by Mark Anthony
“Mmmph,” Travis had said. It was the only word he could manage.
Melia had cast a smug glance at Falken. “I told you Galtish ale would addle his wits.”
The bard had handed her a gold coin. “I should know better than to wager against you, Melia.”
Fortunately, the ale had not actually addled Travis’s wits, only dulled them temporarily. By that evening, at the next tavern, he had felt better and had taken smaller sips from his tankard.
For two more days they had made their way across Galt. Then the highlands had ended, and the Queen’s Way had plunged down to gentler, foggier lands. These were the northern marches of the Dominion of Calavan. Though the air was still toothed with the bite of a premature winter, it seemed balmy compared to the dry, frigid air of Galt. At last they had crossed a Tarrasian bridge over a swift river—the Dimduorn, Falken called it—and Travis had taken in his first sight of Calavere.
It had been a week since they left the White Tower of the Runebinders. The Council of Kings was to convene tomorrow. They had made it with less than one day to spare.
“I’ve heard King Boreas keeps runespeakers at his castle,” Falken said.
Travis paused in his unpacking and looked up.
Beltan nodded. “He did, last I knew. One of them was named Jemis, I think.”
From her chair Melia raised an eyebrow in Falken’s direction. The bard met her gaze. Somehow those two could hold entire conversations without ever speaking a word.
“Good idea,” Falken said. “I’ll see if I can find this Jemis tonight and ask if he can take over Travis’s tutoring. I’m afraid Travis has learned about all he can from me.”
Melia’s eyes glinted. “Excellent.”
Travis held his tongue—there was no point in complaining. He gazed down at his hands and remembered the power that had flowed through them at the heart of the White Tower. He could not see the silver rune, but he could feel it there, beneath the skin of his palm.
I don’t care what Melia wants. I’ll never use this power again, Jack. I’ll learn about it, but only so I can control it. Only so I don’t hurt anyone again.
“Do you think King Boreas will let you address the council?” Melia asked the bard.
“He’d better,” Falken said. “Besides, even if I can’t count Boreas among my best friends, he is the one who called the Council of Kings. He wouldn’t have forced the rulers of all the Dominions to journey here had the troubles stirring in Falengarth not concerned him.”
“Then again, kings can have many reasons for their actions.” She glanced at the knight. “Beltan, what do you think of your uncle?”
Travis winced. It was still hard to think of Beltan as royalty. It seemed everyone he knew here was a person of importance—except for himself.
Beltan scratched the golden fluff on his chin. “Boreas is a good man, but he’s a good disciple of Vathris as well. I’ve heard it said he’s gained the Inner Circle of the Mysteries of Vathris. Whether that’s the case or not, he’s certainly not afraid of war.”
“Might he even crave it?” Melia said in careful tones.
Beltan shook his head. “I can’t say. I’d be lying if I said Boreas and I were all that close, and it has been three years since I last saw him.” He snorted. “Besides, I’m hardly the person you want to ask about court politics.”
Despite the knight’s words, Travis thought Beltan had summed things up rather well. A thought occurred to him. “You could have been king, couldn’t you, Beltan?”
Beltan turned on Travis. His voice was as sharp and flat as his sword. “No,” he said. “I could not.”
With that the knight stalked from the room.
Travis recoiled as if struck a blow. What had he done? “I only meant he was the last king’s son.”
Falken nodded but said nothing.
“Don’t worry, Travis,” Melia said, her voice gentler now. “You said nothing wrong.”
Then why had Beltan stormed from the room? However, he only went back to unpacking while Melia and Falken continued discussing their plan for addressing the council.
Then the room fell quiet, and Travis looked up. Falken and Melia had taken their conversation into the side chamber, leaving him alone. His eyes moved to the door. He knew it was wrong, but no one had told him he couldn’t. Besides, he felt restless and trapped. He had to move, had to walk somewhere, anywhere.
Before his common sense could convince him otherwise, Travis stood up, opened the door, and slipped into the corridor beyond.
66.
Grace walked down the dim corridor, accompanied only by the soft sigh of her violet gown. It had been more than an hour since she had left the great hall, and she still had not made her way back to her chamber.
Not that she was lost. It had been nearly a month since the day she came to Calavere, and with time the castle’s myriad halls and galleries had become familiar to her. There were still many parts of Calavere she had yet to explore, and things grew hazier once she left the main keep, but she could now traverse from the keep’s west wing to the east with confidence. If she closed her eyes she could navigate the twists and turns in her mind, just as she could the branching patterns of nerves and arteries inside the human body.
If only the labyrinth of human interaction were so easy a thing to master as hallways or medicine. However, that was a maze she doubted she would ever be able to traverse without error. As if her scientific mind needed any more evidence, the incident in the great hall was one more case study she could add to her research. How could she have mistaken the bard’s companion for a servant?
She brushed the fabric of her gown. You’ve almost let yourself believe this is real, Grace. But it’s easier to be royalty, isn’t it? You don’t actually have to speak to other people. You can simply order them around.
Grace cringed as she remembered the wounded look on the man’s face. How many other people had she hurt with her errors of perception, her inability to understand what others were feeling or thinking? How many more people would she? The man in the great hall, the man with the spectacles, was only one in a long line of casualties, caught like the others in the flying shrapnel of what once had been her heart.
She lifted a hand to her chest and almost expected to feel the same bitter cold she had felt when she reached inside the dead man’s thoracic cavity at Denver Memorial, but her heart fluttered warm and weak beneath the bodice of her gown. She drew in a shuddering breath. Maybe it would be better if she did have a heart of iron. Maybe then she wouldn’t always have to try to feel, and fail. It was all so absurd she almost laughed. She could dissect its four chambers with steel-scalpeled precision, but the human heart was a labyrinth she would never comprehend. Just like the maze in the castle’s garden, it led her inevitably to places she could not escape and sights she did not want to witness.
As she walked, Grace’s thoughts turned to Kyrene. She had studiously avoided the green-eyed countess these last days. Now she felt a peculiar desire to see Kyrene, to speak to her, to ask her questions about Ivalaine and the Witches. Kyrene would tell her, she was certain of it. The countess of Selesia would delight in showing Grace how much more knowledgeable she was. Nor did Grace care, not now.
A few herbs, the proper words …
A shiver coursed through her, and it was not only from the castle chill. She pictured him in her mind: lean, dark, elegant. Yes, perhaps next time Logren of Eredane will walk in the garden with me.
That was ridiculous. On Earth Grace had shunned intimacy. She could never let another get close to her. Because if they were close, then they might see everything about her. Everything. She couldn’t let that happen. Not in this world—not in any world.
Grace came to a halt and shook her head, like a sleepwalker waking. She knew this corridor. It led toward the sleeping chambers of many of Calavere’s nobles. One more turn and she would find herself standing before Kyrene’s door. She stared, frozen. Then she snatched up the hem of her gown, not caring on
e whit how unnoble the action was, and ran back down the corridor.
Grace rounded a corner—and collided with something tall and green that let out a low oof! She caught a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye, then heard a chime, as of metal striking stone. Grace stumbled back, caught herself against the wall, blinked to clear her rattled vision, and at last saw what—no, whom—she had run into.
Her heart sank in her chest. It was a sandy-haired man with wire-rimmed spectacles. His arms were folded across his ill-fitting tunic, and he hunched over his stomach. It was clear she had knocked the wind out of him. Too bad you didn’t break a few of his ribs, Grace. At least then you would know what to say.
She winced at this thought, then cleared her throat and forced herself to speak. “Are you all right?”
He craned his neck up. “Oh. It’s you.”
She took a tentative step forward and held out a hand. “Can I help?”
With a grimace he unhunched his shoulders and stood straight—or at least as straight as she had seen him stand in the great hall earlier. Grace could never understand why some tall men were afraid of their own height.
“I think you’ve helped me enough today.”
Grace winced again. “I’m sorry.” She forced the words out one by one. “For running into you. And for thinking you were a servant. Back in the great hall. That was stupid.”
He cast his gray eyes toward the floor. “No, it wasn’t stupid. You’re right. I might as well be their servant. It seems like they always have plans for me, but they never bother to tell me what they are.”
Again she did not know what to say. “Are you lost? I can help you back to your chamber.”
He lifted his gaze and glared at her. “No, I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help. You’ve said you’re sorry, and I’ve accepted, so just leave me alone, all right?”
Indignation rose in Grace’s chest. Didn’t he know who she was? But then, she wasn’t really anybody. Besides, the dry, clinical voice inside her spoke, you’ve heard those same words a hundred times before in the ED. The frightened will never ask for help. It means admitting they’re hurt, admitting they’re lost. You know that, Grace.
He had turned from her now, and he bent over, searching the floor. “Where is it?” he muttered. “It’s got to be here.”
She remembered the flash of silver, then picked up the hem of her gown and moved toward him. “What was it you dropped?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t … I can’t explain it. But it’s important.”
She crouched down beside him. “Then let me help you.”
He ran a hand through his tangled hair and looked up at her. “Look, I already told you, you don’t need to—”
He stopped, and his gray eyes went wide. Grace shook her head. What was he staring at?
“I can understand you,” he whispered.
Grace frowned. For one simple almost-servingman, he certainly had the ability to confound her.
“What are you talking about?”
He leaped to his feet and pointed at her. “There. That. What you just said—I understood it!” He shook his head. “But that’s impossible.…”
She rose. A queer feeling crept into her chest. “Why shouldn’t you be able to understand me?”
Their eyes met, then as one they glanced down at a small glint of silver in the corner of a nearby alcove.
“There,” Grace murmured. “What you dropped, it’s in the alcove.”
He moved to the recess in the wall, bent down, then stood and turned around. Somehow Grace wasn’t surprised at what she saw. The spectacles were an obvious clue, of course. She had seen no others on Eldh. And his boots, now cleaned of mud, were not the flat-soled boots the peasants wore. They were cowboy boots. She forced her eyes down to the object in his hand. It was a half circle of silver, engraved on both sides. One edge was jagged and broken.
“What is it?” he said, quiet now.
Yes, he sensed it. She was certain.
Grace approached, and from the pouch at her waist she drew out her own silver half-coin. He stared, then held his coin out. She brought hers up to meet it. Grace had no doubt the two broken edges would match perfectly, but she let out a gasp all the same when they did.
“The man in black?” he said, not really a question.
She nodded. “Brother Cy.”
“Then you’re from Earth, too.”
A tremor ran through Grace. It was wonder. And joy. And relief. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”
67.
The words had rushed out of them in a flood.
Eldh. The coin. Brother Cy.
They had fit their half-coins together, but the symbols on either side—though now whole—had still made no sense, just like so much about this. Then they had gone to her chamber. For a moment, at her door, Travis had hesitated. After all, he didn’t know this woman. She seemed to be someone here in this world, someone important. What was he doing even talking to her? He should get back to his own room before Melia noticed he was gone. Yet in that same way two Americans—who would have passed each other without speaking on any New York street—could become instant friends when meeting in a Paris café, he felt an instant connection with this woman. He had taken a breath and stepped through her open door.
“I’m Grace Beckett,” she said. “I’m from Denver.”
Only when she spoke these words did he realize they had been staring at each other for well over a minute.
“Travis,” he said. “Travis Wilder. And I …” Saying it seemed to emphasize the impossibility of it all. “I’m from Castle City. It’s a small town up in the …”
Grace nodded. “… the mountains. Of course, it makes perfect sense. Where else would you be from?”
“You know it?”
She moved to a sideboard and picked up a pewter flagon. “I hope you want a drink, because I certainly do. And this time I’ll pour.”
Travis scratched the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about that, too.”
“Don’t be. It doesn’t matter. Here, drink.”
She pushed a goblet into his hand. He gripped the cup in two hands and took a sip. Cool smoke and warm cherries. No peasant’s wine for her. He gulped the rest of it down.
“Thanks,” he said, breathless.
Grace paced before the fireplace now, her violet gown whispering like secret voices. She seemed at home in the garment—assured, even regal—far more at ease than he felt in his rough tunic after a month of living inside it. Was she really from Earth? Yet she had to be—there was no other answer.
“Have you been here long?” he said. “In Eldh, I mean.” The question sounded absurd, but she would understand.
“Just under a month.” She locked her green-gold eyes on him. They were vivid and striking. “It’s been the same for you, hasn’t it?”
Travis nodded, amazed again. How did she know?
“We probably met Brother Cy on the same night. It’s the simplest answer. One thing I’ve learned as a doctor, the simplest diagnosis is almost always the right one.”
“I don’t think there’s anything simple about this.”
She took a gulp of her own wine. Now she did look unnerved. Somehow that made him feel better.
“No,” she said. “No, I don’t suppose there is.”
She gestured for him to sit by the fire. It felt a little strange. They were both from Colorado—there was no reason he should be uncomfortable with her. Yet she was dressed like a noble lady, and he wore the clothes of a commoner. It was hard not to slip into the role ascribed by one’s costume. He forced himself to sit, and she took the chair opposite him.
“So, who should go first?” he said with a nervous laugh.
“This is my chamber, so that makes you my guest,” she said. “I’m not really used to entertaining, but I suppose you should go first. That would be polite, wouldn’t it?”
She looked at h
im, her expression truly uncertain, which he found odd.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll start.”
Grace smoothed her gown, obviously relieved.
Travis thought a moment. Where could he possibly begin? He opened his mouth, and to his surprise words came to him.
“It all started when I heard bells.”
When he finished she said nothing. She only stared into the fire. He started to fear she would not speak at all, then she spoke in a quiet voice.
“I’ve seen it, too.”
He clutched the arms of the chair.
“The symbol.” She looked up at him. “The one that looks like an eye. I saw a man in a black robe carving it into a door in the castle.”
“A Raven cultist,” he said, more to himself than her. So they were here, too, in this castle. That couldn’t be good. “Maybe you’d better tell your story now, Grace.”
She nodded, then licked her lips. “I was in the Emergency Department at Denver Memorial. I’m a—I mean, I was—a resident there. It was just a night, like any other night. A few burn victims, that was all. Then I met the girl in the park, the girl with purple eyes.”
A chill coursed up his spine. “Child Samanda,” he whispered.
“So that’s her name.” She drew in a deep breath, then continued her story.
By the time Grace was done the fire had burned low on the hearth. Travis closed his eyes a moment, trying to take it all in—the man with the heart of iron, Hadrian Farr of the Seekers, Grace’s own flight into the mountains, and her wintry rescue by the knight Durge.
“So they think you’re a duchess.” He couldn’t help a wry smile. “And here I get mistaken for a servingman.”
Grace bit her lip and shrugged. “Sorry.”
Travis shook his head. It was hardly her fault, and he was glad to have met her. Yet in some ways it had been easier when he was the only one, the only Earthling on Eldh. Easier to believe it was just some fluke, or that maybe he was dreaming, or lying in a padded cell somewhere hugging himself inside a straitjacket. Now he had met another traveler from Earth, and that changed everything. If he wasn’t the only one, then it couldn’t be a dream, and it couldn’t be chance. There had to be a reason they had sent him here, and her as well—the dark ones at the revival.