The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (26 page)

"And then you attack the humans," said Maur.

"Yes," said Tharok. "I have one of them in my hut right now. Shaya. She will tell me all I need to know about their empire. It's strengths and weaknesses. I will use that knowledge to our advantage. We will hit them where they are weakest, and destroy them."

Maur shook her head. "This
is
madness, but you speak with conviction. Odds are, you will be dead in a few days regardless. Your plan to win the trolls is pure folly. It makes your summoning the Grand Convocation seem like wisdom in comparison. You'll be dead soon. There is no need for the wise women to oppose you, or remove you from power."

"You sound sad, Maur," said Tharok, grinning again. "Are you already envisioning how boring life will be without me?"

Maur drew her blade in answer.

Tharok laughed and raised his hands. "My apologies! Still, unless you have any more punishment to administer, I'll be getting down to the Walk. I need to see if Gregory has arrived. I've got secrets to wrest from his mind."

Nok put up his maul, resting it on his shoulder. Maur nodded. Tharok grinned again, gave Krilla a mock bow, and then tossed her staff to her. She caught it, but no expression reached her face.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Iskra pulled her cloak tightly about her chin as the cruel wind blew in off Mythgræfen Lake. It scythed through the sparse trees that grew around the island, and moaned in the branches of the twisted oak that guarded the front gate. Shoulders hunched, she gazed out over the stark and beautiful panorama before her, and wondered at the fate that had cast her from the heights of Sige to this desolate shore.

From where she stood, she could see Ser Wyland drilling the Hrethings below. The training had eased Ser Wyland's concerns, or perhaps more accurately helped him bury them. The inner courtyard was too irregular and ruptured to serve as a training ground, so he had taken the twenty men in his charge out to the grassy sward near the beach and there lined them up before him. Iskra alternated between wanting to laugh bitterly or applaud them from up on high; it was hard to watch how earnestly the mountain men trained, shoulder to shoulder, learning to interlock their shields and swing in a manner that complemented the others instead of their usual wild stampede into combat.

Could Ser Wyland train the eighty or so men at their disposal before Ser Laur led his new forces into combat against them? They would not be able to benefit again from a surprise attack in the manner that had defeated Ser Laur's first sortie; this time the enemy would come ready, approaching with slow deliberation until they either forced an open battle or laid siege to the ruin in which she stood.

The wind moaned as if in pain, and Iskra shuddered. Having spent most of her adult life in the impregnable Kyferin Castle had led her to develop a casual attitude toward sieges; the idea of weathering one on Mythgræfen Hold with its tumbling walls, broken portcullis and ruined towers struck a bolt of fear to her core. They'd not last long. There would be a series of pitched battles at key weak areas, and then a massacre within.

No, that battle would be lost before they even fought it. Ser Wyland's drills were good for morale and of benefit in principal, but the Hrethings would never be able to turn the tide in a fight against Ser Laur's trained forces. Especially not if the Ascendant's Grace sent in more Virtues or his elite forces to bolster her brother-in-law.

A bitter resentment settled over her at the thought of the Grace. How rank, how low, how base he was to turn against her. To upend the social order, to believe the word of an Ennoian upstart like Mertyn Laur over her own Sigean claim to the Kyferin lands. He should have at the very least heard her out, given her an audience in which to press her claim, make known her outrage over being so cruelly dealt with.

But no; instead, she had been banished here to be quietly killed and removed from the great board on which the Empire's pieces were played. The bitter sensation coiled into a tight knot of determination. They would not find her so easy to remove. Already she had bloodied Mertyn's face by killing his son and the Virtue who had ridden with him. Those deaths would draw attention to her plight in time, would complicate Mertyn's narrative and soil his claim to power.

Iskra leaned forward against the parapet, looking down at the men training below. Power was about stories. The tale you could sell to others, what you could make them believe. The men below were willing to train, to spend time away from their farms and families and ultimately risk death because they believed in her, placed stock in her noble birth and the claims that imbued her with. Just as Mertyn's men supported him, believed him to be a lord, higher than they and worth their every sacrifice.

Iskra's mouth drew into a line. Mertyn had sold his story better than she had. He had made a clean and simple appeal to the Grace and his men, shown them how his tale would end with glory, and was believed. Whereas she had been struggling to assert herself within her own castle, had been fashioning her narrative, trying to sell to her people and the world that she was worthy of the power she wished to wield.

Stories. Narratives. They were what led armies to war, what toppled empires, what raised one man and ground another under the heel of destiny.

Footsteps echoed hollowly on the stairs behind her. She turned, expecting Brocuff perhaps come to summon her to dinner, but instead saw Ser Tiron emerge, hollow-eyed and gaunt. He was without his armor, wearing his quilted undercoat instead, and she could see dried blood at his side. He strode up to her, strong and commanding despite his exhaustion and pain, and bowed.

"Ser Tiron?" She wanted to step up to him, place her hand on his arm, but his expression kept her rooted where she stood. "What has happened? How are you here?"

"My Lady Kyferin." His voice was stiff, and she saw in his eyes a hardness that she couldn't understand. "We have discovered numerous Portals on the far side. Audsley has divined their secret and has control of them now. He can open them from the far side at his pleasure."

Iskra raised a hand, trying to understand Tiron's words, their import. The very nature of the world shifted on this new fulcrum, the implications striking. "You mean - he knows how to open them at any time? Whether it be their lunar date or not?"

"Precisely." Tiron's expression was flat, his voice without emotion. "The man is a veritable trove of ancient knowledge that allowed him to divine the secrets of the Sin Casters. He awaits us on the other side, and has agreed to open the Portal every hour until we are ready to pass through and then on to Agerastos."

Iskra closed her eyes. Sweet, delirious triumph arose within her like the smoke from a censor. An important piece had just clicked into place, a vital element on which their plan depended. "Oh, the Ascendant bless Audsley's soul. We should leave at once."

"As you command. I've left Bogusch and Temyl with Audsley to safeguard him. We'll need to select a few men to take with us to Agerastos itself."

"Safeguard him? What is the peril? What of Meffrid? Where did the Gate take you?"

Ser Tiron set his jaw. "It is a hard tale to credit, but the Portal took us to a forgotten place out of legend. Starkadr, the Sin Casters' stonecloud."

Iskra wanted to laugh, to voice her denial at what he'd just said. "Surely not..." Her protest died on her lips. "You have visited Starkadr?"

Ser Tiron nodded. "I can hardly credit it myself, but yes. I can tell you of our adventures there soon enough, but I have reason to believe it's not as abandoned as we first thought. Meffrid went missing the first night, and we could find no sign of him anywhere. It was an impossible disappearance, and thus I think we should have Bogusch and Temyl guard Audsley at all times."

Iskra hugged herself tight. "Very well. Be that as it may, we have to use it in order to achieve our goals. Speak with Brocuff and ask him to assign us two more guards. I'll let Ser Wyland know that we are leaving. He'll remain in charge of the Hold in my absence."

Ser Tiron gave a curt nod and turned to go, but on impulse Iskra reached out and took his arm. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.
I'm glad you returned to me, ser
, she wanted to say, but his expression was forbidding. "Do - do you have any problem with our allying with the Agerastians?"

"No, my lady." His voice was cold and sure. "If you deemed it necessary I would walk through fire for you. Was there anything else?"

Confusion fluttered within Iskra's chest. "No, that was all," she said. What had happened? She took control of herself. "Do you need time to recover?"

"No, my lady. I am ready to escort you to Agerastos at your convenience."

"I see. Very well." She wanted to pierce his reserve, to force him to cast aside this new coldness, but couldn't find the words. Instead, they stood in silence, until with a sudden movement Tiron bowed again and turned to stride back down the stairs. Watching him go, Iskra felt her confusion deepen into hurt, which in turn provoked a wave of anger. This was utter foolishness, she berated herself. She had to remain utterly focused on the task at hand. Yet she was unable to tear her eyes away from his grim form, and watched him as he descended into the hold until he was gone from her sight.

Forty-five minutes later, she entered into the rooms beneath the Hold. Ser Wyland and a company of guards had escorted her down, quite unnecessarily, and the small room was crowded with armed men. Ser Tiron was dressed in clean clothing, a light coat of mail laid over his shoulders and tied off at the sides. Washed and with his beard trimmed, he stood calmly to one side, features composed and without expression.

The Lunar Gate stood still and dead. Iskra gazed upon it, knowing now where it led, and resisted the urge to make the sign of the Triangle. Instead, she turned to those gathered around her.

"You all know to where I go, and what I hope to achieve. Ser Tiron and Magister Audsley have accomplished the impossible, and now we have a chance at an unlikely alliance, a hope to bring overwhelming forces of our own to bear against Ser Laur's imminent attack." She gazed around at the small crowd. Torches illuminated their hard and haggard faces and caused their eyes to gleam like wet stones. Did they believe in her? If so, how much?

Her gaze lingered on Ser Wyland. Never had she seen his expression so dour and forbidding. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

"I ask that you stay the course, that you remain true to our cause, and have faith in our success. I shall return, and when I do, I shall come with such might at my back that it will cause Ser Laur to tremble and regret the day he thought to enact his evil plan."

Heads around her nodded, and she heard a rumble of agreement. She smiled, meeting as many eyes as she could as she looked across the crowd. "Have faith. Our cause is just, and we are righteous. I shall return."

The Gate behind her flickered to life. Black, choppy waters cascaded into being, a vertical plane of ink that swirled and broke as if lashed by an unfelt wind. Many around her drew back as Audsley's head and shoulders pushed through. The magister reached up to adjust his glasses and then smiled broadly at them all.

"Ah! My dear Lady Kyferin. I see you are quite ready to travel. If you will?" And with that, he withdrew and disappeared.

Iskra had passed through many Portals in her time, from the great Solar Gates that reached twenty yards into the sky to countless private Lunar Portals. Still, none had ever promised to send her to such a place as Starkadr.

She took a measured breath, nodded to Ser Wyland, who bowed deeply in return, then allowed Ser Tiron to take her arm and lead her through the Gate.

As always, there was a sense of visceral disorientation, of being pulled apart and inverted, the sound of a screaming gale tearing past her and of great distances traveled. Then she emerged, blinking rapidly, into a vast and gloomy room, larger even than the greatest of cathedrals in Sige, built on a scale to boggle the mind.

Ser Tiron helped her keep her balance as she looked around, taking in the huge, twisted pillars of Portals and the slumbering mist that barely hid its dead charges. Everything gleamed black, and the air was oppressive and dense.

Hannus and Ord, the two guards selected by Brocuff to escort her, emerged through the Gate, and to their credit they did little more than stifle their gasps.

Audsley beamed at her and sketched a deep bow with surprising grace. "Be welcome, my august Lady Kyferin, to the halls of the dead, the once-home of the Sin Casters, known as Starkadr to the lovers of history, but to us, the living, to be known as our singular hope and means of salvation!"