The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1)

by Blayde, Morgan

  Overlooked? I laughed at my previous panic. The obvious answer had been with me all along. All I needed was a shadow to knock on. I would use my own. With the lamp at my back, I went to a wall and rapped upon it. “Azrael, my friend, I need you!”

  “And I am here.” The whispery voice appeared behind me. “Was that so hard?”

  Recognizing veiled laughter in his tone, I turned. “Would you be so kind as to take me out of here again?” I smiled sweetly, saving my displeasure with his attitude for some future occasion.

  “I could do that, but do you not want to claim your legacy first?”

  My eyes narrowed. “Do not play with me, I beg of you! I am not in the mood. The only legacy here is one of madness.”

  “Look closer at what you have learned. Your grandmother spent time here as a prisoner, but she escaped, which the Count had not expected. Any secret of hers—remaining for you to discover—will be carefully concealed within these walls.”

  “Is there such a secret left to find? Are you guessing, or do you know?”

  “There is indeed something here meant for you that will be important to your quest.”

  “Can you perhaps be a little more specific?”

  “Now, where is the fun in that?”

  I decided then and there to throttle this ambulating smudge, as soon as he fetched me out of here.

  I recalled my son had treasures he often hid ingeniously. Once, I discovered his journal by sheerest accident, chasing down an intruding pigeon atop his wardrobe… Phillippe, taking a lesson from the cat, had learned that the best hiding places are above eye level, where gazes seldom stray.

  My gaze swung to the armoire, ascending to its crown. I would need something to stand on. The chair by the vanity volunteered itself. Dragging it over, I climbed, and smiled. A linen bundle lay back from the decorative lip. I pulled the unwieldy bundle into my arms and climbed down, sneezing from the dust I had stirred.

  “It distresses me how easily you found that,” the dark angel remarked.

  I ignored him, taking the dusty bundle to the bed. Inside the sheet, I found a diary. Inside, accounts were written in a delicate artful script. I also found a white, hand-tooled leather belt, soft calf-length leather boots, matching leather pants, and a laced bodice that left arms and shoulders bare. Everything was clean and fragrant, having been packed away with dried lavender.

  A small compass lay buried in a pocket, fashioned by a great artisan. It resided inside silver rose petals on a chain, allowing it to be worn as a necklace. The needle swung in a constant circle … curious. Underneath everything else, I discovered a braided, white-leather whip—coiled, inset with small thorns that looked wickedly sharp.

  To think that my grandmother might have owned—and used—such a thing disturbed me. It in no way fit into the image I’d created of her as a child. A strange feeling overcame me, as if Amelia’s ghost were whispering in my ear. Curious, and with renewed determination to escape this prison, I gathered up the items and went toward the bath to change.

  “Wait here,” I told Azrael. “I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”

  I closed the door for privacy and stripped away my travel-stained clothing. I looked at the claw-footed tub with longing. The luxury of a bath was tempting, but not in this house. Not with Azrael so close at hand. I didn’t know who I trusted least; him or myself. Thoughts of him came unbidden, distracting me from Phillippe. I could not understand why this was so. Surely I had nothing in common with my dark companion.

  I dressed in the garments I’d found, and added my original pouch and cloak as I finished dressing. The locket with my son’s picture stayed in place. I simply added the rose compass to what I sported. My new belt possessed a clasp, so that the coiled whip could ride a hip, opposite my sword. Fortunately, the boots were a good fit.

  The clothing of the White Rose completed me, reinforcing my spirit and my mission. I unbound my hair, letting it fan out behind me in a white-gold cascade. I looked formidable and knew it. Thus armored, I returned to the outer room where the dark angel remained silent, peering at me intently as if I were some dream escaped from a fantasy.

  At last he spoke. “You are beautiful.”

  “Do not sound so surprised,” I chided, hiding my pleasure at the effect I produced. “Now, good sir, I want out.”

  “Any place special you wish to go?”

  “Downstairs will do. I do not want to go without thanking our host for such a wonderful time.”

  The dark angel’s tone darkened, “You are going to kill him?”

  “Oh, no!” I packed conviction in my tone. “That would be rude.”

  “You are going to hurt him.”

  Deciding against an obvious lie, I answered truthfully. “Oh, yes, most assuredly!”

  “Then I will not help you.”

  Men, they never want to do as they are told! “Very well, what if I promise not to be first to draw a weapon? Does that satisfy you?”

  “I can live with such a compromise.”

  Live with...? An odd phrase for an immortal being often mired in death. It made me realize how little I knew of my new shadow.

  He went to the candle and extinguished it, then the lamp. Darkness washed over me. A moment later, I sensed him hovering near, cold air displacing warm. “Give me your hand,” he instructed.

  I held my hand out, as bidden. Cold fingers claimed my own with a reassuring pressure. He tugged me into motion toward the locked door. It opened. I stumbled out into light, emerging from a large pantry on the ground floor. Impressive trick. Coming abreast of the stairs’ landing, I put hand to sword.

  Azrael stopped me, barring my way. “You promised,” he reminded me.

  I looked into the luminous eyes recessed in his cowl, then over at my grandmother’s portrait. She seemed to have a disapproving cast of features as well. I thought of the many times I had lectured my son on virtues such as honesty, fidelity, and restraint. With a glower and scowl, I removed hand from hilt. “Fine, I’ll keep my word. Now, get out of my way! I have serious matters to attend to.”

  As if used to obeying me, he did as I asked.

  I moved with an easy stride, skirting the dance floor, wading capriciously through guests. Keeping my eyes on target, I circled the floor, rounding the knot of doddering fools fawning over Dupree, hanging upon the duplicitous, gilded words dancing off his tongue.

  My manner of dress stirred speculation as I made my way through the throng. A drone lagged in my wake, swelling in intensity like a storm of locusts gathering to feed. Several servants moved as if they would intercept me, but a quick stabbing glance halted them in their tracks, compelling cautious retreats.

  Abruptly, Dupree’s head came up like a hound testing the wind. As I moved closer to him, the guests between us cleared away, leaving him vulnerable to my approach. His eyes widened as he became aware of my changed attire. I stopped a few feet from him, letting my eyes flash like a promise of death. Then, changing tactics, I smiled warmly, conceiving of greater retribution as a new dance began.

  I held my hand out for him to claim. “My Lord Count, it was naughty of you not to invite me to your party. Come dance with me.”

  “Dance? You wish to … dance?” He looked thoroughly confused at my offer.

  I stepped closer to him. He cautiously took my hand, and I went willingly into his arms.

  “You do know how to dance?” I inquired with a guileless innocence, noting his startled face. “Just move your feet and try not to fall down—or tread on my toes.”

  He smiled, ensnared by his own desire. “I shall do my best, Amelia.”

  We moved together smoothly as if gliding across a cloud. Everyone else shied away, opening up the floor to the matched precision of our steps. The count knew how to dance after all. He guided me with a gentle pressure on my shoulder blade, steering a twirling, winding course across the ballroom floor.

  With the gay music, the festive crowd watching us, and shining crystal chandeliers genero
usly reflecting the candlelight, all elements of romance were in place among high society. I had always longed for, and hidden from, this pretty dream. Everyone admires the butterfly, but the caterpillar dies to make fragile wings possible.

  For the moment, I gave myself to the dance, offering Dupree the willing companion he burned to possess. He dared not trust me, and he didn’t. I knew this from the subtle tension in his posture.

  I moved even closer, setting my head against his shoulder with a soft pleased sigh.

  He murmured lovingly into my ear, “Should you become violent, my dear, my men can be upon you in an instant.”

  We reached the doors to the balcony. They stood open, and out against the stone rail, I saw Azrael. His eyes were bright stars and the black mist of his face had parted to reveal a mischievous smile. Something about the expression tore at my heartstrings.

  The music still played, but I stopped moving, wrapping my arms firmly around Dupree. I stretched up, turning my lips to his in an invitation he was not slow to accept. I poured passion into the kiss, as though surrendering my soul, wanting to forever sear this moment into his memory—a flaming brand against his wicked heart. His arms tightened possessively. His lips drank hungrily. I felt his manhood pressing hard against me. Were we alone, I had no doubt he would have already ripped my clothes away. Only the good opinions of the crowd daunted him from doing so now.

  At last, the kiss ended, as they all must. I opened my gaze to his, offering a final smile. “I know you are surprised by this change in me. Shall I tell you what lies behind it?”

  “Please, do,” he answered warily.

  “Join me on the balcony. There’s no moonlight, but we will manage quite well.”

  Keeping an arm locked around my waist, he escorted me through open doors. I moved in front of him, turning, drawing him along, as if for a better view of the estate and the morose city beyond the high walls. Showing no alarm, Dupree remained unaware of the dark angel I pulled him toward.

  I jerked free of the Count’s hold, making him stand still by touching hand to blade. I pinned him with my stare as well. “I gave you this time so you would appreciate much better all that will never be yours, especially by force.” Spinning, I launched myself into Azrael, falling into his cold, dark infinity, and left a freshly tattered heart behind.

  I felt no guilt. Dupree had known of my thorns when he tried to pluck me. He should have been more careful.

  4. A QUESTION OF HONOR

  Time held her breath, my body was pierced by cold. I sprawled across a nameless brick street, knowing fresh bruises would follow. I was definitely going to have to stop tumbling about this way. My breath emerged as white fog while I picked myself up.

  Azrael reached into his shadows and pulled out my cream-colored cloak, returning it. “Here, you are shivering.”

  Touched by his thoughtfulness, I threw the garment over my shoulders. “I want to thank you. You have shown me … a wondrous time.” Indeed, I had found a great deal more about my Grandmother than I had hitherto known. I prized freedom even more, having tasted of life in a gilded cage. Azrael had my gratitude for getting me both in and out of Dupree’s house of obsession.

  The dark angel’s gaze fanned my face with gentle light. “I am ever your servant, White Rose.”

  Something about his manner reminded me of my son just then. I had to be growing addled, seeing Phillippe in those around me. Perhaps the desperate ache of my heart made me imagine what I longed for. “Can you take me to the Gamesman?” I asked.

  “No, White Rose. I can only help you where the game is not touched upon. Though not a player, I am bound by its sanctions within this city.”

  “Well enough. I can do this myself—it will simply take a little longer.” I estimated the path I needed to follow, and consulted my compass. If only the thing would give me a northern bearing… Suddenly, the needle stopped and backed up a bit. I smiled. I had my bearing. Apparently, the compass worked after all; I had only to ask for what I wanted.

  Walking briskly, I thrust myself deeper into the mysterious reaches of the city, and did not resent Azrael’s company. We enjoyed a companionable silence, passing street after street. Eventually, I slowed, my strength ebbing. Hunger had been nipping at my heels for a while, but now howled stridently.

  I rummaged in my pouch, past the silver mask, and located the wrapped heel of a loaf of bread, all that remained of my scant provisions since leaving home. I knew I would not find anything I could eat in this wretched city, but I dared not let myself become too weak either. I sat on the steps of an unoccupied porch and gnawed my scant fare slowly, trying to convince my stomach that it was getting far more than I had to offer.

  Azrael watched me with a pained expression. He seemed to carry a woman’s soft heart within his shadow. I wondered that Providence had ever chosen to make him a reaver. Guardian angel seemed a more suitable avocation for one so sensitive.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must leave you now. I am summoned. I will return when I can.”

  Summoned by whom, Death or his son? I nodded. “I will manage. You owe me nothing.” It was only the truth, yet my words seemed to wound him. I could not understand why, but regretted the effect. Before I could explain myself further, he turned in upon himself, darkness consuming darkness. The last bit of his cloak wiggled away to nowhere down the throat of a black star-point.

  I continued my meager meal, glad that a little warmth had crept back into my bones. Resting, I noticed an old woman emerge from the adjoining house to sweep the porch next over. Her every effort was made a torture due to chubby clay children tugging at her clothing, clinging desperately to her arms and legs, riding her back. Like a mongrel beset by fleas, the woman went into a shaking frenzy, ripping the little tyrants away, flinging them everywhere without regard for those passing by.

  She gained freedom for a brief time, but the blunt-featured dolls returned with a vengeance, more insistent than ever to hang on to her skirts. Her broom lashed out, indenting a head here, breaking stubby limbs there, a futile defiance. She could not keep up efforts to dislodge them, and in time, they were all back in place.

  My sword might do a little better, but I hesitated to help. A little wisdom was sinking in. I could not accept every fight that offered itself to me if I hoped to last throughout my quest. What was it that the hanged man had said about the city dwellers when I first arrived? I strained to recall his words.

  The pattern they set in life is their pattern in death.

  I called to the old woman, “What are those things that afflict you?”

  “These are my grudges.” Her voice rasped as if eroded by many years of constant use. “I nursed them in life, and carried them everywhere I went. Now, they will not let me do

  otherwise.” Tears slid down her face. “If only I’d spent as much time on a forgiving heart…”

  Character is Fate. Nothing I did could help anyone but the living. That insight brought another. The girl I thought I’d rescued from Dupree, if it was her habit to trust the wrong men, she would be in someone else’s clutches soon enough, crying piteously for rescue. Depressed, I climbed to my feet, feeling the aches of recent falls. I pressed on, leaving the old woman with her torments, but I would carry her lesson with me.

  In truth, I do not know how many cross streets I plodded past while fighting my way toward a hopeful disposition. I stopped more and more frequently to rest and take bearings. I thought I might have drifted into sleep while walking. It was fortunate I gave myself a mental shake, for I caught the sound of careful footsteps dogging my trail. But try as I might, I saw no one paying any more attention to me than anyone else.

  I dismissed my misgivings as nerves and wondered at the speed with which this realm was unraveling me. Was this natural or some effect of the cursed city? The general air of despair and depression made each breath I drew an increment of defeat. I longed for a clean wind anywhere, and an open patch of sky.

  An alley’s dead-end forced me to re
trace my route half a block. A skeletal, black-suited man stopped in the middle of the road as I approached. Under bushy white eyebrows, his dark eyes flared with guilty panic. He remained where he was while I chose a side passage between buildings. Coming out of the alleyway, into a deserted stretch of street, I heard the man’s footsteps echoing behind, hesitant and careful. Or was the city driving me mad?

  He was the one following me. It could not be for good reason. I had to find out why.

  After rounding the corner, I stopped in a doorway where he could not see me and waited. I heard the footfalls quicken as soon as he lost sight of me. I eased my rapier free of its leather sheath and held it loosely at my side. As the old man appeared, I emerged and stopped him with my point to his throat. He trembled in fear, or maybe infirmity, but held his ground.

  “What is your business with me?” I asked.

  “Business? I am simply out for a walk.”

  He lied. The naked hunger in his gaze betrayed him. I let my point rise, flicking past his right cheek, leaving a stinging scratch. He winced, but stayed put. “I want the truth,” I said. The scratch closed, healing instantly. He brushed blood away as if it were a trivial matter. That he healed made me discount him as a player; the duels were for the living, not the dead. I could not make him fear death, but torture was another matter. “I can make your recurring existence a lot more unpleasant if I have to.” To emphasize the point, I flicked my rapier again—this time deeper. “With each breath a misery, you will beg to speak the truth.”

  He smiled, but I was not disarmed.