The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (23 page)

Kethe felt madness seize her. Madness and anger and determination so pure nothing could stop her. She reached up and pulled the barbute free. She heard the gasps but ignored them. Her eyes were locked on her mother’s. “I demand the right to serve as one of your knights.”

“This is preposterous,” said Lady Kyferin. “Kethe, have you lost your mind?”

“No,” she said. “The exact opposite. I want this. I will have it. I will serve you with my sword.”

Snickers and laughter came from the audience, but just as many hissed at them to be silent.

Lord Laur stirred in his seat. “Niece. It’s a pleasure to see you, though I must admit to being somewhat… surprised.”

“Lord Uncle,” she said, bowing her head. Then she turned back to her mother, who had grown pale. “You cannot deny me this. You’ve always told me that women are the equal of men in all matters. That we need but the courage to seize the moment, to believe in ourselves, and that there is nothing we can’t do. Well, I am taking you at your word. I want this. I will have it.”

Lady Kyferin shook her head softly. “You can’t stand against these knights, Kethe.”

Kethe smiled, fighting the tears that threatened to come from the sheer intensity of her emotion. “I can, and I will. Give me this chance. I know what I’m doing. By the Ascendant and my hope for the White Gate, I swear it. Mother, let me fight.”

Silence ached between them. Lord Laur went to speak, saw Lady Kyferin’s expression, and fell still. The moment dragged out, but Kethe never flinched, never looked away. She held her mother’s gaze with a steadiness and resolution that she had never managed before, and finally her mother looked over to Lord Laur.

“Will your men allow a woman to contest them?”

Lord Laur considered the question, then shrugged. “That is up to them. I suppose there are legendary precedents. It is said that centuries ago women did indeed fight alongside men.” He paused, calculating. “But you are our host, my Lady. Order it, and I shall see it done. For better or worse, they will treat my dear niece as they would any other knight.”

Lady Kyferin looked back to Kethe. “Is this truly what you wish?”

Kethe’s desire was so strong that she found she couldn’t speak. She simply nodded.

Something in her mother gave way. “So be it,” said Lady Kyferin. “Lord Laur, tell your men to withhold nothing. My daughter will enter the melee as a knight of Kyferin Castle.”

Kethe wanted to cry, to grin, to give an ebullient whoop, but she controlled herself and did none of those things. This had been the easiest part. As she turned to consider the eighteen other mounted knights, she found her confidence wilting. They were massive, their armor ponderous and heavy, their destriers huge, and they were all staring at her. She could read their minds: Incredulity. Disdain. Mockery. Except for Asho, she saw. His customary expression of neutrality had given way to the slightest of grins. Kethe restrained the urge to smile back, and instead placed her helm back over her head. “My Lady. By your leave.”

Lady Kyferin nodded weakly, and Kethe rode over to Asho and Ser Wyland.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Asho didn’t sound incredulous, much to her relief. Merely incredibly dubious.

“Of course I do.” Mexus was massive between her legs, a world of difference compared to Lady. No matter. He was as highly trained as destriers came. He’d do what she bid. “I think.”

Ser Wyland was staring at her, his expression inscrutable. She wanted to pretend that his words and opinion wouldn’t matter any more than Asho’s, but that would be a lie. She watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye.

Finally he rubbed his face with both hands. “By the White Gate. Stay close to me. I’ll do what I can to protect you.”

Anger was followed quickly by bitter self-control. She bit down her retort. “Thank you, Ser Wyland. I’ll do my best to watch your back as well.”

Ser Kitan Laur guided his horse over, riding with an enviable ease in his expertly crafted plate. He stopped before her and pushed up his visor’s helm. She’d last seen him four years ago at one of their family’s rare reunions. He’d been a lean young man at that time, barely out of his teens, face petulant, his thin lips always pressed in displeasure. She’d hated being caught alone with him, because he’d always tried to corner her and kiss her hair. He’d filled out, she saw, his frame now muscled though not nearly as broad as Ser Wyland’s. His eyes, though—they retained their mocking amusement.

“Cousin,” he said. “This is unexpected. Do you seriously mean to ride against us?”

Kethe met his eyes with a flat stare of her own. “That and more.”

Kitan leaned back in his saddle, both hands resting on his pommel. “You’ll ruin this contest, Kethe. Nobody will strike against you in earnest. Instead, we’ll all be reduced to fumbling over ourselves as we seek to avoid you and not fall over laughing at the same time. Come. Withdraw. Let the men do the fighting.”

Kethe felt her fear leave her. Into its place stole a solid, impenetrable anger as heavy and flat as Elon’s anvil. “Watch yourself, Kitan. I’ll be coming for you.”

He sneered. “I’ve faced the greatest knights in the realm and never been defeated. What chance do you really think you have against me?”

The other knights were all watching. She felt the weight of their eyes. Her leather armor creaked as she leaned forward. “Watch your back, Kitan. I’m taking you out. And when you’re lying on the mud with my foot on your face, I’ll remind you of this exchange.”

Ser Wyland gave a low whistle, and Kitan snapped his visor down. “You’ll rue those words, sweet Kethe. Once the signal has been given, I’ll forget you’re family and a woman. You want to play at war? Then come at me. I’m more than willing to play.”

He turned his horse and rode back to the other Laur knights.

“Well,” said Ser Wyland, gazing out over the field. “That’s one way to make sure you have an easy first fight.”

“I don’t want easy,” snapped Kethe.

“Clearly not,” said Asho. He grinned at her, and she realized that she’d never seen him smile like that. It brought life to his normally dour and sullen features. “Just leave some for the rest of us, will you? I promised Ser Wyland at least six of them.”

Kethe couldn’t help but smile back. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

In the stands, Lady Kyferin was speaking with Lord Laur. She finally seemed to agree to something and rose to her feet. The crowd silenced as everyone turned to her. She spoke to Menczel, who rose up and called out in his rich voice so that all could hear.

“The prize for today’s melee is a golden cup, blessed by the Ascendant and brought from Sige by the Lady Kyferin herself.”

Whispers of excitement flickered through the throng, and several of the knights sat up straighter, each as attentive as a hunting hound waiting for the signal to spring.

“Lady Kyferin has accepted Lord Laur’s suggestion that his knights face the rest combined. As such, will his knights please ride to the far side of the field. This is to be a contest in the classic manner, held in honor of the late Lord Kyferin; both sides are to ride against each other three times, and then those who are still mounted are to dismount and engage the opposition on foot. Combat shall continue until one side has surrendered completely. The greatest knight shall receive the cup, and the winning side an equal measure in gold coin.”

Kitan’s mount sprang forward and the other seven knights followed him to canter across the field, where they turned and lined up. They looked glorious, the sunlight gleaming on their armor, their brightly colored tabards and high-spirited mounts giving them a romantic and dashing air. Were Kethe still in the stands, she might have favored them. They were clearly the better armed, most united, and professional company here.

Looking at her companions, she resisted the urge to wince. There were ten of them, an advantage that she was sure would quickly evaporate after the first charge. Ser Wyland took the center of the line, Kethe to his left, Asho to his right. The other newly arrived knights flanked them, with the Black Knight at the far left. They were a mismatched company, some wearing armor too large for them, their armorers not having had time to make adjustments, while others were holding their lances awkwardly. Young knights. Untested, unproven, and with who knew how much training.

“All right, my brothers and sisters, listen up.” Ser Wyland sat large and confident in their center. Everyone stilled and turned to him. “This is going to happen fast and rough. We’re strangers to each other, but before us lies our enemy, and for the next hour we are family. Ride hard, and when you reach the far side of the field, turn and wait my mark.”

Ser Wyland’s voice sent a thrill down Kethe’s spine. She nodded, eager to show that she understood, and saw that many of the other knights did as well. Ser Wyland smiled broadly, his eyes shining. “Look for me. Line up beside me, and wait till I give the order to charge for the second pass. Order and control are worth more here than individual skill. Save your heroics for when you hit the ground. While mounted, you are mine, you are part of this line, you are the hammer and every ugly face looking at us from over there is your personal anvil. Do you hear me?”

A number of the knights shouted their agreement, their horses shying and pawing at the air with their hooves.

“Any moment now.” Ser Wyland pulled on his helm and his voice became muffled. “Ride slow to begin with. Nobody pass me. Save the gallop for the very last second. I’ll set the pace. Don’t let excitement or fear get to your head. Slow and steady, right up till the last, then we knock them on their fat arses and turn to mop up the rest. Clear?”

Menczel had stepped up to where the trumpeters were watching Lady Kyferin for the signal. Squires were racing into position with extra lances. Everyone in the crowd was on their feet. It seemed as if the entire world were holding its breath.

Brocuff had given Kethe several months’ worth of lance training, but he’d told her up front that he was no knight. Her pulse was pounding in her ears. She could barely breathe, couldn’t swallow. All she could remember was how over and over again she’d failed to put her lance through the small ring Brocuff had hung from a branch, and that with riding at it at only a canter. The lance towered above her, eight feet long and made of beautiful and supple ash. She yearned to draw her sword instead.

“Here we go,” said Ser Wyland, and the trumpets blew.

Kethe almost dug her heels into Mexus’ flanks, almost urged him into an explosive gallop. She barely managed to check the impulse and instead simply clucked him forward. Ser Wyland led the line, moving at an easy trot, lance held erect. Before them the eight Laur knights did the same, their line perfect, their legs almost touching, so close were they riding to each other.

“Easy,” called Ser Wyland, his voice powerful and carrying even with his helm on. “Stay close. Now, a little faster, shall we?” He urged his mount into a canter, moving ahead so that they formed a very shallow ‘V’.

Kethe felt like a child atop Mexus, suddenly clumsy as fear swamped her anew. The Laur knights were moving steadily toward them, and the crowd was screaming, a shrill, surreal sound that made the acid burning her stomach all the worse. She couldn’t breathe. Her whole body felt numb. What had she been thinking?

“All right!” bellowed Ser Wyland over the drumming of their hooves. “Lower lances! Send them to the Black Gate, men! Charge!”

Madness erupted. Kethe did as she was bid, the tip of her lance weaving down through the sky to point at the great knight before her. She leaned forward, digging her knees into Mexus, and he responded by opening up into a gallop. It was like riding an avalanche. She raised her shield with the other arm, lance tucked against her ribs, and stared at her opponent. It was the massive brute, Ser Bero, astride what looked to be a plow horse, a moving wall of flesh and green steel. His antlers gleamed, their points shod in iron, and his lance was an oak tree, as thick as her arm.

The thunder became a crescendo. She was yelling at the top of her voice, her whole body tensed, the world reduced to one small point, and then the lines collided. She heard screams, the shattering of lances, the resounding clash of metal, dirt clods flying everywhere.

Kethe took Beros’ lance full on her shield, and tried to twist at the last moment so as to deflect it at an angle. It was like galloping into a wall. Her own lance shattered, though she had no idea where it had hit, and then the world became a bright smear. The earth and sky flipped, then again, then everything went white as she smashed to the ground, hitting the field so hard that she bounced, rolled, and came to a stop in a crumpled heap.

Roars, cheers, and screams filled the air around her. She felt like puking. Her lungs no longer worked. She lay on her side, mouth gaping like a landed fish’s. She couldn’t even wheeze. Reflex more than anything else had her roll onto her front and push up onto her knees.

Suddenly her lungs opened and she gasped, tears springing into her eyes. Her whole left side was throbbing, every bone wrenched. The world was doubled, her vision blurred. With a cry of anger she forced her feet under herself and stood, though doing so nearly made her sick. The world swayed, but she managed to keep her feet.

People were yelling her name. Reaching up, she adjusted her helm, settling it back into place, and finally took in the grounds around her.

The Laur knights were wheeling, taking up fresh lances from their squires, forming a new line. Kethe counted. Six remained mounted. She turned and saw that only four of their own knights were turning to form up again. Ice flooded her veins. Ser Wyland, Asho, the Black Knight, and a young knight with a crimson surcoat emblazoned with a white lily.