by Mark Anthony
79.
Travis looked up from his wax tablet and let out a groan. It felt like a hundred of those dark elfs Falken was always telling stories about were banging their little dwarfin hammers all up and down his neck.
He gazed out a window and forced his eyes to focus on distant objects: the square top of one of the castle’s guard towers, a man-at-arms standing on a crenellated parapet, a pennant snapping against a fiery sky. It was sunset already, and he still hadn’t finished copying the list of runes Jemis had given him that morning. But you have to learn this, Travis. You have to, no matter how hard it is.
He brushed one of the runes on the tablet. Krond. Fire. No, never again. He gripped the stylus and bent back over the tablet.
“Travis?”
He glanced up to see Rin’s head pop through the trapdoor in the wooden floor. The young runespeaker climbed the rest of the way up the ladder. The hem of his gray robe was flecked with mud. He must have been out and about that afternoon.
“What are you still doing here?” Rin said.
Travis held up the list of runes for answer. Rin let out a laugh and shook his head.
“I think Jemis must have drunk some sour beer for breakfast. That list is as long as a dragon’s tail.”
“I’m almost done.”
“Can I see?”
Rin held out a hand. His fingers were short and thick. Travis knew Rin had been a peasant’s son in southern Calavan before he was called to the Gray Tower. However, the runes Rin drew on his own wax tablet were light and graceful, and put Travis’s crude scrawls to shame.
Rin took the tablet from Travis, a smile on his lips. He was halfway through when the smile faded, although he kept reading to the end. Rin looked up from the tablet. “You’re a mirror reader, Travis.” It wasn’t a question.
The dwarfin hammers turned to elfin swords. He had tried to be careful. But there had been so many runes today, and he had gotten tired.
Travis licked his lips. “Does Jemis know?”
“No, not for certain. I’ve been the one checking your tablets. He suspects it, but that’s all.”
Travis gripped the stylus he had used to draw the runes. “Falken says people with … people who are mirror readers are turned away from the Gray Tower, that it’s too dangerous to teach them to be runespeakers.”
“It’s true they are turned away.”
A stone wedged itself in Travis’s throat, and he tried to swallow it, but it didn’t budge. He gathered up his cloak. “I’ll be leaving then. Good-bye, Rin. Thank you.” He started toward the ladder.
“Wax melts, you know.”
Travis halted and stared back at Rin.
Rin brushed the tablet with a hand. “I don’t think we’ll show this slate to Jemis. No, I think I’ll tell him I left it too close to the fire before I had a chance to read it, and that the wax melted.”
Travis gaped at the runespeaker. Rin was giving him another chance. What had he done to deserve such a gift? He didn’t know, but maybe the greatest gifts were the ones you had done nothing to earn, and maybe the only thing to do when faced with such a blessing was to accept it. He found his tongue.
“I’ll be more careful from now on, Rin. I promise.”
Rin smiled. “I know you will, Travis. Now go get some rest. I’m sure Jemis will have another list for you tomorrow.”
Travis flashed a grin at the runespeaker, then he was down the ladder and out the tower’s door.
He nodded to a man-at-arms—by now they were used to his late comings from the tower of the Runespeakers—and ducked inside the main keep. Compared to the clear night, the air inside the castle was hazy with smoke. He was grateful for the heat, though he still hadn’t quite gotten used to the stench. It hit him every time he entered the castle: a mixture of smoke, rot, urine, and burnt grease.
Breathing through his mouth—it helped him get accustomed to the smells—Travis made his way through the castle’s twists and turns, back to the chamber he shared with Falken and Melia. He was nearly there when he rounded a corner and collided with a bundle of rags.
“Hey there!” the rags said in a raspy voice. “You have two eyes, lad! Don’t you know how to use them? Or are you just dim?”
Travis stumbled back, grabbed for his spectacles, and tried to sort out the image in front of him. The bundle of grimy rags picked itself off the floor. It seemed a rather unraglike action. What was more, the bundle had spoken to him, which meant it wasn’t a bundle of rags at all, but a person. He couldn’t see a face—a larger rag that might once have been a shawl hid the other’s head—but he noticed a few wisps of long gray hair, and the voice, although hoarse, had sounded feminine. A woman then. But what sort of woman? It couldn’t be a peasant, not at this hour in the main keep. And it was certainly no noble lady. A servingwoman then.
“Well you’re a fine lot of help,” the bundle—that was, the servingwoman—said.
Travis realized he had been staring while she gained her feet. He leaped forward to help, but a gnarled hand batted him back in annoyance.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Well doesn’t that ease these old bones.”
He winced, then tried again. “Can I help you?”
“Help me?” A cackle emanated from deep inside the rags. “Help me? It’s not I who needs help, lad. I can see exactly where I’m going.” A bony finger thrust out of the rags toward his chest. “What about you?”
Travis shook his head. He wasn’t sure what one was supposed to say to mad old women.
“Bah!” The servingwoman waved her hand at him. “If you’re not going to answer, then get out of my way.” She pushed past Travis and hobbled away down the corridor.
Something caught the corner of his eye. On the floor was a small bundle of tattered cloth. The old servingwoman must have dropped it, like a miniature version of herself. Travis bent down and picked it up.
“Hey, you forgot this!” But the servingwoman was already out of sight. Travis glanced down the corridor that led to his chamber, then glanced at the bundle in his hands. He groaned in annoyance, then trotted down the corridor after the old woman.
There was no sign of her when he rounded the corner. However, she couldn’t be far. He broke into a jog, and when he rounded another turn he saw a glimmer of dull gray disappear through an archway.
“Hey there!” He broke into a run and dashed through the opening. Again he caught sight of her, now heading up a stairwell. “Wait! You dropped something!”
She did not stop, and by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs he had lost sight of her again. Travis drew in a deep breath and bounded up the steps.
Three more times he caught a distant glimpse of grimy rags vanishing around a corner or through a doorway, but she did not answer his shouts, and no matter how hard he ran he could not seem to catch up to her. Despite her hobbling, the old woman moved with uncanny speed.
Travis leaned against a wall. Whoever the old servingwoman was she certainly didn’t want to be caught. He shoved the bundle into the pocket of his tunic and glanced around. The passage he stood in was utterly unfamiliar. He had the sense that he was somewhere deep below the castle—the weight of stone seemed to press upon the air in this place—but that was all.
“Good going, Travis. Now you’re lost.” However, there was nothing to do but start walking, and to hope he got back to familiar territory before dawn. He started back the way he had come.
“I’m sorry, Father,” a voice whispered.
Travis halted at the sound, then turned around, but there was no one there. His eyes flickered to a nearby archway, and he understood. The voice had drifted through the opening, carried into the corridor by some trick of echoes and curved stone. A statue stood on either side of the archway, two warriors—both fierce and noble, hands resting on swords of stone. Their pale eyes watched Travis, not forbidding him to pass, but warning him all the same: Go not lightly here. Light flickered beyond the opening.
“I’v
e looked all these years, in all the Dominions and beyond, but still I failed you.”
Travis gripped the side of the arch to keep from reeling. It was not just the despair in the voice that struck him, but the fact that he recognized it.
He gathered his will, stepped through the arch, and found himself at the end of a long chamber. Columns marched down either side, carved like trees. In the alcove between each column was a marble slab, and upon each slab lay a figure, arms folded upon the breast, a pale circlet upon the brow. The hair on Travis’s arms lifted at the touch of an unseen draft.
It was a tomb. A tomb of kings.
The flickering light came from a single candle at the far end of the chamber. The man stood at the foot of one of the marble biers, weeping.
Travis licked his lips, then softly called out the word. “Beltan?”
The sound echoed in the stillness of the tomb. Travis could feel the stone eyes of the two statues on his back. Only that was impossible, wasn’t it?
The big knight looked up at the sound, gripped the hilt of his sword, and peered into the gloom. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Beltan.”
The knight’s hand slipped from the blade, and he shook his head. “Travis? Travis Wilder?”
Travis could only nod.
Beltan wiped the tears from his face. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not … I’m not really …”
It was wrong to speak across the vast length of the tomb. Travis swallowed hard, tried to ignore the prickling on his back, and started toward the knight. He passed the first pair of biers, and he sucked in a breath. They were so pale, so still, he had thought them carved of marble like the biers they rested upon. Only that was not so.
They were shaped of flesh, not stone. Here in this tomb were all the past kings of Calavan. Yet Travis guessed each king looked now just as he had on the day he was laid here. Even in the dim light hair still glinted yellow, or brown, or silver, and their lips were tinged the color of roses. Nor had their garb decayed over the centuries. Swords rested in their folded hands, and gleamed as if they had been just polished.
Travis forced himself to walk onward, past the rows of sleeping kings. The first rulers wore capes of fur, thick copper torcs, and arm rings. Those that came after had finer garb: cloaks woven of wool, jewelry of gold and silver. He was nearly halfway when he came upon the first of the queens. She was beautiful, proud even in death, and gripped a sword in her hands just as the kings did. He passed more kings, and several queens, until he reached those whose garb did not look so different from what Boreas or Alerain or Grace wore. Then he stepped across a boundary of shadow and light, into the circle of the candle’s glow.
The last king in the line was a big man. In life he would have been both tall and massive. Even in the candlelight Travis could see the resemblance: the sharp line of the jaw, the hawkish nose, the high forehead, the broad shoulders. His hair was dark, like his brother’s, but he was not so handsome as King Boreas, and he was clearly older, his face lined and careworn, his beard flecked with gray.
A rune was etched into the stone at the foot of the bier King Beldreas rested upon. Travis recognized it from his studies with Rin and Jemis. It was Sethen, the rune of perfection. He started to reach out, then snatched his hand back. Before he even touched the rune his right hand tingled. So that was how the bodies of the ancient kings and queens had been preserved. The rune Sethen was bound into the stone of each bier. Under its ward steel would never rust, flesh would never decay.
After Beldreas, the biers continued into the shadows, empty. There must have been fifty in all, of which perhaps twenty were occupied. Travis wondered what would happen when the last bier was taken.
“They say when the last king is laid to rest on the last bier, Calavan will come to an end,” Beltan said, as if he had read Travis’s thoughts. “And all the Dominions will end with it. At least that’s how the story goes.”
Travis shivered, then let his eyes fall on the lifeless form of Beldreas. “Your father looks like he was a strong king.”
Beltan nodded. “He was—the strongest king Calavan had seen in a century. Before him, the robber barons had been striking closer and closer to Calavere. In his reign Beldreas drove them to the marches of the Dominion, then crushed them one by one. Calavan won’t see his like again soon.”
Travis looked up. He knew he shouldn’t say it, but he couldn’t help himself. “You would have been a strong king, too, Beltan.”
The knight pressed his eyes shut, then opened them. “I? A strong king?” He shook his head. “No, Travis. I could never be like Beldreas. I couldn’t even keep the vow I made to him, to find his murderer.”
“But you tried, Beltan. You have to forgive yourself.”
The knight met Travis’s eyes. “I can’t do that.”
Travis wanted to protest, wanted to tell Beltan he was wrong, that he had to forgive himself for what he couldn’t change. Instead he nodded. “I know. I broke a promise once, too.”
Will you be here when I wake up?
I promise.
Cross your heart?
Cross my heart and hope to die.
Beltan’s expression turned into a question, but Travis only looked down at the dead king. Beltan did the same. The candle burned low.
“We should go,” Beltan said. “Melia will be looking for you.”
Travis moved away from the bier, then halted, reached out, and gripped the knight’s arm. “You are strong, Beltan. You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.”
The knight stared in surprise. Then, impossibly, he smiled, and in that moment Beltan was more noble, and more fair, than any of the sleeping kings.
“I don’t know how you knew to find me here, Travis, but I’m glad you did.”
Travis grinned in reply. The knight blew out the candle, and together they left the silent tomb.
80.
Grace shut the door of her chamber, leaned against the expanse of wood, and let out a breath that was half relief and all exasperation.
“No more nobles,” she said to the empty room. “No more nobles, no more nobles, no more nobles.”
She heaved herself from the door, farther into her room. Strange, but not so long ago this chamber had seemed like a prison. Now it was a haven she all too rarely had the chance to enjoy. A glint of purple glass on the sideboard caught her eye. She aimed herself toward it. Wine. Yes, some wine would be good. She filled a pewter cup and flopped in the chair by the fire.
The sky was on fire outside the window. The Council of Kings had lasted the entire day again. After that initial session of the council, Grace had thought her attendance was no longer required. She had slipped into the council chamber for an hour here and there, to listen to the various rulers make their reports, but especially after her fictional altercation with King Boreas it seemed best to stay removed from the council and to let the other nobles seek her out. It seemed more mysterious that way.
All that had changed three days ago, when Boreas barged into her chamber. Grace had hastily thrown a kerchief over a mortar and pestle on the sideboard. She had been in the act of grinding dried herbs, following Kyrene’s instructions to make a kind of medicinal tea. A simple, the green-eyed countess had called it, one to calm a nervous spirit in small amounts. Or, in stronger doses, to induce a trance, and to make the subject malleable and prone to suggestion.
The dusty-sweet scent of herbs had drifted on the air, and Grace had thought Boreas would surely notice, but he had not. He must have just come back from hunting along the eaves of Gloaming Wood, because he wore only breeches of black leather, tight around his lean hips, and a white shirt unlaced to reveal a wedge of hard chest. A metallic scent had drifted from him. Grace knew it well: blood.
Without preamble Boreas had backed her into a corner, as if she were his latest quarry. For some reason she had wondered if he would try to kiss her, and if she would try to resist if he did.
“Alerain and I are
to begin making our presentation to the council tomorrow,” the king had said. “You will attend, Lady Grace, and listen for me, to hear what others say about Calavan while Alerain and I are speaking.”
She had glanced past his heavy shoulder at the covered mortar. How hard would it have been to offer Boreas wine, to slip a few of the herbs into it as she did? No, despite Kyrene’s lessons, she was no huntress. She had forced herself to meet Boreas’s gaze and had acquiesced.
Luckily, Boreas’s task for her had been easier than she thought. Still believing her at odds with the king of Calavan, a veritable parade of nobles had occupied the stone bench beside her at the council and had whispered in her ear.
Boreas was a warmonger, they said. Or Boreas was the only hope for the Dominions. Or Boreas was mad and trying to destroy them all. Eredane would never go with Calavan. No, Eredane was only holding out for concessions from Calavan and would switch its reckoning at the last moment. Even Perridon was about to defect from Boreas’s camp. On the contrary, Perridon was the most loyal to Calavan and had almost convinced Embarr to go with it, only King Sorrin was daft, and danced in his chamber at night, naked and holding a sword, working terrible magics of blood and fire to cure the wasting disease that consumed him.
Before long the whispers had filled Grace’s mind and tangled together like a seething knot of gray serpents.
Eminda held a secret love for Boreas. No, Boreas cared nothing for women, was glad Queen Narena was dead, and spent his nights buggering young men-at-arms in his chamber. What was more, Boreas had killed his own brother Beldreas to gain the throne of Calavan, and now Boreas’s bastard son Beltan was going to do the same. And had Grace heard how Boreas’s legitimate son, Teravian—who was being fostered at court in Toloria—was the reason for Queen Ivalaine’s abstentions? Yes, everyone knew how the queen of Toloria had seduced him, although he was only fifteen winters old, and planned to defeat Boreas at the council and place Teravian as her puppet on the throne of Calavan.
A knock on the door jarred Grace from her thoughts, and she nearly spilled wine on herself. “Come in,” she said as she stood, then she smiled at one of the few nobles she was always glad to encounter.