by Phil Tucker
Kethe turned quickly, dropping into the low guard once more. Her heart was hammering, though from excitement, not exhaustion. Her strength was back. And what was more, she could feel her power lurking just within reach. Not the exultation she had felt with Asho, but rather a sense that she could drink deep and move faster, be stronger, more resilient than was normally possible.
The other woman had yet to turn. Instead, she straightened, stared at her blade as if accusing it of something, then turned and again lowered herself into the middle guard.
"Wait," said Kethe, lowering her sword. "I've been training for years. This isn't fair."
Akkara's expression grew tight. "We're Consecrated. We have to learn fast."
"Yes, but – look. Who is training your cohort?"
"Our cohort."
"Ours?" Kethe placed her hand on her hip. "I killed your Virtue. Doesn't that disqualify me?"
"No," said Akkara, also lowering her blade. "Everything that happened to you before Consecration happened to someone else." This was said with an almost wooden intonation, as if Akkara was repeating it by rote. "We are born anew after we're Consecrated. The you who killed Makaria is gone. We are equals now. We are the future of the Empire." Akkara grimaced, and Kethe saw pain burn in the Bythian's eyes. "Nothing you could have done could disqualify you."
Kethe took a step closer. She wanted to ask what had happened to Akkara. Who she had been before she was brought to Aletheia. What had wounded her so. She's Bythian. She was a slave. That's what happened to her.
But not quite. The Bythians at her father's castle were worked hard day after day, the first to rise and the last to sleep, but were otherwise ignored. She'd heard Bertchold, their old steward, comment once that there was no sense in abusing a Bythian; it wasn't their fault they were barely better than animals, and abusing them only impaired their ability to work.
The memory made Kethe's cheeks burn with shame – she'd accepted his words as fact at the time. But those Bythians hadn't had Akkara's wounded eyes. What had happened to her?
Kethe's thoughts must have betrayed themselves, for Akkara brought her sword up and lowered herself into her stance. "Defend yourself," she whispered, then lunged forward once more with the exact same thrust.
This time, Kethe didn't even bother parrying. She simply swayed aside and let Akkara's momentum carry her past.
The Bythian staggered to a stop and lowered her head, breathing hard.
"Akkara –"
The other woman just shook her head, a sharp gesture of absolute negation. She could hear Kethe's concern. And what right did she have to pry? None.
"Akkara, you didn't tell me who's training you."
Akkara seemed to harden, locking herself under control once more, and then turned, her face expressionless. "The Virtues lead our training. Most of them are away. In the meantime, we are meant to learn from each other and the weapons masters."
"Hmm," said Kethe. "And who taught you to wield that blade?"
Akkara looked at her sword. It was incredibly long, narrow, and with a diamond-shaped cross-section. Perfect for thrusting through plate armor, terrible at cutting. "I wanted a large sword."
"All right. But why?"
Akkara lowered her gaze.
"Look, larger doesn't mean better. You want something lighter, something you can control more easily. Like my blade, for example."
Akkara frowned at Kethe's sword, then nodded reluctantly. She walked back to the weapons rack and swapped her own for a similar blade.
"Now, stand beside me. Like so. Middle guard, feet closer together. When you fight without a shield, you have to avoid thinking in terms of attack, block, attack, parry. Doing so will make your movements mechanical, will make you easier to predict." Kethe mimed doing just that. "Instead, you have to flow. Focus on your feet. Your positioning is crucial. Flow in to strike, flow back to recover, step out to the side, step back in like so."
Akkara was staring intently at Kethe's feet. "But, what of the guards?"
"The guards – well." Kethe lowered her blade. "They're shortcuts. They're points of reference, but you don't just sit in one. Look. I'm starting in the low guard. Now I flow forward, parry, and up! To the high guard. I can't parry from here, just strike, so I sidestep, swing, and bring the blade to a close guard. Back, block, then immediately forward and thrust, and down goes my blade to the low guard again. See?"
Akkara nodded slowly. "I think so."
Kethe smiled. "I only really started progressing after I figured that out. Before that, I was just mimicking movements. Come on. Just follow along with me. Blade down and back. Now, forward and sweep up to cut their knee! Back into middle guard. Thrust and recover. Sidestep –"
For half an hour, they simply drilled together. It had been too long since Kethe had just danced with her blade. The last time had been interrupted by Asho, and Kethe smiled at the memory, how they had sparred between the aspen trees. Even then she had been too angry, too depressed over her fate to enjoy it.
Now, however, with the last of the clouds to her left turning a deep slate gray, with the other combatants on the training ground filling the air with the comforting sound of blades clashing, with the beauty of Aletheia rising up to her right and the pain and solace and impossible glory of the White Gate fueling her every step, she danced.
Akkara followed along, sometimes smoothly, other times tangling her feet, but Kethe simply would smile, stop, wait for her to adopt the new stance, and then begin flowing again. Slowly, she allowed her power to seep into her body, to build up her speed. Forward and back, riposte and then parry, sidestep and thrust, back and then back again. High guard, downward chop, all the way to low guard, only to swing the blade all the way behind and around to the high guard again and sweep down with a lethal, tremendous blow.
Akkara stopped and simply stood to one side, watching, but Kethe didn't mind. This was what she needed – this release, this oneness with the blade. She pushed herself a little harder, moving faster, controlling the blade, spinning and smiling as she recalled Brocuff's old admonitions that fighting wasn't a dance.
Oh, but it can be. At its best, it's nothing more than a lethal dance with a stranger.
The sound of swords clashing had come to a stop. Blinking sweat away from her eyes, Kethe lowered her blade, turning to smile at Akkara, and saw that everyone was watching her. Watching her, and darting nervous glances at a young black woman with wild, natural hair puffed out like a storm cloud who was glaring at Kethe.
The intensity of her stare was formidable. Kethe fought the desire to raise her blade, expecting an attack. How old was the girl? Younger than Kethe – perhaps fifteen? Sixteen? Yet she stood there as if she owned the place, glaring at Kethe as if she'd been caught stealing the silverware.
"You." The young woman's voice laden with venom. "You're the one who killed Makaria."
Kethe stepped back. The other trainees all stared at her in sudden shock. Kethe tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to her lips.
"Watch yourself, girl."
It should have been ridiculous, to be so accosted by a slip of a girl. Yet her self-possession and simmering anger were formidable, and suddenly Kethe realized why she was so taken aback – power was radiating off the girl like rays of light from the sun.
The stranger narrowed her eyes, then, through what looked to be an act of will, turned and strode away.
Kethe turned to Akkara. "Who was that?"
"Synesis, the Virtue of Intelligence." Akkara's voice was subdued, though whether with awe or resentment, Kethe couldn't tell. "The youngest Virtue in recorded history. She only just became herself a few months ago."
"But I thought – I thought you said my past life was behind me?"
Akkara hesitated and then shrugged one shoulder. "That one will be difficult. Makaria was like a father to her."
"Oh," said Kethe, watching the young woman stride away.
"You're not going to have an easy time here," Akkara
warned, watching her carefully.
Kethe's shoulders sagged. "Doesn't look like it."
"Are you going to try to leave?"
Her bluntness caught Kethe by surprise. She looked up, startled, and Akkara met her gaze with her own glittering, burned-out stare.
"I... no." The truth surprised her, hit her so hard that she felt tears gather in the corners of her eyes. "No. Not yet." Not until I know how to get home.
Akkara nodded. Kethe saw a raw and wounded sympathy there, a true understanding. "It's because of the White Gate, isn't it."
It wasn't a question.
The memory came back to her. She'd been Consecrated. She'd always thought that meant being cured, being shown how to handle her power. Now she realized it was so much more.
"Yes," whispered Kethe. But that felt like a betrayal. A spark of rebellion arose within her, and she pushed back her shoulders. "For now."
Akkara snorted. "That's what I say each morning." Her smile made her next words all the worse. "And I still haven't killed myself." Then she moved past Kethe and returned the blade to the rack. "Come. I'll show you where they serve dinner."
Kethe stood, mute, watching the Bythian woman walk away from her. She shuddered and hugged herself tight. What's happened to me?
Lowering her head, she followed Akkara off the training grounds, ignoring all the way the stares of the other trainees.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A call from within prompted the servants to open the doors to the council chamber, and Tiron filed in alongside the others. Something was wrong, he realized immediately. Iskra was standing beside the emperor's divan, her hands clasped in front of her, and to anyone else she might have appeared at ease. But Tiron knew her too well. There was a stiffness to her carriage, an intensity to her expression that had not been there moments before. Tiron hesitated, wanting to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword, to move toward her.
No. This was the emperor's council chamber.
He forced himself to walk toward his seat and sit down. His heart was beating quickly, and he felt the exhilaration that always came before battle. What could have happened? A betrayal? Had the emperor taken advantage of his position to leverage concessions, an unfair trade agreement on the Gate Stone, or...?
Once everyone was seated, the emperor stirred. "You all know that this union between the forces of Lady Kyferin and Agerastos has been to our immense mutual advantage. We were both in perilous circumstances, but by reaching out and forging an alliance, we have been able to not only overcome our problems but plan an ambitious attack that may topple the very Empire."
Tiron's gaze darted from the emperor to Iskra. She wasn't looking at him; she was staring fixedly ahead, so he looked to Asho. The young knight was also studying their lady carefully, his eyes narrowed a fraction. Good. He'd be ready to move when the moment came.
"This union heralds the dawn of a new age. Agerastian will fight beside Ennoian." The emperor gestured toward Asho. "Bythians take the sword. We are making the future in this very room. We are forging a new destiny for our people. History will mark this council as a turning point for the world, a day on which the affairs of the Ascendant Empire were first struck a mortal blow and began to slide from true."
Everyone was waiting. Tiron saw Athash sitting seemingly at ease, but he was as coiled as a snake, trying to anticipate the blow before it came. The Vothaks were as still as statues and as expressionless, but Ilina's lips were pursed with impatience.
"Which is why it is all the more fitting that our alliance be formalized."
Blood was rushing in Tiron's ears. Formalized? A treaty?
"I have asked Lady Iskra Kyferin to be my empress, and she has agreed."
Tiron felt as if a mighty blow had been dealt to his spirit, knocking it out of his body and leaving him sitting there stunned. Empress?
"Given the urgency of our current situation, we deem it fitting that the ceremony take place almost immediately. As such, my chamberlain will be tasked with setting in motion the various..."
The emperor's words were drowned out by the roar that filled Tiron's mind. He sat rigid, staring at Iskra, willing her to look at him, to give him some sign that she was being coerced. Look at me, damn it, turn and look at me and tell me you wish this too...
Iskra closed her eyes, and he thought she was about to faint. Then she opened them again and looked right at Tiron, and he realized she hadn't been about to collapse; she'd been gathering her strength, preparing herself to meet his gaze.
Each beat of his heart was a hammer slamming into his ribs. She held his gaze, and he saw in the depths of her eyes fear, anguish, pain – but also resolution.
Tiron felt a hand clamp around his wrist. The grip was like iron, the fingertips digging into his tendons and forcing him to let go. He looked down. Let go of his own sword. Had he been about to draw it?
The hand was as pale as milk. Asho's. He looked up at the other knight. Asho sat relaxed, not looking at him, giving no evidence that he'd reached down and gripped Tiron's wrist tight.
Tiron sat back. Bands of iron were clenching tight around his chest. Squeezing. He could barely breathe.
No, Iskra. What had the bastard said to force her to agree? What blackmail? She couldn't want this, she couldn't...
Still holding his gaze, her eyes glassy with suppressed emotion, Iskra gave him the subtlest of nods.
The gesture speared him through and through. He knew what she meant. She was claiming her part in this.
Several people were glancing at him. Control yourself. Now. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and pressed his mouth against his clasped hands, then stared down at the table and willed his mind to stillness. Discipline. Hold fast. Do nothing else but hold.
People were rising to applaud, and the doors were thrown open. Music filled the room, and voices blended into a babble.
Asho was by his side, intercepting questions, answering for him. Tiron found a goblet of wine passed to him and drained it in one quaff.
Iskra was on the far side of the room, receiving congratulations with stately dignity. He couldn't stay here, but he had to remain. He was her escort. His duty as a knight was more important than his heart.
Another goblet was pressed into his hand. He barely tasted the wine as it sluiced down his throat. The rushing roar that spiraled within him didn't abate. By the Black Gate, did he have to stand here all evening and then escort Iskra home? He couldn't. He couldn't last that long.
A third goblet. Or was it his fourth? What did it matter? Only children counted their cups.
The whole party left the council chamber, moved down a series of halls and out into the gardens. There, lights hung from the branches of trees, music flowed, and now the crowds pressed in, dressed like birds, an endless procession of well-wishers.
Asho pulled Tiron aside into a secluded area, with a thin screen of bushes between them and the festivities.
Asho said something. Tiron blinked. "What?"
"You're leaving." Asho's face was stern. When had the Bythian runt decided he'd become a man? "You're going back to the Hold to bring news of the alliance to the others."
"Fuck the others," snarled Tiron, and he tried to push Asho aside so he could step back out into the party but was stopped cold as Asho planted his open hand on Tiron's chest and pushed him right back. Tiron staggered, caught himself, and welcomed the fierce anger that raged up within him. "Get out of my way."
"What are you going to do, Tiron?" Asho's voice was as flat and cold as a blade.
"Get out of my way, you Bythian whoreson."
Asho's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Offensive, but it doesn't answer my question. What are you going to do?"
"I'm – I'm going to protect her," said Tiron, not knowing what else to say. Tears flooded his eyes. Protect her? From what? She was going to be the damn empress. She'd be protected by legions now. But what else could he do? Yell at her? For what? Being a politician? For doing exactly what Audsley had warned him abou
t in the depths of Starkadr – parlaying her hand in marriage to accomplish her goals?
Athos watched him, pity in his eyes, and that was more than Tiron could bear. "All right," he said, pretending to relax. He raised both hands and stepped forward. "I'll fetch my –"
Without warning, he cracked his elbow hard across Asho's jaw. The Bythian staggered back into the bush, and Tiron darted past him.
He scooped a goblet off a side table and drained it dry, then tossed it aside and strode into the crowd. Where was she?
There, where the crowd was thickest. Sitting up on a platform beside that twisted, masked monkey as if she were already his wife. How would he even fuck her? She'd have to do all the work.
The thought filled him with a sick, twisted, black rage. He imagined her carefully peeling off the emperor's mask. Leaning in to lick his scarred flesh, to kiss the man's lipless mouth, to groan as he pushed his claw of a hand between her thighs...
No. He had to speak to her. Now. Had to hear it directly from her. He wouldn't believe it till she said it to him straight.
Tiron began to stride forward, pushing roughly past courtiers and nobles. Their soft cries of outrage died the moment they saw his face.
The crowd thickened as he drew closer. Would they block him from reaching her? Dark amusement filled him. Not while he had his blade.
A hand slipped around his arm, catching him just as his foot was about to touch the ground and pulling him away.
Tiron stumbled, nearly fell, staggered upright and went to elbow his attacker, but the man was gone, faded away like mist. Momentum kept Tiron walking on in his new direction as he cast furious glances around to see where his assailant had disappeared to, only for his other arm to be taken.
"It seems to me," said Orishin, "that tonight is a prime opportunity for me to introduce you to the worst place to drink in all of Agerastos."
Tiron hesitated. He needed to talk to Iskra. He looked over his shoulder to find her almost glowing in the light of the torches around the platform. The torches whose light set the armor of the Agerastian palace guards to smoldering. Ten? Twenty of them, around the platform?
