Beyond the Pale (82 page)

“Good riddance!” they shouted.

“Melt, old man!” others said.

“Now you’re as cold as my husband!” one elderly countess pronounced, to the obvious amusement of everyone in the hall except the gray-haired man who sat next to her.

Grace went rigid in her chair as she watched this spectacle. No, it was all wrong. Where was Travis? He was to have played a part in the drama, to have dressed as a fool and ridden along with the bier to keep watch. Once he signaled her, then Grace would signal Aryn. But neither was in sight, the plan was in shambles, and Grace was alone with the murderer beside her.

The goat-men turned, and the bier moved toward the high table. Some of the rulers frowned—notably Sorrin and Eminda—but others joined in the sport. Boreas laid a hand on the corpse, as did Kylar, and both echoed their joy at his passing. An obviously drunken Lysandir slurred something unintelligible and would have fallen on the bier if a pair of servants hadn’t pulled him back. The goat-men marched down the line.

Grace’s breath came quick and shallow. What should she do? But it was too late. The procession was almost over—there was nothing she could do.

No
,
Grace. That’s not true. This isn’t over yet
.

The voice that spoke was dry and clinical, her doctor’s voice. Fear receded. A hard part of Grace rose to the fore, the part that wielded a scalpel with emotionless efficiency, the part that reached inside living bodies without flinching, to fix what was wrong. Time slowed, and the air was hard and
clear as resin. She knew what she had to do. Once again Grace balanced upon the fulcrum. Once again she stepped across to the other side.

The bier paused before the place where Grace and Logren sat. She rose from her chair and affected a playful smile.

“But who is this all draped in black?” she said. “Should not Winter be shrouded in white?”

She took her napkin from the table, unfolded the white cloth, and draped it over the body. Then, smiling still, she turned to Logren.

He gazed at her, eyes thoughtful, then shrugged, a smile on his own lips. Logren reached out, laid a hand on the shrouded body, and spoke in his rich voice.

“I know we all will be glad when this winter is but a—”

His words were lost as a murmur coursed through the great hall. Logren frowned, then his gaze dropped to the bier.

Flowers of crimson bloomed on the white napkin.

Logren drew in a hissing breath and snatched his hand back. The crimson stains continued to grow. Gasps turned into screams. Grace gazed at the bier with strange exultation.

“What is going on?” Boreas said, his eyebrows drawn down in a glower.

Grace stood straight, power filled her. “See for yourself, Your Majesty!”

She snatched back both napkin and shroud. More screams echoed off stone, and revelers leaped to their feet. The body on the bier was not the old actor who played Winter. It was the corpse of Alerain. They had placed his head back on his shoulders. Dark blood flowed from the slit of his neck, from his eyes and his ears, and from the gory wound in his chest.

Boreas stared, his face white with horror. “What have you done, Lady Grace?”

“I have found your seneschal’s killer, Your Majesty.” Her voice rang out over the hall. “You have heard the legend, have you not? How on the darkest night of the year a corpse has the power to accuse its murderer?”

Grace wasn’t sure how she knew this, only that she did—only that Trifkin Mossberry had given her this knowledge there in his strange forest room. It was an ancient magic, primal—older than witches or runespeakers. Old as Gloaming
Wood. On Midwinter’s Eve, a corpse would bleed in the presence of its killer.

Logren stepped back from the table. “This is madness! A witch’s lie!”

“It is no lie,” Grace said.

She met his eyes. For a moment his confused expression remained, then like a mask it crumbled. Evil shone in his gaze, pure and unwavering. Yes, he knew now, she could see it. There was no need for him to hide it from her any longer.

“They will never believe you,” he said in a voice more poisonous than venom.

She spoke the words with cool precision, a doctor giving her diagnosis. “I believe you are wrong, my lord.”

Shouts of anger rose from the crowd. Boreas glared at Logren, his face red with rage. Eminda rose from her chair, her face hard.

“You fool, Logren!” she said. “What have you done? You have ruined everything with this madness. You will step down from this table at once!”

Logren hesitated. He glared at the crowd, at Grace, and finally Queen Eminda. Then a hideous grin crossed his face, obliterating any traces of beauty that once had dwelled there.

“You’re not going anywhere, Eminda,” he said. “None of you are!”

The motion was so quick no one could have stopped it. Logren plucked the eating knife from his belt and made a small flick with his hand. Eminda. staggered back, her eyes wide. Her fingers fluttered to her throat and brushed the knife that now protruded there. Then she slumped back against Boreas.

Before the others could react, Logren lifted his arms and called out in a terrible voice. “Now, my fierce ones! Come to me!”

They obeyed. Through the high windows they slunk, then scrabbled down the walls. Feydrim. The great hall became a sea of fear and panic.

Logren turned his empty gaze on Grace. “You have lost, Your Radiance.”

Grace did not answer him. She could only stare as the feydrim streamed into the great hall.

Travis pressed his back to the wall and gazed into the growing light. The metallic hum vibrated through him as if his body were a wire.

He clutched the iron box inside the pocket of his tunic. It was this that had betrayed him, this that had led them to him. He should have thrown it away, should have buried it in the ground, should have lost it leagues ago. However, even as he thought this, he knew he could not have done it. Jack had given him the box, and he had promised. It was his burden to bear. And in a moment it would all be over.

The light grew brighter, and he lifted a hand to shield his eyes. The incandescence streamed through his fingers as if flesh were no barrier to it. For a moment he thought of Grace and the others. He hoped they were all right, and he was sorry he would not be able to see them again, that he would not be able to say good-bye. Then all thoughts except terror fled his mind as they appeared in the center of the light: tall, willowy, evil.

“I’m afraid, Jack,” he whispered.

The wraithlings reached out slender arms and drifted toward him. He could not tell how many of them there were. All he saw was silvery skin, mouthless faces, and huge, obsidian eyes. No box of iron could protect him now.

There is strange clarity in fear, and Travis’s mind grew almost calm as the wraithlings approached. All his running, all his hiding, all his forgetting were over. No more would he have to decide what to do in his life, or what to be. This one final choice would be made for him. He drew out the iron box and cupped it in his hands.

He felt their quickening as much as saw it. Their light flickered as if in anticipation. They crowded into the corridor, drawn by what he held, yet reverent of it as well, perhaps even afraid. He stretched the box out toward them.

Stop this, Travis
!

It was hard to hear the voice through the thrum in his mind. He held the box out farther.

Stop it at once
!

He hesitated.
Jack
?

Sweet tears of Ysani, who do you think it is
?

Despite his fear, Travis winced. It was Jack all right.

You must use Sinfathisar, Travis
.

He clutched the iron box.
The Stone? But it’s the Stone they want
.

Yes, and it’s the Stone that’s your only hope. You’ve got to use it to make them whole
.

I don’t understand
.

They’re twisted, Travis—twisted and corrupted. The Stone can return them to what they once were. That’s the power of Sinfathisar. Before there was light and dark, there was twilight. Use the Stone. Make them whole
.

But—

Now, Travis
!

The wraithlings were upon him. They reached with slender hands to touch him. There was no more time. Travis fumbled with the latch on the iron box, opened it, nearly dropped its contents, then gripped the Stone of Twilight in his hand. It was hard and smooth, and resonated with power.

The huge eyes of the wraithlings grew larger yet. The terrible light flared around them. It streaked through his skin, his flesh, his bones. Pale hands reached for him. Travis gripped the Stone and shouted the words in his mind.

Make—them—whole
!

Once before he had heard the sound, in the ruins of the White Tower: a chorus of mouthless screams. It was a sound of agony, a sound of sorrow, a sound of release. The illumination of the wraithlings flared until it washed away the world. Travis floated in a place of white, a place without color, without temperature, without touch. The only sound was a rhythmic drumming which he knew to be the beating of his own heart. Then, like a movie of a shattered window running backward, the fractured shards of the corridor—walls, floor, ceiling—rushed back toward each other, and the world was whole again.

Travis fumbled with his spectacles, and his vision snapped back into focus. Gone was the harsh light of the wraithlings. In its place a gentle radiance bathed the corridor, like winter
sun filtered between the branches of leafless trees. He drew in a breath of wonder.

The wraithlings were gone. In their place stood nine beings who were as beautiful as the Pale Ones had been terrible. They were clothed in gossamer that shimmered like nebulae against a dark sky. They were tall—taller than Travis—and impossibly slender. Even standing they bespoke grace. Their faces were not human, but they were fair all the same: their chins delicate, their cheeks high, their mouths and noses small. The eyes that gazed at Travis were large, but not grotesque like those of the wraithlings. Instead they shone like dark, liquid gems. They were ancient eyes.

Travis lowered the Stone. It felt warm against his skin. “Who are you?” he whispered.

The beings did not answer him, but all the same he knew, as if they had given him the answer. They had been twisted by the Pale King’s magic, and now they were whole once more.

The fairies bowed before him. It seemed wrong that such radiant beings should do so, but even as he thought this he felt calmness wash over him. They were grateful.

The fairies rose. He met their ageless gazes, and it almost seemed their tiny mouths turned upward in knowing smiles. Then their outlines blurred, until where each fairy had stood there remained only a column of light. Then each column collapsed into a shimmering point. Nine sparks of silver fluttered on the air, then danced away around the corner like thistledown on the wind.

The corridor went dim. Travis was alone. He looked down at the Stone in his hand. What was this thing that could make the broken whole? What was this thing that evil would break the world to have it? Travis sighed. He slipped the Stone back into his pocket.

“That was nicely done, lad,” said a chalky voice.

He looked up. A form shambled toward him, her shapeless body clad in colorless rags. It was the old servingwoman he had chased through the castle on two occasions. Now it was she who had found him.

Travis shook his head. For the second time he spoke the question. “Who are you?”

The hag cackled, then reached up with bony hands to push
back the grimy shawl that hid her face. Travis’s eyes went wide behind his spectacles.

“Grisla?”

Her wrinkled face split in a snaggled grin. “Well, it isn’t the queen of Malachor.”

He blinked. “
Grisla
?” It was the only word he seemed able to speak.

“That’s my name, boy,” she snapped. “Don’t wear it out.”

Travis’s head reeled, and he tried to understand. “But how did you—?”

The hag slapped a gnarled hand to her forehead. “There you go again, lad. Always asking questions, always wanting to know why this and how that.” She let out a snort. “Asking questions is the easy part, lad. When are you going to start answering them? That’s the trick.”

Travis opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say.

“So, where’s that bundle I dropped?” the hag said. “You haven’t lost it, have you, lad?”

He winced. “It’s back in my room.”

“Really, lad? Are you so sure of that?”

“Yes.…” However, even as he said the word, he was aware of something bulky pressing against his side. He reached into his tunic pocket and drew out an object he knew had not been there a moment ago: the bundle of rags the old witch had dropped. He held it out to her.

“No, lad, it belongs to you. Go on, open it and see.”

Travis hesitated, then plucked at the bundle with his fingers and pulled apart the rags. His breath caught in his chest as he glimpsed the object within them: a small piece of polished bone marked with three straight lines.

Grisla gazed at him with her one bulbous eye. “So, lad, have you decided yet what it means?”

He drew in a breath, opened his mouth, then shook his head. What could he say? Endings or beginnings? He didn’t always know right from left. How could he choose between things so much larger?

Grisla pressed her withered lips together in an expression of sorrow. She turned and laid her hand upon a door in the wall—a door that, like the bundle, had not been there a moment ago. She pushed, and the door opened. Frigid air swirled into the passage, along with hard grains of snow.

“Look, lad,” Grisla said in a hoarse voice.

He clutched the hem of his mistcloak and stepped toward the doorway. Beyond was not another castle chamber, but a snowy vale lit by the glow of the moon. Silhouettes of mountains thrust up into the sky like black knives. Among them was a great, flat, dark plane. It was like a door in the mountains.

No, not a door. A gate. A gate of iron as high as ten men, set into a gap in the knife-edged peaks.

How
—! he started to ask, then stopped himself.