The Keep of Fire (39 page)

Now, at last, the beings were close enough for Grace to make out details of their features. In a way they still seemed human. Here and there lumps suggested noses, chins, breasts. Their skin was smooth and textureless, like volcanic glass, but lined with a
webwork of cracks through which a dim, red luminescence welled like blood.

Durge and Beltan labored after the creatures, swords before them. Meridar followed just on their heels. However, Grace knew the men would not make it in time. She gazed into eyes like black stones: hard, reflective, and utterly dead.

Next to her, Aryn whispered a prayer to the goddess Yrsaia. Lirith chanted something as well: Grace caught the word
Sia
once, then again. She opened her own mouth, but what words could she speak? What god could she pray to? If she believed in one, she would have asked it to part the river, to raise the water into the sky, then have it come crashing down on those who would pursue and slay. But she did not believe.

Then you do it, Grace. Play God. Isn’t that what doctors do every day?

There was no more time to think. Obsidian hands stretched toward her. Aryn screamed. There was an odd sizzling sound, and dimly Grace knew it to be the sound of her own hair shrinking and curling from the heat. She shut her eyes, then reached out with the Touch.

This time she was not afraid of the shadow lurking on the edge of her vision. She did not need to follow the thread—her own thread—that led to it. Without hesitating, she grasped the silvery lines she knew belonged to Lirith and Aryn. Now what?

You did it with fog, Grace. Water is the same stuff, just a little denser. You need a better net, that’s all
.

There was no time to weave the threads of the Weirding. Instead she imagined the net in its entirety, and it was there, shimmering in her hands. She cast it toward the flowing stream of silver she knew to be the river, then gasped at the flood of power that washed through her. There was a life in the river that mist could never hold. She nearly lost herself in the
myriad of swimming, floating, darting sparks of energy in the water. Then she forced herself back from the edge, clutched the net, and pulled.

It was heavy, terribly heavy. She couldn’t do it; the force of the river was far too great, dragging her down. Then two pairs of cool, shining hands reached out alongside hers.

We’re here, Grace
.

Together they pulled, but still the net she had woven would not budge. Then Grace understood. They were struggling against the vast, endless flow of the Weirding in the river, and against so great a force they could never win. But what if she was to draw on that force rather than fight it?

With a single thought Grace reshaped the net into a glowing cup, and she let all the threads of the river pour into it.

Now!

Three sets of bodiless hands touched the cup and—in a simple motion—tipped it over. Silver poured out, streaming in a new direction.

There was a great rushing noise, followed by a crash and a terrible hissing. Grace’s eyes flew open in time to see the
krondrim
stumble back as a wave spilled over the banks of the river and onto the land. She scrambled up onto the bridge with Aryn and Lirith, avoiding its flow.

The wave was not large. It came no higher than the knees of the Burnt Ones. All the same, the creatures flung their arms up as it washed around them, the black pits of their mouths open but unable to scream.

The cold water screamed for them, shrieking and bubbling around their legs, sending plumes of steam into the air. The
krondrim
fell into the water, stiffening as they did, like molten steel hardened in an instant in a quenching bucket. More steam billowed upward. Then the water receded, draining back into
the river, leaving the stiff, twisted forms of the Burnt Ones to cool upon the shore.

Grace staggered to the foot of the bridge, still clutching Aryn and Lirith. Beltan reached them first, followed by Durge. However, Meridar lingered, gazing at the now-extinguished husk that had been his warhorse, his eyes as flat and unreadable as those of the Burnt Ones.

Beltan gripped Grace’s shoulders with strong hands. His green eyes were wide with many questions, but the one he asked was, “Are you well, Grace?”

She gave a shallow nod—all the answer she could manage.

Durge stepped forward. “Lady Aryn? Lady Lirith? You are safe as well?”

The two women embraced one another. Lirith opened her mouth to reply.

She was interrupted by a sizzling sound. The steam had hidden it, but now it stepped from one of the roiling clouds, its feet hissing against the damp ground with each step. Grace stared, unable to move. So she had miscounted after all. But it must have followed the rocky line of the shore, where no fires would betray its presence.

Before any of them could react, the Burnt One lurched forward. Grace and Beltan were the nearest. She went rigid, wondering how quickly the flames would take her. The
krondrim
gazed at her with eyes as flat as death—

—then shambled past her and up onto the bridge.

A thin, piteous scream knifed the air. Grace jerked her head around. On the center of the bridge, twenty feet away, Tira scrabbled at Daynen’s tunic, staring as the Burnt One approached. The left side of her face was twisted by terror, while the scarred flesh of the right remained smooth as ever.

“Daynen!” Lirith called. “Don’t move!”

“What is it?” the boy cried, tears streaming from his sightless eyes. He clutched Tira’s trembling body.

Durge sprang forward onto the bridge, then let out a curse and leaped back. He stamped his feet, and only then did Grace see that his boots were smoking.

She looked back at the bridge and gasped. Pits marked the stone where the Burnt One’s feet had sunk into it. A dull red glow spread outward from them, and in moments the entire surface of the bridge between the shore and the
krondrim
glowed in the thickening dark. Just beyond the Burnt One, the children huddled together on as yet cool stone.

“It’s hot,” Durge said through clenched teeth, still stamping his feet.

The
krondrim
neared the two children. Tira screamed again. Grace clutched at Beltan, thinking this the end, but instead the Burnt One halted. It seemed to gaze at the children—no, at Tira. Then, in a slow, stiff motion, the
krondrim
bent forward. What was it doing? Ice replaced fire as Grace understood.

It’s bowing to her—showing obeisance
.

Tira’s scream ended, and the fear drained from her face, so that both halves were tranquil. She gazed at the Burnt One with calm eyes, then reached a small hand toward its body.

“It’s going to burn them!” Aryn cried. “Somebody do something!”

Jump
, Grace started to shout, but she was startled into silence by a dull blur that moved past her and dashed onto the bridge. Another scream shattered the air—the deep, horrible scream of a man in agony. Meridar.

The knight stiffened as smoke rose from his boots, and moisture poured down his face. Clenching his jaw, he ran across the half-molten stone of the bridge, his chain mail glowing in the bloody light. The
krondrim
turned around, but its reaction was too
slow. Meridar reached out, then coiled his arms around the Burnt One, hugging it close to his body.

The sizzle of flesh cooking was audible on the air. Another scream ripped itself from his lungs, and only after a second did Grace realize it was a word.

“Aryn!”

Then the momentum of Meridar’s dash carried him forward, along with the Burnt One. In a ball of flame they toppled over the side of the bridge and plunged into the swift waters of the river below. There was a hiss, quickly extinguished, then silence. After several heartbeats a pair of dark, intertwined forms bobbed to the surface of the water. Then they sank again and were gone.

Aryn took a staggering step forward. “Sir Meridar …”

Lirith reached out and caught the young woman, holding her back from the foot of the bridge.

“Vathris keep him,” Beltan said in a hoarse voice.

Grace disentangled herself from the blond knight’s arms and gazed at the fiery trails snaking on the other side of the river. They had almost reached the west side of the bridge. She licked parched lips, then spoke the words softly, so Daynen and Tira could not hear.

“The others are coming.”

Beltan followed her gaze. “We’ve got to get the children off the bridge.”

Durge approached the foot of the bridge, then was driven back by the fierce heat. Half the bridge, between the eastern shore and the children, still glowed dull red. “We must wait for the bridge to cool,” the knight said.

Beltan shook his head. “We can’t wait. In two minutes the other
krondrim
will reach the west side of the bridge. If Meridar made it across, then so can I.”

With a powerful hand, Durge gripped Beltan’s arm and halted the big knight. “I have never heard it spoken that Sir Beltan of Calavan was a man who would
discard his life without purpose. Sir Meridar made it across the stones, yes, but by the time he reached the children he was already dead. Would you join him, then, along with the children?”

The two men locked eyes, then Beltan grunted. Durge released him.

“So what do we do?” Beltan said.

The crimson light played across Aryn’s pale features. “The river. They can jump in the river.”

“No, Durge said. “The Dimduorn is too deep here, and its undercurrents too swift. Surely they will drown.”

Beltan started to shrug off his mail shirt. “You’re right, Durge. But it’s still their only chance. Once they jump, you and I will have to—”

“Daynen! No!”

Grace had never heard Lirith scream before, not even when Garf was attacked by the bear. She looked up, and her heart became ash in the pit of her chest. Daynen had lifted Tira onto his shoulders. Even as Grace watched, the blind boy took another step along the bridge, placing his bare feet on hot, glowing rock.

Sickness strangled Grace’s throat. There was nothing any of them could do but watch. Pain contorted Daynen’s face as he moved down the bridge. He stumbled as his feet became lifeless blocks, but he did not halt. Tira sat still on his shoulders, her small hands pressed against his cheeks.

It seemed an eternity Grace was forced to watch, but it was only seconds until Beltan was able to reach out with long arms and snatch both Daynen and Tira off of the bridge. Tira coiled her arms around the big knight’s neck and gazed down as Lirith fell to her knees beside the boy. Grace knelt beside her, but she already knew what the diagnosis would be.

They made him comfortable on the grass. His face was pale, smeared with sweat and soot, but it was peaceful now. That was the one blessing of burns like
this—there were no more nerve endings in his charred legs to transmit pain.

Daynen gazed up, searching with his unseeing eyes. “Lady Lirith?”

“I am here.” Tears shone in her eyes, but her voice was low and soothing.

“Is Tira all right?”

“She is well. Do not fear.”

“I’m not … afraid.”

His words were getting fainter now, and the trembling in his body was easing. Shock was setting in quickly. It wouldn’t be long now.

“It was just … just like I saw it, Lady Lirith. Only now I know who it was … who I was carrying.”

The witch smoothed damp hair from his brow. “What do you mean, Daynen?”

“It was Tira. That’s who I saw. I carried her over … the bright fields … of the sun.” Daynen’s lips curved into a smile. “It was … it was so …”

Grace watched the life flow out of him, and his thin body grew still. A small form slipped from Beltan’s arms and padded across the ground. Tira. She squatted down and touched Daynen’s face, running her fingers over his lips, his nose, his staring eyes. Then she turned and clambered into Grace’s arms. Grace watched the approaching fires.

“We must go,” Durge said. The knight had gathered the frightened horses back together.

Beltan knelt and, as if lifting a small bundle of rags, rose with Daynen in his arms. Lirith remained kneeling, Aryn’s hands on her shoulders, as Beltan walked to the edge of the river, bent again, and let the small body go into the dark, swirling waters. He returned to Lirith and helped her to her feet.

“Can you ride?” he said.

“I can.”

They mounted their horses. The animals stamped and snorted, anxious to run from the reek of smoke and fire.

From the back of her palfrey, Aryn glanced at the bridge, then spoke in a quiet voice. “In the forest, before we left the camp, Meridar told me that he was ashamed of what he had done in Falanor. He said he had acted without honor, that for revenge he would have harmed the innocent and weak. He said he wanted to redeem himself, and to prove himself good in …” She swallowed hard. “…  in my eyes.”

Grace stared at her, then spoke the only words she could find. “Did he?”

Aryn shook her head, the wetness on her cheeks shining in the cast-off light of flames. “What was there to prove?”

The baroness turned her horse around and started down the road. The others followed. As they galloped, Grace looked down at the red-haired girl wedged before her on the saddle. In her mind she saw the way the
krondrim
had bowed before Tira. But what had it meant?

Maybe it was like a greeting, Grace. One burnt one to another …

Despite her scorched skin, Grace shivered as she urged Shandis after the other horses, into the east and the night, leaving the fires behind.

Maybe Oragien was right. Maybe he really was a runelord. All the same, Travis had the feeling he was far from one of the greatest wizards Eldh had ever known.

Master Larad glared at Travis’s wax tablet. “You’ve transposed
stone
and
sky
. Again, You’ve crossed
iron
on the wrong side. Again. And you’ve made
water
look like something a child might scrawl in the dirt with a stick.” He tossed the tablet onto a table. “This work would shame an apprentice.”

Master Eriaun moved across the small room, gray robe whispering, and picked up the tablet. “Now Master Larad, this is not so … well it isn’t …” He sighed. “I do think he’s improving.”