Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  Grace would have thought it impossible, but she returned Ivalaine’s smile. She drew in a breath. “So, what is to be my lesson tonight, Your—I mean, sister?”

  “I think you have learned more than enough for this evening,” the queen said. She started toward the door, then turned back to regard Grace. “No, there is one more thing. I told you there is something that holds the Lady Aryn’s power back. The same words are true for you, sister. Much of who you are lies behind a door, and I cannot see past it. However, you must know that you cannot lock away part of who you are without locking away part of your magic. If ever you want to discover that power, you will have to unlock that door.”

  Grace stared at the queen. What was Ivalaine saying? She shut her eyes, and she saw another door: dark from time and the touch of flame. She did not want to step through it again—she dared not.

  “No.” She opened her eyes. “No, I can’t.”

  Ivalaine’s visage was unreadable. “Then you will never know what you might be. Good eventide, sister.”

  The door opened and shut, then Grace was alone with only the fire to accompany her.

  84.

  Travis shook the snow from his cloak and stepped into the chamber he shared with the others.

  “Melia? Falken? I’m back.”

  Silence. The fire on the hearth had cooled to ashes. Travis moved farther into the room.

  “Beltan?”

  Still rio answer. No one was here. The Council of Kings must have been running late that day. Except that wasn’t right. Falken had said the rulers were finished making their reports. The council wasn’t set to convene again for three days. Where could everyone be?

  Outside the window it was late afternoon. That morning Rin and Jemis had told him he could leave early today. Come to think of it, the two runespeakers had been nowhere in sight by the time he left their tower. And the upper bailey had seemed peculiarly quiet. What was going on?

  Travis peered out the window. The snow that had fallen all day, and which had dusted him on his way back, had ended. It was as if someone had spoken Urath, the rune of opening, to the sky. The clouds had broken over the castle to reveal a strip of sapphire sky. Even as he watched, heavy sunlight transformed the clouds from cream to honey, and they melted away.

  Travis shivered. It looked like it was up to him to get the fire going. He knelt by the hearth and stirred the ashes.

  “Travis, I’m glad I found you.”

  The poker clattered to the hearth, and he leaped up, heart thumping. Then he took a deep breath. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

  Grace bit her lip. “The door was open.”

  “So you’re saying all the politeness escaped from the room?”

  She gripped the doorframe, her face washed of color. “I’m so sorry, Travis. I’ll … I’ll …”

  He sighed and held out a hand. “You’ll come in, Grace. Please.”

  She nodded, ducked inside the room, and shut the door. Travis studied her as she did. Her violet gown was simpler than usual, but she was still beautiful. It wasn’t hard to believe she was really a duchess. She was so assured, so regal. Yet why then did simple things—like doors and people—always seem to throw her?

  “What’s going on, Grace? The castle seems dead.”

  Her gown whispered as she moved farther into the room. “There’s a feast tonight. Everyone’s down in the great hall.”

  “And what a surprise I wasn’t invited.”

  “Actually you were, but I told Lord Alerain you weren’t feeling well, that I would be attending you, and that neither of us would be able to come to the feast.”

  “Why, Grace?”

  She wetted her lips. “I need your help, Travis.”

  Instinct prickled the hair on the back of his neck. Maybe it was the light in her eyes, maybe it was the set of her jaw, or maybe it was the cloak she had thrown over her gown—heavy, lined with fur, a riding cape. Whatever it was, he turned around and gazed out the window. It was pale against the brilliant winter sky, but he could see it, making its descent toward the western horizon: a crescent moon.

  He turned toward her again. “It’s today, isn’t it. Today is the day you saw those two people arguing in the stone circle.” He frowned and tried to sort it out. “I mean, you didn’t see them today. But today is the day it happened. Or will happen. Or is happening, or …”

  He was babbling, he needed to shut up. She hesitated, then reached out and gripped his hand.

  “It’s our only chance to learn who they are, Travis. To learn what’s really going on in the castle.”

  Travis groaned. It was ridiculous. It was dangerous. It was stupid. And worst of all, it was right. The Circle had failed to catch a Raven cultist in the act—or to find a mark near King Boreas’s chamber. This was the perfect chance to discover who the conspirators were.

  “But why didn’t you ask Durge or Beltan?”

  “Boreas or Sorrin would notice if they were missing from the feast. They might start to wonder.”

  Travis sighed and cast a wistful eye at the hearth, where his work had stirred a few wan flames to life. Something told him it was going to be a while before he felt warm again.

  “I’ll get my cloak,” he said.

  Grace smiled. It was a rare expression for her, and thus all the more precious. “Thank you, Travis.”

  There was only a single stableboy in the castle’s stable, and it was not difficult for the duchess of Beckett to convince him to let them in. He yawned and nodded when she told him they needed two horses saddled.

  “Come on,” Grace said as she led a horse by the reins into the stable’s main aisle.

  Travis took in the big black charger that towered over her. “That’s the horse you’re going to ride?”

  “His name is Blackalock—he’s Durge’s horse.” Grace stroked the charger’s muzzle, and the horse let out a low whicker. “I think he remembers me.”

  “And I think he could step on me and grind me into the straw without even noticing.” For Travis, the stableboy had saddled the sandy gelding Travis had ridden all the way from Kelcior. Next to Blackalock the gelding looked like a pony. “I don’t think Durge will find it amusing you stole his horse, Grace.”

  “Nonsense. Durge doesn’t find anything amusing.”

  “Do you even know how to ride?”

  “I’m sure Blackalock will help me.”

  Travis gave up.

  The sun was low in the sky as they rode from the gates of Calavere. Travis faced into the cold wind and drew in a breath. It felt good to be outside, to be moving again, to be going somewhere, anywhere. He had gotten used to traveling in this world. Being stuck in the castle had seemed so limiting, so oppressive. Now they were on the road, and there was no telling where the wind would blow them. He grinned despite the rashness of what they were doing, and he tried not to think about what Melia would do to him if she caught him.

  They started down the winding road that led to the base of the castle hill. Travis glanced at Grace. She had climbed into the saddle with only a small degree of difficulty, and had arranged her gown and her cloak over her legs, Now she sat straight upon the massive charger’s back, the reins loose in her gloved hand, and looked for all the world—any world—as if she had been riding her entire life. Grace might not have been good at talking to other living creatures, but she sure was a natural at commanding them. Travis clung to his gelding’s mane and just tried not to look like a sack of potatoes in comparison.

  They reached the foot of the hill and let the horses stretch their legs on the straightaway. There were few peasants on the road this time of day. The sun would set soon. Most people were carrying a final load of peat or wood inside, and closing doors and shutters against the frigid winter night.

  So what are you doing out here, Travis?

  Stone walls and leafless trees flashed by, all dusted with white. It was strange how still snow made things look, as if they had not moved in centuries and would never move
again.

  The thunder of their horses’ hooves turned to a hollow drumming as the dirt track beneath them was replaced by an arch of stone. They had reached the old Tarrasian bridge. Dark water flowed beneath them, chunks of ice dotting its surface. It must have been even colder than he’d thought. Hadn’t Falken said the Dimduorn had not frozen over in centuries?

  Bridge and river flashed and receded behind them. Hooves fell on frozen mud again. Soon the stone walls bounding the fields grew smaller and cruder, then vanished altogether. There were no more ramshackle huts, no more blue lines of smoke rising to the sky. They were in the marches of Calavan now.

  “Do you even know where this place is?” Travis said. There was no need to shout above the din of the horses. The air was like crystal and resonated with the sound of his voice.

  “I think so. Durge described it to me. It’s in a vale between two identical hills.”

  That wasn’t exactly specific, but before Travis could ask more questions, Grace pulled hard on her reins and Blackalock wheeled off the road to plunge across a snowy field. Travis fumbled for his own reins, but the gelding was smarter than he, and followed after his companion. Downy white billowed around them and dusted Travis’s cloak anew.

  They rode directly toward the sinking sun now. It seemed huge, and red, and old. The air was getting more frigid by the minute. Icicles clung to Travis’s beard. Some heat rose from his horse, but already Travis was starting to shiver. He wondered how long it would take Beltan and Durge to ride from the castle and find them. He wondered how long, in these conditions, it would take to freeze.

  Travis glanced over his shoulder. He could still see Calavere, but it looked too small now to be real, tossed on its hill like a child’s plaything. He faced forward again, into the wind. His fingers were stiff, but he forced his hands to grip the reins.

  The sun had just touched the western horizon when they came upon it. They crested a rise, and Grace let out a cry. At first Travis’s heart jerked. He thought something was wrong. Then he gazed in the direction Grace pointed. Below them the ground fell away into a gentle depression. On the far side of the depression were two conical hills, so perfect in form they could not have been natural. In the vale at the foot of the hills, arranged in a circle, were nine tall shapes.

  Travis shaded his eyes with a hand. Long shadows stretched from the standing stones, and it was hard to see into their midst, to glimpse what might be there. Grace and Travis exchanged a long look, then nudged their horses down the slope. The crimson light of the setting sun spilled across the vale. It looked like blood against the white snow.

  The air was crisp and silent as they approached the circle of stones, broken only by the soft snorts of the horses and the soft swish of snow against hooves. The sun slipped behind the horizon and was gone. The sky turned to slate, and the horned moon shone above the twin hills.

  “This is it,” Grace whispered. “This is exactly how I saw it.”

  Travis only nodded. His gloved hand slipped to the stiletto at his belt. The gem was dark, but something told him there was danger here all the same.

  They reached the edge of the circle and slipped from the backs of the horses. Their boots crunched against snow. The horses lowered their heads, breath steaming on the air, as if they too sensed the need to be quiet. Travis and Grace walked toward the circle. The stones were twice the height of a man, of dark stone, and pitted with long centuries of wind and weather. Travis wasn’t certain when he and Grace had taken each other’s hand, but now he tightened his grip on hers and was glad for the touch. Together they stepped between two stones, into the circle.

  It was empty.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. There were footprints in the snow, two sets of them. And there was blood. It dotted the white ground like scarlet berries.

  Travis and Grace walked to the center of the circle. The snow was not so deep there. The standing stones caught much of it in drifts and protected the middle. The air within the circle was motionless, and there was a feeling to it, or a presence maybe. It wasn’t angry, yet it wasn’t kindly either. It was ancient, and it was different, and it was watching them.

  Grace knelt beside the footprints, took off a glove, and touched one of the scarlet stains on the snow. She looked up. “It’s not frozen yet. This blood couldn’t have fallen here more than a few minutes ago.”

  Travis nodded. Birds were alighting on the standing stones, as if something had disturbed them moments ago and now they were returning. “I think they were just here, Grace. I think they heard us coming and fled.”

  She stood and gazed at him. “Of course. In my vision … I thought he saw me there. I think he did, only it wasn’t me in my vision he saw. It was us, tonight. They saw us coming, and they ran.”

  They exchanged looks, then as one they dashed to the farside of the circle. Beyond the stones the footprints were replaced by two sets of hoofprints. Travis and Grace followed these between the peculiar hills, then halted in the snow, panting. It was no use. The two riders were gone.

  “We’re too late, Grace.” Travis gasped for breath even as he winced at the sharpness of it. “We came here for nothing.”

  Grace studied the sets of hoofprints, then she nodded. “Maybe not.”

  Travis frowned at her.

  “Look,” she said. “One of these sets of hoofprints heads back toward the castle. And look here.” She pointed to the snow. A single red drop. Blood.

  Travis tried to scrape some of the ice from his beard. “I don’t follow you.”

  Grace’s eyes glowed. “Don’t you see, Travis? The wounded conspirator has gone back to Calavere.”

  His brain was slow from the cold. It took a moment for realization to break over him, then he gazed at her in wonder. “So all we have to do is find someone in the castle who was wounded tonight, and we’ve got the conspirator.”

  Grace grinned. She opened her mouth to say something. Her words were cut short as a different sound drifted on the air. High, piercing, silvery: the sound of bells.

  Travis and Grace stared at each other. The standing stones loomed above them in the twilight like dark sentinels.

  “What is this place, Travis?” Her voice was a whisper of wonder and fear.

  “I don’t know. I think maybe once, long ago, it was sacred to the Old Gods.”

  “The Old Gods?”

  “Not the gods of the mystery cults, but the ones that came before, the ones that were the mothers and fathers of the Little People before they all vanished.”

  He could see the shudder beneath her cloak. The words escaped her lips with the soft fog of her breath. “The Little People …”

  Again the bells sounded, high and clear. Travis took her hand—they had to follow. They crossed to the farside of the circle. Just beyond was a short stretch of white, then a tangled wall that rose from the land, black in the deepening gloom. The bells sounded again, but Travis and Grace hardly needed them now to know where they were being led.

  They halted as gnarled shapes loomed before them: the edge of Gloaming Wood. Beyond were shadows. They listened, but now all they heard was the mournful hiss of wind through bare branches. There was nothing here.

  No, that wasn’t true.

  “Look,” Grace said.

  At first he thought they were some sort of tracks in the snow. Then he realized they weren’t tracks at all. They were words:

  NO PAIN

  “But what does it mean?” he said.

  “I don’t know.” The words barely escaped her clattering teeth. “It’s a message.…”

  He shivered. It was so cold, and night was falling. He turned back toward her. How are we going to make it back to the castle, Grace? He tried to ask the question, but he was too numb, too weary.

  Grace’s gaze flickered to the trees, then back to Travis, and she nodded, as if she had decided something. She reached out and pulled him close to her, then shut her eyes. He almost thought he heard her whisper something.

  “Tou
ch the trees.…”

  And all at once the world was as warm as springtime.

  85.

  It was long after dark when they reached the castle, and they were cold again. When they rode up to Calavere’s gates a jolt of panic stabbed Grace’s chest. You were out too long, Grace. The gates are closed, and you’re too tired to touch the Weirding again. You’re both going to freeze out here.

  However, as they rode near, they saw the gates were not closed. The feast would run late that night, and many of the lesser nobles and counselors were staying in the town, not the castle proper, and would need to stumble down the hill in the frigid night to their waiting beds. The men-at-arms started to raise halberds as the two rode up, then their eyes locked on Grace’s ghostly visage and they nodded. She and Travis rode through, into the bailey beyond.

  They left the horses with the stableboy, who appeared just as sleepy as before, then returned to Travis’s chamber. It was still empty—the others had not yet returned from the feast. But it was not really so late. They had been gone no more than three hours. It only seemed as if they had been on an impossibly long journey.

  “I’ll get a fire going,” Travis said as they shut the door and threw their cloaks on the bed.

  Grace clutched her arms over the bodice of her gown. For a while they had been so warm, o wondrously warm. It had been so easy to reach out with the Touch, to sense the life hidden in the leafless trees, and to draw it to her. The Weirding of Gloaming Wood was far richer, far more potent than anything she had ever sensed in the garden. Even the horses seemed to feel the radiance when they mounted them, for the beasts pranced and snorted, and stretched their legs as they cantered back toward the distant castle.

  That her magic had saved them from frostbite, or worse, Grace was certain. However, the warmth had begun to fade as they came to the bridge over the Dimduorn, and by the time they reached the foot of the castle hill they had been shivering again.

  Grace tucked a stray wisp of ash-blond hair behind an ear. “You never asked, Travis. You never asked how I was able to keep us warm.”