by Phil Tucker
Mæva shrugged. “In short, I can feel the play of these energies, and in some manner manipulate them, coax them into doing what I wish. It is a perilous thing to do, and it would surely kill me if I did not deflect the worst of this energy into other living creatures.”
Iskra narrowed her eyes. “The fish.”
“Indeed.” Mæva’s smile disappeared. “They paid the price of my casting.”
“Sin Casting,” said Ser Tiron.
“Names.” Mæva shrugged impatiently. “Suffice to say there’s a reason I live alone. But my point is, just as I can sense the weft and weave of these energies, I can also sense how they flow into Kethe. Pour into her and disappear.”
Kethe blinked. “Disappear?”
“As I told you, my dear, you seem to be a sinkhole for this power. Conflate that with your being a Kyferin, and you become a very important individual indeed.”
Iskra stepped forward. “What does it mean, for her to act as a sinkhole?”
Mæva gave her one-shouldered shrug again. “I don’t know. I’ve lived most of my life in solitude with Ashurina, mastering my own control of magic so as not to die. I’ve never met anybody like her. But I know it holds great import. Especially in light of her being a Kyferin.”
Iskra fought to keep her expression calm. Inside, however, her thoughts were roiling. “And why is that?”
To her surprise, it was Audsley who spoke, his voice wooden. “The Kyferins used to defend this land centuries ago from the dangers of the Black Gate.”
Everyone turned to stare at him. Ser Tiron shifted uncomfortably. “The Black Gate is sealed.”
“The one in Bythos is,” said Audsley. He smiled tremulously, but failed to hide the terror in his eyes. “But not the one high up in the mountains here.”
Iskra felt the shock like a slap. “What are you talking about?”
“Downstairs. I, ah, might have followed a naugrim into a set of hidden rooms—in which I found a lost Lunar Gate and a study and office. Scrolls. Books. Far too many for me to read in one sitting, unfortunately, but I—how shall I say—perused a number of the last message scrolls left on a desk, and learned much.” Two spots of color had appeared on Audsley’s smooth cheeks. “There is and might always have been a smaller Black Gate up in the mountains. The Hold was built by your ancestors to protect the land from it, as well as mine something called ‘Gate Stone’ from the ground. I still have much to learn, but I believe your ancestors were guardians against the evils that came through it, as well as benefiting later from mining this ore, which might quite possibly have been used to build the Lunar and Solar Gates, amongst other things.”
Nobody spoke. Audsley smiled apologetically. “So, um, yes. Which might explain why the Hold has been wiped out again and again since it was originally abandoned. Without a continuous presence here, the forces from the Black Gate would mount and prove impossible to resist when they attacked.”
Kethe passed a hand over her brow. “The demon that nearly killed me. It came through this Black Gate?”
Audsley nodded. “Yes, I’d imagine so.”
“Why was such a vital defense abandoned?” demanded Iskra.
“Well…” Audsley hesitated again. “It seems that the first Ascendant—praised be his name—was against the mining of Gate Stone. When he founded the Ascendant Empire, he ordered that all such mining operations cease.”
Kethe pressed her fingertips to her temples. “But why?”
Audsley shrugged. “I don’t know. He thought it violated the tenets of Ascension. The why of it has been lost, though the answer may lie below.”
Ser Tiron’s eyes were darting from side to side as he tried to piece this together. “But why did the Ascendant abandon this smaller Black Gate?”
Audsley shrugged helplessly again. “I need more time with the scrolls. But from their tone, I think—and this is very awkward—I think its presence was overlooked or ignored. Perhaps it was inconvenient? There is talk of the early Ascendants violently enforcing their beliefs, even at the expense of knowledge and nuance. But I really don’t know.”
Kethe looked to her mother. “While we were in Hrething, they revealed that they don’t celebrate the Winter Shriving. They call it the Black Shriving instead. They said that’s when the forces of evil sweep across the land, and when those in the Hold disappear.” She suddenly flushed in remembered outrage. “And they don’t even believe in the cycles of Ascension – they said they simply hope to lead good lives and go straight through the White Gate when they die!”
Audsley blinked rapidly. “Is that so? Fascinating. That creed was espoused by an Ascension cult over a century ago called the Jogomils, name for Jogomillin, a heretical Noussian who disappeared when his movement was, ah, suppressed by the kragh. No-one knows to where he went, but now I’m sure we can make an educated guess…”
Iskra closed her eyes and fought for calm, for control. All her life she had relied on her Sigean education and upbringing to guide her during times of peril. The world operated according to logical and ineffable laws set down by the first Ascendant, laws which set each and every living being in their place and gave them a simple and elegant system to follow in order to Ascend. There had been no mention of this chaos, this bloodshed, or of Black Gates overlooked during Ascendancy’s rise.
The situation was slipping through her fingers. There were too many questions, too much uncertainty. “This changes nothing.” She opened her eyes and gazed from one person to the next. “Lord Laur is still marching on us in twelve days. The Winter Shriving is almost two months away. We must survive his assault before we can concern ourselves with these older matters.”
Audsley spluttered, “But Lord Laur pales in significance beside these revelations—”
“Lord Laur,” said Iskra, “wants us dead. All the knowledge in the world won’t save us from his knights. Unless you have discovered a means to defeat them below?”
Audsley stepped back almost sulkily against the wall. “Well, there was a sword.”
Ser Tiron perked up. “A sword?”
Audsley nodded. “Nasty-looking thing. Somebody got cut in half by the Gate down there. Dropped their sword as they died.”
Iskra raised her hand. “Excuse me. A Gate?”
“Yes.” Audsley blushed. “I was going to mention it. A Lunar Gate, of course. I don’t know where it goes or to which phase of the moon it’s attuned, however.”
“A new Gate. In the bowels of the Hold.” She paused to process this information. “Incredible. Audsley, see to it that someone watches this Gate whenever the moon is in the sky.”
“Yes, my Lady,” said Audsley, bowing low.
“And I’ll come take a look at this sword,” said Ser Tiron.
“Mæva.” Iskra turned to the witch. “You know our situation. Will you help us against Lord Laur?”
Mæva had been watching and listening with a neutral expression. She drew herself up as if considering the question, then nodded. “Of course. Though I will not engage them in direct combat, and with the understanding that down the road your family will extend me the same amount of aid that I do you.”
Iskra nodded. “We shall provide you with commensurate aid if it is within our power to do so and does not sully our honor. Now. How can you help us?”
Mæva’s lip curled into a defiant smile as she held Ser Tiron’s gaze. “What are you seeking to accomplish first?”
“Secure the help of the Hrethings,” said Iskra.
“Then, yes. Perhaps I can help. The demon they hunt is impervious to normal weapons—”
“No,” cut in Kethe. “It isn’t. I wounded it.”
Mæva stopped, her annoyance at being interrupted changing into curiosity. “Did you, now?”
Kethe nodded. “Nothing mortal. But I left my sword buried in its side.”
Mæva tapped her lips. “Yes. I can see how you might have been able to. But not the others. No one else will be able to harm it. I could perhaps lead a small group to t
he demon and enchant their weapons so that they could wound it.” She hesitated, glanced at Ashurina, then gave a firm nod. “Yes. That I could do.”
Ser Tiron smiled. “Now we’re talking. How many weapons could you curse?”
“Curse?”
“Sin Casting is evil,” said Ser Tiron sweetly. “What else would you call it?”
Mæva smiled sweetly back. “Oh, I can see you are going to be fun. Fine. I could perhaps ‘curse’ two blades. Maybe three.”
Ser Tiron grimaced. “Only two or three?”
Her gaze hardened in irritation, but before she could respond, Iskra stepped in. “Very well. We descend to Hrething immediately. I will speak with their headman myself and strike this bargain. The demon’s head in exchange for their support.”
Audsley blanched. “Me too?”
“No. I want you to stay here and continue your research. Ser Tiron, Kethe, prepare your packs. We leave immediately.”
Kethe groaned even as Audsley beamed. Mæva gave a mocking curtsey. “I am pleased that you have chosen to accept my help.”
“Yes, well…” Iskra regarded her coldly. “I have sworn to use every tool at my disposal. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the nature of your magic, Mæva. Everything I have learned since I was a child tells me that accepting your help damns my soul.”
“Then why accept it?”
Iskra couldn’t help but glance at her daughter before answering. “It’s a price I’m willing to pay. Now come. There is a demon in need of slaying.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ser Tiron walked at the back of the group, his boots crunching on fallen twigs and dead leaves, his face and beard damp with the fog that wreathed itself through the bare trees and swallowed those in the distance whole. They were high up above Hrething, though it was impossible to tell; the few craggy bluffs they’d reached that might have offered views of the land below instead gazed out into nebulous gray nothingness. The smell of black earth and rotting wood filled the air, and sounds were muffled and indistinct. He couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder, not sure what he half-expected to be creeping up on them, but unable to control the suspicion that something would the moment he let down his guard.
The group moved in silence, following the witch as she picked a path ever higher into the mountains, a small goat walking behind her on a tight leash. Jander walked a few paces behind her, hand on the hilt of his sword, with Asho and Kethe in the center of the group. They’d been climbing for hours. No one spoke. Clearly, all of them felt the ambient menace that suffused the forest. Even Jander seemed on edge. The fact that there was an actual demon up here with them only made their fears all the more cloying.
“This will do,” said Mæva, coming to a stop.
Ser Tiron looked about. A small group of shattered rocks lay to one side, their rough sides smothered in rust-colored lichen. Pale golden leaves lay strewn everywhere over the dark dirt, barely hiding the knobby roots and elbows of rock that made footing treacherous. Skeletal trees rose up the slope before them, their naked branches blending into the fog. Distant trunks were reduced to shadows, then vague intimations of columns, then nothing at all. For the life of him Tiron couldn’t guess why she’d chosen this Ascendant-forsaken spot.
“I can sense the demon not far from here.” Mæva pushed back her hood. Gone was the persistent mockery, the aloof amusement. “It rests during the day, and won’t stir for at least another six hours.”
“Good,” said Jander. He removed his helm and raked his fingers through his hair. “That gives us time to prepare. What can you tell us of this area? Are there any geographic features that we can use to our advantage?”
Mæva nodded. “We’re not far from a cliff face that drops over a thousand feet to the forest below. Mountain goats can be found grazing across its ledges, and there’s a hunter’s trail that hugs the cliff tightly and makes its way across to the far side. It’s treacherous, but passable.”
Asho had fallen into an easy crouch, his white hair lank over his shoulders. “Not to the demon, though.”
“No,” said Mæva. “It’s too large to follow you onto the trail.”
Jander looked over at Tiron. “What do you think?”
They all turned to him, and Tiron fought the urge to scowl. What did he know of battling demons? “That trail could serve as our means of retreat. Could we draw the demon to the cliff?”
Mæva gave her one-shouldered shrug. Her goat tested the leash, then resumed nosing at the leaf litter. Tiron saw a glimpse of bare skin beneath her cloak. Did she not feel the cold? “The demon moves quickly, despite its size. But yes, there is a clearing by the cliff’s edge.”
Kethe placed one hand inside the other and pushed her palms toward the foggy sky, stretching out her back and then twisting once to each side. Her movements were sinuous and controlled. “What would happen to the demon if we managed to push it over the cliff? Would that be enough to kill it?”
Mæva shrugged again. “Perhaps. Hurt it, definitely. Kill it? I don’t know.”
Asho looked around the sparse forest. “If we could draw it to this clearing, we could attack it from all sides. We just need a way to slow it down to ensure it doesn’t catch whoever we send as bait.”
“I’ll go,” said Kethe immediately. “It already knows me. It chased me once before. I’m sure it would do so again, and I’m the fastest of all of you.”
Asho looked at her sidelong. “Are you sure?”
She glared at him. “You’re short. My legs are longer. So, yes.”
Tiron snorted. “So eager to throw away your life, are you? Well, then, let’s come up with a means to slow it. Trip rope?”
Kethe shook her head. “It smashed its way through trees the last time it chased me.”
Jander moved off to where a tall sapling stood. He gripped it with both hands and hauled back on the slender trunk. It bent, surprisingly supple. He hauled it nearly parallel with the ground and then let go. With a whish it snapped back upright. Jander looked over at them. “What do you think?”
Kethe opened her mouth, confused, then shut it again.
Tiron rubbed at his jaw. “A large enough tree, perhaps. Tie it to a rock. Whoever’s running cuts at the rope as they go by. We’d have to weaken the cord till it could be severed easily with one strike.”
Asho moved over to the tree and pushed on it. The bare branches swayed over his head. “Kethe. Would something like this stop it?”
“Stop it?” She hesitated. “No. Slow it down for a moment? Maybe.”
Jander shrugged. “We’ll see what we find along the route to the cliff. It’s a possibility. What else?”
Mæva circled around Jander, trailing a finger along his shoulders. “If you don’t find it overly cowardly, I could disguise the presence of those waiting in the clearing. Allow you to surprise the demon when it blunders forth.”
Jander stepped away from the witch, brow lowered. “Why would I find that cowardly?”
She shrugged and smiled. “You knights have bizarre understandings of honor. I don’t claim to understand it, but I know you will often refuse to do the most expedient thing, like killing an enemy when he is unarmed.”
Jander’s frown deepened. “You’re right. That would be dishonorable. But this creature is no enemy knight. I’m willing to take any advantage we can get.”
Mæva nodded. “Then I shall see it done. Come. I shall show you the cliff and the path to where the demon slumbers. Then I shall need some time to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?” asked Asho.
“Prepare to curse your blades.” Mæva glanced over at Tiron, her gaze inscrutable. “So that you may destroy it.”
Four hours later Tiron let out a shuddering breath and sat on a damp rock. His arms and back ached from their labor, and sweat was already cooling on his brow.
The clearing was about the size of the Hold’s courtyard, barely large enough for them to dance with this demon. Its far side ended in sharp rocks—and then no
thing. He’d stood at the very edge and gazed out and down, and though the clouds had hidden the depths which yawned before him, some primal sense of intuition had caused his balls to tighten and his throat to close. He’d backed away carefully.
Now they were ready, or as ready as they could get before nightfall drew any closer. Jander was standing in the center of the clearing drinking from his flask. Kethe was kneeling to one side, eyes closed as she prayed to the Ascendant. Her blade wouldn’t need Mæva’s attention. Asho and Jander had both reported that hers was the only wound that had been dealt to the demon before it had turned to chase after her.
The witch was sitting cross-legged by the cliff’s edge. She had discarded her cloak altogether, and seemed completely at ease in her thick leather skirt and minimalist top. She wasn’t faking it, either, he knew; the few times he’d walked by her, he’d not seen her shiver or any sign of goose bumps. The cold and damp didn’t bother her at all.
As he watched Mæva, her eyes opened and she focused on him. “Come,” she said, and his balls tightened all over again. “It’s time to prepare your blades. Place them before me.”
Jander and Asho exchanged a look, and Tiron knew that neither of them was comfortable with this Sin Casting, but Iskra had made it clear that they were to accept Mæva’s help, and all of them knew that without it they were doomed. So they stepped up to where she was sitting, and one by one set their blades before her.
“Where did you get that blade, Tiron?” Wyland’s voice was almost sharp. And no wonder; he’d retrieved the blade Audsley had found below the Hold. Its surface was black and gleamed as if oiled, and its serrated lower edge and wickedly curved tip made him uneasy just to hold it, as if it might animate at any moment and lash out at him.
“I brought this for our newest knight,” he said, turning to Asho. “It was below, in the rooms the Magister found,” he said. “Asho asked me about glorious swords of old. Well. This ugly blade should suit him just fine.”
“Why?” Asho stepped forward, his face a cold mask. “Is this meant to be a clever jest as to my soul’s proximity to the Black Gate?”
