The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  Kethe sat up. In fact, she did feel much better. Gone was the numbness, the sense of drifting away. She looked down at her hand. It too looked normal, the veins now barely visible, her tan returned. "Am I healed?"

  Dalitha laughed scornfully. "You're not healed, you're Consecrated!" She turned to the others in the adjoining room. "'Am I healed?' You hear that, Sighart?"

  Gray Wind pushed past Dalitha and approached Kethe, lowering himself into a crouch by her side. He moved so gracefully that she half-expected to hear a strain of music as he his next step became a dance. His pale, ashen hair reflected the light of the candle, and his fine-boned face was sensitive and expressive. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Gray Wind. We're to be members of the same cohort here at the temple."

  "Cohort?" Kethe swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  She was dressed in loose white leggings and a white woolen shirt. Where was her blade? Her belongings?

  "Cohort," said Dalitha, leaning against the doorway again. "That's us. We live together, we train together, and one day, perhaps, we'll all be Virtues together. Just a big old happy family. Right, Sigs?"

  A new figure stepped into the doorway beside Dalitha, but he ignored her question. He's a soldier born, thought Kethe, taking in his frame, how he held himself, his sheer athleticism. Or a knight. He was of medium height, more striking than handsome, with a close-cropped beard and hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He had a presence to him, not quite brooding, but rather intense, a gravity that made Kethe doubt he ever told a joke.

  "Kethe Kyferin," he said in an Ennoian accent. "I met you once, five years ago. At a tourney at my father's estate."

  Kethe studied his features. He was in his early twenties. She tried to imagine him at fifteen. Nothing came to her.

  Amusement gleamed in his dark eyes. "I'm the youngest son of Lord Wroclaw."

  "Oh!" Now she remembered a gangly, withdrawn youth with bad skin. He'd participated in the melee and had been knocked out almost immediately by a blow to the head. "Yes." Where had that awkward youth gone? How had he become this wolf? "I do remember."

  Dalitha was watching them both skeptically, her gaze flicking back and forth. "Old friends, then?"

  "Not quite," said Sighart. "She was far above me in station. We never exchanged words."

  Dalitha nodded slowly. Kethe could tell she was trying to decide whether to be displeased or not. "Well, that's all changed now. Doesn't matter who we were before, does it? We're all equals here. All Consecrated."

  Gray Wind rose smoothly to his feet. "That's very true, Dalitha. Now, Kethe. Do you feel well enough to rise?"

  Kethe answered by doing so, tossing the sheets aside and enjoying her returned vigor. Memories of the White Gate came back to her; she firmly pushed them aside. She couldn't deal with that yet.

  Dalitha pushed off the doorframe. "Come on, meet the others." She stepped into the next room. "Khoussan! Stop sulking and get out here! Akkara! Same goes for you! Come meet our seventh!"

  Gray Wind sighed and led Kethe into what revealed itself to be a central chamber, as circular as her own room and carved from the same white stone. She got a sense of cushions, furniture, columns, but her eyes were immediately pulled to the large balcony that opened up from an entire quarter of the room.

  "Oh," she gasped, and strode out onto it. It was broad and deep, large enough to train on, but she crossed right to the stone balustrade and leaned against it, staring out at the most glorious sunset of her life.

  The sun itself was hidden below the clouds, but up here they were tinted the most majestic of hues, ranging from cinnabar and umber to gold and crimson. It was as if the clouds were a vast fleet that had caught fire, each a little darker the farther away they were, and all of Aletheia below her, with its profusion of balconies, edifices, bridges and walkways, was painted in the same dusky roses and burgundies.

  The stonecloud descended out of sight, shadows indicating where outcroppings or bridges existed just below the clouds. Kethe felt her heart rise into her throat as a flock of birds – eagles? – soared around the far side of Aletheia, their great wings outstretched as they caught the thermals.

  "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Gray Wind moved to stand beside her.

  "Yes." She could only breathe the word. Looking down, she saw countless people sitting on similar balconies or in open-air courtyards, admiring the sunset, dining, some dancing to faint hints of music, others simply alone and contemplating the glorious sight before them.

  A large, dark-skinned man approached on her far side and placed his hands on the balustrade. His arms were heavily muscled, his shoulders broader than even Sighart's, and his hair was a profusion of dark ropes which he had pulled back with a leather tie. Like Sighart, he too wore a closely shorn beard, though his cheeks were clean, and there was something about him that spoke of coiled anger, of a carefully restrained fury.

  He stared down at the sunset, pursed his lips, and then turned to regard her with dark, soulful eyes.

  "I'm Khoussan," he said, his voice rich and low. "Originally from Zoe."

  Dalitha, Gray Wind and Sighart all had something youthful about them, but not Khoussan. He had a natural maturity to him that spoke of a life already lived, of experience and losses, of deep passions and pain – all of which had been locked away, so that she could only get the faintest sense of them in the depths of his eyes.

  "Kethe," she said, and extended her hand. "A pleasure to meet you."

  Surprise flickered across his face, and then he took her hand and shook it. His hand was callused, but not from wielding a blade. Had he been a laborer before being Consecrated?

  Sighart stepped out onto the balcony, followed by Dalitha, who grinned at Kethe. "Akkara and Wolfker are missing, but at least you've met most of us."

  Kethe looked from one face to the other. "And we are to be a cohort?"

  Khoussan crossed his arms over his broad chest and nodded. "Mm-hmm. Whether you like it or not, you're here to stay."

  He doesn't like this, Kethe immediately realized.

  "We're all newly Consecrated," said Gray Wind. "As such, we are grouped together so that we may learn together. Makaria is our Virtue. He's away at the moment on a mission, but when he returns, he will take a direct hand in our teaching."

  Dalitha smirked. "Even Akkara likes him, and that's saying something."

  Kethe felt her stomach knot up. Her mouth was suddenly as dry as a sun-baked river stone. "He's not coming back."

  Khoussan pushed off the railing. Sighart took a step closer to her.

  Even Gray Wind frowned. "What do you mean?"

  Which of the Virtues had placed her in this group? Theletos? Was this his idea of a joke? "Makaria. He's not coming back. He's... he's dead."

  The news hit them all like a blow. Khoussan's head rocked back. Dalitha's grin died slowly on her face. Sighart's brow lowered till his eyes were but recessed gleams in pits of shadow.

  "What are you talking about, Kethe?" Gray Wind's voice was strained. "How do you know this?"

  She wanted to laugh, wanted to cry. Instead, she shook her head and crossed her arms, leaning back and preparing herself for the worst. "They didn't tell you where he was sent? What he was told to do?"

  They all shook their heads.

  "Well." She realized that she couldn't say it. The words just caught in her throat.

  "Tell us, Kethe." Khoussan's voice was deep, urgent.

  His need eased her throat, but she suddenly couldn't meet their eyes. "He was sent along with Lord Laur's knights to kill my mother and our followers." She spoke quickly, voice low, needing to tell them, for this to be over. "He attacked us at night. My friend and I fought him on the causeway to the Hold, and we – we killed him."

  Her eyes filled with tears. She remembered Makaria's screams as Asho's black fire enveloped him and the sickly sweet stench of his flesh cooking in his armor. How nobody had wanted to touch his corpse, pull it out of the water, for days afterward.


  The four Consecrated stared at her in complete shock. Then Dalitha laughed, a high-pitched wheezing sound, as she bent over and slapped her knee. "Killed him? You? You hear that, Sigs? She claims she killed him! Ha! You almost had us going there. I can see you're going to be the funny one in the group." Dalitha straightened and pretended to wipe a tear from her eye, glancing from Sighart to Khoussan to Gray Wind and back. "Ha. What a joke. Right?"

  Kethe forced herself to look up and meet Khoussan's wounded gaze. His eyes widened, and she looked to Sighart, who had raised his chin, nostrils flared as if he'd been struck by a sudden stench. Gray Wind took a step back from her.

  "Not a joke." She pushed off the balustrade. "Unless you think this whole setup is funny, in which case you have Theletos to thank. He's dead. I killed him. There you have it."

  With that said, she strode past them and back into the room.

  She had to get out. She couldn't stay here. It didn't matter that she'd been Consecrated, whatever that really meant. She couldn't live with these people, couldn't be part of their cohort. So she strode across the living room past a row of columns, shoved open a broad door and stepped out into a broad hallway.

  None of the four Consecrated called out to her.

  Tears burned her eyes. It was so unfair. Had she asked to have this power? For Makaria to come kill her? For her uncle to be so cruel and duplicitous? Yet she was the one being styled as the monster, the murderer.

  Kethe had been rushing down the hall heedlessly, but now she came to an abrupt stop. Where was she going? She couldn't just charge around Aletheia like a maddened bull. She had to have a plan. But what?

  Return home.

  Yes. Find a way to the Solar Gates. Seek passage to Ennoia. Then from there... where? How could she return to Mythgraefen?

  Despair swamped her, but her mind immediately jumped to a different line of thought. How had she come to Aletheia? Who had brought her? Asho? No, it had to have been through a Lunar Portal. Audsley, then. Through Starkadr.

  How long had she been in Aletheia? A few days? Might Audsley still be here? If so, she had to find him. Had to catch him before he left, so that he could take her back.

  She began to stride down the hallway again. After all, nothing had really changed. She was still her mother's daughter. She still wanted to help her mother in every way she could.

  Nothing had changed.

  She stopped again. The distant sound of voices raised in song reached her ears, and a memory of white light flashed through her mind. Her knees gave so that she sank against the wall and down to the carpeted floor. By the Ascendant, what had happened to her?

  She steeled herself and finally allowed the memory of the White Gate to unveil itself. The memory of its impossible height, her flood of emotions, her desire to sink into its glory, to give herself up to its annihilating purity.

  Nothing had changed? Foolish girl. Everything had changed.

  Kethe closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool stone wall. Only days ago, she had made brave speeches about the falsity of Ascension. How a Bythian was the equal of an Aletheian, how the whole system was unjust, how she refused to follow such corrupt leaders.

  But how could she explain away the White Gate? Or the Black, for that matter? Did the fact that there were two Black Gates to hell make hell any less real?

  Her mind spun. What had her Consecration done to her? It had healed her; of that there was no doubt. Forever? She didn't know.

  Anger flickered through her like tongues of flame over dry leaves. She didn't want this. She didn't want to be Consecrated, locked up here in this stonecloud, torn from her friends, her cause, her family...

  "Are you all right?" The voice was quiet, almost a croak.

  Kethe realized somebody had been standing there for some time. Wiping at her cheeks, she turned and saw a woman – a Bythian – watching her with haunted eyes. Those eyes made her catch her breath. They glittered like those of a lover betrayed, flat and wary, as if the woman expected life to deliver only more pain. They were almost glazed in their remoteness, and her whole body, her expression, spoke of a defiant fragility.

  "I – yes." Kethe wiped her other cheek again. It was only then that she saw the bastard sword in the Bythian's hand, hilt down, scabbard tucked up behind her back. Was she bringing it to her master? Her hair was cut as short as a boy's, close-cropped and as white as her skin, but the front was worn long and to the side in a style similar to Gray Wind's.

  The Bythian nodded. Kethe sensed regret on her part for having asked. Wait – she was wearing a sword belt.

  Kethe blinked. The Bythian took a few steps back and then turned to go.

  "Wait," said Kethe, rising to one knee. "Are you Consecrated?"

  The Bythian woman froze, hung her head, then shot a look over her shoulder at Kethe. "You must be the new member of our cohort."

  What had the names been? Akkara and Wolfker. "Akkara?"

  The woman turned back to Kethe, reluctance writ large across her delicate features. "Yes." A grudging admission.

  Kethe felt a wave of lightheadedness pass through her. "I might as well tell you now. I killed Makaria, your Virtue. It was self-defense, but that doesn't seem to matter. Everyone seems to think he was a wonderful person, and maybe he was, but he just wanted to kill me, you see, which isn't – which isn't that wonderful – when you –"

  Kethe covered her face and slid back down the wall. Her shoulders heaved, and she sobbed silently, gritting her teeth, trying to stifle each cry as it fought its way up her throat, hating her tears, hating her weakness.

  Akkara made no move to comfort her. But neither did she walk away. When Kethe finally lowered her hands and gasped, opening her eyes wide so she could blot them with her sleeve, the Bythian was just standing there.

  Kethe inhaled, held her breath, then risked a glance up at Akkara's face. There was no surprise there. No shock, no pain, no sense of loss. Kethe was tempted to wonder if Akkara felt anything at all, but then realized that the hollow stare spoke of too much pain, of too much emotion, of someone who had been burned out already. Perhaps, to her, this news was merely more confirmation that the world was a terrible, ghastly place.

  "I'm headed down to the training pavilion," said Akkara at last.

  "Oh," said Kethe, then realized it was an invitation. "Do I need to bring my own weapon?"

  Akkara glanced down at her scabbarded blade and shook her head.

  Kethe nodded and pushed herself to her feet. She wiped her face again, then followed as Akkara turned and strode away down the hall.

  She moves as silently as a ghost, realized Kethe. No wonder I didn't hear her approach.

  The hall terminated at a large wooden door that led out to another circular chamber at the center of which descended a broad spiral staircase. Kethe followed Akkara's light steps down and around, then out into a larger hall through which a number of people were striding. Could they all be Consecrated? No; many of them had the look of servants or academics. She saw a knot of Noussians drifting by, deeply engaged in argument with a long-suffering looking Sigean. Akkara wasted no time, and slipped through the crowd like a shadow. Kethe hurried after as she passed down a side hall and out into a cloister that circled around a broad expanse of flat white stone.

  There, Akkara hesitated, drawing back, so Kethe did the same. Unsure why, she watched Akkara's guarded expression as the woman searched the training floor, and realized that she was either searching for someone she wished to avoid or was by nature supremely cautious. Then Akkara nodded to her and stepped out into the dim light of dusk.

  Moving in her wake, Kethe looked up, marveling at how one side of the grounds rose up and up in a sheer cliff face whose side was broken by windows and small balconies, while the other looked out onto the evening sky, the columns of the cloister dark bars against the final crimson hues of the sunset.

  "A beautiful place to train," said Kethe, following Akkara to a weapons rack.

  "Do you wish to sp
ar or work by yourself?" Akkara's voice was pitched so low that Kethe almost didn't hear her.

  "Sparring would be fine."

  Kethe turned to the rack and saw a wide array of mock weapons, some carved from wood, others of dull steel, and a selection at the far end that seemed to be real weapons. Biting her lower lip, she walked down the length of the rack, scanning the assorted axes, hammers, spears and blades until she saw a steel blade with a hand-and-a-half grip like her own.

  She pulled it free and flexed it. It bent easily and sprang back to true. She extended her arm and sighted down its length. Straight enough. Then she tried a few practice swings. Well-balanced, neither heavy at the hilt nor at the tip.

  Akkara was watching her carefully. "You know your way with a sword."

  Kethe nodded. "I'm Ennoian. My father was a warlord. I trained in secret for several years before presenting myself as his knight."

  Akkara nodded slowly, and Kethe wasn't sure if the Bythian had understood. Then the other woman drew the scabbard from her bastard sword, set it by the racks, and walked out a few paces before turning to face Kethe, blade held in both hands at waist height, point aimed at Kethe's face.

  Kethe hesitated. Akkara's stance was too wide. Should she tell her? "How long have you been training?"

  A thin vertical line appeared between Akkara's eyes. "Seven weeks."

  "Is that how long you've been Consecrated?"

  Akkara only nodded in response.

  Kethe shrugged and reversed her blade so that it swept out low behind her like a tail, pommel pointed at Akkara. She began to approach her slowly.

  "That's the low guard," said Akkara, not moving.

  This time it was Kethe's turn to nod.

  "I was told not to try it till I've mastered the other forms."

  "Good advice." Kethe glided closer.

  With a sudden burst Akkara surged forward, thrusting her sword at Kethe's face. Its length was such that it almost caught Kethe by surprise; with a cry she swept her sword up and deflected Akkara's neatly, her own sword swinging up into a high guard then chopping down to smack Akkara in the shoulder as they passed each other by.