by Mark Anthony
“Is it really over, Grace?” He reached inside his cloak, as if for the iron box he kept hidden there.
Grace touched the sword belted at her hip. Fellring. It felt heavy and good at her side, as if she had always worn it. “No, I suppose it isn't.”
“Well, at least we've made it this far.”
They rode in silence until they reached the track that spiraled up the hill toward the castle. Falken and Durge still rode ahead. Grace turned in the saddle to see how the others fared.
Lirith and Sareth rode not far behind, their horses close, their heads bent toward one another. As she had many times on the journey, Grace found herself wondering what exactly had happened to Travis and the others in Castle City. They had told the story of course—how they had found themselves in the Colorado town in the year 1883, and how a sorcerer had followed them through the gate—but Grace suspected there were some things they didn't speak of. For one thing, Lirith and Sareth's love was clear; they made no attempt to hide it anymore. Yet it was fragile, like a bauble made of spun glass.
We can never be as one, Lirith had told Grace. But was the witch talking about the laws of Sareth's people—the Mournish—which forbid a man to marry outside the clan? Or was something else keeping her and Sareth apart?
Behind Lirith and Sareth, Beltan and Vani brought up the rear of the party. Here was another mystery. While there was still an uneasiness between the blond knight and the golden-eyed assassin, they had left their animosity behind on Sindar's ship. Something had happened to them there. Only what?
On the voyage to Toringarth, it had been all Grace could do to keep Beltan and Vani from throttling one another. Now the big knight seemed curiously, awkwardly protective of her. More than once Grace had seen him bring Vani a cup of maddok when he thought the others weren't looking, or lay a cloak over her as she slept. Nor did she seem to resist such gestures.
After a while, it occurred to Grace that Vani might be ill. While the rest of them were always ravenous after a long day of walking, devouring what scant foodstuffs they had scrounged, the T'gol seemed to have little appetite, and often her coppery skin was tinged with green. However, one night when she asked Vani if she could examine her, the assassin had stared, a look of horror on her face, and had told Grace to leave her alone.
As they journeyed, both Vani and Beltan cast frequent glances at Travis, their expressions fond and longing. All the same, both of them seemed unwilling to spend too much time near him. Each time Travis tried to draw close to Beltan, the blond knight would retreat, and Vani did the same. Travis would smile at them, but Grace knew by the slump of his shoulders that their behavior wounded and confused him.
Then again, Travis spent much of his time lost in thought, head bowed over the box that held the Stones. Like Grace, he had other things to worry about. She coiled her hand around Fellring's hilt, enjoying the way her fingers fit against the grip the Little People had fashioned for the sword.
Grace sighed, as she always did when she thought of the silver-eyed man, Sindar. Except he hadn't really been a man. Once he regained his memories, he had remembered his true nature and purpose; he transformed into a being of light—a fairy—and threw himself upon the blade Fellring, his blood making it whole once more.
A thousand years ago, King Ulther had wielded the sword against the Pale King, cleaving Berash's iron heart and defeating him, even as the sword itself was shattered. Now the Pale King gathered his power once again, and Fellring had been forged anew. Grace tightened her fingers around the hilt. According to Falken, only one descended of Ulther and the royal line of Malachor could wield the sword.
You know what he's going to ask you to do, Grace.
And could she? Before she could answer that question, there was a whinny ahead as Falken's horse reared onto its hind legs. What had spooked it? The road to the castle was empty save for a few peasants trudging up the slope, pushing carts of peat or carrying bundles of firewood. Except one of the peasants—a man in a grimy tunic—was heading down the road, moving as if in a great hurry.
Durge gripped the bridle of Falken's horse, helping the bard regain control. “Watch where you're going, man!” Falken shouted after the peasant. “You might have been trampled.”
If the man had heard Falken, he didn't show it. Grace caught a glimpse of him as he passed by. He was taller than most peasants she had seen on Eldh—their growth was usually stunted by malnutrition—and given his clear skin he seemed to have escaped the usual childhood diseases. The man hurried past and was gone.
“Are you all right?” Grace said as she caught up to Falken and Durge.
“I am, thanks to Durge,” Falken said. “I wonder where that fellow was going in such a hurry.”
“The poor man was probably just trying to make his escape,” Beltan said with a laugh as he and Vani rode up, along with Lirith and Sareth.
The blond knight pointed up the road. A group of people had appeared before the castle gate. There were five of them standing in front of a small band of knights: a powerful, black-bearded man, a diminutive woman in a blue kirtle, a taller woman with eyes the same blue as the banners that flew above the keep, a slender young man with a bored look on his face, and a red-haired man who wore no armor but carried himself like a knight all the same.
Travis glanced at Grace. “It looks as if someone in the castle knew we were coming.”
“No wonder that man was fleeing,” Beltan said with a grin. “I doubt he expected to run into the king.”
Falken scratched his beard. He had let it grow on the journey; it was half-silver. “My guess is he's been hunting on the king's lands without permission. Then he gets to the castle gates and finds the king waiting for him. One look, and the poor man turned and ran in fright.”
Grace nodded. King Boreas had that sort of effect on people. Herself included. While the other peasants weren't running, they had all stopped dead in their tracks and were kneeling in the muck.
“Let's go say hello,” Beltan said.
“Wait a moment.” Durge climbed down, retrieved something from the muck, and mounted his horse again. “I believe that peasant dropped this.” He held a small leather sack about the size of a money pouch.
“That could be his life savings,” Lirith said. “He could be working to buy his freedom.”
Sareth gave her a concerned look. “Do you really think so, beshala? If so, it would be a crime not to return it.”
“I agree,” Durge rumbled. However, the peasant man had vanished.
“You'll have to return it to him later,” Beltan said. “I really don't think we should keep my uncle waiting.”
“Or Melia,” Falken said.
They urged their horses into a trot. Grace's heart soared as she saw the faces of her friends. Aryn looked more beautiful than ever, and older as well. She stood beside Melia, who appeared as regal and ageless as ever, though she clapped her hands together in a display of youthful enthusiasm as the riders drew near. Sir Tarus wore a broad grin, and even King Boreas looked fiercely happy, a toothy smile showing through his black beard.
The only one who wasn't smiling was the slender young man clad all in black. Grace had never seen him before, but all the same she recognized him. Teravian would never be powerfully built like his father, the king of Calavan, and his features were finer, but there was the same sharp, compelling look to his face. At the moment, though, that face was marred by a sullen look. Teravian let out a bored sigh and started to look away—then stopped. His eyes shone, locked on Lirith.
They brought their horses to a halt. Grace didn't wait for Durge to help her, but instead slid from the saddle and raced forward.
“Aryn!” She caught the baroness in a tight hug. The young woman returned the embrace with her left arm.
“Grace, you're here—you're really here!”
Talking long distance over the Weirding had been wonderful, but it couldn't compare to this—the real, living touch of someone she loved.
Grace was awa
re of the others crowding around. Falken was whirling Melia in an embrace, and Melia was actually laughing. She heard Boreas's booming voice, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Sir Tarus hesitate, then grip Beltan's arms, his expression full of warmth.
For so long they had all been apart, lost in different lands and on different worlds. Now, at last, they were all where they belonged—here, together. For that moment, Grace let herself believe they would never be apart again.
At last, reluctantly, she pulled away from Aryn and turned to greet the king.
“It's about time you paid your obeisance, my lady,” Boreas said with a snort, hands on his hips.
“Greetings, Your Majesty.” Grace curtsied, and with only a slight wobble. When she rose, she was surprised to see the king's smile gone and a thoughtful look in his eyes. “What is it, Your Majesty?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice gruff, “save that I'm not certain it's you who should be paying obeisance. Your Majesty.” He started to move, as if he would kneel before her.
Grace stared, horror flooding her. Boreas was so bold, so proud. He was a king, and she didn't believe there was a stronger man on this or any world. He should never bow before her, no matter what dead kingdom she was supposedly the queen of.
She opened her mouth to stop him, but her words were lost in a peal of thunder.
A shock wave hit her, and a ringing sounded in her ears, shrill as a siren, transporting her for a moment back to the Emergency Department at Denver Memorial Hospital. How many times had she heard that wail approaching as she stood in the ambulance entrance, waiting to put broken people back together? The lightning must have hit close.
Except, last she noticed, the sky had been clear.
Another deafening boom ripped through the air, and it wasn't thunder. She heard cries of dismay, and Beltan swore an oath as he pointed. However, by then Grace already saw it: A white cloud of dust and smoke billowed up from the base of the castle's southeastern tower. It shuddered once, then with beautiful slowness slumped and fell over, sliding down the hill in a heap of rubble.
5.
Travis couldn't hear.
People were shouting all around him, but their mouths moved in silence. A suffocating pall enveloped him, like the time he was bound to the null stone outside the Gray Tower of the Runespeakers, and ancient magic had kept him from speaking the runes that would free him.
Beltan and Durge grabbed for the reins of the horses, which were stamping and bucking. Lirith hurried over, moving among the animals, pressing a hand against their necks. As she touched them, the horses grew calmer, though their eyes were still wild. Boreas seemed to be shouting at the guardsmen. Travis couldn't hear what he was saying, though it seemed the men did, for they turned and dashed back through the castle gate, Sir Tarus with them. The king turned around, and his expression was not one of confusion or shock, but one of fury.
The rest of them watched, motionless, as the remains of the stone tower careened down the slope of the hill on which Calavere was built. Although he appeared as surprised as anyone, there was a look of fascination on Prince Teravian's face. Aryn's eyes were shut, but whether it was because she could not bear to witness this sight, or for some other purpose, Travis didn't know.
Like a rockslide in the Colorado mountains, the wreckage of the tower poured over a stretch of the road that led up to the castle. As far as Travis could tell, no one was caught in its path. A few stray blocks of stone spun down the hillside, then all was still. Travis felt a sharp pang in his gut. He had once studied with the runespeakers Rin and Jemis in that tower. Now it was gone.
The others began moving toward the gates, following after Tarus and the guards, and Beltan pulled at Travis's arm. He was saying something, though Travis couldn't make out the knight's words over the ringing in his ears. The sound of the explosion must have deafened him, along with the crash of the wreckage. Only now his hearing was returning, and when Beltan spoke again Travis barely made out his shouted words.
“I've got to go with Tarus to see what happened. Do you want to stay out here?”
Travis shook his head. “I'm coming with you.”
So was everyone else. Travis found himself next to Grace as they jogged beneath the raised portcullis, through a tunnel, and into the castle's lower bailey. Lords, ladies, peasants, and merchants alike stood frozen in the midst of their comings and goings, staring at the column of smoke and dust that rose into the sky where a tower had stood moments ago.
“What's happening, Grace?” Travis said, trying not to shout even though it was hard to hear his own words.
“I don't know.” Tira's arms seemed welded around her neck. “As far as I know, castles don't just blow up. What could cause that kind of explosion?”
“Grain?” Travis said, trying to think over the ringing in his ears. “Back when I was a kid in Illinois, a silo exploded at the farm down the road. The grain dust hanging on the air was so thick it was combustible. A spark from a frayed wire set it off.” Except the fallen spire had been the tower of the castle's runespeakers, not a grain tower. And he doubted there had been any electrical wiring inside.
Grace's face was pale, determined. “It doesn't matter what caused it. There could be people injured. I've got to go see.” Gently, deliberately, she set Tira on the ground. “Stay close to Melia.”
Travis gripped her arm. “It could be dangerous. There could still be falling stones.”
Before Grace could protest, a stooped figure limped across the bailey toward them, white hair fluttering. “Your Majesty! You must come quickly! There's been—”
“I know, Lord Farvel,” Boreas growled. “I have eyes—I saw the tower fall. Do you know anything about it?”
“No, Your Majesty. I've sent guards to investigate.”
“As have I, and Sir Tarus is with them. We will get to the bottom of this.” The king turned toward Beltan. “Nephew, I want you and Sir Durge to see if—”
The king's words were lost as another explosion sundered air and stone. The concussion was instantaneous, slapping Travis to the ground next to Grace. The sky went dark, then sharp fragments of stone began falling in a deadly hail. Before he could scramble to his feet, a crushing weight landed on top of him.
At first he thought it was a rock, pressing the life out of him. Then he groped, feeling hard muscles, and realized it was Durge. The Embarran had thrown his body over Travis and Grace, protecting them from the falling stone.
Travis clenched his jaw, waiting for the second explosion. Hadn't there been two when the runespeakers' spire fell? However, the second report never came. The sound of thunder rolled away; the ping of falling stones slowed and ceased. For an awful moment there was silence. Then a new sound rose on the air all around: wails of pain and confusion.
Travis couldn't breathe. Durge wasn't a rock, but he was every bit as solid as one.
“Durge,” Grace said. “Off.”
The knight scrambled up, then reached down to help Grace stand; her riding gown was caked with mud. She searched around, looking for Tira, but the girl was safe, clinging to Melia's skirt. Travis staggered to his feet. He might have fallen back down, but strong hands gripped him.
“Are you injured?” Vani said, her gold eyes holding him as surely as her hands. Her black leathers were spotless, as if she had simply dodged the falling debris.
“I'm fine. What about everyone else?”
Travis turned. One of the blocky guard towers that stood above the castle gate tilted at an odd angle. A hole yawned in its side like a mouth full of broken teeth; black smoke poured out its upper windows as if it were a chimney. The tunnel through which all of them had run just moments ago was now half-filled with rubble. If they had been in there . . .
He tried not to think about it. Most of them were scuffed and battered, and Lord Farvel was trembling and could not keep his feet without Falken's assistance. However, after a moment, it became clear the only one who was actually hurt was King Boreas.
�
��It's nothing,” the king said with a grunt as Grace probed the rapidly growing lump on the top of his head. Blood matted his black hair. “It was a pebble, that's all. You needn't fuss.”
The king's credibility was immediately countered by the way his knees buckled. Beltan caught him under the armpits to keep him from falling.
“You could have a concussion,” Grace said, and Travis doubted she noticed that she had forgotten to call him Your Majesty. She shut her eyes, then opened them again. “In fact, you do. It's mild. You're not in serious danger—as long as you lie still and do nothing.”
Boreas started to protest, only then he doubled over and vomited into the muck.
“You there!” Beltan called to a trio of guardsmen running toward them. “Help the king return to the keep.” Beltan turned toward Teravian, who stood nearby, shoulders hunched. “Your Highness, there are likely to be intruders in the castle. You must guard the king. Take him to his chamber, summon more men. Whatever you do, protect him with your life.”
These words seemed to astonish the young prince, but after a moment he nodded and squared his shoulders, and it seemed a light ignited in his dark eyes. “I'll protect him, cousin.” He moved to Boreas, taking Beltan's place. “Come, Father.”
“Away, boy. I must see to my people.”
“This is a matter for your warriors now. You must leave it to them.”
“Yes, my warriors . . .” His eyelids fluttered.
“Keep close watch on him, Your Highness,” Grace said. “Make him drink water. And don't let him fall asleep.”
Teravian nodded, and Boreas did not protest further as the prince led him toward the arch to the upper bailey. The men-at-arms followed, bearing Lord Farvel with them.
Grace glanced at Melia. “Will you watch Tira?”
The amber-eyed lady picked up the girl, and Tira laid her head on Melia's shoulder. Grace moved toward the ruined gates, threading her way through the crowd. Castle folk ran every which way, their faces white with dust, some of them smeared with blood.