The Gate, page 1
The Gate is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 Brandi Schonberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
First Print Edition 2022
Published in the United States by Lights Out Ink, LLC.
ISBN: 978-1-914152-05-4
Cover design by K.M. West Creative
Lights Out Ink is an independent publisher of serialized, digital, and printed fiction.
Visit www.lightsoutink.com to discover our full library of content.
This book is dedicated to my husband, Rio. There would be no Amarynn without you. And to my children. May her story give you strength.
Prologue
The Banmorrow Cliffs
The stone was just that — a stone.
Permeated with crystalline veins of blue, it was a simple, white rock, but she held it in her pale hand like a dragon’s egg — a precious thing. The air around the woman’s slight form pulsed, thick with energy, magical vibrations palpable in the moonlit night. Wind whipped her hair, tearing past the craggy outcropping above the shore. A clutch of ancient trees clung to the ledge just beyond her, refusing to give up their purchase on the cliff.
A mage stepped out of the shadows of the grove and picked his way along the rocks towards her. One hand gripped a staff of carved driftwood and inlaid pearl. The other clutched his robes to keep them from tangling underfoot. Unsteady in the gale, he took his time in his ascent before finally standing to face her. He cast his gaze toward the cloudless sky, then out to the roiling waters of the sea below them.
“You are certain?”
She nodded. “It must be now.”
“But the raids have ended in the north. We have time.”
She shook her head. “We are depleted of fighting men, and when another Kingdom rises against us, we will fall.”
She lifted her hand, exposing the stone to the full moon’s light. The mage stepped forward and raised his free hand to cup hers. They withdrew into themselves, both of their mouths moving and forming different words, but together in their silence. A glow radiated from the stone while a fine mist coalesced around their outstretched hands. The crystals within groaned and swelled, shedding the plain rock encasing them.
The woman’s hand trembled in his. The mage only recognized she was faltering when she stumbled forward. He braced himself against his staff, preparing for the inevitable strain he would bear if she failed. She grasped onto the staff as well, her chest heaving.
“Dyaneth, stop!”
She opened her eyes. Tendrils of icy power danced through them, and she lifted her chin defiantly. The wind picked up in response to her. She drew in a slow breath and squared her shoulders.
“Now, Regealth!”
“It is too much. We must stop.”
She was panting with the strain, and he sensed the coming onslaught of power would be too much for her to bear.
“Now!” she hissed through clenched teeth.
The mage dared one last look at the woman before him. The very stars in the night had descended to adorn her hair, while the chilled light of the moon bathed her in an otherworldly glow. At that moment, she was the sky.
He had no other choice but to drown himself in the magic of the deep as a massive wave crashed against the cliff with a roar. Lightning tore through the sky, flashing in a surge of unbridled energy. The collective force knocked both mages to the ground, and the stone flew from their grasp.
And just as quickly as it had happened, it ended.
Dyaneth lay in the soft seagrass, unmoving. The stone rested beside her, pulsating and undulating.
Regealth crawled to where she lay.
“Dyaneth!” His voice was a ragged whisper.
Her eyes opened for only a moment, and she smiled. “It is done.”
Regealth picked up the stone in his trembling hands, marveling at its transformation. What had once been just a rock, fallen from the cliffs above Banmorrow, was now a crystal that contained more power than any one wielder could imagine. He could not drag his gaze from the depths of its many-hued blue facets and the worlds they held within. On this very night, they had made the impossible a reality.
Dyaneth’s slowing, shallow breaths dragged his attention from the stone. She lifted one hand to caress the crystal.
“It is what we wanted, yes?” she breathed.
Regealth lifted his chin. “It is the true gateway. It is our hope.”
Her eyes drifted closed, her hand dropping to the ground.
“Dyaneth!” Regealth dropped the stone and clutched her shoulders. “Dyaneth!”
He lay his ear to her chest, listening for sounds of life—her heartbeat, like an echo, faint and slowing. Panic writhed deep within, and he pulled her to him, her head resting heavily against his shoulder. His hands trembled as he cradled her, her golden hair tangled in his fingers. “What do I do, Dyaneth? What do I do now?”
She managed one last ragged breath.
“Bring them.”
Chapter 1
Crack!
The wooden staff collided with the warrior’s back with sickening force. It knocked the wind out of her as she fell, sprawled out on the ground. Her fingers curled in the dirt while resisting the urge to reach for her blade.
“Goddess, take me. I won’t fight you this time,” she whispered.
Her face was streaked with blood, her skin crossed with fine, silvery scars barely visible in the evening light. A dark-brown tattoo swirled an intricate pattern on her left temple, one fine line curling just under her eye.
The back alley where she lay smelled of piss and pig shit, muddy from the recent autumn storms. A crowd had gathered to see what was going on, wagers already being made before the first blow even landed. Three ragged men circled her, weapons in hand. The big, burly one twirled his staff as he laughed to himself.
“Little girl,” he sneered. “You don’t look so deadly to me.”
She pressed her forehead into the ground and let loose a half-hearted chuckle, spitting the mud from her mouth. “I never do.”
No one in their right mind would have engaged with her if they knew who she was. By all accounts, she was no more than a young, cocky upstart with a stolen Legion short sword. She picked fights with any ignorant wretch she could find, and to ensure anonymity, she had let loose her signature war braids and left her infamous broadsword and two daggers behind at the inn.
The gathering onlookers cheered for the trio of cutthroats. She turned her head just in time to see a handful of street urchins elbowing their way to the front of the crowd. So much for a quick end. This was a full-blown spectacle now.
The little man with the sword was emboldened by the public support and leaned in close to whisper, “You’re nothing but a girl!”
She couldn’t see the third man, but she could feel him behind her. He was quiet, and she counted on him to hit his mark with his pair of mismatched daggers. She exhaled slowly, fighting the instinct to defend herself. He stood over her, then brought his daggers down with a grunt. She gasped as the blades penetrated her sides, carrying the thick poison paste she’d spread over her skin just before picking the fight.
The mage had been specific about the concoction seeping into her bloodstream — she could not inflict the poison upon herself, or the magic would not hold. Of course, she could have paid someone to do it, but she had to maintain some dignity even with a death wish. While she hated for it to end like this, it wouldn’t matter soon. She smiled, silently thanking Nyra, the Goddess of Night, for hearing her plea as the spreading fire of nightshade infiltrated her blood.
Her limbs weakened as the poison slithered through her body, creeping up to lick at her heart. She forced herself to relax, to give herself over to impending death. Numb heaviness took hold of her limbs, but a pinprick of immortal magic pulsed in her belly. Doubt flickered in her mind as the spell took hold and began to fight back the deadly assault.
“No, no, no,” she groaned, the pain screaming through icy magic as muscle and flesh repaired themselves. She sucked in slow breaths, her rage rising. It had taken three long months of searching to acquire the nightshade, and she had done everything exactly as the dark mage had instructed. It should have worked. She should be dying.
Strength flooded her body as anger and frustration exploded through her limbs. Her hazel eyes glazed over with the familiar rage of battle, and she flipped over onto her back. Two of her assailants fell in the space of a breath, her throwing knives squarely embedded in their chests. Only the big lout with the staff remained standing. She jumped to her feet, drawing her short sword.
The crowd around them froze, dumbfounded, as they realized who she was. No one could withstand those injuries and then stand and continue to fight. Her scars and tattoos were visible now, and her long auburn hair was as wild as her eyes.
“Do I look deadly now?” she growled as her sword tore through the last man’s distended belly in one swift movement. His mouth opened with a gurgle before he crumpled to the ground.
Amarynn sat at the ta
ble and stared into her wooden cup. Next to her, leaning against the wall, was her broadsword, Frost. Belted at her waist were a Legion short sword and an ornately-worked dagger. The smoky inn was loud, bustling with northfolk trying to escape the cold. A fire blazed in the hearth while bouts of raucous laughter cut through the chatter of serving girls and kitchen noise. She absently glanced up and out the window. The autumn winds howled through the cracks in the walls.
The faces of the men she’d cut down just moments before flickered through her thoughts. Absently, she scowled at the three thin, fresh scars glistening on the inside of her forearm. Damp blood clung to the cuff of her sleeve. Essik, the first of her kind, had shown her how he commemorated each kill with a cut of his own, and his empathy resonated with her, though she was loath to show it. Her early scars were in hidden places, under clothing, or next to more prominent battle scars, where they would go unnoticed. After twenty years, there was no space left on her flesh to hide them, but they would fade and become barely visible, just like the thousand others scattered over her body.
A peal of laughter brought her attention back to the room and her dilemma.
Why had the nightshade not worked? That vile trickster of a mage had sworn on her life it would. She had heard stories about the mage’s abilities. But those stories came from the living, not the dead. Realizing the absurdity of her faith, she snorted to herself and drained her cup. Her life wasn’t even about living. Her kind were creatures built for destruction. She, and the eighteen others like her, were only good for war and death. Though she didn’t want it anymore, her forced, immortal existence was like a suit of lead armor she could never remove.
Without warning, the inn door crashed open, caught up in the bluster of a brewing storm. Two men — the apparent leader, dressed in a long, oiled coat — pushed through and briskly shut the door behind them. Shadows hid their faces. The pair slowly made their way to the fire, surveying each table they passed. Halfway to the hearth, a serving girl approached them, but she was turned away by a gesture from the leader.
Amarynn slumped into her chair imperceptibly, drawing back into her heavy cloak’s hood. She eased her left arm beneath her right. The thunderbolt and circle brand was old and faded, but it was a mark bore by all of her kind. One of the men paused when he neared her, and she casually drew circles on the rough-hewn table with her thumb. Only a moment passed before he continued toward the back of the common room.
The two men reached the fire, and the taller of them turned. “We are looking for someone.”
The room stilled for a moment; she tensed. Hushed conversations and raucous laughter quieted as the patrons turned to look at the man who was speaking. Although the alley brawl had happened several hours ago, it had been poor planning on her part to choose a location near a crowd. The trio of men she had cut down were nothing but low-life thieves, and they were dead now, albeit with half the town standing witness. Though she did her best to remain anonymous, all the tales of her prowess on the battlefield meant a low profile could be exceedingly difficult to maintain.
“Five silver pieces for the Traveler called Amarynn.”
She stiffened while the room remained silent. Her eyes stayed firmly cast on the table, her fingers now toying with the handle of her cup. Moments passed like hours. She carefully lifted her eyes to survey the room. Most of the patrons shook their heads, but she could have predicted it would be the pig-nosed serving girl that gave her away with a glance in her direction. The tall man leaned over and whispered to the other, who inclined his head in agreement. The two men strode toward her table, the tall one following the other. As they neared, the firelight illuminated their faces. She sat back, her hood falling away from her tangled mass of dark, red-brown hair.
Both men sat down opposite her. The eldest offered a greeting.
“Fine evening, isn’t it, Rynn?”
“Hello, Bent,” Amarynn smirked. She looked at his companion. He pushed up his sleeves, and there, just below the bend of his elbow, on the soft underside of his forearm, was a fresh circle and bolt brand — only about a few months old by its look.
“I don’t believe I know you,” she said. Her left hand drifted under the table to rest on the hilt of a second dagger she had strapped to her thigh.
Bent glanced at the other man and said, “This is Aron.”
She studied the newcomer while a minute passed, then finally, she turned her attention back to the older man and broke the uncomfortable silence. “Who sent you?”
“Your King.” Bent leaned in on his elbows and waited for her reaction.
“You mean your King,” she responded, furrowing her brow.
“Rynn, when are you going to stop this madness? You are a subject of the Kingdom, and you have been for twenty years. Karth is your home.” Bent shook his head and leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a warning growl. “And Lasten is your King.”
She placed her elbows on the table and came nose to nose with the burly man. Her voice was a low hiss. “I am free. I wasn’t born here, so I am no one’s subject. I did twenty years with the Legion, and I owe no one.”
She settled back in her chair, her eyes glinting with heated anger. Bent reclined with a deep sigh, studying the woman across from him.
She was a Traveler, a human pulled across dimensions through powerful magic by a mage called Regealth the Gatekeeper. She was a conscript in the Legion of Karth with no other loyalties, no past, and no other future but the one created for her by the King of Karth. “Lass,” he began, “you will always be Legion. And right now, you are a deserter.”
Amarynn groaned. “Couldn’t you have just let me be?” She looked down and picked at the tankard handle in front of her.
“These are dark times,” Bent said.
Her eyes flicked up briefly.
“I need a solid Blademaster at my side, and there’s none more solid than you. Your Kingdom and your King need you.”
“I couldn’t care less what your King needs,” she mumbled.
“I need you,” he implored. “Rynn, lass, what else do you have?” His voice was gentle, almost fatherly. For a moment, she wavered. These past months, the time spent on her own had been lonely and painful. For the last twenty years, Bent was the closest thing to a father she had ever known. Now he sat in front of her, aware of where she had been, what she had seen, asking her to put her life back in service of a King to whom she held no loyalty.
She looked away and pretended to consider his request. A pained expression clouded her eyes, and she rubbed her temples. “I want my life back. My life.”
“The Legion is your life, Rynn. Life as a Traveler in Karth means you want for nothing, girl!”
The corner of her mouth curled up as she glanced at Aron. “No? You’re a Traveler, Aron. Do you have your own life?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. His quiet tone held the tiniest hint of a lilt. “We are elite. What else could be as grand?” His bright blue eyes held her gaze, challenging her. She started to look away, but something odd in the way he looked at her held her for just a moment longer than she would have liked.
She quickly looked back to Bent. “We don’t have lives, Bent. We’re not given that option, remember? So, instead, I think I will find a cottage or a cabin in the woods and stay especially drunk.” She drained her cup.
Bent wrinkled his nose in distaste and stood. “Just like Essik, then?” He shook his head. “How fortunate it is you cannot die, girl. A drunkard’s death is especially miserable. I’ve never known you to walk away from a fight, lass. Why now?” He placed his hands on the table, his face hovering near hers. “Remember — you’re not the only Traveler in the world. Stop acting as if you are! And, as a deserter, I can’t help you if you are found out.”
The serving girl who had betrayed Amarynn’s identity hurried to the table. “My five silver — where is it?” she demanded of Bent, and the aging Legion commander dropped a handful of coins on the table as Aron pushed his chair back and stood and stepped away. The girl scrambled to pick them up, but Amarynn’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist. Amarynn glared at her, then released her wrist and swept the coins off the table onto the floor, pocketing one for herself. Wisely refraining from comment, the serving girl scrambled to collect the remaining four coins beneath Amarynn’s dark glare, then swiftly disappeared into the crowd.
