The Keep of Fire (45 page)

Travis didn’t understand what was happening. Each of the masters closed his eyes and sat still upon his seat. A hush fell over the chamber. Then it began. A single tone rose on the air. More notes rose to join it, and still more, until the walls resonated with the sound. The Runespeakers were chanting, each man voicing a single, droning note that blended with the others.

At first there was a dissonance to the tone, but in moments this was overpowered by a bright harmonic that shimmered off polished stone. Still the tone grew in force and volume. Travis’s hands scrabbled for his ears. The rune of silence did nothing to muffle the sound, and the chanting filled his brain. Another second and he knew it would shatter his skull, just as he had shattered the runestone.

“Stop!”

The ragged shout sliced through the air, marring
the perfect, shimmering harmonic. The chanting ceased, but the corrupted sound of it still ricocheted off the walls, cascading into a deafening roar, until shards of sound flew through the chamber like pieces of broken glass. All clutched hands to their ears to keep their minds from being cut to shreds.

The riot of sound faded to a hiss. By force of will, Travis pulled his hands from his ears. It was only when he saw all eyes turned toward him that he realized the shout had been his own, that he had broken the rune of silence cast upon him.

“I did it to help you,” he said. His voice was a hoarse whisper all could hear, merging with the fragments of the chant. “You have to understand that, Master Oragien. I did it so you could learn for yourselves. Without me, without anyone.”

His words faded away. Then Oragien spoke in a quiet voice.

“The chant was in harmony, Master Wilder. All voices were in accord. The chorus has decided.”

Travis looked up into Oragien’s blue eyes. There was a new light shining in them now: sorrow. Travis opened his mouth, but a gesture from the All-master silenced him more certainly than could any rune.

“At sunset tomorrow, when the moon is at her full, Master Wilder will be bound to the null stone outside our tower, where no rune may be spoken.”

Oragien hesitated, but Travis already knew the words that would come next.

“And there he shall die.”

They rode steadily all that day—Grace and Tira, Aryn and Lirith, Durge and Beltan—pushing the horses as hard as they dared as the leagues slipped past and the
tumbled slopes of the Fal Erenn edged ever higher into a sky that phased from dull jade to jasper.

The air grew dryer as they neared the mountains, and the verdant floodplains gave way to broken grasslands interrupted by steep gulches and ridges of weathered stone. If she had paused to think about it, the landscape would have reminded Grace of her childhood in Colorado, of the mountains near Castle City, and of the Beckett-Strange Home for Children. However, only one thought consumed her as she rode.

You were there, Grace. You will be there. It was in your vision
.

Had she let herself, Grace might also have wondered at this fierce need to save Travis Wilder. He was her friend, of course—that was reason enough. And even more, he had helped rescue this world on Midwinter’s Eve. Didn’t he deserve at the very least not to be burned alive?

Yes, but these were not the real reasons she pressed her legs against Shandis’s sides, urging the palfrey on. It was the same need that had propelled her without rest, without thought, from patient to patient in the ED at Denver Memorial Hospital: the ceaseless drive to heal others, to take their shattered bodies and make them whole. Garf’s life had slipped through her fingers. Meridar and Daynen had been beyond her reach. Losing Travis was not an acceptable outcome.

“My lady!”

Belatedly, Grace jerked on the reins, bringing Shandis to a skidding halt on a patch of shale. The others had stopped their mounts several yards behind Grace—she had almost kept on riding without them. She turned her horse to move back to them, and that was when she saw it.

Before and above her, a rough crag protruded from the looming wall of the mountains, connected to them by a knife-edged ridge. Upon the crag, tall and
impossibly slender, rose a single spire of mist-gray stone.

She lowered her gaze and saw the beginning of a narrow trail carved into the steep slope, marked by a pair of wind-worn stones. In her haste she had ridden right by it. Even as she watched, the westering sun tinged the tower’s walls crimson, as if setting them on fire. A dizziness swept through her, and she clutched Shandis’s mane. She was below it now, not soaring above, but the tower looked just as it had in her vision.

No, Grace, it’s not like the vision because the moon won’t be full tonight. Not quite. You’ve got one more day. You made it—you really made it
.

A small hand brushed her cheek, and she looked down into Tira’s placid eyes. The girl smiled, the left side of her face lifting upward in a pretty expression, while the right remained a mask, as hard and emotionless as pink plastic. Grace held the child tight against her, as if she could transfer love with the gesture, rather than simply pressure and heat. Then she looked up at the others.

“Well, we’re here.”

Beltan eyed the three horned minarets that crowned the tower. “I can’t say this is the most inviting place I’ve ever seen.”

“And what exactly might that be, warrior of Vathris?” Lirith said in a musing tone. “A tavern where strapping young men were handing out free pots of ale to fair-haired knights?”

Light sparkled in Beltan’s green eyes. “Something like that.”

Durge swung down from Blackalock’s back, his boots grinding against the ground. “There’s no room for the horses on the path. And it looks to be a treacherous climb. I shouldn’t wonder if one of us turns an ankle on a loose stone and falls off the edge before we get to the top.”

“Well, Durge,” Aryn said as she let Beltan help her down from her palfrey, “you’ve just assured we’ll all make it to the top in good form.”

Durge frowned at her. “Your Highness?”

Aryn sent a radiant smile in the knight’s direction. “Really, Durge—surely you know that if you speak aloud some ill is going to happen, then it never does.”

Beltan scratched the gold stubble on his chin. “You know, I think she’s right. The days you wake up and think, ‘I’ll most likely get a sword in my gut before lunchtime,’ it never happens. It’s when you’re just out for a jaunt through the countryside, whistling a cheery tune and thinking about strapping young men giving away pots of ale, when someone jumps out of the bushes and sticks a knife in you.”

Lirith laughed, a brilliant sound that echoed off lifeless stone. “So you mean, on this entire journey, every time Durge has voiced his worries about a particular disaster or danger, he has actually ensured that these things would never come to pass?”

“Precisely,” Aryn said.

Plucking up the hem of her riding gown, Lirith curtsied low before the Embarran. “Why, thank you for this protection, Sir Knight.”

Durge’s eyes bulged, and he opened his mouth to reply, but evidently he had no idea what to say, because instead he shut his mouth, emitted a wordless grunt, and turned to rummage through Blackalock’s saddlebags.

A warmth flooded Grace’s chest, and she smiled despite her weariness, despite her urgency. She would never know how she had managed to deserve any friends at all, let alone such improbable and marvelous friends as these. However, over the last months, she had learned to accept the fact that sometimes—bizarre as it seemed—good things happened for no reason at all.

The shadows cast by the mountains lengthened. Grace’s smile softened as a sigh escaped her lungs.

“I suppose we should get going. I’ve noticed, on this world at least, that people seem to prefer getting unexpected visitors when it’s still light out.”

Both Durge and Beltan nodded.

Aryn glanced at Lirith. “Will we be … welcome at this place, sister?”

Lirith smoothed her russet gown. “It has never been with the Runespeakers that the Witches were concerned. Nor do I believe they are concerned by us.”

Beltan cast a puzzled look at the witch, but Grace understood her words well enough.

She still thinks Travis is this Runebreaker, Grace, that maybe he shouldn’t be saved at all. Are you sure Lirith should really come with us to the tower?

This suspicion sickened Grace, and she forced it aside. She had to believe in her friends. After all, the gods of this place knew she couldn’t believe in herself.

“I think that’s a stable there,” Beltan said, pointing to a low, stone structure Grace hadn’t noticed before. It blended with the outcrop it was built against.

The blond knight went to investigate, then motioned the others over. They brought the horses.

“It’s a stable, all right,” Beltan said. “Although I don’t think it’s been used in years.”

Aryn stroked her palfrey’s neck. “But will the horses be all right here? Someone might try to steal them.”

A flinty light stole into Durge’s eyes. “Then someone will find one of Blackalock’s hooves planted neatly on the back of his skull.”

The Embarran’s sooty charger let out a snort with such perfect timing that Grace could only take it for what it seemed: an equine affirmation of the knight’s words.

The men tethered the horses inside the stable, then the six travelers made their way to the stones that marked the beginning of the path. A silver-blue flash caught the corner of Grace’s eye. She looked up and saw a light gleaming at the horned tip of the tower. Then the light was gone.

“They know we’re coming,” Durge said.

Grace gave a stiff nod, then, holding Tira’s small hand inside her own, she started up the trail.

The going was as steep as Durge had feared, but not so treacherous. The trail was cut deep into the rock and had been cleared of loose stone by the passage of numberless feet. The only parts that proved difficult were three stairs cut into the rock face in places where the cliff was all but vertical. The stairs were worn and slippery, without rail or handhold, and gave Grace the unnerving sensation that the ground below was pulling at her. Only Tira seemed unconcerned by the stairs, and she scrambled up ahead of the others with a speed that wedged Grace’s heart into new and completely incorrect anatomical locations.

By the time they reached the small plateau before the tower, the sun had vanished behind the high peaks, and twilight crept from deep valleys to cloak the mountains. As they approached the gate of the tower, they moved past a tall, hulking shape. A shudder passed through Grace as she recognized the standing stone from her vision. So this was where they had bound Travis. Where they
would
bind him.

But you’ll be there, Grace. I don’t know how yet, but you’ll find a way to save him
.

The standing stone fell behind them, and the tower’s triangular gate loomed before. Even as they drew near, the gate swung inward. Standing in the opening—bathed in a light as pale as the moon, but which came from within the tower rather than without—was an old, bearded man in a gray robe. His eyes were like an eagle’s amid the sharp planes of his face,
and he gripped an ornate staff in his hands. Behind the old man were others in gray robes, including one whose face was lined with thin, white scars. They came to a halt as the old man spoke.

“One knight of Calavan, one knight of Embarr, three Daughters of Sia, and a burnt child.” The old man shook his head. “This is a curious party that has come to my door.”

Grace opened her mouth. A single, surprised word escaped her. “Runes …?”

A faint smile played about the old man’s withered lips—or perhaps it was simply a shadow. “No, Your Radiance. It is no magic that tells me who you are. We have all heard the tale of Travis Wilder and his companions. It is easy enough to recognize you all. Save for the child. And you, my lady.” He nodded toward Lirith. “A countess of southern Toloria, are you not?”

Lirith nodded in reply.

A thrill coursed through Grace. “Travis. He’s here, isn’t he?”

The old man nodded again, any trace of a smile gone now.

Beltan moved beside Grace, his face grim. “We have to see Travis. Now.”

“You will see him,” the old man said. “But not just yet.”

He made the barest gesture toward the scar-faced man. Too late Grace understood his meaning. Next to her Beltan reached for his sword, but he was far too slow.

“Sinfath!”

A dozen voices spoke the word in resonating harmony, and shadows leaped forth, casting a suffocating veil of twilight over Grace. She heard the muffled cries of the others and knew they, too, were lost. Then the twilight deepened, filling her mind like mist, and everything went gray.

Through the window slit of his cell, Travis watched the first flecks of copper gild the azure sky. It was almost time.

He looked down at his hands and saw they were trembling. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was just hunger. They had not given him food that day—just a pot of metallic-tasting water brought by a grim-faced journeyman shortly after dawn. After that no one had come, and he had sat on the bed, watching the narrow line of sunlight creep across the wall.

He had tried the door, of course. Not because he thought it might be unlocked, but just because it seemed required. However, the door wouldn’t budge, although he sensed no rune of closing upon it; they must have chosen more solid and mundane barriers to keep him in this time. For a while he stared at the door, willing it to open, and for Sky to be on the other side, grinning, there to set Travis free. After a while he gave that up.

You’re alone, Travis. They’re keeping Sky away from you. And Beltan’s not going to come save you this time, not like at the Rune Gate. This is it
.

He sighed as he thought of the good-natured knight. Travis wished he would have a chance to see Beltan again. It would have been nice to see his friend, to see how he was doing. But that wasn’t going to happen, was it?

Although he tried not to, Travis couldn’t help wondering how long it would take to die. Once, in the Dominion of Eredane, he had seen a runespeaker lashed to a pole by the Raven Cult. They had let him hang there like a scarecrow. A heretic, the sign on the post had branded him.