Beyond the Pale (69 page)

Instead he grinned at her. “Good, my lady. Very good! I am a skilled judge of character, but you are even better at this game than I guessed you would be.”

She had been ready for fury. His laughter took her aback. “Your Majesty?”

“Don’t you see it, my lady? A good spy dismisses no suspicion, no possibility, until proven otherwise. You did well not to assume I was innocent until you had proof of the matter. There are others who could learn much from you.”

His eyes flickered to Aryn, and his ward blushed.

“But tell me, Lady Spy,” Boreas said. “Now that you know I am not behind this plot in my castle, who is?”

Grace licked her lips. “The Raven Cult and the Pale King.”

Boreas stroked his black beard. “So, you believe the bard, then?”

Falken stepped forward and started to speak, but Grace shook her head.

“No, Falken. Please, let me tell him. I need to do it.”

The bard met her gaze, then nodded. She drew in a deep breath and stepped closer to the king of Calavan.

“You’re right, Your Majesty. I am a good spy, even though I never imagined I could be. I’ve learned a lot these last weeks,
and one thing I’ve learned is not to disbelieve something just because others discount it. Whatever you think about Falken’s tale, I’ve seen the proof, and so have all of my … so have all of my friends. I know the Pale King is real.”

Boreas returned her defiant gaze with one of calm understanding. “I never said I did not believe in the Pale King, my lady.”

Grace was not the only one who drew in a breath of shock.

Boreas frowned. “You needn’t all act so surprised. Or do you really think your king is so thick in the head?” He moved from Grace, toward the fire, and knelt to stroke one of the black mastiffs who slept before the hearth. “I know of the Pale King. Why do you think I called the council?” He let out a snort. “Because I’m afraid of ragged robbers as Eminda says?”

Grace shook her head. She could not imagine Boreas afraid of any mere mortal.

The king stood and faced the bard. “After that last time you were here, Falken Blackhand, I did not—as you would think it—mindlessly dismiss your warning that darkness stirred in Falengarth. I had seen the signs myself, and I did some investigating of my own. I could not be certain, not until you showed the broken rune to the council, but as soon as you did I knew my belief was right, that the Pale King gathered his power again.”

Falken clenched his black-gloved hand into a fist. “If you believed me, why didn’t you say something to the council?”

Boreas planted his hands on lean hips. “And how well do you think it would have served me to ally myself with the Grim Bard after his outburst? How much sway would I have held over the council then? The news you brought helped me, Falken—it let me know I had chosen right to call the council—but your performance set back my plan to convince the council to muster for war, perhaps without hope of recovery. Although Lady Grace’s news, dire as it is, might offer some new hope for uniting the council.”

Falken opened his mouth, but no words came out. For the first time Grace could remember, the bard was speechless. Grace’s eyes moved back to Boreas. Even in his nightshirt, with his hair wild from sleep, he looked powerful and
kingly. A warrior, yes, but not a madman—she knew that now.

The king turned his attention to Grace. “Well, you’ve managed to surprise me, my lady, and that’s no easy thing to do. It never even occurred to me that your spying would actually turn up useful information.”

She gaped at him. “
What
?”

Boreas laughed. “Come now, Lady Grace—surely you don’t think you’re the only one who can keep a secret? My hope was that, if you made yourself enough of a nuisance with your prying, you might force someone to reveal his hand unwittingly. If you poke a man’s sore spot, he will likely flinch. But it turns out you’re a more effective spy than I counted on.”

Grace had no idea what to say. All this time she had been spying for nothing? Except it wasn’t for nothing after all.…

The king’s face grew grim. “I will say, my lady, this is news about the Raven Cult. I knew the Mysteries of the Raven had gained a foothold in Calavan. I did not know the cult was allied with the Pale King.”

“It is.” Grace drew in a deep breath. It was time to tell him the rest. All of it. His plan had worked—her spying
had
forced someone’s hand. “And there’s more, Your Majesty. You see, I’ve been—”

With a flick of his finger he cut her off. “No, my lady, I do not wish to hear everything. A spy knows what to tell and what not. Too much knowledge can be a harm, not a help. I know all I need to now. I will have an end put to the Raven Cult, and to the plot in my castle.”

There were sparks in Boreas’s eyes and flint in his voice. This was the king Grace knew.

“Now,” Boreas said, and his voice edged into a roar, “all of you get out of my chamber!”

Grace leaped back, then gave a hasty curtsy. The others followed suit with curtsies and bows—even the Lady Melia—then all hurried from the chamber and left the king to his hounds and his privacy.

The door shut with a boom.

“Now what?” Travis said.

Grace didn’t have an answer for that. She had not thought
beyond telling Boreas about the murder plot. It seemed the king had taken matters into his own hands. Maybe that was the end—maybe she was done with this.

Melia tapped a cheek. “Breakfast, I think. Shall we all come to my chamber?”

The others agreed to this, with Beltan’s affirmation being particularly hearty. Together the seven started down the corridor. Strange that Grace should find more companionship here than she ever had in her own world. Strange, but it felt right all the same.

Their course took them past the keep’s entrance hall. They passed through the hall and were nearly to the other side when the keep’s main doors swung open. A wintry blast snatched at Grace’s gown. The others grabbed at dresses, capes, or tunics, then the doors shut, and the hurricane ceased. Grace batted her gown back into place and looked up to see a motley troupe of characters stride into the keep.

Yes, characters. That’s exactly what they look like. Characters from a play
.

They were dressed in outlandish costumes. Leaves tangled the hair of the women. The men wore shaggy trousers. An old man in white tossed dried petals on the floor like snow.

A frown touched Aryn’s brow. “Oh dear, they’re early. Wherever will we put them?”

Grace glanced at her friend. “Early? You mean you were expecting them?”

The baroness nodded. “They’re actors. King Boreas hired them. Their troupe is going to perform a play at the Midwinter’s Eve Feast. But that’s a week away, and here they are already.”

Actors? Grace watched the peculiar troupe pass by. They turned a corner, and as they did she saw one among them she had not noticed before. He was a tiny man, barely more than three feet high, dressed in yellow and green. The man didn’t show the usual signs of achondroplasia, and he was well proportioned. Pituitary dwarfism, then.

Grace heard a hiss of breath beside her, and she turned her head. Travis stared at the little man, his expression one of astonishment.

“Trifkin Mossberry!” he whispered.

Even as Travis said these words the small man turned in
their direction and tipped his feathered cap—although he was too far away to possibly have heard.

Before Grace could wonder more, the small man and the actors vanished through an archway, leaving the entrance hall cold and empty.

This time the Circle of the Black Knife met by daylight.

They gathered again in the old watchtower. It was late afternoon, but the mist of that morning had not broken and still cloaked the world outside. A small fireplace—empty now—would have offered the sentinels of long ago warmth as they kept watch from this place for enemies. Travis gazed at the fireplace and wondered if it would be used again before long.

Beltan was the last to arrive.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” The blond man shut the door, his chain mail jingling.

Durge studied the other’s armor. “Why are you fully armed, brother knight?” The Embarran was clad in his usual smoke-colored tunic and hose.

Travis watched the two men. Each time he saw them, he was struck by the difference in the knights: one dark and grim, the other bright and jovial. Like night and day—no, more like boar and lion. Each dangerous in his own way. He was glad the two were on their side.

Furrows dug themselves in Beltan’s high forehead. “I’m afraid I’ve been conscripted by my uncle. He’s placed me in charge of security in the castle. We’re searching for any Raven cultists in Calavere and purging them. We’ve found several already today.”

Purging them
. Travis had an idea what that meant. He eyed Beltan’s sword and shivered. The blond man was always so kind, but Travis had seen the scars the knight bore.

Beltan sighed. “I know it needs to be done, but I can’t say I care for this job. We’re supposed to be looking for murderers, but so far all the cultists we’ve found have been simple folk—poor, or sick, or desperate. They don’t understand
what’s behind the Raven Cult. They’re just out of hope, and they’re looking for something—anything—that can offer some.”

Travis stared at the knight. Maybe he had misjudged his friend.

“You could have told Boreas no,” Grace said.

Beltan shook his head. “I might have, but Melia and Falken asked me to do it as well, though I’m not sure why.”

Travis didn’t really mean to speak the words aloud, but he did. “Maybe because they knew you wouldn’t punish those who were only guilty of hoping, Beltan.”

The big knight glanced at Travis, his expression startled, then he nodded. He did not smile, but the shadow lifted from his brow.

Now that they were all here, the five counterconspirators got down to the matter at hand. Aryn had met again with the king, along with Lord Alerain. She explained that, after their morning encounter with him, Boreas had concocted a plan to shift the various kings and queens from bedchamber to bedchamber that night, and each night thereafter. That way no one—including the Raven Cult—could be certain in which room a particular ruler might be staying.

Alerain was organizing the effort, and at Boreas’s request the seneschal had not explained to any of the rulers the real reason they were being moved from room to room. The king of Calavan had not yet informed the council about the murder plot. Instead, he was waiting until the would-be murderers were caught. Then he could present the plotters to the council and, hopefully, use the victory to sway the council’s decision. Alerain had devised a reason to convince each ruler to move to a new chamber. The stories ranged from leaky ceilings and crumbling walls to rats under the bed. The plan had worked so far—the rulers would all have new chambers tonight—but Aryn doubted Boreas and Alerain could keep it up for long. The plotters had to be found, and before time ran out.

“So, what does the Circle do now?” Beltan said.

Grace met his eyes. “We look for the wounded conspirator in the castle. I saw the one strike the other in my vision. And Travis and I saw the blood on the snow at the circle of stones, leading back toward Calavere.”

Durge stroked his mustaches. “So if we can find someone in the castle who was wounded yesterday—”

“—we have the conspirator,” Travis said.

Aryn chewed her lip. “I usually hear about it when someone in the household is hurt. And there were several injuries yesterday. A servingwoman in the scullery was burned by a pot of hot water. And the apprentice to the castle farrier was kicked by a horse.” She frowned. “Oh, yes—and Lord Olstin called for a chirurgeon, although he would not tell me the reason why.”

Beltan let out a snort. “I think I can save us some trouble. If that bowl of pudding Olstin is one of the murderers, I’ll eat my chain mail.”

“No, don’t discount him,” a hard voice said.

The others looked up. It was Grace. Her face was a white mask, her eyes distant.

“One Raven cultist was an ironheart,” she said. “Others could be, too. You can’t know. You can’t possibly know who might be one … one of them. It could be anyone—the plainest person you would never suspect. There’s only one way to be sure. One way.” She shuddered, then her gaze focused on the others. “I’m sorry, I …”

“No, my lady,” Beltan said. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re right. We can’t discount anyone.”

Aryn sighed. “But if that’s the case, how are we ever going to find the wounded conspirator—”

“You must remember the words of Gloaming Wood,” a piping voice spoke.

Travis and Grace whirled around. Before them stood a small man clad in yellow trousers and a green jacket. His face was brown as sun-dried berries, and his dark eyes snapped with mischief—as well as something deeper and more perilous.

“Trifkin Mossberry,” Travis murmured.

Grace glanced at Travis. “You know him?”

The small man stroked his beardless chin. “We have met before, I think. Have we not?”

Travis could only nod. He would never forget that night in King Kel’s keep when he spied Trifkin and his troupe through the keyhole. And now they were here in Calavere. But what did they want?

“To perform a play, of course,” Trifkin said. “And to help you.”

“To help us? How?”

Trifkin only smiled.

Grace crouched and brought her eyes on a level with the little man’s. “What do you mean, ‘the words of Gloaming Wood’?”

“One may not be what one seems,” the little man said. “Then again, one may not seem what one doth be.”

“I don’t understand,” Grace said. “What are you talking about?”

Trifkin smiled again.

Grace’s green-gold eyes bored into the little man. “Who are you?”

“The darkness is here,” Trifkin whispered.

Bells shimmered on the air, and the little man was gone.

Grace stood and looked at Travis, her mouth open. He shook his head. What had just happened? He didn’t know. Or did he? Did both of them?

“—who’s hiding in the castle,” Aryn said.

Travis and Grace turned and stared at the others.