The Keep of Fire (52 page)

Falken swore, waving a hand at the swirling mist. “Can’t you do something about this, Melia?”

Somehow Melia could gracefully perch sidesaddle upon a slender-legged white mare and exude menace all at the same time. “And what exactly would you propose I do, Falken?”

“I don’t know.” The bard made indeterminate weaving motions with his hand. “Can’t you just … you know … use your … and sort of …?”

The mist did not soften Melia’s glare, and Falken’s words faded into the gloom.

Beltan smeared damp, pale hair back from his high forehead. “And here people say
I’m
not too bright. At least I know better than to ask questions like that.”

Lirith’s lips curved in a musing smile. “Silence is the oft-forgotten seasoning in the stew of wisdom.”

Beltan groaned and clutched his stomach. “Don’t talk about stew. I’m starving.”

Melia turned her gaze on the big knight. “I thought you said you were fasting in order to gain the blessing of Vathris.”

“Actually, I just said that so I wouldn’t have to feel so bad about not having anything to eat.”

“Are you entirely certain that makes sense?” Aryn said, casting a puzzled glance at the knight.

Beltan shrugged. “It does to me.”

Melia gave the blond man a withering glare. “You should know better than to make a jest with the name of a god, Beltan.”

Falken grinned, clearly glad to have Melia’s displeasure directed elsewhere. “And we should know better than to take large knights on long journeys without carting along a packhorse loaded with food.”

“And ale,” Beltan said with an emphatic nod.

Durge guided Blackalock closer to the others. The Embarran knight’s sooty charger blended with the mist, so that it seemed Durge was floating in midair. “Why have we stopped here, Falken?”

Falken turned in the saddle and pointed. “That’s why.”

Even as the bard spoke, a gust of warm, sodden wind sprang out of nowhere, tearing a rift in the fog and sending the tatters scudding across the moor. Grace craned her neck, following the bard’s gaze. A sheer wall of black stone loomed before the travelers, jutting into the slate-colored sky.

“Well,” Melia said. “We’re here.”

Travis peered over the rims of his spectacles, the lenses clouded with moisture. “What is this place, Falken?”

“A place of death.”

Grace shuddered despite the muggy air.

They dismounted, picketed the horses, then approached the wall. Except it wasn’t truly a wall, Grace saw as the mist continued to unravel, but rather a sheer cliff—part of the eastern escarpment of the Fal Erenn. The entire face of the cliff had been hewn flat and polished smooth as glass. Grace lifted a hand, and her fingers danced across the wall’s surface. The stone felt slightly oily to the touch, but her fingers came away without residue. She looked up, but as far as she could see the wall was without mark or feature.

“I’ve found something,” came Aryn’s voice from off to the left.

Grace was the first to reach the baroness. On instinct she reached out and gripped the young woman’s left hand as both of them stared.

“It’s a door,” Grace murmured, and Aryn nodded.

The arch was a foot or two taller than Grace and protruded slightly from the surface of the wall. Etched into the stone were intricate geometric designs. The designs were difficult to trace with the eye, and they were like nothing she had ever seen before. Shadows lurked inside the arch, suggesting an opening beyond, but when Grace reached forward her hand met hard, smooth stone after only a few inches, confirming her suspicion. It was a door, but it was shut.

The others arrived, crowding around Grace and Aryn to look at the door. Beltan pushed on the stone inside the arch, but despite his straining muscles, the door did not budge.

Melia looked at Falken. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s locked.”

“And you were expecting a friendly greeting instead?”

Melia tightened her arms around a purring ball of black fur. “No, I suppose I didn’t. Not here.”

“What is this place, Melia?” Grace said. However, if the lady heard the words she did not choose to respond.

Lirith ran slender fingers over the markings on the arch. A frown touched the dusky skin of her brow. “These designs are clearly Tarrasian, but they are not quite like any others I have seen. I would guess them to be very ancient.”

“And you would guess right,” Falken said. “This door was forged well over a thousand years ago. Long before the Dominions were founded. Before even Malachor was built.” He drew in a deep breath. “And we have to go through.”

“All right,” Beltan said, hands on his lean hips. “So how do we open it?”

Falken opened his mouth, but Durge, who had been peering inside the archway, now pulled his head back. “There are markings on the stone within. I am not certain, but I think they might be runes.”

“Light,” Falken said. “We need light.”

Beltan turned and started toward one of the horses—to get a torch, Grace supposed—but before he could move two steps Travis reached out and spoke a soft word.

“Lir.”

A pale radiance sprang into being, driving back the shadows inside the arch and glinting off fine, silvery lines. Falken gave Travis a sharp glance, but Travis did not meet his gaze. The bard turned back, then peered at the glowing lines traced upon the recessed stone inside the arch.

“You’re almost right, Durge. The markings do remind me of runes in a way. But they’re not quite runes—they’re just a row of lines and dots.”

Lirith lifted the back of a hand to her chin. “I don’t understand. If the door is Tarrasian in design, why are there runelike symbols inscribed on it? Runic magic has never been practiced in Tarras.”

“This place was built by one who came from the south,” Falken said. “But it’s another—one who came after—that we’re concerned with.”

“Can you read what the symbols say?” Aryn asked, her words breathless.

Falken shook his head. “I’m afraid not. If they are runes, then they’re too worn and fragmentary to read. But I think maybe they’re some sort of code. After all, he would not have left the way open for anyone.”

Melia glanced at him. “What are you talking about, Falken?”

“My guess is that it’s a message meant only for a runelord. Only another runelord would be able to decipher it.”

“But do we not have a runelord with us?” Lirith said.

Travis held up his hands and took a step back. “Don’t look at me. I have no idea what it means.”

All gazes returned to the bard.

He let out a sigh. “Let me work on it.”

A small form slipped between Grace’s and Aryn’s skirts. Tira. She reached out and brushed the bard’s black-gloved hand. For a moment his grim expression lightened, and he smiled down at her. The girl nodded, then turned and ran back to Grace.

“Olrig help me,” the bard muttered, and turned again toward the ancient door.

They made camp around midday, after it became clear Falken was not going to open the doorway anytime soon. Travis kept a prudent distance away as the bard worked, but by the periodic curses that rose on the damp air, Falken wasn’t having a great deal of luck. Sometimes the bard leaned deep into the arch, and at others he paced in front of the doorway, head down, black-gloved hand to his head.

“Just try to ignore him,” Melia said after a particularly loud and colorful burst of swearing.

“Does it help him concentrate?” Aryn asked.

Melia smiled. “Not that I know of, dear. But it certainly makes things easier for me.”

They made a scant and cheerless meal as the fog closed back in, but even Beltan seemed to have no appetite. The iron-gray sky pressed down on them, and any good-natured words they attempted to speak fell like lead weights to the ground. Beltan and Lirith tried to start a fire to dry out their clothes, but what little wood they managed to scrounge was soaked through, and after much trying they finally threw down flint and tinder in disgust.

Travis knew he could have started the fire. After all,
Lir
had come easily enough to his lips. Too easily, in fact, for he had spoken the rune before even thinking to do so.

That’s how you’ll hurt people, Travis. By getting lazy, and by forgetting how dangerous it is
.

And, as he knew well,
Krond
was far more perilous to speak than
Lir
. He was grateful that no one asked him to use magic to get the fire going.

After a while they all gave up trying to talk. Grace lay down beneath a blanket with Tira, and Lirith and
Aryn followed suit. Both Durge and Beltan attempted to wipe off the moisture that kept condensing on their armor—already the two reeked of rust. By contrast, Melia seemed to have no trouble keeping dry, even though she had covered herself with only a sheer veil of gauze.

Travis huddled inside his mistcloak—the cloak that, except for its frayed edges, was just like the one worn by the dying man they had come upon at the border. A Spider, Falken had called the other. Was it from one of King Persard’s spies that Falken had gotten this garment? He resolved to ask the bard about it. But later, he amended at another outburst of curses.

Durge let out a rumbling sigh. “I suppose this means Falken will never open the door.” His voice was as dull and heavy as the mist. “We’ll most likely all die waiting here.”

Grace sat up. “He’ll open the door, Durge. You’ll see.”

The Embarran’s shoulders slumped even farther than usual. “Then I suppose we’ll go through and get choked by foul air on the other side. Or we’ll be bitten by poisonous snakes, or get lost in the dark and never find the light again.”

The knight bowed his head, and Grace cast a startled look at Travis. He nodded. Such sentiments were disturbingly gloomy—even for Durge. Travis opened his mouth but was interrupted by an angry voice.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Durge?”

All of them looked up at Beltan. The blond knight had leaped to his feet, his face ruddy and eyes hard. “I think you’d like it if something terrible happened, if all of us were killed. You say it so often I have to believe you want it to be true.”

The Embarran did not look up.

Beltan’s hand slipped to the hilt of his sword. “Tell
you what—I’ll give you something to worry about.…”

“Beltan!”

Melia’s voice was not loud, but it sliced through the mist all the same. Beltan jerked his hand away from his sword and sat down again, but he did not take his eyes from Durge.

“Is that all you knights can think of when you’re faced with a problem?” Lirith’s voice was a hiss of contempt. The dark-eyed woman was sitting. She braided her hair with rapid movements, then as quickly unbraided it again. “Is the sword your answer to everything?” She twined her hair once more; it was getting snarled.

Beltan snorted, his lip curling. “And what would you do, witch? Cast a spell and have us all do your bidding?”

Dread rose in Travis’s throat. Was he really hearing this? He felt as if he was going to scream, although he had no idea why, and he glanced again at Grace. However, she held Tira tightly, her head bowed over the girl.

Another curse sounded from Falken’s direction. The bard turned from the ancient door and marched toward them.

“Any luck?” Melia said as he approached.

“What do you think?” he shot back in a caustic voice.

Melia’s amber eyes widened, then narrowed to thin, glowing slits. “Maybe if you had thought ahead this problem would not have happened.”

“And maybe if your friend had warned us about what to expect we wouldn’t be stuck here.”

“Are you saying you think Tome did not tell us all he knew?”

“And do your kind ever tell everything they know, Melindora Nightsilver? Do they really?”

Falken’s words were as harsh as poison. Melia’s
face blanched, and Travis stared along with the others. Before the bard could say anything further, Aryn—who had been lying still on her blanket—suddenly rose.

“Shut up!” The young woman’s voice quivered on the edge of a shriek. “All of you shut up! You sound like crows, did you know that? All cackling and cawing and saying nothing. I swear, it’s driving me mad!”

The baroness stiffened, then slumped back to her knees, shaking. Grace reached a hand toward her, then snatched it back and looked up. “What’s going on?” she said. “Something’s wrong—wrong with us. We don’t argue like this.”

Melia blinked, then glanced at Falken, and he nodded.

“It’s like a sickness,” Lirith said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I can feel it on the air of this place. Everything is sick and twisted here.”

The witch shuddered, and Tira moved over to sit in her lap and snuggle against her. Of them all, only the girl appeared the same as she ever did.

Aryn’s eyes fluttered shut, then all at once they flew open, and her scream drove a spike through Travis’s heart. Grace rushed to the young woman’s side.

“What is it?” She touched Aryn’s brow, cheeks, chest.

The baroness lifted a shaking finger and pointed, her face white with horror. “I saw it. Over there. Like … like a rip in the Weirding, filled with … with nothing.” She bent forward, pressed her face into her hands, and sobbed.

Falken looked up, his face hard. “Beltan, Travis, come with me. The rest of you stay here.”

Travis jumped to his feet, and he and the knight followed after the bard, walking in the direction Aryn had pointed, toward a tall clump of dead bushes tangled with vines.

“I should have known,” Falken muttered. “I should have known there would be one in this place.”

Travis started to ask what the bard was talking about, but then they reached the clump of dead foliage. With a gloved hand, Falken jerked a branch aside.

“Help me.”

Travis and Beltan moved forward and tore at the vines and bushes. Thorns bit into their flesh, but Travis ignored them and kept pulling. He could feel it, too—not as vividly as Aryn, but it was still there: a dark, ponderous mass that pulled at him, casting a dusky veil over his eyes even as it drew him on. With a grunt, the three men ripped a knotted mass of branches and vines free and heaved it aside. Travis stared at what they had uncovered.