The Keep of Fire (59 page)

An odd light crept into his eyes. His gaze moved
past her and, it seemed, toward Travis. “Really, my lady?” His voice was soft. “Is that truly so?”

Grace stared. Something else was causing the knight pain, beyond the old wound in his side. Only what? “Beltan,” she said on a hunch. “When I gazed into your wound, I saw something else. It was an image of two hands. They were covered with blood, and they were just letting go of a knife.”

Beltan frowned. “That’s strange. I wonder why you would see that.”

“What is it?”

He shrugged. “It’s an old dream I used to have sometimes. But if it means anything, I never knew what it was. And I haven’t had the dream in a long time.”

She started to ask more questions, but he spoke first.

“We should go, Grace. The others are heading back.”

She stood, then reached down a hand to help him. Beltan hesitated, then clasped her hand. Pain lined his face, and she supposed she was pulling on a good hundred kilos of knight, but together they got him to his feet.

When Grace and Beltan reached the camp, they found the others standing in a half circle, staring with jaws open. Grace blinked, then she saw the reason and stared herself. An elderly man in a snowy white robe sat beside the campfire they had built, fixing himself a cup of
maddok
.

Durge drew his greatsword from the harness on his back. At the ringing noise, the old man looked up, his eyes golden beneath shaggy white eyebrows.

“Well, that’s hardly necessary, young man,” he said in a gentle voice. “There’s plenty in the pot for everyone.”

Durge halted in mid-stride, an expression of shock
on his face, although whether it was from the audacity of the intruder, or from being called
young man
, Grace wasn’t sure. Before she could wonder more, a small form in blue rushed forward.

“Tome!”

The old man rose spryly to his feet just in time to have Melia throw herself into his arms.

“Dear child, how good it is to see you again, and so soon.”

Now it was Grace’s turn to gape. She had never thought she would ever hear anyone call Melia
child
. But at that moment the regal woman
did
seem childlike, small and slender, held tight in the grip of the old man who, now that he stood, was every bit as tall and straight as Beltan.

“Come on, everyone,” Falken said with a laugh. “This is our old friend we told you about. Make that our
very
old friend.”

The stranger—the one called Tome—looked up and fixed the bard with his brilliant gold eyes. “And a fine one you are to talk about age, Falken of Malachor!”

Grace wasn’t certain exactly how it happened, but minutes later they all sat around the fire, laughing and drinking from wooden cups Tome handed them, and which Grace was not altogether certain contained just
maddok
. Like the drink, Grace suspected there was more to Tome than first met the eye. He was old, certainly. Deep lines etched his face, and his beard—as pure white as his robe—tumbled over his chest, while his bald pate was polished smooth.

However, Grace guessed Tome’s wrinkles were the result of mirth as much as wisdom, and bright gold rings dangled from each of his ears. Aryn clapped her hands together and giggled—a rare gift these days—as the old man handed her a cup, and Tira almost immediately set up camp in his lap.

Of them all, only Beltan seemed unaffected by
Tome’s joyous demeanor, for the knight hunched on the edge of the firelight and sipped quietly from his cup. It seemed Beltan’s eyes moved once toward Travis and lingered there. Had something happened between them in the battle with the
krondrim
—something Travis hadn’t told them about? Before Grace could wonder more, she felt a cup pressed into her hand.

“Drink up, Your Radiance,” Tome said, eyes shining. He refilled the cups of Lirith and Aryn, who sat beside Grace. “And you as well, Daughters of Sia.”

Grace took a sip from her cup. “Who is Sia?” she said without really thinking about it. Maybe it was just that she had heard the word spoken so many times—by Lirith, by Melia, and even by the dragon.

Tome grinned, displaying the most beautiful teeth Grace had ever seen. “Who is Sia you ask? Now that, dear child, is a good question. Oft I’ve wondered the same myself. Perhaps Lady Melia would care to answer?”

Melia crossed her arms. “I should think not!”

The regal lady’s cheeks were bright with color, and she listed noticeably to one side. Had Grace not known better, she might have thought the lady to be drunk.

Falken peered at Lirith over the rim of his cup. “And should not Grace and Aryn’s teacher in these matters answer the question? Indeed, I’m surprised she has not already.”

Startled, Grace glanced at Lirith, and Aryn did the same. The Tolorian woman nodded, then set down her cup. The laughter quieted as all leaned close to listen to her.

“Sia is called by many names in many places, but all of them mean one thing: the Goddess. From Sia springs the Weirding, the web that weaves all life together.” With a finger, Lirith traced a circle in the
dirt. “It was Sia who gave birth to the world. And who
is
the world, for all of Eldh is her body.”

Travis scratched his scruffy chin. “But I thought the Worldsmith forged the world when he spoke the First Rune.” He glanced at Falken. “At least, that was how I heard it.”

“So the Runespeakers believe,” Lirith said, her voice cool. “But there are other tales of the beginning of Eldh than those told by the men of the Gray Tower.”

Aryn brushed the circle with a finger. “But if it’s from Sia that the Weirding comes, why haven’t you spoken of her before?”

Lirith seemed to choose her words with great care. “There are those among the Witches who would rather not speak the name Sia these days.”

“Why?” Grace said, startled.

Lirith shrugged. “Some associate Sia with the old days, and the workings of hags and hedgewives.”

Now Grace understood. “So Sia conjures an image the Witches would rather forget, is that what you’re saying?”

Lirith’s silence was answer enough. Grace opened her mouth to ask another question, but Melia spoke first, and any traces of intoxication Grace might have detected a minute ago were nowhere to be seen.

“I hate to break up this interesting conversation about theology, but we do have some important matters to discuss. Such as why you are here, Tome.” She cast her amber gaze toward the old man. “I thought we were supposed to meet you in Spardis.”

At once all traces of merriment fled the circle. Grace set down her cup, and all watched Tome.

The old man looked at Melia. “We were. But when I reached Spardis and you weren’t there yet, I thought I’d come meet you instead. You see, I’ve learned something about the one who has stolen Krondisar.”

Falken nodded. “As have we. We went to the temple in the Fal Erenn. You were right—the Stone was stolen from there. And it was Dakarreth who did it.”

Sorrow flickered across Tome’s visage, then as quickly it vanished, replaced by a surprising new expression: anger. “So, that is who has done this. But I am not surprised, especially given what I have learned.”

“But what is it, Tome?” Melia laid her hand on his. “You must tell us.”

The old man sighed. “I know now why he stole Krondisar. He seeks to use it, to be transformed.”

These words sent a chill through Grace. “Transformed,” she murmured. “But into what?”

Tome turned his golden eyes on her.

“A god,” he said.

“Long ago, thirteen of the Nindari took bodies of unliving flesh to walk upon the face of Eldh in service to Berash, the Pale King, as his Necromancers.”

Travis watched as Melia spoke in a quiet voice. He felt Grace’s hand on his, and he squeezed back. All of them had gathered close around the fire to listen to the bard, the lady, and the golden-eyed stranger speak.

Falken held out his gloved hand and watched the flames through the screen of his fingers. “It seems Dakarreth has grown weary of the flesh, and now he wants to go back to being one of the Nindari.”

“No, not just one of the New Gods,” Tome said. “Before he became a Dark One, Dakarreth was neither greatest nor least among the Nindari. But now he seeks to return greater than when he left, and rule over all the New Gods.”

Melia clenched small hands into fists. “But he can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid he can, dear one.” Tome laid wrinkled hands atop Melia’s and with gentle strength smoothed her fingers out.

“But I don’t understand,” Grace said. “Why didn’t the New Gods do anything to stop the ones … the ones who became Necromancers?”

“Because it was done in secret, child,” Tome said in a heavy voice. “And when the dread deed was discovered by the Nindari, it was already far too late to do anything.”

“But they
did
do something,” Falken said to Grace. “As thirteen took bodies to serve the Pale King, so nine others forsook their celestial homes and took shape so they could walk upon the face of Eldh and work against the Necromancers.”

Falken’s words ignited a spark in Travis’s chest. “So there’s hope then. Maybe we can find some of these nine Nindari—maybe they can stop Dakarreth.”

Melia gazed up at the star-strewn sky. “No, Travis, there will be no more help from the Nine. So many of them are gone now.” She breathed a sigh. “So many …”

Travis shook his head. “But where did they go?”

It was Tome who answered. “Some sank deep into the soil, some faded onto the wind, and some became as foam on the sea to melt away. It is wearying, Goodman Travis—wearying in a way you cannot imagine—for a god to walk the world as one undying and yet not truly living. After the War of the Stones, when all thought the Necromancers were no more, most of the Nine gave up their burdens and passed from the world.”

“You mean they became gods again?” Aryn said, her voice quavering.

“No, child. There was never any going back to
what was, for either the Thirteen or the Nine. Those who vanished are lost to us forever.”

Travis shuddered. Tome said he couldn’t imagine the sorrow of a god, and maybe the old man was right. But he could imagine giving up everything he had ever loved
because
he loved it. That was what the Nine had done for Eldh, wasn’t it?

“So why has he not done it, then?” Durge said.

“What’s that, young man?” Tome peered at Durge over the fire.

The craggy-faced Embarran winced, then recovered. “If Dakarreth stole the Stone of Fire that he might use it to become a god, why has he not done so already?”

Tome snapped his fingers. “Good question, young man. And the answer is the reason we sit here now, speaking as we do, rather than toiling beneath sun and whip to raise high a temple to the great god Dakarreth. The Stone of Fire has the power to transform one into that which one chooses. But only for one who knows the key. Sooner or later, all others will be destroyed.”

Melia’s eyes fluttered open. “Of course,” she said, the sorrow gone from her voice. “He lacks the key to Krondisar. And without it he cannot become what he seeks.”

Tome nodded. “That is why the
krondrim
are flawed as they are, and why so many perish before completing the transformation Dakarreth has chosen for them. Without the key, Dakarreth cannot truly unlock all the powers of Krondisar.”

Lirith glanced at Falken. “Did not the man we saw at the border of Perridon—the Spider—speak of a key?”

The bard returned her gaze. “That’s right. He talked about meeting a Burnt One who could still speak, and who claimed to be seeking the key to fire. You have a good memory.”

The Tolorian woman nodded, pressing her hands against her knees through the fabric of her riding gown.

“That must be the purpose of the
krondrim,”
Beltan said. The blond knight had sat silently on the edge of the circle, but now with stiff motions he drew closer to the others. “Their movements have always been best explained as a kind of search. Now I guess we know what it is they’re searching for.”

“I believe you are correct, Sir Knight,” Tome said. “That is why Dakarreth created the Burning Plague—to create an army of slaves to seek and find the key to Krondisar.”

Travis licked his lips. “There was another who talked about a key.”

All eyes turned toward him. Travis took a breath, then he spoke of the words the man in black—the runelord Mindroth—had uttered in the Mine Shaft.

Yes, it is you to whom I must give the key.…

He finished to silence and the crackling of flames.

At last Tome spoke. “And did he give it to you?”

“What?”

“The key. Did Mindroth give it to you?”

Travis hunched down. “No. All he said was, ‘Beware—it will consume you.’ Then … then he burned.”

A wind blew out of the night, stirring the fire, and sending crimson sparks up into the sky to wink among the stars.

Falken leaned back from the fire. “Well, I think we know what we need to do now. We’ve got to keep Dakarreth from finding the key to Krondisar.”

“But how will we find him in time?” Melia said.

Tome spoke in a low voice. “You will find him in the Keep of Fire.”

Beltan sat up straight. “The Keep of Fire?”

The old man frowned. “Yes—the place where Dakarreth has hidden Krondisar. I have learned that
the Keep lies in the Barrens, to the north and east of Spardis. But there is something else to your question, Sir Knight. What is it?”

Beltan did not answer. Instead, Falken spoke. “It was something the dragon Sfithrisir said.”

Travis turned to find Grace already looking at him. She tightened her grip on his hand.

Tome’s shaggy eyebrows drew down in a scowl. “And I trust you know to be wary of the wisdom of dragons, Falken.”

“But they speak the truth, don’t they?” Beltan whispered, almost more to himself than the old man.

“No,” Tome said, “the dragons speak
their
truth.”

Beltan shook his head, but said nothing more.

“Thank you, Tome,” Melia said. Tira had climbed into her lap, and now the lady stroked the girl’s hair as Tira stared into the fire. “This knowledge will help us. Although in a way I feel I should have known all of it sooner. Dakarreth was ever cruel and petty, even before the Pale King used the Imsari to bind the Necromancers to him.”