Gatekeeper’s Crucible

The duke left her at the long table of food to go join the dancing. It was only fair, since she’d held him hostage in her room for the better part of two hours, insisting he answer her questions. He’d answered some but begged off others.

The food had been picked over, but Kyer took a tiny tomato and some crispy bits from the outside remains of a chunk of roast pig and scanned the gathering for her friends.

Instead, she saw someone else, and her fury threatened to reignite.

A foot taller than anyone else, he stood out in the crowd. Kien Bartheylen, Lord Arrogant Prick of this duchy and this castle. The man who had reluctantly offered her a knighthood in hopes that it would excuse him from trying to have her parents assassinated. She’d turned him down, and he was livid. She chewed meat and dared him to look her way.

He was the second reason she’d been drinking. Kyer didn’t see his wife, Alon Maer, anywhere, and assumed the lady had gone to bed. Her pregnancy alone would have excused her from staying at the party, but on top of that, she was still recovering from her long illness, which had been at the heart of their mission.

Now, if only the Guardian could enter the room, she’d have all three sources of her rage.

The pale, floral-scented man had offered his help just enough to convince her to trust him. Yet, when she had fallen off a precipice and broken the bones that still hurt in this moment, he was nowhere to be found. When she’d regained consciousness in the Houses of Healing, she learned she had been framed for the attempted murder of the Lady Alon Maer, based on evidence that had been planted in her saddlebag. Oh yes, she had some questions for the Guardian.

Leaning lightly on her crutch, Kyer poured herself some wine and silently toasted the Lady, her own small celebration of what she and her friends had done to find the cure.

“Wish you could join in?” said a voice. Kyer was pleased to no end to see Harley upright. He indicated her leg that had not yet fully healed from its nasty break.

“I’m not in the same mood as they are today.” The wine was delicious, but her spirits had gone to vinegar thanks to Kien and the Guardian. “It’s more enjoyable to watch them.”

“I don’t blame you after the stunt Lord Bartheylen pulled today.” Harley looked darkly at the duke over the revellers’ heads.

Kyer let out a humourless chuckle. She raised the wine bottle in offering.

Harley shrugged. “The Healer says I’m not to, but I think a little won’t hurt.”

Kyer poured him a small cup of the deep red liquid. “What shall we toast?”

Harley sighed. “New beginnings?”

“That works.” Their pewter cups tinged musically.

The silver brooch pinned to the inside of her tunic was cool against her skin.

A symbol of our confidential agreement, Val had called it.

She had raged against Val, too; her first, and possibly most distressing source. He had listened, and he had answered as much as he could, especially his suspicions about why she could perform such an advanced spell as a Gate.

“I’m desperately sorry I can’t be more forthcoming,” he’d said. “There are reasons, that’s all I can say, mostly for your protection, and I beg of you to try to understand that. Someday, maybe, but not now.”

And then Valrayker, exiled Duke of Equart, had offered her a knighthood. “To prove that everything’s all right.”

This offer she had accepted, and she wasn’t sure who was more surprised, Valrayker or herself. He gave her his silver brooch, engraved with the tree of Equart. At once she felt as if it was meant to be part of her.

The quintet changed tunes, and several more dancers whooped and entered the floor. Among them she saw Phennil, dancing with wild abandon. In a momentary gap through the crowd, she glimpsed Janak with a mug of something, leaning over a table. Ah! Skimnoddle had pulled out the dice again.

“I never got a chance to thank you,” her companion said.

Her eyes widened. “You have nothing to thank me for.”

“Oh yes. If you had said even one word against me, there is no way Valrayker would have welcomed me. Of all your company you are the one who really knew what I had been involved with.” He had the grace to sound apologetic.

Kyer shrugged. It was hard to even remember Ol’ Average Height Guy being a part of the enemy camp. She liked Harley. She couldn’t help it. Nothing but respect for the way he’d duped her the day they met. Harley had played his part well and had been suitably sheepish for a villain. That he had eventually turned on his chief and joined them had come as a surprise, but in spite of herself, not an unwelcome one.

Every action Harley had taken since their paths had converged had been in support of Kyer’s mission, as though he had newly discovered there was something else out there for him to do. He had stood up to his former leader, Fredric Heyland, now known as Hunter, who had then fled after slashing Harley through the gut. It was a much more serious wound than any of Kyer’s. He had been close to death and was still healing.

Derry whooshed breathlessly up to them, having released his dance partner with a bow.

“I’m so glad you came down, Kyer. It didn’t feel right without you.”

The Guest of Honour had been enjoying wine all evening, or he’d never have said such a thing to her. She smiled. “Harley was telling me how pleased he is to be part of our company.”

Derry gave him a slap on the shoulder. “We’re glad to have you on the good side.”

“It’s an honour, Sir Derry.”

The captain blushed at the new title.

“I hope to make up for lost time,” Harley said, then tried to downplay his enthusiasm. “Anyway, I appreciate whatever good words you’ve put in.”

“From what I was told, you earned it,” Kyer assured him, and Derry nodded. “I was out of it for most of the time, but the way you tried to stop Fredric from getting away showed you were done with him.” She selected some cheese from the tray.

“With him, with Misty, with all of them.” Harley shuddered. “Especially the Spectre.”

“The Spectre?” asked Derry.

Harley drained his wine cup. “He’s the real leader. He’s the one who made Fredric Chief after Ronav was killed.” He poured himself some ale, the preferred choice of his healers. “His real name is Golgathaur, but they call him the Spectre because he has this way of suddenly appearing, then he vanishes when he’s finished stirring things up. Tall. Pale as if he’s never seen the sun. He always wears black, kind of like Lord Valrayker, only. . .” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Tidier? No offense, Sir Derry, but Lord Val’s much more relaxed than the Spectre. Golgathaur’s pleats are always neatly pressed. He always comes across as cheerful but in a terrifying way. He smells like flowers all the time, but I’ve never seen it as pleasant. Last thing in the world you want is for him to notice you.”

Kyer had stopped chewing. Tall, pale, dressed in black. Smells like flowers. She knew this man. The food she had eaten churned in her stomach like poison.

“Why not?” asked Derry. “Does he have an agenda of some sort?”

“You could say that, sir. He’s lieutenant to Dregor.”

Kyer nearly choked, her throat tight like she’d been kicked in the gut. It was all she could do to not flee from the room and fling herself out a window. All the music and revelry in the Hall was suddenly muffled as if someone had closed a door on it.

The man who had convinced her he had her best interests top of mind. Who had since betrayed her and tried to frame her for murder. The Guardian was Golgathaur, lieutenant to Dregor.

Less than an hour ago Valrayker had told her he didn’t want to risk the enemy learning she could Gate. For her protection, he had said.

Too late.

The enemy already knew everything. She had told him herself.