The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1)

by Blayde, Morgan

  “Oh, not at all, White Rose. You cannot be faulted for lacking a man’s courage and strength.”

  I looked around at a village made of gray stone with brightly painted doors, exploring every imaginable shade. Wooden shutters—speckled with amethyst, garnet, moonstone, and turquoise—bracketed glassless windows. Some of the structures were two and three stories high. All of them displayed an artistic refinement I had not expected from so brutish a people. None of this had the look of a recently contrived gathering place. The Dar’kyn had been here a great while, though new to the surface overhead. I concluded that they had used roundabout tunnels before, and that the use of the crystal grotto itself was a recent improvement on things.

  My warrior escort kept back a jostling crowd of villagers. There were adults there, but mostly children, starved looking in jewel-bright jackets and gray trousers. Voices rose like a storm wind sweeping in. As news of my arrival swept through the village, the word “human” leaped about like lightning strikes.

  A white-faced little girl with hair the color of rust pointed at me. Her piping voice was clearly audible. “Her ears are round! Why are her ears round?”

  I answered her as I passed, “Because rats bit off the tips.”

  Her eyes widened with total belief.

  Children are children wherever you find them, impressionable and given to faith until the world either beats it out of them, or hardens it into a weapon of the soul.

  Bauku snorted amusement at my comment, turned, and bawled orders at the throng, “Make way! Make way! The White Rose is wanted by the king! Let us through.”

  Invoking the king opened the crowd before us. I was marched with alacrity through winding, crooked streets to a monolithic structure. It was a palace of black volcanic glass, surrounded by gray stone walls. We passed the gaping jaws of a gate with a portcullis hanging overhead. Since the iron grating was ready to fall, and chomp through my body with spear points, I did not tarry.

  That danger past, I surveyed the obsidian palace, searching out its details. Strangely, I saw no sign of guards. This ruler did not seem fearful of his own people. Short poles were set in the outer wall. Wire baskets dangled. Inside, red crystals cast bloody highlights that slithered like snakes over the face of the building. A shudder went though me as I worked to suppress my imagination. I was not helping myself, allowing thought such freedom.

  Within this stronghold, Bauku expected to be rewarded for delivering me into captivity. I was interested in seeing just what this Dar’kyn king thought I was worth.

  We ascended stairs to a porch supporting monstrous obsidian columns. Beyond them, we reached a wall with a high arched opening. It led into a large foyer with a mosaic floor. Hurriedly crossing the images, one scene caught my attention. I slowed to admire a rendering of willowy towers cresting a hillside. The ivory buildings were set against a creamy blue sky. Lower in the mosaic, armies clashed in battle. This was an Elvin city under siege.

  Bauku had stopped, and come back for me.

  “What place is that?” I asked

  He looked down, studying the floor as if seeing it for the first time, though I knew this could not be true.

  “Tis’shiah,” he answered, “City of Dreams. She guards the western passes of the Great Range. We destroyed the city ages ago, but the Elves rebuilt her; they take pride in owning the first city.”

  “The first city?”

  “First built, the oldest city on Avalon,” he said.

  “You talk as if you are not an elf yourself.”

  Silence drew my gaze from the floor. Bauku stared fixedly at me a moment longer then spoke. “We are not, not since the burning of Tissiah. We are Dar’kyn by choice.”

  “I see little difference other than bleached skin, dark hair, and lightless eyes,” I said.

  Bauku thumped his chest lightly with a fist. “The true differences are in here. We are not enslaved by the forests. We dearly hold onto our individual destinies, making the world serve us, not the other way around.”

  We left the hall behind, passing a set of doors to enter an empty audience room with a throne on a dais. Braziers along the side walls provided orange lighting, adding a smoky aroma to the air.

  I could not let what he said rest so easily. “But do you not have more similarities than differences?”

  “You think too much,” Bauku warned. “Do not let your curiosity detract from your beauty until after I have been paid for you.”

  In other words, he wanted me silent. My question had troubled him.

  We approached the center of the room. Several guards remained behind me while others fanned out to either side. Bauku held my arm possessively. I think he meant his touch to reassure.

  A door opened in the wall behind the throne. A thin, young man appeared, wearing loose robes of black silk textured with raised, embroidered leaf patterns. His long black hair was held in place by a red-gold band set with a black diamond. It glittered like a mysterious third eye. His nose was sharp, his mouth thin and cruel. He possessed no beard.

  He stood, ignoring his throne. His cold gaze swept across my bowing, fawning escort, dismissing them wordlessly. Bauku received a lingering, speculative stare that next raked me contemptuously.

  “Is it a woman or a warrior,” the king asked. “Surely not both?”

  I decided then and there to despise this idiot thoroughly, though I kept such feelings from my face.

  “Your Majesty,” Bauku’s oiled voice rolled out smoothly, “may I present the White Rose?”

  The king nodded permission and Bauku drew me closer. “White Rose,” the sorcerer said, “this is his exalted majesty, King Aracus, the Fist of Darkness, true sovereign of Avalon.”

  If he expected me to grovel, Aracus was going to be disappointed. I looked him over slowly, as he had with me, and displayed only mild curiosity. “I appreciate your hospitality, but it will be better for you if I do not stay.”

  “If you expect to be rescued, surrender hope and make the best of things,” Bauku said. “No one will ever find you here. Even the roots of the forest do not reach this deep.”

  The king frowned at Bauku for having diverted attention to himself. Aracus made a brushing away motion with his hand. “You have played your part, and will be remembered, sorcerer. Leave us to get better acquainted. Take your men.”

  Bauku looked as if he’d bitten into something sour. He bowed. “As you command…”

  Apparently, Aracus thought he needed no guards underfoot to handle me. I hoped to make him regret such arrogance. Meanwhile … I turned to the sorcerer, taking his hands in my own as the guards filed out.

  “One moment, I want to thank you for your assistance earlier when my courage failed on the bridge.” Chastely, I kissed his cheek in farewell. He smiled, pulled away, and bowed to me before backing out of the room, pulling the hallway doors shut behind him.

  I turned toward the king and sprung at him quickly, bringing up the dagger I had just stolen from Bauku’s belt. I set the tip deep against the fleshy underside of Aracus’ jaw and smiled sweetly at him. “Cry out and you die,” I promised.

  “I thought you would try something like this.” He sounded rather bored. “I allowed your resistance so that a lesson might be driven home.”

  I jabbed the knife in a little. A drop of blood beaded on the point. “What lesson is that?”

  “That your life will forever hang upon my good will, for I am never powerless.”

  The red slithers of light I had noted on the outside of the building appeared on the inner walls of the room though there were no crystal baskets here to cast a glow. The sliding streaks hit me as I jabbed the knife deeper, determined to kill the sorcerer-king. Falling back, twisting, he barely saved himself from injury. I would have pursued him, but bands of red fire wrapped my limbs. The knife slipped from nerveless fingers as the ribbons sank into my flesh and blasted my thoughts into shards. Muscles convulsed. Agony raced along my nerves. I screamed, falling. More of the red light slithered o
ver me, bearing down until it found a nesting place deep inside my flesh.

  “Too late.” He breathed the words ominously, like a sentence of death.

  Finally, I could only lie there and pray for an end to punishment. I wanted darkness to come and deliver me. My heart screamed for Azrael. But there was no hope he could reach me on this world. It was Aracus that leaned over me, his face awash with pleasure as he savored my pain. The diamond in his headband danced with an ebon flame. It had to be the talisman that controlled the living lights.

  “It hurts, does it not?” Aracus asked.

  The wiggles had stopped coming, but I could not answer, capable of little more than twitching my fingers. I felt like a candle fully melted, waiting for someone to come along and scrape me up. This potent attack might have been stopped had I worn my silver mask instead of carrying it in my pouch. Now, was too late, nor could I pull out the mask without having it taken away easily. Yet how could I have known such a defense would be needed?

  After a while, I began to recover, raging inwardly that another throw of the die had gone against me—but I had finally learned my lesson: too many people were finding me altogether too predictable. I needed more subtlety. I needed to refine my strategies as well as deepen my resources. One of which was the silver mask. Hidden by a fold of my cloak, I took it in hand.

  The dark joy in Aracus’ eyes dimmed as I gave him no reaction other than labored breathing and helplessness.

  “Now you know why I have little need of guards to protect me within this fortress,” he said.

  Within this fortress? Did that mean that the red lights could not follow should I escape the building? It was a small hope, but enough to build upon.

  He moved away, recovered my stolen knife, and came back. He gripped the weapon loosely, offering it to me hilt first. “Want to try again?” he asked.

  I shook my head side to side in vehement denial.

  He smiled with impersonal malice, as if I were more challenge than person, and straightened. “Good, you are not hopelessly stupid. I will try to make this time of training easy on you. Give me instant obedience, and I shall leave you your dignity before my court.”

  Hatred flared in me, but I made my eyes show gratitude instead. “Thank you, My Lord. You are most kind.” He searched my face carefully for mockery, but could not find it. I had locked it away along with my rage.

  The Gamesman had told me that I needed to stop leading with my heart and let reason alone serve me. While I did not believe this to be always true, in this instance, I was ready to accept his counsel. With emotions walled away, I explored options for breaking Aracus’ power over me.

  He helped me to my feet and I displayed more weakness than I actually felt. This drew a smile that kindled no warmth in his eyes.

  “I dislike hurting those around me,” he said.

  Somehow, I did not believe him.

  He casually flipped the knife over to the padded seat of his throne. The blade landed on the cushion with only a slight sound. The king continued, “You will find it pleasant to surrender responsibility and mold your will to mine. Learn to please me in all things,” moving closer, his gaze smoldered with a miser’s passion, “and I can show you ecstasies such as you have never imagined. In the end, you will beg for the kiss of dark fire that only I can give.”

  Not so long as Phillippe needed me. In my head, all possibilities dwindled to a single desperate act. The only question was when to make my play—now or later. I felt there was little value in waiting. Besides, if I did not act now, his mastery of me might seep into my bones, and I might never again find strength for defiance. But first, I would see if he could be lulled into carelessness.

  I let my voice tremble, as if I hardly dared to speak. “My Lord…”

  “Yes?”

  I cast my gaze to the floor as though cowed. “I beg you to be patient with me…”

  “Go on,” he commanded, lifting my chin so I must look him in the eyes.

  “I am at the limit of endurance, having passed many trials to reach your side. This entire world is new to me, and I am overwhelmed by such changes as you offer. I would be grateful for time to reconcile my heart to these circumstances, to wash the dust from my body, and to rest a while—”

  “You are right,” he said. “I have been a poor host. I will have you shown to a room worthy of your station.”

  He thought me Amelia, not knowing I had no station except for what I had won at sword-point. My grandmother was the true Bride of Death, thus a valuable hostage; I only played dress-up in her clothing. That fact, however, was not one I needed to share with him.

  I wavered on my feet as if I might collapse right there.

  He added support, catching hold of my arm.

  “Can you help?” I asked.

  “Of course, I always take good care of my possessions.”

  His gaze slid along my shirt, tracing the shape of my breasts. I read desire in his rapt attention.

  “How nice,” I murmured. He had anticipated my use of the knife, but did not know about the charmed mask dangling from my left hand, in the folds of my cloak. Bauku had known of it, but strangely, had let me keep it. Therefore, I had two choices: wear the wolf face as protection against the red fire, or use it offensively as a weapon.

  My free hand snaked up his chest, past his neck, to cup the back of his head. I leaned against him in a most provocative manner. He offered no resistance, as I pulled his face closer, seeking a kiss. As our lips fused, my right hand caressed the side of his face. My fingers brushed the headband he wore.

  His eyes opened. He seized my fingers, and pulled them away, as he laughed into my face. “Ah! So that is your game!”

  I showed him shocked confusion. “My Lord, I do not understand. I thought you wanted me.”

  “Oh, I do, but this is not you. Your true self is still hiding from me.”

  “No!” I played at open candor. “My true self is here!”

  With that true admission, I thrust the silver mask over his face and willed it to stay in place, making him as bestial outwardly as he was within. There came a sound like hot metal being quenched in cold water. Aracus screamed. He thrashed, knocking me to the floor. I stared up at him as smoke poured out of the eye slits and gaping jaw. His prying fingers smoked as well, burnt by silver as he tried to remove the mask.

  The jeweled headband and mask interacted violently—items of conflicting magics.

  As the king howled, hunching over in pain, I scrambled to my feet. My hand closed on the discarded knife. So far, his anguish had prevented him from summoning the red-fire. I had to act before that changed. I hurled myself at him as he straightened abruptly.

  The mask skittered across the floor. He had forcefully ripped it away along with several layers of skin. His flame-ravaged face shocked me, but my hand did not abandon its task; the knife slid into his body, up to the hilt. I had meant to drive the point into his heart, but he deflected my hand, and I gutted him instead—a more lingering death than I had intended.

  His eyes bulged with murderous hatred. He bared teeth in a grimace. His hands clawed weakly at me as he slid off the blade, to the ground at my feet.

  Shocked by my own actions, I let the knife fall between us with a clatter that seemed abysmally loud. I stumbled back. I leaned against the throne, as my lungs fought for breath. I closed my eyes and waited for my pounding heart to ease.

  Aracus’ moans and whimpers tore at my soul. I tried to armor my heart against sympathy, but found I could not. Though I had to leave quickly before my actions became known by those in the rest of the fortress, I could not shirk one last responsibility; I needed to help the king, or finish him off with mercifully haste.

  I was spared that decision by the sudden reappearance of Bauku. The sorcerer sauntered over to the fallen king, studied him a moment, then lifted his orb-headed staff. He brought the butt down with explosive force. Aracus went inert and silent—most probably dead.

  “There, that is mu
ch better.” Bauku turned my way, his face bland, his dark eyes flashing. “I see you made good use of my knife.”

  “You felt me take it,” I said. “You wanted this to happen.”

  “Certainly.” Bauku knelt to grab the headband with its black-diamond eye. He put the thing upon his brow. “The king is dead, long live the king.”

  I played for time, trying to figure out my next move. “Why arrange for me to start what you have finished?” I asked. “Why not strike him down before this?”

  “Aracus’ sympathy to the Darkness surpassed my own, gifting him with greater power. I would have lost a direct challenge. This works out much better.” He came toward me.

  I braced myself to fight, knowing he could not leave a witness alive to implicate him. He had to kill me, or die trying.

  11. THE BLACK ROSE

  I remained alert for sudden moves, but kept my muscles relaxed to better serve me.

  Bauku stopped short. “You need not fear me. I still have need of a queen.”

  “I would like to believe you, but in aiding me, you have committed treason. I have to believe you need to silence me for your own protection.”

  In an amazing coordination of dissimilar emotions, he laughed heartily, but shook his head sadly at my suspicions. I began to believe that the man was as deep as the darkness in his eyes. He went on, “You will say nothing to harm me. To leave, you need my good will. And if you decide to stay, you cannot assail my power without casting away your own. The king’s death ties our fates together.”

  “I do not trust your assurances.”

  I edged as if for the door, but my real objective was the silver mask. If he were capable of using the band to summon the ribbons of light, I needed protection. With the inside fouled by a residue of burnt skin, the last thing I wanted was to don the snarling mask, but I could not let fastidiousness get me killed. There was a possibility that the mask would no longer serve. Contact with the black diamond might have damaged its enchantment. If so, I had to hope that the headband itself had become equally impaired.