The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) (2 page)

Once I had him surfaced,
I locked both hands in a death-grip, calling to my father, “I have him.  Pull us in!”

The horse took slow steps.

Several chunks of ice broke free.  I balanced precariously, a breath away from toppling in, on top of Philippe.

The line running to my waist went ta
ut.  I was dragged toward shore, my son with me.  He was dead weight, but I would not surrender his body.  He deserved dignity in death and I would give it to him.

Once on the path, I
tore at the rope that cinched my waist, finally untying the knot.  Father ran to us, dropping to his knees.  He stared, face tight with heartbreak.  He lifted Phillippe and carried him to his horse.  I followed, having nothing else to do but release the tears I had fought until now.  They blurred my vision, trickling down my face as silent sobs shook me.

Like a bag of grain, my son
was tossed across the saddle for the ride home.   It was gracelessly done, but father lacked the strength he’d once commanded.  I heard him wheezing in the cold and knew this was hard on him.

Hanging head down,
chest compressed, water drained from Phillippe’s lungs.

I went and leaned against him, my hands curling in his sodden cloak.  My legs trembled.  Darkness crowded the edge of sight.  I deepened my breathing, grimly holding on.

Phillippe coughed—a small sign of life that jolted my heart with hope.  I stepped back in shock and saw his fingers twitch.  “He is alive!  Father, help me.”

We
drew him off the horse, stripped off his icy clothes, and quickly bundled him in both our cloaks.  Though alive, he was still in danger.  He needed a warm fire and care, or a fever might claim yet him.  I mounted and father lifted Phillippe, placing him before me.  I would spend my strength willingly to keeping Phillippe warm and in the saddle for the short ride home.  My son said nothing, oblivious to our presence.  He stared into infinity.  In the grip of shock, h
e did not know me.

“It will be all right,” I promised.  “We
will be home soon.”

Father took charge of the extra horse. 
We rode back slower than we first came, so I might not spill Phillippe to the earth, and time dragged her heels besides.  At last, we reached home. Father helped me get Phillippe down, across the yard, and into the house.  We spread Phillippe out by the fire, and threw more wood onto the embers to stir up a blaze.

“
I am riding for Father Rousseau at the monastery,” Father said.  “I have heard he has great skill in healing.”

“Hurry,” I urged.

Father fled the house as if ghouls pursued from one of my Grandmama’s tales.

I
hurried for bedding to make my son comfortable, disturbed by his ice-white face and dead-man eyes.  I made Philippe as comfortable as possible, wishing there was more I could do.  As the flames caught and began to leap higher, I cradled his head in my lap.  If only Phillippe’s father had not been a soldier, taken from me by duty and death, I too could be comforted; this present burden would not be entirely mine to carry.

Waiting, my thoughts went to grandmother.  She had died ten years ago, and I missed her as well.  She had raised me in mother’s absence, with kindness and a bold spirit I had always longed to emulate. We had a special bond, strong as that which I shared with Philippe.

I smiled, remembering the many stories she spun of magical worlds, some burning bright with mystery and beauty, others dark and grim, often blighted.  Grandmama had spoken of the heroic battles in the Courts of Death, of the White Rose, whose flashing blade set right the tragedies of the universe.  Oh!  I wished there were such a heroine to repair my damaged heart, and strike back at the darkness that had all but destroyed Philippe.

At last, the door
burst open.  A gray-bearded man, bundled up against the winter night, entered, stomping snow off his boots.  He closed the door behind him and peered into the common room, blinking behind thick glasses.

“F
ather
Rousseau
, over here,” I cried.

He hastened to join me, and I pulled back, giving him room to work.  I
wrung my hands, recounting our disaster though father must have said as much already.  “Philippe fell through the ice.  We rescued him and he’s breathing again by Heaven’s grace, but something is still wrong with him.  He does not seem to know me or his surroundings.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Celeste
,” the priest was firm but kind, “or you will drive yourself into exhaustion.”

I nodded, knowing he was right.

Father came in from the door to the barn.  Doubtless, he had been tending the horses, giving them their long delayed comforts.  He joined me, putting an arm around my shoulders.  I wondered if he were comforting me, or bracing me against bad news.  I turned into him, resting my head against his chest.

“How is Phillippe?”
Father asked.

I pulled free, turning to receive the answer.

T
he priest faced us, his eyes wells of sadness.  “Phillippe’s soul is gone.  There is nothing left I can treat.  In time, his body will realize he is dead and follow the departed soul.”

I shook my head furiously.  “No, no, no!  It cannot be.”
  Who could do such a vile thing?  Why had they? Our family had no enemies I knew of.  How could such a thing even happen?  Reality was clearly deeper than I had ever believed, hiding forces I had not known to fear.

Father tightened his hold on me, but I broke free, fleeing the room, and a
loss I could not face.

I stood in my room, drained by the night and the morning’s activity.  Phillippe had been bathed in heated water to leech the chill from his bones, dressed warmly, and taken to his own bed.  Through it all, he stared into nothingness.  My aunt was with him.  I could not stay while the priest performed Last Rites, as was proper.  I was growing to hate all things proper.

Unable to just give up on Phillippe,
I went to my mother’s jewelry box, passed on to me the day she vanished off the face of the earth.  I lifted the lid, and pulled away the old, creased letter I kept, sent from a foreign battlefield, explaining that Phillippe’s father was dead, and would not be returning home.  Under the letter was my grandmother’s rose-carved, pearl ring. He had once told me the band was a miraculous thing, capable of opening doors better left closed.  If she was right ... and I prayed she was ... this band would serve as my passport to the realm of the dead.

My son’s soul had been taken before
its time.  I was going to bring it back no matter who objected.  If I were indeed mad, that was preferable to a world where my son would never again laugh with me, delighted with life, grasping for his dreams.

I wore a pouch that held
provisions, as I stuffed my feet into my son’s dried boots.  Once more, I threw on my cloak, preparing to leave on a desperate mission.  I took my sword from the armoire, buckling it on.  The blade had been a gift the day I brought Phillippe into the world, continuing the family line.  Few women knew how to handle a sword.  Most didn’t care, or lacked the discipline needed to learn.  My father had started me at five with a toy wooden sword, making a chore at what should have been play.  I had served as his
foil
all my life.  Phillippe had shown little interest.  I think father hoped his grandson might yet change his mind.  However, since age might claim father before then, he had entrusted to me all his secrets so they might not be lost.

This
manly skill made me to a curiosity to many who might otherwise have been friends, or not.  I had never known how to break deep silences and make friends, let alone keep them.  Still, my life here was comfortable, if lonely.  I had dreamed once of making my way to other lands, living a larger life, but happily abandoned such fancies when Phillippe was born.  I had been content to simply be his mother. 

It was strange
to know I must save him by leaving on a mission embracing the fantastic.  Many would call this folly, saying my wits were warped by grief.  Well, damn them all—I was going.  I would use the skills beaten into me to save my son though all Hell and half of Heaven stood against me!

I left my room, taking the hall to the
common room.  Father was there, haunting the spot where Phillippe had lain.

Father’s
eyebrows rose as he saw me.  “Where are you...?”  He saw the ring upon my hand.  His face paled with fear for me.  He bore down on me, resting a hand on my shoulder.  His expression was earnest, his voice beseeching.  “Celeste, I know how you feel, but your reach exceeds your grasp.”

“
Do you fear I cannot open the way?”

“
I am afraid you will—that the way you are choosing will consume you, as it did your mother.  Taking the peculiar ring I once wore, she left us and failed to return.  Death must have claimed her, and I don’t want him to take you as well.”

“I have to try.  I cannot stand idle as
Phillippe dies.”

“If that is
God’s will...”

I shook my head in angry denial.  “Surely, it is God’s will that we fight for those we love
with all our strength.”

“If there were any real
chance,” he said, “I would go myself.  I, too, once wore a pilgrim’s ring.  I know the ways of other worlds.  But there is no hope.”  His grim voice strengthened, turning hard.  “I forbid you to go.”

“How will you stop me?” I looked down at the sword he still wore.
“With that?”

He looked aghast at the suggestion, then
resolve hardened his face.  He nodded.   “If I must...”

Rage boiled up in me.  This desperate gamble was the last hope my son had.  My eyes narrowed as I threw back my cloak, showing
father the sword at my side.  “You should know, old man, these last few years at practice—I have been letting you win.”

His face flushed with rage.
  He spun away from me and stomped back to the fireplace.  The flames danced in glee above embers that reminded me of the eyes of the vile wraith that had lured my son to his doom.  A ravished log cracked and popped, breaking in half.  A swarm of sparks rose with the smoke.

“Do what you want,”
father said.  “You always have.  But the horses are mine, so you will not be getting too far.”

I
understood his pain.  I had hurt him twice over; as my father and my sword master.  His damaged pride denied me his blessing, but he was not hindering me much by withholding a mount.  The stories were true, so I needed only to walk as far as the closest bridge.  The ring would do the rest.

I turned and left
.  Regret flooded my heart, but my determination burned just as strong.  Outside, I paused to look back at him through the cracked door and whispered parting words. “I’m sorry.” I closed the door between us.

2.
CITY OF THE DEAD

Impatience goaded me as I waited for the Musketeers to clear the bridge so I could pass.  What bandages I could see were stained and dampened with seeping blood and windblown snow.  It seemed likely that they had taken their wounds fighting the Spanish on the coast and were now seeking comfort and rest before searching out further glory and adventure.  The captain leading the party and several of his men demonstrated undaunted spirits, leering my way in appreciation, offering bright smiles, tipping hats.

I smiled, but t
heir attention brought only pain, reminding me of a soldier I had loved and lost years ago—Phillippe’s father.

The road cleared, and a
narrow bridge stretched before me, a wooden span entirely of this earth.

That was about to change.

I extended the ring, calling on its power for the first time.  I viciously struck down the part of me that insisted all this was folly, and poured my heart’s full strength into achieving the desired result.  A mist of light gathered around my hand.  The carved rose pulsed brighter and brighter.  Ethereal winds whipped around me, bringing vicious cold and billows of cloud.  I rejoiced that something was happening, that my Grandmama’s stories were more than idle tales.  I had thought as much, but felt better for the vindication.  Hope could become certainty—I could save my son.

In
a heavy wool cloak that concealed men’s clothing, I hurried onto the mist-veiled end of the bridge.  The twenty-foot span lengthened unnaturally, turning to stone from one step to the next.  Worse, it narrowed to four feet across.  Fear ate at my nerve as the cloud thinned.  Surrounded by an awful, white emptiness, my heart kept a swift cadence, for to fall
here would be to fall forever.