The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (35 page)

Kethe ducked her head. Of course she knew. Deep down, she’d always sensed it. But she’d fought against that truth, denied it, told herself that all relationships were complex, that on some level her parents did love each other, in their own strange fashion. Now, she pursed her lips. Hearing her mother put it so bluntly hurt.

Lady Kyferin waited a moment, then continued, “I swore not to take another man as my Lord because I
could
. Because I knew I had it within me to do what was most important, which was to care for my family and my servants and be the leader I knew they needed.”

Kethe opened her mouth to make the obvious response, but managed to close it just in time. Her mother noticed, of course, and her smile was touched by an element of self-mockery. “I know. Look at where that determination has got us. Banished and out-maneuvered in the blink of an eye. But I swear to you, Kethe, we’re not done yet, and I mean to bend every ounce of my being toward regaining what I’ve lost. We women have within us a depth, a capacity for striving, that men for all their swords and wars don’t comprehend. We can endure where they are brittle, we can persevere where they snap. It is our own unique form of grace. And we will endure. We will persevere.” She closed Kethe’s hand into a fist and cupped it with both of her own. “And one day we will return to Kyferin Castle, rescue Roddick, and retake what is ours.”

Kethe couldn’t breathe. She could only nod, knowing in that moment her mother was speaking from the depths of her soul with a certainty that rang like a bell. While her mind might doubt, her heart heard and resonated.

“Which is why I let you fight,” said her mother, reaching up to curl a strand of hair behind Kethe’s ear. “I knew it was dangerous, more dangerous that you could imagine. I’ve borne witness to the consequences of swordplay my whole life. Yet I saw in your eyes that same determination to take control of your destiny. How could I deny it to you, no matter my misgivings, when I was seeking the same independence?” Now her mother’s smile turned fond and a love shone in her eyes that made Kethe feel a little girl again. Tears came to her eyes and she returned her mother’s smile, laughing huskily under her breath. “I know Ser Tiron’s attack marked you. It marked us all, more deeply than you could know. That was when the last vestiges of respect for your father died within my breast.” Her mother paused. “Do you know why Ser Tiron attacked us?”

“Father insulted his honor,” said Kethe. It had been a subject nobody would speak of to her, one she hadn’t really wanted to shed any light on. It was so much easier to hate somebody when they could be reduced to black and white.

“Oh, yes, that he did.” Her mother hesitated and looked away, frowning at the fire as she clearly fought to reach a decision. “You’re old enough now to know. Circumstances demand it. Your father…” Her words broke off and she frowned, took a deep breath, and tried again, still holding Kethe’s hand tightly. “Your father was a violent man. All knights are, at their core. But the code of chivalry failed to direct his violence as it should. He abused Ser Tiron’s wife, and then killed her. Ser Tiron’s son was there, and came at him with a knife, so your father slew him too. He then returned to Kyferin Castle and ordered Ser Tiron to quit his lands and leave.”

Kethe’s insides felt like they were falling to pieces. Anger flared up within her. She searched out Ser Tiron in the great hall and couldn’t see him. She sat locked in place. “No.”

Her mother squeezed her hands and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Kethe thought of her father, a remote and loud and frightening figure. There were a few good memories, made all the more precious by their rarity: of being tickled and screaming as he pretended to roar and chase her around the Lord’s Hall when she was little. How she’d crawl atop his bulk and sleep on his chest, his belly lifting and lowering with a power her weight had no ability to affect. How his beard and mustache had tickled her cheek when he kissed her goodnight, though that had stopped a few years ago. How he had taught her to ride, and how he had bellowed with laughter as they had finally both galloped across the Southern Field, her heart given wings by his admiration and Lady’s speed.

Her throat constricted, and she rose to her feet. She couldn’t look at her mother. She couldn’t make sense of her mother’s words. Her father was a lord. A knight. A violent man, yes, but a knight. Her father…

No.

Moving quickly, she walked past the fire, picking her way over sleeping bodies, and out into the courtyard. The moon no longer shone directly on the ash saplings, which now stood in shades of pewter and charcoal. No wind disturbed their canopy. She looked up at them and felt at once numb and on the verge of collapsing into sobs. Furious at her mother without knowing why, she strode past the trees and out the front gate, passing the two guards without a word, out into the cold and dark. One of the guards called after her, but she ignored him.

The mass of Mythgræfen Hold rose above her. She tried to think of her father, and found that her mind shied away, time and again. She tried to think of Ser Tiron, and now the image of his face twisting in hatred as he came at her with a sword was all changed, and she could no longer think of that either.

She thought of Roddick at home, alone, and that image was the final plunge of the knife. She stumbled against the castle wall and slid down into a crouch, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ser Tiron felt his age. He’d found a small, pebbled beach on the lee side of the castle, little more than a crescent moon of grit and branches washed smooth of their bark, a half-step down from the thick turf, with the still waters of the lake lapping up with a quiet trickling sound. Bending down, he felt a twinge in his hip. He picked up a flat stone and turned it around in his hand, wiping it clear of sand. It fit his palm nicely.

As boys, he and his brothers had loved skipping stones across Yarrow Pond. The sound of Petyr’s laughter floated to him across the years, high-pitched hoots of victory as his stone skipped nine times. Tiron smiled and threw his. It skipped four times and then disappeared.

Dawn was imminent. Mist was rising off the lake in enigmatic eddies. The air was cold and moist, but he couldn’t feel the wind here. The mountains rose up on all sides, savage and raw as if they’d just finished clawing their way out of the earth. He could make out the thin plume of a waterfall cascading over a cliff face and falling hundreds of feet to what had to be the head of the lake. It was far enough away that he couldn’t make out its roar. It would be hours yet before the sun rose enough to shine down into this valley.

He’d not slept. Oh, he’d lain down for a score of hours, wrapped in a blanket that did nothing to dispel the cold, but he’d grown used to damp and chill in his hole over the past few years. That wasn’t what bothered him. Eventually he’d risen, buckled on his sword, and stepped out to hunt. Asho had joined him at first. The young Bythian had been eager to patrol, to explore, do anything
knightly
to prove his honor. Tiron had tolerated his presence for a whole ten minutes until the boy began asking about Tiron’s family blade, and wondering aloud if he’d ever be awarded one of his own. A glorious blade, silvered and razor sharp, fit for a knight in Lady Kyferin’s employ.

Perhaps he should have held his tongue. Instead, he’d told Asho exactly what he thought of knighthood, of being a Black Wolf, and honor in general. Asho had stopped, face blank, bowed and walked away. It was the bow that told Tiron the boy hadn’t understood a word he’d said.

After that he’d spent an hour poking around the castle, a candle held high, trying to read the lives that had once filled the Hold’s hollow bones. There was little trace of it left, but what he’d really wanted was to find some sign of these naugrim—to find one and kill it, or be killed by it. There would be a neat simplicity in that, in avoiding the complex arguments in his mind by dying quietly off to one side by himself, but he had no luck. Finally, reluctantly, he’d slipped out through the massive crack in the wall so as to avoid the guards, intending to explore the island’s coastline. He’d found a solitary causeway that extended like an accusing finger to point toward the head of the lake, off to one side of this small beach. With no desire to listen to the inane small talk that would inevitably take place around the breakfast fire, he’d settled down to wait and be alone.

He felt a new kind of tiredness. Not physical exhaustion, though that was graying his vision. He was used to that exhaustion, the depletion of a long campaign, of fighting and then marching and then being forced to fight once more. No knight expected a life of ease, far from it; it was privation that blessed and sanctified his violence in the eyes of the Ascendant. No, this tiredness was of the soul.

He threw his stone, whipping it from the elbow, and scored five skips. He’d never beaten Petyr’s nine. Had never come close.

The mist was lightening. An occasional splash floated over the water to him as some fish disturbed the surface. The land here was beautiful in a wild, dangerous way. He missed the old yearning that his soul would once have felt at the challenge of the mountain slopes. How long might it take a well-provisioned and well-equipped team to scale those peaks? But he couldn’t rouse a genuine interest. His years in the dungeon had aged him, he decided. No, they’d allowed his age to catch up with him at last. The Black Wolves had called him Ser Iron for his inexhaustible stamina and deep reservoirs of strength—a name he’d pretended to disdain, but which he had secretly taken pride in. That iron was gone now. He was an old man without a wife and son, without his hall, with nothing but memories to torment him and a future he couldn’t help but ridicule.

Kethe’s face came to him, her blade pointed over the flames at his throat. Oh, the life that had burned within her. The sharpness of her hatred, the fierceness of her passion. Had he once burned so brightly? That was hard to believe. He’d wanted to lean forward and urge her on, had welcomed her disgust, which made him feel all the more pathetic. Why was he bothering to tag along with this band of refugees if he couldn’t even muster the will to stand up to a spoiled brat?

He sat on a rock and stared out into the mist.
Oh, Sarah
, he thought.
Would you recognize me now?
It was such sweet torment to think of her. He doubted the Black Gate could hold any torture more effective than this love that refused to die. It was too easy to summon her sharp smile, her hand on her broad hip, the curve of her back as she lay curled against him, the sweat on her golden skin. He couldn’t remember her smell any longer. His memories were starting to collapse into a dozen favorite touchstones, worn smooth by repetition. She was being reduced to a series of static images: Her smile. That afternoon in the hayloft. The sight of her asleep with their son in her arms, both of them worn out, a moment of peace in the morning sunlight that had held him riveted to the spot for an hour, marveling that such beauty could enter an ugly and violent life such as his.

Ser Tiron felt his face flush, his eyes sting, and he buried his face in his hands as a silent sob wracked his frame. Then he hissed in anger and stood. How naive of Lady Kyferin to think she could ever free him. There was no escape. His pain would follow him always, like a stench.

He scooped up a large rock and hurled it with all his strength out over the lake. It disappeared into the mist and then splashed loudly. Ser Tiron panted, and as quickly as it had come, his anger left him.

“Old fool,” he muttered. “Temper tantrums. What next? Talking to yourself?”

He heard the sound of someone moving through the tall grass behind him and turned to see Kethe approaching with the feral focus of a hunting cat. He almost laughed. “Come to kill me? Honestly, you might be doing me a favor.”

She drew up short and blinked several times, as if awakening from a trance. Then she straightened and frowned at him, hand on the hilt of her sword. “So you admit you’re filth.”

Her eyes were red, he saw, her young face haggard. “I’m flattered. It’s been a while since thoughts of me have kept a young woman awake all night.”

Kethe stepped off the ridge and dropped neatly to land on the shingle. Her hauberk barely made any sound. Almost absently, he noted its fine construction. She’d probably paid good coin for that. Her hand never strayed from her sword’s pommel. “Why did you come?” she asked. “In truth?”

Tiron turned to face her full-on, hands on his hips. She was practically vibrating with the desire to draw her sword. It wouldn’t take much to provoke her to do so. Then he could claim he’d acted in self-defense. She’d attacked him by surprise, and he’d had to kill her. Tragic, but oh-so-neatly explained. “Why?” He paused, considering the question. “It’s hard to explain.”