The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) (31 page)

Faang leered lovingly.  “And have I ever failed you in
that?
”

D’elia turned back and studied my face.  “It is our custom here to speak frankly of our needs, making no apology for them.  I hope that does not offend you.  The animal spirits we carry strengthen certain ...  drives ...  in us—not that we make a public spectacle of satisfying our appetites.”  Her voice lowered as she spoke for me alone.  “Besides, Death could claim any of us in the up-coming struggle.  I see no shadowed faces yet, but it is wise to savor life when it can end all too swiftly.”

“I quite understand.”  Many of the shifters were absent.  I supposed that they had similar passions to explore—I know I did.

Amberyn waved us over to a pair of tables thick with elves.  They skillfully dispatched every crumb offered while glancing about with open curiosity.  As we approached, those stares caught on D’elia.  She spoke as if announcing the presence of royalty.  “Allow me to present the current White Rose, Celeste Comeyne, Lady of Earth and granddaughter of Death.”

The description of my family lineage was met with great interest and a few frowns.  One of the newcomers was shorter than the others with a thick neck, barrel chest, and massive arms.  He had a double-faced iron axe strapped to his back, poking up over a shoulder.  The others gave him plenty of room.  He looked up at me, brow furrowed with thought, his lower face lost behind a fiery red beard.

“She is the one that shattered the dark elves’ magic?” his voice was encrusted with disbelief.

“She is,” Amberyn said.  “They saw only petals, and not her thorns—until it was too late.”

I offered the red-bearded stranger a cool stare.  “Do not make the same mistake, little man.”

His beard bristled as a grimace appeared.  “Do not insult me.  I am a dwelf, not a man.”

Dwelf
?  The word meant nothing to me.  I looked to Amberyn for elaboration.

“Half dwarf, half elf—a dwelf.  This is Elwren of Riven-rock, a long time friend,” the prince announced.

I extended my hand in greeting.  “I am honored.”

Elwren snorted softly.  “Of course you are.” He took my hand and pecked it with lips roughened by the cold outside.  As if to make up for lost opportunities, he hurried back to feeding.

I moved on to meet the others.  For the most part, their quicksilver names slipped by me quickly, getting forgotten at once; there were so many, only a few clung to memory.  One of the most memorable of the elves was simply called Red-blade.  Unlike the others, he favored a rapier not too different from mine.

His eyes warmed to me as he saw the back-swept brass hilt of my sheathed weapon.  “Nice,” he said.  His gaze rose slowly to my face.  “Very nice, maybe you can show me a thing or two.  Fancy a practice match sometime?”

“My gold says she can take you easily,” Amberyn said.

I wondered what the elf was up to.  Surely, he knew that if I won, I might create lasting enmity between Red-blade and myself.

Amberyn leaned close to me and muttered.  “It is a fast way to earn respect with this bunch.  Trust me.”

Elwren came over, waving a chicken leg.  “I have never seen a finer hand with rapier than Red-blade, and I can certainly use gold.  What kind of odds are you offering?”

“Three to one,” D’elia announced.  “I will cover all wagers.  I say Celeste draws first blood and second as well if it comes to that.”   

A babble of interest erupted as the elf warriors scented a hefty profit to be made.  Coins were musically jiggled and counted, a prelude to wagering.

“You risk much on a blade you have never seen in use?”  I knew I was good, but I had not yet taken my would-be opponent’s measure.  I could not be certain of victory.

Hearing doubt spurred many of the elves to wager against me.  Faang came over with a few of his warriors and backed D’elia up by taking side wagers on me.

The pressure to win was building.  I thought about it and realized that Amberyn was right.  I needed to prove myself an equal in the elves’ company before I could expect them to follow me without question.  Hardly a grudge match, the duel was unlikely to cause serious injury however things went.

As arrangements were made, I settled all my thoughts on Phillippe.  This was for him, not the wagered coins.  I needed these warriors to win back my son’s soul, for I knew that the Gamesman would be well protected in his lair.  And cornered, he would become more dangerous than ever—and we had to deal with him first in order to pass to the Courts of Death. 

Faang assumed the post of arbiter since no one dared accuse him of bias.  To balance the judging, Amberyn thrust himself forward in an equal role.  The tables were pushed to the walls.  News went to the other buildings that special “entertainment” had been arranged.  Soon, the curious arrived, packing the wing except for a fifteen-foot area in the center.

Red-blade quaffed a fermented brew.  I wondered if this were his preferred method of preparation.  As for myself, I stretched the muscles of my legs and rolled my joints to loosen them.  All-too-soon, we crossed steel in a ready stance.

“Begin!” Faang shouted.

Red-blade’s point flicked in to draw my weapon into a dance.  Testing, teasing, we circled warily, feet gliding on the polished floor.  I let him toy with me, and waited for the moment when his sleepy style would unveil blinding speed.  This was but an introduction, a courtship I had experienced in practice with many of my father’s best students.

I centered my gaze to pierce my opponent’s waist, staring through his blurred body as if he were smoke.  My father had worked hard to teach me to see everything at once, and not focus piecemeal.  The next step was one only a master swordsman could achieve: a trick of mind where reality reorders itself, as if my sword could see for me from the tip’s perspective.  It was not a thing easily explained.  Some swordsmen struggle all their lives and never develop a true
sense of point
that converts
feeling
into internal
image
.  Fortunately, the force of my imagination had been channeled by years of discipline into a potent force. 

As our blades slithered against each other, I took a step, feinted, and following up immediately with a true thrust, inviting a simple parry to stop my attack.  It came as I expected, and so did a fleeting smile on Red-sword’s face.  The expression announced that he was through playing.  Truly, in his mind, I believe he thought he had been
carrying
me, to encourage the growth of the purse the elves hoped to win.

A series of exchanges occurred too quickly for my mind’s response.  I relied on my body’s conditioned reflexes.  But that doesn’t mean I fought without strategy—after each riposte, I drew him a little more out of form until, in one endless beat of the heart, he was wide open, and I went through, setting my point to his chest.  My cold stare dared him to move.

Frozen in a posture from which no one could have recovered, he choked on disbelief, eyes bulging.  If this were anything but a practice duel, he would be dead at my feet, never having seen the last flash of my steel’s approach.  We both knew this truth; though defeat dawned slowly on his face.

At last, he lowered his point in surrender.  “I yield.”

I offered him a small smile of encouragement.  “At least you did not drop your sword.

He grinned suddenly.  “By fall’s cursed withering, woman, you are good!”

“Good?” I added a little more of the arrogance D’elia had advised, my voice crisp and assured as I withdrew my blade.  “I am the best … the White Rose.  Now you know what that means.”

I sheathed my weapon.

Red-blade bowed in respect and I did the same.

My awareness abruptly expanded to take in the crowd.  I heard voices I had blocked during the match.  Poorer, but wiser, even the elves stomped their feet and cheered.  Clutching a bag of coins, D’elia hugged me with one arm while bouncing in place with excitement.  Avarice was somehow charming when she displayed it.

Faang arrived, looming over D’elia and me.  “Well done!  But that is what I expected from the White Rose.”  His voice boomed loud enough to irritate the elves.  “No intelligent creature would wager against you.”

Elwren the Dwelf was nearby, I heard his quarrelsome voice.  “She might have just gotten lucky.  Not every battle goes to the strong or gifted.”

Amberyn answered before I could.  “Feel free to test her blade yourself.  I think you will grow wise or dead very suddenly—one or the other.”

“I think I will save my energy for the battlefield,” Elwren said.  “Besides, I am an axe man.  What do I know of swords?”

Faang chuckled, more than happy to answer that question.  “Apparently nothing.”  He nodded farewell to me, took D’elia’s arm, and steered her away.  “Come, my dear wife, let us retreat for a private match of our own.”

I couldn’t help but smile as their passionate gazes enveloped each other, excluding everything and everyone else.

I turned to Amberyn.  His hand held a much-folded cloth that he offered to me.  The material was black and white, but I could not see the full pattern. 

“What is that?”  My lips quirked, “You have designed a change of dress for me so I might not clash with your wardrobe?”

“A banner, something I had my people make.  Unfurl it and marvel.”

Those around us grew still, focused on me as I unfolded the cloth.  An unexpected tightness gripped my chest and I forced a deep breath.  The banner blossomed as other hands helped me spread it for inspection.  Rich in intricate detail, the middle was governed by the petal’d blaze of a white rose, shadowed with pale blue, that occupied a field of black.

“It is … beautiful,” I spoke in awe.  “Thank you.”

Amberyn grinned.  “I knew you would like it.  I took the liberty, knowing you would agree with me that it is not enough to go forth and crush our villainous enemies—grinding them underfoot—we must also look good doing it.”  Amberyn paused in thought.  “You will need a standard bearer so the banner can catch the ethereal winds and strike terror into the hearts of the wicked.”

Red-blade spoke up, “I would be honored to carry it.”

My throat tried to close as my eyes misted.  Though touched by the gesture, I could not accept; we were too few against a formidable threat.  “I need your sword unhampered in my service.  I will fly no banner until the battle is done.  Then, it shall announce my victory to the World of the Dead—provoking a response we can use.”

“I suppose you are right,” Amberyn said.

He sounded disappointed, viewing war as a brave and noble game as most males did.  It escaped me how anyone could sustain that view who knew the thick of battle, having waded through blood and climbed corpses with Death leering from the shadows.  Necessity alone drove me to use my sword as an instrument of destruction, but I held my peace.  It would be ungracious to fault the motives of those risking so much to aid me.

“How soon can we leave?” I asked Amberyn.

“I will plant your banner outside the gates at noon so that all who wish may come and declare themselves for you.  It will take that long to finish enchanting the firemares saddles.  We don’t want riders burning up, or being thrown as blazing saddles come loose.

“Noon then,” I said.  “I will be ready.”

I excused myself and returned to the other wing.  Azrael emerged from the shadows and came to me.  I leaned into him and closed my eyes.  His cold seeped into my core.

“Take me away from here,” I asked, “where we can be alone for a while.”

His arms enfolded me and a moment later I stepped back, released from his embrace.  I opened my eyes a few feet from the lip of a ridge.  Past a forested slope, a valley sprawled.  I could see the village below me.  It seemed close, but I knew distances could be deceptive.  My eyes traced the frozen stream that snaked past the settlement.  In an area of flat rock, the firemares were a knot of brightness, as if a piece of sun had fallen to earth.

I lifted my eyes.  The clouds above were torn, letting sunlight shaft through.  Warmness in the wind that told me winter was beginning a lazy retreat.

“Does this suit your mood?” Azrael sounded embarrassed not to know my disposition.

I extended my hand to gather in his.  I smiled at him.  “It suits me very well.  I was getting tired of being more than human and always on display.”

“Try being an angel of death sometime.  I am seldom welcome or respected … except for where Death has long been sought as an end to suffering.  And even then, the surviving kin resent such mercy, caught up in the selfishness of their personal loss.”

“Is that how you view grief,” I asked, “as selfishness?”

“When the taken soul would only find life an intolerable burden and consuming misery?  Yes.”

“You have a strength that is far beyond mine,” I confessed.

“I have the advantage of never having been human.  And yet, I could wish to be much less than I am.”  There was a sharp pang of longing in his tone.  He threw his hood back.  Blue shadows graced his chalky flesh.  His eyes remained lit from within by a fire that gave no heat.  In that moment, he looked most fey.  “I would possess you as a man and tie my spirit to yours in the intimacy that brings life—but I cannot.  It is not my nature.”