Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  “I hope you liked our merry play,

  Yet if not, then hear me, pray.

  For we are like to shadows see,

  Treading soft on memory.

  And now let fall your weary heads,

  As off you journey to your beds.”

  The curious troupe of actors dashed off the dais and disappeared through a door on one side of the great hall. The audience blinked and yawned, and, as if Trifkin’s words had been some sort of enchantment, the revel wound down to an end. The trestle tables were folded and pushed against the walls, and people spread sleeping mats of woven rushes on the floor. King Kel disappeared into the room behind the frayed curtain, and the mysterious woman and her knightly companion were nowhere to be seen—they must have departed to a private chamber during the play. Even Falken looked weary as he strummed his lute, then slipped it into its case. It seemed Travis was the only one who was not ready for sleep. He gazed at the side door through which Trifkin’s troupe had vanished. He could not stop thinking about the little man and his actors. There had been something extraordinary about them and their peculiar play, though he wasn’t certain just what.

  Torches were doused, and soon only the ruddy light of the fire filled the great hall as the folk of Kelcior readied themselves for sleep. Falken found a spot in a corner, and he and Travis lay down and curled up in their cloaks. Sounds drifted around them in the dimness: snoring, murmured talk, the soft noises of lovemaking. Travis tried to close his eyes, but he wasn’t tired.

  “Do you think he really would have thrown us out?” he whispered after a while. “King Kel, I mean. He seems a bit on the barbaric side.”

  “No, we were in no real danger,” Falken said in a sleepy voice. “At least, I don’t think we were. Kel likes to act terrible, but I suspect a large heart resides in that burly chest of his.” He gave a weary sigh. “Now go to sleep, Travis Wilder.”

  Despite his exhaustion, Travis stared into the dusky air long after Falken’s breathing had grown deep and slow.

  31.

  Travis opened his eyes. The fire had dwindled to a heap of coals, and the great hall was quiet except for the soft sounds of breathing. It was the deep of the night. He sat up, cocked his head, and listened. What was it that had awakened him? He wasn’t certain, but it had sounded almost like … bells.

  Now Travis was wide-awake. He glanced at Falken, who lay beside him in the murk. The bard’s eyes were shut, and he snored gently.

  “You should go back to sleep, Travis,” he whispered to himself even as he quietly stood up. He cast one more look at Falken, then picked his way among the bodies that littered the floor of the great hall. He should not be doing this. At the very least it was foolish to go wandering around a strange castle at night, and at the very worst it could be perilous. Yet the last time he had heard bells—on the highway outside Castle City—was when everything had started to change. Maybe there was a connection here that could help him find a way back home.

  His boot trod on something soft, and there was a sleepy grumble of protest. Travis froze and bit his lip to stifle a cry. He peered down in the gloom and saw he had stepped on the foot of a wildman. Travis’s heart raced. Then the wildman let out a sigh, rolled over, snuggled against a slumbering hunting hound, and after that was quiet. Travis let out a silent breath of relief and continued on.

  He came to a side door—the same door Trifkin Mossberry’s troupe of actors had vanished through earlier. He pushed open the door, thankful that it did not creak, then stepped through and shut it behind him. He found himself in a narrow corridor. While the great hall had been warm with the heat of fire and dogs and people, here the stones radiated a wintry chill. At one end of the corridor lay an alcove which, his nose told him, contained the privy. At the other end was a small arch that opened on a spiral staircase. Travis headed for the stairs. The steps were steep and narrow, and he grew dizzy as he wound his way upward. At the end of the staircase was another archway. This opened onto a hallway similar to the one below. Doors lined one wall, leading to rooms that must lie above the great hall. The corridor was dark except for a single line of golden light that glowed beneath the farthest door.

  This time there was no mistaking the sound. As he drew near the door, the music of bells shimmered on the air, followed by laughter as clear as creek water. Only when he stopped before the door did Travis realize he was trembling. A single beam of light poured through a keyhole. Before he even thought about what he was doing, he knelt and peered through the aperture into the chamber beyond.

  The first thing he noticed was that the room was bathed in a radiance the color of sunlight in a forest. The second thing he noticed was that there was no visible source for this light: no candles in sconces, no torches on the wall, no oil lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling. The light simply was. It filled the chamber with its golden radiance.

  Trifkin Mossberry’s troupe gathered inside the room. At first glance nothing seemed out of the ordinary. This was merely a band of actors relaxing after a performance. Yet the more Travis stared, the more things seemed peculiar. For one thing, none of the actors had removed their costumes. A few of the goat-men reclined on the floor and balanced wine goblets on their naked chests. Another goat-man played a melody on a reed pipe while three tree-women danced in a circle around him and laughed as they shook their branch-arms. The young actress who had played Spring leaned back on a lounge and hummed to the music, while a tree-woman combed her green hair with twig fingers. Old man Winter spun around and threw handfuls of his white petals in the air. Above it all, on a high shelf like a red-cheeked cherub, sat Trifkin Mossberry. The little man swung his short legs in time to the dance below. He gripped a silver cup and beamed beatifically, as one who was joyfully drunk.

  Travis blinked. Suddenly he was no longer certain the actors were still in costume. The more he looked, the more he was certain the goat-men’s crooked legs were not merely clad in shaggy trousers, but in shaggy hair. The tree-women did not simply grip bundles of twigs in their hands. Their hands and fingers were twigs, thin and lithe as willow-wands. The white flecks Winter tossed into the air melted into diamond droplets of water as they touched the floor. And Travis was now sure that the flowering vines had not simply been braided into Spring’s hair. Instead, they were part of it, and grew from her scalp with the rest. Of them all, only Trifkin Mossberry seemed no different than he had earlier in the great hall. He still wore the same yellow breeches and green jacket, and the same red-feathered cap was perched on his curly brown hair.

  As if he sensed eyes upon him, the little man turned his head toward the chamber’s door. There was an odd look in his nut-brown gaze: curious, knowing, and slightly mocking. Travis’s heart ceased to beat. Somehow Trifkin knew he was there!

  Travis stifled a cry, scrambled backward, and ran for the stairwell. The sound of high laughter pursued him. He did not look back. At breakneck speed he careened down the steps, ran to the side door, and hurried across the great hall. This time his clumsy steps left a string of grumbles and muttered curses in his wake. He reached Falken, knelt, and shook the bard’s shoulder.

  Falken groaned, and his eyes fluttered open. “What is it, Travis?”

  “I saw them, Falken,” he whispered. “They weren’t costumes. They were … they were real.”

  “What on Eldh are you talking about?”

  In quick words Travis described how he had heard the sound of bells and had followed, and what he had seen through the keyhole. However, even as he described the experience, it seemed more and more absurd. His words trailed off. Falken wore a disapproving look.

  “You were dreaming, Travis,” the bard said with no small amount of annoyance. “I’ll grant you, the play was peculiar enough to give one nightmares. These days actors seem to think they can perform any bit of tomfoolery and label it art. What’s more, dim-witted nobles are too prideful to say they don’t understand it, and so lavish gold upon the actors to hide their ignorance. It is a trick, but hardly
magic. Now go back to sleep.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the bard rolled over, shut his eyes, and soon snored again. Travis lay down and tried to do the same. Falken was probably right. The play had been peculiarly vivid, and it was little wonder it had encroached on his dreams. Yet when he closed his eyes, he saw again the goat-men and the tree-women dancing, and he remembered that he had glimpsed similar creatures before. The moment had been so fleeting that, at the time, he had decided he had seen nothing at all. Now he was not so certain what to believe.

  It had been at Brother Cy’s revival in Castle City, and he had seen them behind the curtain.

  32.

  This time it was Falken who woke Travis. The bard shook him—a bit more roughly than was strictly necessary—and grinned when Travis sat up.

  “So, any more strange visitations last night?”

  Travis worked his dry tongue. “Just this taste in my mouth.”

  “Feasts have a way of doing that.” He gave Travis a hand up. “Let’s go find something to wash away the remnants of last night’s revel.”

  Though the hour was early, the keep’s folk were already up and about, and the great hall was nearly empty. An ashwife stirred the coals in the fireplace, and a pair of girls scattered fresh rushes on the floor. Travis followed Falken down a set of stairs and through a door outside. Here, behind the keep, was a courtyard bounded by crumbling walls. The sun had just risen over the lake, and had set aglow the mist and the smoke of cookfires.

  Despite what Falken had intimated last night, apparently there wasn’t always a feast in progress in the petty kingdom of Kelcior. Last night’s revelers were now engaged in a variety of tasks. Old women boiled mash for beer in a great iron cauldron. Boys cleaned the stalls in a thatched stable full of horses. Several men worked to bolster a sagging wall, and others sharpened swords, repaired harnesses, or hammered horseshoes over a hot fire. One of the shaggy wildmen led a flock of sheep out a gate in the courtyard’s wall while a hound barked happily at his heels.

  Travis and Falken made their way to the cooking shed, which leaned against one wall of the courtyard. The bard charmed the red-faced kitchenwife into giving them a pot of beer and a loaf of yesterday’s bread, and they made their breakfast atop a pile of stones. Beer would not have been Travis’s first choice to wash the taste of last night’s feast from his mouth, but the stuff in the alepot turned out to be more yeast than fire, and it did the job. The black bread was hard, but it was flavorful and filling.

  As they ate, Travis watched the men repair the courtyard wall. According to Falken, there were barbarian chiefs and bands of outlaws in this land who would be more than happy to take over the ancient keep if Kel gave them the chance. Here on the edges of the Dominions life was rough and only barely civilized, and a petty king ruled by the might of his warriors, not by the right of inheritance. However, Kel had held the keep for some years. He had forged alliances with several of the chiefs, and, in exchange for tithes of grain and meat, his warriors protected the villages scattered along the Queen’s Way to the west. It was not a perfect system, yet it worked.

  Falken stood up. “All right, let’s get moving.”

  “Where are we going?” Travis asked around his last mouthful of bread.

  “You will see.”

  Travis knew he would get no further explanation from the bard. He swilled down the last of the beer and followed. They returned the empty alepot to the kitchen, then left the courtyard through a gate. To their left lay a ruined portion of the fortress, and it was in this direction the bard turned. They picked their way among heaps of broken stone, and soon Travis realized they were making for the broken stump of a tower that stood on the end of the peninsula. Sweating despite the morning chill, they reached the tower and stepped through an open archway. Inside, the tower was roofless, its circular floor covered with dry grass. Sunlight spilled through a gap in the east wall. Only after a moment did Travis realize he and Falken were not the only ones in the tower. An amber-eyed woman in a midnight-blue kirtle sat upon a large stone, while a tall, fair-haired knight stood behind her, hand on the hilt of his sword—the same pair he had seen at the feast the night before.

  “Well, it’s about time you got here, Falken Blackhand,” the woman said.

  Travis shot the bard a nervous look. “These are the friends you talked about, aren’t they?”

  “However did you guess?” Falken said. The bard approached the duo. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, but I ran into a few … complications along the way.”

  The woman turned her startling gaze on Travis. “So I see.”

  He squirmed under her attention. Something about the way she looked at him made him feel transparent. He sighed in relief when she turned her attention back toward Falken.

  “We were about to give up on you. It has been nearly a month since we were supposed to meet here, and I must tell you King Kel’s hospitality, although graciously given, grows a trifle wearisome by the sixth or seventh feast.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the knight said in a cheerful tenor. He scratched the scruffy blond beard that clung to his cheeks. “I rather like Kel’s court. One doesn’t have to think about what to do every night. The social activities are all sort of planned out.”

  The woman stood. “So, are you going to introduce us to your companion, Falken? Or have you decided to dispense with all semblance of manners in order to better blend in with King Kel’s courtiers? I must confess, it appears to be a role quite within your reach.”

  Falken winced, then turned toward Travis. “Travis Wilder, I would like you to meet my friends.” He shot the others a dark look. “Though sometimes I wonder if that’s really the proper word. At any rate, the big blond oaf in the metal suit is Beltan. And the lovely woman with the tongue of steel is the Lady Melia.”

  Melia shot Falken a warning look. “I might be happy to see you, Falken. Then again, it would be wise not to press the point.” She approached Travis with a swish of wool, held out a hand, and affected a disarming smile. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Unsure exactly what he was supposed to do, Travis took her hand in his and kissed it.

  “Well, at least somebody here has manners,” Melia said, and her eyes glinted.

  “You might want to find a place to sit, Travis,” Falken said. “Lady Melia and I have a bit of catching up to do, and it might take some time.”

  Falken sat on a stone near Melia, but Beltan continued to stand behind the dark-haired lady. Travis found a place in the sun not far away from the others. He sat cross-legged on the ground and let the morning light warm his face as he listened.

  It was Melia who began. “A great deal has happened in the year since we parted ways and set off on our separate journeys, Falken. Beltan and I have traveled to all of the seven Dominions, and we have seen and heard much that is troubling. But let me begin by giving you what might be the most pressing news. A Council of Kings has been called at Calavere. Even at this moment, the rulers of the other six Dominions journey toward Calavan.”

  Falken let out a low whistle. “Things must be bad indeed. I’m afraid where I journeyed in the last year, I heard little news of the rest of Falengarth. Tell me more.”

  As sunlight crept across the grassy floor, Falken and Melia continued their exchange, with occasional additions from Beltan. Travis watched them with keen interest. After all, these were the people who might be able to help him get back to Colorado. There was little in their conversation he truly understood, yet during the course of their talk he managed to glean a bit of information about the two strangers. Apparently the big knight, Beltan, came from the Dominion of Calavan, where this Council of Kings was to be held. No one mentioned from what land Melia hailed, though Travis got the impression she came from the far south, and that she was a lady of some importance there. At least she acted like one.

  At one point as he watched the three, Travis adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, and he almost thought he glimps
ed a faint aura shining around each of them. Beltan’s aura was bright gold, though there was a dark streak in it, almost like tarnish. Falken, too, had an aura Travis had not seen before—as pale as silver, and as sad as valsindar in winter. Brightest by far shone the corona around the Lady Melia. It was the same rich amber as her eyes, yet it shimmered with azure as well.

  Melia turned to fix Travis with a piercing look. Startled, he fumbled with his glasses, and the auras were gone—if he had ever really seen them. Melia turned her gaze back toward Falken.

  From what Travis could understand of their talk, Melia and Beltan had parted ways with Falken in the Dominion of Calavan last autumn, and had agreed to meet again in Kelcior in one year’s time. The purpose of their travels had been to search for the source of an evil that had begun to stir in Falengarth. As Melia and Beltan told their tale, it became clear that, during the intervening year, things had gone from dark to darker.

  Everywhere in the Dominions the summer had been short and blighted. Crops perished in the fields, while plague swept village after village. Now winter came early, and by the looks of things it meant to stay long. A hard winter meant that bands of barbarians and outlaws, who usually prowled the marches on the fringes of the Dominions, were likely to strike deeper into the heart of civilized lands in search of food and warmth. Fear and unrest already grew among the peasantry, and that made the nobles more than a little nervous. Yet raiders were not the only things of which the peasants were afraid. In some of the villages Melia and Beltan had passed through, the common folk had been worked up about rumors of strange creatures prowling about and causing mischief.