The Keep of Fire (61 page)

“I’m sure,” Grace said. “But in the meantime, might we see Queen Inara?”

Siferd sighed. “Alas, no. The queen is in seclusion while she mourns the loss of her husband, King Persard.”

Grace chewed her lip. That was bad news. She had wanted to speak to the queen. Young though she was, Grace knew Inara might have insights into the political situation here.

“What of Duke Falderan or Lord Sul?” she said. “Might I see one of them?”

“Once more, I fear I must disappoint you, my lady. After the king’s death, Lord Sul departed for his home in the north of Perridon. And while Duke Falderan is in residence here at Spardis, he fell gravely ill this spring and is receiving no visitors.”

Grace couldn’t suppress a frown. Why was everyone she wanted to talk with unavailable? But then, she should have known Inara would still be in mourning. It had been less than two months since her husband’s death. And it was logical that Lord Sul had returned to his home; no doubt the new regent had counselors of his own. As for Falderan falling ill—Grace of all people knew the high likelihood of catching a disease on this world. There was the Burning Plague, after all.

Except, from what she had seen—and from the guard’s words at the gate—it was clear that the Burning Plague had not yet reached Spardis. But that was strange, for all the evidence had pointed to Spardis as the epicenter of the pandemic.

Grace let out a breath. King Boreas had told her to
expect mysteries in Castle Spardis, and she had found them. At least she wouldn’t want for things to do once Melia and Falken left.

Siferd clapped his hands, turning from Grace to regard the others. “Well, if there are no more questions, I shall have rooms prepared for you—the finest in all of Spardis.” He bowed to Melia repeatedly, then scurried from the great hall.

Falken glanced at the amber-eyed lady. “You know, you really have to teach me that trick sometime.”

“Not on your life,” Melia said.

“You have to admit,” Grace said to Travis, glancing back at the bard and the amber-eyed lady across the great hall, “former goddesses and immortal bards do have their uses. I think the poor chamberlain’s feet were hardly touching the floor when he left to go find rooms for us.”

Travis smiled at Grace—he appreciated what she was trying to do—but he wasn’t certain he was ready to joke about it. Not just yet, anyway. His smile dissipated.

She hesitated, then touched his shoulder. “We’re the ones who are different you know, not them. They didn’t change just by telling us who they really are.”

“I know, Grace.” He looked down at his hands. “Believe me, I know. I just need a little time to get used to it, that’s all.”

She folded her arms over her chest and turned away. “I suppose it’s easier for me, really. In a way, everyone’s like a stranger to me. Maybe that makes it harder to be surprised by anything I learn about other people.”

A needle pricked Travis’s heart. He took a step toward her. “Am I a stranger to you, Grace?”

She nodded, her back still turned to him. “But I love you, Travis.”

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak the words he wanted more than anything to say—

I love you, too, Grace
.

—she walked away across the great hall, toward Lirith and Ayrn, who sat on a bench with Tira.

Travis sighed, then turned and moved to the saddlebags heaped in a corner. Durge and Beltan had left to make certain the horses had been properly stabled. He supposed he could be useful by organizing the group’s possessions. He knelt to begin sorting through the foodstuffs—then snatched his hand back too late to avoid a swipe of four needle-sharp claws.

“I really don’t know what you have against me,” he said in a sulky voice, clutching his wounded hand.

The black kitten licked its whiskers and returned to the nap it had been taking in one of the saddlebags. Travis edged away from the creature. As he moved, a slender shape caught his eye. He stood up, gripping the runestaff All-master Oragien had given him.

The staff was still wrapped tightly in felt—Travis had not uncovered it on the journey. There hadn’t been much time for study, he told himself, although he knew that wasn’t the true reason he hadn’t examined it. Even now he could feel it—muted through the thick felt, but unmistakable—like a faint vibration resonating along the shaft. Power.

Just what you need, Travis. Another way to hurt people
.

He started to set the runestaff back down.

“Are you ever going to uncover it?” a voice said behind him.

He turned, clutching the staff. “Melia. I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Of course not, dear.” The lady glided closer. “You
can’t keep it hidden forever, you know. Someday you’ll have to bring it into the light and see what has been given you.”

He tightened his fingers around the staff. “I didn’t ask for it, Melia. I didn’t want it.”

“And does that make a difference?”

She was right, of course. He ran his fingers over the felt, wondering what secrets would be revealed when he removed it.

“I’m so sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, dear.”

He looked up, and his heart caught in his throat. It seemed impossible that one such as she should weep for him, but now tears shone in her eyes. Suddenly his earlier anger seemed selfish and stupid.

“But you did, Melia. You did tell me. And that’s all that counts.”

“No, we should have told you before we did. I see now how it wounded you that we didn’t.” A sad smile touched her lips. “I suppose we thought we were protecting you.”

He almost laughed. Wasn’t that why he kept his own power under wraps, just like the runestaff? To protect people? Yes, Melia and Falken had lied. Just like Deirdre and the Seekers had. But at least none of them had used the truth to harm. Like the dragon did. Like Duratek. And which of them was Travis like? Melia said he couldn’t keep things hidden forever. But if he let his power into the light and used it—knowing as he did that it could hurt others—how was he any less a monster than Sfithrisir?

An icy blade pierced the fog that clouded his mind, bringing with it clear understanding. Yes, there was another way after all.…

A shadow touched Melia’s brow. “Travis, your face—what’s wrong?”

He was spared having to speak a lie of his own, for at that moment Beltan and Durge burst through the
doors of the great hall, their mail shirts chiming in chorus.

Falken stepped toward them. “What is it? Is something wrong with the horses?”

Beltan snorted. “No, despite Durge’s predictions, they’re just fine. It’s the queen.”

Grace stood. “The queen? You mean Inara?”

“We glimpsed her a moment ago,” Durge said. “She was walking across the inner bailey with her ladies-in-waiting.”

In three long strides, Beltan covered the distance to a shuttered window. “If I’ve got any sense of direction left at all after mucking around this rattrap of a castle, I think we’ll be able to see her from here. If any of you want to get a look at her, that is.”

Together they clustered around the window. Travis peered over the heads of the others, into the narrow courtyard below. At first all he could see was a lone peasant hauling a cart of peat across the cobbles. Then a slight figure veiled in black drifted into view, her head bowed. Three woman followed behind, one of them carrying a wriggling bundle wrapped in white.

“That must be her son, Perseth,” Falken said.

Aryn sighed. “She looks so sad. Do you suppose she really loved King Persard after all?”

Durge let out a rumbling breath. “It is impossible that one so fair in the spring of life could truly love a man well into his winter.”

“No, I can believe it,” Lirith said quietly. “The heart is a mysterious artifact.”

Durge did not look at the witch but only stared out the window.

Grace shook her head. “I wish we could talk to her. There’s so much I need to ask her about the—
Tira!”

As Grace spoke, the barefoot girl had clambered past her, hopping onto the low windowsill. Evading
Grace’s grasping hands, Tira slipped through the window and onto the ledge beyond. The sound of Grace’s shout echoed off stone walls. Below, the queen came to a halt, then turned her veiled face upward.

Tira grinned and waved at her.

The ladies-in-waiting stared up in round-mouthed shock. Queen Inara hesitated, then lifted her hand in a tentative wave. Grace finally got her hands around the elusive girl and hauled her back in through the window. Below, the queen and her entourage continued on their way, passing out of sight.

Beltan closed the shutters as they stepped away from the window. Grace hugged Tira to her chest.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “Do you understand me?”

Tira did not struggle. Instead she shut her eyes and leaned her scarred face against Grace’s breast.

“Is something amiss, my lords, my ladies?”

They looked up to see Lord Siferd walking across the great hall. Behind him came a servingman bearing a tray of pewter goblets.

Melia drifted forward. “No, my lord. All is well.”

The chamberlain beamed and bowed low. “Your rooms are nearly ready, fair lady. I beg your patience for just a short time more. Please, refresh yourself while you wait.”

The chamberlain scurried from the hall again, and the servant approached. Each of them took a cup of pale wine from the tray. Travis sighed as he drank. He was thirsty, and the wine was crisp, cool, and just slightly sweet.

Beltan grunted as he set his cup back down. “It’s not ale, but I could get used to it.” He picked up two more goblets as the servingman stared with wide eyes.

Most of them sat as they waited for the chamberlain’s return, while a few wandered the great hall or
explored side doors that opened on small antechambers. Travis sat on a bench, staring into his wine cup. Could he really do what he intended? But there was no other way to be sure he would never accidentally hurt someone he cared about.

“What lies through that door, Travis?”

He glanced up. Melia approached the doorway next to the bench where he sat.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked.”

Melia tried the knob, and the door swung open. Her eyes glinted. “Well, I’ve always held that if the door’s not locked then it isn’t snooping.”

Travis grinned at her. He couldn’t argue with that. She opened the door and passed into the room beyond. Sighing, Travis bent back over his wine.

A gasp drifted through the open doorway, followed by a soft but clear voice.

“Oh, dear!”

A moment later came a soft thump followed by the clang of metal against stone.

Shock jerked Travis to his feet. He stared at the doorway, then dashed toward it. Beltan was already ahead of him. The two men came to a halt in a small room. Light from a high window illuminated scant objects: a chair, a table, and a marble bust on a pedestal that depicted a handsome man. However, none of those things held Travis’s eyes. He gazed down, and the blood drained from his heart.

A small figure in blue lay on the floor in a puddle of spilled wine. The goblet had rolled from her limp hand, and her eyes were shut in her ashen face.

“No!” Beltan’s cry echoed off stone. He fell to his knees beside the small, still form as the others rushed into the room.

“What is it?” Falken said from the doorway.

Travis turned around—he felt as brittle as glass—and met the bard’s eyes. “It’s Melia,” he said.

At dawn two days later they gathered beneath the shadows of many towers in the castle’s lower bailey. Grace clutched her cloak around her shoulders. After the sweltering heat of the journey east, she had yet to grow used to the chill that permeated the stones of Spardis.

Falken started to mount his black horse, then paused and regarded Grace with haunted blue eyes.

“You’ll take good care of her, won’t you, Grace?”

She spoke in a voice made steady and reassuring by years of practice. “I’ll do everything I can, Falken.”

He nodded, then swung up into the saddle.

“Are you prepared, my lady?” Durge said from his vantage astride Blackalock.

Lirith adjusted her riding gown over the withers of her palfrey, then nodded. “I am ready.”

Grace tried to swallow the lump in her throat but failed. She was the only one who had come to the outer bailey to see the three off on their journey. Beltan could not be parted from Melia’s bedside. Travis had stayed with the knight, and Aryn was looking after Tira. Grace knew she should have stayed as well, but she couldn’t let her friends leave without saying good-bye. Not when she knew that, if they indeed reached their destination, they might never return again.

Besides, she had instructed Travis to come find her if there was any change in Melia’s condition. Not that she expected any change. She still had no idea of the cause—no one had seen Melia fall, and there was no visible sign of any illness or trauma—but Melia had slipped into a deep coma.

Falken had wanted to go alone on this journey, of
course. Until last night he had been adamant that only he venture into the Barrens, to find the Keep of Fire, and to wrest Krondisar from the Necromancer before it was too late.

“I’m the only one who knows Dakarreth and the things he can do,” he said, pacing like a caged wolf in the chamber adjacent to where they had laid the small woman’s unconscious form. “Besides, you heard Sfithrisir. If either Travis or Grace goes to the Keep of Fire, they’ll die there.”

Lirith stepped toward him, her dark eyes intent. “The dragon spoke nothing of my going to the Keep of Fire.”

“Nor of me,” Durge said in a solemn voice.

Falken had opened his mouth, but at last all his arguments had been spent. Instead he had nodded, then turned away.

A wind sprang up, stirring the mist and catching Durge’s charcoal-gray cloak. “We should be going,” the knight said. “If we linger in the courtyard too long, the chamberlain is likely to see us preparing to depart.”

Melia had worked her trick almost too well on the chamberlain. Lord Siferd was now convinced they were important guests and friends of the regent, and no doubt he would protest any of them leaving the castle before the regent’s return.