The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (30 page)

“Is it true?” His voice grew higher. “Are you leaving?”

She took his little hands and brought them to her lips. They were growing, losing the baby fat that had encased them and made them so delightfully pudgy. The dimples over his knuckles had finally disappeared. She turned his hands and kissed his palms, then smiled as best she could again. “Yes. I don’t have a choice, but it won’t be forever. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to go.” He frowned at her, eyes growing liquid with tears. “You can’t go.”

“Oh, my darling boy.” She pulled him in tight again. This was worse than anything; this was like tearing herself in half, ripping her body from left shoulder to right hip. Her love for him went to her core, and leaving him felt like tearing out a tree by the roots, feeling each and every tendril rip out of her soul. “Please. Be strong. I don’t have a choice. Do as your uncle says. Listen to him, but remember.” She pulled back and stared hard at him, giving him a soft shake. “Remember. He is not your friend. Never trust him. Do as he says, but never, ever trust him. Wait for me. I’ll come for you. I promise.”

“Noooo!” he said, voice rising to a wail. “I don’t want you to go!”

She closed her eyes and hugged him again. She wanted to press him into her body, carry him away with her as she had once borne him for nine months. What kind of world could do this? “I love you, and you will be strong, and I will come back, and when I do you will tell me all the wonderful things you have done and seen, and we will be happy.” She held his body against her own, feeling his every bone, feeling how vulnerable and defenseless he was. “Yes? Tell your mother yes.”

“No.” He stared at the ground. “No. No no no.”

“Shh,” she said. “Here.” She took her pendant from around her neck and handed it to him. “Keep this somewhere secret and safe. And whenever you miss me, just look at it, and know that you are in my heart and I love you more than the world. All right?”

He blurred as the tears filled her eyes, but she saw him close his hand around the pendant. “All right.”

“Good.” She wiped at her face briskly with the blade of one hand. “Now, I don’t have any more time. I have to go. Remember what I told you. Don’t trust Uncle Laur or any of his men, but do as they say until I return.” She stood and looked down at him. “Will you do that?”

“Can I still tend the pigeons?” His face was pale, a red dot on each cheek.

She laughed, a shuddering sound that was weak and tender and shot through with pain. “Yes. Of course. Now go to bed. It’s late. Come on.” She led him to his little cot set beside her own large bed, and laid him down, pulling his blanket over him.

“Will you tell me a story?”

“How about a song?” She crouched beside him and stroked his hair.

“The one about the clever little fox,” he said.

“Yes. Just like you. My clever little fox.”

So she stroked his hair and sang him his favorite lullaby, and by the time Lord Laur opened the door again, Roddick was fast asleep, his eyelashes lying on his cheeks like thick, dark snowflakes.

Iskra stood and crept away so as not to wake him, then turned to face Lord Laur. “If you harm him–if you hurt a single hair on his head—”

“You have my word as family that I shall treat him honorably.” Lord Laur’s face was grave. “I admit that I am taking advantage of you, but you are an adult. He is a child. I shall see to it that he is loved as if he were my own son.”

“I’ve seen how your son turned out. Spare me that fate.”

Laur’s expression turned hard. “Forty minutes until the Gate opens, my Lady. You’d better run.”

Iskra stepped to the door and turned back for one last look at her son. She stared at him, engraving the sight of him sleeping peacefully in her mind. Then she took a deep breath, turned, and descended quickly down the stairs.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ser Tiron stood in his room in the Stag Tower. It was barren, containing only a cot and an armature on which his rusted armor hung. Frigid air was unspooling into the room through the arrow slit, though after his years spent in a cell that bothered him little.

He stood by the window, holding his blade across his other palm. The light of the full moon set his sword to gleaming. He turned it slowly, causing the faint ripples in the steel to shine. His ancestor had earned it on some bloody battlefield in the service of Aletheia during the Unification. His reward for his deeds that day had been to select any blade he liked from the Ascendant’s private armory. Each successive Ser Tiron had wielded this sword in battle, never losing it or their honor… up until Lord Kyferin had taken it from him.

Six guards had wrestled him to the ground. He’d bellowed like a stuck bull, the sounds he made tearing his throat as he fought them. Hands on his hips, Lord Kyferin had stood watching and smiling. Six men had fought to pull Tiron down, and still he’d found the strength to take a step forward, and then another. He’d wrenched every muscle in his neck, back, thighs and hamstrings. But he’d fought on, this very sword gleaming in his hand. He’d taken a third step, and then a seventh man had piled on, and he’d been driven down to his knees. His cries had been terrible. He’d fought his way back up to both feet, had taken a fourth step, and then collapsed. He’d been pinned to the ground on his back.

Only then had Lord Kyferin approached. The sun had been bright behind his head. Hoarse shouts and sobs had come from the caravan as Kyferin stood over him, smiling. “Death’s too easy an escape for traitors like you. You mark my words: I’m going to petition the Ascendant himself for the right to open the Black Gate and throw you through it. You’re going straight to hell, Tiron. Until then? You’ll rot.” Then Kyferin had placed his boot on Tiron’s wrist and pressed down until Tiron had been forced to release his sword.

Kyferin had knelt to take the blade, and in doing so brought his face close to Tiron’s ear. “I strangled her even as I took her. To this day, I don’t know if she died before I came.”

Madness had descended. Tiron shuddered as he recalled the snap. He’d heard it, within his mind, within his soul, a sound like the sundering of a dry twig. He’d broken right there and then, had bucked and heaved and screamed. Lord Kyferin had laughed and walked away, Tiron’s family blade resting over his shoulder. Moments later, someone had started punching him in the face, over and over, but it didn’t seem to do any good. The pain was distant and irrelevant. Finally they’d resorted to kicks, and the world had gone black.

Ser Tiron turned the blade over and fought a shudder. After that day, the world had turned monochrome. He’d lived on with the slim hope that fate might give him a chance at revenge. It was the only thing worth living for. Honor, love, wealth, joy—all of that was ashes. All that remained was Lord Kyferin’s smiling face, and a base, bestial need to crush it.

The sound of voices filtered in from the stairwell. Ser Tiron sheathed his blade and turned as his door was shoved open. Ser Kitan Laur stood there, his plate armor refulgent in the candlelight, four Laur soldiers behind him. “Ser Tiron. May I have a word with you?”

Ser Tiron kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. “No. Piss off.”

Kitan smiled and stepped inside. “I see captivity has done wonders for your eloquence, but I must insist. One moment is all I ask. You’ll find it worth your while.”

Ser Tiron rocked back on his heels. “You’re a worm, Kitan. Before I might have kept that opinion to myself, but now I see no reason not to speak my mind. You’re a boot-licking, crotch-sniffing, spineless worm. Get out before I take off your head.”

A vicious expression of contempt and amusement crossed Kitan’s face, and he drew his own blade. “Watch yourself, old man. You might have been a threat before you were thrown in that hole, but now? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Ser Tiron drew his sword.

“No, I’d rather not. It would be ignomious to cut you down in your own bed chamber. Of course I could challenge you for killing Ser Bero, but the man was little more than a beast. I don’t think anyone will miss him. No, I’m serious about giving you a message. Or have you forgotten your dead wife so quickly?”

The lazy smile died on Ser Tiron’s face, and his glove creaked as he tightened his grip on his sword. “Well, now.” His voice turned soft. “Now I’m going to really enjoy this.”

Kitan sighed and raised his hands. “Diplomacy has never been my strong suit, though you’ve made this encounter far more difficult than it should have been. Lady Kyferin has been banished. I assume you plan to go with her?”

Ser Tiron nodded slowly.

“As I thought. And I can guess why. My father and I know the truth about what happened to your late wife and son. Lord Kyferin spoke of it one night while in his cups. I’ll tell you straight: Lord Laur was sickened.” Kitan watched Tiron closely. “I can’t imagine what you must have gone through, and I know you don’t want my pity. So here’s my point: you want revenge. Of course you do. Why else follow Kyferin’s bitch into banishment? Any true man would want what you want—vengeance. When you kill her and her daughter too, Lord Laur will consider you a friend. You’ll be welcomed into his service should you seek it, or given your own plot of land and left alone.” He paused. “Am I being clear?”

Ser Tiron sneered. “Only too clear.”

“There’s one thing I can’t figure out,” said Kitan. “Why did Iskra let you out? She must know you’re untrustworthy. That you’ll want revenge.”

Ser Tiron sheathed his blade. “Maybe she believes in redemption.”

“Redemption?” Kitan considered the thought, then laughed. “Tell me she’s not so naive. By the Ascendant. Women! Now, what shall I tell Lord Laur?”

The nature of Ser Tiron’s stare cased Kitan to stiffen. “Tell him that I don’t want or need his protection or support. What I’ll do, I’ll do for myself alone. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Good enough,” said Kitan cheerfully. “As long as you get it done.” He stopped at the door. “Just don’t turn soft. Remember your dead wife and son if you start feeling any sympathy for the bitch, yes?”

Tiron took a step forward. “Stupid boy. You should not have said those words.” His grin was sickly and he felt feverish. “Come back in here. I’ve a deep yearning to kill you. I’d like to plant my boot on your chest and pull off that yapping jaw of yours, tear it free and then grind my boot in your bloody gullet. You ready?”

Kitan’s smile vanished. “Watch yourself.”

“No? Too scared? Then get out,” said Tiron. “The sight of your face makes me sick, and that takes some doing.”

Kitan glared at him. “If my father didn’t want you alive—”

“You mewling, cowardly toad, GET OUT!”

In a flash Ser Tiron had his blade in hand and swung it down with all his strength at the wide-eyed Kitan, who leaped back and slammed the door closed. Tiron’s sword thunked into the old ironwood and stuck there, quivering.

Tiron groaned and backed away. He pressed his knuckles into his eyes. His head was pounding. He turned and stumbled back to his cot, where he sat heavily, fighting the throbbing waves of grief and fury that threatened to drown him. He saw Sarah’s face, heard Kyferin’s laughter, and all he could do was writhe impotently with no outlet for his fury. How could Kyferin be dead? How could the Ascendant have robbed him of his vengeance? He roared and stood and threw himself at the wall, crashing into it and then leaning against the cold stone, gasping as he fought back the tears he hated so much.

Any true man would want what you want. Vengeance.

Kitan’s words rung in his mind like the peal of a bell. Tiron grew still, staring blindly at the stone as he pictured Iskra and Kethe. He thought of Sarah, of his son. Heard Kyferin’s laughter again, and stood.

He’d vowed revenge on Lord Kyferin while rotting in his dungeon, a revenge so total and annihilating that it had animated his every breath, had driven him to go on living long after his Sarah had been lowered into the ground. Kyferin was gone, but he could still have his vengeance.

Turning, he walked slowly to the door, feet dragging, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

Vengeance
.

With a sharp yank he tugged it free.

CHAPTER NINETEEN