Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  The king stalked around her, dressed in his customary black. Muscles rippled beneath the close-fitting cloth. Grace bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. At that moment she hated how powerful he was, how strong and masculine and handsome. How could anyone ever deny this man anything?

  Damn it, but it’s so unfair. Why should men have so much power? Only that wasn’t true, was it? She remembered the sharp green scent of the winter garden. There were other kinds of power besides brute strength.

  She squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and gazed into Boreas’s keen blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I already told you everything I learned.”

  “It isn’t enough, my lady.” It did not seem a statement of anger or derision, merely of fact. “I can see for myself how the council decided. What I need to know now is how I can change that reckoning.”

  Grace stared at him. Did he really think she had the ability to sway the minds of kings and queens?

  “You are clever, my lady,” the king said before she could find her voice. “I am certain you will discover something that can help me—some desire or fear of each ruler I can use to my advantage. The council must decide on a muster. If it does not, then all is lost.”

  Grace wanted to tell him it was impossible, and that if she had to bring herself to speak in veiled words and innuendo with one more noble, she would run screaming into the bailey as a madwoman. Instead she bowed her head and murmured, “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll do my best.”

  With only a nod for farewell he turned and vanished down the corridor. Dizzy, she moved to a narrow window. She threw the shutters open, drew in several breaths, and let the wintry air clear her head. Below, a dozen men-at-arms marched through the gate that led to the lower bailey. The last of the sunlight glinted on the tips of their raised halberds, crimson as blood.

  Grace reached into her pocket and drew out the wooden bull she had found in the bailey—the symbol of the Cult of Vathris, the warrior mysteries Boreas followed. She ran a finger over the needle-sword stuck into the bull’s throat.

  “Do you know the story of Vathris?” asked a deep voice behind her.

  Grace turned in surprise, then despite her troubles she smiled. “Durge. It seems so long since I’ve seen you.”

  The Embarran’s weathered face was somber as always. “I am ever here, my lady.”

  Despite her troubles she smiled.

  He gestured to the figurine in her hands. “It is an old story. Legend tells how Vathris was the king of a parched and dying land in the far south, across the Summer Sea. To save his realm he went in search of a magical bull, and when he found the beast he slew it. The bull’s blood poured forth in a great river, flooding the land, and bringing life once more.”

  These words plunged a blade of fear into Grace’s own throat. She looked up, into the knight’s brown eyes. Was that what Boreas wanted? To ride across the Dominions and let loose a new river of red, just like his god had thousands of years ago? Except Vathris’s deed, violent as it was, had saved the land. She slipped the bull back into her pocket.

  “I don’t know what to do, Durge.”

  The knight stroked his drooping mustaches. “What do you wish to do, my lady?”

  “I want to know what’s really going on, Durge, to know what danger is truly facing the Dominions, and the best way to counter it. I want to know so I can decide what the right thing to do really is.” It was what a doctor would do: catalog the symptoms, diagnose the illness, then prescribe a cure.

  The knight seemed to consider her words. The wind through the window blew his brown hair back from his brow. Then he nodded. “I think it’s time you tried a new tactic, my lady.”

  Her heart quickened in her chest. She stepped closer to the knight. “Tell me.”

  The next day a story spread through the corridors of Calavere faster than either rats or fire, and by midday everyone in the castle knew how the Duchess Grace of Beckett and King Boreas had had a terrible falling-out. Of course, no one who was asked had actually seen this unexpected and thrilling occurrence, but that didn’t prevent the details of the argument from being added with each retelling.

  “Grace, what on Eldh is going on?” Aryn said as she ducked inside the door of Grace’s chamber.

  Grace gathered all her powers of persuasion, limited as they were. “It’s my new plan to help Boreas,” she said, hoping she sounded more breezy than breathless.

  Aryn frowned. “Perhaps the word help has a different meaning on this Earth of yours.”

  Grace dropped her pretenses. “Aryn, listen to me, please.” She moved to the young baroness. “Before, all the nobles in Calavere wanted to talk to me because they thought I was King Boreas’s ally. They wanted to know who I was, and what advantage I offered the king, but they would never tell me what their true concerns or intentions were because they were afraid anything they told me would be repeated to King Boreas.”

  A hint of curiosity crept into Aryn’s expression. “I’m listening.”

  Grace went on before it all stopped making sense to her as well. “If everyone thinks Boreas and I have fallen out, they’ll wonder who I’ll ally myself with next. They might even try to convince me to take their side in the council.” She couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of all this. “Not that I actually have any power to affect the council, but they don’t know that. And if they believe I’m no longer close to Boreas, they won’t be afraid to tell me what they’re really thinking.”

  Before Aryn could answer, Durge stepped forward. The baroness blinked.

  “I’m the one to blame for all this, Your Highness,” Durge said in his rumbling voice. “I’m afraid I put this notion into the Lady Grace’s head. If King Boreas comes seeking satisfaction, tell him it is upon my neck his sword should fall.”

  “Boreas is furious,” Aryn said. “I saw three of his mastiffs running down the hall with their tails between their legs. And if they had had tails, his servingmen would have done the same.”

  “Good,” Grace said, trying to sound like she meant it. “If Boreas is angry, that will only make everyone believe the story all the more. But you have to tell him the truth, Aryn.” Her lips twisted into a wry expression. “I’m not sure I could get within shouting range of the king before he gave the order to have my head lopped off.”

  Aryn said nothing, and Grace’s eyes went wide.

  “That was a joke, Aryn. You can laugh. I don’t actually think Boreas is going to have me executed.”

  Aryn gave a tight smile. “I’ll go talk to the king,” she said.

  By all of Aryn’s reports Boreas was less than pleased with Grace’s scheme, and with her taking action without consulting him. However, the damage was already done, and the king of Calavan had little choice but to play along. What was more, over those next few days, Durge’s tactic began to prove itself. No one came to Grace openly, but each day—after the council had recessed—as she walked down an empty corridor, or strolled in the garden, or sat in a quiet room, she would look up and find someone beside her, someone who wanted to talk.

  Perhaps she should have been surprised—but somehow she wasn’t—when the first to approach her turned out to be Lord Olstin of Brelegond.

  “Good morrow, Your Radiance,” a wheedling voice spoke beside her.

  Grace nearly dropped the book in her hands. It wasn’t so much the whisper in her ear that made her jump as the warm spittle that accompanied it. She was in the castle’s library. This was a cozy room that contained no more than fifty handwritten books. She was still studying the language of this world, and she was learning more, but she was still far from giving up Brother Cy’s half-coin.

  “Lord Olstin,” she said in greeting.

  The puffy-faced counselor ran a hand over his hair, even though it could not have been more closely plastered to his skull than it already was. Grace hoped the oil in it had come from a bottle. She was afraid that, more likely, he had made it himself.

  “King Lysandir was distressed to
hear of your recent troubles with King Boreas.” A foul exhalation accompanied each of Olstin’s words, as if his rotten teeth were sublimating with every breath.

  “How kind of your king to think of me,” Grace forced herself to answer. She found herself thinking of Morty Underwood.

  Olstin gave a flick of his hand. Rings glinted. “Boreas is a strong king, no one will argue with you there, but he never has had a talent for subtlety.”

  Grace eyed Olstin’s gaudy crimson garb but bit her tongue.

  “Lysandir, on the other hand,” Olstin said, “has always known the value of a powerful but secret ally.”

  Grace’s instinct was to run. Instead she swallowed her gorge and leaned closer to Olstin. “Tell me more, my lord.”

  For nearly an hour she listened to Olstin’s grating voice. Most of it was useless drivel concerning how Lysandir felt slighted at the Council of Kings. It was only near the end of the conversation that Grace realized what Olstin was really saying. Brelegond was the newest of the Dominions, and without doubt the least important. It sat on the western fringes of Falengarth’s known lands and offered no resource or export on which the other Dominions relied. For all his pretenses, Olstin’s words boiled down to one truth.

  Brelegond was afraid.

  Lysandir knew troubles were afoot in the Dominions, and he knew he had no real power to stop them. Thus he would throw his lot in with anyone—or anything—he believed could save him and his precious Dominion. Right now that was Queen Eminda of Eredane. Clearly Lysandir believed the time of Eredane’s ascension over the other Dominions was at hand, and he intended to attach the wagon of Brelegond to Eminda’s rising star.

  However, that didn’t mean Lysandir wasn’t still looking for other allies. From Olstin’s words Grace managed to piece together the rumors whispered about herself: that she hailed from one of the Free Cities far to the south of Falengarth, that she was wealthy beyond belief, and that she could buy an army of southern mercenaries for anyone she chose—in return for the grant of a large estate of land and a noble title to go with it. For, as everyone knew, although they were rich in gold, the Free Cities had no true nobility like the Dominions.

  Grace almost smiled. It was a good story, and one she could now do her best to lend credence to. However, after Olstin left the library—with vague promises from her to consider his words—her satisfaction cooled to ashes. She knew from her time in the ED that there was no one more dangerous than one who was afraid. Fear made people do amazing and terrible things. It could give some the power to lift cars off injured children. It could make others pick up automatic assault rifles and open fire on crowds of strangers in convenience stores. Fear was like lightning. You never knew where it would strike, or in which direction it would leap when it did.

  After her conversation with Olstin, Grace had several similar encounters and was able to glean more about the real hopes and fears of the other Dominions. Lord Irrenbril, an advisor to Sorrin of Embarr, found her in the bailey, and they spoke for a time in the shadow of a leafless tree. Irrenbril’s greatest fear was not so much for Embarr as it was for the sanity of his king.

  “Sorrin so fears death he cannot concern himself with the lives of others,” the young Embarran whispered to her. “And each day he grows more convinced he is doomed and that his own death cannot be avoided.”

  Grace understood. For him it was not so much a question of where Embarr would turn for help, but rather if it would turn for help at all. So deep was Sorrin’s madness that Irrenbril feared the king would let the Dominion burn down around him.

  The only encounter that did not fill Grace with her own sense of foreboding was that with Kalyn of Galt. Kalyn was not only counselor to Kylar of Galt, she was his twin sister and the younger only by minutes. Rumor told that she ruled the Dominion as much as her brother did. This fact was spoken with derision, but Grace thought otherwise. It was evident Kylar loved and respected his sister.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your argument with King Boreas,” Kalyn said. Her brown eyes shone in her plain but comforting face. “You must let Kylar or me know if you need anything, anything at all—a place to stay, or a horse and attendants for a journey back to your home.”

  Grace hardly knew what to say. She could only grasp Kalyn’s hand in thanks. Galt was the smallest of the Dominions and the most precarious. Surely, of all the kings, Kylar had the most cause to be afraid. Yet here was Kalyn, not asking for help but offering it. Maybe there was hope for this world yet.

  The one counselor Grace hoped she would see was the one who did not seek her out. Not that she was surprised. Logren was far too intelligent to be enticed by a ruse such as she had created with Durge’s help. He had probably seen through the story about her argument with Boreas the moment he heard it. Grace could not hope to manipulate Logren of Eredane—unless …

  No, it was best not to think of Logren. She could only hope his wisdom would be enough to keep him from getting tangled in Kyrene’s web.

  That the countess of Selesia was indeed weaving something there could be no doubt. What it was Grace had no idea, but Kyrene was obviously pleased when she heard the tale of Grace’s falling-out with Boreas.

  “I’m so glad you’ve seen the light, love,” Kyrene crooned when they met in the garden for one of Grace’s lessons. “King Boreas may need you, but you do not need him. You have power he can’t possibly imagine.”

  And you’re a fool if you can’t see through my act, Kyrene. Or if you think Boreas is just a buffoon you can manipulate.

  But wasn’t that what Grace herself was trying to do? She and Aryn had continued to hide their lessons with Kyrene and Tressa from the king. What would Boreas think of them if he knew what they were doing behind his back? However, Grace knew she could not possibly turn away from the Witches now.

  Besides, the one ruler who had the power to change the reckoning of the council in an instant was Ivalaine. Grace knew she had to be careful—questions she thought subtle would be as obvious as trumpet fanfares to one like Ivalaine—but a few times she tried to divine something of the queen of Toloria’s motives in abstaining at the council. More importantly, did Ivalaine act for reasons as a queen—or as a Witch? However, Grace saw Ivalaine seldom—Kyrene was her teacher now—and when she did, she never seemed able to break through the queen’s cool exterior.

  By the time Grace was able to meet Travis again, to search for more doors with symbols on them, she was more than ready for a break. His gray eyes were surprised behind his spectacles when he opened the door of his chamber.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said.

  “It’s been almost a week, Grace.”

  She grimaced. “Sorry I’m really late?”

  He laughed then, and she knew it was all right, knew he wasn’t angry with her for not coming sooner. It was still so hard for her to tell what others were really thinking, but she was getting better, and she could not have mistaken the genuine sound of that laugh.

  As they wandered the castle, Travis spoke of his studies with the Runespeakers. Grace listened with interest—so she wasn’t the only one who had discovered a new talent in this world—although she did not speak of her own secret studies.

  “This way,” she said and turned down a side passage.

  They spent the entire afternoon scouring the castle. After several hours her feet ached despite her soft deerskin boots, and her neck had a crick in it from peering at so many doors. Travis had started to get cranky—Grace knew a hunger-induced mood swing when she saw one. It was time to call it a day.

  They turned around, to head back the way they had come, and in so doing found themselves facing a small door set into an alcove. Had they gone on ahead they never would have seen it. Whether it was curiosity or instinct that drew them, Grace didn’t know, but they both approached the door. She saw it at once, scratched into wood: the rune of the Raven, with two crossed lines drawn beneath. Grace and Travis locked eyes, and a jolt of energy passed between them. Discovery. />
  Like the other, this door was not locked, and they stepped through. Grace clasped her arms to her chest. The room was freezing and obviously had not been used in years. The slit of a window was unglazed, and the only furnishing was a bed that looked like it would collapse if someone tossed a feather pillow onto it. There was a hole in one wall, and the remains of a dumbwaiter inside dangling from a frayed rope. So this had been a servant’s room. Had it fallen into disuse for a reason? Or had it simply been forgotten? Calavere was large enough that rooms were probably lost and found on a regular basis.

  After several minutes of searching, their hands were numb, and they had discovered nothing of interest. Grace and Travis hurried back into the corridor and shut the door.

  “You’re a doctor,” Travis said. “Is it possible for fingers to freeze so hard they break off?”

  “It would take something as cold as liquid nitrogen,” Grace said through chattering teeth.

  “I think that room came close.”

  Grace glanced again at the door, and she wasn’t certain it was only the temperature of the room that had left her so cold. Travis had said there could be more rooms marked by the rune of the Raven, and now they knew it was so. But what did it mean? Like the other room, this one held no answers.

  “I wonder if the servants have started a fire in my chamber,” Grace said as they started moving. Belatedly she winced. Would Travis think her imperious for expecting the servants to fulfill her needs? However, he did not seem offended.

  “Our chamber isn’t far,” Travis said. “And Melia always keeps a fire going. Her kitten likes to lie in front of it.”

  Grace frowned. “Now if she could just learn to treat people as well as she does cats.”

  Travis did not meet her gaze. “Come on,” he said. “It’s not far.”

  Grace sighed and gazed at his back. Why was it she could use a scalpel to heal, but her words always seemed to cut new wounds? It was as much a mystery to her as the rooms that had been marked. She gathered up the hem of her heavy gown and followed after Travis.