The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) (41 page)

Fighting blind for a split-second, pivoting to the side, Death sent his sword slicing through the cloak, whipping it away.

I had anticipated the move, and dropped into a deep crouch that nearly made my knee collapse.

His rapier swooshed just over my head.

I rose up inside his guard.  My backswept hilt jarred his face, snapping his head back, as my knee drove viciously into his groin.  This was no respectable match now, but a street brawl.  I was glad my father was not here to see it.

As Death slumped toward the floor, I batted his weapon and rejoiced to see it spin away, clattering beyond his reach.  Elation gave me just enough strength to topple over him with both of my hands on my hilt.  My shoulder felt as though I was probing it with a hot poker as I drove my rapier’s point toward Death’s ribs.

He cut his hands grabbing my blade, immobilizing it as his feet came up together, catching me in the stomach, kicking me several feet back.

I hit the floor hard and sprawled.  My thoughts were submerged in pain as my head smacked the marble.  A hiss of breath later, my vision cleared enough for me to see Death poised over me, transformed into a towering presence.  If his rage had cooled, it was now fueled to new heights.  His eyes were green stars that evaporated the flesh of his face, baring the skull underneath once more so that his fierce grimace became a fixed grin.

His vast powers had returned.

He made no effort to recover the silver sword, but made another out of trembling darkness, drawn from his own black-fire body.  A moment from death, all I could think of was that he was cheating; abandoning humanity to win the duel and strike me down.

The sound of running feet made him hesitate in delivering the
coup de grace
, the “merciful killing” that would have little true mercy to it.

“Hold, villain!”  Azrael’s thundering voice informed me who intervened so swiftly.  “You shall not have her!”

Already huge, Death expanded many times thereafter.  He used a massive hand to cover my torso, like a toppled wall, pinning me down.  My breath was crushed away as he shifted, slashing at Azrael.  My thoughts were not on my own misery, but on the dark angel.  Though he had survived Abaddon’s sickle, I did not know what damage Death’s black-fire sword might inflict.  I did not even know if Azrael could summon such a sword himself from the mysterious realm of his own black shadows.

My vision started to gray from lack of air.  I thought I would surely be ground to paste.

Then I could breathe again as Death reeled back.  A leathery flyer clawed his face in passing, flapping furiously in search of a sky it could not find.  The missing hell-beast from the arena battle!  Now I knew what had become of it when its shriek had cut off mid-warble; Azrael had taken it into his cloak, only to release it now, at the most advantageous moment.

Death grew until he crowded the ceiling.  His black-fire sword grew as well, as he seized the flyer in an iron grip, crushed it, and flung the broken mass across the throne room.  The dead flyer hit a mirror panel that shattered.

As if in sympathy, all the mirrors began to break, spewing my missing companions back into the chamber.  Had Death’s carelessness worked to my advantage?

Sitting up, coughing, I was one massive ache.  I saw Grandmama with Amberyn and Myla.  They were at a far wall, in a tight group.  So,
Elven magic had lent a hand in tearing open the prison of the reflected world.  No wonder Azrael had been alone in running to my rescue—the others had been occupied with an equally essential mission, distrusting Death’s promise of clemency.  Certainly, his anger was beyond reason at this point.

There were only two choices: to try something, anything, or to lie down and die.  I forced myself to my feet.  I wasn’t
that
tired.

I picked up my sword and limped toward Death, while his sword came down and shattered a section of floor, narrowly missing Azrael.

With fresh rage boiling through me, I found I wasn’t tired at all!  With an awkward gait, I ran at Death.

Azrael sprang off Death’s shadow-fire blade, hurtling at the great grinning skull that hung over us like doom.

With a loud whack, Death’s free hand slapped Azrael away like a bothersome fly.

I screamed in fury, and retaliated by opening a furrow in Death’s oversized calf with my rapier.  Unfortunately, the wound closed at once, causing no apparent discomfort.

But Death saw me at his feet.

Beams of icy, jade light shot from his eyes.  The air around me burned with cold as I was smashed off my feet, into yet another tumble that made the world spin sickeningly.  My sword fell from my hand even before I crashed to the marble floor.  Renewed agony washed across my mind as I added to my collection of bruises and further wrenched my knee.

Death stomped toward me, each monstrous step cracking the floor.  A host of reavers appeared, forming a ring around us so that no one could interfere with my murder.  Grandfather raised his sword to strike, smashing open the ceiling, bringing down a rain of debris on himself that he scarcely noticed.

Sluggish, I raised head and shoulders off the floor.  Every nerve in my body complained stridently.  A coat of frost cracked and fell from my shivering arms and chest.  My strength played out, and I fell back, barely managing to roll onto my back so I could see Death coming.

Roused by my will to live, the dark rose sleeping within me twitched its petals, beginning to open, shredding my restraints.

I heard a seductive whisper in my mind, promising boundless power and endless night if I would only…

Give in … give in … give in…!

20.
TRANSFORMATION

Within my spirit, the rising storm began to crush me.  Wings of exultation sliced across my spirit where an alien joy invaded. True, strength seeped into me from the black rose, but not enough to counter the greater currents that battered my awareness, driving me in a frenzied rush toward dissolution.  And the cursed petals had yet to open fully.  

Then strange thoughts merged with mine;
Do not be afraid. I will help you.
  An image passed through my mind: ghostly green hands forcing the black petals closed before they could damage me further.  Without volition, my lips moved, shaping soundless words that echoed those appearing in my thoughts:
Celeste, you must release me.  Speak my true name!

Driven by another will, my hand splayed open, directed toward a section of the reaver circle.  A glittering object passed through those ranks, stinging my palm as it landed.  My fingers closed on the hilt of the dagger I had lost in the duel.  A creature possessed, I was lifted to my feet by an unseen force.  My knee buckled as stabbing pain shot through it.  Still, my hand acted on its own, flinging the dagger at Death.

He swayed aside and the knife streaked harmlessly by.  Yet I had another moment’s respite.

The
other
within me used my full voice, demanding, “Call my name.  You know it!”

Did I?  This was not Silver Wolf.  I sensed a female quality to the presence.  A memory surfaced.  I saw myself lying at the edge of oblivion, a sword driven into my heart by the ghost-queen of Avalon.  A name had come to me then.  I fought to retrieve the memory.  It came in a cold rush.  I whispered, “Kursa!”

Within me, a key turned as if in some ancient lock.  A portal opened to a heatless inferno.  Stinging-cold flames made a green pyre of me.  My flesh was covered with frost once more.  The chill made my knee bearable.  As for the rest of me, I longed for an honest flame that knew how to properly warm a person.

Death stared at me, his sword forgotten, suspended over his head.  I could read little emotion from the hollow sockets of his skull face, but he had to be at least as surprised as I was by all this.

“Now, I am impressed.”  His rumble coiled around me like curious thunder.  “How are you summoning the ghost-fire?  You should not be able to do that … while mortal.”

Alas, I had nothing to do with it, but I was not going to tell
him
that.

“What have
you
done to earn any of my secrets?” I demanded in turn.  “Are you going to kill me or not?”  Once he committed to a strike, I could only fling myself aside and hope not to further damage my knee, but the waiting was torture.

“Most definitely,” Death answered.  “You are too dangerously willful to be allowed to run loose among the worlds.”

He still didn’t understand—I was too dangerous to remain in his Courts as well.  I would never be a rose
he
could handle.  My thorns were eternal.

His shadow sword blurred, a black curtain falling at my face.

But the strike came too late, for a third arm thrust out of my chest—armored and aflame with ethereal energy.  The ghostly limb was joined by its twin.  A helmeted head rose out of my breast.  A heartbeat later, the rest of the phantom-queen stepped completely out of me.

I recalled the unknown language I had uttered in the throes of passion with Azrael.  Had she shared even that pleasure with me?  I felt myself thawing at last with the heat of embarrassment.

Death’s blow was stopped as the wraith braced, lifting and crossing her arms.  The impact did not move her.  Instead, the shadow sword shattered where she touched it.  The falling pieces thinned to nothing, never hitting the floor.

Balanced mostly on my good leg, I had ducked instinctively, but without need.

Confronted by the specter, Death staggered back.  His broken blade reformed, but he did not strike again.  I rejoiced at seeing my enemy so startled.

My champion lowered her arms, which uncovered her face.  She proclaimed herself with ringing tones, “I am Ellyssia, one-time queen of the elves, a former champion of the Celestial Hosts, and I say you will not take the life of this human while I endure, for she has given her love to my brother, and I will not let you break an angel’s heart.”

I approved of the response, but was uncertain what more she could do against Death, for she carried no sword.

Death saw this too.  He laughed, eyes pulsing in malevolence.  “I have heard of you, and the Sword of Legend, but it seems as if you have lost it somewhere.  Pity, for there is nothing else I fear this side of Heaven.”

It was Ellyssia’s turn to laugh.  “Once more, you presume unwisely.  The weapon that holds my soul is but a soul away.”

A soul away?  Whatever did she mean?

My spectral defender angled toward me.  Her armored hand darted, plunging into my chest as though to rip out my heart.

A startled cry escaped me as bitter-cold fingers stilled my heartbeat for a long, excruciating moment, paralyzing my lungs.  White fire erupted from my flesh as I burned from the inside out.  Then Ellyssia’s hand left my breast, dragging a bar of light out of hiding.

The sword of Legend! 

“Give it to me,” I begged, “and I will gladly strike him down!”

“Strike him down?”  Ellyssia looked me over with a critical eye.  “You can barely stand.  In another moment, you will fall on your face.  Sit down, rest, and leave this to me.”  She pressed me down with a hand on my shoulder that I could not resist.  My legs wavered under me, conspiring to collapse.  I clenched my teeth as a new stab of pain came from my knee.  I had no choice but to let this wraith champion me.

The dead queen advanced on Death.

He had nowhere to go, hemmed in by his own reavers.  His towering darkness compressed as he slid down to human scale.  His blade of hardened shadow dwindled as well.  Death must have realized that he made too big a target as a giant, and could not afford the vulnerability, especially since he had already failed to overwhelm Ellyssia while she was yet unarmed.

“No matter who you were in life, you are only a shade now,” Death said.  “You should not be this strong.”

“While I served as queen among elves, I never accepted the covenant to
become
one of them.  My soul is celestial—the fires of heaven sustain me, so you have no dominion over me.”

Ellyssia was now within striking range.  Her advance had not been slowed by her words.  Her sword flared and lengthened, stabbing at Death’s heart without her needing to move her arm.  Death’s black sword blocked.  Where the weapons touched, both were distorted into a
gray swirl.  But then the Sword of Legend forked flowed around both sides of Death’s weapon, becoming strands of white lightning.

With disappointment, I watched Death twist enough to received only shallow slashes across his ribs and a shoulder.  With a muffled curse, he patted out the dark robes he wore which had ignited around the wounds.  I don’t know what else I expected to see: black spurts of shadow, green fire spilling out…  Instead, red blood splattered black marble, surprising me, though I knew he was mortal beneath the persona of Death.  Seeing his mortality demonstrated reminded me that I needed him defeated—not destroyed—or my son would take his place, losing the freedom I battled for.