The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (12 page)

The balcony was perhaps thirty yards above the floor, and from this vantage point Audsley could make out pools of limpid water that seemed no deeper than a few inches, each pool curved and made so that together they formed great sigils of power. Their still surfaces reflected the clouds overhead, and for a moment Audsley thought they were windows themselves to the clouds below. The left-hand side of the room was dominated by a semi-circular amphitheater, with seats rising up in curving concentric rings nearly to the ceiling. To the right, isolated and raised between pools of water and small waterfalls that joined them, was a severe table of black stone, long enough to sit fifty individuals.

Audsley's sight was drawn to the far end of the room, where broad steps rose and narrowed until they came to a point almost the same height as the balcony on which he stood, a small space surrounded by windows on which a pedestal stood before a stone throne that faced out toward the sky.

"By the White Gate," whispered Meffrid, stepping up to stand beside him. "What is this?"

"The command center," said Tiron grimly. "Look. They'd have met here to deliberate, to make decisions."

"And die," said Bogusch, pointing.

Audsley followed the direction of his finger and saw the remains of a body half-slumped into one of the pools. Suddenly he could see bodies almost everywhere: lying beside the great table, hidden in the shadows at the base of the amphitheater steps, lying partially submerged in the pools. The battle had raged here, it seemed, or had perhaps begun here; some of the glass panes above them were shattered, and a large hole had been shattered in the wall just beyond the amphitheater through which the wind whistled into the room and then plunged past them into the air shaft.

"Let's take a closer look," said Audsley.

There were entrances to six stairways from the balcony, each spiraling down the face of the column on which the balcony was supported and punching through the wall to emerge again on the column's far side. Audsley picked one at random and went down, one hand ghosting over the balustrade, round and round till finally he stepped out onto the floor.

The scope and magnitude of this room filled with him with a sense of reverence. What kind of men had built on such a scale, had wielded the power and craft to forge these windows, to lay out these intricate pools? Everything was stately and stark, elegant and severe, and he felt intimidated by the ghosts of those former Sin Casters, the engineers who had carved this space out and filled it with their might and magic. Drifting forward, Audsley tried to imagine the amphitheater filled with dark-robed figures of power, tried to hear the voices raised in anger or argument at the massive council table.

"Look at this," said Meffrid. He had approached the huge and ragged hole in the wall and crouched before it. Audsley, stomach clenching, stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder to steady himself. A constant gale blew past them with a moan from the vast aerial landscape beyond.

"Here," said Meffrid. "Look. What do you make of these marks on the floor?"

Audsley tore his gaze from the stunning cloudscapes outside and squinted at the floor. Indeed, there were deep cuts here and there inscribed right into the stone. "That looks like a giant Aedelbert's claw marks," he said. The very words caused his innards to quiver.

Meffrid picked up one of the many slabs of shattered glass that lay around them. "Whatever it was, it broke right in through the wall."

Audsley reached up to pet Aedelbert. "Do you have any horrendous cousins you've yet to tell me about, my dear?" Aedelbert hunkered down, claws dug deep into Audsley's shoulder pad.

"Hey, over here. What do you reckon this thing is?"

Temyl had wandered off to one side and was standing before a sculpture of some kind. It was a mass of stone that was vaguely shaped like a man, hacked from black rock and standing hunched with what might have been its arms crossed over its head. There were no spaces between its arms and legs, as if the sculpture had been left incomplete.

Audsley gratefully left the huge hole and walked over to stand beside Temyl, examining the rough pillar of rock. It was unnerving. There was something vaguely threatening about the shape hinted at by the sculptor: the head elongated, the arms impossibly thin, the ribs visible.

Meffrid drew up next to them. "Some kind of art?"

"Bad art," said Temyl. "Nasty art. Like everything else in this place. Strange, and wrong, and bad." He hawked and spat on the sculpture.

"Enough of that," said Tiron, walking past. "We're not here to judge their aesthetics, but to find food. Keep moving."

Audsley tore himself away from the statue and walked on. Small arched bridges that were almost ornamental allowed him to pass over the pools, and he realized that he was making his way toward the steps at the far side of the room. The others came behind him, so he led them on, and when he reached the first step he paused and looked back. The others, watching him carefully, did the same, and as one they studied the length of the great hall, their balcony small and high up. The scale was intimidating, and as if reading Audsley's mind, Meffrid whispered, "How were these people defeated?"

"By the Ascendant's will," said Audsley grimly, and then he turned to climb the steps.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Kethe checked her pack over one more time, then hefted it by one strap and swung it up and around and onto her shoulder. Not too bad - heavy, but as they ate their food it would lighten up quickly. She squirmed her other arm under the second strap, pulled the pack on tight, then hopped twice to help settle everything in place.

Sticking her thumbs under the straps, elbows flaring out, she strode out of the tiny storeroom she'd claimed as her own, into the central courtyard, and up to the small group that was gathering by the gatehouse. Her mother was there, of course, along with Ser Wyland and Brocuff. Mæva had a slender pack thrown carelessly over one shoulder as if she was just going out for an afternoon hike and nothing more, her firecat Ashurina sitting demurely at her feet licking one paw. Asho was standing to one side, brow furrowed as if he was deep in thought. He patted a pouch at his belt, then his dagger, then the blade at his hip, clearly running through a last-minute checklist. Kethe resisted the urge to snort.

"There you are," said Iskra, turning to Kethe with a hesitant smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Do you want to hear my long list of admonitions or should I assume you already know what you're doing and simply give you a hug?"

Kethe felt a wave of sadness pass through her. "A hug would be nice."

"Good," said Iskra, and stepped in to hold Kethe close. Her embrace was surprisingly fierce. Then she pulled back and examined Kethe. "You've packed your water canteens? You know not to drink from standing water, correct?"

"Yes, mother."

"And when you –"

"Mother," said Kethe, stepping back and shaking her head. "I said hug. Not advice." She saw Mæva smirking to one side, but Iskra didn't seem to care.

"One day," Iskra said, "if all goes well, you'll stand where I'm standing and watch one of your children head out into their own life, and their very confidence will tear at your soul." She reached out and touched Kethe's cheek. "Look at you. Very well, a hug will have to suffice. I'll expect you back within ten days. Does that sound right, Mæva?"

The witch shrugged a bare shoulder. "Four days there, four days back, two days to look around. Ten sounds like a fair estimate if all goes well."

"See that it does. Now, my blessings. I'll be thinking of you without fail until your return."

Iskra gave Kethe a second hug and then stepped back. Nearby, Ser Wyland was having quiet words with Asho, who was nodding seriously, which gave Brocuff a chance to approach.

"I know we've not been at our lessons, and truth be told you're probably past all that now, but remember what I told you, yes?" The constable's voice was even gruffer than usual. "Don't rely on your eyes. Use your senses. Pay attention to what's around you. Up where you're going, you're going to need to be extra alert."

"Yes, Constable," said Kethe. His words reminded her of happier times, innocent afternoons spent training in the woods outside Kyferin Castle, and nostalgia brought a knot to her throat. On impulse, she leaned in and gave him a quick hug. He blushed deeply and quickly backed away, scowling and shaking his head.

Just then, Elon the smith hurried into the courtyard, a slender-scabbarded blade in hand.

"Ah! I was afraid I missed you." He hurried up, towering even over Ser Wyland, a massively muscled man who had given Kethe the space and secrecy to create her own chain and sword. "Here. I found this in the pile of weaponry we took from Lord Laur's men." He held out a dagger as long as her forearm with a leaf blade. He drew three inches from its black leather scabbard. "This is a rare steel, something that goes back to the Age of Wonders, I'll warrant. It won't notch or rust. I think it's of the same family as Ser Tiron's own blade. Special. Here." He extended it to her.

It was perfectly balanced and light in her palm, but more than the pleasure of the gift, she felt a quiet joy at the look of concern and warmth in Elon's eyes. A rush of memories came back to her, of quiet afternoons and early mornings by his forge, hidden from the castle and crafting link by link her own destiny under his watchful eye.

She felt her eyes tear up. No, she couldn't cry. If she started she wouldn't stop. "Thank you, master smith. I'll treasure it dearly."

He smiled and ducked his head. "Don't treasure it. Use it. See that you come back to us, now, all right?"

Her chest felt as if it were filled with broken glass. She should have slipped out early and avoided these farewells. "All right."

Unable to say anything more, on the verge of embarrassing herself, she gave them all a tight smile and strode past Asho and through the long gatehouse tunnel, past the wrenched and torn portcullis where it had been propped up against the wall, and out into the early morning sunshine.

The twisted oak that had grown before the Hold's entrance had almost come to feel like a friend, and she leaned one shoulder against its warped trunk, struggling to tame the hitch in her breathing. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't let their kindness and concern undo her control. Kethe ground her eyes tightly shut and focused on her breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. She thought of her father. Towering, a bear of a man, powerful and vast and never weak. She could be strong just like him. Just as tough. She could do this.

Kethe took a final breath and opened her eyes. Mæva walked by, and Kethe pushed away from the oak to follow her down the shallow slope to where the lake waters lapped at the island's shore and around to the white stone causeway that linked the Hold with the mainland.

Ravens suddenly broke out of the oak tree with a thunderous crash of wings and raucous cries, and Kethe spun on her heel to gaze up at them as they rose like a ragged cloud to fly out over the Hold proper and then circle in a loose funnel. Mæva turned as well to gaze up at them, shielding her eyes with her hand.

"What does that mean, Mæva?" Kethe's voice was quiet. Her heart, for some reason, was thudding again.

"A farewell, I believe." The witch's voice was also somber. "The ravens here are not entirely natural. They mark our departure."

Kethe watched them circle. "Is that a good omen or ill?"

"We'll only know in retrospect," said Mæva, dropping her hand. Ashurina leaped up to land on her shoulders, and there settled down comfortably.

Kethe thought that Mæva would comment on her abrupt departure from the gatehouse, perhaps make a cutting joke about her tears, but there was a surprising amount of compassion in her eyes.

Asho emerged from the Hold and came jogging down to where they stood. Mæva mercifully interjected before he had a chance to speak. "Come. It's a long ways we have to go today, and we've lost much of the morning."

The witch set a hard pace, leading them off the causeway and then around the lake as if returning down to the village of Hrething. Asho walked behind them, no doubt considering himself some manner of rear guard, and in single file nobody felt much like talking. Kethe stole occasional glances over to Mythgræfen Hold and wondered if she would return to see its ruinous facade once more. Then they reached the place where the river Erenthil drained from the lake and plunged riotously down the rocks toward Hrething, and the Hold was gone from sight.