The Keep of Fire (43 page)

Then the runespeaker was gone, and Travis was alone with the broken remains of a mostly forgotten god.

For several minutes, Travis stood as still as a statue
himself, then the shards came together in his mind, and he knew what he had to do, although the knowledge terrified him. Oragien had summoned him so he could help the Runespeakers. And there was only one way Travis could do that. Before he could consider it further, he hurried from the hidden room and down the staircase.

He half hoped he would run into a runespeaker as he went—someone who might grip his arm, ask what he was doing, and order him to stop—but the stairway was empty. The masters were all in their cells. Travis reached the bottom of the staircase, then moved to another hidden archway. It took him only a moment to find it this time. Then it was down another staircase.

The stairs ended. Travis stepped into the rough-hewn chamber far beneath the Gray Tower. The sourceless glow fell from above, illuminating the stone that hovered in the center.

With deliberate steps, Travis approached the runestone. His mouth had gone dry, and he was trembling beneath his robe, but he did not stop. A thrumming sounded on the air, like the beating of a heart. Travis halted before the stone and ran his eyes over the countless runes incised into its surface. What knowledge, what power, what secrets might they grant him if only he touched them and let them speak in his mind?

No, Travis. It’s not you that needs the knowledge. It’s the Runespeakers. They have to learn to try for themselves. It’s the only way
.

He lifted both hands, hesitated, then reached out and touched the runestone. It was so much easier than he ever would have thought. He opened his body and, like a conduit, let the power flow through him as he whispered a single word.

“Reth.”

The preternatural hush that hung on the air swallowed the sound of his voice. The faint hum ceased, leaving only silence. Travis took a breath and felt … nothing. So he had no power to help after all. He started to move away from the stone.

Crack!

The sound was like a thunderbolt passing through his skull. Travis clutched his hands to his ears, but his flesh might as well have been tissue paper. Before him, the runestone shone blue-silver, then like dark serpents they snaked across the stone’s surface: deep, lightless gashes.

“Master Wilder! No!”

The voice was lost in the roar of sound. Travis stumbled back even as the runestone flared, then went dark. Like so much rubble, the shards of the stone fell in a heap to the floor. The noise of thunder receded and was gone. Travis was aware of dim, gray shapes rushing forward. One with a white beard appeared in front of him, blue eyes blazing.

“What have you done? By Olrig, what have you
done?”

I’ve just saved you
, Travis tried to say. But he could not speak as rough hands grabbed him and dragged him away from the broken remains of the runestone.

Grace stood on the flat knoll beneath which they had made camp the night before and watched as dawn set fire to the sweeping plains of northern Toloria. A wind sprang out of the east, tangling hot fingers through her ash-blond hair. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know the pale circle of the nearly
full moon was just setting in the west. One day. They had one more day.

Boots sounded against the dry grass behind her, and she turned around.

“Grace, what are you doing up here? I finally convinced Durge to lie down and get some rest last night. If he wakes now and sees you’re gone, the man will never sleep again.”

She smiled at the tall, fair-haired knight, then turned back to face the north. “I know, Beltan. I should go back. But I was just wondering if I could see it from here. The Gray Tower.”

Grace heard him move in behind her.

“And can you?”

A sigh escaped her lips. “No, not yet.”

His strong hand cupped her shoulder. “We’ll save him, Grace.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we have to.”

She did not look at him, but she nodded, staring at the sharp, gray shapes that hovered on the north horizon like storm clouds.

When they reached the bottom of the knoll, they found that Lirith and Aryn had risen, along with Tira. The women spoke in soft voices as Lirith gathered things for a simple breakfast and Aryn helped Tira dress the girl’s stick doll. A lumpy shape still snored beneath a blanket nearby. Grace held a finger to her lips, and the others smiled at her. Then she tiptoed and knelt beside the huddled form.

“Sir Knight,” she said in a gentle voice, “it’s time to wake up.”

Grace was nearly knocked flat on her back as Durge sat bolt upright, brown eyes wide. He had slept in his armor, and his hand groped for the sheathed greatsword that lay next to him.

“What is it, my lady? Brigands? Wild boar? Dragons?”

“Breakfast,” she said with a grin.

Durge blinked, then blew a breath through his mustaches. “Oh.”

“Come, Sir Knight. This way.”

She gripped his hand, leaned back, and pulled him to his feet—although not without effort. The Embarran was
dense
.

“And you can leave the greatsword. I think it’s a bit more than you need for spreading butter on a trencher. Let’s let Lirith handle things.”

“And I am an old knight indeed if I need a noble lady to butter my morning bread.”

Now it was Grace’s turn to blink. Durge’s grumblings had sounded dangerously close to humor. However, the expression on his craggy face was more wounded than wry. It was all too much. Grace clapped a hand to her mouth, but she couldn’t keep the laughter from escaping. The others joined in, and even Tira’s lips drifted upward in a fleeting smile. Durge only let out a pained breath.

They made their breakfast in a circle on the ground, and they even risked a fire to brew a pot of
maddok
. Grace sipped the hot, energizing liquid and thought perhaps she could face the day—and the end of her journey—after all.

They had not stopped in Ar-tolor. The morning after crossing the bridge over the Dimduorn, they had seen seven high towers crowned by bright banners: yellow on green. Durge and Beltan had started toward the castle, but Grace had stayed them with a word.

When she was pressed to tell the others why she did not want to go to Ar-tolor, it was difficult to put the reasons into words. Part of it was urgency. The days were passing quickly, and the moon was waxing to full. But that was only part of it.

“I’d just rather Queen Ivalaine didn’t know where we’re traveling,” she said finally. “Or why.”

She had not needed to glance at Lirith to know the
woman’s dark eyes were on her. After all, it was Lirith who had confirmed what Grace had suspected—that the Witches feared Travis was the one they called Runebreaker.

Grace licked her lips. “I’m sure if anyone wished to stay in Ar-tolor, the queen would be happy to receive them.”

“I am certain she would,” Lirith said in a crisp voice, then mounted her palfrey.

Grace breathed a sigh of relief. She was glad the witch was staying with them. She tried not to wonder if she should be worried as well.

A league from the castle they came upon one of Ivalaine’s household knights, and Grace gave him a message to take to the queen, begging permission to ride through her Dominion. After that, Grace expected to be waylaid at any moment by a company of knights who would drag them to Ar-tolor. However, the only people they saw on the road were peasants, and then no one as the castle vanished in the distance behind them.

They had made good time across Toloria, although not as good as Grace might have wished. Horses were not cars, and they couldn’t be driven all day without food or rest. In addition, Durge and Beltan chose their routes carefully, making certain they never found themselves in places where they might be surrounded with no avenue of escape, as they had been at the Tarrasian bridge, and these maneuverings caused some delay.

It had been hard these last days to speak about what had happened at the bridge. Or maybe it was simply that there was no need to speak of it. They had all witnessed Meridar’s horrible death in the molten embrace of the
krondrim
. And they had all watched, helpless, as Daynen gave himself for Tira, smiling even as he walked over fire to save her.

Often as they rode, Grace would clutch the girl’s
small, thin body to her.
You saved one, Grace. You know you’ll take that over nothing. In the ED you’d call it a stalemate and move on
.

But this wasn’t the hospital. At night she would lie on her back, staring at the red star pulsing low in the sky, and would try to weep for Daynen. But her eyes were a desert, and she had already forgotten what he looked like.

Although they remained always watchful, they saw no more
krondrim
as they rode. They were cutting deep across Toloria by then, and all Beltan’s reports had indicated that the Burnt Ones were staying close to the river and the mountains.

“Or close to borders,” Beltan said one night as they camped beside a stream.

Durge grunted. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure. Not completely, anyway. It’s like they’re looking for something. Or someone. Only it’s not in one place. It’s on the move.”

“Of course,” Aryn said, looking up from the rent in her riding gown she was mending with thread and needle. “It’s simple tactics. If you want to find something that could be anywhere, and that’s most likely moving, then you should keep watch at the borders that lead from one Dominion to the next.”

Grace regarded the baroness, jaw open. “How did you know that, Aryn?”

The young woman shrugged. “I’m the ward of a king, Grace. I pay attention now and then.”

“This explains their movement,” Lirith said, gazing into the flames of the campfire. “Yet it still doesn’t tell us what it is they hope to find.”

Her words met only silence. None of them had a theory to explain that.

As they journeyed, Grace kept a close watch on Aryn. The months since Midwinter’s Eve had been a dark time for the young woman. First she had used the Weirding to kill Leothan in self-defense. Then
Garf, who had clearly loved her, had died in front of her eyes. Finally Meridar, who had loved her as well, had shouted her name even as he walked into the arms of death. Grace had seen catatonic patients in the ED who had been through less.

However, much as Grace searched for signs of distress, the baroness seemed better than she had in many months. At times Aryn was sad and thoughtful, at others quietly happy. There was an air about her that was calm, even assured, but in no way prideful or smug. The coy and secretive girl who had begun this journey had not crossed the Dimduorn with them. It was a strong and noble young woman who had made it to the other side.

Finally, one evening, Grace dared to approach Aryn and ask her how she felt about Meridar.

Aryn bent her head, then looked up, her sapphire eyes refracting the last light of day. “He died for me, Grace. I didn’t ask him to do it, and I didn’t want him to. But he did, and I can’t change that. So I have to be strong. For him. If I’m not, then what would it all mean?”

Grace had tried to speak, but there were no words she could say that would be more true than what the young woman had spoken. Aryn was growing up—really growing up. However, there was yet a long road ahead of her, and many burdens to carry upon it, of that Grace was certain. With a gasp that might have been joy or sorrow, she reached out and embraced her friend. Yes, her friend, the best she had on any world. Aryn hugged her back, and the gesture was no less fierce for the fact that it was made with only one arm.

“I love you, Grace. I love you so much.”

I love you, too, Aryn
, Grace wanted more than anything to say. But she was weak, and words failed her, so instead she had held the young woman more tightly yet.

It wasn’t until the next day—their fourth since the
crossing of the Dimduorn—that Lirith spoke of what Grace had done at the bridge.

The Tolorian woman’s words came without preamble. “The Weirding has never been woven like that before, sister.”

Startled, Grace dropped the knife with which she had been cutting a hard loaf of bread for their supper and looked up. Lirith sat on the ground, watching her. Grace cast a startled look at Aryn, who picked flowers with Tira nearby, then forced her gaze back to the witch.

“What do you mean?” Grace’s voice was quiet. Durge and Beltan had walked off to gather wood for a fire, but the knights were not so far away the wind couldn’t bring them into earshot.

Lirith’s visage was smooth as ebony, but there was an intensity about it all the same. “The best of us—and that is only a few—can pluck some threads of the Weirding and weave them into a new strand. It is a great talent, but the magics we can make with it are small and private. We might cause the eye to see a shadow that is not there, or the mind to perceive a voice the ears alone cannot hear. These are useful things, yes, even powerful in their own way, but they are illusion.”

Aryn had stopped all pretense of picking flowers and stared at Lirith outright. Grace could not move, as if cast of stone. Tira undulated in a silent dance amid tall grass.

“I don’t understand,” Grace managed to say.

A fleeting smile touched Lirith’s deep red lips, then was gone. “Nor do I. What you did at the river was not illusion, Grace. It was real. You did not weave the Weirding. You hardly seemed to Touch its threads. Instead, it was as if you made yourself a vessel and simply let all the force of the river pour through you to drive the
krondrim
back.”

Grace clutched the handle of the knife. Maybe it
seemed strange to Lirith to have worked magic in the way she did, but Grace had had no other choice. She could not weave the threads of the Weirding because the strand that connected her to it led to the shadow. To reach the Weirding, she would have to pass through the shadow first.

In her mind she saw the pulsing blot of darkness, and it gathered itself inward and upward, taking on shape: fire-darkened walls, jagged cupolas, and windows staring like empty eyes toward barren peaks. No—that was the place her thread would take her, and she could not go there. She had escaped with her life and her sanity once; she could not possibly hope to do so again.