The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1)

by Blayde, Morgan

  The stranger returned and I suffered him to fasten the flower to my cloak.

  “There” he said. “They will know you now. No one else dares wear this color rose.”

  I noticed the warrior wore a pilgrim’s ring, its stone a divided moon; half obsidian, half flawless white.

  Seeing my interest, he said, “I am Gray, forever balanced between extremes, a seeker of the passions I never found in life.”

  “Then … you are dead ... a living corpse?”

  “Neither living nor a corpse. I am a shade, made solid by the World of the Dead. Anywhere else, I would be a ghost, little more than a cold shiver in the air. Here, I can be hacked to pieces and rise whole time and again. My death happened not long after I arrived, as it nearly happened to you moments ago. My blade was a half-second slower than yours.” His eyes hardened and flashed fire. “Beware! We are gathering the hungry stares of those who’ve exhausted their dreams.”

  Turning, I saw packs of converging beggars, claw-like hands out-stretched, reaching eagerly toward us.

  “So they take the dreams of others?” I asked.

  Gray moved his head in assent, cold eyes glittering. “Beware of pity, White Rose. It gives them power to bleed you dry.”

  Compassion … is dangerous? I hated every inch of this realm where everything proper stood on its head, but mostly, I feared what the game would make of me.

  Gray raised a knee high in the air and swung his foot out to kick a beggar in the face, knocking him back into others. I admired my new allies’ flexibility.

  Sword in hand once more, heart hardened, I fended off attackers approaching elsewhere. In the face of our strength, the beggars retreated.

  I noticed that the two swordsmen I had killed were twitching with reanimation. The man with the punctured lung stood, glowered at me, and walked off. The decapitated villain fumbled around until he located his head. He tied it in place and followed his friend without a backward glance.

  Gray showed no sign of leaving my side. He had been helpful and could serve as a guide in this place, but it was rank folly to trust someone I did not understand. “What is it you want of me?” I hoped my bluntness would startle the truth loose.

  “Having tasted death, I can no longer play the game, yet I haunt these streets, hoping to find some way to kick over the Gamesman’s board. To that end, I aid all the players that get this far.”

  “You are unconcerned that Abaddon might take offense at your meddling?”

  “He lets me do as I please; it must add spice to the game, or he would have stopped me before this.”

  “Tell me what you know of the city,” I demanded. “All I have heard are old tales passed on by my grandmother, and those may well be thinned and twist by time.”

  “Let us not speak here. There is an adequate tavern a few streets down. The least you can do is to buy me a drink in exchange for my words.

  I wondered how many dreams that would cost me.

  He continued, “Besides, it will give you a chance to clean and bandage that scratch you just acquired.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough, lead the way.”

  The tavern turned out to be two-story, wooden monstrosity with a pig-shaped sign that said: The Golden Sow. I followed Gray through the door, into a common area served by a bar. There were customers at the tables eating dinner. I tried not to look too closely at what lay congealing on the plates, yet my eyes were caught by a platter on the bar piled with chicken bones.

  A green mist coalesced from nowhere, adhering to the bones. They reconnected, forming two skeletons. Flesh and then feathers solidified as the chickens reconstituted themselves. The squawking fowl ran fluttering off the platter, and down the bar in a desperate bid to escape the barman who would doubtless have the cook kill and serve them up again.

  How many times had these birds suffered this fate? There was no way to know. I dismissed the question, choosing a secluded table.

  I set my back to a wall while Gray waved for drinks. They came quickly, brought by a serving girl. They exchanged lustful grins and a smoldering glance that let me know they were well acquainted. She spied the rose on my cloak and the ring on my hand. Her eyes widened.

  “It has been a long time since the White Rose passed this way! First round is on the house, my Lady.”

  “Bring some bandaging as well,” Gray said, “and Elven ointments.”

  She returned with two goblets and I reached to drink. Gray gripped my wrist with bruising force. “You will not be drinking.”

  Astonished, I simply stared. “No?”

  He looked to make sure he had my full attention, releasing me. “The living cannot survive on the fare of the dead. It is poison to you. Surely, you know you must fast within these gates?”

  “I did not know.” Such a detail hadn’t surfaced from my memories of Grandmama’s stories. I felt damned foolish. “What else do I need to know?”

  “Where the right gate lies, I imagine. Most pilgrims think it’s the one farthest from the entrance they used when entering. That is not correct—too simple an answer for winning this game. Another rule says you cannot interfere in a duel once it has started. I saw someone break that rule once.” He leaned back in his chair, a musing expression on his face. “The Gamesman ejected the offender from the city, back to his world, and made him start his quest all over again.”

  “Hmmm. The Gamesman keeps a close eye on the players, so he should turn up soon.”

  “Not so you will know him. He could have been one of those beggars for all we know. If you do not recognize the Gamesman, in one of his roles, you will have to seek him out at the center of the city. The rules say all players must pay their respects, and be offered a chance to fight the Gamesman’s champion to pass on into the Courts of Death.” Gray finished his goblet and claimed mine, grinning at me. “A man works up a thirst, dying all the time.” He guzzled a little and then went on. “The Gamesman is a collector of souls. This is his city, filled with those on their last breath when he snatched them from Death’s closing hand.”

  “Where does a mortal get that kind of power?” I wondered aloud.

  “It is not a matter of power, but of privilege. The Gamesman is Death’s son, heir to the family business. This game of his is considered training. He is given a Necropolis to run, who will one day rule the World of the Dead.” He eased back in his chair, and looked at me speculatively. “So, what brings you on such a dangerous quest? Let me guess. You are trying to recover the life of a loved one?”

  “My son was lured to his doom. He fell through ice that could not hold him. Though recovered, his soul was taken early. Even now, Phillippe lives, staring at nothing. He waits for Death to fetch his body as well.” Tears gathered in my eyes, then fell as my hands curled into fists. I desperately needed something to lash out against, but I restrained myself. “It broke my heart. So you see; I had to come—to end his silent scream.”

  The bandages were delivered on a tray along with cleansing ointments. I wiped away my tears and stood, ordering Gray to do the same. I made him turn his back to me and serve as a screen for other eyes while our server tended me. It would have been nice if my wounds had healed as quickly as everyone else’s, but I would have to die for that to happen. I preferred the pain. Once the woman finished her ministrations, I tucked my shirt in again and wrapped myself up in my cloak since the temperature inside the inn seemed not to vary from the damp chill outside. No wonder, the fireplace was empty, unused, unneeded by those who were no longer alive.

  The servant left and Gray turned back to me with a slightly lecherous grin. “Think I have never seen a woman’s body before?” Without waiting for an answer, he plunged back to the previous topic with sudden gravity. “You need to understand more about the game and the other players. I see pieces in play. Come with me.”

  He led me to a table where two gentlemen were bent toward each other over a circular board divided by seven concentric rings and sliced into eight sections. The result was a board of
sixty-four bent squares circling a hub. The pieces in play had been made by a master craftsman, life-like to the smallest detail.

  The Gamesman piece stood at the center of this small universe, a hooded figure dressed in midnight blue with a silver chain for a belt and a sickle in one hand. Most of the squares were open, but some were blocked by flat stones, taking those spaces out of play. The blocks were apparently under the control of the Gamesman.

  One piece was my character, the White Rose. Another was Silver Wolf. And I recognized another player, the Red Dragon. Grandmother had said this last player was used by mothers to scare children into virtuous behavior. Other pieces were new to me. Two of these were intriguing: an oversized black knight with a heart-shaped shield, and a lord of Avalon with a silver oak emblazoned onto a forest green tabard and shield. I could not imagine what might bring a giant or an elf to this wretched city.

  But it was my sword that was needed, not imagination—Phillippe’s soul was languishing hereabouts. “I have no more time for this,” I told Gray. “I must make haste.”

  “Nay, stay a few minutes longer. You need to understand the players you’ll be meeting. Some of them will want to cross swords with you. Some have … other methods.”

  His hesitation made me hesitate. I would give him his few minutes.

  The seated player with a green cap reached out and touched the Gamesman piece, then slid flat pieces to new squares. This dislodged a few pilgrims, bumping them into new locations. The Red Dragon landed in a space adjoining Silver Wolf.

  The other player puffed on a pipe, wreathing his head in smoke. His hand went to Silver Wolf, his chosen marker for the game, and moved the piece into the same square as Red Dragon. Smoky then picked up an eight-sided die and rolled it off to the side of the board on a strip of violet cloth.

  I did not recognize the face-up symbol. Smoky leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Always to same.”

  Green Cap picked up the die, shook it in his fist, and let it roll. He laughed at the result as Smoky growled in irritation. The Silver Wolf was then taken off the board and set next to a sandglass that was turned over.

  A break in play seemed to be required. The two gentlemen stood and stretched, as if they had been at this a long time. They noticed their audience for the first time.

  “Aha! Here are two of our pieces come to life,” Green Cap observed. Smoky turned, showing little interest in Gray, but staring at my ring as if it were some fabulous prize.

  “I knew I would see you once your piece appeared on the board. You have come past the Silver Wolf. Tell me, how is his spirit? He is by far my favorite champion, you understand?” Without waiting for an answer, he changed the subject. “Would you like to sit down, have a drink?”

  Green Cap laughed. “Make up your mind. Do you want an answer or a drink?”

  Before their quarrel escalated, I asked a question of my own. “This game board here, it is an accurate reflection of events in the City?”

  “Indeed,” Smoky nodded his head excitedly. “Whatever changes on the board as we play, reflects changes in the city. It is how we keep up on matters of great import.” He pointed at the glass. “When the Wolf is finally allowed to leave his station outside the city, the sand will fall again and we will find his piece back on the board. The board insists on showing him active for some reason, though he has died and is out of official play.”

  “How does the board know what changes to reflect?” I asked.

  Green Cap shrugged. “You need to ask the elves that make such things.”

  Elves? Did such creatures really exist?

  Smoky opened his eyes to their widest, and used a breathy tone, “It is Magic!”

  My eyes went back to the Silver Wolf game piece. I recalled my meeting with him on the bridge. Perhaps the fact that I carried his mask explained why he still had a hand in the game.

  “Red Dragon killed him?” I asked.

  “The Dragon was the instrument of his death, but the Gamesman was behind it. Some pilgrims fight the city, some serve her, and some go their own way. The Red Dragon is the Gamesman’s lackey.”

  I felt the urgency of my son’s need and was not willing to hear more of this convoluted conversation. I gave a curt nod of farewell to the gentlemen. “It has been a pleasure, but I must go. I have a promise to keep.” I headed for the door, but spun quickly as Gray’s steps followed me. “Where are you going?” I demanded

  “With you.”

  I sharpened my voice and added a steely glare, “No!”

  “No? Are you certain?”

  My hand went to my sword. “Stay here. For all I know, you are the Gamesman himself. I will not have you at my back when my attention is needed elsewhere.”

  Gray grinned with approval. “Good. You are learning.”

  I backed up several steps then turned and strode briskly to the door. I looked back once more. Gray was nowhere in sight. He probably went to find the serving girl’s bed, I decided.

  I opened the door and passed through to a street that quickly emptied as a rumbling gathered strength. I felt vibrations through the soles of my boots. An old woman with matted hair stumbled by with eyes unfocused, singing softly, “The gears … the gears … are windin’ away. Nothin’ standin’ ever stays…”

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  She ignored me, tottering on, repeating her silly song. A shudder went through the ground as a clacking sound gathered strength. A humming swelled in the air and a crystal tone mixed in. I staggered as the sound increased. My back slammed into the door I had just closed.

  An earthquake, or is the abyss swallowing this cursed city at last?

  The far curb of the street began to slide away, revealing a darkness thinned by a cloud of white steam. The city section I was on stayed still, but others moved, creating a new maze. The broken seams bordering the streets resealed themselves. Distant sections of the city rose to higher points while others dropped from view.

  I remembered the game board at the tavern, the square pieces that shifted, displacing players. This was the reality that the game reflected, happening before my eyes. Despair threatened to crush my spirit as I realized that all the distances to the gates had changed, and would keep doing so throughout the game. The puzzle could not be solved! It was all a black joke at my expense! My heart nearly hammered out of my chest, as my hopes vanished. Breathing became a battle as I sank to my knees, huddled in my cloak.

  I have come for nothing! Nothing! Oh, my poor Phillippe!

  I knew in that moment that I would either break, or find my soul’s true temper. I could wail in anguish and writhe in disappointment—or give myself over to incandescent fury! I heard ruthless laughter across the street, directed at me. It made my decision for me.

  I lifted my head and saw a knight in crimson armor, his helm crested by a miniature dragon, its ruby eyes aglitter with scorn. I knew who it had to be, having seen his image on the board game not long before. His two-handed broadsword was drawn off his back, planted point first between his feet. He leaned on the massive thing, staring at me over its glowing garnet pommel.

  My lips drew back and a scream rose from my knotted guts. The power of it lifted me. Even before landing on my feet, my sword scraped free of its scabbard. I ran at him as across the city, monstrous cathedral bells voiced a full-throated clangor.

  His deep voice rumbled like thunder. “I admire your courage, if not your sense.”

  He stepped back as I closed in and flicked his point up, kindly offering to let me impale myself. But I had sensed his intention and unveiled my true speed at the end; vaulting over the blade, planting my feet on his chest as I grabbed hold of his over-ornamented helm. It was not a move inspired by sanity, but it worked. Before he could shake me off, I smashed my swept-brass hand-guard into his face. I gave him a second blow as I slid down his armor to his feet. Surprised more than hurt, he reeled backed a step, then another, letting his sword reach zenith.

  I had played my opponent’s
game, one of aggression and domination, and knew it was stupid—turning my back on everything my father had taught me. I should have concentrated on the Dance of Death—on completing my partner's movements, his shadow. My father once told me: You do not beat your opponent in a duel, you survive, and whichever heart is most estranged from the dance will be lost.

  With searing arms, the cold fury I had taken as a lover, held me to this course, while the Red Dragon’s blade slashed toward my face. I waited long enough to be sure he’d committed to the strike, then skipped to the side, driving my point up into the gap of an armpit. His protective armor left me with few other options since his face was protected by his descending sword.

  His battle cry became a ragged bleat of pain. His sword struck the spot I had recently abandoned, falling from his hands to clatter onto the street. I ripped my blade free, kicking him in the side, knocking him over. He lay in a heap, cursing as I planted my sword’s tip under his chin.

  “Yield!” I demanded.

  He told me what I could do with myself in the crudest of terms. In a way, it was good that he despised mercy—I had lost the capacity in the fires that ravaged my soul.

  I cut open his throat so he could drink his own blood. He gurgled awhile before growing still. I had eliminated him as a player, but not a threat. Before he could resurrect, I removed his gauntlets and used his own sword to chop off his hands. Insanely, my concern rested only in preserving my own weapon’s edge.

  The Red Dragon stirred, then thrashed in agony. He bayed like an animal as my foot pinned him down. My sword tip hovered near his wide, staring eyes.

  “If I have to chop you into ten-thousand undead pieces and toss them into the abyss one by one, I will,” I said. “Give me your oath that you yield, now and forever! I will not have a dead man on my trail.”