by Phil Tucker
Financial Ledger
3210 YG
Kept by Joenius Kyferin
“Hmm! Of passing interest, I suppose.” He turned a massive page using both hands, and then again. Columns, figures, and entries ran down the left-hand side. Double bookkeeping, he saw. Quite sophisticated. But what was being tracked?
He studied a dozen pages carefully, taking his time, and finally pulled out a chair and sat. The entries seemed to concern mining extracts. What set his heart to racing was the name of what was being dug: Gate Stone. He’d never heard the like. Was that what was used to build the Gate frames? Most suggestive! If so, then this was a find indeed—the source of the Gates! Audsley leaped to his feet and struck a daring pose.
“Mysteries, I assault you! Enigmas, be gone!” He relaxed and tapped his chin. Why were the mines abandoned if their ore was so precious? And 3210 YG… That was no calendar year he knew of. It was currently 317 FOE—Founding of Empire. What could YG mean? The previous calendar, of course. But how to convert it to FOE? More mysteries.
Turning back to the ledger, he flipped to the very end. The final third was blank, and the final entries did not indicate a dwindling in supply. If anything, the extraction of Gate Stone was remarkably constant. So, why cease with the operations?
Audsley closed the ledger and idly read through some scrolls that were lying on the table. He winced each time they cracked beneath his fingers. A truly respectful magister would leave everything alone and send word to Nous for a proper team of investigative scholars, but the situation being what it was…
Half an hour passed as he read on, jumping ever quicker from scroll to scroll. Fascinating! While the dates were set in that confounded YG, the events related within were clearly set during the Unification Years, approximately 0 FOE. Most of the scrolls were addressed to this Joenius Kyferin, who had no doubt been the Lord or Lady of the Hold at that time. The tone was urgent. Finally, Audsley found the last scroll and sat to read it in full.
Dear Joenius,
I write to you with grave news. Aletheia has fallen to Agathanius, the first of his Name and promulgator of Ascension. The high halls of that floating city are drenched in blood, and word has reached me that the fanatics have transported Lord Pallindar to Bythos, where he has been cast through the Black Gate. That makes him the last of the Great Lords to fall. Every city is now under Ascendant control. The age of knowledge is drawing to a close. Bonfires fill the halls of Aletheia with choking smoke. They are destroying countless texts and volumes, Joenius, anything that does not agree with their philosophy.
I’m not surprised that your Will Workers have departed. They have all retreated to Xatos, choosing isolation over combat. I fear this a poor decision. I cannot help but believe that Agathanius will soon turn his attention upon them. For now, however, he is content to punish the Agerastians, branding them heretics and lashing them with his wrath.
I’ve left the worst for last. The Ascendants have declared the mining of Gate Stone to be anathema. All who engage in this practice are ordered to cease and destroy their operations or be subjected to punishment. You should know by now what that would entail. Already I have received several blunt questions from self-righteous officials demanding to know the status of our operations. I have tried to explain the dual nature of our work, that we both extract and defend, but they do not care for nuance or subtleties. I fear our tenure at Mythgræfen must end, and the Gate Stone and minor Black Gate be damned. We must call back our men and return to Kyferin Castle, lest the Ascendants come visiting with their fire and kragh.
Yours as always,
Alyssa
Audsley set down the scroll and leaned back in his chair. He was trembling. His firecat leaped into his lap and looked up at him with concern. Carefully, he took off his spectacles and cleaned them on his tunic. “Oh, my,” he whispered. “A minor Black Gate? Oh, my, Aedelbert. Oh, my.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My life, thought Iskra, has been spent waiting for the return of those dear to me. She stood in a corner of the battlements, almost out of the cruel wind that swept in off the lake, her thick cloak pulled tightly around her. It was bitterly cold, but she paid that no mind. The brutality of the landscape appealed to her: the slate-colored waters, the ragged, terrible mountains that clawed at the sky all around her, their peaks clad in glittering ice and snow. Ravens croaked and shook out their feathers, watching her with cold and calculating eyes. Even the ruin of the Hold felt fitting; it perfectly reflected her fall from grace, the collapse of her dreams, her inability to offer protection to those who served her.
Burying her chin deeper into the folds of her cloak, she slitted her eyes and focused on the far point of the lake, where it birthed the Erenthil. It was from there that Ser Wyland would return, bringing with him uncertain news and her daughter. Her fear that he might fail in this task served only to fuel her determination to be present when he appeared; she would see her daughter’s red hair as they walked along the edge of the lake toward the causeway, or hold him to account.
Her emotions flickered through her like dancing flames. Fierce resolution gave way to hesitancy and doubt, only to fold into mourning and anger as she thought of her son, and then return to determination to rescue him and safeguard those she loved. How was she supposed to wrest an advantage from her situation? What could wit or wisdom make of such a poor position? A handful of guards, two knights, a daughter who thought herself—and might actually be—a warrior, a ruined castle, and an army on the march to destroy them within two weeks.
It was enough to make her want to laugh, to cry, to hide away in some dark corner and declare herself done. And yet there was Roddick. He was a hook in her soul, a chain that held her at her post. There had to be a way to free him. Ser Wyland would see it done. He would return with good news—locals willing to help, something, anything for her to capitalize on, so she could wrest an edge over Lord Laur.
Iskra blinked and leaned forward, resting a hand on the frigid crenellation. Something was approaching from the lake’s edge. Not a boat. Was it a trick of her eyes? It looked like two people were walking toward the Hold, right over the water’s surface. Goose bumps ran down her arms, and her stomach clenched. Impossible. Perhaps there was a causeway beneath the water for those who knew where to tread?
“Ser Tiron,” she said. “Come. What do you see there?”
Ser Tiron clanked over from where he’d been lounging a dozen paces away and leaned forward. His grim features knitted as he squinted, and then he scowled. “That can’t be.”
Iskra turned back to the lake, resting her hands on the lichen-stained stone. The two figures were striding ever closer. One of them looked familiar, even at this distance. Iskra raised her hand to her mouth. Auburn hair, a familiar frame. Her daughter was returning home to her.
“Kethe,” she whispered, then turned and hurried down the steps. Her heart was thumping. Was that her daughter’s ghost, come to bid her goodbye before passing through to the next life? Where were the others? Who was she walking with?
She descended the steps as quickly as she could, Ser Tiron right behind her, and rushed along the interior wall of the bailey to the front gate, out past the twisted oak, through the knee-high stalks of dried grass and brittle goldenrod, onto the gravely spit of sand that served as a beach.
Ser Tiron came after her, hauberk clinking, and hopped down off the grass onto the beach with a heavy thud. He strode up to her and followed her gaze out over the water. “I never thought my madness was contagious. You see what I’m seeing?”
“My daughter,” said Iskra, her voice faint. “Walking on water.”
Ser Tiron scowled. “There must be a second causeway hidden beneath the surface.”
Iskra was glad for his presence, his solidity by her side. Whatever was walking toward them, Ser Tiron would meet it with unflinching defiance.
“Perhaps. But the water would flow differently over it.” She took a deep breath and tried to force her stomach
to settle. “And I don’t see that sign.”
“Well, they can’t literally be walking on water.” Ser Tiron’s voice was flat. “Can they?”
“Regardless, they are approaching. We’ll have our answers soon.”
She could see them both clearly now. The stranger was a woman; she could tell by the sway of the stranger’s hips, the narrowness of her shoulders. A firecat was draped over her shoulders. Who was she? She was wearing a dark cloak, possibly green, with a hood thrown over her head; while Kethe’s hair smoldered in the morning light, Iskra could make nothing out of her companion.
“My Lady,” called out a voice from behind her, and, turning, she saw Brocuff had emerged from the gate with three guards. Two more appeared at the walls above, bows in hand. “Your orders?”
“Stay where you are. Wait for my signal before approaching.”
Brocuff nodded. Iskra heard the guards up top mutter oaths of incredulity, but she ignored them and turned back to wait.
“Look around their feet,” said Ser Tiron, his tone turning harsh. Iskra stared and saw silvery shapes bobbing up alongside the two women. Fish, each about the length of her forearm. Clearly dead, they rose and floated belly-side-up, leaving a trail of bodies in the women’s wake. Ser Tiron straightened, and she sensed tension coil within him. “That can’t bode well. Must be Sin Casting of some kind.”
She could make out Kethe’s face now, and to her immense relief her daughter gave a wave, said something to her companion, and then broke into a jog. Each footstep sent out concentric ripples and summoned more dead fish from below. Ravens exploded out of the oak, crying raucously and beating their wings as they wheeled and flew away, swooping around the Hold and out of sight.
“Mother!” Kethe’s voice was faint, but it carried over the water. “Hello!”
“She doesn’t seem… cursed,” said Ser Tiron.
“No.”
Iskra took a step forward, right to the lake’s edge. Kethe ran up, only to hesitate where the last wavelets washed up onto the beach. For a second Iskra thought, She can’t step on land. She drowned, and her uneasy spirit is doomed to walk this lake—and then Kethe hopped off the water to crunch onto the gravel and right into Iskra’s arms. Iskra hugged her tightly, closing her eyes as she squeezed hard.
“You’re back,” she said. “You’re back.”
“Yes,” said Kethe, pulling away. “Of course.” She smiled, new complexities in her expression, and turned to look at where her companion had stopped and now was standing a dozen yards away. “In large part due to Mæva’s help. You won’t believe what happened, Mother. A demon! We joined the Hrething men in hunting it, and I got separated from the group, and it chased me and I fell into an underground river, and then—”
Ser Tiron’s growl was harsh. “How by the Black Gate are you two walking on water?”
“Oh,” said Kethe. “Right. Of course. Mæva is… I guess the word would be a wise woman? A witch? She saved my life, healed me, and then escorted me home. I don’t know where Ser Wyland and the others are, but she said she’d see me back safe, and she did.”
“A witch,” said Iskra softly, turning again to study the stranger who was standing perfectly still, watching her in turn from the dark recesses of her hood. Her firecat was watching the dead fish bob around them in the water.
“Well, I know exactly what to do with witches,” said Ser Tiron. “Invite her in close, and then I’ll chop her head off and we can burn her to ashes.”
“No!” Kethe turned to her mother. “I know it looks frightening, but she saved my life. I gave my word that she would be safe.”
“Peace,” said Iskra, not looking away from the figure. “She saved your life. I’ll not have anybody killed in payment for such service. Bid her approach.”
“Look at those dead fish, Iskra,” said Ser Tiron. “You can’t think she means us any good. Send her away if you won’t let me kill her, but don’t let her step onto this island.”
“Please, Mother.” Kethe touched Iskra’s arm. “I swear to you, I’m not under any spell, and she saved my life. She might be able to help us! At least talk to her. Get a sense of her yourself. The Hrethings won’t do more then sell us food. We can’t turn Mæva away.”
Iskra nodded and gestured that Mæva approach. Ser Tiron stiffened as the woman did so, but didn’t draw his sword. Step by step, the witch approached, and when she was a few yards away she stopped again and drew back her hood. Her firecat leaped up into the air briefly, wings flaring, only to land once more. Iskra gazed at her. She looked to be in her twenties, but her eyes were those of an older woman. There was an intelligence, a cunning, a depth of experience and wisdom in them that Iskra would have sworn had come at a terrible price.
“You saved Kethe’s life,” Iskra said, speaking as if they were in the Lord’s Hall back at her castle. “You have my deepest gratitude.”
Mæva inclined her head. “Hers is a life worth saving.”
“I would agree,” said Iskra. “But, then, I am her mother. What is her value to you?”
“Her value? Why, she’s a charming conversationalist, and her earnestness is so endearing.” Mæva paused and smiled. “Is that not enough?”
“No,” said Ser Tiron, shifting his weight subtly on the sand as if anticipating an attack.
“Your daughter has a powerful wyrd,” said Mæva. “You won’t understand or appreciate what that means, but for one like myself who can sense some of the invisible forces at work in the world, that makes her important. That she’s a Kyferin and stands in Mythgræfen Hold makes her all the more notable.” She paused, examining Iskra carefully. “And makes the boon owed to me for saving her life all the more valuable as well.”
So we come to it, thought Iskra. “And what boon would you ask of me?”
“Nothing as of yet. Let us say that I shall claim it in the future. For now, I am pleased to have returned her to you, and ask for nothing more.”
Ser Tiron went to respond, but Iskra raised her hand. “Why did you cross the lake on foot rather than circle to the causeway?”
Mæva gave a sinuous one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve walked enough for one day. That, and I knew a demonstration of my power would be requested once we got to talking. Two birds, one stone.”
Iskra nodded. “I welcome you to the Hold, Mæva. I offer you guest rights and give you my word that you’ll be safe here as long as you give me no cause for grief.” She turned to stare at Ser Tiron, who scowled at her and nodded, then back to Brocuff, who was watching wide-eyed. “Constable, see to it that your men understand what I’ve said.” She turned back to Mæva. “Now, I see there is much for us to discuss.”
“My Lady!” Audsley came running out of the front gate, puffing for breath, his firecat flying overhead. “Dire news! We have to talk at once—I—ah —” He stumbled to a stop at the sight of Mæva standing calmly on the lake’s surface. “Oh.”
Mæva simply smiled at him and stepped forth onto the beach.
Audsley’s firecat hissed and beat its wings furiously at the sight of the witch, then rose up quickly to disappear into the branches of the twisted oak.
“Enough.” Iskra’s voice was firm. “Follow me into the Hold. We’ll have this discussion in private.” She stepped back up onto the turf and strode back into the Hold, then turned off into one of the small, ruined guard rooms. Ser Tiron positioned himself just before her and to the side while Audsley shrank back against one wall. Kethe stood next to him, and Mæva stood at ease, arms crossed, firecat dropping to the ground to sit beside her, wings folded back across its brindled coat. Its eyes, Iskra saw, were a hideous yellow, like a rancid egg yolk. She’d never seen their like.
“Magister,” said Iskra. “You’re agitated. Do you want to go first?”
“Oh,” said Audsley, eyes still wide as he stared at Mæva. “No. I mean, it is urgent. But she, er, I mean… Ahem. She can go first.”
“Very well.” Iskra turned back to the witch, who met her gaze with amuseme
nt. “Then let us begin with you, Mæva. You claim my daughter has a powerful wyrd. Do you care to explain further?”
“First, let it be noted that Kethe is a fine, strong young woman,” said Mæva. “I’d like to think I’d have saved her regardless of these other factors.”
“You’d like to think?” asked Ser Tiron.
Mæva smiled. “My actions aren’t entirely predictable, noble knight, even to myself.” She hesitated. “How to explain? You are all dumb to the world. I do not mean that in an entirely insulting way, though it is hard not to feel superior. You are insensate like most people, and notice only the crudest and most obvious parts of this world. You feel the wind on your skin, enjoy sunlight on your face, can feel rough stone or piercing cold. Sometimes I am sure you feel quite intensely alive, but believe me, you are apprehending only the very surface of reality.”
Iskra found the witch’s arrogance equal parts amusing and grating. “Poor us. I assume it is otherwise for you?”
“Oh, yes.” Mæva lowered her chin, and her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. “Very much so. There are energies that flow through this world that are undetectable only to a unique few—that eddy and ebb, that surge and pool. When I walk past your Raven’s Gate, I feel a roar akin to a waterfall. This entire Hold—” She extended her arm and turned, looking around the room. “It throbs and vibrates with this power. But it’s fractured. The energies mimic the form, though that’s not always the case.” She narrowed her eyes as she concentrated. “I can feel a vortex out there in the courtyard. A sinking sensation, as if the energies were being pulled down.”
Audsley started. “Down?”
“Hmm. Yes.” Mæva cocked her head and looked to her firecat as if for confirmation. “Is there something below?”
“I… ah. Um.” Audsley stepped back. “In a moment. Please continue.”
