by Mark Anthony
After that Travis was there again, and he held her hands in his own. He looked older than she remembered. There were lines she hadn't seen before around his mouth and eyes, but they made him look handsome and wise.
“How?” she said. “How can you possibly be here?”
His voice was soft with wonder. “I'm not sure I know myself, Grace. I'm not sure any of us do.”
“And is that true, Runebreaker?” Grisla said. She let out a cackle. “Or should I say, Worldmaker?”
Grace gave Travis a questioning look. He pulled his hands away from hers.
“Travis, what is it? What's happened to you?”
Grisla hobbled toward him. “I'll tell you what happened. He did it. He broke the First Rune.”
An edge of terror cut through Grace's joy. “That's what happened to the sky, isn't it? It was the other Runebreaker. He broke the rune of sky, and Mohg returned to Eldh to break the First Rune, but somehow you stopped him.”
“No,” said a sardonic voice. “He didn't.”
There was one more figure they hadn't seen; his black robe blended with the twilight. He approached Grace—slowly, hand pressed to his side—and the webwork of scars on his face glowed in the half-light.
“Master Larad?” Grace stuttered, completely confused. “How are you here?”
He said nothing, but only gestured to his black robe.
Confusion gave way to cold understanding. “You,” Grace said softly. “You're the other Runebreaker. You broke the rune of sky and let him back into the world. That was the shadow that fell over us, right before the end. It was Mohg.”
“Yes,” Larad said, pain twisting his face. “It was.”
“But you stopped him, Travis.” She clutched his arm. “You must have, or none of us would be here. You stopped Mohg from breaking the First Rune. Only how?”
A queer light shone in Travis's gray eyes.
“I'll tell you how he did it,” Grisla said with another cackle. “He broke the First Rune himself, that's how.” She jabbed a bony finger at his chest. “Bones and stone, that showed him, lad! Mohg wasn't ready for that.”
Grace stared at Travis, trying to understand. Only maybe she didn't need to. Travis was here, and so were the rest of them. So was the world. That was all that mattered.
“The witches were right,” Aryn said to Travis, her blue eyes wide. “You really were the Runebreaker. Yet if that's so, how are we still here?”
“He chose the world that was!” Grisla said gleefully. She capered about in a circle and chortled as if this all were a grand joke. “For the world to be, he chose the world that was! He's the Worldsmith now!”
Grace reached up and touched his face. His beard was coming in, copper and gold flecked with gray. “Is it true, Travis? Did you really choose this world?”
He gripped the bone talisman that hung against his neck. “Hope. I chose hope, Grace.”
It was growing colder and darker; all the same none of them could move from that place. More questions were asked. In quick words Melia, Falken, Vani, and Beltan explained what had happened to them, and Aryn, Teravian, and Tarus did the same. On Eldh, Shemal and Kelephon were dead, along with their master the Pale King. On Earth, Duratek was doomed. However, there was one thing Grace didn't have the heart to speak of yet; she didn't tell them about Durge.
“What about Mohg?” Vani said, gazing up at the deepening sky. “Is he dead as well?”
Grisla gave Travis a piercing look. “Well, lad. Is he?”
Travis seemed to think for a long moment, then he sighed. “No, he's not dead. But he's . . . dispersed. He was right there when it happened, when the—” He swallowed. “—when I used the Great Stones to break the First Rune. I think he was torn apart by the force of it.”
“That he was, my lad,” Grisla said. “Mohg remains in the world, but only his spirit, not his hatred, not his will. Never will he gather himself again.” She looked up at the darkening sky. “Night still comes. There will always be darkness in the world, there will always be evil. But dawn will come again, at least tomorrow.”
Grace smiled at Travis. “Hope,” she said.
Though the expression was tentative and fragile, he returned her smile.
Falken moved to Grisla, giving the old woman a sharp look. “If you don't mind my saying, you seem to know an awful lot for a simple hag. How did you know Travis broke the First Rune?”
She shrugged knobby shoulders. “It was a lucky guess, Your Nosiness.”
“I think not,” Melia said, gliding forward, her catlike eyes gleaming. “You were not there in Imbrifale with us. So how could you know?”
Kel roared with laughter, slapping his thigh, the sound of his mirth ringing out over the vale. “Well, it looks as if the bard and the moon lady have finally got you, hag. Don't you think it's time you finally told them who you really are?”
She scowled at the petty king. “What are you talking about, Your Deludedness? I'm Grisla, your witch.”
Kel's laughter subsided, and his face grew unusually thoughtful. “In one of your guises, yes. But you are other things to other people, are you not? Don't look at me that way. I am not quite the simpleton you take me for.”
Grace didn't know what Kel was talking about. Or did she? She held a hand out toward the hag. “Vayla?”
Grisla was silent for a moment, then she sighed. “It's time for me to go,” she said softly. “I suppose there's no harm in it now.” She hobbled toward Grace, and as she did she changed. In the place of Grisla stood another old woman, still gnarled and withered, but she wore a brown robe rather than motley rags.
“Greetings, my queen,” Vayla said, bowing. She turned toward Aryn. “And to you as well, child.”
As she spoke these last words, Vayla was gone, and in her place was a striking woman of middle years clad in a rainbow-hued gown, her jet hair marked by a single streak of white, her almond-shaped eyes accented by fine, wise lines.
Aryn's eyes went wide. “Sister Mirda!”
“Yes, sister,” the beautiful witch said. “It is I.”
“But how?” Aryn gasped.
Mirda smiled. “Does she not have many faces to wear? Crones. Mothers. And Maidens.”
With this last word, her form shimmered again, and in her place was a radiant young woman Grace had never seen before. Her hair was like flax, her lips as red as berries.
Falken staggered, clutching his silver hand to his chest. “You!” the bard said, his voice hoarse. “For so many centuries I've searched for you.”
She laughed, a sound like water over stones. “And you found me, only you didn't know it. Yet I would always know you, Falken of Malachor.” She reached out, taking his silver hand. “Tell me, has it suited you?”
He gazed at her, amazement on his weathered face. “It has. Thank you. It's served me better than my own hand did.”
“I am glad,” the young witch said. “For I know what it is like to lose a hand.”
Now the flaxen-haired woman was gone, and in her place stood a tall man, his face stern and imposing, but softened by kindness and wisdom. His left hand was missing at the wrist. He held up his right hand, and a silvery symbol shone on his palm: three crossed lines.
“The rune of runes,” Travis murmured. “So that's who you are. You're Olrig Lorethief. You're an Old God.”
“More than that,” Master Larad said, limping closer. “You're the one who made this world. You're the Worldsmith.”
“I was the Worldsmith,” the one-handed man said. He turned his ancient gaze on Travis. “You are the Worldsmith now, Runebreaker.”
Travis shook his head. “I chose the world that was. This is still the world as you made it.”
The man's eyes were thoughtful. “So it is,” he said. “So it is.”
Master Larad held out his right hand. The rune of runes shone faintly on his palm. “The rune of sky has been broken. I don't need this anymore, and somehow it seems I'm not going to die after all. You must take it back.”
<
br /> The bearded man shook his head. “I cannot. Once a thing is made, it cannot be unmade without breaking it.”
Larad lowered his hand. “Like Sky, you mean. You made him, didn't you? He was your servant.”
“I gave him the form you knew, that he might do my work upon the world, yet I did not make him or any of the other runes. I spoke them at the beginning of the world—this world—and I bound them so they would not fade. But the runes were first wrought by an even older Worldsmith than I.”
Larad closed his right hand into a fist and lowered it by his side.
Aryn hesitated, then stepped forward. “You're not just the Worldsmith, are you? You're Sia as well.”
The man smiled, and in his place stood a woman, though what she was—maiden, mother, or withered crone—it was impossible to say. The features of a thousand different women flickered across her face. “Sia and the Worldsmith are just two names for the same thing, daughter. Why people insist on believing otherwise, I cannot say.”
Aryn smiled, and Grace did as well. She wished Master Graedin was present. What would he think to learn that his mad idea, that the runespeakers and the witches were not so very different, was in fact the truth? Olrig. Sia. They were one. Magic was magic—it all sprang from the same source.
It was almost full dark now. Grace couldn't stop shivering. They could talk more tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the sun rose again. Until then, they should return to the keep.
“Will you stay?” Grace said to the woman with many faces, though she wasn't certain if she meant here, at Gravenfist, or if she meant in the world.
The woman's face blurred, and she was Grisla again. She grinned, baring her one tooth, but there was sorrow in her eye. “Perhaps I'll stay for a time, Your High-And-Mightiness. But my children have already gone on before me, back into the Twilight Realm. This time, when we go, we shall never return, and I think the Maugrim shall come with us. No one will remain who knows the way through the mists. Our world, our time, will be removed from yours forever.”
Grace wept. “Why? Why are you leaving us?”
“There, there, daughter.” She brushed the dampness from Grace's cheeks. “I am old. We are old. And the world has newer gods. Look—here comes the newest of them all even now.”
They turned as ruby-colored light pushed back the gloom. Three figures walked toward them from the direction of the keep, hand in hand. One was a man with coppery eyes, a grin on his handsome, familiar face, though he walked on two feet, not one. The other was a beautiful woman with black hair and eyes and skin like polished ebony. Between them was a child clad only in a gray shift, her hair wild and fiery. It was from the girl that the light emanated.
“Lirith!” Aryn called out. “Sareth!”
But Grace called out another name. “Tira!”
The little girl slipped her hands free and dashed forward on bare feet. Grace knelt and caught Tira in her arms.
“You came back,” she said, even though she knew she hadn't. All the same, it felt good to say it. She stroked the girl's wild hair.
“I love you,” Tira said in a solemn voice.
The crimson light grew stronger, encapsulating Grace in warmth. Then it dimmed and Grace held, not her warm little body, but shadows. She stood and looked up. A star shone in the southern sky, bright as a ruby. A fierce ache throbbed in Grace's chest, but it was a good pain. It meant that somehow, after all that had happened, her heart was still there.
It meant she was alive.
“Come on, Grace.” It was Travis. He touched her arm. “It's getting cold. We should go inside.”
They started back toward the keep, and as they went Grace noticed how Travis and Beltan stayed close to Vani's side. Though they had not spoken of it, it was clear both men knew the T'gol was with child. Grace wondered what would happen to them, but for now the three seemed content to walk close together. As for what the future held—if Fate would allow them to stay together—that could wait for tomorrow.
Other things could not wait, and as they walked Grace finally told them about Durge, though Aryn had to help her, and when one was too overwhelmed by grief the other would speak for a time. However, neither Grace nor Aryn mentioned what Durge had revealed to them: how he had loved Aryn. It was a private thing. The young baroness had married Teravian out of duty, and she had not resisted. However, the knowledge that Durge had wanted her not for her position, but simply for herself, was like a secret jewel she could treasure in lonely times to come.
Then Grace saw the way Teravian's hand brushed against Aryn's, and despite her sorrow she smiled. Perhaps there would not be so many lonely times in Aryn's future after all.
“There's one thing I don't understand,” Beltan said as they drew near the secret passage. It was lit with torches against the night, and guards stood at the entrance.
“What is it?” Grace asked him.
The blond man scratched his chin. “Well, Travis broke the First Rune, just as prophecy said he would. But prophecy also said the Warriors of Vathris were destined to lose the Final Battle.”
“We did,” Sir Tarus said. “The army of the Pale King had us trapped in front of the keep's wall. They were about to crush us. Victory was theirs.”
“We could not have defeated them,” Teravian agreed.
Aryn glanced at Travis. “Only then the Pale King died, and without Mohg to help them, so did his slaves.”
Grace thought about this. “That doesn't change the fact that we lost.” She sighed, gazing at Aryn, Teravian, and Tarus. “It was Travis who saved the world. I suppose, in the end, we didn't really matter.”
“That's not true,” Travis said, his gray eyes intent upon her. “You did matter. You all did. If you hadn't held Gravenfist Keep, the forces of the Pale King would have had time to overrun Eldh. They would have killed thousands upon thousands of people. The Dominions would have been laid waste.” He gripped her hand. “Without you, Grace, there wouldn't have been a world for me to save, a world for me to choose.”
Tarus grinned at her. “It looks like we did good after all, Your Majesty.”
Grace lifted a hand, touching the bandage on her right shoulder. “Durge did good,” she said firmly.
Together they stepped into the passage, leaving night to rule over the world. For a time.
61.
It was after midnight.
Deirdre Falling Hawk sat at the dinette table in her South Kensington flat, gazing at the screen of her computer. She had spent the last three hours performing search after search in the Seekers' databases using her Echelon 7 clearance, but she had turned up nothing more relating to the Thomas Atwater case. She lifted a glass to her lips, but it was empty, and so was the nearby bottle of scotch.
Deirdre set down the glass, then leaned back from the table and rubbed her aching neck. An image shone in the center of the screen: the keystone taken from the location that had housed the tavern Thomas Atwater had been forbidden by the Seekers to return to. The same location that centuries later would house Surrender Dorothy, along with Glinda and its other half-fairy patrons. But what did it mean? Who was Atwater really? And what was the true purpose of the keystone?
Maybe it didn't matter now. She pushed aside the computer and picked up the copy of today's London Times, which lay on the table. Anders had brought it to the office that day, and she had stolen it before heading home. DURATEK INVESTIGATION CONTINUES, the headline read, NEW ATROCITIES UNCOVERED. Another headline caught Deirdre's eye, in smaller type near the bottom of the page: MORE DURATEK EXECUTIVES FOUND DEAD. The first sentences of the article described the mystery around the deaths. It seemed, when they were found, all of the executives had been missing their hearts.
A sharp smile cut across Deirdre's lips. “I hope you're seeing this Hadrian, wherever you are.”
She wondered where in the world he was just then. If he was even still in this world. Would she ever see him again? She didn't know, but she hoped so. Just as she hoped one day she would see Travis Wilder and
Grace Beckett again. She gripped the yellowed bear claw that hung around her neck. That was the funny thing about hope. It kept you going, even when the odds seemed impossible.
Her computer let out a chime, and her gaze snapped back to the screen. The picture of the keystone was gone, and crimson words pulsed in its place.
> Open your door.
Deirdre leaped up, moved to the door, and jerked it open. The hallway outside her flat was empty. On the doormat lay a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. She looked both ways, then picked up the parcel, closed the door, and sat at the table. Fingers trembling, she unwrapped the package.
It was a sleek wireless phone. She hesitated, then opened it up and held it to her ear.
“I'm glad to see you're taking a break,” a man's voice said. “Are you enjoying the newspaper?”
She sucked in a breath and stood, looking out the window. The street below was dark and empty, but he was out there somewhere, watching her.
“What do you want?” she said, snatching the curtains shut.
Soft laughter emanated from the phone. “Don't worry, Miss Falling Hawk. This is merely a social call. I wish only to see how you are faring after your trip to the United States. Tell me, did you enjoy today's headline?”
She glanced again at the newspaper. “Our plan worked,” she said, amazement lowering her voice. “It's over.”
“You're wrong about that, Miss Falling Hawk. A great darkness has been averted, yet other shadows remain. Duratek is finished. They will never reach the world called Eldh. But there are others who would go there. And some from that world who would come to this one.”
She sank again into the chair at the table. “But that's impossible. Travis Wilder destroyed the gate. There's no way to cross between the worlds now.”