slaves. Familiar faces, their attention focused on her. Curious, no doubt, to see what she might say. How she might choose to mourn the death of their Lord.
Iskra took a deep breath. She had nothing to say. Her mind was blank. The candle flames flickered, and soft, velvety shadows danced across the vaulted ceiling. She could see the Bythians at the very back, their pale faces luminous, their eyes occasionally turning red as their irises reflected the light in that disturbing manner of theirs. Shaya, thought Iskra, and almost started. She’d not allowed herself to think that name in years. Flustered, she looked away from the Bythians to her daughter, and in Kethe’s eyes she found her words.
“It has been over twenty years since I first met my Lord. He was being feted for his great victory over the Agerastians, for his capture of Agerastos and for bringing the heretics back into the Empire, and his visit to Sige was a precursor to his tour of Aletheia. I remember that night well. Lord Enderl stood taller than any other man, and his strength and nobility were evident for all to see. That night he shone as if the Ascendant himself had marked him as special, and I knew, young as I was, that his would not be a common life.”
The crowd stared at her, drinking in her words. Even Father Simeon was rapt. Talk of Sige and Aletheia was fascinating to them. How little they knew.
“In some ways, I would like to remember him as I saw him then. Young. Confident. Handsome. Talented. Brave. Strong. The twenty years that followed were to prove to all that his great victories had not been a fluke, but rather the first of many.” Iskra paused. She knew that Mournings were meant to be long and detailed, filled with plaintive declarations of love and loss. But she would not lie. She would not gild his memory. “I have never regretted my decision to leave Sige and live here by his side.” Doing so had brought her beloved children into her life. “It is because of him that I have shared my life with you all. It is because of him that I am now your Lady, and it is because of him that our fates are now intertwined. Kyferin Castle and my own life are forever inextricably linked. That is a gift I shall forever treasure.”
Iskra lowered her head, considered, and then nodded to Father Simeon. He blinked, caught by surprise, and then stepped forward as she sat. Her heart was racing. There was so much she could have said, so many ugly truths that had fought to pass her lips. Her stomach felt sour from the effort it had taken to swallow them back down, but when Kethe sought out her hand and squeezed it tight, Iskra felt a wave of gladness and knew that she had done right.
“Lord Kyferin had two brave and beautiful children. Kethe Kyferin, would you say words of Mourning for your father?”
Kethe stood without hesitation. She strode to the front of the room and turned to face the chapel. Her face was pale, her lips pursed, and Iskra realized with a pang how much she had grown. Seeing her now preparing to Mourn her father, she recognized that her daughter was no longer a child. She was a woman grown. She was, Iskra realized, as old as Iskra herself had been when she’d first seen Enderl smile at her from across the golden hall.
“My father was the strongest and bravest man I have ever met.” Kethe threw out her words as a challenge. “His Black Wolves were feared across all of Ennoia, and he was called numerous times to fight battles that other men could not win. I know he was not loved, but he was never challenged, either. Not once has this castle been besieged. No one ever insulted him without paying the price. He taught me the value of strength, and I was proud of him, more proud than I can say.” Tears filled her eyes, and wiped them away angrily with the black hem of her sleeve. “My mother may be from Sige, but my father and brother and I are Ennoian. We were born into this realm to fight for the Ascendant, and no one can say my father did not fight. He fought, and he won, over and over and over again. His rule brought stability to the land, peace to our neighbors, and prosperity to our people.”
Kethe’s fists, Iskra saw, were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. Her eyes searched the crowd as if daring someone to contradict her. “His memory is an example to us all. He died for us. He died fighting the heretics, and that makes him a hero. I am going to do everything I can to follow his example.” She stopped suddenly, as if she wanted to continue but did not know what else to say. She bit her lower lip, suddenly self-conscious, and then nodded to Father Simeon and sat beside Iskra, gripped the edge of her seat and leaned forward to stare at the floor. She was trembling, Iskra saw.
Oh, my daughter, she thought. What have I done? Iskra looked up at the silver triangle. Had she thought herself free of Enderl?
“And young Master Roddick?” Father Simeon smiled kindly at her son. “Do you have an
ything you wish to say?”
Roddick turned to her, eyes wide, his thick brown hair an unruly mop despite being combed only minutes before their arrival. He had Enderl’s broad cheeks, his strong chin and broad nose, but his eyes were a mirror of her own.
Iskra smiled and nodded. “If you want, Roddick.” She pitched her voice low. “Only if you want.”
He nodded, frightened, and stood. He pulled on the black hem of his shirt and then turned where he stood, forgetting that he should step up beside Father Simeon. “I loved my father,” he said, voice high-pitched. “He was a big man, and he made me feel safe even though sometimes he scared me.” His lower lip began to tremble, though Iskra didn’t know if that was from grief or the intensity of being stared at by so many people. “I don’t want him to be dead. I know I should be happy he’s Ascending, but I want him back.”
Roddick sat quickly and buried his face against her side. Iskra wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him close. A moment later Roddick pulled away, however, wiped his nose, and scowled at nothing. Good. He was only four, but he had to be strong.
Father Simeon smiled kindly. A little heresy from a four-year-old was not worth challenging. “Thank you, Roddick. We all miss your father, but he has moved on, as is right. Now, Lady Kyferin will be holding her vigil in her chapel for the rest of the night with her children. My Lady.”
Iskra stood, her hand on Roddick’s shoulder, and turned to walk down the center aisle. Kethe strode stiffly behind her. Iskra didn’t meet anybody’s eyes; she kept her gaze on the door to the bailey. As she passed the Bythians, she saw to her surprise that Asho was standing amongst their number. He met her gaze, and then raised his voice.
“I would Mourn Lord Kyferin.”
There was a stir as everybody turned to the back to see which Bythian had spoken with such presumption. At the sight of Ser Asho stepping forth, almost all of them turned their gazes to Iskra. The question hung in the air. Would she allow this upstart slave to speak?
Iskra watched Asho’s narrow back as he moved gracefully to the front. Her instincts urged her to speak out, to call him back, but she stayed quiet. He was her knight. He need not have placed himself amongst the slaves, though doing so had no doubt ameliorated the criticisms he would have received had he dared to sit any farther forward. She crossed her hands before her and waited, and by her presence gave him the space in which to speak.
Ignoring Father Simeon, who glared at him, Ser Asho turned to face the assembled host of the castle. His pale, narrow face as always betrayed nothing of his emotions. It was an alien visage, devoid of emotion, his silver-green eyes and white hair stamping him with the powerful Bysian imprimatur of slave. That he stood so boldly, shoulders back, daring their criticism, was almost bewildering. It was as if a horse had raised itself on two legs and dared call for a mount.
Iskra frowned. She thought of his sister and bit her tongue.
“Lord Enderl Kyferin raised my sister and me from the depths of Bythos to his very own keep.” Asho’s words were liquid and smoothly spoken. “He brought us here of his own free will, having sworn a vow to our father that he would take care of us and raise me to be a knight and my sister to be a lady-in-waiting.” These were facts, but the crowd stirred uneasily, resenting Asho’s bringing up their lord’s folly so baldly during his Mourning. “Lord Kyferin was serving his year in Bythos. His Black Year. The Black Gate stayed sealed, but he nearly died while exploring remote caverns. My father saved his life and nearly died in doing so. Lord Kyferin was young. His star was climbing. He made his vow in the heat of the moment, feeling gratitude that broke all rules, and thus were our lives forever changed.”
Ser Asho stared about the crowd. Waiting. Defying anybody to shout at him, to hiss in disapproval. Instead, Iskra received another battery of looks, some angry, some haughty, most imploring her to intervene.
She stayed silent.
“My sister and I did not ask to be brought here. We did not ask to be taken from Bythos. But we were, by Lord Kyferin’s honor. Once he gave his vow, our course was set in stone. It is that honor that I mourn. It is that resolve that I admired in him.” The rest hung unsaid in the air: and nothing more.
Again Asho stood silent, daring, defying. Everyone knew that his sister had killed herself only two years ago. Nobody spoke of it. This was the first time Asho himself had mentioned her, and Iskra noted that he had not said her name.
“I pray that the Ascendant give Lord Kyferin exactly what he deserves.” Asho nodded, then began to walk down the aisle once more. This time people did hiss, some rising to their feet as he passed them, but nobody interfered. When Asho reached the back, he held Iskra’s gaze for a beat and then looked forward. The whole time he had shown no emotion, only a studied neutrality. The other Bythians, Iskra noted, did not stand close to him. If anything, they recoiled.
“Come,” she whispered to her daughter and son. This was a problem she could not deal with tonight.
When she finally stepped out into the cold night, she felt a wash of relief. She’d survived—but this trial was not over. So much depended on her performance over these next few days. Up until now she had ruled the castle in Enderl’s absence as Enderl’s surrogate, his authority empowering her. That was true no longer. She stood alone now. She had to compel obedience on her own. Her ability to quell the crowd and so allow Asho to speak had been a sign of her authority. She only hoped that she hadn’t poisoned it already.
Walking across the bailey with two guards trailing behind her and her children with torches raised, she gazed about the interior of the castle and realized quietly, calmly, and with complete certainty that she meant to rule in Enderl’s place. She would take no new Lord. She would never cede power to another man and call him her master. The thought was thrilling, terrifying, and completely right.
She caught her breath at the enormity of her resolution, and then reached out and drew Kethe and Roddick to her side. Holding her children tightly, she looked up at the great keep and shivered as hope and joy flooded her soul for the first time in decades.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kethe fought to control her breathing. Nostrils flaring, she stepped carefully out to the side, her slender sword held out before her. Elon has made it specially for her, a castle-forged blade with a hand and a half hilt so that she could swing with all her strength. No matter how much she exercised, ten minutes into combat practice her blade felt like a greatsword. Sweat trickled down her temple, and a lock of hair fell across her face. She blew it away without taking her eyes from her opponent.
Brocuff stood at ease, the tip of his sword pointed at the loam. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. She knew he was alert, however, his casual stance meant to provoke her into a rash attack—but those days were long past. She grinned, her heart beating fast, excited. Oh, no, she’d not rush at him just yet.
“Widen your stance a little,” he said. “You’ll trip over yourself if I run at you.”
“Maybe I want you to run at me,” Kethe said, though she did as she was bid. A cool breeze blew through the canopy overhead, causing the coin-sized beech leaves to rustle and whisper as if commenting on the scene below. “Maybe I’m lulling you into a sense of over-confidence.”
“Ha!” Brocuff slapped the side of his thigh with his blade. “If so, you’re doing an excellent job. Mind that root.”
Kethe flicked her gaze down to the forest floor and regretted it immediately. Brocuff burst forward, bringing his sword around with the speed that always surprised her. She didn’t have time to adjust her feet; instead, she threw herself backward, her sword coming up barely in time to deflect his blow. Another lesson she’d learned early on: it was better to deflect than to simply block attacks from stronger men.
Brocuff didn’t let up. As his blade slid off her own with a metallic slither, he stepped into her space, hitting her upraised sword arm with his shoulder. Kethe’s stagger turned into a stumble and she nearly fell onto her rear. Gritting her teeth, she dropped
into a crouch, placed one hand on the ground and spun away, wincing in anticipation of the blow that would fall across her back.
It never came. She skitter-stepped out of his reach, panting, and brought her sword up before her, holding it with both hands now.
Brocuff was all smiles. “C’mon, my lady. You can do better than that. Stop fighting like a milkmaid.”
His goading was obvious; clearly, he expected her to hold back as a result. Instead, Kethe immediately attacked. Without warning she ran at him, swinging her blade in a series of ‘X’ strokes with both arms, driving him back. It was a feint. If she kept at it, he’d trap her blade, but she didn’t plan to give him the time. Just as he detected her pattern she leveled a vicious blow at his head, swinging her slender sword parallel with the ground. Brocuff swayed back as she’d known he would, surprisingly limber for such a stocky man, and then moved in for his counterattack. She’d not give him the chance.
Instead of checking her swing for a return stroke, Kethe followed it around and down into a spinning crouch. She heard the sound of his blade passing over her head along with his surprised grunt. Trees blurred as she pivoted on her heel, all the way around, and slammed the flat of her blade against his thigh.
Brocuff cursed and then laughed. Kethe beamed up at him just as she felt the tap of his sword’s edge against her neck. Her smile slipped. “Damn. I thought I had you.”
“Almost did.” Brocuff offered his calloused hand, then helped her up. “No, let’s be fair. That move would have taken off my leg. I’d have bled out a couple of minutes after you. Where’d you learn that fancy spinning move?”
Kethe wiped the sweat from her brow and laughed. “The ballroom floor, I think. I’m not sure. I’m not often asked to dance.”
“With moves like that, I’m not surprised. But you’re spinning too much.” Brocuff walked over to where a waterskin nestled among the roots of a tree beside his gear. “That first one was fine, if a bit desperate. But if you start spinning every time you get in trouble, people will figure you out and you’ll get a sword in the back.”
