by Phil Tucker
“I — yes. If that’s not rude to ask?”
Skandengraur’s head dipped down from the sky. NOT RUDE.
“Oh,” said Kethe. “Good.”
“My lord,” said one of the knights. “May we search for you in the halls of Aletheia?”
“No, Ser Wycke,” said Ramswold. “I’ll return here shortly. If your interest in the Order of the Stars is sincere, I would have you sworn in as soon as possible. Speak amongst your peers. If any others are righteous of heart, devout of soul, and as honorable as they are willing to sacrifice all for the Empire and the Ascendant, then I would have them amongst our number, and gladly.”
“Yes, my lord,” Ser Wycke said, bowing as he stepped back.
“Makaria!”
That was Gray Wind. Kethe turned and saw him jogging toward her, another of her Consecrated in tow: Wolfker, his pale blond hair pulled free of its braids and glossed to a gleaming red-gold by generous spatters of blood. He favored his left leg as he followed Gray Wind, but there was grim satisfaction on his face as he locked eyes with Kethe.
“The Ascendant be praised,” she whispered. After so much loss, it was an unlooked-for blessing and an unexpected source of strength to see familiar faces once more. “Wolfker. Your leg?”
“Just a scratch,” the Ennoian said as he drew up. The wound had cut through his mail and was bleeding down his thigh, but he made a show of putting weight on it and not flinching. “Just a scratch, nothing more.”
“We’ll have that seen to, regardless.”
“The others of our cohort?” He was sweating, and his pale skin was bone-white. The pain was obviously much greater than he was letting on. “Any word of them?”
“Khoussan died in Ennoia. I last saw him battling a cavekiller before I left to fight Tharok.” The thought chilled her. Had events been so hectic, had the world descended into such madness, that she was only now able to reflect on Khoussan’s fate? “I didn’t see him pass, but when Starkadr fell upon the city… he couldn’t have survived.”
“Damn,” said Wolfker.
“Dalitha?” asked Gray Wind. “Did she also…?”
“No, Dalitha is in Nous – thank the Ascendant. We’ll gather her to us as soon as we can.”
“Akkara?” Gray Wind’s voice was soft.
“She died bravely,” Kethe said, glancing at the far side of the courtyard where the waifish Bythian had detonated herself in some occult use of the White Gate’s power. “A heroic, selfless death. I’d never even heard of the like. She saved my life.”
“We’ll have to come back for Sighart when all’s done and taken care of,” said Wolfker. “He deserves better than to be pecked at by crows outside the walls.”
“Agreed,” said Kethe, and once more she saw the powerful Ennoian being smashed by the troll’s club and knocked clear off the tower’s battlements. Another friend she’d not had time to grieve for. Again, she felt a pang of guilt over such callousness. “Agreed. But for now, we’re returning to Aletheia. Lord Ramswold will transport us to the Ascendant’s Palace. A warning, however. Much has changed there since the kragh took dominion. I don’t know what to expect.”
“No matter,” Wolfker said, drawing his sword and placing its tip on the ground so he could lean his weight on it. “We’ll deal with whatever we find in the name of the Ascendant and his Seven Virtues.”
“Yes,” said Gray Wind. “In the name of Makaria, the Virtue of Happiness.”
Kethe saw in Gray Wind’s eyes for the first time a gleam that she couldn’t merely call admiration. Zealotry? She realized that the young Aletheian Consecrated was no longer seeing her, Kethe; instead, he saw Makaria, who had survived the siege of Abythos and the battle for Ennoia and had rescued them all alongside dragons out of legend.
She hesitated. Should she make a joke, cut herself down to size? Or did he need that inspiration? That reassurance?
She was saved by the approach of Akinetos, at the head of some thirty Consecrated. Mixis bore Synesis in his arms.
“Yes,” she said. “As you say.”
She knew she should give some kind of speech, should raise their spirits, prepare them for what was to come. But thoughts of the dead depressed her spirits, and she spoke the last in a quiet voice.
“Come. It’s time to return to Aletheia.”
CHAPTER 14
Asho
By slow degrees, life stole back into his limbs. His muscles spasmed, causing his arms to tremble and his legs to shiver, but he was a distant observer, uncomprehending, insulated from the pain by an enervating cocoon. Something was drawing him back into himself, however, pulling him from the nebulous ether in which he hung, down into the weak and palsied shell.
The numbness faded, and into its place came a parched nausea, as if he had wandered for a week in the Bythian badlands, grown thirsty to the point of delirium, and then been given a hard drink in place of water. His stomach clenched and heaved, but there was nothing to expel. He rolled onto his side and gasped, gagging, but still that light surrounded him, bathing him in its pearlescent glow, coaxing him back to health.
For how long he tarried on the shores of distress, he didn’t know. But eventually the world grew bright and bleary before his eyes, finally resolving itself into the flames of a half-dozen candles that were placed around his bed, and he groaned. His lips were painfully chapped, and it was with great relief that he felt a hand cradle the back of his head, lift it and press a cup to his mouth.
Water. Only a sip, but it was glorious. Before he could choke, the cup was taken away and his head laid back down on a broad pillow.
“Kethe...” He couldn’t manage any more.
“Rest, Asho.” The voice was unfamiliar, that of a young man whose features were indistinct and swimming in the candlelight. “You have pushed yourself to your limits and beyond, but you are no longer in danger. Now you need but rest.”
“Kethe,” he croaked. “Is she...?”
“She is well. Don’t fear for her.”
He was still shivering. “The war,” he managed. “Starkadr.”
“All is not yet lost. We are rallying our forces and preparing for one final battle. A battle I must attend to.”
Asho gritted his teeth and tried to sit up. The world spun, and what little water he’d drunk rushed up his throat. He spat it out over his chin with a cry.
“No, no,” said the young man, gently pushing him back. “You need to rest. If you do any more, you will likely die. You have nothing left to give.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I know you want to help, but you simply can’t. Rest. We’ll do what we can without you.”
“No,” said Asho. He fought to steady his breathing. “Can’t stay here.”
“I’m sorry. I must go.”
The young man rose and moved to the door, which opened and closed, and then Asho was alone.
He sank back onto his pillow. His brow was slick with sweat. His heart was pounding as if he’d just fought his way through a pitched battle. Focusing all his will, he lifted his hand and curled his fingers into a fist. There was no strength there. With a sigh, he let the hand drop to the covers and closed his eyes.
All is not yet lost. Not the most comforting of words.
Kethe was alive, according to the young man, but why hadn’t she come to see him? Or perhaps she had.
He turned onto his side, wincing at the pain that coursed through him. He wasn’t thinking straight. Starkadr had fallen, demons had emerged to darken the sky, and he was grousing about her not being at his bedside.
He stared at a single candleflame. It was burning straight and true. No draft. A wound of gold in the flesh of the darkness. By the Black Gate, he hurt. He’d never felt this bad, like a fruit whose meat had been scraped clean, leaving only the skin behind. Feverish and dry, nauseated and unfocused. The thought of trying to cast magic made him want to vomit.
“Damnit,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and ground his cheek against the pillow. They needed him. Kethe needed him, and he
was forced to lie here like a sick child.
He’d known that he’d pay the price for channeling so much magic, but that did nothing to ameliorate how galling it was to be rendered helpless.
Then the door opened again, and a familiar portly figure hesitated at the threshold. “Asho?”
“You,” said Asho.
“Ah, yes.” Audsley stepped inside but did not close the door. “I — well. I’m greeted with similar warmth wherever I go now. I’m sure you’re surprised. Shocked, perhaps. But if you’re not well, if you would rather I return later...?”
Asho wanted to lever himself up onto an elbow, to level a proper glare at the magister, but he couldn’t even lift his head. “What did you do, Audsley?”
“What did I do.” The magister closed the door with quiet deliberation, then turned and moved into the candlelight. He looked as if he’d aged another five years. His eyes were sunken with exhaustion, and lines were carved more deeply into his face. He looked shrunken inside his clothing. “May I sit?”
Asho didn’t respond, but Audsley pulled over a stool and lowered his bulk onto it. Immediately, a firecat leaped onto his lap and settled there, ruffling his feathers and placing his chin on his crossed forepaws.
“Aedelbert,” said Asho. “You found him?”
“It would be more accurate to say he found me. Saved me, even, in my moment of greatest need.” Audsley stroked the firecat’s folded wings. “I own that I don’t deserve his fidelity, but in this case, it may have saved the world. I was on the verge – oh, never mind. I came to apologize, Asho. Please, forgive me.”
“Not yet,” said Asho. He felt grim. Bleak. His pain made him feel cruel.
“No, of course. Not yet, if ever. I don’t hold out much hope, to be honest. Restitution – how can I ever pay it, after what’s happened? But what I did — I swear to you, Asho, by my love for Aedelbert and the most glorious of illuminated almanacs — that I did it with the best of intentions. Or so I thought. How can I be certain? I was under the sway of the demons I thought were firmly under my control. How badly were my thoughts warped by their presence? I don’t know.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Though they did torment me at the end in an attempt to break my spirit. Oh, the sights they showed me, Asho. The horrors.”
Once more, Asho didn’t respond. Audsley squirmed.
“Well, yes. My own troubles, and slight at that, all things considered.” The magister bit his lower lip. “I came to answer any questions you might have. But, first, has anybody told you… I mean, have you learned yet about – ah – Shaya?”
“Shaya?” Asho fought down a spike of fear. “What about her?”
“Oh, dear.” Audsley hunched his shoulders. “I’m so very sorry, Asho. So truly, terribly sorry. She was killed saving the Ascendant and Lady Iskra. She and Rauda. Killed by the ur-destraas.”
“What?” Asho tried to make sense of Audsley’s words, to force them into coherency. “That doesn’t make any sense. She died saving the Ascendant? Impossible. She was working with Tharok and his kragh, trying to overthrow Ascendancy.”
“Tharok himself was part of the rescue effort,” said Audsley, wringing his hands miserably as he spoke. “He’s the one who found the Ascendant’s party. They united against the demons, you see. Shaya died a hero, riding a dragon into battle against the most dangerous demon. Oh – you’ve probably not heard of the dragons, either.”
Asho waved away what sounded like nonsense. “Her body. Was her body recovered?”
“It was, and claimed by Tharok. He said she was part of his clan, that as soon as the war is over, he will –”
“Part of his clan? Never!” Asho fought to sit upright. “My parents and I will bury her.” Nausea rose up to engulf him, and with a groan he fell back.
“Asho? Shall I call someone? Get help?”
“No,” Asho croaked. He pressed the bases of his palms into his eyes till starbursts of orange and blue appeared.
Shaya.
Dead.
He saw her in his mind’s eye, a memory so well-worn it had become talismanic: Shaya riding away from Kyferin Castle in the rain, returning to Bythos and a life of slavery so as to escape Enderl Kyferin’s budding interest, her white hair plastered to her head, her expression filled with loss and guilt, sorrow and despair as she gazed back at Asho, as she left him alone with the Ennoians.
How she’d changed. Grown into a proud, brave woman, leading the Bythians in revolt against Ascendancy and trying to convince them to join Tharok’s cause. Brave, bold, beautiful, a fierce and passionate woman who had defied him and fought for her beliefs. He’d hoped to meet her again one day, to get to know the stranger he still loved, even if he no longer knew her at all…
His pain hardened and then fell away. Shaya was dead, forever gone. Another irrevocable loss.
“Asho?”
Asho lowered his hands and slowly sat up, his vision swimming. He caught his breath, then stared hard at Audsley. “What else has happened? Tell me everything.”
“I – yes, all right. That’s why I came. To apologize, to make amends.”
“I don’t want your apologies. I don’t know if we can make amends. But you can start telling me everything I don’t know.”
“Very well.” Audsley slumped slightly and looked away. “I used you to steal Tharok’s circlet. That much, you know. Why? I had been convinced by the Minister of Perfection that the only way to bring balance back into the world was by opening the Black Gate, and that he could do so with the circlet’s power.”
“Open...?” Asho trailed off, struggling to parse what Audsley was saying. “You’re… You’re not joking.”
“I’m not. More’s the pity.” Audsley took off his spectacles and rubbed them on his shirt. “I had a crisis of faith, Asho. Demon-powered Portals. Certain particularities of the past, along with curious lacunae in our explanations for how Virtues operate, the role of Sin Casters in the world. How we can no longer create wonders like the ancients once did. The injustices imposed upon so many of our people to exalt a few.”
Audsley sighed. “I thought opening the Black Gate would allow creative magic back into the world, that it would balance and set things to rights. But at the last, Aedelbert flew to my rescue. I immolated the Minister, only to watch helplessly as Zephyr, his granddaughter, took up the circlet and used it to transport Starkadr to Ennoia and there free the demons.”
“You did this, then.” Asho swiped at the sweat beading his brow. “You gave the circlet to our enemy.”
“I — I fought back at the end, but, yes, I brought it to them.” Audsley’s face was a dark moon in the candlelight. “But — no, there’s nothing I can say. I won’t offer a defense. I can only attempt to atone.”
“Hundreds of thousands died in Ennoia,” rasped Asho.
Audsley stared down at his hands.
“Do you believe this, still? What the Minister told you?”
“I don’t know,” said Audsley. “I mean, of course I wish I could swear absolute faith in Ascension, could cast aside all doubt, but — I can’t. The Ascendant himself showed me that my picture had been incomplete, that the demons in my soul were warping my ability to process what I was told, to parse the lies and distinguish the truth. But… answer me this. Is your connection to Kethe evil?”
“No,” said Asho.
“No, I don’t think so, either. But while it makes no sense under Ascendancy and serves only as your death sentence, it’s clearly explained by the Minister’s world view. A Flame Walker and an Adept of the White Gate, balancing each other out, magnifying each other’s powers, just as it was done of old... and with that partnership sundered, the Virtues, as we call them now, die early, if they survive their Consecration at all.”
“And the Flame Walkers,” said Asho, staring down at himself. “Go mad and die as well.”
“If they’re lucky,” said Audsley. “Oh, yes. If they were caught and given to the Ascendant, they’d end up in the hands of the Fujiwara.”
&n
bsp; “That chamber you took me to.” Asho fought to keep his breath. “The procedure they worked there. You know what they did.”
“Yes. And it was — is — ghastly beyond belief. They torture Sin Casters, extracting their black potions by forcing them to cast magic. Then — then they turn the Sin Casters into demons and implant them in the souls of young Fujiwaras.”
Asho sank back. “You knew this? And you took me there?”
“The ends, my good Bythian – are they not supposed to justify the means?” Audsley’s laugh was a death rattle. “Or so I told myself. Or perhaps the demons told me. They’re gone, incidentally. Driven out by the Ascendant. But no matter. I thought myself above their evil. That I could use their methods for the greater good. Oh, my mind. What madness! I feel — but who cares what I feel? My madness, my pain, it’s a pitiful thing.”
“Are they there now? These other Sin Casters?”
“I would imagine so,” said Audsley. “In the stonecloud of Haugabrjótr. I’m going back there, incidentally. The Minister of Perfection’s grandfather yet lives, can you believe it? Erenthil himself, the master artificer from the days of legend. I’m going to track him down and force him to tell us what he knows. How we may defeat Zephyr and her demonic horde.”
Asho studied the magister, who quickly dropped his eyes. “I don’t know who you are anymore, Audsley. Not after the things you’ve done.”
“Never fear! I’m the first in line to despise myself.” The magister’s teeth flashed in a smile. “Oh, yes! And if you wonder how I can sit here, glib and seemingly at peace, it’s because the alternative is to hurl myself out a window. But what cause would that serve? I must find some means of paying for the evil I’ve done. Do you see? I consider myself more worthless than the most abject Bythian — ah. Your pardon. An expression. You know I don’t mean it.”
Asho said nothing.
“But who cares?” asked Audsley. “Could you think less of me? No. So, to the Black Gate with it. I will find Erenthil, wrest what advantage I can for our benefit, and then — and then — we shall see.”
