by Mark Anthony
She steeled her will and turned a corner that would take her to the doors of the great hall.
“Lady Grace,” said a dangerous voice. “How regal you look this evening.”
Grace cursed herself for doing it, but she couldn’t help gasping as she turned toward the sound of the voice. She hadn’t seen the woman there, standing in a shadowed alcove. Now the other stepped into the light, although the shadows seemed to cling to her still.
“Lady Kyrene,” Grace said, then remembered to sketch a curtsy.
Kyrene smiled and bowed her head.
It had been days since Grace had last seen the countess, and then Kyrene had been wild and ragged, half-mad at her fall from Queen Ivalaine’s favor. Now Kyrene was … different. Her hair was lustrous, but darker than Grace remembered it and pulled back in a severe knot. Her skin was milky as always, but the shade with which she had colored her lips, once coral pink, was now a deep red, like wine. Even her choice in garb had changed. Gone was her usual low-cut gown. Instead she wore a tight-fitting dress the same color as her lips, its collar high and fastened tightly around her throat by a choker of shell and jade.
“So, have you come to enjoy yourself at the feast?” Kyrene said.
“Why else would I have come?” Grace tried not to sound defensive but knew she failed.
Kyrene smiled again. Her emerald eyes were brighter and harder than ever. “Why else might you have come? Perhaps to weave useless magics as witches do.” Kyrene moved closer. “Tell me, Lady Grace, are you still Ivalaine’s plaything?”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about, Kyrene?”
“Don’t worry, love. I’m not angry at you for what you did to me. It was a favor, I know that now.” Kyrene smoothed her hair. “Ivalaine is a fool. She plays her little games and thinks she’s so important. But there are others here now, others who are far greater than she.”
Despite Kyrene’s beauty, a sour scent rose from her. Grace felt sick.
“I have to go,” she said.
Kyrene gave a knowing nod. “Of course, love. And so do I. We each have our alliances to uphold. Farewell, Lady Grace.”
The countess gave Grace one more smug smile, then sauntered away. Grace rushed down the corridor, grateful to be away from her. Perhaps Kyrene was mad after all, or perhaps she really had found some new faction to ally herself with. Either way, Grace didn’t care. She inhaled, steadied her mind, then stepped into the great hall of Calavere.
“Lady Grace?”
She blinked, then glanced down at a tug on her sleeve. A page stood beside her.
“This way, Lady Grace,” the boy said.
She gave a wordless nod, then let him lead her among the trestle tables filled with nobles. Once again the castle’s great hall had been decorated to resemble a forest, and for a moment Grace felt the same disorientation she had in Trifkin’s chamber. It seemed she really walked in a misty sylvan glade. However, it was only a trick of torch smoke. Fir boughs draped the blackened rafters, and leafless saplings stood in the corners like shy, slender ladies waiting to be asked for a dance.
Grace thought she would be seated at one of the lower tables, but instead the page led her to the dais at the head of the great hall. She was to be seated at the high table. That was a stroke of luck. Her view would be better from up here, and she needed to be able to see the entire great hall. If their plan worked as it was supposed to, and the murderer was in the hall, it was Grace and Travis who would spot him.
She nodded to King Kylar as she passed him, then at King Boreas, who barely caught her gaze before he returned his glower to the hall. It did not look as if the king of Calavan intended to enjoy his own feast. The page showed her to the last empty seat at the high table, and her breath caught in her chest. So she was twice lucky that night.
“Good eventide, Lady Grace,” Logren said with his white-toothed smile.
He stood as she took her seat, then sat again beside her.
“Good eventide, my lord,” she said. She had not noticed it before, but now the great hall was too warm, and her gown too constricting.
“You look beautiful tonight, my lady.” His voice was low and private, just for her.
So do you, my lord, she wanted to say. He was clad in pearl-gray, like the night she first met him. She drank in his features like wine. Why had she run from him when they last met? He must have thought her an idiot.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said when she realized he was waiting for an answer.
“I have been keeping an eye open as you asked, my lady.” His voice was casual—he could have been speaking about bird-watching in the garden—but he gave her a conspiratorial nod. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen anything such as you described.”
Yes, he was good at this game. “It’s all right, my lord. I appreciate your help.”
“At your service, my lady.”
A thrill passed through Grace, and she could not help but smile. He was intelligent, kind, and handsome. If not him, then who? Kyrene had her new friends now—Logren had escaped the countess’s web. Maybe Grace could try again, and without thoughts of spells and simples this time. She remembered the soft touch of his lips on her own. Maybe she didn’t need magic to make Logren hers. Maybe he already was.…
“A drink, my lady?”
She almost laughed. Those were the first words he had ever spoken to her, that night in the great hall when she had been so new at this, when she had fled the nobles in terror, and he had been there to steady her.
“Yes,” she said. “A drink would be lovely.”
He filled a cup from a pitcher of wine. Warmth filled her, and with it came a new resolution. Of course, it was so right, how could she not have seen it before? She would tell Logren everything, right here and now—their plan to discover the murderer at the feast. She could add his eyes and his intellect to her own. What better ally could she and the others have?
She leaned toward him. “Lord Logren, there’s something I need to tell you.…”
He handed her the cup, and she reached out to accept it.
His brown eyes were intent upon her. “Yes, my lady?”
Grace opened her mouth to tell him …
… then froze. Her eyes locked on the delicate bracelet that encircled her wrist—the wrist of the hand with which she had reached out to accept the cup. The wedge-shaped lodestone dangled from the silver chain. It spun slowly, first left, then right, then—as she watched—it came to a halt. Warmth fled her, replaced by a terrible chill. The charm pointed directly at the center of Logren’s chest.
He smiled at her. “What is it you wished to tell me, my lady?”
97.
Travis made his way down the corridor as quickly as he could and still look as if he were going nowhere in particular. There were few in this part of Calavere—most had already headed to the great hall for the feast. However, he didn’t want to do anything that might attract attention. The murderer was still somewhere in the castle, and it could be anyone, even the basest servant.
He reached a crossing of ways, paused, then headed down the left-hand corridor. Things looked familiar now. Yes, he was almost there, almost to the north tower—and the chamber occupied by Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe of actors. He could only hope the little man had not forgotten that he had agreed to help them. Then again, Travis had the feeling Trifkin could remember things far older than any living person—older than this castle, maybe as old as the forest.
Sweat trickled inside his tunic, and his hand crept to the stiletto tucked into his belt. The others would all be reaching their positions now. It was too late to stop even if he wanted to. He drew in a deep breath and tried to think about what he would do after this night was over. Maybe you could open a tavern in the town below the castle. Even this world needs saloons, doesn’t it? Places to escape for a little while.
The thought made Travis smile. There couldn’t be too many other interplanetary saloon keepers out there. He kept walking, and his co
wboy boots beat a tattoo against the floor. The boots were scuffed and battered. How many leagues had he walked in them in this world? He had lost count. Regardless, they were about to fall apart. He would have to get a new pair when he got back to … that was, if he ever got back to …
A faint hum drifted on the air.
The rhythm of Travis’s boots slowed. He peered to either side, but the corridor was empty. It must have been the winter wind outside, scouring the walls of the castle, that was all. He quickened his pace.
The metallic hum grew louder, until air and stone resonated with it.
Travis froze. This time there was no mistaking it for wind. He knew that sound, would never forget it, the way it pierced the air and thrummed in his chest. He felt something warm against his hand, and he looked down. The jewel set into the hilt of his stiletto blazed like an angry eye. His heart wrenched in mid-beat, and he snapped his head up.
“No,” he whispered, but the word had no power to change what he saw.
Pale light welled through a stone archway up ahead. Even as he watched, it grew brighter, closer, as if whatever made the light approached with terrible speed.
The humming filled his skull and drowned out the sound of his pulse. He stared at the archway, unable to move, a small animal waiting for the hunter’s strike. The glow intensified, grew pure and cold. Then he saw them, silhouettes in the light: tall, slender, and hideous in their grace.
Terror washed away his paralysis. Travis turned and ran back down the corridor, his boots thudding in time with his heart. He reached the place were the passages intersected, started to turn down the way he had come, then stumbled and fell back. Faint but growing, he saw it—fey light shone down that corridor as well. They were coming at him from two directions.
Travis lurched into the right-hand passage, bent his head, and careened down the corridor. He reached into the pocket of his tunic and clasped the iron box. It was the Stone that had drawn them, the Stone that they wanted. Their huge eyes could see the very trails of magic it left on the air.
The corridor split in front of him. Which way? He started down one passage. The hum grew louder, and eerie shadows slithered on the walls. He pulled back, started down the other corridor. It too was filled with a colorless incandescence that grew stronger each second. He jerked his head back and forth. They had him surrounded, there was nowhere to go, nowhere to—
“This way,” a voice said.
The words cut through his fear. There was no time to question the voice, no time to see who the speaker was. A door he had not noticed before had opened in the wall of the corridor. A warm hand grasped his, and he let it pull him through the opening into a chamber beyond. There was a hiss of air and the grating of stone on stone. The door closed behind him and shut out the sinister glow.
His eyes adjusted to the mundane illumination of an oil lamp that hung from an iron chain. Fear ebbed, and surprise surged in its place.
“Lady Kyrene!”
Dark red lips coiled in a smile. “Are you well, Goodman Travis?”
He remembered his pursuers and glanced back at the smooth expanse of stone where the door had been.
“Do not worry,” she said. “Even they cannot walk through stone.”
Her words oozed, not fear but hatred, and this struck a strange note in Travis’s mind. He turned his gaze back toward her. How had the countess known to find him? But it didn’t matter. He was grateful to have escaped them, at least for the moment. Now he had to find Falken and the others, to warn them of what stalked the castle.
“How can I get to the great hall, Kyrene? I have to talk to Falken and Melia.”
Kyrene sauntered toward him. She looked different than she had that day in the garden. Her deep crimson dress clung to the curves of her body: her arms, her breasts, her throat. Her green eyes glittered like stones.
“Forget them, love,” Kyrene said. “You do not need those two any longer.”
She reached out, caressed his cheek, then let her hands run over his shoulders, his chest, his hips.
A shudder coursed through him. He could not look away from her eyes. “What do you mean?” he whispered.
Her hands brushed across something small and heavy beneath the fabric of his tunic, then halted. Instinct raised the hair on his arms. He leaped back.
Kyrene lifted her hand, and now there was a dagger in it, curved and wicked. “Give me the Stone!” she hissed.
He shook his head and pressed his back against the wall. What had he done? No, what had she done? Then he knew, and a moan escaped his lips.
“You’re one of them.” He was going to vomit. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“Give me the Stone, Travis. I must have it.” She gestured to the wall with the dagger. “He favors them, his precious Pale Ones. How I despise them! But who will have the greatest favor in his eyes when it is I who brings him Sinfathisar?”
“No.” He gripped the iron box.
“Don’t fight, love. You don’t have to die, not a handsome thing like you.” She held her arms out. “Come, join me. I can take you to them, they can give you one, too. Together our beauty will never fade!”
He stared at her, frozen by horror.
She drew near him. “It is not what you think, love. Nothing is so frail as a human heart. You cannot imagine what it is like to be freed of it.” Rapture twisted her perfect features. “I am so strong now, so powerful. There is no pain, no fear, no sorrow that can touch me.”
Travis gazed at her empty face and understood. “Yes,” he said in a quiet voice. “And there is no love, no joy, and no kindness. Don’t you see, Kyrene? You’ve given up your heart.” He shook with the words. “You’ve given up your heart.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide, as if for a moment she saw the truth he spoke of. Then her face hardened into a mask of rage.
“No.” She raised the dagger. “You’re wrong!”
She flew at him and thrust the dagger straight at his chest. He caught her wrist barely in time, the blade an inch from his heart. She was strong—horribly strong, just as she had said—but he was nearly twice her size, and fear flooded his limbs with its own preternatural strength. With a cry he hurled her aside. She struck a wall, the dagger flew from her hand, and she fell to the floor.
He searched, frantic. There—a door in the far wall. He threw himself toward it, shoved it open. A blood-chilling scream sounded behind him.
“You will be sorry, Goodman Travis,” she shouted. “If you will not be mine, then I will take something you love! I will take it, and I will destroy it! Let your heart bear that!”
Never in his life had he heard such perfect hate. Once Kyrene had been a woman, but that thing back there was no longer human and never would be again.
Travis slammed the door shut. There was a wooden bar, and he shoved it into the slots. Then he ran down the corridor, away from the light, and away from the madness of evil.
He turned a corner and saw another door ahead. He pushed through it, and icy air struck his face. The empty expanse of the lower bailey stretched before him, lit by the great orb of the moon which soared over the castle’s battlements. A dark shape loomed not far away: the tower of the Runespeakers. Yes, if there was anywhere he could find help it was there. He looked both ways, saw no one, then sprinted across the bailey.
He reached the tower door. His pulse thrummed in his ears and threatened to rupture his eardrums, but he had made it. He opened the door and raced up the steps that spiraled inside the tower.
“Rin!” he shouted. “Jemis! Are you here?”
He burst into the tower’s main chamber. Rin looked up in surprise. The muscular young runespeaker knelt beside the copper brazier in the act of banking the coals.
Rin stood and brushed ashes from his hand, his brown eyes concerned. “Travis, what is it?”
He shook his head, gasped for breath. How could he explain? “They’ve found me, Rin. They’re right behind me.”
The young runespea
ker frowned. “Who are you talking about? Is there someone in the castle? An intruder?” His expression darkened. “An enemy of the king?”
Travis nodded, then shook his head. It wasn’t what Rin thought. Not robbers or renegade knights. There was no time to tell him. “I have to get to the great hall,” he said. “I need to talk to Lord Falken. He can explain.”
Rin let out a deep breath, then nodded. “I can’t say I understand you, Travis. But if you say it’s important, then it is.”
Travis gazed at Rin in gratitude. He could not believe his good fortune, to encounter such a friend on a night such as this. Maybe there was hope yet.
“But you’re exhausted, Travis.” Rin’s broad face was troubled. “You won’t do Falken or anyone any good if you collapse on the way to the great hall. Let me get you some wine.”
Urgency clawed at Travis’s heart. He opened his mouth to say they needed to run, but his throat was too dry. Rin was right, he had to drink something, had to rest just a moment, then he could run again. He sat in a chair by the brazier.
“Where’s Jemis?” he managed to croak.
“He’s already at the great hall.” Rin moved to a cupboard and turned to fill two cups with wine.
Travis held his hands toward the brazier. Despite his exertion he was cold. He rubbed his hands together. Then he noticed it, white and still. It lay beside the brazier. He reached down and picked it up: a dead dove. He stroked the little corpse with a thumb. Had it fallen from the rafters? No, its head flopped to one side. Its neck had been wrung.
“We have to be there soon, anyway,” Rin said, his back still turned. “We need to speak the rune of purity before the feast can begin.”