The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (40 page)

“You don’t?” She seemed surprised. “Why not?”

“Why should I?”

Kethe swallowed and checked Ser Wyland’s descent. “Because I’ve been cruel to you all these years. Because I’m Lord Kyferin’s daughter. Because I’ve seen you as nothing more than an upstart Bythian slave since you first sat at our dining table.”

Asho’s head rocked back; he felt as if he’d taken a blow. “Do you still think that?”

“No.” She looked away quickly. “Not any more.”

His heart was beating quickly. It was rare for somebody to so openly discuss their disdain for him. “Why not?”

“Why not?” She spoke softly, staring down the scree to Hrething. “A lot has changed since my father died.”

That was true, but it wasn’t a complete answer. Her eyes narrowed, then relaxed. Her lips pursed, then parted as if she intended to speak only to close again. It was like watching the surface of a stream, flowing and fluid, mercurial and wild. He saw her then, the same slender girl he’d grown up with, if from a distance, for all her armor and coiled bun; saw the raw emotion she’d been concealing all day as adroitly as he had his whole life. She was barely holding herself together.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never had the chance to tell you in person. But I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You are?” She laughed bitterly. “You must be the only one. Everyone else is falling over themselves to tell me what a monster my father was.”

Asho hesitated. Good manners would have him hold his tongue. A keening wind whipped down the escarpment, bringing with it faint curses from the guards and the sound of rattling stones. “I’m sorry for your loss. For the pain you feel. Not for Lord Kyferin’s death.”

Kethe nodded woodenly. “There you go. Very well. I suppose this is where you tell me all your personal grievances against my father.”

He checked his sudden anger. Was that how he looked to Ser Wyland, so caught up in his own grief and sense of victimhood? He felt a cruel desire to hurt her, to force her to acknowledge anyone else’s pain but her own, but he bit it down. “No. I won’t waste your time.”

“No? A miracle. Praise the Ascendant.” She hugged herself tight. “I can only imagine the stories you could tell. Let me guess—you blame him for Shaya’s abandoning you?”

There was just enough scorn in her voice to make him furious and enough raw pain to keep him silent. Was she truly so ignorant? He took a shuddering breath, held it for a moment, then released it.

“Thank you for reminding me who you truly are.” He fought to keep his voice level. “For a moment there I had almost begun to forget.”

Just then Ser Wyland came skidding down the last of the slope with a yell and staggered as he caught his balance. Asho stepped over the ridge and began to stride down alongside the whispering Erenthil.

“Asho,” he heard Kethe call. He ignored her and fixed his gaze on the watch fire.

The watchman had sharp eyes. He spotted them while they were still a good distance away, and they heard the thin clamor of his bell as they reached the Erenthil’s confluence with the other stream. Ser Wyland raised a hand and they stopped. A scant minute later a dozen men stepped forth from a narrow street. In the dark of deep dusk they were barely silhouettes, though it was clear they were large men. Standing beside Ser Wyland, Asho fought the urge to shiver.

Ser Wyland walked forward slowly, hands raised in a gesture of peace, and stopped a dozen yards from the silent men. “Good evening,” he called, his voice amiable and deep. “We’ve come from Mythgræfen Hold by way of the Raven’s Gate. Not a popular point of origin, I’ve been led to understand, but we’re honorable folk and we’ve no wish to cause trouble.”

“Mythgræfen Hold?” A tall man stepped forward, heavily bearded and clad in furs. He was holding a large ax in one hand. “That’s an ill omen and a strike against you. What brings you to Hrething?”

Ser Wyland kept his voice friendly. “We’re in need of food and supplies, and are ready to pay for them. I’d like to meet with your leader, seeing as we’re to be neighbors for a spell to come. Are you him?”

“Me? No.” The man laughed. “I’m not the headman. The Raven’s Gate, you say? You come by way of Kyferin Castle, then?”

“Aye,” said Ser Wyland. “Lady Kyferin herself is at the Hold.”

At this the men turned to whisper amongst themselves, then the tall man turned back. “Lady Kyferin? Is she a Kyferin by blood?”

Ser Wyland frowned. “No. She married into the family. Why?”

“No matter.” There was a thoughtful pause, then the man slung his ax back over his shoulder. “That’s probably for the best. I’m Kolgrímr, son of Gunnvaldr. Come. We’ll escort you to my father’s house.”

Ser Wyland led them forward, and up close Asho could see that the men were rawboned and lean like wolves, faces chapped by the cold winds, features heavy, with braided hair and thick beards. They were wearing thick furs and were armed with short, broad blades with no hilts and hand axes. Asho thought they had a durable look to them, hardy and resolute and dour. Ser Wyland introduced them all, but chose not to mention Kethe’s ancestry, and Asho was unsurprised when she didn’t complain. Kolgrímr nodded to each of them but didn’t offer his hand. Then he turned and led them into Hrething, the other men following at his heels.

There was no talk. The street was little more than an alley, the houses leaning in close together as if for warmth and solace. The windows were all tightly shuttered. Occasionally Asho caught sight of the watch fire burning high above. There was no telling one house from the other; to his eye, there were no shops or government buildings, just uniform, hunched buildings with peaked slate roofs and raised doors as if the streets were prone to flooding.

Their group wound through the town and eventually fetched up before a house like all the others. Kolgrímr pounded on the door with his swollen knuckles, and it cracked open soon after to show an old woman’s suspicious face. Warm red light and the scent of rich food wafted out into the chill air. Asho swallowed as his mouth filled with saliva.

“People down from Mythgræfen,” said Kolgrímr. “They want to see Father.”

“I can’t fit all of you in here,” she said. “You should know better.”

Kolgrímr turned to Ser Wyland. “How about it? I’ll go in with three of you. The rest are welcome to stand out here or wait in another home close by.”

Ser Wyland nodded. “They’d be glad for the hospitality. Thank you.”

The old lady cracked the door open wider and Kolgrímr entered, followed by Ser Wyland, Kethe, and Asho. Asho kicked the toes of his boots against the doorstep like Kolgrímr had done, causing caked mud and ice to drop to the street, then ducked under the low lintel to enter a baking warmth. The woman closed the door and Asho immediately felt the urge to shrug off his cloak.

The house looked to be one large room, low-ceilinged, with a ladder leading through an open square to the loft. The air was smoky from the two large fires crackling in opposite fireplaces, and the low beams were hung with dry vegetables and desiccated meat. One side was a clean kitchen, and a bench ran around the other walls, with two leather chairs set before one of the fires. The floor was covered with the pelt of a massive bear. Asho hesitated, trying to imagine how large it must have been while it was alive. Bigger than a horse, he decided. No, larger even than that.

“That bear turned man-eater before you were born,” came a gruff voice from one of the leather chairs. Asho looked up, startled, and saw that an old man was staring at him with his one good eye, the other covered with a leather strap that cut across his face obliquely. “Would have been forty-three years ago now. No reason for it. Plenty of game and food for it up on the slopes. But it came down and started carrying away our goats, then after a while, even that didn’t seem to satisfy it.”

Asho slowly shrugged off his cloak and hung it on one of the well-worn pegs by the door. Ser Wyland and Kethe did the same, then they moved, stepping gingerly on the bear fur, to lower themselves onto one of the benches.

“It was when it took Torfa that we decided to hunt it down. We never found anything but her arm. We put together a war party and tracked it. Wasn’t hard to do. It wanted to be found. It was waiting for us, knew we were coming. It was smarter than any bear had a right to be—doubled back on its own trail so that we passed right beneath where it was waiting on a ridge. Next thing we knew, an avalanche of fur and talons and teeth had fallen on us and everything was blood.”

Asho blinked and looked down at the skin again. He could see numerous places where the pelt had been cut and then sewn closed.

“It killed three of us. Broke Ingvarr’s leg. Dagr took off and ran. I understood, but I never forgave him. The beast backed me up against a wall. All snarling and bleeding, it was, but I knew it wanted me. Not to eat. Just to kill.”

The old man’s voice was mesmerizing. There remained in his gaunt features and his sunken eye a power that caused his voice to resonate. “I took up Ingvarr’s longspear. Didn’t have time to think. I set the butt against a rock and closed my eyes when the bear fell on me. It impaled itself. Didn’t die, though. It kept roaring and slavering. Thank the Ascendant Ingvarr’s spear was made of iron ash. Bent every which way, and still the bear came at me, pushing the spear through its own body. Then the spear did snap, and it fell on me and everything went dark. My last thought was a prayer for Ascension.”

He shifted in his seat. Kolgrímr was in the kitchen, snooping under one of the pots. The old lady slapped at his fingers and the iron lid fell back down with a rattle. Gunnvaldr shot an angry look at his son, who ducked his head in apology.

“Anyway, I didn’t die. Obviously. The bear’s corpse kept me warm through the night. When Dagr came back with the others, they pulled it off me and there I was, hale and well. But the bear had rotted. Somehow it had putrefied in that freezing cold. Meat don’t do that. We skinned it right there and discarded the flesh.” He paused and narrowed his remaining eye. “Now, why do you think I told you that tale?”

Ser Wyland leaned forward. “All heroic deeds are worth sharing.”

The old man sneered. “No. That would make me little more than a braggart. Young woman, take a guess.”

Kethe was staring down at the fur. She looked up slowly. “Because you think only evil comes down from the slopes?”

“Aye, that’s the right of it.” Gunnvaldr leaned forward, and Asho half-expected his joints to pop and his sinews to creak. “I heard Kolgrímr say you’ve come down from the Hold. That’s a bad place. It don’t make you bad people, necessarily, but nothing good comes from those who stay up there.”

Ser Wyland rubbed his chin and nodded as if these words were both wise and incontestable. “Unfortunately, we didn’t have much choice in the matter. Lord Kyferin’s dead, killed in battle, and his brother exiled my Lady to Mythgræfen against her will. We find it no more cheering than you do, and perhaps less so for having to actually stay there. So, if you’re expecting us to defend the damned place, you’re going to be disappointed. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

Gunnvaldr was listening with sharp focus. “And when might that be?”

Ser Wyland shrugged. “The Ascendant knows. Lord Laur’s strong and we’re weak. So we’ve come to ask for food and supplies. We expect no favors. We’ll pay for anything you’ve got to spare.”

The old lady turned from her cutting board. “Are there children up at the Hold?”

“No,” said Ser Wyland. “No children. Only adults loyal to Lady Kyferin.”

“She must be quite the Lady to command such mad loyalty,” said Gunnvaldr. “But we’ll help you as best we can. We’ve not much to spare. Hrething is a small town, though there are many more farms scattered here and there about the land. Folk come here to trade and grind what crops they can grow at the mill. I’ll have Kolgrímr put out the word that you’re looking to buy. We’ll see who comes forward tomorrow morning.”

“Master Gunnvaldr,” said Asho, leaning forward. “You’ve been here your whole life. You must know something about Mythgræfen Hold. Can you tell us something about it? Anything? We’ve forgotten almost everything about it.”

Gunnvaldr stared hard at Asho. “You’re a Bythian. One of them slaves from the underground city. What are you doing dressed in armor and sitting amongst these folk?”

Asho blinked. There was no animosity or rancor in the old man’s voice, just plain, honest curiosity. “Lord Kyferin raised me from Bythos and made me his squire. I’ve since been knighted.”

Gunnvaldr grunted. “Wonders never cease.” He leaned back in his chair and took up a long-stemmed pipe from where he’d laid it down on the floor. He tapped the ashes out over the fireplace’s grate, then unrolled a leather bundle and pulled out a pinch of herbs. “Listen, then, and listen well. Mythgræfen is a cursed place. We don’t go up there. We don’t talk about it. We don’t even think about it. Death walks those walls. It’s known nothing but blood since it was built. Pray you’re quit of it soon. Nobody lives there long.”

“Please,” said Asho. “We’re trapped there for the foreseeable future. What is this danger? What is going to attack us?”

“Hmmph,” said Gunnvaldr. He tamped the herbs in, then reached forward again to take up a burning twig. He held the flame down into the pipe’s bowl and inhaled sharply once, twice, and then puffed out sweet-smelling smoke. “It’s been a long time since folk were foolish enough to muck around up there. We’ve little left but warnings and legends. Nobody knows what comes for those who man the Hold’s walls during the Black Shriving, because none survive it. So, no, I can’t give you details, because I don’t have any.”