Beyond the Pale (81 page)

Not that Melia truly needed his protection. Except perhaps in some ways she did. There was so much about Melia he still did not understand, that he would never understand. It didn’t matter. He knew that what she and Falken were doing was important. That was enough for him.

Is that really it, Beltan
? The old question surfaced in his mind.
Or is it just that it’s simpler being a sword in someone else’s hands? After all, a sword can be strong without having to think for itself
.

Beltan pushed the question aside. What was done was done. A knight’s sword was his life, and he had sworn upon his. He should have been in there.

Except Travis Wilder was his charge as well. Melia had taken Travis into her care, and that made him Beltan’s concern. And it was more than that, for he had made a promise to Travis in the White Tower, had told him he would not have to face danger alone. Of the two it was certainly Travis who was in greater danger that night, he was sure of it.

Beltan shook his head. In some ways Travis was as much a mystery to him as Melia was, and not only because Falken said Travis was from a world that was not Eldh. Travis was handsome, yet he slouched so that others would not notice him. He was kind, yet he acted as if he was not worthy of regard. And he was keen of mind, yet he always let others make decisions for him. Why? Beltan did not know. All the same he had a feeling that Travis needed protection most of all.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Beltan was a veteran of more battles than he could count. He knew when
danger had crept up behind him.
By Vathris, you’re a fool, Beltan of Calavan. You let yourself get distracted. Concentrate on your task
!

His hand slipped to the knife in his belt, and he turned around. Danger stood before him, although it did not wear robes of black or dank gray fur. Instead she was clad in a dress of bloodred, and her eyes shone as hard as green stones. She parted her lips—the same color as her dress—in a smile, and he sucked in a breath.

“Midwinter’s greetings, Lord Beltan,” she said.

He glared at her. “What do you want, Lady Kyrene?”

“What does any maiden want this evening?” She held up a garland woven of dark green leaves and crimson berries.

He grunted. “What would you know about the wants of maidens, my lady?”

Kyrene laughed, a rich sound, but harsh as well, like wine that had started to sour. “Far more than they know themselves, love. Come, let me show you.” She ran a bold hand over his chest, his stomach, then cupped him below.

He stepped back from her.

Her eyes glinted. “So, the tales are true. No woman can get a rise out of the mighty Beltan. Are you so enamored with the idea of priesthood, then? Is it the inner circle of the Mysteries of Vathris you seek? Or is it just that you like so much to snort beneath the blankets with your fellow bulls?”

“Who I bed is none of your concern, Lady Kyrene.”

“But it is, Lord Beltan, for it is my bed I would have you share.”

She advanced, and he stepped back again.

An exultant expression touched her visage. “Don’t you see? Together we can do away with Boreas, we can rule Calavan as king and queen. You have strength, I have beauty—think of the fine brats we can make between us.” She laughed again. “And do not fear, I am no fool. I would not ask you to love me. You can descend into your precious labyrinth of Vathris, put on the bull mask, and bugger all the fresh young initiates you want. I don’t mind. In fact, I might like to stand in the shadows sometime and watch.”

He had been backing away from her as she spoke. They stood before a dim archway now.

“Get away from me,” he said.

Kyrene let out a sigh. “A pity, love. But so be it. I know when I am defeated.” The countess started to turn away, then halted. She held out the garland of greenery. “At least let me give you this. Do me the favor for my trouble.”

He hesitated. All his instincts told him to be away from this woman. There was something wrong with her, like a sickness. However, it appeared the easiest way to be rid of her was to do as she asked. He bowed his head, and she reached out to slip the garland around his neck.

Too late he saw the thorns that had been woven among the leaves and berries.

Beltan tried to pull away, but this action only pressed the garland against his neck. He felt a half-dozen bright pricks of pain as the thorns bit into his flesh. A fog descended before him, and numbness chilled his limbs. He staggered back, opened his mouth, and tried to speak the words.
What have you done, witch
? But no sound came from his lips.

Her face hovered before him now, and her bloodred smile. “That’s it, love.” Her croon echoed in his skull, like voices in a cave. “Sleep now. When you wake you will be so much stronger.”

He stared at her, unable to move.
What are you going to do to me
? But again he could not form the words. Through the haze he saw gray forms scuttle out of the shadows.

“Take him,” she said.

The last sound Beltan heard was cruel laughter, then clammy hands coiled around his arms and legs and dragged him down into darkness.

Grace stared at the charm that dangled from her bracelet.

The heat and noise of the great hall receded into the far distance, and the vacuum they left behind was frigid and empty. Silence mantled her like suffocating folds of plastic. The charm filled her vision until she felt minuscule in comparison, a satellite caught in the thrall of gravity cast by a dark, craggy planet.

A whirling filled her skull like the spinning of a compass
needle searching for north. She saw him again, Detective Janson, the dull look in his small eyes traded in an instant for the hot light of evil.

No. She wouldn’t believe it. It was just a stone charm—it couldn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. She had run her hands over his chest, had felt the smooth, unmarked skin for herself. It had to be a mistake.

Follow this, Blademender, until you can learn to follow your own heart
.

Fear crystallized in Grace’s lungs. Scar or no scar, a magnet could not lie. She would have screamed, but sound didn’t carry in a vacuum, did it? In space your skin would freeze even as your blood boiled in your veins. Fire and ice, then nothing at all, nothing for eternity. Sweet, blessed, nothing.…

“Lady Grace?”

The silence splintered, the stone charm shrank, and the roar of the great hall crashed over her in a wave.

Grace’s fingers still brushed the cup he held toward her, and the bracelet’s magnetite charm still pointed directly at his chest. Her mind flailed in panic. How long had she been frozen like this? How long had she stared at the charm? Surely he knew, surely he saw the terror in her eyes and realized what it meant. Any second he would fling aside the cup, wrap impossibly strong hands around her throat, and squeeze the life out of her.

No, the expression on his face—on his exquisitely handsome face—was only bemused. He arched an eyebrow.

Do something, Grace. You’ve got to do something
.

Her fingers closed around the wine cup. He smiled and released it. She brought the cup to her mouth with both hands and let the liquid touch her lips but did not drink, did not dare for fear she would choke. Then she lowered the cup and somehow managed to get it to the table before dropping it.

Now what?

“It is a fine vintage, isn’t it?” Logren said. “This wine comes from the riverlands of western Eredane. My queen brought five casks of it with her.”

The counselor took the cup and drank from it. The gesture
was so easy, so casual. Impossible to believe that such perfect evil dwelled within him. No—not impossible.

“You still have not said what it was you wished to tell me, my lady.”

She licked her lips. What could she say to him? If she opened her mouth she would surely scream. Then a voice spoke, and it hardly seemed her own.

“That I’m sorry, my lord. Terribly sorry. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I was wrong to run from you, from your chamber the other day.”

Grace sucked in air between her teeth. Where had those words come from? She didn’t know, but by the light in his eyes she had done well to say them, and her breathlessness—although brought on by fear—only lent her words an earnestness that made them all the more believable. As though it was not a part of her, she watched her hand move across the table to touch his own. He looked up at her, and his smile deepened. Grace wanted to vomit, but she forced herself to smile in return.

She had thought herself such a fine spy, she had believed herself to be so logical, so scientific. Now she knew what a mockery that was. All this time she had thought Kyrene had entangled Logren in her witch’s web, and Grace had fancied she might do the same. Now she knew the truth—it was not Kyrene who had ensnared Logren, but the opposite. Grace recalled her encounter with Kyrene before the feast, and she saw again the countess’s new, harsh beauty.

What have you done, Kyrene? What have you done
?

Grace knew the answer to that—knew the only reason the countess would trade her old, revealing gowns for one as dark as blood, for one with a high, concealing collar.

Logren’s eyes locked on her own. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear you speak those words, my lady.”

His voice was a husky whisper, only for her. She stiffened—when had she heard a voice like it before?

Now get yourself back to the castle, see to it you finish what we’ve started.…

Nine dark shapes cast shadows on her mind. The circle of standing stones. Yes, that was where she had heard it. Then he had whispered to disguise himself. Now it was to lure her
into his secret world. But it was the same voice—the same man.

“You see, Lady Grace, ever since the day I met you it has been my fond hope that you and I would—”

The sound of trumpets echoed off high walls. Grace snatched her hand back and turned her head. King Boreas had risen from his chair, and all at the high table—and in the great hall—quieted to regard him.

“Welcome to my hall,” the king of Calavan said. “Welcome on this, the longest night of the year. Tonight we meet to rejoice, to light the Everlog, and to call back the sun. Tonight we celebrate the death of winter, and we look to the spring to come.” His blue eyes were solemn, and his deep voice rumbled on the air. “That is,
if
the spring comes.”

A murmur ran around the hall. The king went on.

“As we begin this Midwinter’s Eve, so too the Dominions begin their own darkest night. And we all must ask ourselves, what must we each do to see the dawn once again?”

The kings and queens at the high table shifted as he spoke. Eminda wore an open frown. Even Grace wondered at the king’s speech. What was he saying?

“A toast,” Boreas said. He raised his cup, and all those in the hall followed suit, obviously glad to do something that made sense. “May we all walk together through this night, and greet the morning as one!”

Calls of
Hear, hear
! rang out, but so did an equal number of mutters of dissent. Grace took a sip of wine but did not taste it. Fear was gone now, replaced by numbness. The murderer sat beside her, and Boreas’s words fell on deaf ears. The Dominions would not stand together. They would never see the dawn.

“Now,” Boreas thundered. “Bring on the players!”

Grace froze at the sound of these words, and she clutched her cup. The plan! In the terror of the moment she had utterly forgotten it. Now new dread flooded her. She searched the great hall with her eyes, but there was no sign of a pretty young woman in a gown of blue. Where was Aryn? She was to have stood in the corner, to wait for Grace’s signal once they were certain. Except Grace already knew who the murderer was—he sat beside her in finery of gray—and there was no trace of the baroness.

A side door opened, and a tiny form bounded out, turned a circle in midair, and landed on the dais to the accompaniment of gasps and applause. Trifkin Mossberry doffed his feathered cap, bowed, then rose again, a smile on his broad cherub’s face. He spread small hands and spoke in his piping voice:

Trifkin bounded away, and the play commenced. Despite her dread, Grace could not take her eyes from the players, entranced by the spell they wove.

Tree-women ran onto the dais, then stood still in their bark-brown dresses and raised twig-limbs to conjure a leafless forest. Winter walked among them in his robe and beard of white. He threw snowy petals on the tree-women, then cackled when they shivered at the chilling touch. He lifted bony hands and more petals fell from the rafters of the hall, shaken from baskets by shadowy figures above. His icy laughter froze the air—

—then fell short as a dozen goat-men bounded onto the dais: chests bare, legs clad in curly trousers, horn nubbins tied to their heads. Each gripped a stick in his hand, and as they circled around the old man the sticks burst into flame. The goat-men ran faster, and faster yet. Their circle tightened, and Winter raised his white arms and cried out. Then the goat-men touched their torches to his robe.

Grace gasped, and so did a hundred others around the hall.
As if his robe were made of magician’s flash paper, Winter burst into brilliant flame. The glare blinded Grace for a heartbeat, and when her vision cleared the old man was gone.

No, that wasn’t true. In the place where Winter had stood there now rested a wooden bier. A body lay upon the bier draped from head to toe in black cloth. Four of the goat-men lifted the bier in muscular arms as the tree-women trembled in joy. Then the goat-men paraded the bier around the great hall. They paused as they went to let each reveler lay a hand upon the corpse of Winter and speak a few words as Trifkin had instructed.