Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  Travis’s ears pricked up at this. He thought of Trifkin Mossberry’s troupe of actors, and the queer figures he had glimpsed behind the curtain at Brother Cy’s.

  “Strange creatures?” Falken asked, his eyebrows drawn together.

  It was Beltan who answered. “That’s right. It’s always in the most remote villages—those on the edges of deep forests or high mountains. Time and again, folk claim to have seen creatures right out of old stories and legends. Things like goblins, and greenmen, and even fairies.” He let out a skeptical snort. “Of course, even I’m not stupid enough to believe those tales. I would guess they’re just rumors told by village drunkards and gossipy goodwives.”

  “And most likely your guess is right,” Melia said. “However, I’m not entirely surprised such rumors are on the rise. People grow more fearful and superstitious in troubled times. They do not know the real causes of disasters like plagues and famines, and so turn to old legends as a source of explanation.” A grim light shone in her eyes. “Either that, or they turn to new religions.”

  Falken cocked his head.

  “There’s a new mystery cult on the rise in the Dominions,” Melia said.

  The bard ran a hand through his hair. “But that doesn’t make any sense. The mystery cults are ancient. All the ones practiced in the Dominions came north across the Summer Sea centuries ago. How can there suddenly be a new cult?”

  Melia smoothed her gown. “That’s a good question, and one whose answer I would give much to know. From what I can gather, disciples of the Raven Cult must renounce their spirit into the keeping of their god. What’s more, they hold that life itself is unimportant, for in death they will become one with the Raven god and know eternal ecstasy.”

  “That’s awfully convenient,” Falken said in a caustic voice. “You’re saying the cult’s priests don’t have to try to explain any of the current strife and trouble. In fact, they can actually exploit it to win new converts.”

  Anger colored Melia’s cheeks. “Exactly. And it all leads to a horrid kind of apathy. Disciples of the cult don’t try to do anything to counter suffering in this world because, according to their priests, there’s no point. If life becomes too hard, it simply makes them yearn for the bliss of death all the more. To the followers of the Raven Cult, life has no meaning. Only death does.” She clenched a small hand into a fist. “It’s utterly perverse,” she said with a vehemence that seemed somehow personal.

  Falken rubbed his chin with his gloved hand, his expression sad and weary. “Yes, it is. Unfortunately, it’s also just another sign of dark times.” He took a deep breath. “Well, I think our course from here is clear. We have to journey south as fast as possible, to the Council of Kings at Calavere, to report what we’ve learned.”

  “Wait a minute, Falken,” Beltan said. “You have yet to tell us where you journeyed and what you found there. Have you forgotten?”

  The bard’s faded blue eyes grew distant. “No, I haven’t forgotten. The truth is, I’m not yet entirely certain what I learned, and I don’t want to say more until I’m sure. But I will tell you this: My journey was dark and long, and it took me to the Fal Threndur, and after that into Shadowsdeep, and all the way to the Rune Gate itself, beyond which lie the shadows of Imbrifale.”

  Melia and Beltan stared at Falken. A chill danced up Travis’s spine. So that was why the bard had been traveling south through the Winter Wood, away from the Ironfang Mountains.

  Falken’s gaze snapped back into focus. “More of my journey I won’t say at present. Yet I suppose now is as good a time as any to show you this, Melia. I wouldn’t mind a second opinion.” He pulled a cloth bundle from his pack. “I found it in Shadowsdeep.”

  The bard set the bundle atop a flat rock. Drawn by curiosity, Travis rose and approached. Falken unwrapped the cloth and revealed the object within. It was a disk of some sort of white stone, about as large as Travis’s splayed hand. Embedded in its surface was a silver symbol:

  A jagged break ran down the center of the disk and separated it into two halves.

  Melia peered at the artifact and pursed her lips in interest. “It looks to me like some sort of bound rune. In which case, it’s quite ancient. The Runebinders’ art has not been known in Falengarth in centuries.”

  Falken nodded. “A bound rune—that’s what I thought, but I’m glad to hear the same answer from the lips of another. I know only a little of runes, yet I think …”

  The bard’s words dwindled to a drone in Travis’s ears. He gazed at the broken rune. The stone looked as smooth as cream, and his fingers itched. What would it feel like against his skin? Before he knew what he was doing, he reached out his right hand and touched the broken rune.

  The stone disk flared with blue incandescence, and the silver symbol glowed bright white. At the same moment a voice spoke an unfamiliar word in Travis’s mind.

  Krond.

  But that was not the strangest thing, for he knew the voice. It sounded exactly like Jack Graystone’s.

  Travis let out a cry of alarm, and the others gaped at him. He snatched his hand back, and at once the azure radiance vanished. The symbol on the disk dulled, and the voice in his mind faded and was gone.

  Travis rubbed his hand—it tingled fiercely—then Falken reached out, grabbed his wrist, and turned it over.

  A wave of disbelief crashed through Travis. The others looked at him as if he had just grown a second head. All except for Melia, whose expression was sharp and calculating.

  It marked the palm of Travis’s right hand—the hand Jack had grasped that night at the Magician’s Attic—glowing silver-blue like some impossible brand. A symbol, but not the same as the one which marked the broken rune. A low moan of fear escaped his lips.

  “Oh, Jack,” he whispered. “What did you do to me?”

  33.

  “I believe, Falken,” Melia said as she paced across the grassy circle inside the abandoned tower, “that it is time you told us more about this complication of yours.” She fixed her amber gaze upon Travis.

  Travis slouched on a rock, head hung low, and gripped the wrist of his right hand. The symbol on his palm had already faded away, but he could still feel it there, like a prickling beneath his skin. The glowing image had burned itself into his brain, so that every time he blinked he saw the symbol again, three crossed marks:

  Questions whirled in Travis’s mind. How had Jack placed the marks on his hand? And what did the symbol mean?

  No, it wasn’t a symbol. Though it was different from the mark on the broken disk Falken had brought from Shadowsdeep, certainly it was of the same ilk. What had the bard called the stone? A rune? Yet that still did not answer his question. What had Jack done to him?

  Beltan shifted from foot to foot but said nothing. The rawboned knight clearly deferred to Falken and Melia on the topic of magic. Yes—magic. There was nothing else it could be. Except that, in the stories Travis had read as a child, magic had always been a wondrous and exciting thing. Instead, this was dark, and frightening, and isolating. Even now the others watched him with wary expressions.

  Falken crossed his arms over his gray tunic. “I had thought we were done with these little surprises of yours, Travis.”

  “So did I.” Travis looked up at the bard. “I need to tell Lady Melia and Beltan, don’t I? About everything that’s happened to me.”

  “I think that’s probably a good idea.”

  Travis took a deep breath, then spoke in a quiet voice, recounting all that had happened to him starting with that last, fateful night in Castle City. Throughout it all Melia watched him with a calm and even intensity, as if nothing he might say could possibly have worked to surprise her, but Beltan’s eyes grew wide.

  Travis’s words trailed into silence. Melia rose and approached him with a rustle of blue wool.

  “May I see the box?”

  He jumped to his feet. “Of course.” He pulled out the small iron box and held it toward Melia.

  She shook her he
ad. “You open it. Please.”

  Polite as they were, Melia’s words seemed less a request than they did a command. Travis undid the latch and opened the lid. Inside, the gray-green stone shone in the morning light. Melia peered into the box and examined the stone, though she was careful not to touch it. Then she indicated he could shut the lid.

  “What do you think it is?” Travis asked.

  She cupped an elbow in one hand and rested the other beneath her chin. “I don’t think anything. At least, not yet. However, I suspect you would be wise to keep the box well hidden, Travis. Do not open it again unless for some reason it is absolutely necessary.”

  Travis tucked the box back into his pocket. Falken treated Melia to a speculative look. Obviously the lady had some suspicions regarding the stone’s nature but was unwilling to say what these were. Travis, for one, was not about to ask her. He had had more than enough surprises for one day.

  Falken rewrapped the broken stone disk in its cloth and tucked it away. “Let’s get going, then. I think it’s time to beg our leave from good King Kel. It’s a long way to Calavan.”

  Melia made a subtle gesture toward Travis. “And what are we going to do about our little problem?”

  “Well, unless you have any ideas, we still have no way of getting him back to his own world.”

  Melia tapped her cheek with a finger. “I think we had better take him with us to Calavere. After that little incident with the bound rune, I imagine it’s best if we keep an eye on him.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Excuse me,” Travis said, annoyed at being spoken about as if he wasn’t standing right there, “don’t I get a say in this?”

  Evidently he did not. Melia and Falken exited the tower, then started back toward the keep, discussing plans for the journey south along the way.

  Travis stared after them, feeling more than a little sorry for himself. “No one ever tells me what’s really going on.”

  Beltan clapped a big hand on Travis’s shoulder. “You might as well get used to it,” the knight said with a grin. “Those two aren’t much into explaining things.” He started off after the bard and the lady.

  Travis stood alone in the empty tower. Then he took a deep breath and followed the others through the ruins.

  34.

  Grace awoke to a soft sound, like the movements of a mouse.

  She opened her eyes and blinked. Honey-colored light filled the bedchamber. She turned her head on the pillow and saw golden sunbeams slant through the room’s narrow window. It had been both morning and snowing when Durge brought her to the castle. Now the clouds must have broken, and the day had turned to late afternoon. She had been asleep for hours.

  Her forehead creased in a frown. There it was again, the sound that had awakened her: a rustle followed by a faint pad-pad, as of quiet footsteps. Grace pushed aside the bedcovers and sat up.

  Like young does caught in the beam of a hunter’s flashlight, two servingwomen in gray dresses froze and stared at Grace in round-mouthed surprise. One stood beside a table that had not been there earlier and was in the act of setting down a tray laden with dishes. The other was just picking up Grace’s clothes from the hearth.

  Grace cleared her throat. “Hello.”

  She might have screamed the word in her loudest voice rather than murmured it, for the reaction it caused. As one, the serving maidens let out a cry. The one dropped the tray on the table in a bright clatter of crockery. The other snatched up the damp garments and crumpled them into a ball. Both scurried toward the chamber’s door.

  Grace reached out a hand in alarm. “Wait! Those are my clothes!”

  It was too late. The serving maidens both shot her one last look of terror, then fled the room and shut the door behind them.

  Grace chewed her lip. What had that been all about? Certainly she didn’t look as frightening as she had earlier—although belatedly she realized she had not combed her hair, and a probing hand confirmed that it was wild and tangled from sleep. Yet that didn’t really explain why the maidens had seemed so afraid of her. And why had they taken her clothes?

  Grace climbed down from the bed and moved to the hulking wardrobe. There was nothing to do but try one of the gowns. She examined each of the garments in growing despair, then finally chose the one that seemed the least complicated. This was a voluminous affair that consisted of more yards of blue wool than Grace could count. She shrugged the gown over her head and almost went down under its weight, but she gritted her teeth and managed to keep her feet. After this ensued a great deal of tugging, pulling, and adjusting in which she tried to figure out the gown’s myriad and inexplicable straps and fastenings.

  It was futile.

  Grace considered herself an intelligent woman, but the logic of the gown was beyond her. No matter what she tried, the gown bunched up or gapped open, and generally made her look like an overstuffed chair. Huffing with exertion, she untangled herself from the dress and heaved it back into the wardrobe with a few choice exclamations.

  She was about to shut the door of the wardrobe—she did not want to even look at the gowns again—when she noticed something balled up in a corner. She drew out the bundle and unfolded it. There was a long shirt of brown wool as well as thick green leggings, along with a leather belt. Now these were more to her liking. Grace shrugged on the clothes over her undergarments. Both the tunic and hose were baggy, and she suspected they belonged to a servingman who had forgotten them here. However, the garb was warm and comfortable, and—most importantly—comprehensible. She cinched the tunic around her waist and noticed, attached to the belt, a leather pouch. She moved to the mantel, slipped her necklace over her head, and tucked the pendant beneath her tunic. Then she took the Seekers’ card and the half-coin, placed them inside the pouch, and tied it.

  “There,” Grace said in satisfaction.

  She turned from the wardrobe, and a savory smell reached her nostrils. Her gaze moved to the tray on the table. A chair had been placed nearby. Her stomach let out a loud growl of protest to let her know it had been ignored far too long, and it was high time she paid it some attention. Grace considered the tray for a moment, then moved to the table and sat. After all, hunger impaired the thinking process. It simply made more sense to come up with a plan on a full stomach.

  Grace lifted various lids and covers and explored the contents of the crocks. The fare was peculiar: slices of cold meat accompanied by a green jellied sauce, tiny poached eggs that floated atop a thick beige soup, a bread pudding freckled with mysterious herbs, and a kind of dried fruit she did not recognize swimming in thick cream. She eyed the food for a moment, then hunger won out over caution.

  She sampled the contents of one of the crocks. Seconds later she was shoveling food into her mouth. The meat was rich and delicious as long as she avoided the green stuff, and while the eggs had a strong, unpleasant flavor, the yellow soup tasted of leeks and potatoes and was quite acceptable. The bread pudding had a note of anise, which she had always liked, and the dried fruits were edible, if leathery. In all, Grace had partaken of far worse meals, though given her hunger she supposed she would have made do with dog kibble.

  Serious eating had given way to pleasant nibbling when she noticed something near the hearth where her clothes had been. It was a pair of boots. She set down her spoon, rose, and retrieved them. They were fashioned from creamy deerskin. She sat on the chair and tried them on. They slid over her feet and calves like butter, and she could not help letting out a soft gasp of delight. The boots fit perfectly. So perfectly she suspected they had been made especially for her while she slept, using her old hospital shoes for a model. She stood and walked around the chamber to test her new footwear. They hugged her feet, yet flexed with every step, like a pair of boots she had owned for years. She suspected she could walk twenty miles in them and not get a single blister.

  Her path brought her near one of the room’s narrow windows, and she realized then she had yet to look outside. She halte
d and peered through the window. It was glazed with rippled glass dotted with bubbles, inclusions of sand, and other imperfections. These sparkled in the sunlight, and the effect was beautiful rather than distracting.

  She saw that she was on an upper floor of one of the wings attached at right angles to the main keep. To her left she could see the king’s tower. To her right was the gate through which she and the knight Durge had entered the upper bailey. Across the way was the other wing of the keep, and in the center of the courtyard lay the tangled garden. Bare-limbed trees obscured her view of the garden’s center, but she could just make out meandering footpaths as well as the evergreen labyrinth of a hedge maze. The sun sank behind the castle’s spires and turrets, and gilded them with molten gold, while dozens of banners snapped in a stiff wind, bright against the darkling sky.

  Grace still stared out the window when a soft knock sounded on the chamber’s door.

  35.

  Grace turned and stared at the door. The knock came again, gentle yet insistent. She froze in panic. What was she to do? She could face any gruesome injury, could treat any hideous disease, could manipulate the wounded like broken puppets. So why did whole people terrify her so?

  She cleared her throat. “Come in,” she called out and winced at the wavering of her voice.

  There was a pause, then the latch turned, and the door swung open. A young woman stepped into the chamber, and Grace knew at once that this was no serving girl.

  So that’s what those gowns are supposed to look like.

  The dress hung elegantly on the slender young woman, and its sweeping lines enhanced her willowy shape rather than bound or concealed it. A pleated fold of cloth gracefully draped her right shoulder. The gown’s sapphire color perfectly matched the young woman’s large eyes and contrasted with her dark hair and ivory skin. Her features were fine, but they were strong and gentle rather than merely delicate. Though at present she was pretty, she would, with age, become beautiful.