The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) by Morgan Blayde Page A

solution because the city and its inhabitants are ‘outside the game’.  The only important elements are the players, the outer gates, and the hub of the city which is the only fixed point.  Each gate has a different pattern on the door.” 
    He paused for a deep breath, gaze turning inward.  I assumed he wrestled with how much information to share.
    “The Farthest Gate is not the farthest from the one you entered, nor the one at the end of the longest route, as I have led many to believe.”  He paused for dramatic effect, making sure he had my interest.  “Once you pass the hub, the Farthest Gate becomes the one by which you first entered the city.  Thereafter, it is the only way you can go anywhere.  That gate is therefore different for each player.”
    I remembered the engraved rose on the gate that opened for me.  Apparently, all I had to do was reach the hub, take my leave of the Gamesman there, and find the Rose Gate again.  Passing through it, I would win the contest and win the right to call for my son’s release. 
    I t was not an impossible task after all, but I remained suspicious.  There was a burr somewhere under the saddle he offered me, something he was leaving out of the explanation.  I knew this as well as I knew my own name.  “What are you not telling me?” I wondered aloud.
    “Only this, the right gate will never come to you at either of the city’s access points unless you have the Key .  To get the Key , you can either search the city until the end of time, or challenge my champion at the hub’s arena for it.”
    Again, the key!   Amberyn had mentioned it too.  “What exactly is this key?”
    Laughing, slowly fading from my sight with his knight beside him, the Gamesman’s words were last to go.  “Not what—it is who—and that is my secret to cherish, unless you think you can persuade my giant to tell you.”
    I had no choice.  I would have to do exactly that.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    5. ANGELIQUE
     
     
    I sheathed my blade, attached the thorn whip to my belt, and approached Azrael who knelt, submerged in melancholy, slumped forward, head hanging.  Floating out of the black mists within his cloak, his hands gripped the street, digging in.  The brick shattered.
    I jumped , and was drawn forward as if tightening cords connected our hearts.  I stopped directly in front of him, searching for words to comfort an angel.
    He said, “I am sorry.  It is my fault.  You had his weapon in your hands … and now…” he continued grinding fragments into gravel, “I did not do enough, and now our hope is gone.”
    I knelt and stared into the dimmed fire of his eye.  Why he agonized over my decisions, I could not guess, but it pained me to see him like this.  He had faced down the son of Death on my behalf.  I owed Azrael sympathy, a friend’s attention, and what little solace I could give.  I covered his hands with mine.
    “Nothing is your fault .  You’ve been my friend.  You are my friend.  My heart still clings to hope. I will save my Phillippe.  I have not lost faith, and God willing, I shall not.”
    His hooded head lifted.  White-fire eyes stared out of shadow.  “You do not know … and I can not tell you.  I promised…”
    I straightened and stared, arms outstretched in invitation.  When words are empty echoes, a woman’s softness alone can heal.
    His fingers uprooted from shattered brick and the soil underneath.  Like a black cloud, he drifted over me, his ice-cold presence chilling my marrow.
    I pulled him close, losing all warmth and light as his cloak wrapped us both in darkest night.  It seemed to me, I could hear both our hearts, keeping the same rhythm.  Unlike before, when I had used him as a living gateway, he remained solid.  I touched the hard sleek muscles of his back, hugging him tight.
    His arms folded across my back, crushing us together.
    I felt sharp embarrassment—he was unclothed in