The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (21 page)

Asho had no answers. He stared up at the triangle. How far along his path was he? As a Bythian, he was at the very bottom of the cycle, but he was also a knight; did that mean he would be born in the next life as a Noussian, like all good Ennoians? Father Simeon had scowled at him in the past when he’d asked him these questions and had chased him out of the chapel, cursing him for his irreverence. Asho thought the good Father simply didn’t know. And what in turn did that mean?

His gaze turned from the Triangle to the flame of a candle, and he lost himself in there, old memories resurfacing, old thoughts, new fears. When the trumpets sounded from outside, he started. Snatching up his blade, he leaped to his feet and rushed out of the chapel into the bailey.

Lady Kyferin’s retinue was descending to the tourney field. Hurrying forth, he stepped up next to Ser Wyland, who gave him a wry smile. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.”

“Just praying to the Ascendant,” he said quietly.

Their group was a small one, barely twenty strong, and they mounted the steeds the stable hands were holding for them: Lady Kyferin, her lady-in-waiting Otilge, Hessa, Master Bertchold the steward, Marshall Thiemo, Magister Audsley, Brocuff, and a dozen soldiers.

“Have you seen Lady Kethe?” Ser Wyland was scanning the group. “She’s been missing all morning.”

“Oh?” Asho rose in his stirrups and looked around. “Trouble?”

Ser Wyland shrugged. “The girl’s lost her father. Perhaps she wants nothing to do with violence. I wouldn’t blame her.”

Another trumpet sounded, and Ser Wyland nudged his horse forward, Crook falling into step naturally by his side. As the only knights in Lady Kyferin’s retinue, Wyland and Asho took the lead, passed over the main drawbridge and rode down to the Southern Field. It took but five minutes to descend, but their elevation afforded Asho a good view of the proceedings. It was indeed a small tournament, with one stand for local viewers and a second for visitors on the other side. A small crowd was milling around the market stalls, and vendors were walking to and fro with trays hanging from straps around their necks. A half-dozen small tents of different colors had been pitched at one end of the field, where servants were busy with armor and weaponry and tending to horses. The summoned knights, Asho guessed. Six, perhaps seven of them? Not a horde, but better than nothing.

“Right on time,” Ser Wyland murmured, and nodded to the right.

Asho looked over and saw a large group riding down toward the field from the main road. His breath caught. Two massive, flowing banners showed a gray wolf on a black background, Lord Laur’s personal emblem. A group of twenty knights was riding at the fore, their armor shining and resplendent, with another fifty soldiers following behind. A baggage train trailed behind them, but Asho’s eyes were drawn to one figure at the front and center: Lord Laur. He wasn’t as massive as Lord Kyferin had been, but he was sitting on a great black destrier, his armor enameled a beautiful blue, with a heavy cloak of white fur falling from his shoulders.

“Seventy men,” whispered Asho to Ser Wyland. “Is that appropriate for a personal guard?”

Ser Wyland’s face was grave. “Depends on your definition of personal, I suppose. Prepare yourself, Ser Asho. Today is going to be challenging.”

They rode down and out onto the tourney field and both parties met in the center. Lord Laur motioned for the bulk of his men to remain at the field’s edge and rode forward with only five knights and their squires behind him. Lady Kyferin rode forth with Asho and Ser Wyland alone.

They stopped ten yards from each other. Lord Laur dismounted, his armor clanking as he stepped down onto the grass. Asho slipped off Crook and stepped up next to Lady Kyferin, whom he helped dismount in turn.

Asho strove to keep calm. Ser Wyland looked completely at ease, competent and strong and imposing all at once. Asho adopted his normal blank expression and ignored the amused and contemptuous looks the other knights gave him.

Lord Laur removed his greathelm, handed it back to his squire, and then stepped forward to bow deeply at the waist. “Lady Kyferin. I came as quickly as I could. I may have lost a cherished brother, but you have lost your Lord husband.”

Asho had never stood this close to Lord Laur. He was the middle brother, but seemed older than Kyferin; a weak chin stopped him from being handsome, but he had Kyferin’s dark eyes, thick hair, and broad nose. There was something inscrutable about him, something inherently duplicitous in how easily he smiled without any light entering his eyes. His voice, however, was rich and cultured, and he used it to good effect; all could hear him without trouble.

“Lord Laur, be welcomed to Kyferin Castle. Your arrival gladdens my heart.” Lady Kyferin was clad in a gown of soft blue that darkened beautifully to gray at the hem; it hugged her figure, and her sleeves were wide and hung down nearly to her waist. With her auburn hair done up and with jewels flashing at her throat and wrists, she looked every inch a ruling lady. “I can only imagine how our loss has wounded you. You have my deepest condolences.”

Lord Laur smiled tightly and bowed again. “Thank you, my Lady.”

Turning, Lady Kyferin took his arm in her own and began to lead him toward the stands. “Your arrival is most fortuitous, for I’m holding a tournament to celebrate and honor my husband’s memory. You of course remember how much he loved these affairs.” She smiled sadly.

Ser Wyland fell in behind them, as did Ser Laur’s five knights. Asho studied them curiously. One was a monster of a man, as tall as Ser Wyland but twice as wide, with a chest deeper than a bull’s and with ram’s horns curling from the sides of his greathelm. His armor was painted a forest green, and he had a battle-ax of fearsome size slung over his shoulder. That would be Ser Bero, famed for cutting a horse in half the year before on a wager.

Beside him walked two brothers, slender as saplings and as elegant as the first man seemed brutish; they were carrying their bascinet helms under their arms, and wore their blond hair long. Their features were delicate, their eyes mocking and cruel. They weren’t exactly identical, but close enough that Asho had to stop himself from staring openly at them to figure out the differences. Ser Cunot and Ser Cunad, known as the Golden Vipers. Asho remembered stories of their cruelty. They would have fit in well with the Black Wolves.

The fourth man was the eldest, his hair silvered at the temples. He had numerous nicks and small scars across his face, and his left ear was altogether gone. He moved well for his age, and his armor was cunningly wrought, embossed and filigreed along the edges. Ser Olbrecht, thought Asho.

But it was the fifth knight who truly drew the eye. His armor was enameled blue like his father’s, and his great shield bore a crimson wolf emblazoned on his tabard; a memory clicked in Asho’s mind, and he realized that this had to be Lord Laur’s vaunted son, Ser Kitan Laur.

Ser Wyland walked easily behind them, speaking with Ser Olbrecht, but Asho made no move to socialize. He knew any attempt to do so would result in either laughter or insults, so he stared straight ahead, ignoring their pointed stares, and watched Lady Kyferin as she made small talk with Lord Laur. When they reached the stands, the pair climbed to the best seats and sat under the extended canopy.

“Come,” said Ser Wyland, touching Asho’s shoulder and nodding toward their tents. “We’ll leave Lord Laur to our Lady’s tender ministrations. She’s safe enough out here in the open. We’d best prepare for the introductions.”

Asho nodded, mouth dry. Lord Laur’s knights had peeled away and were moving toward the quarter of the field his retinue had staked out for themselves, while servants and squires were tending the Lord and Lady.

“Do you think his knights will enter the tourney?”

Ser Wyland nodded. “You can count on it.” They strode over the already torn grass toward where Ser Wyland’s tent had been erected; his squire Ryck was waiting patiently by the tent flap. “The question is how many he’ll enter. He’d not insult Lady Kyferin by crushing our tournament under the weight of his twenty knights, and entering just his best man might see his knight wounded or beaten, no matter how skilled. Five men? Ten? The number will tell us much about his intentions and confidence.”

Ryck held open the large tent’s flap and both men stepped inside. The interior was barren but for two armor trees on which their polished plate hung. Outside Asho could hear the sound of Elon’s hammer, banging away rhythmically at his anvil.

Asho felt the first stirrings of fear and moved to crush them. “How many visiting knights did you count?”

“Eight,” said Ser Wyland, lifting one foot so that Reck could push his iron sabaton on, and then the other. “Though who knows if they’re any good.” Reck then set about attaching Ser Wyland’s greaves about his legs. “With a little luck, none of them will embarrass us by falling on his sword.”

Not having a squire, Asho set to putting on his armor. It was an old suit of Ser Merboth’s that Elon had reworked as best he could. Merboth had been the smallest of the Black Wolves, but even his armor had been too large. Asho had worn it but twice, and both times had felt a strange combination of euphoria and claustrophobia. Still, he’d buckled Lord Kyferin himself into his plate for years as his squire, and his fingers worked nimbly as he pulled on his own sabatons and greaves, then stood to assemble the rest.

Ryck darted over to help him with the back plate and some of the more troublesome buckles. Asho hesitated, unsure of how to accept his help, but nodded stiffly when Ryck moved away. Soon he was ready, weighted down by almost thirty pounds of steel. He swung his arms around experimentally, then tried twisting at the waist. Not perfect, but not too bad either.

A clarion call sounded, and then a small cheer.

“All right,” said Ser Wyland, grinning wolfishly. “Are you ready? We’re going out there to represent our Lady, to represent the honor of her family, which is more valuable than our own, to fight and suffer and if necessary, to die for her. Ready?”

Asho nodded, feeling a sour sensation in his stomach. The idea of riding out before the entire crowd was terrifying. What if they all started to hiss and throw fruit?

Ser Wyland grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. “Ser Asho? Are you ready?”

“Yes, ser.” Asho took a deep breath. An image came to him, of fiery rain slicing men in half. “Yes. I am.”

“Good.” Ser Wyland clapped him on the back, the metal ringing out loudly, then pulled on his greathelm. His voice took on a muffled quality. “Then let’s go.”

Asho followed him out of the tent to where their horses were tied and with some difficulty climbed up onto Crook’s saddle. Turning her around, he followed Ser Wyland as the knight led them to the edge of their tents. As the resident knights, they would be introduced first, the others gathering behind them to await their turn.

Asho swallowed. Eight of Lord Laur’s knights had gathered already, along with another eight local knights who had arrived earlier that morning. Some of these wore glittering armor and sat on beautiful horses. Others were less impressive. One man in particular seemed to have recovered his armor from the scrap heap; the iron was rusted and dented, but he wore it well enough. His mount was a familiar-looking destrier.

A horn blew, and Ser Wyland touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and rode forth.

Asho watched carefully. He’d seen this a dozen times as Lord Kyferin’s squire, but always on foot by the tent, ready to supply a new lance or rush forward with a fresh blade; never on horseback, never before the crowd, ready to introduce himself. It made a world of difference.

There were some two hundred people gathered in the stands, almost a third of them Lord Laur’s people, and they cheered warmly as Ser Wyland stopped before Lady Kyferin and Lord Laur.

Menczel cried out Ser Wyland’s name, then began listing his honors. They were numerous. He’d won nine major tournaments, had fought in seven battles, taken part in five sieges, and earned the coveted title of Black Wolf. The applause was enthusiastic, and Ser Wyland bowed at the waist to Lady Kyferin, who smiled and nodded in turn.

The trumpet blew again, and Ser Asho’s heart leaped even as his stomach gurgled uneasily. He urged Crook forward. Crook turned to eye him, then lowered his head to crop the grass. Blushing furiously, grateful for his helm, he kicked Crook’s flanks again, but was studiously ignored. One of the knights behind him laughed.

The trumpet sounded once more, and now laughter filtered from the stands. Asho leaned down. “Look, either you go forward or—”

Crook suddenly set forth at a canter, and Asho had to grab on as he nearly overbalanced. Gritting his teeth, he straightened as smoothly as he could. “You’re going to get nothing but old pinecones for a month,” he growled, and then he was sitting in front of the stands. Taking a deep breath, he removed his helm and stared up at his Lady as the Menczel called out his name.

Silence followed. He had no accomplishments, so he simply bowed as Ser Wyland had done. The silence was deafening. Then laughter rang out from several quarters, and a few people yelled out crude demands that he come and clean different parts of their anatomy. Lady Kyferin nodded gravely to him, giving him the confidence he needed to continue sitting tall. Lord Laur was watching him with his glittering eyes, and leaned over to ask a question as Asho turned Crook to ride over to where Ser Wyland was sitting on his destrier, helm and gauntlets removed.