Beyond the Pale (41 page)

“Drink this, dear one,” he said and held the cup to her lips.

Melia took a hesitant sip from the cup, then drank the remainder. A hint of color touched her lips, and her shivering eased, though it did not end altogether. She blinked, and her amber eyes grew focused once more.

“Thank you, Falken. I’ll be all right now—I just need to rest.” Shadows still clung to her cheeks, and her voice remained quiet, but it was no longer full of the hopeless despair. She glanced at the tumbled remains of the tower, and shock registered in her expression. “What happened back there?”

“Travis bound the rune of founding,” Falken said. “The wraithlings were driven back by the tower’s magic.”

“He bound the rune? Are you certain?”

Falken gave a solemn nod.

“So the art of runebinding is not lost from the world after all.” Melia tightened her grip on the blankets they had wrapped her in. “That explains what happened in the
talathrin
, when Travis drew
Sinfath
backward.”

“Yes, it seems our little complication is not quite out of surprises yet.”

Travis flexed his right hand, and he could feel a slight tingle against his palm.

In quick sentences Falken explained to Melia the remainder of what had happened after the wraithlings had assailed her.

“It was blood, Melia,” he finished. “When the rune of founding broke again, it was blood that welled forth from the crack.”

She gazed at the distant heap of skeletal stones. “I think we know now why the White Tower fell long ago.”

Falken sighed with the night wind. “I always believed all the Pale King’s wizards were slain when their master was defeated. It seems that wasn’t so. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know how the Runebinders came to capture a Necromancer. Certainly the Dark One’s power would have been much
weakened after the War of the Stones. Yet it seems the final victory was his.”

Travis edged closer to the fire. “I don’t understand, Falken. Why would they have killed a … a Necromancer at the founding of their tower?”

“Blood sorcery is a crude and primal magic,” Falken said. “But it is powerful as well. Long ago, barbarian kings drank the blood of their vanquished enemies, and mixed more blood into the mortar of their keeps, in the belief that the power of the dead ones would be transferred to the stone walls, strengthening them. I suppose the Runebinders believed the same.”

Though still weak, Melia’s voice shook with anger. “They were wrong. The arrogant fools.”

Falken gazed into the fire. “The evil of the Necromancer could not be bound by their magic, not truly. There was no way Travis’s binding could have done the same.”

Travis shivered. He could almost see the scene in his mind, the proud Runebinders in robes of ivory, gathered around the foundation of their new tower, a figure in black on his knees before them. Then the flash of a knife, and blood flowing crimson against the new white stones, not a blessing, but a curse.

“Who were the Necromancers, Falken?” Travis said.

“It was told they were once minor gods from the far south, that the Pale King gave them bodies of mortal flesh in exchange for serving him.”

Melia cast a sharp look at the bard. “It was hardly so simple as that.”

Falken shrugged. “What do I know of the affairs of gods?”

“Little enough, it seems.”

The bard ignored her comment. “It was the Necromancers who created the
feydrim
, the slaves of the Pale King, of which the wraithlings were the most beautiful, and the most terrible. The Pale Ones, the wraithlings, were made for just one purpose: to seek out the Imsari, the three Great Stones.” He looked at Travis. “It is said, to their eyes, the Stones leave trails of light that linger on the air, marking their passage. Only when a Stone is encased in iron does it leave no trace they can follow.”

Travis drew out the iron box—the box the beings in the
light, the wraithlings, had destroyed the Magician’s Attic in an attempt to gain. Every time he had opened it he had left a trail for them to follow.

Melia extended still-trembling hands toward the fire. “It seems your guess about the nature of Travis’s Stone was correct, Falken.”

Beltan stared at the box in Travis’s hand. “You mean it’s really one of the Great Stones?”

“Yes,” Falken said. “And given that the rune inscribed on the lid of the box is
Sinfath
, I would guess this to be Sinfathisar, the Stone of Twilight, most subtle of the Imsari, yet still a thing of terrible power to one who knew the secret of wielding it.” His voice dropped to a grim whisper. “One, it seems, who searches for it even now.”

Falken reached into his pack, drew out another object, and unwrapped the covering cloth. It was the broken rune, the one Travis had touched in the ruins of Kelcior to alarming effect. The two halves of the ivory disk glowed in the firelight, and the sundered rune embedded in its surface gleamed silver.
Krond
. Fire.

“Ever since finding this in Shadowsdeep,” Falken said, “I have had my suspicions about it. However, I could not be certain those suspicions were founded, not until I studied the runestone in the tower. Now I have, and it has confirmed all my fears.”

Beltan made a nervous rumble in his throat. “And those are?”

“After the Pale King was defeated a thousand years ago, a great gate forged of iron was raised above Shadowsdeep. The gate covered the Gap of the Teeth, the only pass through the Ironfang Mountains, and the only way into and out of Imbrifale. The first Runelords bound the gate with powerful runes, and thus assured that the Pale King could never ride forth from his dominion again. Or for so long we believed, those of us who still remembered. But we were wrong.” Falken brushed the broken disk with a finger. “I know now that this is one of the three binding seals placed by the Runelords upon the door of Imbrifale. Now, somehow, it has been broken. The Rune Gate is weakening.”

Melia and Beltan stared at the bard. Travis shook his head, filled with an unnamed dread.

“But what does it mean?” he whispered.

“A Stone has come to light, wraithlings stalk the land, the Rune Gate itself falters. It can mean but one thing.” Shadows played across Falken’s face. “After a thousand years of imprisonment, the Pale King stirs once more.”

The night wind rose to a keening howl.

By Grace’s tenth day in Calavere, the novelty of living in a castle had begun to wear off.

It was a sure sign one was growing accustomed to a place when one started to notice every small annoyance. There was the cold, to begin with. Everyone in the castle spoke of how winter had come early that year, and the cold was a constant, gnawing presence. It radiated from every stone of the castle, sliced like a knife through thin cracks in the walls, seeped into joints and bones until Grace ached with it. Even the heavy wool gowns she wore were no proof against the chill, and her hands especially were always cold.

The frigid temperature was worsened by the dampness of the air. The Dimduorn, the River Darkwine, was no more than a league from Calavere—a league, she had gathered, was something on the order of three miles—and nothing in the castle ever seemed completely dry. But both cold and damp she might have endured. It was the smells that got to her.

Everything in the castle smelled.
Everything
. The privies, the torches, the bedclothes, the food, the tapestries, the chamber pots, the candles, the corridors, and a vast majority of the people. All were foul, or pungent, or rancid, or some overpowering combination of the three. Two weeks ago she would never have believed it possible, but now she longed for the antiseptic odor of Denver Memorial Hospital. She had always hated that smell, but at least it had been the only one, designed by chemists to mask the scents of blood, vomit, and death. Here in Calavere there were times when she was tempted to take a hot poker from the fire and cauterize
her nose just so she wouldn’t have to
smell
anything anymore.

It didn’t help that she and Aryn had been forced to curtail their time together. Aryn still came to Grace’s chamber whenever she could, but much of the baroness’s time was engaged in readying guest chambers, overseeing servants, and keeping an eye on the castle’s kitchen, all in anticipation of the arrival of the kings and queens of the other Dominions.

“Is there anything I can do to lend a hand?” Grace had asked the baroness one day.

Aryn’s expression had been scandalized. “Grace! You’re a guest of the castle and a lady of noble birth. It wouldn’t be proper!”

“Really?”

Aryn had given an emphatic nod. “Nobility,” she had said, “does not
lend a hand.
”

Grace had sighed. “No, I don’t suppose it does.”
It wouldn’t be boring enough
. But she hadn’t said the words aloud, and had only smiled as Aryn squeezed her hand and hurried away to some other task.

Nor had King Boreas paid Grace much attention since the morning after the feast, three days ago. She had awakened to a summons from the king, brought to her door by Lord Alerain himself. She had thrown on the first dress she could find and had dashed through the castle corridors to the king’s chamber. By the time she had stumbled through the doorway, her gown was askew, her hair clung to her damp cheeks, and she was gasping for breath.

King Boreas had taken in her appearance with his fierce gaze. “I see Lord Alerain came upon you in the midst of your morning constitutional.” He had given an approving nod. “By Vathris, good for you, my lady! As the sages say, a weak body houses a weak mind.”

Grace had simply nodded, and had declined to mention that her run through the castle was the most exercise she had gotten in months. She had eyed the king’s powerful chest and arms. What did he do for sport? Juggled lesser nobles, perhaps.

“Now, my lady,” he had said, baring his big teeth in what
wasn’t quite a grin, “you are going to tell me all you learned at the feast last night.”

For a quarter of an hour the king had paced back and forth in front of the black mound of mastiffs heaped beside the fire while Grace had stood in the center of the room—he had not asked her to sit—and had spoken of her conversations with the various seneschals and counselors in the great hall. When she had finished, Boreas had given a bullish grunt, and his blue eyes had sparked with interest, but he had made no comment regarding her report. Instead he had twirled a dagger in his hand, his expression thoughtful, as if trying to decide whose heart to stick it in first. It was the table that had gotten it instead. Grace had been unable to take her eyes off the quivering knife embedded in the wood. The motion had been so quick, so easy, she had hardly seen him do it.

“You may go now, my lady,” Boreas had said.

Grace had retained enough of her wits to know this was not a request. She had started to curtsy, caught herself, and had nodded instead. “I’ll keep observing as best I can, Your Majesty.”

“Yes,” he had said, “you will.”

Afterward, she had replayed her audience with the king in her mind. Much as she disliked to admit it, Boreas’s behavior had only served to fan the spark of her suspicion. Why was he so eager to muster the Dominions for war? The Lady Kyrene had said Boreas followed the Mysteries of Vathris. Grace didn’t entirely understand what all a mystery cult entailed, but it was clear Vathris was some sort of war god. Perhaps Boreas was looking for an excuse to conquer one of the other Dominions, either for personal gain or for the satisfaction of his god.

Grace considered telling Aryn of her concerns, then remembered the baroness’s loyalty and reconsidered. There was no point in getting Aryn upset. She could tell the baroness when—and if—she learned anything more concrete.

Not that this seemed likely. Over the last three days, she had found little opportunity to talk with the other nobles. All were too busy with preparations for the arrivals of their respective lieges to engage in gossip, which meant they were busy indeed. She did pass Lord Logren once in a corridor. He pressed a hand to his chest and made a fluid bow, but he did
not stop to speak to her. Even the Countess Kyrene was curiously absent.

Left to her own devices, Grace had tried to content herself by exploring the castle. However, every passage seemed to lead, in the end, either to the privy or the kitchens, and she soon got the impression these were the two most important places in Calavere, with the great hall running a distant third.

By that tenth day in the castle, Grace found herself gazing out the small window of her chamber and feeling utterly trapped.

From this vantage she could just glimpse the tops of the two towers that stood to either side of the castle’s main gate. She remembered the peasants she had seen trudging in and out of the archway, on that snowy day when Durge had first brought her to Calavere. It was ironic, but right then she envied the peasants. Yes, they were downtrodden serfs—overworked, uneducated, and malnourished chattels of a capricious feudal system. But at least they could leave the castle if they wanted.

Grace let out a resigned breath. There
was
that small side corridor she had noticed near the great hall the other day. Maybe there was a chance it led
somewhere
besides the privy or the kitchens. She was tired of studying the convoluted words in the books Aryn had brought. At least exploring would give her something else to do. Resolved, she started to turn away from the window.

A spark of emerald below caught her eye.

She moved closer and peered down through the flawed glass. There. She could not see the lady’s face, but the burnished-gold hair and the green gown were unmistakable. Lady Kyrene. The countess walked across the upper bailey alongside another figure: taller, broader, clad in pearl-gray. Grace recognized the fine clothes, the sleek hair gone to steel at the temples. Logren, High Counselor to Queen Eminda of Eredane. The two bent their heads toward each other as if in conversation. Grace felt a tightness in her chest. Logren hardly seemed the type to let himself be tangled in Kyrene’s web of intrigue and innuendo. What could the two possibly be talking about?