Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  The night air was frosty, but Travis did not mind. The cold cleared his head. For a time he was content to stare into the moonlit garden. Sometimes life was as tangled as the nettles, and just as stinging.

  His breath clouded on the air. It was past time to be getting back to the others. He reached out to draw the shutters closed.

  Movement caught his eye. Travis froze. Deep in the garden, a patch of shadow stirred. It flowed toward the far wing of the manor, opposite Travis’s window, and there it joined with another, thinner shadow that had clung close to the wall of the manor. A sound drifted on the air, like the moan of the wind. Or like the whisper of voices.

  The moon passed behind a cloud, and the garden was plunged into darkness. Travis held his breath, afraid to move. He counted a dozen heartbeats. The cloud drifted on, and the light of the moon spilled into the neglected garden once more.

  The shadows were gone.

  Travis breathed out. He scanned the garden but saw nothing. Most likely the shadows had been tricks of the moonlight. A jaw-cracking yawn escaped him, and only then did he realize how tired he was. He pulled the shutters closed and turned back down the hallway.

  He paused when he reached the door to their chamber. No sounds came from the other side. The others would be asleep by now. Travis did not want to wake them—he had caused enough trouble with his outburst. There was a small alcove set into the wall a few paces away. It was not exactly a proper bed, but at least it would protect him from the worst drafts, so he wrapped himself in his mistcloak and curled up inside. Travis would have thought sleep difficult, but weariness stole over him, and he sank into dreamless slumber.

  44.

  A sizzling sound woke him. With it came an uncomfortable heat against his face. Travis opened his eyes. At once he sat up in terror, his back against the wall of the alcove. He could not tear his eyes away from the glowing iron brand that hovered before him, inches from his forehead.

  Lord Sebaris clucked his tongue. His glassy eyes reflected the red-hot glow of the brand. “Better you had not awakened, my friend,” he said in a whisper. “The pain is worse when you know it is coming.” The brand moved an inch closer.

  Travis tried to speak through the fear that constricted his throat. The stench of hot metal was sharp in his lungs. “Why?” he said. “Why are you doing this?”

  Now the look in the lord’s eyes was one of regret. “I must mark you. I must mark all of you. It is the only way to be safe.” He licked thin lips. “Don’t you see? They will not kill you if they think you are one of them!”

  Sweat rolled down Travis’s forehead and stung his eyes. He tried to back away but could retreat no farther. He gasped the words. “Who are they?”

  “Who else?” Sebaris said. “The dark ones! The followers of the Raven!”

  The lord hesitated, then lifted his free hand to push the lank hair away from his forehead. Two puckered lines marked the flesh of his brow. The ragged scars formed a symbol—a symbol Travis knew well. It could almost be an eye, but it wasn’t. Instead it was meant to be the wing of a raven. Only at that moment did Travis realize the end of the brand had been wrought into the mirror image of that shape. He stared, his horror renewed.

  “Ah, you understand!” Sebaris’s voice was a croak of triumph. “You have seen the dark ones before. You know I must do this.” He tightened his thin fingers around the grip of the iron brand. The end glowed like a coal. “If you do not struggle, the pain will be a little less.”

  Travis knew he should cry out, that he should resist, but fear paralyzed him. With a mad grin, Sebaris tensed, ready to press the brand against Travis’s flesh. Just then the muffled sound of shouts came from behind the door where the others were. Travis heard the dull ring of a sword being drawn. There was a low thump, and a bubbling cry of pain.

  Sebaris glanced toward the door.

  Travis knew this was his only chance. The paralysis of fear shattered. He grabbed Sebaris’s arm, thrust the glowing brand aside, and knocked the lord backward. The two rolled into the corridor, and the brand clattered against the stone floor. Travis tried to disengage from his foe, but Sebaris fought back with a shocking strength Travis had not expected, given his emaciated body. With a grunt of pain, Travis found himself on his back. Sebaris dug sharp knees into his chest and wrapped clammy hands around his throat. Travis choked for breath. Sebaris grinned and tightened his cruel grip. Now stars exploded before Travis’s eyes. That was when the voice spoke.

  The word, Travis. Remember the word I spoke to you.

  Travis supposed the voice was a figment of his oxygen-starved brain. Yet it sounded so much like Jack’s—just like the voice that had spoken when he touched the broken rune in Kelcior. The world spun around him. It would be so easy to sink down into darkness. All he had to do was close his eyes, then peace would come.

  No, Travis! Don’t close your eyes!

  He fought to remain conscious. Sebaris frothed at the mouth now. The sounds of fighting behind the closed door had ended.

  You must speak it, Travis. Speak the word!

  Travis was tired, so terribly tired. But he couldn’t let Jack down. He lifted a hand and rested it against the lord’s sunken chest. The sound that issued from his lips was a barely audible croak.

  “Krond.”

  Flame burst into being around Travis’s hand. Crimson tongues licked at Sebaris’s robe, and the threadbare cloth ignited like tinder. With a shriek, Sebaris threw himself back, away from Travis. He beat at the flames with gnarled hands, but the effort was futile. In moments the lord blazed like a torch. He raised bony arms above his head in a gesture of exultation.

  “I come to you, my dark king!”

  He stumbled backward, into a tapestry that hung upon the wall. Flames raced up the rotten weaving to lick the wooden beams above. Sebaris pitched forward. By the time the lord struck the floor, there was nothing left of him besides a charred husk.

  Travis gagged, clutched his bruised throat, and pulled himself to his knees. He looked up to see Falken in the open doorway. Melia and Beltan were just behind him. The big knight gripped his sword, the blade dark with blood. All of them wore looks of astonishment.

  “How, Travis?” Falken asked softly. “How did you do that?”

  Travis looked at his hand, but the skin was smooth and undamaged. The flames that had incinerated Sebaris had not so much as touched him. He opened his mouth but could not speak.

  “There’s no time for that now,” Melia said.

  Flames raced along the wooden beams of the ceiling. Falken gave Travis one last hard look, then nodded. Beltan pulled Travis to his feet. Together the four stumbled down the corridor. Thick smoke filled their lungs, and blazing beams crashed down on their heels. Travis wondered what had become of the serving girl, Kirtha. Then he remembered the bandage that had covered her forehead and knew that, wherever she was, it was already too late to save her.

  Gasping for air, the four burst into the night outside. They did not stop running until they reached the stable. Then they turned just in time to see the entire roof of the manor house collapse. The stone walls cracked with a sound like thunder and sank inward. Sparks rose into the onyx sky, winking like crimson eyes.

  Travis drew a cooling breath into his seared lungs. It was painful to speak, but the words were audible. “What happened in the chamber?”

  “Two men slipped through the window,” Falken said. “They were Raven cultists. I think they would have slain us had Beltan not been keeping watch.”

  “No.” Travis shook his head. “They didn’t come to kill.”

  Melia gave him a sharp look, but his throat hurt too much to explain any further. Later he would tell them about the iron brand and Sebaris’s terrible words.

  Beltan wiped his sword against the grass and thrust it back into the scabbard at his hip. “Whatever the cultists wanted, they weren’t easy to kill. I ran one through the gut, and he still kept coming. He didn’t stop until I lopped his head off. But that was nothi
ng compared to what you did to old Sebaris, Travis. How by Vathris did you—”

  Melia laid a gentle but firm hand upon the knight’s arm. “Enough, Beltan. Such things can wait.”

  Travis shivered. He wondered the same thing as Beltan. He closed his eyes and saw Sebaris again, writhing as the flames consumed him, cackling in mad glee.

  “There’s enough moonlight to ride by,” Falken said. “Let’s get the horses.”

  45.

  The Lady Grace of Beckett’s education in courtly manners and feudal politics began promptly at dawn the day after her conversation with King Boreas.

  She woke to a chiming sound. On instinct her hand went to her hip and fumbled in search of her beeper. The hospital was calling her. Probably Morty Underwood, damn the little worm. She groped, but her blind fingers found only soft cloth. Then the chiming came again, and it was not the electronic whine emitted by a silicon chip, but the bright sound of metal on metal. She threw back the bedcovers and sat bolt upright. Memory of the previous day flooded back to her. Denver Memorial Hospital was a world away now. The thought should have caused her alarm. Instead a feeling like relief washed through her.

  Aryn stood at the foot of the high, four-poster bed, a cheerful expression on her pretty face. Her gown today was a lighter shade of blue, the color of the wintry dawn sky outside the chamber’s window. In her left hand she held a silver bell.

  “I’m glad you’re finally awake, Grace.” The baroness set the bell on a sideboard. “I was afraid I had chosen far too small a tool for the task, and that I was going to have to call for the king’s trumpeters instead.”

  “Mrumph,” Grace said. It was far too early in the morning for humor.

  With stiff motions she climbed down from the bed, still clad in yesterday’s rumpled tunic and hose. Though a great deal had happened to her in the meantime, it still had been only a day since the knight Durge had found her lying in a snowdrift. Her bones ached, and she was shivering again.

  Now the mirth in Aryn’s large eyes was replaced by concern. “Are you well, Grace?”

  Was she well? Grace bit her tongue to stifle a mad laugh. She had left her apartment, her job, her life, had fled men with hearts made of metal, and had found herself in an entirely different world. Was she well?

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Aryn smiled.

  Grace forced her teeth to stop chattering. “Now, this is my first morning in Calavere, and I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do. What’s first?”

  “Bath,” Aryn said, and the word was music to Grace’s ears.

  Grace had always thought, in medieval periods, people bathed once a year whether they needed it or not. Two baths in two days seemed to disprove that theory. On Aryn’s order, a pair of serving maids—the same two young women in dove-gray dresses whom Grace had glimpsed yesterday—brought in a wooden tub and pitchers of steaming water. She noted the serving maids seemed less fearful than the day before. But then, yesterday she had been half-frozen, found on the borders of a mysterious forest, and dressed in what were—for here, at least—outlandish clothes. She supposed it was a little harder to mistake a bony woman shivering in a tunic for a fairy queen.

  Aryn and the serving maids retreated from the room, and Grace soaked in the marvelously hot water until, one by one, her muscles unclenched. However, at last the water grew cool, and she knew there was no more putting it off.

  It was time to try the gowns again.

  She dried off, shrugged on the simple linen shift Aryn had left for her, then eyed the dusky purple gown the baroness had selected. Aryn had said the color would contrast nicely with Grace’s green-gold eyes and ash-blond hair. Grace could only take her word for it. They hadn’t taught fashion design in medical school.

  Grace shrugged the gown over her head, staggered under its weight, recovered, then arranged it as best she could. To the gown’s sash she attached the small leather pouch that contained the silver half-coin and the business card Hadrian Farr had given her. After a moment’s thought she added her necklace to the pouch, for the metal pendant seemed too large and heavy given the low cut of the gown’s bodice. At least, that was what she told herself, but she remembered the way Detective Janson had leaned toward her to peer at her necklace, interest shining in his small, evil eyes.

  With a gentle knock Aryn entered once more. Her blue eyes flew wide, but it was a hallmark of her nobility that she did not burst out laughing. “It’s a good start,” the baroness said, “but let’s work with it a bit.”

  There was some struggling at first, but once Aryn asked Grace to stand still and quit resisting, things went more rapidly. Aryn adjusted the gown with deft fingers, and Grace found that, once properly arranged, it was neither so heavy nor binding as she had thought. There was a definite trick to walking in the thing, and sitting was a feat in itself, but after a few pointers from Aryn, Grace found she was not at all hopeless. In fact, it was almost fun to feel the soft material swishing around her.

  “You’re doing wonderfully, Grace,” Aryn said.

  Grace smiled in reply and spun in a circle. Her smile became a grimace as she tripped over a fold of cloth and flopped down into a chair.

  The baroness winced. “But don’t get overconfident.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  Aryn helped her out of the chair, and they proceeded next to a breakfast of brown bread, soft cheese, and dried fruit. The baroness used the meal as an opportunity for a lesson. Here in Calavan—as in all the Dominions, Aryn explained—common folk paid tithes of food and other goods to their liege lord in exchange for protection and justice. In addition to being king, Boreas was a baron and held several duchies as well, and thus possessed fiefdoms of his own from which came the food, the wool, the iron, and other materials that were required for the keeping of Calavere.

  Grace picked up a piece of bread. “It all seems like an awfully complicated way just to get your breakfast.”

  “And how does one procure food and protection in your homeland?”

  Grace chewed the bread and thought. “I’m not entirely certain. We buy food in a store. And I suppose we pay police officers to protect us.”

  Aryn’s words were polite, but it was clear from her expression she thought this arrangement inferior. “I see. Markets and mercenaries. I have heard things are so in the Free Cities to the south. Perhaps you hail from one of them?”

  Grace looked away. How could she tell Aryn the truth about where she came from? People here had been afraid enough when they thought she might be a fairy queen. What would they think if they knew she came from another world?

  Now Aryn’s voice quavered with worry. “I’m so sorry, Grace. It’s none of my concern where you come from. Can you forgive me?”

  Grace turned back, forced herself to smile, and found it was not so difficult. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  All the rest of that day, and for several days after that, Grace’s education continued. In a way, it was like being in school again. Although even medical school—despite Grace’s love for dissection and examination—had not been so interesting as this. Most of her time was spent in her chamber, and she sat by the fire and gazed into the flames as Aryn lectured. The baroness would sip spiced wine while Grace favored steaming cups of maddok. She had discovered the remarkable substance one morning when a clay pot of it was left on her breakfast tray by mistake. Apparently maddok was considered a vulgar drink, suitable for commoners only, while nobles preferred wine. However, after her first cup, Grace did not care what anyone thought of her for drinking it. In multiple ways maddok reminded her of the coffee in the Residents’ Lounge back at Denver Memorial—thick, black, and energizing—only without that battery acid aftertaste and the accompanying shakes. It was good stuff.

  Each day, Grace looked forward to Aryn’s visits more and more. Before long, by the time the baroness arrived at the chamber door, she would discover Grace already risen and dressed. What was more, Aryn was forced to rearra
nge Grace’s hopelessly tangled gown only on the first two or three occasions. After that, Grace found she could manage by herself, albeit with some minor lifting on the part of one of the serving maids. The first time she was able to properly don one of the gowns alone she beamed in triumph. It was amazing what a feeling of independence it gave one to be able to dress oneself.

  Aryn, it turned out, was a good teacher.

  The baroness was knowledgeable and explained things in a clear manner, and, while patient, she was also demanding of her pupil. Though far from perfect, a picture of this world—at least the part of it in which she had found herself—began to form in Grace’s mind. She listened as Aryn spoke of the history of the Dominions, and of kingdoms and empires far older. And she learned something of geography as well, when one afternoon the baroness used bits of charcoal stolen from the hearth to draw maps on pieces of stretched sheepskin vellum. It was fascinating, yet—just as Grace had expected in a world without automobiles and satellites—Aryn’s knowledge of the land grew more vague with increasing distance from Calavan.

  Of all Aryn’s lessons, politics was Grace’s least favorite, and the one upon which they spent the most time. If Grace was to be at all effective in observing the upcoming Council of Kings, Aryn explained, it was crucial she possess a thorough understanding of all the players involved.

  “And the ruler of Brelegond is?”

  The baroness paced before the fire, her left hand on her slender hip, and her expression serious. She had taken to quizzing Grace, who sat on a stool, to test how well her pupil had paid attention.

  Grace thought a minute. “King Lysandir.”

  Aryn nodded. “Good. Now, tell me the seat of Queen Ivalaine of Toloria.”

  That was an easy one. The names were so similar. “Ar-Tolor,” Grace said without pause.

  The baroness did not give Grace a chance to rest. “And the primary export of Galt is?”

  Grace wracked her brain but could not recall the answer. This was worse than the gross anatomy final her first year in medical school. “Rocks?” she said with a hopeful look.