by Mark Anthony
Except that didn’t make sense. Tarras had emperors, not kings, and Grace had a feeling none of them had ever looked this barbaric. The statue was chipped and worn; it was clearly very old.
“What have you found here, Grace?” a musical voice said behind her. “Well, look at that.”
Only as Falken spoke did Grace realize she had been staring at the statue. How long had she been standing there? She turned toward Falken. The others were drifting in her direction as well.
“What a king he must have been,” the bard said softly.
So Grace had been right. “Who was he, Falken?”
“It’s Lord Ulther, the king of Toringarth a thousand years ago. I think you know his story, Grace—how he and Elsara, Empress of Tarras, worked together to defeat the Pale King in the War of the Stones.” Falken stepped closer to the statue. “So that’s what Fellring looks like. I’ve always wondered. I had always believed its likeness was never recorded before it was shattered. But Elsara must have commissioned this statue of him when he came to Tarras to beg her aid.”
Grace felt strange, light. The warm, spicy air was suddenly stuffy and cloying. “Fellring?”
“Yes, that’s the name of Ulther’s sword. Do you see?” Falken pointed to the blade gripped in the statue’s hand. “It’s writ with runes of power.”
Grace’s attention had been on the statue’s face; she had hardly glanced at the sword. Now she did—
—and the floor fell away from her feet as the world went white.
When her vision finally cleared, she saw faces hovering above her. Falken, Melia, Travis, and the others as well. At last the ringing in her ears receded, and she could hear voices.
“—you all right, Grace?” Travis was saying.
“Please, dear,” Melia said, her amber eyes concerned. “Can you speak to us?”
Two more voices sounded in Grace’s mind, weaving together as one. Sister, what is wrong?
All this attention made Grace acutely uncomfortable. She managed to disentangle herself and stand.
“I’m all right.” Except that wasn’t true. At the moment, she was anything but all right. She was … But she didn’t know anymore. Perhaps she never had.
“You’re the doctor, Grace,” Travis said, his gray eyes intent, “but even I know people don’t keel over when nothing’s wrong with them. What’s going on?”
There was no point in hiding. Besides, she wanted to see—had to see—if she was right. With shaking fingers, she drew a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. It was the drawing Deirdre had given her before they stepped through the gate.
The drawing of a sword.
There could be no doubt about it—even she could see that the runes were identical—and by Falken’s oath he saw it as well.
The bard looked at Grace, blue eyes stunned. “I don’t understand, Grace. How can you have a drawing of Fellring?”
“Not … just a drawing, Falken.” Shaking now, she reached beneath the loose-fitting Mournish shirt and drew out her necklace.
Usually she kept it hidden, a secret relic of the childhood she had never known. She supposed, for all their time together, Melia and Falken had never seen her necklace before.
Falken actually staggered, his hand to his chest. “It can’t be. By the Seven, it can’t.”
Beltan groaned. “Enough mysteriousness, Falken. Would you please be kind enough to explain to the rest of us exactly what it isn’t supposed to be? I think we’d all like to be shocked, too.”
Vani’s gaze was half-lidded, curious. “It is a shard of the sword, is it not? The blade the statue holds.”
“The shard of Fellring,” Falken murmured. “But how can it be?”
Grace was struggling for understanding herself. The air seemed to throb around her, and her mind was buzzing.
“I’ve always had this,” she said, gripping the pendant. “I was wearing the necklace when the people from the orphanage found me. I don’t remember it, but I couldn’t have been more than three years old at the time.”
“But that’s impossible. I know it is. The only person who could possess that necklace as a child would be—”
“Would be Ulther’s last descendant and heir,” Melia said.
Falken and the others stared at Grace as if she had suddenly sprouted wings. Grace struggled for words but found she had none, so she struggled for understanding instead. According to Melia, the man in the statue—King Ulther of Toringarth—was her great-thirty-something-times-over-grandfather. Which meant, all this time, she was not from Earth at all. She was from …
Travis’s voice was soft with wonder. “You’re from Eldh, Grace.”
No, it couldn’t be true.
Except it was, and she knew it. Three years old, alone on the side of a mountain, and all she had was a piece of his sword. That and a fragment of a song she had heard as an infant. A song from another world. Her world.
And farewell words too often part …
“With Fellring sword of Elfin art,” Grace murmured aloud.
Melia caught Grace’s hands in her own, beaming with joy.
“Welcome home, Ralena.”
75.
Grace listened, utterly numb, as Falken and Melia told a tale—her tale—describing how for centuries they had, in secret, kept watch over the heirs of the lost kingdom of Malachor. At some point Lirith must have come from the throne room, although Grace didn’t see when. All at once she was simply aware that Lirith was there, eyes shining as she gazed at Grace.
“I don’t understand, Falken,” Beltan said when at last the bard paused in his telling. “All the old stories I’ve ever heard say that the royal line of Malachor was completely wiped out when Malachor fell, that no heirs survived.”
“You’re right, Beltan,” Falken said, gazing at his black-gloved hand. “That is what the stories say. That’s what I wanted the stories to say when I wrote them down seven centuries ago.”
His words seemed important, but Grace’s brain was too dull to comprehend what the bard was saying.
“I think maybe I understand,” Travis said. “One member of the royal line of Malachor did survive, only you and Melia didn’t want anyone to know about it.”
Falken’s wolfish visage was haggard, as if the centuries suddenly weighed heavy upon him. “It was the king and queen’s only child, their infant son. With a knife I cut him crying from her womb where she lay dead—only a day after the king himself was slain.”
Lirith moved closer. “You were afraid those who had murdered the king and queen would kill their child as well.”
“But how did it all happen?” Aryn said, blue eyes questioning. “The stories say that Malachor fell, but they never really say how. Only that you—”
Melia cast a sharp glance at the young baroness, and Aryn hastily bit her tongue. However, Grace knew what she had been about to say.
That you were the reason the kingdom fell.
“No, my lady, that is not a tale I will tell today.” The bard looked up, and his wolfish visage brightened. “Nor does it matter, not now. Not when you’ve come back to us, Ralena.”
At last Grace managed to find her voice. “Why do you keep calling me Ralena?”
Melia smiled. “Because it’s your name, dear. At least, it’s the name your parents gave you.”
These words were like a blow to the center of Grace’s chest. “My parents? You knew them?”
“Yes, dear, quite well in fact.” Melia sighed. “They were so young, so bright—sometimes around them I felt as if I were still only a thousand years old.”
Durge’s eyes bulged, and even Grace felt a mad impulse to laugh. But the feeling passed as sorrow filled Melia’s gaze.
“What happened?” she whispered.
It was Falken who answered. “Raiff and Anilena—your parents, Grace—were married young. Too young, Melia and I both thought at the time, but I believe they felt some urgency in the matter. You see, Anilena was at the time the sole living heir to Malach
or—the direct descendant of the last king and queen. Her parents had died young, her mother while giving birth to her, and her father while out boar hunting only a year after.”
Melia touched Falken’s arm. “He let the beast take him, Falken. You know it’s true. He could not bear to live without his beloved.”
The bard laid his hand over hers. “It fell to Melia and me to raise Anilena as best we could. It was not the first time, over the centuries, we had seen a child of the line of Malachor to adulthood, but never had we raised one from such a tender age, and so Anilena was special to us.
“Of course, we did have help. Gevriel Warden dwelled with us, along with his two sons. Gevriel was of the family of wardens who had served the kings of Malachor, for the line endured after the kingdom fell. Always there was at least one warden to keep watch over the current heir. At the time when Anilena was a child, we were all living in southern Calavan, in a small manor near the banks of the River Goldwine.”
“It was so beautiful there,” Melia said quietly. “I shall never forget the light on the river at sunset.”
Grace forced herself to breathe. “Did she … did Anilena know who she was?”
“Not at first, dear,” Melia said. “We wanted her to grow up as any child might. She did know her parents had died, and she thought of us as her aunt and uncle. Then, on her eighteenth birthday, we gave her the necklace you wear now, and we told her the truth. At first she was angry, but in a short time she was able to accept the burden that had been placed upon her.” Melia reached out and touched Grace’s hand. “Ever were the women of your line strong, dear.”
Grace had to resist the urge to pull back.
“And don’t forget willful,” Falken added. “Not a month after we told her of her heritage, Anilena ran off and married Raiff, the elder of Gevriel Warden’s two sons. In truth, I’m surprised it took that long before the two lines were united. Regardless, Anilena loved him, and it seemed she was determined to produce an heir as soon as possible. In case something dire happened.”
“And it did,” Durge said in a grim voice.
Now it was Falken who seemed to lose his tongue.
“Black knights,” Melia said. “It was four years later. Anilena and Raiff were so happy together, and happy with their daughter Ralena—with you, Grace. Then one day, Falken and I took a short journey to Gendarra, to pay a visit to our old friend Tome, who was there at the time. We took you with us, for Tome had never seen you, and Raiff and Anilena had promised him they would let you visit him. You were just three winters old. To be certain we were safe, Anilena and Raiff sent Merric Warden with us—he was Gevriel’s other son, and Raiff’s young brother.”
“As it turned out,” Falken said, “we weren’t the ones who needed protection. After visiting Tome, we returned to the manor and found it burned. There were few left alive, but we discovered Gevriel in the wreckage, although he was gravely wounded. He told us what had happened, how a band of knights in black armor had ridden up to the manor on black horses. Without even stopping to speak, the knights had attacked and set the manor afire. They slew Raiff while he tried to protect Anilena. She took up his sword, but they …”
Falken squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. “They murdered Anilena where she stood. Then, without another word, the knights turned and rode away as quickly as they had come. Gevriel told us these things, then he died as well in Merric’s arms.”
Grace listened to these words in horror. In the space of a few minutes Falken and Melia had given her the parents she had never known, then as quickly had taken them away again.
“Who?” she finally managed to say. “Who were they? The black knights who killed my parents?”
“I’m afraid we were never sure,” Melia said.
Falken gazed at her, eyes fierce. “I am. It was the Pale King who sent them. Only Fellring ever had the power to harm Berash, and only one of Ulther’s heirs could wield the sword were it ever reforged. He wanted to make certain that never happened. And we know now he was stirring again at the time, preparing to break the Rune Gate as he nearly did last Midwinter.”
Melia looked at the bard but said nothing.
“That’s a dark tale, Falken,” Beltan said. He looked at Grace, his usually jovial face somber. “And I’m sorry you lost your parents. I know what that’s like. But this still doesn’t explain how Grace ended up on Travis’s world.”
“That was my doing,” Melia said.
Travis gaped. “You mean you have the power to send people between worlds?”
The amber-eyed lady smoothed her robe. “Not precisely. I had a little help in the matter.”
Falken folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, very well, so I had a great deal of help. But the New Gods owed me—I had saved up quite a few favors over the millennia.”
“So you and the other New Gods sent Grace to Earth,” Travis said.
Now it was Grace’s turn to stare. “Why?”
“To keep you safe, dear. Wherever they came from, the black knights had one goal in mind: to slay the heirs of Malachor. You were all that was left, and we knew it was only a matter of time before the knights discovered you were alive. Desperate measures were called for.”
Vani moved closer, leather creaking. “So you knew of this other world, this Earth, even as the Mournish did. I thought only the sorcerers of Morindu knew of the place that could be reached across the void—the morndari told them of it long ago, and that was why they built the gate artifacts.”
Melia patted Vani’s cheek—a gesture which seemed to shock the assassin.
“Don’t completely underestimate us, dear. Foolish and petty as we can be, we immortals do know a thing or two. We first became aware of the other world more than a millennium ago, when we aided the Old Gods in binding Mohg beyond the circle of Eldh. We glimpsed—if only for a moment—a world beyond what we knew.”
Travis gazed at Melia, his gray eyes thoughtful. “So the New Gods were able to open a gate to Earth.”
“It was not quite so easy as you make it sound. It took nearly all of us working in concert to do it—an alliance which I fear will never occur again. And even so, I do not think we would have succeeded if there had not been something working to open the way from the other side.”
Now Grace was completely lost. “What do you mean? What could have been working from the other side?”
However, before bard or lady could speak, Travis did. “It was this, wasn’t it?” He drew something out of his pocket: a gray-green Stone. Sinfathisar.
Falken nodded. “We believe so. Now, at least—for at the time we didn’t know the Stone of Twilight was on Earth. But its magic acted like a beacon for the power of the New Gods, drawing it to your Earth and opening a gate.”
“That’s why you came to Castle City, Grace,” Travis said. “And that’s why the people from the orphanage found you there. It was because Jack Graystone had Sinfathisar. And I suppose that’s how the ironhearts and wraithlings ended up in Castle City last autumn. They were drawn there by the very thing they were seeking.” He tightened his fingers around the Stone.
“We can’t be sure,” Falken said. “But it makes sense. We know the Pale King had the Great Stone Gelthisar. It must be that its power was great enough for him to send some of his servants to your world. And just like Grace, they all ended up near the place where Sinfathisar was being kept.”
Grace’s eyes were hot, and she felt tears filling them. At last she knew she had not been abandoned as a child. They had loved her, and they had been trying to protect her. So why did she feel so lonely she couldn’t bear it?
“Why?” she whispered. “Why did you let me go there alone? Why did you send me …?”
Why did you send me there, to the orphanage, to the shadow? she wanted to ask, but the words stuck in her throat.
Melia hesitated, then she took both of Grace’s hands in her own. “We didn’t send you alone, Grace. At least, we didn’t want to. Merric Wa
rden held you as we opened the gateway. He was to go with you, to watch over you. But … something went wrong.”
Grace shook her head, beyond words now. Melia tightened her grip.
“You were so small, so fragile. You were wearing a dress Anilena had made for you, and Falken had placed the necklace around your neck, for he had found it on Anilena. Then, even as Merric went through the gate, we all sensed it: a presence on the other side. What it was—or who—we still do not know. But it was great, and powerful. And it was evil. I watched as Merric cried out in agony. I could see the other side of the gate—the mountain where they must have found you. With his last effort, Merric heaved your tiny body forward. I saw you fall, tumbling to the grass, crying. Then Merric screamed again, and he was torn apart by something none of us could see. After that the gate closed, and we could not open it again.”
Now Melia released her hands. “I’m so sorry, Ralena. I’m so sorry we left you alone. We wanted to protect you, and I fear it was the opposite that happened. Please … can you ever find a way to forgive us?”
Grace tried to speak but could not. Instead a low moan escaped her as she shook her head. Pain hazed Melia’s visage, and the lady stepped back. No, she misunderstood. Desperate, Grace reached for words, found them, put them together.
“There’s nothing to forgive. You did everything you could for me. And I’m alive.”
And broken. But she did not speak those words aloud. That was not Melia’s fault, nor Falken’s. They had devoted their lives to protecting her family. If it were not for them, Grace never would have been born in the first place.
Falken was grinning now. “It doesn’t matter what happened, Grace. You’re well, and you’re here. That’s all that counts. And one day Malachor will shine again under your rule.”