The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (47 page)

Audsley straightened and rubbed his head, then took up the candle and stepped back outside to the mysterious Gate. A score of naugrim fled into the walls, gone so quickly Audsley nearly screamed. There had been, what, five of them? Seven? He stood shaking, candle flame wavering. How many were there here in the bowels of the Hold?

He took a deep breath. They still seemed more afraid of him than anything else, and his curiosity was too strong. He’d take a quick look at the other rooms, then report upstairs immediately.

He moved to the next archway and peered inside. Aedelbert moved ahead of him into the smaller chamber, similar to the first in that it contained a desk and shelving on which numerous old scrolls were laid. Had they run out of space in the first room?

Audsley stepped inside and moved up to the desk to find no map, but rather a heavy ledger. He blew off the thick coating of dust, set down his candle with care, and after wiggling his fingers to make them limber turned the heavy wooden cover.

The words were terribly faded and written in an elegant hand. Leaning down, he read the cover text slowly.

Financial Ledger

3210 YG

Kept by Joenius Kyferin

“Hmm! Of passing interest, I suppose.” He turned a massive page using both hands, and then again. Columns, figures, and entries ran down the left-hand side. Double bookkeeping, he saw. Quite sophisticated. But what was being tracked?

He studied a dozen pages carefully, taking his time, and finally pulled out a chair and sat. The entries seemed to concern mining extracts. What set his heart to racing was the name of what was being dug:
Gate Stone
. He’d never heard the like. Was that what was used to build the Gate frames? Most suggestive! If so, then this was a find indeed—the source of the Gates! Audsley leaped to his feet and struck a daring pose.

“Mysteries, I assault you! Enigmas, be gone!” He relaxed and tapped his chin. Why were the mines abandoned if their ore was so precious? And 3210 YG… That was no calendar year he knew of. It was currently 317 FOE—Founding of Empire. What could YG mean? The previous calendar, of course. But how to convert it to FOE? More mysteries.

Turning back to the ledger, he flipped to the very end. The final third was blank, and the final entries did not indicate a dwindling in supply. If anything, the extraction of Gate Stone was remarkably constant. So, why cease with the operations?

Audsley closed the ledger and idly read through some scrolls that were lying on the table. He winced each time they cracked beneath his fingers. A truly respectful magister would leave everything alone and send word to Nous for a proper team of investigative scholars, but the situation being what it was…

Half an hour passed as he read on, jumping ever quicker from scroll to scroll. Fascinating! While the dates were set in that confounded YG, the events related within were clearly set during the Unification Years, approximately 0 FOE. Most of the scrolls were addressed to this Joenius Kyferin, who had no doubt been the Lord or Lady of the Hold at that time. The tone was urgent. Finally, Audsley found the last scroll and sat to read it in full.

Dear Joenius,

I write to you with grave news. Aletheia has fallen to Agathanius, the first of his Name and promulgator of Ascension. The high halls of that floating city are drenched in blood, and word has reached me that the fanatics have transported Lord Pallindar to Bythos, where he has been cast through the Black Gate. That makes him the last of the Great Lords to fall. Every city is now under Ascendant control. The age of knowledge is drawing to a close. Bonfires fill the halls of Aletheia with choking smoke. They are destroying countless texts and volumes, Joenius, anything that does not agree with their philosophy.

I’m not surprised that your Will Workers have departed. They have all retreated to Xatos, choosing isolation over combat. I fear this a poor decision. I cannot help but believe that Agathanius will soon turn his attention upon them. For now, however, he is content to punish the Agerastians, branding them heretics and lashing them with his wrath.

I’ve left the worst for last. The Ascendants have declared the mining of Gate Stone to be anathema. All who engage in this practice are ordered to cease and destroy their operations or be subjected to punishment. You should know by now what that would entail. Already I have received several blunt questions from self-righteous officials demanding to know the status of our operations. I have tried to explain the dual nature of our work, that we both extract and defend, but they do not care for nuance or subtleties. I fear our tenure at Mythgræfen must end, and the Gate Stone and minor Black Gate be damned. We must call back our men and return to Kyferin Castle, lest the Ascendants come visiting with their fire and kragh.

Yours as always,

Alyssa

Audsley set down the scroll and leaned back in his chair. He was trembling. His firecat leaped into his lap and looked up at him with concern. Carefully, he took off his spectacles and cleaned them on his tunic. “Oh, my,” he whispered. “A minor Black Gate? Oh, my, Aedelbert. Oh, my.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

My life
, thought Iskra,
has been spent waiting for the return of those dear to me
. She stood in a corner of the battlements, almost out of the cruel wind that swept in off the lake, her thick cloak pulled tightly around her. It was bitterly cold, but she paid that no mind. The brutality of the landscape appealed to her: the slate-colored waters, the ragged, terrible mountains that clawed at the sky all around her, their peaks clad in glittering ice and snow. Ravens croaked and shook out their feathers, watching her with cold and calculating eyes. Even the ruin of the Hold felt fitting; it perfectly reflected her fall from grace, the collapse of her dreams, her inability to offer protection to those who served her.

Burying her chin deeper into the folds of her cloak, she slitted her eyes and focused on the far point of the lake, where it birthed the Erenthil. It was from there that Ser Wyland would return, bringing with him uncertain news and her daughter. Her fear that he might fail in this task served only to fuel her determination to be present when he appeared; she would see her daughter’s red hair as they walked along the edge of the lake toward the causeway, or hold him to account.

Her emotions flickered through her like dancing flames. Fierce resolution gave way to hesitancy and doubt, only to fold into mourning and anger as she thought of her son, and then return to determination to rescue him and safeguard those she loved. How was she supposed to wrest an advantage from her situation? What could wit or wisdom make of such a poor position? A handful of guards, two knights, a daughter who thought herself—and might actually be—a warrior, a ruined castle, and an army on the march to destroy them within two weeks.

It was enough to make her want to laugh, to cry, to hide away in some dark corner and declare herself done. And yet there was Roddick. He was a hook in her soul, a chain that held her at her post. There had to be a way to free him. Ser Wyland would see it done. He would return with good news—locals willing to help, something, anything for her to capitalize on, so she could wrest an edge over Lord Laur.

Iskra blinked and leaned forward, resting a hand on the frigid crenellation. Something was approaching from the lake’s edge. Not a boat. Was it a trick of her eyes? It looked like two people were walking toward the Hold, right over the water’s surface. Goose bumps ran down her arms, and her stomach clenched. Impossible. Perhaps there was a causeway beneath the water for those who knew where to tread?

“Ser Tiron,” she said. “Come. What do you see there?”

Ser Tiron clanked over from where he’d been lounging a dozen paces away and leaned forward. His grim features knitted as he squinted, and then he scowled. “That can’t be.”

Iskra turned back to the lake, resting her hands on the lichen-stained stone. The two figures were striding ever closer. One of them looked familiar, even at this distance. Iskra raised her hand to her mouth. Auburn hair, a familiar frame. Her daughter was returning home to her.

“Kethe,” she whispered, then turned and hurried down the steps. Her heart was thumping. Was that her daughter’s ghost, come to bid her goodbye before passing through to the next life? Where were the others? Who was she walking with?

She descended the steps as quickly as she could, Ser Tiron right behind her, and rushed along the interior wall of the bailey to the front gate, out past the twisted oak, through the knee-high stalks of dried grass and brittle goldenrod, onto the gravely spit of sand that served as a beach.

Ser Tiron came after her, hauberk clinking, and hopped down off the grass onto the beach with a heavy thud. He strode up to her and followed her gaze out over the water. “I never thought my madness was contagious. You see what I’m seeing?”

“My daughter,” said Iskra, her voice faint. “Walking on water.”

Ser Tiron scowled. “There must be a second causeway hidden beneath the surface.”

Iskra was glad for his presence, his solidity by her side. Whatever was walking toward them, Ser Tiron would meet it with unflinching defiance.

“Perhaps. But the water would flow differently over it.” She took a deep breath and tried to force her stomach to settle. “And I don’t see that sign.”

“Well, they can’t literally be walking on water.” Ser Tiron’s voice was flat. “Can they?”

“Regardless, they are approaching. We’ll have our answers soon.”

She could see them both clearly now. The stranger was a woman; she could tell by the sway of the stranger’s hips, the narrowness of her shoulders. A firecat was draped over her shoulders. Who was she? She was wearing a dark cloak, possibly green, with a hood thrown over her head; while Kethe’s hair smoldered in the morning light, Iskra could make nothing out of her companion.

“My Lady,” called out a voice from behind her, and, turning, she saw Brocuff had emerged from the gate with three guards. Two more appeared at the walls above, bows in hand. “Your orders?”

“Stay where you are. Wait for my signal before approaching.”

Brocuff nodded. Iskra heard the guards up top mutter oaths of incredulity, but she ignored them and turned back to wait.

“Look around their feet,” said Ser Tiron, his tone turning harsh. Iskra stared and saw silvery shapes bobbing up alongside the two women. Fish, each about the length of her forearm. Clearly dead, they rose and floated belly-side-up, leaving a trail of bodies in the women’s wake. Ser Tiron straightened, and she sensed tension coil within him. “That can’t bode well. Must be Sin Casting of some kind.”

She could make out Kethe’s face now, and to her immense relief her daughter gave a wave, said something to her companion, and then broke into a jog. Each footstep sent out concentric ripples and summoned more dead fish from below. Ravens exploded out of the oak, crying raucously and beating their wings as they wheeled and flew away, swooping around the Hold and out of sight.

“Mother!” Kethe’s voice was faint, but it carried over the water. “Hello!”

“She doesn’t seem… cursed,” said Ser Tiron.

“No.”

Iskra took a step forward, right to the lake’s edge. Kethe ran up, only to hesitate where the last wavelets washed up onto the beach. For a second Iskra thought,
She can’t step on land. She drowned, and her uneasy spirit is doomed to walk this lake—
and then Kethe hopped off the water to crunch onto the gravel and right into Iskra’s arms. Iskra hugged her tightly, closing her eyes as she squeezed hard.

“You’re back,” she said. “You’re back.”

“Yes,” said Kethe, pulling away. “Of course.” She smiled, new complexities in her expression, and turned to look at where her companion had stopped and now was standing a dozen yards away. “In large part due to Mæva’s help. You won’t believe what happened, Mother. A demon! We joined the Hrething men in hunting it, and I got separated from the group, and it chased me and I fell into an underground river, and then—”

Ser Tiron’s growl was harsh. “How by the Black Gate are you two walking on water?”

“Oh,” said Kethe. “Right. Of course. Mæva is… I guess the word would be a wise woman? A witch? She saved my life, healed me, and then escorted me home. I don’t know where Ser Wyland and the others are, but she said she’d see me back safe, and she did.”