by Mark Anthony
“Eldh?” Travis frowned—this didn’t make sense. “But isn’t that the name of this … of the world?”
“Yes, it is. But it is also the name of the First Rune, and by speaking it the Worldsmith forged the world and set it spinning within the mists.” Rin drew a box on the wax tablet, then divided the box in two with a line:
“After this, the Worldsmith bound the rune Eldh within the Dawning Stone, that the world might know permanence. Then he spoke the runes of sun, and moon, and stars, and these too came into being. That was only the beginning. Sky and mountain, river and ocean, tree and stone—as the Worldsmith spoke their names, they appeared, and for each name there was a rune which he bound within the Dawning Stone, so that all things in the world would never fade.”
Understanding crept into Travis’s mind, and along with it a growing excitement. “So everything in the world has a name? And a rune to go with it?”
Rin nodded. “Yes. And when you speak a rune you invoke its power, just as the Worldsmith did at the beginning.”
Travis scratched his beard and tried to take in everything Rin and Jemis had said. It was a wonderful story, but it was all just a myth, wasn’t it?
A myth like wraithlings? Like feydrim?
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “You say the secret of runes came from Olrig. But I thought Falken said … I mean, I thought no one believed in the Old Gods anymore.”
Jemis slammed a hand down on the tablet and knocked it to the floor. Both Travis and Rin stared, jaws agape.
“They are fools!” The elder runespeaker’s eyes burned in the glow of the brazier. “The First Ones retreated into the mists long ago, back into the Twilight Realm. They let the loud and brash New Gods of Tarras march across Falengarth. It was not their time anymore. But though they are distant now, do not think the Old Gods are gone.” He was rigid now, trembling. “Eldh was theirs once, and it will be again!”
A shudder coursed beneath Jemis’s gray robe, and he passed a hand before his eyes. They glowed no longer, but were dull like stones. “Your first lesson is over,” he said in a flat voice. He turned, scrambled up the stairs that spiraled around the inside wall of the tower, and disappeared through a door.
Travis looked at Rin. “I’m sorry.”
Rin shook his head. “Don’t worry, Travis. I think sometimes when you grow old it’s hard to see things change, that’s all.”
“Do you think he’s right?” Travis looked into the ruby heart of the brazier. “Do you think the Old Gods will come back?”
“There is some cheese and bread for our lunch,” Rin said. “You should eat something before I show you how to use the stylus and the tablet.”
Travis nodded and said nothing more as he moved to help Rin with the food.
75.
Travis stepped from the dilapidated tower of the Runespeakers and grabbed for the edges of his mistcloak as wind sliced through his tunic. Every day the weather was colder than the last. Even in the Winter Wood it had barely seemed as frigid as this, but there the valsindar had offered some protection from the brooding clouds that swept out of the Fal Threndur.
Travis glanced up at the sky. It was hard and brilliant, with no sign of dark clouds. But they’ll come here eventually, won’t they? They’re his clouds, the Pale King’s. Right now they’re staying close to Imbrifale. That’s why Falken and I couldn’t see them when we left the Winter Wood, when we headed for Kelcior. But that won’t last, will it?
He shivered, wrapped his cloak around himself, and tried not to wonder how long it would be before he looked up again to see iron-black clouds reaching out of the north to swallow Calavere’s nine towers.
As usual, when Travis stepped into the chamber he shared with Falken and Melia, the two were deep in discussion over the Council of Kings. From what Travis gleaned, the council had reconvened that morning, even though Falken had already forced a reckoning. According to the bard, no reckoning was final until all the kings and queens made a choice—and so far Ivalaine had abstained. Now each of the rulers was to make a report on the state of affairs in his or her own Dominion. Each king or queen was granted two full sessions. With recesses, it would be over a fortnight before this phase of the council was finished—a fact which clearly did not please Falken.
The bard ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “We can’t just sit here and wait while every petty advisor of every ruler speaks in deep and excruciating detail about the health of this year’s calves in every single province of the Dominion in question.”
“Actually, I can,” Melia said. “Especially in this chair. It’s really quite comfortable. Horsehair I think. I wonder if King Boreas could have one made for me.”
Falken glared at her.
“Besides,” Melia said, “sometimes patience is necessary, Falken. I would have thought you of all people would know that.”
“And sometimes, if you wait too long, you wake up and realize everything that’s important to you has crumbled to dust.”
Melia looked up at the bard. Now concern touched her visage, and her voice was gentle. “Do not fear, Falken. Only the first seal on the Rune Gate is broken. We still have time, and the council may yet decide on a muster. In the meantime we can keep doing what we have been doing—watching, and learning. That knowledge will help us.”
Falken grunted, but he did not answer.
Travis took off his cloak and set it on his bed. Melia eyed his mud-caked boots.
“How thoughtful of you to bring a little of the bailey into the chamber, Travis, knowing how I so dislike going out when it’s cold.”
He gave her a sheepish look. “You’re welcome?”
Melia’s expression was not quite as soft as granite.
“I’ll get a rag?” he tried again.
She smiled and leaned back in her chair. “I believe you’re beginning to catch on, dear.”
“You’re off early,” Falken said as Travis scrubbed at the mud on the floor.
“King Boreas summoned Rin and Jemis,” Travis said from his hands and knees.
“Probably to see what their runes say about the council.” The bard raised an eyebrow. “So how are things going?”
“All right. Except I haven’t spoken a single rune yet. Jemis just makes me practice using the stylus and tablet all day.”
“Good.”
Falken didn’t need to say anything more. Travis would never forget the incident in the talathrin, when he misdrew Lir, the rune of light.
The black kitten had appeared in Melia’s lap again—the tiny creature seemed to be able to leap out of shadows and disappear into thin air at will. It also seemed to have a penchant for biting at Travis’s ankles. He kept an eye on it.
“Well,” Melia said, “I’m certain we can find something for Travis to do.”
“Have you seen Beltan?” he said in a hopeful tone.
Melia gazed into the fire but said nothing. Maybe it was the flickering light, but her regal face seemed sad.
“He’s around,” Falken said in a gruff voice.
What did that mean? Beltan had been acting strangely ever since they had come to Calavere, and as usual no one wanted to talk about it. Travis missed the big blond knight. He sighed and bent back over his scrubbing.
Everyone looked up when a knock sounded at the door. Travis thought it must be Beltan, but when Falken opened the door it was not the rangy knight on the other side.
“Lady Grace,” Falken said. “Will you come in?”
“Yes … thank you.”
Once more Travis was struck by how much she seemed to belong here. He tried to imagine her in surgical scrubs and a mask, a scalpel in her hand. It was possible, but the image of the lady in the purple gown kept getting superimposed over the image of the doctor.
Melia rose to her feet, and the kitten landed on the floor with a brrt!
“Good morrow, Lady Grace.” Melia’s eyes glinted with curiosity.
None of them had spoken with Grace
since the first morning of the council four days ago, when they had discovered the feydrim gone from the wardrobe in her chamber. Travis had told Falken and Melia what he had discovered: that Grace was from Earth, just like he was. The two had clearly found this of great interest, and had asked him many questions—had he ever met Grace before, did they know any of the same people, did they go to the same places? However, what they thought about Grace or his answers they had not shared with him.
“Would you like something to drink?” Falken said.
“No,” she said. She took a breath. “That is … thank you … I mean … I was hoping I could speak with Travis.”
The rag fell from his hand and plopped on the floor. Only when Falken spoke did Travis realize he had been staring.
“Are you going to answer the lady, Travis?” Falken said.
Travis leaped to his feet and wiped his hands on his tunic. “Of course. I’d be happy to, Grace.” He glanced at Melia. “If it’s all right?”
“I’m sure we’ll find a way to manage without you, Travis.”
“We won’t be long,” Grace said.
He followed her out of the chamber, the door shut, and they were alone in the hallway.
“It’s good to see you, Grace,” he said.
Grace frowned at the door. “She makes you scrub the floor?”
Travis was taken aback. Her voice sounded so hard.
“It was my fault,” he said. “I tracked the mud into the chamber. Really, Melia isn’t so bad. Anyway, I’m sorry I haven’t come to talk to you, Grace, but I’ve been busy. I’ve been studying with the castle’s runespeakers.”
She turned her gaze on him. “It’s all right. I’ve been learning … I mean, I’ve been busy, too. But I didn’t forget what you said, about wanting to see the door, the one with the symbol I told you about.” Her gaze was tentative now. “Do you still want me to show it to you, Travis?”
A chill crept up his spine. He wasn’t certain he wanted to see anything that might be associated with the Raven Cult, but he nodded all the same.
“Take me there.”
Travis followed Grace as she led the way through the castle. Servants scurried out of their path, although she hardly seemed to notice. She moved confidently, navigating the twists and turns with ease. More than once Travis glanced out of the corner of his eye at her in amazement. She really did belong here.
It was only when they stopped that he realized they had come to a quieter part of the castle. The corridor ended in an alcove into which a narrow window was set. Beyond was a fragment of blue quartz sky. It could almost have been Colorado, even though he knew it wasn’t.
“It was here,” Grace said.
He looked at her. “What was here, Grace?”
“The bells.”
A shiver danced up his spine. She didn’t need to say anything more.
She tucked a few strands of short, ash-blond hair behind one ear and approached the window. Travis followed and peered over her shoulder. Through the glass he saw fields bounded by stone walls. Some leagues away the fields dipped down, and though he couldn’t see it, he knew that was the valley where the River Darkwine flowed. Beyond were Calavan’s northern marches. He could just make out a deep green line hovering on the horizon. Falken had pointed it out to him one day from the battlements: Gloaming Wood.
Grace turned around. “It couldn’t have been very far from here. I’m sure of it.” She started down a left-hand passage, then backed up and continued on straight. After a short distance she tried another left turn, then nodded and quickened her pace.
“There,” she said as she came to a halt. “That’s where I saw him.” She pointed to a door on the right. It was shut.
“The man in the black robe?” Travis said.
“Yes. He left this behind.” Grace reached into the pouch at her waist, drew out an object wrapped in felt, and unfolded the cloth. It was a knife with a polished black hilt.
Travis studied the knife, then handed it back to her and peered at the door. The symbol scratched into the wood was incomplete, but there was no mistaking the two curved lines.
“It’s the same as the symbol you told me about, isn’t it?” Grace said. “The one you saw on your journey here.”
Travis gave a wordless nod. He forced himself to study the symbol. Yes, it looked as if the maker had started to scratch two crossed lines beneath it. An X.
“What did you say it was?” Grace said behind him. “The symbol of some sort of cult?”
He turned around. “The Raven Cult. It’s a mystery cult, like the Cult of Vathris, only it’s new. I haven’t seen any of its followers here in Calavan, but there were a lot of them in Eredane, and in the other Dominions, from what Melia and Beltan said.”
“I wonder what’s in this room?” Grace started to reach for the door’s handle, then halted and looked up. “Maybe we should ask Lord Alerain for permission first.”
“And what will we tell him we’re hoping to find in here when he asks us? Little people with jingle bells?”
Grace bit her lip. “Good point.”
She turned the handle. There was a click, and the door opened. They glanced both ways down the corridor, but no one was in sight. Together they stepped through the door.
The room was dim—there was no window, only the light that filtered in from the corridor outside—and it took Travis’s eyes a moment to adjust. Shapes loomed all around them, some round, some square, others squat and lumpy.
“A storeroom.”
Even as Grace said this Travis realized she was right. The room was filled with barrels, crates, and sacks—the shapes he had glimpsed.
He scratched his scruffy beard. “What’s so important about a storeroom?”
Grace shook her head.
They searched the storeroom for a few minutes more, but they found nothing special. The crates contained rotten linens, and by their odor the barrels were filled with some kind of salted fish. The air was damp, and Travis soon discovered the source. Water dripped from an opening. The opening was perhaps two feet across and angled up into the thick stone wall. When he peered in he felt a cold puff against his face. It was a ventilation shaft. He remembered reading a book about castles as a kid, one that showed slices taken at various points throughout the structure. Medieval castles were supposed to be riddled with ventilation shafts. Otherwise, in damp climes, everything inside them would have molded instantly.
Travis and Grace stepped back out into the corridor and shut the door behind them.
“There doesn’t seem to be anything important in there,” Travis said.
Grace crossed her arms over the bodice of her gown. “But the man I saw, the Raven cultist, he had to have picked this room for a reason.”
Travis shrugged. He didn’t disagree, but whatever the cultist’s purpose it wasn’t clear from the contents of the storage chamber. A thought struck him. “Maybe this isn’t the only room, Grace. After all, if the cultist marked one door, he could have marked others. If we found more, we might be able to figure out why he was doing it.”
Grace’s eyes shone, and she opened her mouth to reply. Just then the call of a dove drifted through a high window. Both glanced up. The sky had faded from blue to slate.
“Oh!” Grace said. “I need to go, Travis. I have … I have to be somewhere.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I should be getting back, too. We can look for more doors later.”
She nodded, started to turn away, then turned back and clumsily reached for his hand.
“Thank you for coming with me, Travis.”
“Thanks for asking.”
She squeezed, then let go of his hand and hurried down the corridor. He smiled as he gazed after her. It had been almost fun to wander the castle with Grace. Then his eyes flickered to the symbol on the door, and his smile faded.
76.
Grace was certain it was no accident Kyrene had chosen this place for their meeting. She rounded a corner in the hedge maze a
nd stepped into a sheltered grotto.
“There you are, love. I was beginning to think you had changed your mind and had decided not to come. Or that perhaps you had gotten lost in the labyrinth.…”
Grace planted her feet on the frozen ground and resisted the urge to turn and run as she had the last time she had come upon this place. “I’m here,” she said.
Kyrene moved toward her. The countess was wearing a fox cape, its silver fur turned inward. Her cheeks were bright with the cold. “Come, sister.” She held out a hand. “I have much to teach you.”
I’m sure you do. Love. However, Grace did not speak the words. She hesitated, then accepted Kyrene’s hand and stepped into the grotto.
It had been five days since the evening Grace and Aryn had gone to Ivalaine’s chamber, and Grace wasn’t certain she had any better idea what it meant to be a witch. Once she and Aryn had stepped through Ivalaine’s door, they had been eager to learn, eager to hear the truth about who the Witches were—what they wanted … and what they could do. They had expected revelations. What they had gotten were more mysteries.
“How do we begin?” Grace had asked Ivalaine that first evening, breathless, thirsty.
The queen of Toloria had seemed hardly surprised at their arrival in her chamber. “Do you know how to weave, Lady Grace?” she had asked.
Grace had shaken her head.
“Then that is where you will begin.”
Grace had spent the remainder of that evening, and many hours after that, seated before a loom in the queen’s chamber, learning how to operate the pedals, and how to pass the shuttle back and forth through the strands of the warp. She had worked until her back ached and her head throbbed. Not since the first days of her internship at Denver Memorial did she remember being this tired, this dizzy, this consumed and overwhelmed. Yet she was good at it. Weaving was not so different from closing incisions, stitching wounds.
“Watch each thread,” Ivalaine would murmur as Grace worked. “Follow its line, see how it runs beside the other threads. Each is separate, yet all are intertwined as well. Together they create something far stronger than a single strand, yet every bit as supple.”