by Mark Anthony
“A fine specimen,” said an admiring voice. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Travis whirled around. A new patch of green had appeared in the garden, as brilliant as emeralds.
The woman walked toward him, though saunter might have been the better word. She was beautiful, though not at all in the hard, white manner of the warrior. She was all curves and soft edges. Dark gold hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her skin had the luscious glow of an apricot. Only her eyes were hard and bright, the same color as her gown.
Travis fumbled for an answer. A fine specimen. He didn’t know if she meant the warrior or the bull. Or maybe she had been talking about him.
No, that wasn’t likely. He scratched his scruffy beard and hunched his shoulders inside his shapeless tunic. Who was she? What did she want of him?
“A friend,” she said. “And only to talk to you.”
He sucked in a breath.
Her lips parted to reveal small, white teeth. “I am Kyrene, Countess of Selesia.”
Somehow Travis remembered his manners. He fumbled for her hand, brushed his lips against it, and let it fall. “I’m Travis Wilder.”
Now that she was closer he saw there was a wildness to her, like the garden—no, that wasn’t so. The garden was calm and peaceful. However, there was an unsettling edge to her gaze. Her luxuriant hair was unbrushed, and her gown, though fashionably revealing, was crooked and in need of adjustment.
She moved past him toward the statue. “Vathris Bullslayer,” Kyrene hissed. She turned her emerald gaze on him. “There are those who think killing with a sword is the answer to everything. Is that what you think as well, Travis Wilder?”
He looked down at his hands. “No. It’s never right to hurt another. Never.”
The scent of apricots. He looked up, and now she was beside him. Her breasts were two ripe fruits in the pearled basket of her bodice. Wasn’t she cold?
“You travel in interesting company, Goodman Travis.”
“You mean Falken and Melia.”
“Yes, Falken Blackhand and Melindora Nightsilver are well known in these lands, if not always well regarded. But you have a fine, strong friend in the king’s nephew. Are you and Beltan very … close?”
She laughed, but it was a queer sound, and the hair on his neck prickled. Something told him he should go, but he felt rooted to the spot, as if the garden’s vines had grown up to tangle themselves around his legs.
“What do you want?” he whispered.
“Only to ask you something, love.” Her voice was soothing, yet pierced his skull all the same. She plucked a leaf from a bush. “There are those of us who believe in the power of life.” She dropped the leaf to the ground and crushed it under her slipper. “And there are those who believe that destroying things is always the answer.”
He could not take his eyes off her. Despite the frigid air, sweat trickled down his sides. She lifted a hand and brushed his scruffy cheeks.
“You should not hide behind that beard, love. Yours is a comely face.”
He licked his lips. It was so hard to think. His mind felt like it was covered in honey. “What did you want to ask me?”
“It is nothing, really. Only a small thing. You see, I saw what you did in the council chamber, the rune you broke, and I was wondering if I might look at your hand.…”
No, Travis, a voice spoke in his mind. You mustn’t let her.
However, the voice was faint and distant. He did not resist her as she reached out and took his right hand. She bent her head, eyes shining, to study his palm.
“Get away from him, Kyrene!”
The warm haze that surrounded Travis shattered. He drew in a ragged lungful of air. It was freezing and made him cough. He looked up, along with Kyrene, to see two figures step through the entrance of the grotto: a small woman in a kirtle of deep blue, and a man with a single black glove.
Kyrene glared emerald daggers at the two. “You don’t own him, Melindora Nightsilver.”
“And neither will you, Kyrene.” Melia’s coppery visage was a hard mask of anger. “I told you to get away from him.”
“Step back, Travis,” Falken said in a serious voice. “Now.”
Travis didn’t understand what was going on, but he did as he was told. He had no idea how Melia always knew where to find him, but once again he was grateful.
Kyrene hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. She threw her shoulders back and thrust out her chin. “I’m not afraid of you, Melindora. You’re not what you once were.”
Travis stared at the countess. What was she talking about?
“That’s true,” Melia said. She stepped forward, until she stood mere inches from the countess. Her voice was cool and dangerous. “Then again, I still have a number of connections. I am quite certain I could arrange it so you never feel the Touch again, Kyrene.”
Kyrene’s bold expression faltered, and her face blanched. “You can’t! You wouldn’t!”
Melia smiled. It was not an affectionate expression. “Are you really so very sure of that … love?”
Kyrene opened her mouth, but no words came out. She glanced at Falken’s grim face, then back to Melia. The countess shut her mouth, gathered her gown up around her ankles, and hurried from the grotto—but not before casting one hateful glance back at Melia.
Falken raised an eyebrow. “One gets the impression she doesn’t care for us.”
Melia sniffed. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
“So why do you think Kyrene was interested in Travis?”
“It is my experience that witches are curious about everything. Too curious, sometimes. We will simply have to keep an eye on her.” Melia approached the statue and looked up. “Greetings, Vathris.”
Her voice sounded almost fond, which struck Travis as odd. He followed after her.
“He’s one of the New Gods, isn’t he?”
Melia nodded. “Yes, the gods of the mystery cults are the New Gods. And there are many of them, not just the seven known in the Dominions. Some of them are great in power, many of them lesser. Most of their followers live in the far south, in the lands along the Summer Sea.”
Travis thought about this. How did Melia know so much? Then he had it. “You’re from the south, aren’t you, Melia?”
She plucked a leaf from a vine and twirled it in a small hand. Her gaze grew distant. “Yes, I dwelled there once. Sometimes I can still see the red cliffs of Urundar, and the men in their white serafis dancing at twilight.” The leaf fell to the ground, and her eyes grew focused once more. “But that time is long over. I have other matters that concern me now.”
Falken regarded her, his faded eyes thoughtful, then his expression changed, and he smiled wolfishly. “One matter that concerns me right now is supper. Shall we see what’s being offered in the great hall?”
Melia concurred, and she and Falken turned to leave the garden. Travis hesitated. He cast one glance at the statue of Vathris. If only once in his life he could have that strength, that control of his own destiny. If only …
“Wait, I’m coming, too,” he said, and he hurried after the bard and the lady.
93.
Grace was worried about Travis. It was strange how quickly one could get used to something one had never had before—something like friends—but she had grown accustomed to Travis’s companionship over these last weeks.
Yesterday she had gone to speak with Falken and Melia. The small woman still had the ability to instantly disarm Grace.
“We’ve been keeping an eye on him, dear,” Melia had said.
As always the lady’s smooth visage had seemed young yet motherly as well. A black kitten had played with the hem of her kirtle, and Grace had frowned. The creature seemed no larger than it had the first time she had seen it, and that had been weeks ago. Weren’t kittens supposed to grow quickly? Melia had seemed to notice her puzzled gaze and had smiled.
“We’re trying to convince Travis to study again with the Runespeakers,” Falke
n had said. “But he has to decide that on his own.”
Melia had gathered the kitten into her arms. “I’m afraid what he did in the council chamber frightened him, maybe even more than it did the kings and queens.”
Grace had stepped forward. “But what did he do?”
Falken had spoken in a low voice. “Something that hasn’t been done in centuries.”
The bard had not seemed to wish to discuss this statement further, and Melia had promised to let Grace know if they spoke to Travis again.
“But you might want to try talking to him, Lady Grace,” she had said as they paused at the door. “He thinks of you as a friend, you know.”
Grace had tried to say she felt the same, except the words had gotten wedged in her throat. Instead she had nodded, then had found herself alone in the corridor.
Over those next days Grace had thought more about what Travis had done in the council chamber. Falken and Melia had told Grace of their encounter with Kyrene in the garden. This news had fascinated Grace. Kyrene had never appeared to notice Travis before. This sudden interest made no sense.
Or did it? Runebreaker. That was the word Tressa had whispered in the council chamber, her eyes glowing. Were the Witches interested in someone who could break runes? Grace had attempted to bring the subject up with Ivalaine’s red-haired advisor, but she had had no luck. Still, if the witches thought Travis could be this Runebreaker, it would explain Kyrene’s interest in him. Perhaps the countess had thought, if she discovered something about Travis, she could regain Ivalaine’s favor. If so, Falken and Melia had thwarted the attempt with their intervention.
Grace had spent the last few days concentrating on her studies with Queen Ivalaine. There was little else to do. She could see no point to further spying—they all knew where the other kings and queens stood on the matter of war—and so there was no more point in maintaining the ruse that she and Boreas had fallen out. Not that Boreas seemed interested in her. He did not summon her to his chamber, and if she passed him in a corridor, he barely grunted at her in greeting, his eyes like steel.
It might have mattered if she could have learned something of Ivalaine’s motives. However, every time Grace tried subtly to turn their conversation to the council, the queen of Toloria deftly turned it back to the lesson at hand.
“There is an order to knowledge, sister,” Ivalaine said one afternoon. “You cannot dance before you learn to walk.”
Grace didn’t know if that comment pertained to her questions or her studies. Either way, it was clear she would not learn what Ivalaine—or the Witches—wanted until Ivalaine was ready to tell her.
Nor was there much for the Circle of the Black Knife to accomplish. The plot to murder King Kylar had failed. True, the second conspirator remained uncaptured, but now Beltan was in charge of the safety of the kings and queens, and it was doubtful a second try at murder would succeed, if one was even attempted.
The Council of Kings had recessed and would not meet again until Midwinter’s Day, three days from now, when the last arguments would be heard and a final reckoning would be made. Not that it was a mystery what the final outcome would be. They had succeeded in stopping the conspirators but had failed utterly in swaying the council. None of the rulers had changed his or her initial position. King Boreas had failed. Eminda had crushed his last gambit. The Dominions would not stand together against the Pale King.
Grace sighed as she gazed out the window of her chamber. The sky was dark again. The fog never seemed to lift anymore, but pressed against the castle’s stone walls as if it meant to crack them.
Maybe it’s a myth, after all, Grace. Maybe the Pale King really is just a story to frighten children.
However, myths could be real—she knew that now, could not deny it—and, although she was no child, she was afraid to the marrow of her bones. She watched the heavy clouds descend around Calavere’s nine towers, swallowing them. It would be soon now. Very soon.
Grace turned and stared at the door. Maybe it wasn’t over yet after all. There was still one who might be able to help her change the decision of the council, one who might be able to help her heal this world. She checked her hair in a polished mirror of silver, tried to paw it into some sort of arrangement—it was getting longer now—then settled for tucking the loosest strands behind an ear. She splashed a little cold water on her cheeks to freshen them, then adjusted her frosted violet gown.
Why are you doing this, Grace?
Afraid she knew the true answer, she hurried out the door. She knew the castle well now, and her feet seemed to find the way on their own. She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then knocked on the door.
He’s not here, Grace. He wasn’t even at the council last time, he won’t answer.
However, even as she thought this she knew he would, and a moment later the door swung open. Genuine surprise registered in his gaze, then he smiled, and that gaze—as brown and rich as maddok—traveled over her body before it once again rose to meet her own.
“Lady Grace, you have just assured the brightness of my day despite the gloom outside.”
He made something between a nod and a bow. She almost laughed—it was so perfect. Respectful yet familiar. She smiled and attempted a curtsy. She was getting better.
“Lord Logren …”
She wanted to say more, why she had come, what she needed from him, but the right words fled her as surely as if she had dropped her silver half-coin.
“I’ve just had some spiced wine brought,” he said. “It’s still warm. I find it to be a good ward against the chill. Though not so good as company, of course.”
The high counselor of Eredane gestured for Grace to enter. It was Her Radiance, the Duchess of Beckett, who did so. The door shut behind her, and she breathed in. The scent of spices filled the austere room, although she was not certain it was only from the wine. It was his scent as well. He handed her a cup, raised his toward her, then both drank. She let the warm liquid spread through her, then drew in a breath to speak.
“I need you, Lord Logren.”
He raised an eyebrow, as if not quite certain how to interpret this statement. Her cheeks flushed, and not just from the wine.
“Your help, I mean.”
And was that so? Or had her first statement been closer to the truth?
No, Grace, that’s not why you came here, to work petty magics like Kyrene.
She forced herself to set down her cup, then regarded Logren with what she hoped was a businesslike gaze. “I didn’t see you at the council the other day, my lord, but I’m certain you know what happened.”
He nodded, his expression curious. “I do.”
She swallowed hard, then went on. “I’m not asking you to believe in the Pale King, my lord. I do, but that’s not important now. It’s not why I’m here. Whatever you believe about Falken’s stories, the plot to murder King Kylar was real—no one can deny that, whatever Queen Eminda says.”
Her voice grew stronger now, filled with conviction. She picked up the hem of her gown and paced before the small fire as she spoke.
“Lord Alerain is dead, but he wasn’t working alone—he certainly didn’t chop off his own head with a sword. That means the other conspirator is still here in the castle. If we could find him, then we could question him, and maybe we could learn more about what they—I mean, what he really wanted. Then the council could use that knowledge to make their decision. Whatever the reckoning was, it wouldn’t really matter. At least we would know they had all the information before they decided, and that we had done all we could.”
She halted, drew in a breath, then realized she had nothing more to say. He studied her, and she felt like a stage actor who had forgotten her lines just as the spotlight turned her way. Her instinct was to run, but she could not connect the feeling with her legs. He was going to laugh at her, or mock her, or turn on her in rage. She was an idiot to have come here thinking she could influence him.
He set down his cup and walked toward
her with purpose. She braced her shoulders. Now it would come.
“I will help you, my lady.”
She blinked—she must have heard wrong. However, there was no laughter in his eyes, no anger. They were dark and serious.
“You wonder why I have agreed.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I don’t know myself. Or perhaps I’m weary of watching my queen make a fool of herself before the council.” Now his lips did twist in a mocking smile, but Grace knew it was not meant for her. “Royals are born, not chosen, and inbreeding is not always kind to intellect. Pale King or no, there is something afoot in this castle, some attempt to sway the decision of the council against war. And though that has been my own position, I find myself wondering who else might want this outcome—want it so much they would murder for it—and why.” He drew in a breath. “What can I do to assist you, my lady?”
Grace’s heart leaped in her chest. She had never imagined that he would agree to help her. But why not? His was a logical mind, and he had reasoned things through better than she.
“I need you to watch, my lord,” she said. “You know people at this council whom I don’t. I need you to watch those you are familiar with and see if any of them are acting … different or strange.” Or if they have scars on their chest. But she didn’t speak those words. How could she have explained?
“I can do that, my lady. And I am not without my own sources of information. I will see what I can discover of Alerain’s killer.”
They gazed at each other in understanding, then he grinned, and she could not help grinning back. Maybe there was hope yet. At that point she meant to give him her thanks, to tell him they would talk again soon, and leave the chamber.
The words did not leave her lips, the door did not open. Instead the air folded, and she was in his arms. He bent his head—although he did not have to reach far, she was tall—and touched his lips to hers. She tasted wine and something more: passion. Greedy, she drank it like it was elixir.
His mouth pressed harder against her own. An electric sensation filled her. Her hands ran like small animals over his body. He was clad in breeches and a white shirt, but she could feel firm flesh beneath the cloth. It excited her, and he was excited as well, that was plain enough—Kyrene had been right on one account.