Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  Travis lowered the Stone. It felt warm against his skin. “Who are you?” he whispered.

  The beings did not answer him, but all the same he knew, as if they had given him the answer. They had been twisted by the Pale King’s magic, and now they were whole once more.

  The fairies bowed before him. It seemed wrong that such radiant beings should do so, but even as he thought this he felt calmness wash over him. They were grateful.

  The fairies rose. He met their ageless gazes, and it almost seemed their tiny mouths turned upward in knowing smiles. Then their outlines blurred, until where each fairy had stood there remained only a column of light. Then each column collapsed into a shimmering point. Nine sparks of silver fluttered on the air, then danced away around the corner like thistledown on the wind.

  The corridor went dim. Travis was alone. He looked down at the Stone in his hand. What was this thing that could make the broken whole? What was this thing that evil would break the world to have it? Travis sighed. He slipped the Stone back into his pocket.

  “That was nicely done, lad,” said a chalky voice.

  He looked up. A form shambled toward him, her shapeless body clad in colorless rags. It was the old servingwoman he had chased through the castle on two occasions. Now it was she who had found him.

  Travis shook his head. For the second time he spoke the question. “Who are you?”

  The hag cackled, then reached up with bony hands to push back the grimy shawl that hid her face. Travis’s eyes went wide behind his spectacles.

  “Grisla?”

  Her wrinkled face split in a snaggled grin. “Well, it isn’t the queen of Malachor.”

  He blinked. “Grisla?” It was the only word he seemed able to speak.

  “That’s my name, boy,” she snapped. “Don’t wear it out.”

  Travis’s head reeled, and he tried to understand. “But how did you—?”

  The hag slapped a gnarled hand to her forehead. “There you go again, lad. Always asking questions, always wanting to know why this and how that.” She let out a snort. “Asking questions is the easy part, lad. When are you going to start answering them? That’s the trick.”

  Travis opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say.

  “So, where’s that bundle I dropped?” the hag said. “You haven’t lost it, have you, lad?”

  He winced. “It’s back in my room.”

  “Really, lad? Are you so sure of that?”

  “Yes.…” However, even as he said the word, he was aware of something bulky pressing against his side. He reached into his tunic pocket and drew out an object he knew had not been there a moment ago: the bundle of rags the old witch had dropped. He held it out to her.

  “No, lad, it belongs to you. Go on, open it and see.”

  Travis hesitated, then plucked at the bundle with his fingers and pulled apart the rags. His breath caught in his chest as he glimpsed the object within them: a small piece of polished bone marked with three straight lines.

  Grisla gazed at him with her one bulbous eye. “So, lad, have you decided yet what it means?”

  He drew in a breath, opened his mouth, then shook his head. What could he say? Endings or beginnings? He didn’t always know right from left. How could he choose between things so much larger?

  Grisla pressed her withered lips together in an expression of sorrow. She turned and laid her hand upon a door in the wall—a door that, like the bundle, had not been there a moment ago. She pushed, and the door opened. Frigid air swirled into the passage, along with hard grains of snow.

  “Look, lad,” Grisla said in a hoarse voice.

  He clutched the hem of his mistcloak and stepped toward the doorway. Beyond was not another castle chamber, but a snowy vale lit by the glow of the moon. Silhouettes of mountains thrust up into the sky like black knives. Among them was a great, flat, dark plane. It was like a door in the mountains.

  No, not a door. A gate. A gate of iron as high as ten men, set into a gap in the knife-edged peaks.

  How—! he started to ask, then stopped himself.

  Asking questions is the easy part.…

  Travis already knew the answer. Somehow this door opened onto Shadowsdeep. It was impossible, of course: The vale lay almost two hundred leagues north of Calavere. Yet here it was a step away. Snow drifted against the toes of his boots.

  “The Rune Gate is about to open,” Grisla whispered. “Only you can shut it, Runelord.”

  Travis shook his head. “But I can’t.” The cold that streamed through the door filled his chest and froze his heart. “All I do is break things.”

  “Is that your choice then, lad?”

  “I don’t … I don’t know.”

  She lifted a hand, pointed through the doorway. “Go then, and make your choice. Life or death.”

  He wanted to turn, wanted to run, but he knew there was nowhere else to go. All the roads he had drifted down in his life had brought him to this place. Travis wrapped his cloak around himself, then stepped through the doorway into the icy vale of Shadowsdeep.

  103.

  Beltan swam upward, toward a flickering light.

  It was hard. The darkness dragged him down, as if he had fallen in a lake with all his armor on. He was so tired—he wanted to give up, wanted to sink back to the bottom and rest. Only there was no bottom, and the darkness went on forever. He had to keep trying.

  The light was closer now, red and hot. It wavered just above him, and he could see a shadowy figure against it, peering down at him. The darkness wrapped around his ankles, pulled him back.

  Now, Beltan. Do it now!

  He kicked free of the darkness, stretched his arms, and surged upward, into the ruddy light. A ragged breath rushed into his chest, more painful than the water that filled a drowning man’s lungs. His eyes flew open and stared into fire.

  “So, my bold knight is awake.”

  The voice was a mocking croon. Beltan searched for the speaker with his eyes, but all he could see was a maelstrom of flame, hot and angry, eager to consume him.

  “I had not intended for you to wake, love. You are even stronger than I thought. Yet it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps it is good that you see what you are to become.”

  The flame receded, his cheeks cooled, and he blinked in realization. The fire was a torch, and she had held it close to his face. Now she had turned to place the torch in an iron sconce set into a nearby arch of stone. She turned back, and anger flooded through him. It was agony to speak, as if someone crushed his throat, but he managed to croak a single word before the pain was too great.

  “Kyrene.…”

  Her bloodred lips coiled in a smile. “Don’t try to talk, love. It will only make it hurt more.”

  Blast the witch! Beltan tried to leap up, to grab her neck in his hands, to twist it until it splintered.

  His limbs did not respond. A numbness sheathed his body.

  Her cruel smile deepened. “Such hate in your eyes, love. I’m certain you’d enjoy slitting my throat. Poor thing, if only you could move. But I’m afraid the wreath I wove took care of that. It will be hours before you can twitch a finger, and by then it will be far too late.” Her hard green eyes drifted over him. “Though it’s a pity the serpent’s thorn stilled all of you, love.”

  Beltan glared at her. Let me go, witch! Let me go now! Even if he could have spoken them, the words would have done no good. He forced his mind to cool. In battle a skilled warrior felt, not anger, but calm. Even if he could not move, Beltan knew this was indeed a battle, and one to the death.

  His eyes were still his, so he used these to determine his surroundings. He lay on some sort of stone slab, his head propped up on a pillow that, by its hardness, was stone as well. She had stripped him of his clothes, and he was naked. He supposed the slab was cold, but he could not feel it. The body that lay below his head might as well have belonged to another.

  He let his eyes move up to the arches of stone above. Out o
f the corner of his eye he could just make out other slabs like the one he lay on, marching into the gloom. Yes, he knew this place.

  Kyrene noticed his gaze. “Do you like my choice of location, love?” She spread her arms. “The tomb of the kings. What better place to die and be reborn?”

  He looked at her. “What …?” The one word was all he could manage.

  “What do I mean, love?” She laughed, and the hard, sick sound of it echoed off the walls and columns. “But I think you know.”

  The countess bent over him. The front of her gown was unfastened, and the fabric parted as she leaned to reveal the white expanse between her breasts—and a thick, oozing scab.

  His eyes widened. She stroked his face with a hand.

  “Yes, love, that’s what I mean.” The scent of blood emanated from her. “Soon you will be like me. Soon you will know what it is to have true strength.”

  Kyrene turned away and moved to another bier. Beltan followed her with his gaze, then motion caught the corner of his eye. He looked down at his right hand. His fingers curled and uncurled against the stone. He stared as if the hand were not his own.

  Kyrene started to turn back. Beltan willed his hand to stop moving, and it did. Was it only chance or had he controlled it? He had to believe it was he. He could move. Even if it was only a twitch it meant she was wrong. Maybe her magic had not worked as well as she had thought. After all, she hadn’t expected him to wake. Maybe if he could delay her, keep her talking, there would be enough time to …

  Kyrene moved back to him. She held two objects in her hand. One was a dagger with a hilt of onyx. The other was a rough lump of iron as big as a man’s fist. Sickness flooded him.

  The light in her emerald eyes was mad and exultant. “Yes, love, this is for you.”

  She set the lump of iron on the center of his naked chest. It was heavy and terribly cold. Realization cut through his fear. He could feel it, even though a moment ago he had been able to feel nothing against his skin.

  “The magic of it is simple.” Kyrene brushed a finger over the wound between her own breasts. “Simple yet wondrous. I have only to cut out your heart and slip this one into the space where it beat inside your chest. Death will be reversed, and you will be reborn, stronger than you ever could imagine. There is pain at first, yes. But soon enough pain will matter little to you.”

  A shiver coursed across his skin. Had she seen it? No, her gaze was fixed upon the heart of iron. His limbs felt as if they were on fire now, but it was better than the numbness, better than the fate she held for him. But he needed more time. He opened his mouth, forced himself to speak.

  “No.…”

  Kyrene’s eyes snapped back to his. “Don’t resist, love. There is no use.” Her smile again, sharp as the knife in her hand. “Besides, this way you can join your handsome friend, Travis Wilder.”

  Fear washed over Beltan, and his heart felt cold and hard as if it had already been replaced by iron.

  “What … have …?”

  “What have I done to him?” An icy laugh escaped her. “I have done nothing to him. Your precious little friend is in the hands of my master now, even as you are in mine. So don’t you see? It is better to join us. This way you can be with him again, love.”

  Now rage mingled with his fear. If she had done something to harm Travis, anything at all, he would … no, he had to keep his wits, that was the way to help Travis. He could move his feet, he was certain of it now, although he did not want to try, did not want her to see. Just a little while more and—

  “It is time,” Kyrene said. “Prepare yourself for your new life, Beltan of Calavan.” She pressed the tip of the onyx dagger against his chest, just above his breastbone.

  No, he had to say something to buy more time. Anything.

  “Kiss … me.…”

  The dagger halted. She stared at him, her smooth forehead creased in a frown.

  “Kiss me while … you kill me.…”

  Now her frown turned into an expression of lust and glee. “Perhaps this is not so far a fall for you as I had thought, Lord Beltan. Yes, we will be glorious together!”

  Kyrene tightened her grip on the dagger, then bent her head and pressed her lips to his. The taste of death flooded his mouth. She pressed harder, crushed herself against him, then she pushed down on the dagger. The tip of the blade pierced his skin, and warm blood trickled down his chest. Her tongue searched his mouth. She tensed her body, to let her weight fall upon the hilt and drive the blade into his beating heart.

  Now, it had to be now.

  Beltan forced his body to move. The effort turned his blood to venom. Hot agony coursed through his limbs, spilled into his chest, and boiled up into his skull. He screamed and let the pain flood him, let it burn away the numbness. His arms were heavy—it was like moving them through molten rock—but somehow he brought them up, gripped her face, and shoved her away.

  Kyrene’s head contacted a stone column with a crack that echoed throughout the tomb. Beltan knew that blow would have dropped the strongest of men.

  The countess staggered, caught herself, then turned toward him.

  Blood streamed down her white face, and rage twisted her once-lovely features into a rictus of evil. Beltan could see the flat place on her skull where the bones had shattered against the column. Still she came toward him, dagger held high.

  “Die for me, my lord!” Her voice was an inhuman shriek. “Die for me!”

  She flew at him to plunge the dagger into his chest. There was no time to counter her, not with the stiffness of the poison that still flowed in his limbs. He rolled off the end of the bier, and her blow missed him. She struck the sharp edge of the slab, fell forward, and her face smacked against hard stone. The dagger flew from her hand.

  Beltan clenched his teeth and struggled to his feet. Kyrene writhed on the bier, smearing blood against the marble, then jerked herself upright. Her head lolled to one side. Her visage was a crimson pulp, all traces of beauty, of humanity, gone. However, he could still see her eyes like two fractured gems in the ruin of her face, bright with desire. She raised her arms and lurched toward him. Words bubbled through torn lips and shattered teeth.

  “I’m going to live forever!”

  Beltan reached up, grabbed the torch, and shoved the flaming end against her gown.

  Kyrene’s shriek filled the tomb. As if her blood were some sort of viscous fuel, the flames leaped up and wove a cocoon of fire around her. Now there was terror in her green eyes, and they seemed almost human again. She reached for him with a burning hand.

  “Save me, Beltan!”

  He dropped the torch and stumbled back. His words were hoarse with sorrow and disgust.

  “I just did, Kyrene.”

  She shrieked again, stumbled, and fell back onto the bier. Two gray forms crept out of the shadows. Feydrim. Beltan fumbled again for the torch, but the things did not come for him. Instead they scuttled onto the bier and wrapped their spindly arms around the burning countess. The flames licked at their matted fur, then they too were on fire.

  Kyrene’s cries ended. She and the feydrim were lost in the fire. Beltan backed away from the inferno.

  His foot contacted a soft bundle. He reached down: his clothes.

  By the time he had shrugged on the clothes, the flames had dwindled. With a curl of black smoke they went out. Three dark husks lay on the bier entangled in a motionless embrace. Beltan turned and limped from the tomb. As he went he took an old sword from one of the sleeping kings.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I need this more than you do.”

  He had to find Travis.

  Kyrene had been mad and evil, but somehow Beltan knew she had spoken at least part of the truth. Whether or not the Pale King had captured him, Travis was in danger.

  The blond knight lurched into a jog. The walls seemed to throb, and passages lengthened and contracted as he careened down them. An aftereffect of the witch’s poison. His limbs were still stiff, and he stumbled ofte
n, but the fire had faded to sharp pinpricks. He gritted his teeth and ran on.

  Where would he find Travis? He wracked his brain, then he had it. In the great hall. That was where they had all been heading, to reveal the murderer at the Midwinter’s Eve feast. He turned down a corridor—

  —then halted. An eerie glow flickered down a side passage. He knew that light, had seen it as they fled into the White Tower of the Runebinders.

  “Wraithlings,” he whispered.

  Falken had said it was the Great Stone they wanted, the Stone that Travis carried.…

  Beltan lunged down the hallway, toward the metallic light. The knight forgot his pain, forgot the clumsiness of his limbs. The incandescence brightened. It came from around a corner just ahead. He gripped his sword, pushed his lean body forward, and hurled himself around the corner.

  The brilliant light was gone. Beltan stumbled to a halt. The dead-end passage was dim save for a faint blue radiance that spilled through an open doorway. It was bitterly cold, and hard bits of ice scoured his cheeks. Snow. He approached, then saw a hunched figure in the shadows beside the door. The figure stepped forward, into the blue light.

  Beltan knew her: the hag from King Kel’s keep. But how could she be here? And why?

  “It does not matter, Knight Protector,” she said in her chalky voice.

  He shuddered. How had she known what he was thinking?

  Grisla nodded to the open door. He followed her gaze, then breathed a foggy breath of wonder. Beyond the doorway was a snowy vale lit by a crescent moon. Sharp mountains thrust up against the night sky. He looked down and saw footprints in the crust of the snow, but already white powder drifted into them, obscuring them.

  “He has gone on ahead of you,” the hag said.

  Beltan looked at her. “Travis?”

  She pointed to the doorway with a gnarled hand. “Follow him, Knight Protector, if your heart is strong enough. His path is yet fraught with peril.”

  Beltan started to shake his head. It was impossible. This door couldn’t be here—he had to be mistaken. It was all a mad vision brought on by Kyrene’s poison. Then he drew in a frosty breath. It didn’t matter whether the door was impossible or not. Travis had gone through. Beltan had to follow.