Beyond the Pale (23 page)

Falken stood up. “All right, let’s get moving.”

“Where are we going?” Travis asked around his last mouthful of bread.

“You will see.”

Travis knew he would get no further explanation from the bard. He swilled down the last of the beer and followed. They returned the empty alepot to the kitchen, then left the courtyard through a gate. To their left lay a ruined portion of the fortress, and it was in this direction the bard turned. They picked their way among heaps of broken stone, and soon Travis realized they were making for the broken stump of a tower that stood on the end of the peninsula. Sweating despite the morning chill, they reached the tower and stepped through an open archway. Inside, the tower was roofless, its circular floor covered with dry grass. Sunlight spilled through a gap in the east wall. Only after a moment did Travis realize he and Falken were not the only ones in the tower. An amber-eyed woman in a midnight-blue kirtle
sat upon a large stone, while a tall, fair-haired knight stood behind her, hand on the hilt of his sword—the same pair he had seen at the feast the night before.

“Well, it’s about time you got here, Falken Blackhand,” the woman said.

Travis shot the bard a nervous look. “These are the friends you talked about, aren’t they?”

“However did you guess?” Falken said. The bard approached the duo. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, but I ran into a few … 
complications
along the way.”

The woman turned her startling gaze on Travis. “So I see.”

He squirmed under her attention. Something about the way she looked at him made him feel transparent. He sighed in relief when she turned her attention back toward Falken.

“We were about to give up on you. It has been nearly a month since we were supposed to meet here, and I must tell you King Kel’s hospitality, although graciously given, grows a trifle wearisome by the sixth or seventh feast.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the knight said in a cheerful tenor. He scratched the scruffy blond beard that clung to his cheeks. “I rather like Kel’s court. One doesn’t have to think about what to do every night. The social activities are all sort of planned out.”

The woman stood. “So, are you going to introduce us to your companion, Falken? Or have you decided to dispense with all semblance of manners in order to better blend in with King Kel’s courtiers? I must confess, it appears to be a role quite within your reach.”

Falken winced, then turned toward Travis. “Travis Wilder, I would like you to meet my friends.” He shot the others a dark look. “Though sometimes I wonder if that’s really the proper word. At any rate, the big blond oaf in the metal suit is Beltan. And the lovely woman with the tongue of steel is the Lady Melia.”

Melia shot Falken a warning look. “I might be happy to see you, Falken. Then again, it would be wise not to press the point.” She approached Travis with a swish of wool, held out a hand, and affected a disarming smile. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Unsure exactly what he was supposed to do, Travis took her hand in his and kissed it.

“Well, at least somebody here has manners,” Melia said, and her eyes glinted.

“You might want to find a place to sit, Travis,” Falken said. “Lady Melia and I have a bit of catching up to do, and it might take some time.”

Falken sat on a stone near Melia, but Beltan continued to stand behind the dark-haired lady. Travis found a place in the sun not far away from the others. He sat cross-legged on the ground and let the morning light warm his face as he listened.

It was Melia who began. “A great deal has happened in the year since we parted ways and set off on our separate journeys, Falken. Beltan and I have traveled to all of the seven Dominions, and we have seen and heard much that is troubling. But let me begin by giving you what might be the most pressing news. A Council of Kings has been called at Calavere. Even at this moment, the rulers of the other six Dominions journey toward Calavan.”

Falken let out a low whistle. “Things must be bad indeed. I’m afraid where I journeyed in the last year, I heard little news of the rest of Falengarth. Tell me more.”

As sunlight crept across the grassy floor, Falken and Melia continued their exchange, with occasional additions from Beltan. Travis watched them with keen interest. After all, these were the people who might be able to help him get back to Colorado. There was little in their conversation he truly understood, yet during the course of their talk he managed to glean a bit of information about the two strangers. Apparently the big knight, Beltan, came from the Dominion of Calavan, where this
Council of Kings
was to be held. No one mentioned from what land Melia hailed, though Travis got the impression she came from the far south, and that she was a lady of some importance there. At least she acted like one.

At one point as he watched the three, Travis adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, and he almost thought he glimpsed a faint aura shining around each of them. Beltan’s aura was bright gold, though there was a dark streak in it, almost like tarnish. Falken, too, had an aura Travis had not seen before—as pale as silver, and as sad as
valsindar
in winter. Brightest by far shone the corona around the Lady Melia. It
was the same rich amber as her eyes, yet it shimmered with azure as well.

Melia turned to fix Travis with a piercing look. Startled, he fumbled with his glasses, and the auras were gone—if he had ever really seen them. Melia turned her gaze back toward Falken.

From what Travis could understand of their talk, Melia and Beltan had parted ways with Falken in the Dominion of Calavan last autumn, and had agreed to meet again in Kelcior in one year’s time. The purpose of their travels had been to search for the source of an evil that had begun to stir in Falengarth. As Melia and Beltan told their tale, it became clear that, during the intervening year, things had gone from dark to darker.

Everywhere in the Dominions the summer had been short and blighted. Crops perished in the fields, while plague swept village after village. Now winter came early, and by the looks of things it meant to stay long. A hard winter meant that bands of barbarians and outlaws, who usually prowled the marches on the fringes of the Dominions, were likely to strike deeper into the heart of civilized lands in search of food and warmth. Fear and unrest already grew among the peasantry, and that made the nobles more than a little nervous. Yet raiders were not the only things of which the peasants were afraid. In some of the villages Melia and Beltan had passed through, the common folk had been worked up about rumors of strange creatures prowling about and causing mischief.

Travis’s ears pricked up at this. He thought of Trifkin Mossberry’s troupe of actors, and the queer figures he had glimpsed behind the curtain at Brother Cy’s.

“Strange creatures?” Falken asked, his eyebrows drawn together.

It was Beltan who answered. “That’s right. It’s always in the most remote villages—those on the edges of deep forests or high mountains. Time and again, folk claim to have seen creatures right out of old stories and legends. Things like goblins, and greenmen, and even fairies.” He let out a skeptical snort. “Of course, even I’m not stupid enough to believe those tales. I would guess they’re just rumors told by village drunkards and gossipy goodwives.”

“And most likely your guess is right,” Melia said. “However, I’m not entirely surprised such rumors are on the rise. People grow more fearful and superstitious in troubled times. They do not know the real causes of disasters like plagues and famines, and so turn to old legends as a source of explanation.” A grim light shone in her eyes. “Either that, or they turn to new religions.”

Falken cocked his head.

“There’s a new mystery cult on the rise in the Dominions,” Melia said.

The bard ran a hand through his hair. “But that doesn’t make any sense. The mystery cults are ancient. All the ones practiced in the Dominions came north across the Summer Sea centuries ago. How can there suddenly be a new cult?”

Melia smoothed her gown. “That’s a good question, and one whose answer I would give much to know. From what I can gather, disciples of the Raven Cult must renounce their spirit into the keeping of their god. What’s more, they hold that life itself is unimportant, for in death they will become one with the Raven god and know eternal ecstasy.”

“That’s awfully convenient,” Falken said in a caustic voice. “You’re saying the cult’s priests don’t have to try to explain any of the current strife and trouble. In fact, they can actually exploit it to win new converts.”

Anger colored Melia’s cheeks. “Exactly. And it all leads to a horrid kind of apathy. Disciples of the cult don’t try to do anything to counter suffering in this world because, according to their priests, there’s no point. If life becomes too hard, it simply makes them yearn for the bliss of death all the more. To the followers of the Raven Cult, life has no meaning. Only death does.” She clenched a small hand into a fist. “It’s utterly perverse,” she said with a vehemence that seemed somehow personal.

Falken rubbed his chin with his gloved hand, his expression sad and weary. “Yes, it is. Unfortunately, it’s also just another sign of dark times.” He took a deep breath. “Well, I think our course from here is clear. We have to journey south as fast as possible, to the Council of Kings at Calavere, to report what we’ve learned.”

“Wait a minute, Falken,” Beltan said. “You have yet to tell
us where you journeyed and what you found there. Have you forgotten?”

The bard’s faded blue eyes grew distant. “No, I haven’t forgotten. The truth is, I’m not yet entirely certain what I learned, and I don’t want to say more until I’m sure. But I will tell you this: My journey was dark and long, and it took me to the Fal Threndur, and after that into Shadowsdeep, and all the way to the Rune Gate itself, beyond which lie the shadows of Imbrifale.”

Melia and Beltan stared at Falken. A chill danced up Travis’s spine. So that was why the bard had been traveling south through the Winter Wood, away from the Ironfang Mountains.

Falken’s gaze snapped back into focus. “More of my journey I won’t say at present. Yet I suppose now is as good a time as any to show you this, Melia. I wouldn’t mind a second opinion.” He pulled a cloth bundle from his pack. “I found it in Shadowsdeep.”

The bard set the bundle atop a flat rock. Drawn by curiosity, Travis rose and approached. Falken unwrapped the cloth and revealed the object within. It was a disk of some sort of white stone, about as large as Travis’s splayed hand. Embedded in its surface was a silver symbol:

A jagged break ran down the center of the disk and separated it into two halves.

Melia peered at the artifact and pursed her lips in interest. “It looks to me like some sort of bound rune. In which case, it’s quite ancient. The Runebinders’ art has not been known in Falengarth in centuries.”

Falken nodded. “A bound rune—that’s what I thought, but I’m glad to hear the same answer from the lips of another. I know only a little of runes, yet I think …”

The bard’s words dwindled to a drone in Travis’s ears. He gazed at the broken rune. The stone looked as smooth as cream, and his fingers itched. What would it feel like against his skin? Before he knew what he was doing, he reached out his right hand and touched the broken rune.

The stone disk flared with blue incandescence, and the silver symbol glowed bright white. At the same moment a voice spoke an unfamiliar word in Travis’s mind.

Krond
.

But that was not the strangest thing, for he knew the voice. It sounded exactly like Jack Graystone’s.

Travis let out a cry of alarm, and the others gaped at him. He snatched his hand back, and at once the azure radiance vanished. The symbol on the disk dulled, and the voice in his mind faded and was gone.

Travis rubbed his hand—it tingled fiercely—then Falken reached out, grabbed his wrist, and turned it over.

A wave of disbelief crashed through Travis. The others looked at him as if he had just grown a second head. All except for Melia, whose expression was sharp and calculating.

It marked the palm of Travis’s right hand—the hand Jack had grasped that night at the Magician’s Attic—glowing silver-blue like some impossible brand. A symbol, but not the same as the one which marked the broken rune. A low moan of fear escaped his lips.

“Oh, Jack,” he whispered. “What did you do to me?”

“I believe, Falken,” Melia said as she paced across the grassy circle inside the abandoned tower, “that it is time you told us more about this
complication
of yours.” She fixed her amber gaze upon Travis.

Travis slouched on a rock, head hung low, and gripped the wrist of his right hand. The symbol on his palm had already faded away, but he could still feel it there, like a prickling beneath his skin. The glowing image had burned itself into his brain, so that every time he blinked he saw the symbol again, three crossed marks: