Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

Before she even thought whether it was wise to ask the question, Grace did. “Will you tell the council of the Raven Cult and the Pale King, Your Majesty?”

  Boreas had cocked his head and had given her a piercing look from the corner of his eye. Then, without another word, he had turned on a heel and had stalked from her chamber. A vacuum had seemed to form in his wake, and Grace had felt the need to clutch the bedpost to keep from getting swept out of the room after him. Once she had caught her breath, she had thought to go find Aryn and the others, to tell them what King Boreas intended. Then a young page had appeared at the door to lead her to the council chamber, and there had not been time.

  Grace reached the place beside Tressa and sat down.

  “Good morrow, Lady Grace,” Tressa said.

  Grace smiled. “Good morrow, Lady Tressa.”

  It was difficult to be certain how old Tressa was, and Grace was good at estimating age. The lady-in-waiting’s plump face was smooth and pretty, but there were other signs—the fine lines about her eyes, the few strands of gray in her thick hair, the blue veins on the backs of her hands—that made Grace think she was older than she seemed.

  Grace started to arrange her gown—it always took a bit of work to keep from sitting on a bunch of cloth—then halted. Her arms prickled, and she looked up. Two sparks of emerald burned into her. Grace tried to avert her eyes, but like one driving past a car wreck, she could not.

  Kyrene sat alone on a bench across the council chamber. She wore one of her sumptuous green gowns, but now she hunched inside, and her dark blond hair—always before so carefully brushed and arranged—was ratty and tangled. She chewed on a fingernail as she stared at Grace. The countess looked hurt and dangerous, like a small animal that was wounded but quite alive. Kyrene noticed Grace’s attention and smiled. The expression was both sullen and smug.

  Grace held her breath. She’s plotting something still, she has to be. Ivalaine may have cast her out, but Kyrene won’t give up that easily. But what does she think she can do?

  An image came to Grace’s mind: dark hands on pale flesh. Logren. Would she try to do something to Logren? Grace was trembling, and Tressa must have noticed, for she took Grace’s hand in her own.

  “Pay no attention to her, child,” Tressa said. “She has no power to harm us.”

  Grace shook her head. She wanted to say Tressa was wrong, that Kyrene was up to something, and that it couldn’t be good. Then trumpets sounded. The council was about to begin for the day.

  One by one the rulers marched into the chamber. Grace noticed Falken and Melia seated in one of the front rows. Travis, Aryn, Durge, and Beltan sat just behind. They all must have entered while Grace was distracted. She tried to catch their attention, but they did not look back. Grace sank back to her seat. She would just have to talk to them when the council recessed.

  The nobles took their seats on the benches, and the rulers took their own chairs—all except for Chair Malachor, which remained empty as it had for centuries. However, the other rulers were hardly settled when Boreas planted his hands on the edge of the round stone table and stood back up.

  “Last night,” Boreas said in a thundering voice, “an attempt of murder was made upon the life of King Kylar of Galt.”

  A gasp ran around the hall. The other rulers stared at Boreas—except for Kylar, who slid down in his chair, obviously uncomfortable with the attention. Grace winced. Boreas was certainly wasting no time on subtlety.

  “Is this true?” Sorrin of Embarr asked in his deep but hollow voice.

  Kylar nodded. “I f-f-fear that it is.”

  Lysandir sniffed at a gold-embroidered handkerchief. “1 must say, for one who has been murdered you look quite well today, Your Majesty.”

  “And in that we are lucky,” Boreas said.

  The king of Brelegond let out a high-pitched laugh. “Lucky? That’s not a word one usually hears in association with King Kylar of Galt.”

  Boreas glowered at Lysandir. “What’s wrong, King Lysandir? Are you disappointed the attempt on Kylar’s life failed?”

  Lysandir dropped his handkerchief. Even without the thick layer of powder his face would have been white. “What are you saying, King Boreas?”

  “What do you think I’m saying?” Boreas growled.

  Ivalaine stood from her chair. At once all eyes were on the graceful queen. She fixed her ice-blue gaze on Boreas. “Is it your intention to accuse a member of this council of arranging this terrible crime, Your Majesty?”

  He swept his gaze around the table, then he shook his head. “No, it is not. You see, I already know who was behind the murder plot—for one of my own, in an act of treachery, allied himself with the enemy.”

  Another gasp circled the chamber.

  Persard raised a shaggy white eyebrow in interest. “Indeed, King Boreas? A traitor in your own court? Who is this individual, and what will become of him?”

  Boreas seemed to chew his words before he spoke them, and it was clear he found them bitter. “It was Lord Alerain, and he is dead.”

  It took several minutes, and a number of hard looks and strong gestures from the king of Calavan, to restore order to the chamber. Grace knew this news of Alerain’s treachery was a blow to everyone, especially the nobles of Calavan. If Alerain—always so good and stolid—was not above betrayal, then who was? However, Grace knew the truth. There were dark gifts even good men did not have the power to resist. What had Alerain thought he was buying with his heart? Perhaps he had believed, by agreeing to help the enemy, that the darkness would spare Calavan. If so it had been a vain hope.

  “This is ill news, Your Majesty,” Sorrin said. The king of Embarr’s visage was more gaunt and sallow than ever. “But you have not told us who this enemy is that Alerain allied himself with, and who wanted the death of Kylar of Galt. Tell us, who is the one to blame for this wretched deed?”

  The council chamber fell silent, and all leaned forward to hear. Boreas met the eyes of each of the other rulers in turn.

  “I will tell you this,” he said in a low voice. “Then I will call for a reckoning of the council, for when you have heard the words I am to speak, you will see there can be but one course of action.” He drew in a deep breath. “The plot to murder Kylar and change the council’s decision was perpetrated by the Raven Cult, acting under the control of the Pale King himself.”

  Grace’s heart soared in her chest. He had said it. Boreas had dared to tell the council the truth! Falken leaped to his feet. All in the chamber gaped as if these were the last words they had expected Boreas to speak, and Falken most of all.

  Grace lifted a hand to the bodice of her gown, afraid to breathe. The council can’t deny him now. Boreas has offered them his own seneschal, they can’t discount him. They have to decide in favor of a muster, they have to—

  A harsh voice cut through the chamber.

  “How dare you, Boreas!”

  It was Eminda. The queen of Eredane had stood, and she glared at Boreas with her small eyes, her face red with rage. “How dare you attempt such a coarse and vile ruse? Do you truly expect me to believe your precious Alerain is dead, that he isn’t simply hiding in a room in this castle while you work your horrid little trick?”

  Even from a distance Grace could see Boreas shaking. She thought the stone table would crack beneath his grip.

  “I will show you his head, Your Majesty,” Boreas said through his teeth.

  Eminda appeared unimpressed. “So you killed him then. I would not put it past one of the bulls of Vathris to make such a sacrifice for one of his lord’s plans. You thought you could use this story to frighten us, to force us to choose the way you wish. But I will not be made a fool by you, Boreas.” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. “You will not have your reckoning—not until these arguments are done in proper order. I will not allow it!”

  Boreas did not speak but instead let out a wordless sound of rage. Grace gazed at Eminda. How could the queen of Eredane be so blind? How could all of them be so
blind? Didn’t they see what was right before them? She ran her eyes over the chamber in a desperate search for Logren. Maybe he could talk to his queen, maybe he could put an end to this. However, she did not see the high counselor of Eredane. There was no hope. The kings and queens rose from their chairs. Eminda turned away. There would be no reckoning, no muster for war.…

  “What’s wrong with you?” a voice said. It was soft and quavering, yet somehow it carried across the air of the council chamber. “What’s wrong with all of you?”

  Grace searched for the speaker, then she saw him. He stood before the first row of benches, clad in a shapeless tunic, his gray eyes stricken behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Travis. The rulers stared at him.

  Travis took a step toward the table. “Don’t you hear what he’s telling you?” His voice rose, thick with anger and fear. “Don’t you see what’s right in front of you? The Pale King isn’t a myth. He’s real, and his servants are here in this castle. He tried to kill Kylar, and any one of you could be next. How can you all be so stupid?”

  Travis started toward the council table. The kings leaped back in alarm. Eminda cried out in horror.

  “Get him back,” she shrieked. “Get this creature back!”

  Beltan sprang forward to pull Travis back to the bench, but the knight was too slow.

  “You’ve got to do something!” Travis was shouting now. “You’ve got to do something before it’s too late!” As he spoke this last word he pounded his fist against the stone table.

  A flash like lightning filled the chamber, and thunder rent the air. Cries of terror and dismay echoed off the walls. Grace blinked in disbelief. Even as she watched a dark line snaked across the council table from the place where Travis had hit it. The crack plunged toward the center of the table, then struck the white disk embedded there. The disk shattered into pieces, obscuring the symbol drawn upon it. Travis leaped back, then looked down at his hand, his expression one of horror.

  The chamber was quiet now. All eyes gazed at the table. Then Falken spoke in a low voice.

  “The rune of peace has been broken.”

  Grace heard a sharp intake of breath beside her. She turned to look at Tressa. The red-haired woman gazed forward, her eyes bright and intense. A whispered word escaped her lips.

  “Runebreaker.”

  The council was in chaos now. The rulers hurried from the hall, and the nobles fled their seats. Travis still stood beside the table and stared at his hand. Beltan, Melia, and Falken were with him now.

  Grace rose and pushed against the crowd. She didn’t feel fear, but exhilaration. Something important had just taken place, something that needed to happen. These people had grown so complacent, their minds so closed. Now they saw that their precious peace could be broken after all. Now maybe they would do something.

  She pushed past two fleeing nobles, then reached the others. “Travis,” she said.

  He looked up, his expression haunted.

  “That was wonderful, Travis,” she said. “What you did—you woke them up. It was absolutely wonderful!”

  She reached out to grip his hand, but he pulled away.

  “No, Grace. All I ever do is break things.”

  Before the others could stop him, Travis turned and ran from the chamber.

  92.

  Travis looked up at the iron-gray clouds that swirled above the castle and wondered if he would ever see the indigo-dyed Colorado sky again.

  He shivered and gathered his mistcloak closer around him. Maybe it was better here. Maybe it was better to be a world away from the memories. Except somehow that never stopped him from remembering.

  Good night, Big Brother.

  ’Night, Bug.

  The winter wind carried his sigh away.

  It had been three days since he had broken the rune of peace in the council chamber. Falken had said the rune had been bound centuries ago by the greatest of the Runebinders. How could Travis have had the power to break it? Yet somehow he had. He could still feel the energy coursing down his arm, through his hand, and into the stone table.

  In their chamber, Falken had questioned him again and again about that moment, but Travis still wasn’t certain exactly what had happened, exactly what he had done. He had been so angry, that was all—angry with the rulers and their unwillingness to accept the truth in front of them. He had seen the dark clouds over Imbrifale, he had seen the fell light of the wraithlings, and he had seen the iron heart Grace had cut out of a dead man’s chest. How could they still not believe? He had only meant to pound on the table, but the anger had flowed out of him, lightning down a wire, and he had not been able to stop it.

  Queen Eminda had called for Travis’s head on a trencher when the council met the next day. It was no secret she cared little for runespeakers or magic. Luckily for Travis, Boreas had prevailed. The king had argued that if Eminda was concerned about the breaking of the rune of peace, then surely she had to be concerned about the broken rune Falken had showed the council, the seal from the Rune Gate. It had been a brilliant gambit on Boreas’s part, and Eminda had shut up at once. Travis had not seen it—he was not going anywhere near the council chamber—but Grace had described the scene to him, and he could picture the queen of Eredane, her face red and puffy with outrage, not daring to speak for fear of weakening her own position. Even in defeat there were little triumphs.

  After Boreas defended Travis to the council, the king had requested to see him, and Falken had taken him to Boreas’s chamber. Travis knew, in some ways, that what he had done had helped Boreas’s cause. All the same, he expected the king to be furious with him for his outburst in the council chamber. Once the door shut he had braced his shoulders and wondered how much he would scream while Boreas used those powerful hands to tear him limb from limb.

  To his astonishment, the king had nodded to him in solemn greeting, offered him wine, and bidden him sit down. He had spoken with Travis for a short time while Falken stood nearby. The king had wanted to know if Travis had broken any runes before, and if so how many.

  At last, questions over, the king had gazed into the fire. “Legend held that Calavan would never fall while the rune of peace was bound in the council table.”

  Travis had opened his mouth. Was the king blaming him for putting the Dominion in danger?

  “No, Goodman,” Boreas had said. “Calavan is not in danger because you broke the rune. You broke the rune because Calavan is in danger.” The king had drawn in a deep breath, then looked up. “You may go now.”

  In the two days since, Travis had spent most of his time wandering through the castle alone. He had stopped his studies with the Runespeakers, despite the protestations of both Rin and Falken. The only point in studying runes was to learn how to control his power, and clearly that had failed. What was the point in continuing? To grow even stronger so the next time he could hurt more than just stone?

  I won’t do it, Jack. I don’t know why you did this to me, but it couldn’t be for that—it couldn’t be to hurt people.

  Falken had grown angry when Travis refused to resume his studies, but—to Travis’s surprise—Melia had laid a hand on the bard’s arm.

  “Let him go, Falken,” she had said. “He needs to decide this for himself.”

  He had given her a grateful look, and she had nodded, her amber eyes thoughtful. Then he had left the chamber. He didn’t know what he hoped to find in his wanderings, but they calmed him somehow and helped him think. Maybe all he wanted were a few fragments of his own broken peace. After all, the storm would be coming soon enough.

  A tangled wall of green rose before him, and an arch of stone provided a doorway. From beyond came a faint, sweet scent and the sound of water. The castle’s garden.

  Travis started to move past the archway, then hesitated. He cocked his head. It sounded as if someone had called his name. He listened again, but now all he heard was the breath of the wind and the distant voice of water. No doubt that was all it had been. Still, the garden beckon
ed to him. He stepped through the arch into the private space beyond.

  Despite the lateness of the year and the frosty air, some things still grew in the garden. None of the plants were familiar to him. There was a vine with glossy leaves that climbed up the walls, and a kind of feathery evergreen that grew in clumps. The ground was covered with leaves, and trees stretched bare branches overhead, weaving a net to catch the lowering sky.

  A path of flat stones drew him onward, past a fountain rimed with ice. A mossy carpet surrounded the fountain, dotted with pale flowers, each as small and delicate as a snowflake. It was from these that rose the winter-forest scent. The path took him deeper into the garden. Travis did not resist. This was a peaceful place.

  No, not peaceful. It’s wilder than that. More like it’s resting, waiting. But waiting for what? Or for whom?

  He kept walking. The path led through another archway, into a grotto. Then he halted and looked up in awe.

  They were locked in mortal struggle.

  The stone they were carved from was white, but Travis sensed that, even in life, the bull would have been the same color. He could almost see muscles rippling beneath its milky skin, flexing as it strained against the warrior.

  The man was naked and beautiful. Stone curls tumbled back from his brow. His visage was proud, fierce, and too perfect to be merely human. Like the bull, muscles coursed beneath the smooth surface of his skin, across wide shoulders, along lean hips, down powerful legs. The thick root of his phallus stood erect. Had he been molded in flesh instead of stone, Travis knew there was not a living person who could have refused the warrior’s will or desire. Or his knife.

  The warrior gripped the knife in his left hand, and the sculptor had caught him in the exact moment of plunging the blade into the bull’s throat. The bull’s head was tilted back, its eyes wide and its mouth open, so that Travis could almost hear its death bellow. Liquid poured from the slit in the bull’s neck, only it wasn’t blood. It was water. The water ran down the bull’s throat, flowed into a basin at the foot of the statue, then trickled away, into the garden.