The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (58 page)

The chamberlain appeared at the head of a large group of guards and met Iskra halfway down a great hall. Clearly alarmed, he raised his palm and planted himself in front of Iskra. "What is this? What is going on here?"

"I go to speak to the emperor," said Iskra, her voice cold and coiled.

"The emperor is asleep!" The chamberlain sounded genuinely outraged. "What has happened? Why are you not under arrest?" He looked to Captain Patash and spoke in a flurry of Agerastian. The captain's response was brief and grim, and the chamberlain paled. "You have murdered the emperor's daughter?"

Iskra could have been carved from marble. Her clothing was ruined, her hair was in disarray, and her skin was smeared with gore, but she shone with a poise and beauty that made everyone else appear base and ignoble.

"The emperor," she said coolly. "Now."

The chamberlain shook his head. "Impossible. You will have to return to your cell while this matter is investigated! You are under suspicion of attempting to kill the emperor, and now you have murdered his daughter, but you expect me to allow you into his presence? Never!" He snapped a command to the men behind him, who as one drew their blades. "Now, turn yourself over to my guards and return to your cell!"

The crowd behind them immediately cried out and began to melt away, people rushing to the back of the hall where they could watch from safety. In the general bedlam Iskra stood still, and Tiron stepped up beside her, blade in hand, gazing at the assembled guards. He had no hope of killing even a small number of them. He was beyond weary, his whole body a testament to exhaustion, but he felt calm. He felt at peace with dying. The guards must have sensed some small part of that, for their eyes widened or narrowed and most looked away.

"Captain!" barked the chamberlain. "Arrest these Ennoians immediately!"

Patash shook his head slowly, almost sadly, and drew his blade.

"Then, so be it!" The chamberlain turned to address his men, and then he froze.

The guards were parting in silent awe. A palanquin moved up through their center, and on it lay the emperor, his twisted frame clad in white silk, his ivory and gold mask displaying nothing less than the eternal equanimity of a supreme being. The chamberlain immediately bowed, panic scrawling a series of contorted expressions across his face.

"Your imperial highness," the chamberlain stammered. "I - you honor - please forgive -"

The emperor raised one gloved hand, and the chamberlain fell silent. Silence descended upon the crowd, the whispers and panic smoothing away into breathless expectation.

"Lady Kyferin," came the emperor's soft whisper. "What has happened?"

All eyes turned to Iskra, who faced him with sublime confidence and self-possession. "Your daughter drugged and framed my guard so that she could arrest and then torture me to death in one of your cells. She is dead."

A flurry of whispers broke out as people inquired of each other what she had said, but all fell silent as the emperor sat up. He gestured to his servants, who lowered the palanquin to the floor. Slowly, shaking heavily, the emperor rose to his feet and stepped forward to stand before Iskra. He might once have towered over her, but now he was so stooped and withered that they were almost of a height.

"What?" There was in his voice such a seething anger that all but Tiron and Iskra inched back. "What is this you say?"

Vothak Ilina hobbled forth, helped by two guards whose faces betrayed nothing short of terror. "She speaks truth, Your Imperial Majesty. I vouch for it. We have witnesses, among them the girl who drugged Lady Kyferin's guard. Your daughter lies dead in a torture chamber below. It is true. All of it."

"Clear the hall," whispered the emperor.

He repeated his words in Agerastian, and for a second nobody moved, but then, in a voice that might have once quieted entire battlefields, the emperor roared his command again, and there was a stampede as hundreds fled. In a matter of seconds the massive hall stood empty but for the emperor, Iskra, and Tiron.

Tiron fought to remain focused. He felt waters rising around him, his eyelids sinking against his will, but he would not let himself rest. Not yet.

The emperor stepped forward until he was face-to-face with Iskra. He studied her, then reached out with a gloved hand and touched her throat. Iskra didn't even flinch.

"I apologize," whispered the emperor, and Tiron could hear the steel controlling his pain. "You are my guest, and you have been horribly abused. I never dreamt my daughter would go so far." He lowered his hand and stepped back. "I cannot make amends for what has happened."

"Yes, you can." Iskra's voice remained as hard and cold as before. "Forge an alliance with me. Send soldiers and Sin Casters through my Portal to defend my walls. Help me cleanse the Black Gate, and mine as much Gate Stone as you can consume."

Tiron startled and stared at Iskra. Gone was the doubt, the hesitation, the hope to ally with the Ascendant Empire.

The emperor and Iskra stood with gazes locked, then, finally, the emperor nodded. "Yes. It will be as you say." And he reached up and took hold of his mask, and carefully lifted it up and off his head.

His face was withered and desiccated, like smoked meat. His eyelids were gone, and his lips had shrunk back from his yellowed teeth. There was no hair on his head, and his ears were shriveled swirls of blackened flesh. Tiron had seen the like only once before, years ago, when he and his men had disinterred a corpse that had been found inside a bog.

"I have sacrificed all in my quest for independence, strength, and revenge," said the emperor. "Family. Friends. Health. The political wellbeing of my people. Joy. Now my daughter is gone, and I am left alone at last with my ambition. If we are to be allies, Iskra, then know this: I seek nothing short of the destruction of the Ascendant Empire and its hateful creed. I will destroy its Gates, bring Aletheia crashing to the ground, topple Nous into the ocean, bring the Bythians up from their tomb and then sever the Portals that allow the empire to exist. That is all I live for now. If you are to be my ally, then that must be your goal as well."

Iskra didn't respond, not at first. Tiron saw her face go pale, her weight go back onto her heels. Exhausted and brutalized as he was, even he quailed at the scope of the emperor's goals. The destruction of the empire? For the first time, Tiron tried to look beyond a possible return to Kyferin Castle and the impossible dream of Iskra's hand. Neither was possible while Lord Laur was supported by the Ascendant's Grace. Which meant neither was possible while the Ascendant Empire stood.

Tiron closed his eyes. Would he crush the empire to have what he desired? Peace? A life by Iskra's side? Could he visit such ruin upon the world to satisfy his own desires?

The answer came to him simply, clearly, and without equivocation.

Yes
.

Tiron opened his eyes in time to see Iskra raise her chin. "And what will you replace it with, Thansos? Your medusa worship?"

The emperor shook his head slowly. "I don't really care. I myself do not believe in Thyrrasskia, which is no doubt why almost nobody else does either. It was a tool which failed to be of use. We can dispense with it. I know this, however: what we replace Ascension with cannot fail but to be an improvement."

Iskra considered, and Tiron knew that in that moment of silence she was abandoning all that she held sacred, was casting down her ancient privilege and setting herself up for a task she had hoped to avoid at all cost. Could she have done so without the violence Ylisa had done to her? Finally she nodded. "Then we are agreed, Thansos. If saving my family and followers means destroying the empire, then so shall it be."

The emperor released a hissing sigh. "You share your husband's strength of purpose, if nothing else. That heartens me." He fumbled the mask back on, and once again presented a gleaming facade of perfection and beauty. "We must move quickly. My forces cannot last long in Ennoia without support."

"Agreed. My magister will open the Portal tomorrow at midday. I will return to my castle then."

"Very well," said the emperor.

He limped back to his palanquin and there settled with a sigh. He raised his hand, making an arcane symbol, and immediately the sound of running footsteps echoed through the hall as his six servants rushed forward from where they must have been watching and waiting out of sight.

"We shall discuss the details in the morning," he told Iskra. "Now, I must grieve. Good night, Lady Kyferin."

More servants were moving forth, bowing low and gesturing for Iskra and Tiron to follow them, but neither of them moved. They watched instead as the emperor's frail form was lifted aloft and born away. Only after he was gone did Iskra turn to Tiron and extend her hand to him.

"My knight," she whispered. "You saved me."

Tiron's eyes filled with tears, and his raw throat swelled closed. He raised her bloody hand to his lips. "Always," he whispered. "My lady. My Iskra."

He saw tears in her eyes as well, and sensed that her strength was coming to an end, that the horrors of the night were about to overwhelm her. He took his ruined cloak and swept it around her shoulders, wrapped an arm around her, and the crowd parted before them as he led her to safety.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Kethe slept deeply, a slumber so profound that she awoke thinking she had barely slept at all. Yet morning light was pouring in through the chinks in the wall of the great hall, and she could hear the subdued murmur of the Hrethings, who were sitting to one side in a group eating their breakfast. She rose and was surprised to feel as good as she did; the soreness was gone, and though the many nicks and cuts she had sustained on their journey were still there, they had scabbed over and looked many days old. Her palms, however, looked strange; she frowned at them in confusion until it hit her: the creases and lines had faded away, leaving an unnatural plane of smooth skin.

Shivering, she folded her blanket, dropped it on her pallet, and left the hall, avoiding eye contact, not searching the sparse crowd for Asho, Ser Wyland, or anybody else who might draw her into conversation. She slipped through the courtyard over the buckled flagstones, went out though the main gate and down to the shore.

It was early enough that wisps of mist still hung in faint spirals over the lake's glassy surface, and the waterfowl were but drifting shadows where she could make them out at all. The air was cool, heavy with moisture, and the sun was still hidden behind the eastern peaks.

Kethe lowered herself into a crouch and washed her hands, then cupped them and splashed water onto her face. By the Ascendant, when had she last had a real bath? Weeks ago, back at Kyferin Castle – and she hadn't even enjoyed it. Hessa, her former lady-in-waiting, probably wouldn't recognize her at this point. Kethe smiled sadly and reached up to undo her hair. She'd had it in a tight bun for weeks now, and releasing it felt wonderful. She sat on a stone and idly combed her fingers through it, wishing she'd thought to bring a comb. Some noble's daughter she was.

A fish disturbed the lake's surface with a plop, and Kethe watched the ripples extend outward, smoothing out till they disappeared. Had Audsley been there, he'd probably be able to draw some parallel between those ripples and their lives. She smiled again and realized that she missed the magister: his kindness, his thoughtful ways and genteel humor. At least he was safe in Starkadr, and not with her mother and Ser Tiron in Agerastos.

Her thoughts drifted, and she thought of her brother, held hostage by Lord Laur. When she thought of her mother, she vowed to be more loving and understanding when she returned. She had so little time left. She'd not waste it on pride or fear any longer.

Then she thought of her father, Lord Kyferin. Would he be proud of her? Of how she had handled herself up by the Black Gate? That was an old question, but a new one followed: did she still wish that? Perhaps. Her accomplishments thus far would have had to earn his praise; she'd killed demons, fought off an invading army, become an integral part of the defense of their family and fortune. Still...

Sitting there alone and gazing out over the lake, she allowed a wall within herself to lower. Did she want his pride? Yes, she decided – but why? Maybe she'd just wanted him to really see her. Love her. Be a father who
could
love, not simply excel at destroying.