by Phil Tucker
“Laur’s not going to take this attack lightly. He’ll send in an overwhelming force to make sure the deed is done quickly and thoroughly. Even if we get a hundred locals with bows and axes, I don’t think it will be enough.”
Asho watched the men and women as they hurried back into the town, laughing and with a spring in their step. “But it vastly increases our strength.”
“True. But think: How would you deploy those men? What would you have them do?”
Asho frowned. Lining them up into a regiment and having them face the invading knights in pitched battle would lead to their slaughter. “Their strength lies in their knowledge of the land,” he said. “They could shadow the invading force, attack them from a distance, and then fade away when the knights gave chase. Pick off stragglers.” Ser Wyland’s face remained impassive. “But… then the knights would fire Hrething when they passed through it and massacre the women and children—unless we had them sent up to the higher farms. But they still wouldn’t have anything to come home to.”
“Right.” Ser Wyland looked at the last of the villagers as they disappeared into Hrething. Ser Tiron had stepped away without a word. Only the two of them were now left standing outside the town. “That’s why Gunnvaldr was so reluctant to help us. He knows that his people can’t afford to pay the price of fighting Laur’s men. The fact that they’re willing to do so speaks to their honor.”
Asho felt anger flare within him. “So, what are you saying? That we shouldn’t use the Hrethings?”
“Not at all.” Ser Wyland smiled tiredly. “Who knows where they rank on the cycle of Ascension? I would wager as low as a Zoeian, perhaps even an Agerastian given their heresy. They would benefit in dying for our cause. It’s simply that we’re going to need to have an excellent plan if we’re to use them effectively. Fortunately for Lady Kyferin, she is served by some of the bravest knights I have ever had the privilege to fight alongside.”
Asho looked away.
“What is it?”
Asho felt helplessness rise up within him. “Nothing.” He hesitated. “I just feel the fool.”
“The fool? What are you talking about?”
Asho turned away. “I thought myself strong. That I could become Lady Kyferin’s most valuable knight.” He snorted. “Instead, I’ve fumbled every opportunity, and worse yet, risked the lives of my friends through my actions.”
The silence drew out between them. Asho could feel the weight of Wyland’s gaze. He fought the urge to kick at a stone. It had been a mistake to open up.
“You’ve fought bravely.” Wyland’s voice was stern. “Why are you denigrating your accomplishments?”
A great wound tore open in Asho’s soul, and his bitterness came flooding forth. “Bravely? I was beaten soundly at the tournament. I failed to help Kethe when the demon attacked. Then, all I did in today’s fight was throw Tiron my sword so he could stab the demon. Every time I’m faced with a chance to act nobly, I throw the chance to the winds. I don’t trust my instincts. I don’t know what to do.” He wanted to laugh. “And I thought I’d become Lady Kyferin’s greatest knight. How pathetic.”
Wyland didn’t answer right away. Asho fought the urge to glance at him. Finally he spoke. “I cannot help you.”
Asho started. He’d expected to hear something about ‘true knights’ or the like. “What?” Pain cut into his chest. “So, you agree. I’m beyond hope.”
“No, I don’t agree.” Wyland sat with a sigh on a rock. “Quite the opposite. But I can’t help you until you’re willing to listen.”
“But I am listening. Right now. Go ahead. Try me.”
“No,” said Wyland, pulling off a boot. He shook it, and a pebble fell out. “You’re not listening. There’s no room in your head for my advice.”
Asho bit back on his frustration and crouched in front of the older knight. “There is. I swear there is.”
Wyland pulled off his other boot and laid his foot over his knee. There was a hole in his sock. He began to massage his foot. “Your head is so filled with bitterness and anger that you won’t listen. Do you remember when we first spoke? You told me that all you needed was your sword. I tried to caution you, but you couldn’t listen.”
Asho opened his mouth to retort, but he had nothing to say. He closed it. Was Wyland right? He hung his head. “Maybe I can’t be a true knight, then. Maybe my background prevents me from being one.”
“All evil and lazy men have excuses for their actions, and many claim hard circumstances. The mark of a real knight is his disdain for excuses. He takes full responsibility for his actions. He knows that the only thing he can control is himself, so he does exactly that.”
Asho wanted to protest. It was too much to ask. Throughout his whole life, his outrage and fury had given him strength, fueled his determination. Was he supposed to simply forget it all? Put Shaya behind him?
The wind tugged at Ser Wyland’s cloak. The knight pulled on a boot, then the other. “You’ve had a hard life, Asho. I don’t deny it. Harder than most. But don’t let that pain drag you down. Embrace it. Be grateful for it.”
“Grateful?” Asho couldn’t believe it. “For a lifetime of pain and loss and abuse?”
“Yes. Tell me: why do we Ennoians fight when violence is forbidden by the Ascendant?”
“Each cycle has its role.” Asho fought down his irritation. “Ennoians are warriors.”
“Yes, but it is clearly stated that violence is forbidden. Hence the use of the kragh. But still, how do we Ennoians hope to Ascend to Nous when we flout so grave a law?”
Asho scowled. “It’s sanctioned. It’s your role.”
“Not quite.” Ser Wyland smiled grimly. “Our dedication to war is justified by the suffering it brings us. That suffering cleanses us of the sin of murder. The more we suffer, the greater our sacrifice. Hard campaigns. Painful wounds. Violent death. We honor the Ascendant through might in arms, defeating his opponents, and by suffering for him before we die. The more we suffer, the greater our reward.”
Asho nodded reluctantly. “All right. So?”
“You, Bythian, are blessed. As unnatural as it is, your ascension to knighthood affords you the greatest chance to suffer.” Ser Wyland grinned and placed both hands on his knees. “Your suffering elevates you. If you are to serve Lady Kyferin truly, you will disdain excuses. You will ignore insults. You will let nobody drag you down. You will fight with all your heart, and when your death comes, as it surely will, you will die at peace with your life and your deeds, knowing that you have brought more light into the world than dark, that your suffering had purpose, and that you have served the Ascendant with all your soul.”
Asho’s heart was racing. Ser Wyland’s words resonated with power. He wanted to deny them, decry them as unfair. To scream his resentment and pain. But the words would not pass his lips.
Ser Wyland smiled and stood. “Don’t forget your sister. Honor her. Don’t forget the insults; rise above them. Don’t turn away from your companions; embrace them. Don’t hate Lord Kyferin. Prove him wrong.”
Asho couldn’t breathe. His every instinct fought Wyland’s words. But, whose fault had his failures been?
He saw Shaya turn and ride away into the night. He saw Kyferin’s broad face with its mocking, hooded eyes. Heard the thousand insults. Felt the blows. Remembered the endless nights he had spent staring up at the moon and vowing futilely to never cry again, to never ask why the world was unfair--instead, to get revenge, to hurt everyone as much as they had hurt him. He felt that pain, sharp and vital and burning within his core, that anguish and anger that had fueled him through so many challenges, lifted him when he wanted to give up, given him strength when he wanted to die.
It was him. He was that rage.
He reached for it. He sought that anger, but Wyland’s gaze was inscrutable, and the older knight’s words stood between him and that bitter strength. He couldn’t embrace it. Couldn’t hide in it. Couldn’t lose himself in its all-consuming self-right
eousness.
Again, Asho saw Shaya’s face. Her silver-green eyes. Her heartbreaking love for him. The sorrow he’d seen in their depths for abandoning him. His whole body shook as he was suffused with his overwhelming love for his sister, his soul mate. That final look—it had been the last time anybody had looked at him with love.
Who had she seen? What was it in him that she had loved?
Asho gave a terrible cry and covered his face with his hands. Shaya. At his most basic level, he still wanted to merit that love. He didn’t want to be alone.
He dropped his hands to see that the larger knight was watching him carefully. The wind gusted past them, and finally Wyland nodded.
“I see you, and mark you as my brother. I shall help you stand if ever you should fall. My shield shall always be at your back and my sword at your side. We are Black Wolves. We live and die for the Kyferins.”
A shiver ran through Asho, but he straightened. “I see you, and mark you as my brother.” His voice shook with emotion. “I shall be here to help you stand if ever you should fall. My shield shall always be at your back and my sword at your side.” His voice grew strong and sure, and a thrill ran through him. “We are Black Wolves. We live and die for the Kyferins.”
Wyland grinned and clasped Asho’s forearm in the warrior’s grip. “Brother.”
A happiness Asho had never dared dream might be his own flooded through him. He grinned foolishly and laughed. “Brother.”
Wyland grinned and crouched down by the horn. “Now, there’s much to do. Let’s not leave this out here to foul up the field. Help me get it to the town square. It’ll serve as an ongoing reminder as to the course the locals have chosen.”
Asho grabbed one end, glad for his leather gloves, and hefted it with a grunt. Following Ser Wyland, he felt light and clear and focused like never before. In some ways nothing had changed, but in others he felt like he’d been given a chance at a new beginning. It didn’t matter that they were opposed by seemingly insurmountable forces. Together, he knew that they could somehow defeat all of it—and would.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Iskra pulled Kethe behind her, fear driving her through the crowd without regard for her station. She fairly ran through the streets of Hrething, but in her mind’s eye she seemed to be racing down the streets of her peak city in Sige once more, diving through the solemn crowd in the desperate hope of catching a glimpse of her brother Bron as he was led away to be consecrated.
She turned into Gunnvaldr’s doorway without bothering to knock, simply stepping up and through and then turned to pull Kethe in behind her and slam the door shut. The house was empty, the fireplace filled only with ashes and coals, and in the sudden stillness she examined her daughter and wondered how she hadn’t seen the signs. Kethe trembled, her eyes moving from side to side in minute movements that betrayed the panic just beneath the surface. Reaching up, Iskra touched the smoothness that had appeared around her eyes, noting for the first time how the skin there had lost its texture. Just like Bron.
“Oh, my dearest love,” she breathed, and then pulled Kethe into a tight hug. She didn’t care about the chain and leather, the sword at her hip. This was her daughter, her precious child. Too many memories and images cascaded through her mind, a life spent loving someone, caring for them, feeling pride and hope and a terrible tenderness in light of the cruelties of the world. She held Kethe tight, breathed her in, and wished there was something she could do, anything at all that lay within her power to spare her daughter from her coming trials.
“Mother,” said Kethe at last, pulling away. “What’s happening to me?”
Iskra pulled her down to sit beside her on one of the wall benches and held her hand tightly. “You’re manifesting an affinity for the White Gate, my love.” It was so hard to say those words, but she managed, speaking smoothly and calmly, to her own surprise. “My brother suffered the same fate. When I was just fifteen, he started to show the signs. Since we were both in Sige, those signs were quickly recognized, and he was taken.”
“Your brother?” Kethe frowned. “I have an uncle?”
“Had, my love.” Iskra brushed her cheek. “He was taken from us before I met your father. When we realized what was happening, it was too late. Not that we could have done anything. It’s meant to be a source of pride, to have a member of your family taken and consecrated and raised to Aletheia. My father acted proud, but I know he was crushed, as were we all. I always meant to tell you about him. Bron.” How many years had it been since she’d said his name out loud? “But there never seemed to be a good time.” She looked down at her hands. “Perhaps on some level I hoped that I could protect you and Roddick from his fate if I simply pretended he’d never existed.”
Kethe was sitting very straight. “He became a Virtue.”
“No.” Iskra sighed. “He didn’t survive the consecration. We never saw him again.”
She felt the old shock and horror rise within her again from when word had finally reached her family, the blank nullity of knowing that smiling Bron was gone, dead, and that she would never, ever, no matter how long she lived, hear his voice or see his face again.
Kethe rocked back as if weathering a blow. “I thought…” She paused, swallowed, and tried again. “I thought that manifesting this power meant you were destined to become a Virtue.”
“No, my love. It only means that you are destined to be put through the consecration. Nobody outside of Aletheia knows what that involves, but very few survive the process. They say that it is a mercy, that if the candidate is not worthy of becoming a Virtue, that it’s better they pass away quickly so as to earn the glory of direct Ascension with all honors, regardless of their current cycle.” Her voice shook. Never had the rites and dogma of Ascension struck her as more foul than when she’d heard the smug Aletheian deliver those words to her family.
“So, I have to go to Aletheia?” Kethe tried to steel her voice, but Iskra knew her too well. Far too well. She knew how close the tears were, could feel them.
“Yes. As soon as we can get you there. They say the sooner you are consecrated, the higher your chances of survival. But I don’t know how we’re going to get you to Aletheia.” Iskra felt her heart cramp. “I will go through the Raven’s Gate when it next opens to explain the situation to Laur. He won’t kill me in plain view above the keep. He’ll understand that this transcends our struggles. He’ll give you safe passage to Ennoia.”
“No!” Kethe pulled her hands away. “I won’t abandon you. Not now, not with everything that’s going on.”
“You must.” Iskra tried to smile. “Don’t you see? It would kill me more surely than anything Laur could throw at us to see you suffer. And, my love, this is something you cannot fight. The White Gate will claim you, slowly but surely. You have to go to Aletheia. You have to be consecrated as soon as possible.”
Kethe stood and backed away. “You don’t know me if you think I’ll leave.”
“You will leave.” Iskra fought to keep her voice soft. “You have no choice in the matter.”
“I do have a choice!” Kethe clenched her hands into fists. “Everything I’ve fought for these past few years, everything I’ve done, was to assure me that I’d always have a choice! That nobody would ever be able to force me against my will again, that nobody would ever make me feel helpless or weak! If I have one thing, one single thing under my control, it’s my own life! And nobody, not even you, can tell me what to do with it!”
“Oh, my love.” Iskra stood, and would have taken her hands if she could. “Your choice was taken from you the moment you started to manifest your powers. You’ve been chosen by the White Gate. Like my brother, like your father’s ancestors. If you don’t go, you will die. You will age faster and faster as the life is sucked out of you, until you are a withered husk. You’ll burn brighter than any flame, but your fall will be terrible. You must do this. Ascension requires that you accept your destiny.”
Kethe opened her mouth to retor
t, and then looked down and away. Iskra strove to find something with which to comfort her. “Think of it this way: if you become a Virtue, then you’ll be able to end this war between Laur and me. You will discover abilities beyond that of any normal warrior - you will become a force for good to which all must bend knee. This could be our best way to find peace.”
Kethe snorted bitterly. “I’m not a child, Mother. I know it takes time to become a Virtue. Time we don’t have.”
“Time you don’t have.” Iskra placed her hands on Kethe’s shoulders and forced Kethe to meet her eyes. “What’s happening to you is more important than any of this. You have to understand that. You have to see that you’ve been chosen to perform mighty deeds. This is a terrible honor, and you can’t damn your soul by turning away from it. You must accept your fate. You must get to Aletheia. You have to survive, you have to live, and you have to respect the force that singled you out from amongst the millions alive today.”
A flood of emotions washed across Kethe’s face; Iskra saw panic, fear, fury, denial, and helplessness. Iskra pulled her into a hug again and held her tight. “We’ll survive Laur’s attack, then I’ll go through the Raven’s Gate when next it opens. There’s no choice. I swear, if there was any other way, I would take it in a heartbeat. But there isn’t. Promise me you’ll go. Please, Kethe. Promise me.”
Kethe stood stiff and awkward, but finally nodded. “All right.” Her voice was soft, and Iskra felt something break deep inside her.
“Good.” Iskra pulled back and smiled. “Now, go help the others with the feast. We have to make the most of the time we have left. I won’t have you hiding in here. I’ll be out in a moment, and then we’ll celebrate your victory. I want you to tell me all about it.”
Kethe nodded, but she didn’t really seem to hear. She walked to the front door, hesitated, then pulled it open and stepped out into the dusk.
As soon as she was gone, Iskra’s knees gave away and she nearly collapsed to the floor. She managed to pull herself to Gunnvaldr’s armchair and sank into it, misery rising up to clutch at her throat. First Roddick, now Kethe. How could she keep fighting when the most precious things in her life were being torn away from her? She wanted to bury her face and weep, wanted to crawl into a small, dark place and curl into a ball. What sort of world was this that wed you to a beast and then tore your children away one by one?
