The Keep of Fire (60 page)

Durge frowned. “You speak almost as if you knew him personally, Lady Melia.”

Her amber eyes flashed. “I did know him.”

Travis wasn’t certain how he made the connection. Maybe it was the result of a hundred other clues—things Melia had said and done—that, with this final piece, finally formed a clear and stunning picture: one he never could have expected, and yet which made perfect sense.

“You,” he said, staring at Melia across the dancing flames. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“One of who?” Durge rumbled.

“One of the Nine.” Before the others could reply, Travis turned his eyes toward the old man in the white robe. “And you, too. Melia said you were old friends.” Mad laughter rose in his throat. “She just didn’t say
how
old.”

Aryn shook her head. “What are you talking about, Travis?”

“They’re gods, Aryn. Or they were. Until they came to Eldh to fight the Necromancers.”

The baroness’s blue eyes went wide. She looked to Falken. After a long moment he nodded—as did Beltan and Lirith.

“Why, Melia?” Travis choked on the words but got them out anyway. “Why didn’t you ever tell us who you were?”

“And have you told me who you really are, dear?”

He pounded a fist against his knee. No, that wasn’t good enough. “Falken, why didn’t you say something?”

Melia’s lips coiled in a smile, although it was a sad expression. “But Falken has his own secrets, dear. After all, I am not the only one who knew Dakarreth.”

Travis gaped at the bard. “What does she mean? How could you have known Dakarreth?”

Falken was silent so long Travis thought he would never answer. Then the bard lifted his black-gloved hand. “It was Dakarreth who did this to me.”

All gazed at the bard, unable to speak. Falken’s voice was as bitter as poison.

“It was as a reward, you see, that he took my hand. And as a reminder. For the part I played unwittingly at his bidding—the hand I had in the death of a kingdom.”

“Of what kingdom do you speak, Falken?” Durge said in a soft voice.

The bard clenched his gloved hand into a fist and spoke a single, shattered word. “Malachor.”

Melia laid her hand over his fist, her eyes shining with sorrow. “You mustn’t blame yourself, dear.”

Falken lowered his hand. “No, that’s for others to do.”

Aryn twisted the fabric of her gown into a knot
with her left hand. “But this can’t be. Malachor fell seven centuries ago.”

“Yes,” Tome said. “It did.”

Travis no longer felt shock. “Of course. Falken of Malachor. That was how you introduced yourself to me in the Winter Wood. Which means you re—”

“Seven-hundred-and-forty-two years old,” the bard said with a mirthless laugh. “And does it make you feel better to know the number?”

“But how?” Grace said simply.

Falken shrugged. “That was part of Dakarreth’s reward for me as well. That I never die, so that I might forever remember what deeds were wrought by the hand I had lost.”

Melia circled her arms around the bard, and the two bowed their heads together as Tome watched them, his gold eyes gleaming with tears.

A shard of sorrow pierced Travis’s heart … then he discarded it. Who were these people—no, these
beings
—to use them all like this? They were worse than Sfithrisir. Like Duratek, the dragon had not concealed what it was from them. Instead Melia and Falken were like the Seekers, revealing only that which would make others do exactly the things they wanted.

Grace gazed at him with startled eyes. “Travis, what is it?”

He leaped to his feet, glaring at the bard and the amber-eyed lady, his voice a snarl. “So, what other secrets have you hidden from us?”

Melia looked up, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Then she bowed her head again, leaning against Falken, and spoke in a voice that was filled, not with sadness or anger, but simply weariness.

“Leave us alone, Travis. Please. Just leave us alone.”

Like water from a broken flask, the anger poured out of him, leaving him hollow and brittle. He sank
back to the ground and stared at the pale faces of the others. Then a hand touched his, and he looked up into green-gold eyes.

“It’s all right, Travis,” Grace said quietly. “It’s still Melia and Falken.”

I know
, he wanted to say to her.
But is it still me?

Instead he lay down, rested his head in her lap, and wept.

From Shandis’s back, Grace surveyed the castle that thrust upward from the misty waters of the lake below.

Well, I guess I made it here after all, Boreas
.

She reached inside her cloak and fingered the stillcrisp parchment folded inside a pocket. It seemed an age since Boreas had given her the letter of endorsement. On the journey, she had seen things and done things that she had never—could never have—imagined. And she had all but forgotten the mission given to her by King Boreas that summer morning in Calavere, to act as his spy in Castle Spardis. Yet, in the end, their travels had brought her here, right where she was supposed to be, and right on time.

Minus two knights and one boy, Grace
.

Her heart stumbled in mid-beat. Had it been worth it? Had this mission been worth the deaths of Kalleth and Meridar? And that of Daynen?

But Grace knew that none of it—their journey, saving Travis, the task Boreas had given her—would be worth anything if they did not find a way to stop Dakarreth from gaining the key to the Stone of Fire. Yet Grace hardly even believed in gods. How was she supposed to fight one?

But you’re not going to fight him, Grace. Not you
and not Travis. Falken and Melia are traveling to the Keep of Fire, and they’re going to face Dakarreth. Alone
.

While Falken and Melia had been adamant about this point when they discussed it that morning, Beltan had spoken with a vehemence Grace had never witnessed before, his voice hard and unmalleable as the sword at his hip.

“You’re not going into the Barrens, Grace. And neither is Travis. Do you understand?”

Both stared at the blond knight, too stunned to speak.

Beltan crossed his arms over the broad expanse of his chest. “The dragon said both of you would die if you went to the Keep of Fire. So you’re not going. Instead you’re staying in Spardis where I can keep watch over you.”

Grace knew she shouldn’t speak the words, but they escaped her all the same. “And what of Lady Melia?”

Beltan’s green eyes hardened, but Melia stepped forward, laying a slender hand on his arm.

“I have released Sir Beltan from his duties as my Knight Protector.”

The expression on the knight’s face gave way to shock as he looked at Melia.

“For the moment,” she said crisply, meeting his eyes. Then she regarded Grace again. “It is best that Falken and I make this journey ourselves, dear. We will be traveling to places where … mortals cannot tread. All of you can remain safely in Spardis until we return.”

If you return
, Grace added to herself, but she didn’t speak the words. For if Melia and Falken failed, it didn’t matter what any of them did. The fire would find them all.

Now, from the back of his jet stallion, Falken pointed toward the castle. “Shall we?”

Aryn clutched her cloak around her shoulders. “Yes, let’s. It will be good to get out of this chill and damp.”

Grace huddled inside her own cloak. More than once she had been tempted to fling the garment from the back of her horse as they rode across the ever-hotter expanses of Perridon. However, that afternoon as they drew near the castle, the temperature plunged, and moisture beaded like fine pearls on every surface. This was Perridon as Grace had imagined it: shrouded in cool fog and mystery.

Durge led the way down the slope, and the others followed. Even were it not for the shifting fog, Grace knew it would be no easy feat to count the towers of Spardis. Great and small, fat and slender, soaring and squat: They crowded on the island in the middle of the dull silver lake.

As they rode, Grace guided Shandis toward Melia’s pale mare. There was something she wanted to know.

“Where did he go, Melia? Tome, I mean.”

Melia kept her gaze on the castle ahead. “He had other things to attend to, dear. And this is not a task for one such as Tome. He was ever the gentlest of our kind.”

Grace shivered, and not only from the mist.
Our kind. One of the Nine, she means
. She stared at the regal lady, then her eyes moved to the bard who rode nearby. Knowing the truth about Melia and Falken had changed everything. They were immortal—Grace could never forget that. Yet it changed nothing as well. Just because Grace knew something about them she hadn’t before, it didn’t mean the two were any different. If the knowledge had changed anyone, it was Grace.

They reached the causeway that spanned the flat surface of the lake, then guided their horses onto it, hooves clopping against stone. The fog closed in, concealing the water, and Grace had the odd sensation
that they were crossing a bridge over a sea of clouds. Then the fog parted, and an expanse of ironbound wood loomed before them.

Lirith glanced at Falken. “Is it usual for the gates to be closed by day?”

“In Spardis it is,” the bard said with a laugh. “Suspicion is the rule, not the exception.”

Durge glowered at the closed gates. “And how are we to gain entry?”

“We knock,” Melia said. She dismounted and glided toward the gate.

Falken, Grace, and Aryn followed after Melia while the others remained with the horses. However, knocking was not necessary, for a small grille opened in the gate as they drew near.

“Begone!” a voice rumbled. “You are not welcome here!”

Falken gave Melia a wolfish grin. “I like it here. They seem friendly.”

“So I noticed,” she said.

They stopped before the gate. Through the small opening, Grace glimpsed a steel helmet and a pair of decidedly unfriendly eyes.

“I am Falken Blackhand,” the bard said. “With me is the Lady Melia, Her Highness Aryn, Baroness of Elsandry, and Her Radiance Grace, Duchess of Beckett. We beg hospitality of the king.”

The eyes widened at the bard’s words, then grew hard again. “I cannot grant your request, Lord Falken. There is no king in Perridon, and the regent has ordered the gates of the castle be sealed as a ward against plague. You must go.”

Grace had to admit, it was a reasonable order—self-imposed quarantine to avoid contagion. Still, they had to get into the castle. She reached into her cloak and pulled out the folded parchment.

“I have a letter of endorsement from King Boreas. He has asked that you—”

“I do not serve King Boreas,” the voice behind the gate said, angrier now. “I have told you—the regent has forbidden any to enter Spardis until his return. Now go.”

Grace opened her mouth, but Melia drifted past her. Her amber eyes glowed beneath half-closed lids. “But the regent is expecting us,” she said in a soothing voice.

A pause, then the voice spoke from behind the door—duller now. “The regent is expecting you.…”

“We are his guests,” Melia said.

“Yes, you are his guests.…”

“Good,” Melia said. “Now, you must open the gates to us, lest the regent be displeased with you.”

Terror flooded the eyes beneath the helmet. “No! The regent must not be displeased!”

The small opening snapped shut, then there was a grinding noise, and a larger portal set into the gates opened. The bard motioned to the others, who followed after with the horses.

Falken leaned close to Melia as they stepped through the doorway. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist tampering with him.”

“I didn’t tamper,” she said. “I merely nudged him toward the only logical conclusion.”

“Nudge. Tamper. I don’t see the difference.”

“The difference is that I got us in, and you didn’t.”

Before Falken could reply, Melia proceeded through the gate, chin high.

The guard—clad in armor of some dark, polished metal—appeared before them. He gave a precise bow. “You may leave the horses here—I assure you your steeds will be well taken care of. Now, if you will follow, I will take you to the great hall and the chamberlain at once.”

“Of course you will, dear,” Melia said.

If the guard chose the most direct route to the great
hall in his urgency, Grace wouldn’t have known it. This seemed more maze than castle, and the mist didn’t help. She quickly lost all sense of direction as they wove among the towers, passed through narrow archways, and crossed slender bridges.

Melia groaned as they walked. “The Perridoners have to make everything complicated, don’t they?”

Falken shrugged. “I think it’s something in the water.”

At last the guard pushed open a set of double doors, and they entered a space that looked much like the great hall of Calavere. Rushes covered the floor, and high, tapestry-draped walls rose to smoke-blackened beams. At the far end of the hall was a dais, atop which was an ornately carved chair, empty at the moment. However, another chair had been set on the lowest step of the dais, and this was occupied by a small, sunken-chested man whose eyes—small and darting in his pockmarked face—reminded Grace of the pet ferret a medical student had once brought to the hospital only to lose it in the ventilation system.

The guard presented them, and at first the chamberlain—whose name was Lord Siferd—was enraged that they had been allowed into the castle. However, after a brief conversation with Melia, Siferd’s attitude improved remarkably.

“You must forgive me,” he said, quivering before Melia. “I had no idea I had been brought such exalted guests. Be assured those responsible will be punished. Severely.” Siferd cast a withering glance at the guard, whose eyes bulged.

“Not too severely,” Melia said, laying a gentle hand on the chamberlain’s arm.

His head bobbed. “Of course, my lady.”

Melia’s smile was more than a little smug.

Grace approached the chamberlain. She might as well not waste any time getting started. “Lord Siferd, we were told the regent is away.”

“Yes, my lady, it’s true. I doubt you are aware, but there have been rumors of plague in some of the more remote regions of the Dominion. The regent has ridden forth to see what he might do for the people.” He clasped a hand to his concave chest. “Such a brave and kindly man he is.”