The King Beyond the Gate Page 2

  The old man leaned against a wall, shaking uncontrollably.

  “They will find me. They will!” he whimpered. Renya ignored him and moved down the hallway.

  A man came into sight at the far end, and Renya started, her dagger leaping to her hand. The man was tall and dark and dressed in black. By his side was a longsword. He moved forward slowly yet with a confidence Renya found daunting. As he approached, she steadied herself for the attack, watching his eyes.

  They were, she noticed, the most beautiful violet color and slanted like those of the Nadir-tribesmen of the north. Yet his face was square-cut and almost handsome, save for the grim line of his mouth.

  She wanted to stop him with words, to tell him that if he came any closer she would kill him. But she could not. There was about him an aura of power, an authority that left her no choice but to respond.

  And then he was past her and bending over Aulin.

  “Leave him alone!” she shouted. Tenaka turned to her.

  “There is a fire in my room. Along there on the right,” he said calmly. “I will take him there.” Smoothly he lifted the old man and carried him to his quarters, laying him on the narrow bed. He removed the man’s cloak and boots and began to rub gently at his calves where the skin was blue and mottled. Turning, he threw a blanket to the girl. “Warm this by the fire,” he said, returning to his work. After a while he checked the man’s breathing: It was deep and even.

  “He is asleep?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Will he live?”

  “Who can say?” said Tenaka, rising and stretching his back.

  “Thank you for helping him.”

  “Thank you for not killing me,” he answered.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Sitting by my fire and waiting for the storm to pass. Would you like some food?”

  They sat together by the blaze, sharing his dried meat and hardcake biscuits and saying little. Tenaka was not an inquisitive man, and Renya intuitively knew he had no wish to talk. Yet the silence was far from uncomfortable. She felt calm and at peace for the first time in weeks, and even the threat of the assassins seemed less real, as if the barracks were a haven protected by magic, unseen but infinitely powerful.

  Tenaka leaned back in his chair, watching the girl as she in turn gazed into the flames. Her face was striking, oval-shaped with high cheekbones and wide eyes so dark that the pupils merged with the irises. Overall the impression he gained was one of strength undermined by vulnerability, as if she held a secret fear or was tormented by a hidden weakness. At another time he would have been attracted by her. But when he reached inside himself, he could find no emotions, no desire … No life, he realized with surprise.

  “We are being hunted,” she said at last.

  “I know.”

  “How would you know?”

  He shrugged and added fuel to the fire. “You are on a road to nowhere, with no horses or provisions, yet your clothes are expensive and your manner cultured. Therefore, you are running away from something or someone, and it follows that they are pursuing you.”

  “Does it bother you?” she asked him.

  “Why should it?”

  “If you are caught with us, you will die, too.”

  “Then I shall not be caught with you,” he said.

  “Shall I tell you why we are hunted?” she inquired.

  “No. That is of your life. Our paths have crossed here, but we will both go on to separate destinies. There is no need for us to learn of one another.”

  “Why? Do you fear it would make you care?”

  He considered the question carefully, noting the anger in her eyes. “Perhaps. But mainly I fear the weakness that follows caring. I have a task to do, and I do not need other problems in my mind. No, that is not true—I do not want other problems in my mind.”

  “Is that not selfish?”

  “Of course it is. But it aids survival.”

  “And is that so important?” she snapped.

  “It must be; otherwise you would not be running.”

  “It is important to him,” she said, pointing at the man in the bed. “Not to me.”

  “He cannot run from death,” said Tenaka softly. “Anyway, there are mystics who maintain there is a paradise after death.”

  “He believes it,” she said, smiling. “That is what he fears.”

  Tenaka shook his head slowly, then rubbed his eyes.

  “That is a little too much for me,” he said, forcing a smile. “I think I will sleep now.” Taking his blanket, he spread it on the floor and stretched himself out, his head resting on his pack.

  “You are Dragon, aren’t you?” said Renya.

  “How did you know?” he asked, propping himself on one elbow.

  “It was the way you said ‘my room.’ ”

  “Very perceptive.” He lay down and closed his eyes.

  “I am Renya.”

  “Good night, Renya.”

  “Will you tell me your name?”

  He thought of refusing, considering all the reasons why he should not tell her.

  “Tenaka Khan,” he said. And slept.

  Life is a farce, Scaler thought, as he hung by his fingertips forty feet above the stone courtyard. Below him a huge Joining sniffed the air, its shaggy head swinging ponderously from side to side, its taloned fingers curled around the hilt of the saw-edged sword. Snow swept in icy flurries, stinging Scaler’s eyes.

  “Thanks very much,” he whispered, transferring his gaze to the dark, pregnant storm clouds above. Scaler was a religious man who saw the gods as a group of Seniles, eternals playing endless jokes on humanity with cosmic bad taste.

  Below him the Joining sheathed its sword and ambled away into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, Scaler hauled himself over the windowsill and parted the heavy velvet curtains beyond. He was in a small study furnished with a desk, three chairs of oak, several chests, and a row of bookshelves and manuscript holders. The study was tidy, obsessively so, Scaler thought, noting the three quill pens placed exactly parallel at the center of the desk. He would have expected nothing less of Silius the Magister.

  A long silvered mirror framed in mahogany was fixed to the far wall, opposite the desk. Scaler advanced toward it, drawing himself up to his full height and pulling back his shoulders. The black face mask, dark tunic, and leggings gave him a forbidding look. He drew his dagger and dropped into a warrior’s crouch. The effect was chilling.

  Perfect, he told his reflection. I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley! Replacing the dagger, he moved to the study door and carefully lifted the iron latch, easing the door open.

  Beyond was a narrow stone corridor and four doors: two on the left and two on the right. Scaler padded across to the farthest room on the left and slowly lifted the latch. The door opened without a sound, and he moved inside, hugging the wall. The room was warm, though the log fire in the grate was burning low, a dull red glow illuminating the curtains around the large bed. Scaler moved forward to the bed, pausing to look down on fat Silius and his equally fat mistress. He lay on his stomach, she on her back; both were snoring.

  Why am I creeping about? he asked himself. I could have come in here beating a drum. He stifled a chuckle, found the jewel box in its hidden niche below the window, opened it, and poured the contents into a black canvas pouch tied to his belt. At full value they would keep him in luxury for five years. Sold, as they must be, to a shady dealer in the southern quarter, they would keep him for barely three months, or six if he did not gamble. He thought of not gambling but it was inconceivable. Three months, he decided.

  Retying his pouch, he backed out into the corridor and turned …

  Only to come face to face with a servant, a tall, gaunt figure in a woolen nightshirt.

  The man screamed and fled.

  Scaler screamed and fled, hurtling down a circular stairway and cannoning into two sentries. Both men tumbled back, shouting as they fell. Scaler hit the
floor in a tumbler’s roll, came to his feet, and sprinted left, the sentries close behind. Another set of steps appeared on his right, and he took them three at a time, his long legs carrying him at a terrifying speed.

  Twice he nearly lost his footing before reaching the next level. Before him was an iron gate, locked, but the key hung from a wooden peg. The stench from beyond the gate brought him to his senses, and fear cut through his panic.

  The Joinings’ pit!

  Behind him he could hear the sentries pounding down the stairs. He lifted the key, opened the gate, and stepped inside, locking it behind him. Then he advanced into the darkness, praying to the Seniles to let him live for a few more of their jests.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the corridor, he saw several openings on either side; within, sleeping on straw, were the Joinings of Silius.

  He moved on toward the gate at the far end, pulling off his mask as he did so.

  He was almost there when the pounding began behind him and the muffled shouts of the sentries pierced the silence. A Joining stumbled from its lair, blood-red eyes fastening on Scaler; it was close to seven feet tall, with huge shoulders and heavily muscled arms covered with black fur. Its face was elongated, sharp fangs lining its maw. The pounding grew louder, and Scaler took a deep breath.

  “Go and see what the noise is about,” he told the beast.

  “Who you?” it hissed, the words mangled by the lolling tongue.

  “Don’t just stand there—go and see what they want,” Scaler ordered sharply.

  The beast brushed past him, and other Joinings came into the corridor and followed it, ignoring Scaler. He ran to the gate and slipped the key in the lock. As it turned and the gate swung open, a sudden bellowing roar blasted in the confines of the corridor. Scaler twisted round to see the Joinings running toward him, howling ferociously. With shaking fingers he dragged free the key and leapt through the opening, pulling the gate shut behind him and swiftly locking it.

  The night air was crisp as he ran up the short steps to the western courtyard and on to the ornate wall, scaling it swiftly and dropping into the cobbled street beyond.

  It was well after curfew, so he hugged the shadows all the way to the inn, then climbed the outer trellis to his room, rapping on the shutters.

  Belder opened the window and helped him inside.

  “Well?” asked the old soldier.

  “I got the jewels,” stated Scaler.

  “I despair of you,” said Belder. “After all the years I spend on you, what do you become? A thief!”

  “It’s in the blood,” said Scaler, grinning. “Remember the Earl of Bronze?”

  “That’s legend,” replied Belder. “And even if it’s true, not one of his descendants has ever lived a less than honorable life. Even that Nadir spawn Tenaka!”

  “Don’t speak ill of him, Belder,” Scaler said softly. “He was my friend.”

  2

  Tenaka slept, and the familiar dreams returned to haunt him.

  The steppes rolled away from him like a green, frozen ocean, all the way to the end of the world. His pony reared as he dragged the rawhide rein, then swung to the south with hooves drumming the hard-packed clay.

  With the dry wind in his face Tenaka grinned.

  Here, only here, was he his own man.

  Half-Nadir, half-Drenai, wholly nothing—a product of war, a flesh and blood symbol of uneasy peace. He was accepted among the tribes with cool courtesy, as befitted one in whose veins ran the blood of Ulric. But there was little camaraderie. Twice the tribes had been turned back by the strength of the Drenai. Once, long before, the legendary Earl of Bronze had defended Dros Delnoch against Ulric’s hordes. Twenty years ago the Dragon had decimated Jongir’s army.

  Now here was Tenaka, a living reminder of defeat.

  So he rode alone and mastered all the tasks they set him. Sword, bow, spear, ax—with each of those he was skilled beyond his peers, for when they ceased practice to enjoy the games of childhood, he worked on. He listened to the wise—seeing wars and battles on a different plane—and his sharp mind absorbed the lessons.

  One day they would accept him. If he had patience.

  But he had ridden home to the city of tents and seen his mother standing with Jongir. She was crying.

  And he knew.

  He leapt from the saddle and bowed to the khan, ignoring his mother, as was fitting.

  “It is time for you to go home,” said Jongir.

  He said nothing, merely nodded.

  “They have a place for you within the Dragon. It is your right as the son of an earl.” The khan seemed uncomfortable and did not meet Tenaka’s steady gaze. “Well, say something,” he snapped.

  “As you wish, lord, so let it be.”

  “You will not plead to stay?”

  “If you desire me to.”

  “I desire nothing of you.”

  “Then when shall I leave?”

  “Tomorrow. You will have an escort: twenty riders, as befits my grandson.”

  “You honor me, lord.”

  The khan nodded, glanced once at Shillat, and then walked away. Shillat opened the tent flap, and Tenaka entered their home. She followed him, and once inside, he turned to her and took her in his arms.

  “Oh, Tani,” she whispered through her tears. “What more must you do?”

  “Maybe at Dros Delnoch I shall truly be home,” he said. But hope died within him as he said it, for he was not a fool.

  Tenaka awoke to hear the storm hissing and battering at the window. He stretched and glanced at the fire: It had faded to glowing coals. The girl slept in the chair, her breathing deep. He sat up and then moved to the fire, adding fresh wood and gently blowing the flames to life. He checked the old man; his color was not good. Tenaka shrugged and left the room. The corridor was icy, the wooden boards creaking under his boots. He made his way to the old kitchen and the indoor well; it was hard to pump, but he enjoyed the exercise and was rewarded when water jetted to the wooden bucket. Stripping off his dark jerkin and gray woolen shirt, he washed his upper body, enjoying the near pain of the ice-touched water on his sleep-warm skin.

  Removing his remaining clothes, Tenaka moved out into the gym area beyond. There he twirled and leapt, landing lightly, first his right hand slicing the air, then his left. He rolled to the floor, then arched his back and sprang to his feet.

  From the doorway Renya watched him, drawing back into the shadows of the corridor. She was fascinated. He moved like a dancer, yet there was something barbaric in the scene: some primordial element that was both lethal and beautiful. His feet and hands were weapons, flashing and killing invisible opponents, yet his face was serene and devoid of all passion.

  She shivered, longing to withdraw to the sanctuary of his room but unable to move. His skin was the color of gold under sunlight, soft and warm, but the muscles beneath strained and swelled like silver steel. She closed her eyes and stumbled back, wishing she had never seen him.

  Tenaka washed the sweat from his body and then dressed swiftly, hunger eating at him. Back in his room he sensed the change in the atmosphere. Renya avoided meeting his eyes as she sat by the old man, stroking his white hair.

  “The storm is breaking,” said Tenaka.

  “Yes.”

  “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing … except that Aulin is not breathing well. Will he be all right, do you think?”

  Tenaka joined her at the bedside. Taking the old man’s frail wrist between his fingers, he felt for the pulse. It was weak and irregular.

  “How long since he has eaten?” he asked.

  “Two days.”

  Tenaka delved in his pack, producing a sack of dried meat and a smaller pack of oats. “I wish I had sugar,” he said, “but this will have to do. Go and fetch some water and a cooking pot.”

  Without a word Renya left the room. Tenaka smiled. So that was it: she had seen him exercising, and for some reason it had unsettled her. He shoo
k his head.

  She returned with an iron pot brimming with water.

  “Throw half of it away,” he told her. She splashed it in the hallway, and he took the pot to the fire, slicing the meat with his dagger. Then he carefully placed the pot on the flames.

  “Why did you not speak this morning?” he asked, his back toward her.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “When you saw me exercising.”

  “I did not see you.”

  “Then how did you know where to fetch the pot and get the water? You did not go past me in the night.”

  “Who are you to question me?” she snapped.

  He turned to her. “I am a stranger. You do not need to lie to me or pretend. Only with friends do you need masks.”

  She sat down by the fire, stretching her long legs to the flames.

  “How sad,” she said softly. “Surely it is only with friends that one can be at peace.”

  “It is easier with strangers, for they touch your life but for an instant. You will not disappoint them, for you owe them nothing; neither do they expect anything. Friends you can hurt, for they expect everything.”

  “Strange friends you have had,” she said.

  Tenaka stirred the broth with his dagger blade. He was uncomfortable suddenly, feeling that he had somehow lost control of the conversation.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “I thought you did not care.”

  “Why did you not speak?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she turned her head. “I did not want to break your concentration.”

  It was a lie, and they both knew it, but the tension eased and the silence gathered, drawing them together. Outside the storm grew old and died, whimpering where once it had roared.

  As the stew thickened, Tenaka added oats to further swell the mixture and finally salt from his small store.

  “It smells good,” said Renya, leaning over the fire. “What meat is it?”

  “Mule, mostly,” he told her.

  He went to fetch some old wooden platters from the kitchen, and when he returned Renya had awakened the old man and was helping him sit up.