Blood of Mystery (52 page)

“Tome,” Falken said, his voice a croak. “What did you do to him?”

Kelephon let out a dramatic sigh. “It was foolish of him to resist my runes. What he might have given to me freely, I was forced to take from him instead. By the end, there was no more substance to him than an old rag. And even as I watched, he melted into the air, and the wind blew him away.”

Falken bowed his head, and Beltan leaned back against the post and let out a roar. However, Vani looked puzzled; the
T’gol
hadn’t met the gentle, golden-eyed man. Tome had been one of the nine lesser New Gods who had forsaken their celestial homes, who had taken human guise to walk the face of Eldh and work against the Necromancers. Now he was gone, and Melia was the last of her kind. A pang of sorrow passed through Grace, but a moment later it was subsumed by anger. Who did Kelephon think he was to destroy a being so mild, so beautiful?

Then again, what was a single person—former god or not— to the runelord? Hadn’t he corrupted an entire nation?

“How did you do it?” she said, knowing he would be only too happy to tell her. “How did you make the Onyx Knights believe you’re the heir to Malachor?”

Kelephon let out a laugh of pure delight. “It was easier than I could ever have imagined. For centuries they dwelled in Eversea, pining for their precious lost kingdom, feeling sorry for themselves. They thought it was their fault Malachor fell. They thought they should have been able to save it. So they fled to Eversea, and there they spun stories and forged plans for the day when they could return to Malachor and restore the kingdom. It was all quite pathetic, really. For no matter how they schemed, there was one thing they were missing: a royal heir.”

Falken roughtly wiped his eyes. “So you gave them one. Yourself.”

“Precisely,” Kelephon said. “And they were all too willing to believe my tale. I told them I could show them the way back to Malachor. I gave them new armor and new purpose. And I told them it was the Runespeakers and Witches who had caused the downfall of Malachor, that they had thrown their lots in with the Pale King and betrayed the shining kingdom. So the crusade to reclaim the blessed land began. We took Eredane first, then Brelegond. Embarr will soon be ours as well, and then the rest of the Dominions will fall before us.”

Grace couldn’t suppress a shudder. The Onyx Knights believed they were working against the Pale King, and all the while they were clearing the way for Berash to ride again.

“But you still needed Fellring,” Falken said. “Without it, the Onyx Knights would only follow you for so long.”

Kelephon’s gaze flicked to the cracked blade in Grace’s hands. “I tried to get it once before, three hundred years ago, and that was when I learned that only one of Ulther’s blood could touch it. A score of my knights were burned to bits trying to pry it from the throne in Ur-Torin. It was quite remarkable.”

“I don’t understand,” Falken said, sorrow replaced by confusion. “How could you have set foot in the throne room? I don’t know what befell Toringarth in the years since, but surely three centuries ago Ur-Torin was still a living city. The king’s wolf-warriors would have stopped you.”

A smirk crossed Kelephon’s face. “What wolf-warriors?” He made a breaking motion with his hands.

The blood drained from Falken’s face. “No,” he whispered. “You monster. You broke the rune of life, didn’t you?”

Grace struggled for comprehension. “What are you talking about, Falken?”

The bard’s voice was hoarse. “It took all of the Runelords working together to bind so powerful a rune as the rune of life. Only a few such disks were ever made. Then the Runelords realized the folly of their deed, and all of the runes were undone.” He looked at Kelephon. “Only you must have kept one in secret.”

“I don’t understand, Falken,” Vani said, her voice breathless from the tightness of her bonds. “Why does it matter if he broke this rune of life?”

“Breaking a rune negates its power. So by breaking the rune of life...” Falken staggered.

Amazement filled Grace, and dread. “It destroyed every living thing in the city. All of the animals, all of the people— everything alive simply vanished.”

“And likely for ten leagues all around,” Falken said, his face ashen. “A rune so powerful would have a long reach.”

“So that’s why we didn’t see any signs of a war,” Beltan said softly.

“But the magic was wasted,” Kelephon said, his tone annoyed. “No one could touch the shards.” He glanced at Falken. “Only then I learned from one of my spies that you and Melia had managed to preserve the royal line of Malachor in secret all these centuries. Clever bard. I honestly didn’t think you had such strength in you. I suppose you must have cut the infant from Queen Agdela’s corpse. As if preserving her child really made up for murdering her.”

Falken opened his mouth, but only a strangled sound came out. The bard’s face was stricken.

Beltan glowered at the runelord. “What’s he talking about, Falken?”

“What’s this?” Kelephon pressed a gauntlet to his chest, feigning a look of surprise. “I thought you were a teller of tales, Falken. How could you neglect to tell your dear friends such an important story—you know, the one in which you kill the king and queen of Malachor with a song? Well, if you haven’t told them the tale, then I will.”

Grace willed herself to turn away. She didn’t want to hear. However, she stood frozen, unable to do anything but listen to the runelord’s mocking words.

“When I first met Falken, he was a lowly traveling bard who performed in any tavern or inn that would take him. Of course, his name wasn’t Falken then. It was Tythus Mandalor. He was the son of Madrus Mandalor, who had been banished twenty years prior for high treason. You see, Madrus Mandalor had sold himself for gold to spies of the Pale King, who even then was beginning to stir once more. However, Madrus was discovered, and only the king’s mercy saved his neck—although he met his end not long after, in the wilds south of Malachor.”

A moan escaped Falken. Grace’s throat tightened so that she couldn’t swallow.

Kelephon circled around the bard. “I suppose Falken never told you he was the son of a traitor. Treachery was in his blood—I could see it that day I met him, in a tavern in the city below Castle Malachor, even though he didn’t know it himself. He told me he wanted more than anything to become a royal bard, to play for King Hurthan and Queen Agdala. Since he knew I was a runelord of great power, he asked me what he should do. I told him he needed a new name—one not tainted by treason—as well as a new lute if he was going to achieve his desire.

“The name came easily enough, and he took to calling himself Falken Fleethand. The lute was another matter. He didn’t have the gold to buy an instrument worthy of a king’s ear. So I told him a tale, one about an enchanted lute that was said to lie in a cave deep in the Winter Wood, left there by a bard of the first days of Malachor. I warned him that there was danger in magic, that there was likely a good reason the ancient bard had hidden the lute there, but I knew by the light in Falken’s eyes that he hardly heard my warnings.

“Falken found the lute, of course, returning in triumph to Malachor. Again I warned him of the perils of magic, but he wouldn’t hear me. He made straight for the castle and begged an audience with the king and queen. He was granted it. There, in the throne room, Falken Fleethand played for their majesties, and the music that rose from the instrument in his hands was like nothing the listeners had ever heard before. It was beautiful: as fine, as bright, as quavering as strands of spider’s gossamer beaded with dew.

“The queen, who was heavy with her first child and weary from the burden, was especially delighted with this entertainment, and she bid the bard to play on. And on. And on. As day turned to night and day again, the courtiers yawned and slumped in their chairs, and Falken’s fingers began to bleed. Still the queen begged for more songs, each request growing more urgent and demanding, her voice growing more shrill, her eyes wide and staring. The king became concerned, and at last he laid a hand on her arm and begged her to let the bard stop. However, when he did, she flew at King Hurthan, the man she loved more than life itself, in a rage. Queen Agdala plucked a long needle from her hair and—as all in the throne room looked on—she plunged it into the king’s eye, driving it deep into his brain.”

Despite the icy air, Grace felt hot and sick. Falken stood still now, as if carved of stone. Beltan’s expression was anguished, but Vani gazed at the bard with curious gold eyes. Kelephon was grinning.

“The queen stared at the king’s body and the needle in her hand, as if not comprehending what had happened. The courtiers stared, dumbfounded. I was the first to act. I strode forward and snatched the lute from Falken’s hands. I broke it open, then I showed all in the throne room the rune that had been inscribed, in small and secret fashion, inside the lute. It was the rune of madness. As Falken played the lute, it had worked its magic on the one who listened closest—Queen Agdala. The bard’s music had driven her mad, and in her madness she had killed the king. But once the music ceased, she returned to her senses. A terrible cry rose from her, and she ran from the castle before anyone could stop her. It wasn’t until the next day her body was found in the woods, her throat torn out by the fangs of what all supposed had been wolves.” Kelephon spread his hands. “And that’s how Falken murdered the king and queen of Malachor.”

Silence descended, broken only by the snap of the sails and the whistle of the chill wind through the ropes. At last Falken looked up, his expression shattered. “I had examined the lute when I found it in the old cave, but I had never thought to look inside. I should...I should have...” He hung his head; the wind tangled his black-and-silver hair.

It had all been so long ago. The horror Grace felt was hollow and distant, but it was no less terrible for it. The queen had loved the king, and she had killed him. True madness must have come when she realized what she had done. “What happened after that?” she said, but she was fairly certain she knew the rest of the story.

Kelephon stalked around her. “Falken was thrown in the dungeon, but before his fate could be decided by the king’s Warden, an army surrounded the castle—an army of
feydrim
and wraithlings, led by the Necromancer Dakarreth. Without its king, Malachor was in chaos. The blessed kingdom of light, which had guarded the Rune Gate and the vale of Shadowsdeep for three centuries, fell to the invaders in a single day. Except for a few hundred who escaped to the west, all the people were slain.” The runelord’s breath was hot and moist against Grace’s neck. “So much for the glory of your kingdom, Your Majesty.”

Beltan let out a snarl. “Get away from her.”

Kelephon gave the blond knight a dismissive look, then returned his attention to Grace. “As for what happened next, Falken will have to tell you. All I know is that, in a rash act quite in fitting with his flawed character, Dakarreth freed Falken from the dungeon. As both punishment and reward, Dakarreth cut off Falken’s hand—the one with which he had played the cursed lute—and granted him immortality. After that I can only imagine that Falken somehow came upon the body of the queen and cut the babe from her womb before it died.”

They looked at Falken, but the bard only shook his head, his shoulders hunched. “It was my fault. By my hand Malachor fell. It was all my fault.”

Sorrow filled Grace’s heart. And then anger. It was time to put an end to this charade. Seven centuries was far too long to believe in such a cruel lie. She placed a hand on the bard’s shoulder.

“No, Falken,” she said, her voice low and certain. “You didn’t cause the fall of Malachor.”

Falken looked up, his eyes hazed with pain and confusion. “You heard the story, Grace. It’s all true. I played the cursed lute, I drove the queen mad. It was my fault.”

Kelephon let out a snort of disgust. “Come now, Falken. Do you honestly believe the fall of Malachor was really about you? What arrogance. Has the truth never dawned on you in seven hundred years? Even Ralena can see it plainly.”

Falken gaped as the runelord moved closer to him.

“Did it never occur to you,” Kelephon said, words honed like knives, “how Dakarreth was ready with his army just at the moment the king and queen perished? And how do you think you found the lute in the first place? Well, if you’re too dull, let me be the one to tell you. It was I who put the lute in the cave. It was I who bound it with the rune of madness. And it was I who told Dakarreth to be ready. You, Falken, were nothing more than an instrument in my hands.”

Falken staggered. “What—?”

The runelord jabbed a finger at the bard’s chest. “You didn’t cause the fall of Malachor, Falken. I did.”

58.

For a minute, Grace feared that Kelephon’s words had acted like the rune of madness upon Falken. He slumped to his knees, and his face seemed oddly slack, like that of a stroke victim.

“It seems the bard has come undone,” Kelephon said, smirking.

Grace knelt beside Falken and laid a hand on his brow. He was feverish.

Beltan glared at the runelord, his green eyes filled with murder. “What have you done to him?”

“I did nothing to him. Everything Falken did was of his own free will.”

Grace clenched her teeth. What use was free will when everything you were told was a lie? She gripped the bard’s shoulders. “Falken, please.”

“Let...let me try.”

Sindar had moved close, his face lined from thought. Was he still remembering things? Before Grace could ask what he meant to do, Sindar placed his hands at both of Falken’s temples and shut his eyes. For several moments the two men were motionless, then Falken drew in a shuddering breath.

“By the Seven,” he rasped. “What have I done, Grace?” Grace was more curious what Sindar had done to the bard, but the slender man lowered his hands and moved away without offering an explanation.

“It’s all right, Falken.” Grace knew there was nothing to forgive, that he had been a victim along with everyone else. All the same, she knew he needed absolution, and that she was the only one in the world who could give it to him. “I forgive you. Do you understand? In the name of Malachor, if I am truly its queen, I forgive you for all of your deeds.”

The agony in Falken’s eyes gradually transmuted to wonder. Then he pulled her close and hugged her fiercely. “I owe my life to you, Ralena.”

Grace couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of it. “No, Falken, I’m quite certain that it’s I who owe my life to you. And to Melia.”

Together they gained their feet, and somehow—whether it was the Touch or her doctor’s instinct—Grace knew that, despite the depth of his wounds, Falken was going to survive.

As long as any of them were going to survive, that was.

“How sad,” the runelord sneered, “to see a man so utterly broken and defeated.”

Despite her fear, Grace felt a spark of defiance blaze to life within her. She held her chin high and cast a stern look at the runelord. In that moment—for the first time in her life—Grace felt like a queen.

“You will never defeat me,” she said.

Kelephon took a step back, as if she had slapped him. His voice grew shrill. “Silence, witch! I’ve already defeated you. You’re as full of pride as your wretched ancestors. So high, they believed themselves, so far above everything and everyone. The Runelords were the greatest wizards in the world, and I stood first among them, and yet Queen Agdala and King Hurthan thought they could order me about like a servant. But I showed them, just as I’ll show everyone, that I am not to be commanded.”

As he spoke these words, Grace understood everything. She had known attending physicians at the hospital who had so doubted their own worth that they could only feel secure ordering others. They were no different from schoolyard bullies. And Kelephon was no different from them. Only this was a bully who possessed far more power than she could comprehend.

“You’re going to betray him, aren’t you?” Grace said, her voice clinical. “The Pale King. It’s been your plan from the start. You wanted to rule Malachor, but the only way you could think to do it was to destroy it first. You gave the Stone of Ice to the Pale King in exchange for immortal life. Then you took control of the knights of Eversea, knowing you could use them to get Fellring. And once you have Ulther’s sword, you’ll have everything you need to slay the Pale King and take his place.”

She held the cracked blade out before her. On reflex, Kelephon started to reach for it, then snatched his hand back.

“That’s right, Your Majesty. And once I kill Berash, I’ll take my Stone back from him. As well as the other Great Stones, for I’ll wait until he’s gained them all before I strike. Then I’ll take the iron necklace Imsaridur from his dead body, and I will rule not just Malachor reborn, but all of Falengarth.”

“You can’t,” Falken said, voice hoarse.

“Why not?” Kelephon snapped. “What difference does it make which master you serve, the Pale King or me? Either way, you will be slaves. Except that’s not entirely true. For while Berash fancies making both you and Ralena willing servants with hearts of iron, I prefer to see all of you dead. And soon enough, you will be. None of you will be able to see the glory of my eternal rule, but you can take satisfaction in knowing that, without your help, my ascendance could never have come to pass.”

The runelord turned on his heel and strode away across the deck. Beltan let out a cry of fury, straining at the ropes, but at a hiss from Vani he stopped.

“So he really means to betray the Pale King?” Beltan said when he had regained some of his composure.

Vani grimaced. “No, I’m certain he was merely making a jest to amuse us.”

Falken’s wolfish face was haggard, but he was standing up straight now. “I suppose that’s why Kelephon couldn’t land in Omberfell. His knights would have slain the Raven Cultists, and that would have alerted the Pale King to his treachery.”

Grace moved to Vani and Beltan and picked at the ropes, seeing if she could loosen them, but the bonds were too tight, and they had taken her knife from her boot. Perhaps she could use a piece of the sword, but what good would it do anyway? There were a hundred knights on the ship, and if they jumped into the water, they would die of hypothermia in minutes. Kelephon was right; there was no hope. Either the Pale King would rise again, or Kelephon would murder him and take his place. Either way, Eldh would fall under shadow. Forever.

“It’s no use,” she said, and she wasn’t certain if she meant the ropes or everything. All anger, all fear, all feeling poured out of her. She leaned against Beltan, laying her head against his chest.

Grace...

“What is it, Vani?”

The
T’gol
craned her head around. “I didn’t say anything.”

Grace looked up. She had heard a voice. And it couldn’t have been Beltan or Falken. It had been a woman’s voice. She opened her mouth, but then the voice spoke again. It was the same voice she had heard in the darkness before she woke, only this time she knew it was real. And she knew to whom the voice belonged.

Grace, please, you have to hear me.

She was almost too astonished to think. Then, tentatively, she reached out with the Touch.
Aryn?

There was darkness, then the bright energy of connection.

Yes, Grace. It’s me. By Sia, I can hear you as if you were in
the room with me!

Oh, Aryn.
Sorrow filled Grace, and wonder, and joy.

Grace, what’s wrong? Are you well? What’s happening to
you? We’ve been so worried.

She didn’t know how to reply to that one.
Where are you,
Aryn?

I’m in Calavere. I’ve been searching and searching for you,
all last night and all today. I’d almost given up hope I could do
it, but now I’ve found you at last.

What? But how can—?

I understand it now, how to speak across the Weirding no
matter the distance. But there’s something I need to tell you
first. You have to know it before you get to the Black Tower. You
see, I’ve learned that there’s a second—

“Grace!”

This time the voice really was Vani’s. Grace opened her eyes, and her heart froze. Kelephon strode toward them with swift purpose. There was something in his hand: a small disk of creamy stone. None of the dark knights were in view anymore, only the slaves who manned the sails.

“By the tower and the light,” Falken murmured. “No.”

Beltan was facing the wrong direction. He tried to twist his head around. “What is it? What’s happening?”

Grace couldn’t take her eyes off the object in Kelephon’s hand.

What’s happening, Grace? I can feel it—something’s terribly wrong.

She forced her mind to piece together the words, to send them over the humming strands of the Weirding.
Aryn, we’re in
trouble. We—But there was no time for words. Instead, she gathered all that had happened since leaving Tarras, all that was happening now, into a single thought and sent it hurtling along the threads. She felt shock come back to her, then understanding.

Oh, Grace...

Kelephon had come closer. She could see some sort of angular symbol incised on the disk in his hand.

“Don’t look now,” Beltan said gruffly. “He’ll see you if you do. But it’s just visible off to starboard.”

“What is?” Falken whispered, inching toward the blond knight.

“The white ship,” Beltan said. “It’s coming toward us. Fast.”

Vani went stiff. “We must find a way to get free.”

Grace’s mind raced. It was coming for them, the white ship that had borne them over the Winter Sea. But even if it drew near, how could they get to it? Kelephon could stop them with a single rune.

Or could he? Hadn’t her magic been able to free the others from the rune of sleep? Runes were the magic of creation, of permanence, and of destruction. But witchcraft was the magic of life. Surely it was just as strong in its own way. And this time, she would have help.

Aryn, listen to me—I need you.
Words were too slow; again she sent an entire thought across the Weirding. Aryn seemed to withdraw, and for a terrible moment Grace feared the connection had been broken. Then, to her relief, she sensed the familiar sapphire brilliance of her friend. Only there was another presence with her this time, subtle and deep.

We’re here, Grace.

Kelephon came to a stop before her. Grace forced herself to meet his gaze. The runelord couldn’t overhear words spoken over the Weirding; as long as she kept her eyes open and her focus on him, he couldn’t know she was casting a spell.

“Why have you sent your men below, Kelephon?” she said.

A smile sliced across his hawkish face. “I think you know, Your Majesty. I’ve decided there’s no point in waiting. I can work the magic just as well here as at one of our fortresses.” He tightened his hand around the rune of blood.

“Get away from her!” Falken shouted.

Kelephon spoke the word in a bored tone.
“Meleq.”
A dozen planks snapped up from the deck, forming a wooden prison around the bard, halting him. Vani and Beltan both strained at the ropes, but it was no use. Sindar stood apart, his back to them all.

“It’s time, Your Majesty.” Kelephon drew close to her. The air seemed to grow colder yet. “Now your blood—and your sword—will be mine.”

Grace forced herself to stand still, both her hands wrapped around the hilt of the sword. Kelephon raised the disk before her. She could see the rune clearly: five short lines arranged in parallel, like dark drops falling. Then the runelord pressed the disk against her brow. It was smooth and cool. The light of triumph glinted in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak one final word.

Now!
Grace called out in her mind, and she felt two other strands bind with her own.

Energy surged through her, more than she had ever felt in her life. It was so much that it almost washed her away like a leaf caught in flood, but somehow she held on to the energy, shaped it, and flung it all at the man before her.

It struck him like a blow. The word Kelephon had been speaking turned into a cry of pain and shock. He staggered back, arms going wide, and the rune flew from his splayed fingers. All of them watched as it traced an arc, white and shimmering, through the air. Then the rune descended, past the rail of the ship. Grace heard a faint
plop
as the sea swallowed it.

“No!” Kelephon cried. “Blood is the key to everything!” He lurched away from Grace, toward the ship’s rail, and stretched out both hands.
“Sharn!”

The sea frothed and boiled. A column rose up like a jet from a fountain. Spinning atop it was a disk of white stone. But the ship had already moved far beyond the column of water.

“Bring the ship around!” Kelephon screamed. “Bring it around!”

Slaves scurried, lines groaned, sails snapped. The ship began to turn, but it was a ponderous movement.

Grace moved to Vani and Beltan.
Aryn, help me.
Again she felt the surge of bright energy. She touched the bonds, and they fell into loose coils around the base of the mast. Beltan and Vani sprang free. Grace turned and brushed her hand over the wooden planks that imprisoned Falken; they fell clattering to the deck. Rope and wood were dead now, but they yet remembered life.

Kelephon whirled around, his expression livid.
“Gelth!”

Grace felt a sensation of cold, like a gust of icy wind, but it quickly passed, driven off by the warmth of the life energy that spilled into her from the Weirding, and from Aryn. However, Vani, Beltan, and Falken all ceased to move. Each one was encased from head to toe in ice. Panic shredded Grace’s heart.

No, sister,
spoke a calm voice in her mind—not Aryn’s voice.
If you would help them, you must let fear go.

Grace didn’t know to whom the voice belonged, but it was right. Kelephon had turned around again. He hadn’t bothered to wait to see if his rune had worked on her; in his pride, he had simply believed it would. Now he leaned over the rail, muttering the rune of water over and over, keeping the white disk dancing on the waterspout. The ship had come around. It was heading toward the frothing column.

She had to do something. But what? Perhaps she could knock him into the ocean, but what good would that do when water was at his command? Grace took an uncertain step forward, Fellring in her hands.

Sindar stepped before her.

“No, don’t stop me,” she said. Shouldn’t he have been frozen by the runelord’s spell? “I have to do something.”

“I know.”

His words were quiet, but there was something to them—a clarity, a power—that made her tear her gaze from the runelord and look at the slender man. A gasp escaped her.