Beyond the Pale (88 page)

She looked up at him, then nodded. While they lived, there was always hope.

“What are you going to do now, Grace?” His voice was quiet.

“King Boreas has asked me to stay at the castle.” She took a step toward him. “I’m sure you could stay as well.”

“I know.” He sighed, his gaze distant, then he looked at her again. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

She gave a wordless nod, then reached out to grasp his hand, but it was too late. He turned and walked from the chamber. Grace stared after him.

“He wants to go home,” she whispered. “Back to Earth.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way, lass,” a chalky voice said behind her.

Grace turned around. “Vayla?”

The crone nodded. “That’s one of my names, lass.”

A shiver danced along Grace’s skin. There was something queer about the old woman, like the Witches, or like the Little People, or even like Travis when he spoke and bound runes. But she was different from all of them as well.

“What do you mean?” Grace said.

The crone cocked her head. “Have you forgotten so soon, lass? Each of you holds a token, one in which dwells the power to take you where you wish. Go to a place of magic, hold your token, and shut your eyes. When you open them again, you will be where you most belong.”

Grace thought about this, then spoke the words in a soft voice. “I belong here.”

The crone peered at Grace with her single eye.

“So you do, daughter. So you do.”

Then the old woman was gone, and Grace was alone in the empty chamber.

Travis wouldn’t have traded these last days for the world—for any world.

Not that he did much of anything, but maybe that was what made this time so special. Ever since the moment he had stepped through the old billboard and into Eldh, he had been
doing
something: first traveling to Kelcior with Falken, then to Calavere with Melia and Beltan, then studying runecraft, and last of all helping Grace and the Circle of the Black Knife uncover the conspiracy of murder in the castle. It was only when he thought back on it all that he realized just how busy he had been, and just how quickly time had passed. Valdath had come and gone, and now it was Geldath, which the peasants called Icemonth. It was good finally to get a chance to do nothing, simply to be, and to enjoy each moment as it passed.

He spent much of his time walking the castle, exploring its towers and parapets, venturing into the garden, or into the lower bailey. There he would watch the merchants, serfs, footmen, knights, and nobles all squelch their way through the half-frozen slime alongside goats, kine, chickens, and sheep. Sometimes he couldn’t help smiling. A feudal society might have been classist and stratified, but everyone sure had to wallow through the same puddle of muck.

A few times he ventured beyond Calavere’s high walls to
the town below, or once to the old Tarrasian bridge that arched over the Dimduorn, the River Darkwine. For a while he watched water flow beneath the bridge as it had for centuries, and he thought of all the people who had crossed this place: where they were going and what their stories were. His feet were just one pair in an endless procession that had passed this way, and that would pass this way yet. Somehow it was a comforting thought.

Travis did spend a little time working on his runes, but mostly to please Melia and Falken. He would sit by the fire in their chamber and make symbols on his wax tablet while Melia’s kitten hissed and pounced at his ankles. However, more often than not he would find himself gazing into the flames, the tablet forgotten in his lap, absently rubbing his right hand.

He still wasn’t entirely certain what Jack had done to him—he probably never would be—but he was beginning to think he had an inkling of the truth. Jack was dead, there was no escaping that, but the voice that spoke in Travis’s mind used Jack’s voice. Maybe in some ways it
was
Jack. Or a part of him, at least. Maybe that was what Jack had given him in that terrible moment beneath the Magician’s Attic.

“I miss you, Jack,” he would murmur, then he would return his gaze to his tablet of runes.

Travis also spent a large portion of time visiting with Beltan. The knight had been in Melia’s bedchamber since they had brought him there on Midwinter’s Eve, to recuperate from his wound, and every day a battle was waged in the little room. Each morning Beltan would threaten to climb out of the bed, and each morning Melia would threaten to keep him in it. Exactly what she would do to achieve this she never specifically mentioned, but usually she made a few weaving motions with her fingers, and Beltan’s eyes grew large.

“You wouldn’t dare, Melia!” he would exclaim.

“Try me,” the lady would reply in a flinty voice.

So far Melia had been the victor in each contest, but it was only a matter of time before Beltan won out. Those first days the knight’s skin had been tinged with gray, and he had slept much and moved little. However, Grace came by daily to examine the wounds made by the feydrim, and bit by bit
they healed. As the days passed, the knight sat up more, and his eyes grew clear and bright—although, for all his protestations, even a simple act such as using the chamber pot would leave him trembling and exhausted, and he would sink back into the feather bed.

It’s hard for a knight to be weak
. Travis had realized this one afternoon as he sat with Beltan. But, in a strange way, maybe there was strength in learning one’s limitations.

Once Beltan was awake more often than not, Travis spent at least an hour or two each day with the knight. They would talk about their travels, or about Earth—a topic in which Beltan had developed an apparent interest. The knight would ask Travis countless questions—what was the geography like, where did people live, how defensible were these “sky scrapers”—and Travis did his best to answer, and to explain such alien concepts as automobiles and television and microwave popcorn. What Beltan thought of all this Travis wasn’t certain, but at times the knight’s gaze would grow distant, as if he tried to picture it all before him.

The two didn’t always talk. Sometimes they played a game—using pieces of polished bone—that Beltan taught Travis, and which Travis usually won, much to the knight’s consternation. Or sometimes they would just stay quiet, content to be together and watch the sky outside the window. When Beltan’s eyes started to sink shut once again, Travis would slip without sound through the door and leave the knight to his rest.

Of all his activities, as the sun and moon arced in gold and silver alternation over the castle’s towers, it was the wandering that occupied Travis most. Some nodded to him as he walked the halls and corridors of Calavere. Perhaps they had seen him in the council chamber when he broke the rune of peace. However, most paid him no more heed than they would a servingman. But then, he still wore the same travel-stained peasant’s clothes he had on his journey to Calavere. Aryn had offered to have the castle tailors make a suit of finery for him, but Travis had politely declined. The pilfered tunic he wore was coarse and overlarge, but it was warm, and he had been through much in it.

His cowboy boots were another matter. The toes had started flapping open like the bill of a duck when he walked,
so he did take Aryn up on her offer of a new pair of boots. The castle cobbler came to measure his feet with a string, and the next day, outside his door, Travis found a pair of soft-soled buckskin boots. He pulled them up over his calves and marveled at the way the buttery leather conformed to every curve of his feet. With the new boots on, he walked around the chamber and felt like he could walk across an entire world. He made a mental note to thank the baroness. This was a truly wonderful gift.

In all, Travis couldn’t remember a place in his life where he had been this happy, this at peace. Still, there were times when he stood on the castle’s battlements and faced into the cold wind, and he found himself thinking about traveling once more. Except the place he dreamed of was farther away than any boots, however marvelous, could take him. He would sigh, breathe the crisp air, and return to the smoky warmth of the castle.

Then one afternoon he stepped into his chamber to find Melia and Falken talking.

This was hardly unusual in itself. The bard and lady always seemed to have their heads together in conversation, and this had not changed since the events of Midwinter’s Eve. The Council of Kings was still meeting regularly, though now it was called the Council of War. The rulers were working together to forge a plan to strengthen the defenses of the Dominions, and Falken and Melia had been functioning as advisors.

Travis had long ago given up trying to hear the words murmured by the bard and the lady. He cast his cloak on his bed, then started to kneel to add a stick of wood to the fire.

“… that Travis has had the ability all along.”

He halted as he caught a fragment of Falken’s soft-spoken words.

“Where do you think he should try?” Melia said.

“I think I know just the place.”

Travis stood and groaned. Some things never changed. The grumbled words escaped him out of habit.

“No one ever tells me what’s going on.”

“I will, Travis.”

He blinked, then turned and stared at a third speaker, one whom he had not noticed until now. She had sat near the
window, his view of her obscured by the bard. Now she stood and took a step forward.

“Grace,” he said.

She smiled at him.

Sunlight streamed through the window to gild her ash-blond hair and her violet gown. As always he was struck by how beautiful she was, how regal. Grace claimed she wasn’t a duchess, but Travis knew otherwise, even if she was only a resident from Denver Memorial Hospital. Nobility was not something you chose. It was something you were or were not. And there was no one in the castle more noble than Grace.

He had not seen her much these last days. She had been occupied with King Boreas and the other rulers. All in the castle knew, or had seen with their own eyes, how Grace had defeated Logren on Midwinter’s Eve. True, few in the castle knew of the role Travis himself had played on that long night, or what he had done in the icy desolation of Shadowsdeep. But that suited him just as well.

Travis took a step toward her. “What is it, Grace?”

Now a note of sadness touched her smile. “You’re going home, Travis.”

He could only stare at her in wordless wonder.

They gathered within the circle of standing stones on a clear, cold day in the middle of Geldath. Although these were the depths of winter now, already the world was not so cold as it had been on Midwinter’s Eve. On the edge of the circle the horses stamped at the snow, their bridles jingling on the crisp air, as the seven of them gathered in the center.

Travis took a moment to gaze at each who had come with him to the circle of stones. Grace’s cheeks were red with the cold, but her eyes still conjured a summer forest. Aryn stood next to her, wrapped in a thick blue riding cloak, her pretty face as pale as the snow. Behind them was the knight Durge. Frost mingled with the gray in his hair and mustaches, and his brown eyes were as somber as ever. Despite the frigid air he had worn his mail shirt, and he rested gloved hands on the hilt of his greatsword before him. Melia and Falken stood together nearby. The bard held his lute, and the lady’s amber eyes were thoughtful. Beside them was Beltan. He had left his chamber for the first time that day, and Travis knew the
ride here had caused him pain. However, the knight stood tall and straight, and the wind blew his fair hair back from his brow. When he saw Travis’s eyes upon him he smiled, and in that moment his plain face was as handsome as any king’s.

Falken’s boots crunched in the snow as he stepped toward Travis. “Are you ready?”

Travis started to nod, then shook his head. “Can you wait a moment? There’s something I need to do first.”

Falken cocked his head, then nodded. Travis turned and walked from the circle. He passed between two of the weathered standing stones, then moved to a dark line of trees. He halted before the tangled wall, reached into his pocket, and drew out an object. He crouched down and held the object out, toward the shadows within the forest.

It was the iron box Jack had given him.

He listened to the moan of the wind, then he heard it: the crystalline sound of bells. The shadows beside a tree stirred, and a pair of small green hands reached out. Travis held the box toward them. Short green fingers closed around it. They brushed Travis’s own—a soft touch, knowing. Then the hands vanished into the shadows, taking the iron box with them. Travis’s sigh fogged on the air, but he knew the Stone would be safer here, guarded by the folk of Gloaming Wood. He stood and returned to the circle of stones and his friends. Falken gave him an approving nod.

“All right,” Travis said. “I’m ready now.”

Grace stepped forward and squeezed his hand. “Do you remember what I told you?”

Travis nodded and smiled at her, and she stepped back. He drew in a deep breath, then regarded those around him.

“Well,” he said. “Good-bye, everyone.”

The words were so inadequate, but by the shining eyes of the others he knew they understood.

“Take care of yourself, dear,” Melia said.

It was time. Travis reached into the pocket of his tunic and drew out the silver half-coin Brother Cy had given him. He raised the coin, then halted. Beltan took several slow steps to stand before him. Then, with stiff movements, he knelt in the snow at Travis’s feet.

“Return to us,” the knight said.

Travis could only nod, beyond words now. Then he gripped the half-coin in his hand, shut his eyes, and saw—not darkness—but light.

He could not be certain, but ever afterward it seemed to Travis that the gentle sound of a lute followed after him, and soft words sung by Falken’s voice: