by Mark Anthony
Falken flexed his gloved hand, but what he thought of the old woman’s words he didn’t say.
“Do you truly believe they can find Sareth and the others, al-Mama?” Vani said to the old woman.
“It is their fate to seek your brother and the rest. However, whether it is the fate of the lost to be found, I cannot say. Would that I could see what will become of the A’narai. But he has no fate, and my cards are useless in this. He is a mystery to me, as are all those near to him.”
Tarus, who had been sitting quietly throughout the revel, glanced at Beltan. “Either I’m denser than I’ve always liked to believe, or the Mournish really do know how to cast spells of befuddlement. I don’t understand a word of any of this.”
“Don’t you?” the old woman said before Beltan could answer. She turned piercing eyes on Tarus. “Have you not seen signs of the coming darkness yourself?”
Tarus sat up straight, his blue eyes wide.
Beltan laid his hand on the young man’s knee. “What is it, Tarus? I’d bet my sword you bring more news than just King Boreas’s message for Aryn. What’s happening in the Dominions?”
Tarus sighed. “I wish I could tell you. All I know are rumors. They started around the beginning of Revendath. At first it sounded like the kinds of stories peasants in the backwoods always tell—shadows in the wood, strange noises, weird lights on hilltops—that sort of thing. Only then...” He cocked his head. “You know the borders of the Dominion of Eredane have been closed ever since last Midwinter’s Eve?”
Falken nodded. “Queen Eminda was murdered at the Council of Kings. Her chief counselor was an ironheart. We have no idea who’s ruling Eredane now.”
“Except I think we do,” Tarus said. “For now it’s not just Eredane whose borders are closed, but Brelegond as well. No one is allowed in or out. And it’s said that guarding the roads are knights who wear black armor and black visors on their helms, and who strike down anyone who strays a half a league into that Dominion.”
Tarus’s words were a cold dagger in Grace’s chest. A year ago there had been rumors of shadows like this, and the rumors had turned out to be true. Wraithlings and feydrim—servants of the Pale King—had stalked the land. And the Raven Cult that had swept through the Dominions had proved a front for the Pale King as well. After Midwinter’s Eve, when Travis sealed the Rune Gate, the wraithlings and feydrim had vanished, and in the weeks that followed the newly founded Order of Malachor had stamped out the activities of the Raven Cult. It had seemed the dark days were over.
Except maybe now the dark days are returning.
“What of the other Dominions?” Falken said to Tarus.
“Things seem well enough,” the knight said. “Calavan awaits the happy marriage of Lady Aryn. Galt stands uneasily in the shadow of Eredane, but I’ve heard naught of trouble there. Toloria is as you left it. And the word is that young Queen Inara has proved to be a strong leader in Perridon, ruling well in her infant son’s name.”
Melia smoothed the fabric of her kirtle. “You have forgotten Embarr, Tarus.”
He shook his head. “No, my lady, I believe it is Embarr who has forgotten us—as well as the pact it made at the Council of Kings. The stories say that King Sorrin grows madder by the day. That I can’t vouch for. But I do know he’s pulled all of his knights from the Order of Malachor. Some say he’s created his own order of knights, although what he names it, and what its purpose is, I cannot say.”
Falken’s expression was troubled. “That’s strange news.”
Tarus gazed at the old Mournish woman, boldly returning her stare. “So what does it all mean, if you can see so much in those cards of yours? Are these black knights connected to everything else that’s changing?”
“All things are connected,” the crone murmured, as if she had spoken the most profound truth. And perhaps she had at that.
Tarus, however, seemed less than satisfied. He glanced at Grace. “I have not seen Lady Lirith among you. Am I to take it she is one of the ones who was...lost?”
Grace’s throat was too tight for words, so she nodded instead.
Tarus gazed down at his clasped hands. “I hope she wasn’t right, then. I hope it’s not already come to this. By Vathris, I thought they were just tales told by the priests. I never thought I’d be alive to see the Final Battle myself.”
Grace didn’t understand Tarus’s words. However, she noticed that Beltan, Falken, and Melia all stared at the young knight with the same look of astonishment.
It was Beltan who recovered first. “This is dark news about the Dominions. But our task is still clear. We have to journey to the Black Tower.”
“That may not be so simple as we think,” Falken said. “The Tower of the Runebreakers stands where the range of the Fal Sinfath ends at the Winter Wood.”
Beltan frowned. “But that puts it on the other side of Brelegond from us.”
“Exactly,” the bard said, expression grim. “And from what good Sir Tarus here tells us, journeying through Brelegond is not an option right now.”
Beltan pounded a fist on his knee. “This is one time I’ll agree with Vani’s al-Mama and her cards. We all have to find a way to get there.”
“No, not all of us,” Aryn said in a soft voice.
The baroness sat on the edge of the firelight. Her face was touched by sorrow, yet there was a resoluteness to her expression. Grace let out a breath. In all their talk, they had forgotten about Tarus’s message and what it portended for the young woman.
“My dear one,” Melia said, taking Aryn’s hand in her own. Aryn gave her a faint smile.
Grace reached out and touched the Weirding. It was easy to pick out Aryn’s brilliant blue thread.
Please don’t worry, Aryn. I’m sure it’ll be all right.
Grace winced. The words were utterly worthless. But hopefully Aryn could feel what she meant.
I know it will, Grace, came Aryn’s voice, strong across the web of the Weirding. Ever since I was a little girl, I always knew this would be my duty. And I won’t fight it. It’s just that so much is uncertain right now, and I promised Ivalaine—
Grace felt a tug in her mind as Aryn hastily pulled her thread back, breaking the connection. What had the baroness been about to say? And why didn’t she want Grace to hear it?
Maybe it’s because you weren’t the only one who was listening, Grace.
Melia’s golden eyes were fixed on Aryn, her visage unreadable. Aryn pulled her hand from Melia’s and gazed into the fire. There was something the baroness knew, something she wasn’t telling. Ivalaine had commanded Aryn to do something. Only what?
“We can’t go through Brelegond,” Falken said, “so we’re going to have to find another way to the Black Tower.”
Melia raised an eyebrow. “And why do I have the feeling you already know what that way is, Falken?”
The bard couldn’t quite hide a wolfish grin. He reached into the case that held his lute and pulled out a book. It was Pagan Magics of the North, the book Grace had found in the university library.
“I’ve been reading this interesting little volume,” Falken said, thumbing through the yellowed pages. “I’m still not certain who wrote it, but whoever it was, he or she knew a great deal about both magic and history.”
Melia let out an exasperated breath. “Do spare us the dramatics, Falken. You’ve learned something in the book, and you know you can’t resist telling us, so out with it.”
The bard shut the book and looked up. “I know where we can find the shards of Fellring.”
Grace listened in growing numbness as Falken explained what he had read in the book: how after the first War of the Stones, the broken shards of Ulther’s magic sword Fellring— with which he had defeated the Pale King—were taken back across the Winter Sea, to his homeland of Toringarth.
“So you think we should go to Toringarth?” Beltan said dubiously.
The bard nodded. “Whatever Tarus’s troubling stories mean, there’s one thin
g we do know. Mohg, Lord of Nightfall, seeks a door back to Eldh. If we could find a way to reforge Fellring, we would have a powerful weapon we could use to fight him.”
Grace nearly choked on her tongue. She knew very well what Falken had failed to say—that, according to the legends he loved so much, only Ulther’s heir could wield Fellring. But whatever he might think, Grace knew she was not up to the task of slaying gods, no matter how old and decrepit they might be.
“It’s nearly two months until Midwinter,” Falken went on.
“What’s more, we know we can’t journey through Brelegond— and it’s not any farther to the Black Tower from Toringarth than it is from Tarras. We can sail to Toringarth, then make our way to the tower in plenty of time for Midwinter’s Day.”
“But what about Eredane?” Beltan said. “Are not the black knights in command there? And what of Toringarth itself? No word has come from that land in centuries.”
“We can stay between the River Silverflood and the Western Wood on our way south to the Black Tower,” Falken said. “We won’t have to set foot in Eredane.”
“Yes, Falken of the Blackhand,” al-Mama said in her hoarse voice. “Your words feel like fate to me. I believe you all must do as he says.”
Grace touched the necklace at her throat. “These black knights.” She glanced at Falken. “Do you think they’re related to the Pale King somehow? I mean, they—”
She couldn’t voice the rest of her thoughts, but she knew Falken would understand. It was the bard who told her the story, how a band of black knights had murdered her parents. And it made sense, didn’t it? Wouldn’t the Pale King want to stamp out all of the heirs to the throne of Malachor?
“I don’t know, Grace,” Falken said. “But if the black knights are linked to the Pale King, then it’s all the more important we find a way to forge Fellring anew.”
Grace tried and failed to swallow the lump in her throat. The idea of playing a fabled hero was absurd. However, when she saw the light burning in the ageless bard’s eyes, she found she had no words to tell him he was wrong.
The last flames flickered atop the coals, then in a sizzle they vanished; it was time to go. They bid Vani and her al-Mama farewell, then rose and made their way from the circle of wagons to descend the trail in darkness.
“Don’t worry, Grace,” Beltan said, clasping her hand in his.
His grip was rough and strong. “Falken’s plan is a good one, I’m sure of it. We’ll find the pieces of your sword, and we’ll still get to Travis in time.”
Grace started to answer him, only she caught the flash of two gold eyes gazing in the darkness. Then the night rippled, folded, and the eyes were gone.
The moon was high in the starry sky when they reached the villa again. They had made their way back in silence. Grace had wanted to talk to Aryn, but she hadn’t known what to say. As they stepped into the main room, Grace saw that the manservant still stood before the door to the side chamber.
“Thank you, Mahalim,” she said, touching his arm. “Go get some rest now.”
The man gave her a weary smile, then bowed and departed. Quietly, Grace pushed open the door and entered the room to see how her patient was doing.
“Oh,” she said, stopping halfway into the room.
“What is it, Grace?” she heard Falken say behind her. Then came the bard’s soft oath, and she knew she didn’t need to explain anything.
Mahalim had guarded the door; she didn’t doubt that. And the room’s only window was small and barred with iron. All the same, the chaise was empty, and the blanket lay crumpled on the floor.
Sky was gone.
11.
At dawn two days later, they gathered on the docks of Tarras to say good-bye.
They had already made their hasty farewells to Ephesian the evening before, in the vast throneroom of the imperial palace in the First Circle. The emperor hadn’t taken the news of their departure well.
“This is ill news indeed, cousin,” he said, glaring at Grace and crossing his arms over the great bulk of his body. “I should have you tossed in prison so you can’t leave.”
Grace bit her lip. “That isn’t how one treats family, Your Magnificence.”
“On the contrary—that’s exactly how one treats family. Especially if one doesn’t wish to wake up one morning to find a dagger in one’s back.” Ephesian sighed and adjusted the eternally crooked circle of gold ithaya leaves on his brow. “Consider that my last lesson in imperial rule to you, cousin. I shall miss you indeed.”
“And I you,” Grace said, almost surprised to realize how much she meant it.
She moved a step up the dais and leaned forward to kiss his cheek—only belatedly realizing this could well be an offense punishable by death. However, the emperor only held a hand to his cheek as they departed.
As luck would have it, the ship Falken had hired to take them north belonged to one Captain Magard—the very same captain, Grace learned, who had brought the others south to Tarras. Magard had bought a new cargo of spices and was heading to the Dominion of Perridon for trade. Falken’s gold had convinced the captain to extend his journey northward a bit farther.
“Magard has agreed to take us as far north as Omberfell,” Falken said, picking up his lute case from the dock and slinging it over a shoulder. “That’s a city on the northwest coast of Embarr, at the mouth of the River Fellgrim.”
Melia’s eyes glinted in the morning light like the gold domes of Tarras. “And why will Magard only go as far as Omberfell? Does not Toringarth lie farther north, across the Winter Sea?”
“It does,” Falken said. “But Magard’s ship was built for southern waters. The Winter Sea will be thick with ice this time of year. It would crush the hull of Magard’s ship like the shell of a nut. We’ll have to find a new ship in Omberfell to take us the last leg.”
“Maybe we should wait for spring,” Beltan said.
Falken’s blue eyes were hard. “And maybe spring will be too late. Come on, Beltan—help me load our things on the ship.”
The bard started toward the gangplank, carrying nothing but his lute case. Beltan eyed the large heap of bags on the dock, sighed, then started to gather them up.
“Not those, dear,” Melia said, pointing to two small leather satchels Grace knew belonged to the lady. “You can leave those with Lady Aryn’s and Sir Tarus’s things.”
Beltan frowned. “Why?”
“Because I’m not going to Toringarth with you, dear. I’m going to accompany Aryn to Calavere.”
“What?” came Falken’s sharp voice. At once the bard turned and hurried back toward them. “What do you mean you’re not coming north with us?”
A pained expression crossed Melia’s face. “Let me try again, dear. You run along to Toringarth just as you’ve planned. Only when you arrive, I won’t be with you. That’s because I’ll be in Calavere. With Aryn.” She patted his arm. “Do we have it all sorted out now?”
The bard glowered at her. “I know what you meant, Melia.”
“Really? Then why did you ask?”
“Because it doesn’t make any sense,” Falken growled.
The lady’s expression softened a fraction. “Actually, it does, dear one. You know that the sea and I don’t mix very well. And besides, a lady of Aryn’s station cannot travel alone with a man. It would not be seemly.”
Tarus grinned. “I think Lady Aryn’s virtue is quite safe with me. I suspect that’s why King Boreas chose me for the task.”
Melia gave the young knight’s cheek a fond but firm pat. “Don’t ever disagree with me again, dear, and we’ll get along famously on the road to Calavere.”
Tarus hastily picked up Melia’s bags. “I’ll put these with Aryn’s things,” he said, and hurried across the dock to where their horses waited.
Only as he reached the horses did Grace realize there were not two, but three. The third was a mist-white mare that looked exactly like the horse Melia had ridden east to Perridon earlier that year.
It was all decided then. Beltan gave Aryn a great hug, then lifted their bags, staggered under the weight, and started up the ship’s gangplank. Melia and Falken moved a short distance away to exchange their final words in private. Tarus was with the horses. That left only Grace and Aryn.
“It seems so strange,” Grace said. “Saying good-bye.” Aryn reached out and took her hand, her blue eyes shining. “Then let’s not say it, Grace. Let’s not even think it. After all, it’s just for a short time. And when I see you next, you’ll have the shards of Fellring, and I’ll lay my head on your knee and listen while you tell me all about your marvelous adventures in the north.”
Grace squeezed her hand. “And when I see you again, you’ll be...”
Aryn’s smile was brave, but it couldn’t quite mask the trepidation in her eyes. “I’ll be your friend just as ever, and far more than glad at the sight of you.”
Grace embraced the baroness. Aryn had been her very first friend on Eldh, and the young woman would always be her best. Without even thinking, Grace spun the words over the threads of the Weirding. I love you, Aryn.
The reply came back, nearly overpowering in its strength. And I you.
At last they started to let go. Then, just before the connection was broken, Grace spun one last question along the Weirding. Aryn, I don’t mean to pry, but I think something’s been troubling you lately—something about the Witches and what Ivalaine bid you to do. What was it?
She felt Aryn stiffen in her arms, then hastily the young woman pulled away. “The others are coming, Grace,” she murmured. “It’s time for us to go.”
Soft as they were, the words were like a slap. Grace stared as Aryn moved quickly toward Tarus and Melia. Then Beltan and Falken were beside Grace. A high, aching note sounded on the air. A sailor in the rigging of Magard’s ship blew on a large seashell.
“It’s time, Grace,” Falken said.