Beyond the Pale (87 page)

It’s over, Grace. We won. Let’s enjoy it, at least for today
.

Nobles blinked and yawned as they entered the council chamber, as if they had just awakened from a dream. In some ways it seemed like such. That morning the great hall had been a shamble of fallen tables and broken crockery, a testament to last night’s battle. However, no doors had opened on places that weren’t in the castle, and there had been no traces of the fallen feydrim or the Little People. Even Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe were nowhere to be found. Earlier Grace had gone to their chamber with Travis, in order to thank them, but they had found only an empty room with rotten tapestries on the walls. The weavings were dim with dust and smoke, but Grace had been able to make out slender trunks and arching branches. She and Travis had exchanged looks, and they both had known where Trifkin had gone.

Still, the events in the great hall the night before had been no dream. Men-at-arms had carried Logren’s corpse from the hall, and they had burned it outside the castle walls. The high counselor of Eredane was no more than ashes now, but his iron heart still lay suspended in the center of the relic of Malachor—the relic whose ancient purpose they now understood.

Nor was Logren the only casualty. Grace’s eyes moved over the council chamber, but she did not see two sharp glints of emerald watching her and never would again.

The rulers had already taken their places at the council table. There were two empty seats now, one for Chair Malachor, the other for Chair Eredane. Grace gazed at the empty seat. Who would rule the Dominion of Eredane now that Eminda was gone? Grace thought back to her fireside lessons in politics with Aryn. She almost smiled—those days seemed so long ago now, and she had learned so much since then.

From what Grace remembered, Eminda had two children—a daughter and a son—but both were under seven winters old, and Eminda’s husband, who had been ostensibly ruling since her departure for the council, was said to be a
drooling idiot. Grace knew neither of those children would ever touch the throne of their mother’s Dominion. These were troubled lands, and if the history of Earth had taught her anything, it was that in such places strong hands always seized control. No doubt some baron in Eredane already schemed to take the crown. Would this king be more enlightened than Eminda—or darker yet?

Grace tried not to think about the answer to that question. She watched sunlight fall through high windows and listened to the music of doves.

The council chamber fell silent. In a stiff motion King Boreas gained his feet. He was solid and imposing as ever in his black garb, but there were circles beneath his eyes, and the edge of a vivid bruise crept from beneath his beard and along his cheek.

Boreas had always terrified Grace. The king of Calavan had always seemed so invincible to her, so
whole
. Now she knew that wasn’t so. Boreas could be hurt just like anyone. That should have damaged her respect for him, but it didn’t. Instead it made her like Boreas a little bit more.

“Once again Falken Blackhand has asked to address the Council of Kings,” Boreas said without preamble in his booming voice. “His request has been granted.”

A murmur ran around the chamber, but it was not derision this time as much as anticipation. Falken stood near the council table. Boreas nodded to him, and the bard approached. He was clad in the same travel-stained garb he had worn that day Grace had first met him: a faded gray tunic and a cloak the color of deep water, clasped by a silver brooch.

Usually Grace saw Falken in Melia’s company, but that morning the lady was not present. Instead she was tending to her Knight Protector, Beltan. Last night, with the help of several men-at-arms, they had carried Beltan to Melia’s chamber. Melia’s face had been drawn, her eyes haunted, and though Grace had thought it impossible, she had realized then that the regal lady was afraid. This had startled Grace. Melia had always seemed so cool, so distant.

Maybe your instincts aren’t always as correct as you think they are, Grace. Maybe you misjudged her
.

Grace had examined Beltan. He was alive and awake, but
he was still seriously injured. The wound in his side particularly troubled her, for it had pierced the abdominal wall. A case of peritonitis was serious enough on Earth. On Eldh it would be fatal. Yet every time Grace laid her hands on the knight, she knew with utter certainty this would not happen, that he would live and—in time—heal.

This instinct she had decided to believe. Kyrene had been flawed, but the power she had revealed to Grace—the Weirding—was not. It was life. She would trust it.

Grace had given Melia some simples, and instructions on how to use them, then had departed. Her last glimpse was of the lady seated beside the sleeping knight’s bed, framed by the light of a single candle, her hair spilling forward as she bowed her head. Melia’s small hand lay on Beltan’s larger one, and a soft sound rose and fell on the air. It was a prayer, Grace had realized. Then she had shut the door.

“Once before, this council listened to my words, and it was not moved by them,” Falken said in a sober voice. “I ask that it listen again. Last night was the longest night of the year, and we have survived to see the dawn. Now the sun returns. From this day on, the days grow longer, and that is cause for celebration. But the winter is not over yet.”

Falken’s voice rose to fill the chamber. The onlookers leaned forward on their benches. The rulers watched him with intent eyes as he prowled around the table.

“The Rune Gate has been sealed. The Pale King will not ride forth. That is cause for wonder. But do not dare forget what happened last night. The Pale King is defeated, but he is not dead. He still holds Gelthisar, the Stone of Ice. His servants still move at will in the Dominions. And where once three seals bound the door of Imbrifale, now there is but one.” The wolfish bard clenched his black-gloved hand into a fist. “No, this winter is far from over.”

The bard regarded the council, then bowed. “That is all I have to say.” He moved back to his seat.

Boreas met the eyes of each of the other rulers in turn. “You all know the matter before you. This council will now make its final decision.”

He emptied a leather pouch into his hand: stones white and black. He passed two stones to each of the rulers. They
made their selection beneath the table, then held closed hands out. Grace tightened her grip on Aryn.

“War,” Boreas said as he unclenched his hand. The stone on his palm was white.

Kylar nodded. “War,” the young king said in a steady voice, and he revealed his own white stone.

Persard, Sorrin, and Lysandir opened their hands: white stones on all. Grace’s heart soared. They had finally listened, they had finally believed. The reckoning had been won. Then she held her breath, for there was still one stone to be cast.

All eyes turned on Ivalaine. The queen of Toloria gazed forward, her beautiful face impassive, then she opened her hand. On it rested a white stone.

“War.”

A gasp of relief rose from the onlookers. Victory sparked in Boreas’s eyes. He rose to his feet again.

“This council is decided,” he said in a voice that thrummed in the tower’s stones. “The Dominions shall prepare to make war upon the Pale King and his forces. When next we meet, it will be to determine the arrangements of our armies. Until then, this council is recessed.”

Rulers and onlookers alike rose to their feet, but Grace remained sitting. She could not take her eyes off the shattered disk in the center of the table. The rune of peace: broken. She would have spoken a prayer, like Melia had, if only she had known one.

The nobles filtered past Grace and Aryn as they walked from the council chamber. Falken grinned at her, and she could not help returning the expression. Not far behind the bard came Ivalaine and Tressa.

Ivalaine gave a cool nod to Grace and Aryn, then turned her face forward as she walked from the hall. The queen of Toloria’s ice-colored eyes shone. She had chosen war, but the Witches still schemed something. Only what was it? A thrill tingled inside Grace. Maybe she would find out. And then? But she could decide that when—and if—the time came.

Tressa smiled at Grace and Aryn as she passed. “We shall see you soon, sisters.”

Then the red-haired witch and her queen were gone. Grace
felt Aryn’s fingers tighten around her own. Then she forgot the Witches as another figure approached her.

“Durge!”

She started to rise from her seat, but he shook his head.

“No, my lady,” he said in his somber voice. “A mistress must not rise for her servant.”

“You aren’t my servant, Durge.”

“But I am, my lady. And grateful to be so.”

Was he truly grateful? Grace examined the knight and saw what service to her had given him. His weathered face was marked by a dozen scratches just starting to scab over. His hands were worse. And the slight dragging of his foot he was trying to hide bespoke more injuries. Yet somehow he had stood alone against five feydrim, and he had slain them all.

How
? she had asked him last night.
How did you manage it, Durge? I would have given up, even with your greatsword
.

No, my lady
, he had said,
I
don’t believe you would have. I think neither of us is one to take the easier road. Dying is simple. It is living that challenges us
.

She had only gazed at him, amazed. Leon Arlington would have understood.

Now Durge made a stiff bow despite his wounds. “Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?”

She reached out and touched his cheek. “You can rest, Durge. Your wounds aren’t deep, but you lost a lot of blood.” She raised a finger to stifle his protest, then assumed an imperious tone. “No, Sir Durge, I won’t tolerate argument on this matter. You are my servant, after all.”

He stared at her, then—and afterward Grace was never quite certain—she thought she saw the corners of his lips flicker upward.

Durge nodded again, then departed—although before he did his gaze lingered a moment, and not upon Grace. However, the young woman in blue only stared forward with stricken eyes. Then the Embarran knight was gone.

The line of nobles had turned to a few stragglers. The chamber was almost empty. A figure in black strode toward Grace and Aryn. They rose before him, although Grace remembered not to curtsy.

“Lady Grace, I thank you for your assistance these last
months,” Boreas said in a gruff voice. “However, I have another request to ask of you, and I trust you will not refuse me.”

Grace exchanged looks with Aryn. “Your Majesty, I—”

He lifted a hand and once again waved her words aside.

“Don’t interrupt me, my lady. There is yet room in the castle’s dungeon.”

Grace started to laugh, then stopped, not entirely certain this was one of his jests.

“The bard was right,” Boreas said. “Winter is far from over, and it will be long before the roads are easily passable. Thus I request that you remain in my court, at least for the winter, and afterward for as long as you like.”

Grace opened her mouth but could speak no words. Boreas advanced on her.

“What say you, my lady? Will you stay with this king?”

Grace gazed at him. Then, before she knew what she was doing, she threw her arms around him and buried her face against his thick neck. It was not at all how one responded to a king. No doubt he would call for his men-at-arms. He did not. Instead he enfolded her in strong, gentle arms. Then he pushed her away.

“Good morrow, my lady.”

Then the king departed.

A hand on her shoulder. Grace turned and looked into azure eyes. The baroness seemed older now, and Grace’s breath caught in her lungs. Aryn wasn’t pretty anymore. She was beautiful.

“Are you coming, Grace?”

She shook her head. “You go on, Aryn. I’ll be along soon. I just … I just want to stay here for a moment.”

The baroness smiled—once again the expression was both sweet and sad—then she turned and left the council chamber. Grace drew in a breath. She needed to think for a moment, to take in all that had happened. She turned around, looked out over the empty space, and let the silence fill her—she was alone.

No, that wasn’t so.

A man dressed in a baggy tunic and cowboy boots stepped from the shadows and approached the council table. She watched as he laid a hand on the circle of stone.

“
Nim.
”

The whispered word echoed around the chamber. The table glowed, then dimmed again. Grace stared, then she moved toward the council table.

“What is it?” she said.

He turned around, gray eyes surprised behind wire-rimmed spectacles, then he smiled.

“Grace.”

She reached out and brushed the white disk set into the center of the table. It was whole once more, all traces of the cracks that had sundered it gone. Three silver lines incised its surface.

“You’ve changed it,” she said. “It used to be the rune of peace, but it’s different now. What is it?”

Travis regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “It’s the rune of hope.”