Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  He looked up at her, a piece of kindling in his hand. “I knew you would tell me if you needed to, Grace.” He set the wood on the hearth, then shut his eyes and spoke a quiet word. “Krond.”

  Flames leaped to life, and golden light shone forth.

  The heat of the fire drew Grace forward. It was harsher than the warmth of the Weirding, brighter and crueler: the heat of consumption, not of life. All the same she held her stiff hands out. That Travis had just used magic as surely as she had, struck her only after a minute.

  “We’ve both learned so much, Travis.” She gazed into the flames. “It hasn’t even been two months, but we’re getting used to this world, becoming part of it.”

  Travis stared at the fire as well. Or was it his hands he gazed at, held out before him? They were fine hands, Grace noticed for the first time, long and well shaped.

  “I don’t know, Grace,” he said in a soft voice. “I don’t know if I could ever get used to this world. Oh, it’s wonderful in some ways. It’s beautiful here, even if it’s frightening, too, and I have more friends here than I’ve ever had in my life. But I don’t belong here, I can’t forget that. That’s why I have to get back to Colorado, to get back home.”

  Grace opened her mouth to reply, then shut it. What would she say? Did she feel the same? She was not so certain. How often did she think about Denver, about the Emergency Department? Of course, she thought of them every day. Yet they seemed distant, like someone else’s life—a movie that whirred through a dim projector and now had run out. Grace looked at her own hands. She wasn’t so certain she wanted to go back. She wasn’t so certain she could.

  “How about some wine?” he said.

  She stood with him. “I can get it.”

  “No, I’m the saloon keeper, remember? It’s my job.”

  The cup of wine turned into two entire decanters. They went into the side chamber where Melia slept, stirred up the fire in there, and flopped on the enormous bed. They drank cup after cup and laughed as they talked about the things they missed in this world.

  “Pizza,” Travis said. “I’d trade the whole lot of kings at this council for one good pizza.”

  “I’d trade them all for a hot shower.” Grace stretched on the bed, just thinking about it. Showers were the only thing that had kept her functioning in the ED. She would stand under the shower in the residents’ locker room and let the industrial-strength nozzle blast her, powering away all the fear and blood and suffering. To be clean was to know peace.

  “How about beer that doesn’t have stuff floating in it?” Travis said.

  She nodded and gulped her wine. “Or blue jeans? And T-shirts? And real underwear: cotton with elastic, a clean pair every day?”

  Travis groaned. “Stop it. You’re killing me!”

  Grace clutched her stomach. It hurt to laugh—it had been so long, and she was out of practice—but it was good and did as much to warm her as wine and fire.

  At last the long ride, the warmth, and the drink did their work. Their voices grew soft and dreamy as they lay across the bed, then fell quiet altogether. The last thing Grace saw were big flakes of snow falling outside the window. Then she was falling, too, into sleep.

  It was a soft sound that woke her. At first Grace thought it must be the sound of the snow, it was so quiet. She snuggled against the warm body beside her—Travis—and let herself sink back into slumber.

  But if it was the sound of snow, how had it come from inside the chamber?

  Grace opened her eyes. It was dim—the fire had burned low. She saw nothing, then her eyes adjusted. Something above her glowed in the last crimson light of the coals: long, sleek, pointed. A blot of shadow hovered behind it, but she couldn’t make that out either. The thing started to descend, and she knew what it was.

  Grace shouted the one word she had time for. “Travis!”

  She pushed hard against his shoulder—he let out a groan of protest—then she rolled in the opposite direction. A sharp hiss passed by her ear, followed by a soft thump. The knife had sunk into something. Was it mattress or flesh? She could not turn to find out, she had rolled too far. The bed vanished beneath her, and she fell hard to the floor below.

  From her hands and knees she looked up. The shadow was before her now. Only it wasn’t a shadow. It was a man in a robe of black. She couldn’t see his face—it was a pit of darkness within the heavy hood—but his hand was big and powerful, and in it he gripped the knife. Scarlet stained its tip. Her stomach shrank into a cold knot. Travis.

  Now, as he raised the knife again the blade turned cool silver. It had been firelight, not blood. The knife paused above her. Grace knew she would never be able to avoid it once it started to descend again.

  “Get away from her!”

  Travis stood behind the attacker, his stiletto held before him. The gem in its hilt shone red with the light of the dying fire. No, that wasn’t it. The jewel wasn’t reflecting the light. Rather, the light flickered within it, as if the gem had a life of its own. Travis thrust the stiletto out before him.

  It seemed a casual, almost lazy gesture. The man in the black robe turned, reached out, and knocked the stiletto from Travis’s hand. It flew across the room and clattered to the floor, lost in the gloom. The attacker thrust forward with the knife in his own hand as Travis stared.

  No. Grace was not going to watch this. She had seen enough death in the ED. From her awkward position she threw herself forward and clutched anything her groping hands could find. Her fingers closed on rough cloth. The attacker’s robe. She grabbed and pulled back with all her strength.

  It was not much—she did not have a good grip—but it was enough. She jerked her head up to see the attacker lurch and his strike go wide. The knife sank into the wood of the doorframe. Travis tried to twist away from the attacker, but one of those powerful hands snaked out with impossible speed and contacted the back of his head.

  Travis went limp and collapsed to the floor.

  Grace screamed. Travis wasn’t moving. Was he dead? Or was he just dying, his life slipping away every second as fluid filled his cranial cavity, or broken shards of his occipital bone pressed into the back of his brain? She tried to crawl toward him, but black boots stood in her way.

  Grace craned her head up. The man in the black robe towered over her. He had freed his knife and had wrapped both of his strong hands around it. The tip was aimed directly at her face. She knew the speed with which he could move. There was no point in trying to get away.

  I’m coming, Leon.

  Another flash cleaved the gloom. The knife slipped from the attacker’s hands, and his head lolled to one side. Grace frowned. Why was he hesitating? Then the attacker’s hooded head rolled off his shoulders and tumbled to the floor with a wet thud. His body fell like a tree before her, and she watched dark gore pump from the stump of his neck.

  “My lady, are you well?”

  She looked up at the sound of the voice. Another figure stood above her now, clad in somber gray. His face was hard as stone, angry as wind, but even in the darkness she could see the concern in his brown eyes. He lowered his gigantic sword, and blood ran down its edge.

  The word she gasped was a litany of surprise, gratitude, and relief. “Durge.”

  He reached down and helped her to her feet.

  “Travis,” she said. “He’s hurt.”

  Even as she spoke the word the others were there. Beltan rushed into the room and knelt beside Travis. Melia and Falken stood in the doorway.

  “How is he?” the small woman said. Her amber eyes shone in the gloom, as bright as the eyes of the frightened kitten she held in her arms.

  “Ouch,” Travis said as Beltan helped him sit up. He clutched a hand to the back of his head. “Who put the floor where the wall is supposed to be?”

  Beltan’s grin shone in the darkness. “I think he’s all right, thank Vathris.”

  “Thank his hard head, I should think,” Melia said.

  “You were right, Durge,
” Falken said as he stepped into the chamber.

  Grace glanced at the Embarran knight. “Right? About what?”

  “I grew concerned about you while we were at the feast, my lady,” Durge said. “You have been attacked once before. And while all the castle was at a revel seemed an opportune time for another attempt. I would have come sooner, but it was not so easy to extricate myself from King Sorrin’s company. One of his personal guard was not to be found this evening, and the king fears to be without a number of knights around him. I am sorry I did not come sooner.”

  Despite her still-pounding heart, she smiled. “But you did come, Durge.”

  He bowed deep before her.

  Falken stirred the fire. Flames filled the room with light. Beltan helped Travis up onto the bed. The blond knight’s face was troubled.

  “And I am sorry as well, Travis. It seems I’m always away when those in my care are in danger.”

  “No, Beltan.” Travis’s voice was hoarse but emphatic. “You were exactly where you needed to be, with Melia. You’re her Knight Protector.”

  Beltan clenched his jaw but said nothing. Melia drew near to examine Travis’s head.

  “I think you’ll survive, Travis. But you have a lump the size of Galt growing back there. Lady Grace should take a look at it.”

  Grace started to move toward the bed, then halted. The corpse of their attacker was in her way. Falken knelt beside the body and rolled it over.

  “So who was this?” the bard said.

  Melia pointed to the head. “I think the part over there might be of more use in answering that.”

  Falken grunted, then picked at the hood that tangled around the severed head to expose the face. It was harsh and craggy, with dull brown eyes. Grace did not know him.

  “Medarr,” Durge said like he was chewing stones.

  The others looked up at the knight.

  “You know this man, Durge?” Falken said.

  “So this is where King Sorrin’s missing knight was,” the Embarran said with a sigh.

  Melia gazed at the head, and her eyes narrowed to slits. “You mean this man was a member of Sorrin’s personal guard? But why would he attack Grace, and while wearing the robes of a Raven cultist?”

  “Not just the robes.” Falken had turned over the dead man’s forearm. The puckered brand stood out against his white skin. “He’s a member of the Raven Cult all right. Or at least he was.”

  “Are there any other marks?” Melia said.

  Falken pulled open the robe that covered the corpse. “No. He looks like he’s been in some battles, though. There’s a nasty scar on his chest, but other than—”

  “Stop!” Grace shouted as Falken started to pull the robe closed again.

  The others stared at her. Falken snatched his hand from the corpse. She didn’t want to see this, but she made herself gaze down at the body. The scar was thick and pink, and snaked down the center of his bare chest. She had seen a scar just like it once before.

  “Cut him open,” she said.

  Melia’s visage grew concerned. “What are you talking about, dear?”

  “Do it, Durge.” Now Grace’s voice was calm, emotionless, a doctor giving orders in a trauma room. “Cut open his chest.”

  “My lady,” the knight said, “perhaps you should—”

  “Give me your sword, then. I’ll do it.” Before he could react she snatched the blade from his hands. It was heavy. She dragged it clumsily to the body.

  “No, Grace, don’t do it,” Travis said in a sick voice, but she ignored him.

  She had to know, she had to be sure. The others faded away, along with the room. It was only her and the corpse. She rested the tip of the sword on his chest, then leaned on the hilt with all her weight. Ribs crunched as the blade sank into his body. She worked it back and forth, then cast it aside and sank to her knees beside the cadaver. With her bare hands she reached into the incision and pulled. It was hard to get a grip, the ribs were too strong. She needed leverage. There, the attacker’s knife. She picked it up from the floor, wedged it in the incision, and gave an expert tug, opening up a gap in his chest. Black blood flowed out.

  “By all the gods!” Falken swore.

  “I don’t understand,” Beltan said, his voice tight. “What is it?”

  Grace whispered the words, a terrible diagnosis. “It’s a heart made out of iron.”

  She dropped the knife. Strong hands helped her to her feet. Durge. Her own hands were covered with blood. All eyes were on Grace now.

  “What’s going on, Grace?” Travis said, his face pale with pain and fear.

  Grace opened her mouth, but Falken spoke first.

  “You heard my tale at the council,” the bard said. “How the Pale King had a heart forged of iron. What I did not tell was that Berash gave his slaves enchanted hearts of iron as well, to bind them to him.”

  Melia’s eyes were thoughtful on Grace. “How did you know of the ironhearts, dear?”

  She took in a shuddering breath. How could she explain it all, that night in the ED when everything had changed? “I’ve seen one before. On Earth.”

  “But how could one of Sorrin’s personal knights be a servant of the Pale King?” Beltan said.

  Durge stroked his mustaches. “And why would a slave of Berash wear the robes of a Raven cultist?”

  “Don’t you see, Durge?” It was Travis. He stood now, as if forgetting the blow to his head. “The Raven Cult is linked to the Pale King. Which means it’s the Pale King that’s behind the murder plot in the castle.”

  Falken raised an eyebrow. “Murder plot?”

  Grace and the other members of the Circle of the Black Knife exchanged guilty looks.

  “I think some people have a bit of explaining to do,” Melia said in a crisp voice. Then her gaze fell back to the corpse, and her words grew soft. “But that can wait until the morning light.”

  “We’ll have to tell the council about this,” Falken said.

  Melia glanced at the bard. “And what will we tell them?”

  The bard drew in a deep breath. “That the Pale King is even closer to freedom than we feared.”

  Grace shivered at the bard’s words, and she knew there was no magic—in this or any world—that could have warmed the terrible chill inside her.

  86.

  Grace gazed out the window of her chamber at the iron-gray dawn and knew she had to tell King Boreas everything.

  She turned from the window, shivered, drank some of the maddok a servingwoman had brought at first light, then dressed before the fire. Lately she had worn the brighter gowns in her wardrobe: amethyst, ruby, jade. She had gotten too good at donning the garb of this world—she had let the costume grow too comfortable. Today she chose a plain, uncomfortable gown the same color as the mist that shrouded Calavere’s towers. If she could have found her old chinos and white blouse, if they had not been burned to ashes, she would have worn them.

  Don’t forget who you are, Grace Beckett. You couldn’t cure all the suffering in one Emergency Department in one middling-sized city. You couldn’t even come close. What makes you think you alone could heal an entire world?

  She stepped away from the fire, looked up, and saw a ghost through the window: pale and translucent, gown merging with the fog in which she drifted, green-gold eyes bright in her hollow visage. Grace studied the ghost. Once, in the ED, a hysterical man had claimed he had seen Señora Blanca, the Lady in White, and that he was doomed to die before the night was over. At seven-thirty tests had shown him to be in good health. At three minutes to midnight Grace had called his time of death.

  She met the ghost’s ethereal eyes. Maybe she should have been afraid. Instead she grinned, and the ghost grinned back at her, the expression cadaverous yet gleeful. But then, how could you be afraid when the only thing haunting you was yourself? Grace finished her maddok, set down the cup, and walked from the chamber to meet her doom.

  “Good morrow, my lady.”

  The voice was
deep and gloomy, and it made Grace smile like no cheerful greeting could have.

  “Durge. Did you stand here all night?”

  “No, my lady. I occupied myself for a time by pacing.”

  Grace examined Durge’s weathered face: It was etched with lines, but no more than usual. When did the knight sleep? She didn’t know, but she was grateful for his presence. It seemed unlikely the Raven Cult would make an attempt on her life twice in one night—but then it seemed unlikely they would want her death at all.

  “What service may I do for you, my lady?”

  “You can go get some rest, Durge. Please.”

  “There will be time for that later.”

  The voice that came from her lips was automatic, the drone of an overworked doctor. “Prolonged deprivation of sleep can cause hallucinations and feelings of extreme euphoria.”

  “Flights of fancy and bliss?” Durge said in a chiding voice. “My lady, I am a knight of Embarr.”

  She bit her lip. What was she thinking? “I’m sorry, Durge. Yes, there is something you can do. Go to the Lady Aryn and bring her to King Boreas’s chamber.”

  The knight bowed, then without question turned and strode down the passageway. Grace pressed her eyes shut. She didn’t deserve such loyalty. One day I’ll give him an order that kills him. No, she couldn’t think like that. Durge was not just her Knight Protector. He was her friend. She opened her eyes and hurried down the corridor.

  When she knocked on the door at which she had stopped, it was Falken who answered.

  The bard’s face was haggard, his blue eyes more faded than ever. All the same, he managed a smile. “Lady Grace. I trust you had no more visitations since we last met.”

  “Only Durge. He spent the entire night outside my door.”

  “Good,” Beltan said. The blond man stood behind the bard. His face was grim, but in his hand, instead of a sword, he held a hunk of brown bread.

  Falken gave Grace a wink. “We had a doorstop of our own last night. I think it’s all that chain mail. It makes them want to just stand in one place and not move.”

  Grace clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing.