Faang dropped to his knees and scooped her into his arms. His slumping head hid her face.
I saw her hand twitch and relief flushed through me. With the last of its benevolence, the thunderbird had protected her, leaving her intact from the fall. D’elia’s arms returned Faang’s embrace. I smiled through fresh tears.
In the sky, the dragon remained frozen in place, defiant of the winds that should have wagged his coils. Then, as we watched, he burst, darkening the green over us. Glazed boulders rained to earth, half-burying themselves in the arena sand. Many of the missile battered spectators straight through their seats. The rattle of hail surrounded me where pellets danced. Several stung me. The shower slacked. Moments passed in stunned silence, and then a drifting black ash reached the ground.
D’elia had won the struggle after all.
But since she survived, the Gamesman might have as well. It was not prudent to believe him dead just yet.
I thought the pelting was over when a monstrous lump pulped our prisoners’ torsos, making the ground swell like the sea for a moment. The thunderclap battered me from my feet. I fell and rolled, finally lifting my head. I saw that the meteor was actually the black dragon’s decapitated head, its once-fierce snarl a contortion of anguish.
There were sobs and shrieks of pain mixed with incoherent shouts coming from the spectators. They scrambled to escape, having gained the fill of such extravagant entertainment. I couldn’t say I blamed them. If the Gamesman were able to show himself and salvage this grand exhibition, he would have to do so swiftly.
Lines of black fire appeared, filling the cracks in the dragon’s head, widening them. Obsidian fanned out as the entire mass ruptured, crumbling away. There, at its core, stood the Gamesman. He clutched his hand-scythe, holding it above his head as if posed in victory. He held that stance for a long moment, then dropped his weapon to the sand. He wilted after it.
Had he expended all his strength in clinging to life? Was he now truly vulnerable?
Our gazes locked across the distance separating us. He seemed strangely transformed with the shadow of fear on his face for the first time. He had good reason to be afraid, for I was on my feet in an instant, running for him with a savage scream. I gripped my rapier tightly, determined to be his executioner.
The Gamesman regained his feet with effort, and managed to lift his sickle. He held it toward me. I knew he was reaching deep for some last dreg of power to strike me down, but I refused to stop or veer from my course. I burned in a fever of fury, gripped by obsession.
A desperate last trick by the Gamesman caused the atmosphere to thicken as though I were an insect snared in resin. Perhaps time itself flowed differently. Movement came at an enormous expense. Even the black ash in the air held its place, forgetting how to fall. The closer I came to my foe, the harder it was to move, to breathe. My heartbeat seemed to slow to a ponderous rhythm.
Still, I pressed on, straining. I was drenched in sweat. My muscles burned. The sound of my scream emerged, a long tedious thing, no longer recognizable as something shaped by a human throat.
At the core of the phenomenon, the Gamesman straightened—untouched by the effect inflicted on the rest of us. I barely moved as he strolled toward me, care-free, his assured smile back for all to see.
He lifted the sickle to strike me down.
I desperately willed my sword to intercept the blow, knowing all-the-while that I had become too slow, and now could only die.
But the Gamesman hesitated. His eyes flicked to the side.
His downward swing curved to strike elsewhere. Horror flooded my mind as Azrael appeared, the sickle lodged in the black mists of his chest.
His head was thrown back. Blazing eyes launched their glare upward. A terrible, choked sound came from his lips. He sagged in slow stages, shuddering in his cloak, stricken by the mystic power of the Gamesman’s weapon. Though not destroyed, the dimming light in Azrael’s eyes let me know he suffered intolerably.
I would have begged the Gamesman to spare my lover and turn his sickle on me instead, but I could not mouth so much as a curse.
The Gamesman’s pleased laugh pealed sharply, slicing across my nerves. His head turned my way. The ugly sound died away and he spoke, regaining strength with each word thrown in my face.
“Had you thought I would let you win? Do you know how many millennia I have passed, playing this Game?”
The sickle was pulled free and lifted once more, stained gold with angel blood. This time, I saw that I truly was the target.
I spied dazzling white over the gamesman’s shoulder. A thrill of joy kindled hope in my heart. There was one valiant spirit left with power to defy the Gamesman’s spell. Ty’hrall ran toward me, his golden horn fiercely ablaze.
It was a test of speed as to who would strike first.
The sickle blurred toward my breast.
The Gamesman was impaled from behind. His muscles locked up in agony, as several inches of spiral horn protruded from his chest. Blood spattered my face. Time was released from torturous restraint, and I found I could move again, at normal speed.
I had long sent urgent commands to my sword arm. Freed, it obeyed at once. My rapier cut the sickle free of the Gamesman’s hand, lessening the number of fingers he possessed. Reversing its arc, my sword slashed across his face. The force of the attack turned his disbelieving eyes away from me.
The horn vanished briefly as the unicorn backed away.
The Gamesman kept his feet, as if refusing to expire could alter the inevitable.
My desire was for him to die with my steel gutting him, a last memory he could take to the Courts of Death. I embraced him, and shoved my steel through his stomach until the hand-guard stopped my motion.
I needed to see the light of life fade from his eyes, to know that his wretched game was ended.
His hands tightened on my back, pleased to hold me even now.
I whispered a final message he could deliver to his father: “This city is mine—mine alone. Death has no dominion here. Tell him I said so.”
18. MIRROR, MIRROR
The Gamesman slid a few inches down my sword. His face blurred, transforming. I saw the handsome French soldier I had given my heart to seventeen years ago—the man who fathered Phillippe, snatched fresh from my memories.
I waited for a last word of hate to curdle the air between us, but the eyes that devoured my face shone with adoration.
“My face was false,” he whispered, “but not my heart. Never my heart. I will … always … love you.”
Most of me wanted to throw his words back in his face, but the ghost of the person I had once been wept in the shadows of my mind. He had spoken the truth from his failing heart: though he had put me through the torments of the damned, he had loved me, close as he could come to it anyway.
He finished his slow slide off my sword, and crumpled at my feet. With a last gasp, his eyes darkened. He was gone. In death, his features returned to those of a callow youth. I shuddered and turned into the arms of Azrael who sheltered us both in dark, cold wings of cloth.
In distant spires, bells pealed with an aching slowness, announcing the death of a monarch. I knew not who rang the bells, nor how word had reached them so swiftly, but I knew I hated the clangor. Perhaps, the bells would have rung just as loudly for me, had matters gone differently.
I pushed back from Azrael and glared into his black-mist face, featureless within his hood. “You and Ty’hrall planned that last maneuver!” My voice had more than an edge of accusation.
“What if we did?” Azrael said.
“You might have warned me what to expect.”
“Would that have made it any easier for you to bear? Besides, the Gamesman was reading your face. We needed utter surprise to hide one attack with another.”
The dark angel’s rational tone stirred up the more violent impulses in me. Madness born of battle chomped on my self control. I drew a calming breath. Burdened with few emotions, Azrael continued
, unaware of the storm I barely restrained.
“Had you known; would you have let me risk myself against so formidable a weapon as the hand-scythe?” he asked.
“Of course not!”
He threw his hood back, showing me a pale face and an unrepentant grin. “Then it is well we did not seek your permission.”
I glowered at him a moment longer, then let the matter drop. I needed to check on the rest of our forces and tend to the wounded. We had to rally with weapons drawn—there was no telling how long it would take Death to respond.
I hurried across the ash-smudged sands toward Amberyn and his elves. They were drawing warding runes in the sand, hurrying to complete a defense that might not even hold against Death. Still, we had to try. Meanwhile, the wolves watched the scampering crowds with open jaws and lolling tongues—silent laughter I found irritating. Did pleasure always have to come at another’s expense?
In moments we would be ready, then it was just a matter of waiting for Death’s response...
Between one step and the next, a rush of crushing darkness closed in, squeezing like a fist. I felt a cold like Azrael’s shadows, but I did not think he would handle me with such brusque disrespect. I sensed rapid movement and the bursting of some unseen barrier that sent ripples of vertigo through my soul.
A lurching stop by the darkness pitched me across black marble made glossy by reflected, azure light from overhead chandeliers. I lay in the middle of an immense throne room lined with black mirrors that bridged floor to ceiling. The mirrors added a murky depth all around, except for gaps between filled with smoky, jade windows. The stained glass was meekly lit by the feeble daylight beyond. Off to one side of me, monstrous bones were cunningly fitted to form a throne inset with rubies and smoky topaz. What manner of creature the bones had come from was anyone’s guess.
This was a space designed to overwhelm. It did its job well.
I pushed to my knees and turned to look behind me. A great black shadow—in three dimensions—towered over me with wings raised in a threatening fan. The man-shape trembled like black flame in a breeze.
“How dare you!” His voice was a dry, graveyard whisper, iced with anger. “How dare you wear the features of my beloved Amelia to murder my son? While I devise a severe enough punishment for your crimes, let your own fears attend to you.”
The winged terror solidified into a fully human form, wearing a black silk robe with a scarlet sash. The man’s chalk white face was nearly a skull with thin, parchment skin drawn drum tight. Though he seemed fragile and ill, on the brink of dying, he possessed an air of absolute confidence that clung like sodden loam to a buried casket.
His eyes bled green, spectral fire as he made a lifting motion with one hand.
My throat was gripped by unseen hands. I was dragged from my feet, and dangled in the air. I pried at the nothing that choked off my breath, but felt only air. I kicked my feet to no avail, helpless.
Where was Azrael? Surely he had seen me taken. Either he or the unicorn should have followed close on my heels. Was Death so powerful, his courts were closed to those I depended upon?
Death brushed me away with a slight gesture.
My body sailed across the room as if propelled by a catapult. I drew a quick breath before reaching a mirror. Instead of hard impact and the bite of shattered glass, I fell through the mirror as if it were not there, and landed in a charcoal duplicate of the throne room I had just left. The floor in my new prison proved hard enough as I hit, rolled, and slid to an eventual stop. My breath slammed out, I shivered and gasped, my senses numbed by shock.
Eventually, I recovered enough to draw myself up. Matted in silence, I huddled in defeat, nursing aches and bruises that went to the bone. All my plans lay in ruins. Despair made the deep cold around me even more biting. My breath misted the air, clouding a silver mask I no longer had reason to wear. I left it in place, lacking the will to take it off, struggling to marshal my thoughts into order.
The worst of it, I thought, was being alone, cut off from all assistance. I would have cried, but lacked the energy even for that. Hugging my knees, I wished my cloak a little thicker, so the cold floor would not drain my warmth so readily.
Time crept snail-like, and I discovered that there are worse things than solitude—it began as a chittering echo, a bare scrape of sound never born of a human throat. Awkwardly, I dragged myself to my feet, sliding my gaze across the replica throne room that was my cell. Nothing moved directly before me, but shadows slid at the edge of sight, taunting me to turn and catch them. I tried, time and again, my heart driving blood wildly through my veins as apprehension gnawed at my stomach. A cold dread shivered me, making me grip my arms tightly. I felt my nails digging in.
There was no reason for terror except some spell enthralled me. What had Death said before flinging me into this place? That my fears would attend me? Obviously, he had been most literal. Realizing this, I took myself in hand, closed my eyes, and refused to be baited. Dredging up all the courage I could, I refused to be broken by this haunting, no matter how persistent.
My hand enclosed the locket I wore with Phillippe’s picture inside. I owed it to him to keep going, no matter how difficult, no matter the scars acquired along the way. I saw clearly that I needed to use reason to conquer this vile pall.
A new voice called, “Celeste!”
Some new torment?
“Celeste, over here!”
Abaddon? The voice of his ghost? I forced myself to set aside a large part of my loathing for him since his presence offered a frail chance at escape.
“Celeste, come to the glass!”
Listing with fatigue, I went to the mirror through which I’d been cast. My hands went out. I leaned against the smooth, unyielding surface. My image was not thrown back at me. Instead, I saw the Gamesman beyond. I had glanced over my shoulder to be sure I didn’t have two of him to contend with. He had no reflection within my prison, giving him a form of access to me. These mirrors seemed to only capture those thrust into them. I almost laughed; here was a reason to be grateful for isolation.
He no longer wore a cloak of midnight-blue. His voluptuously sleeved shirt was damp with blood in front. As a shade, this would always be true of him I supposed, an indication of how he had passed. He lacked his hand sickle as well, and His face looked older, haggard—divested of dreams by his defeat at my hands.
But his eyes glittered—unshuttered, vulnerable at last. This way, he almost passed for someone else without using his glamour. A glamour that had led my son out across thin ice... A surge of hate roared up inside me, but I throttled it into submission. Spewing venom would have been pleasant, but he would only walk away, and I would have lost my chance to use him.
My voice came out hard and flat. “What do you want?”
“A few honest moments,” he pleaded.
“Very well, I honestly hate you.” I could have been nicer, but he would have known I was being deceitful.
He winced. “I meant I need to be honest with you at last.”
He stirred my curiosity, but my better instincts warned me of treachery. “Why? It is far too late for deathbed confessions.”
He smiled wryly. “Yes, you certainly made sure of that. I never thought you would win, Celeste. I never thought anyone could beat me—not at my own game.”
Was this humility, arriving at last, or petulance? Both, I decided. I did not like this weakened shell before me. Unaccustomed to grinding salt into wounds, I did not know quite how to deal with him so I continued to rely on brusque contempt since—it served me so well.
“Is there a point to this?” My hands moved across the glass that separated us. “If you need a shoulder to weep upon, look elsewhere. As you can see, any comfort I might offer lies beyond your reach.”
“I will do what I can for you. Father is taking my death hard. It means I cannot follow him in the family business, for the power of death can only be invoked by the living. It is ironic that Death himself must no
t be dead.” His gaze dropped from my own. “The succession now falls to our son, Phillippe.”
“No!” He jumped as my fists beat against the glass separating us. “I will not hear of it!”
His hand traced the glass this time. “As you see, you have no choice in the matter. Though it means nothing to you, I must say that I am sorry. You have only done as any mother would.” His gaze sought mine once more. “You fought me with courage and spirit, with more endurance than I thought possible. You have my deepest admiration. I hope in time we can start again, that you can find the grace to forgive me.”
My hands fell to my side. The right one brushed the thorn whip hanging on my hip. I wanted nothing more than to teach him its sting, but I choked down rage, and closed my eyes so they would not betray the game I must continue to play. Despite its immediate satisfaction, fury would not help me, or my son. I needed an ally here—having finally breeched the farthest gate—and my options were limited. True, I could summon Silver Wolf to me, but to what end? He would be imprisoned as I was in this black mirror purgatory, a hostage that could be used against me.
I opened my eyes, letting a milder anger show than that which scalded my soul. “I shall … try to forgive … but it will not be easy. You may have to be patient. There is much to pardon.”
His face lit with the hope I dangled in front of him. “She was right. She said I should take my son; that you would come, and in time ... we would be a family.”
I tensed, hearing that he was not alone in conspiring against me. My hate prepared to extend to another. “Who is this ‘she’ you mention?”
He looked undecided about divulging one the darker secrets he hoarded, but shrugged at last, speaking, “There is a Hunger only those of dragon blood may know. She is our mother, a spirit caged by the birth of order in the heart of Chaos. You touch her every time you pass through Azrael’s cloak. The Veil is a living thing, and she whispers in my dreams.”
The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) Page 26
