by Mark Anthony
Then she knew why. Never before was the broken person in front of her also a friend.
Be a doctor, Grace. You’re his friend, but if he has any chance, you’ve got to be a doctor now. She drew in a deep breath and forced her trembling hand to reach out and touch his neck to feel for his pulse.
Nothing. Not the faintest flutter. Fear stabbed her. She shifted her fingers. Maybe it was the blood, maybe it was the position of his head, maybe—
—her fingers halted. Beneath them, slow and strong, beat the rhythm of life.
A breath of relief escaped her. Now she was indeed a doctor, and she examined him with swift skill, cataloging his injuries. They were many, but only a few of the wounds were deep, and these had not struck any vital areas. Yes, he would recover, she had only to keep the wounds clean, to be certain there was no infection or—
His brown eyes were open—barely, but he was awake and watching her. Grace halted her examination, then regarded him, her lips pressed together. She had not cried in over twenty years. Now crystal tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Don’t weep, my fairy queen,” Durge said in a hoarse voice. “Please don’t weep. Am I dead, then? Have I traveled to the Twilight Realm?”
Now Grace laughed even as her tears flowed, impossible but marvelous, like rain from a sun-drenched sky. “No, Durge. You’re very much alive.”
The knight seemed to consider her words, then he heaved a sigh. “Oh, bother.”
Grace threw her arms around him.
A heavy sound thrummed over the great hall, and a gust of cold wind whipped at Grace’s hair and set torches to guttering all around. A gasp rose from the revelers. Grace stood and breathed in the clean scent of snow.
The doors of the great hall had opened. Beyond was not a stone castle corridor, but an icy vale lit by a moon that floated above jagged mountains. Grace watched, entranced, as they drifted through the door: tall, slender, and radiant. A thrill coursed through her.
So that’s what they look like. Fairies.
In their arms they bore a figure that seemed to sleep. A man, Grace thought, but it was hard to be certain, for the soft light that emanated from them obscured her view. With a chiming sound the fairies moved through the hall, gossamer fluttering. The crowd parted to let them pass. Melia had awakened, and now she leaned against Falken. The bard and the lady gazed at the light elfs, their faces thoughtful.
With the help of Kylar and Ivalaine, Boreas had staggered to his feet, his eyes hazed with pain but open and aware. Tressa had draped Eminda’s body with a cloak. Now the red-haired witch moved to stand beside her queen. All watched as the fairies floated onto the dais. The light elfs bent their tall forms and set their burden on the stone at Grace’s feet. Then they straightened, and Grace gazed into eyes like ancient silver stars.
Yes, she understood.
She knelt beside the fallen figure. It was Beltan. He had been gravely injured, that was clear to her at once. The gash in his side was deep. Even on Earth his prognosis would have been uncertain. Here, in this world, he should be dead. However, the bleeding had stopped, and his breathing was deep and even. Grace laid her hands on his body and felt it with perfect certainty: It would take time, but the knight would heal.
“The Rune Gate is shut once more,” a voice said. It was not loud, yet it carried over the great hall all the same. “The Pale King is imprisoned again.”
Grace rose. Across the hall another figure stood in the impossible doorway, clad in a baggy tunic, his hair and beard shaggy, his gray eyes solemn behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He stepped into the hall, then raised high an object in his hand: a gray-green stone. Sinfathisar. He whispered something—the words might almost have been be whole—then the Stone in his grip shone, and a radiance welled forth. All raised their hands to shield their eyes. Then the light dimmed, and the revelers lowered their hands to stare in renewed wonder.
The cowering feydrim were gone. In their place were queer people with cloven hooves and antlered brows, swan-necked women with dragonfly wings, and small green men with beards of leaves. Little People. More odd forms stepped from the shadows, led by a tiny figure in yellow and green.
The Little People moved forward and gathered the twisted bodies of the dead feydrim into their arms. Sorrow mingled with joy on their strange faces. The fairies drifted down to join them.
Grace held her breath as a pair of nut-brown eyes met her own. Trifkin Mossberry nodded to her, his ancient eyes knowing. Then, with a shimmering sound like bells, the Little People and the fairies were gone. The doors of the great hall shut. Grace knew that when they opened again it would be onto a castle corridor, not a vale of snow.
Across the hall, the shaggy man in the too-large tunic lowered the Stone and stumbled forward.
Now a joyous word burst out of Grace. “Travis!”
He looked up, saw her, and grinned. His lips formed a word. Grace. She leaped down from the dais, then she was running. He was running, too, and the crowd moved aside for them. They met in the center of Calavere’s great hall and caught each other in a fierce embrace.
The long winter night was over.
107.
The Council of Kings met the next morning, on Midwinter’s Day, to decide the fate of the Dominions.
In the council chamber, Grace took her seat on the bench beside Aryn. She squeezed the baroness’s hand, and the young woman squeezed back and smiled. However, the expression was as fragile as it was lovely, like a fine web of frost on a fallen leaf. The baroness was not clad in her usual sky-blue, but instead in a gown the color of a winter dusk.
Grace studied her friend. Something was wrong—something had happened to Aryn last night which the young woman had not talked about—the doctor in her knew it instinctively. Except this was no wound of the body. What could it be? Grace’s powers of diagnosis failed her. Yet whatever it was it could wait, at least a little while. Today Aryn smiled, and the day had dawned cold but bright over Calavere.
It’s over, Grace. We won. Let’s enjoy it, at least for today.
Nobles blinked and yawned as they entered the council chamber, as if they had just awakened from a dream. In some ways it seemed like such. That morning the great hall had been a shamble of fallen tables and broken crockery, a testament to last night’s battle. However, no doors had opened on places that weren’t in the castle, and there had been no traces of the fallen feydrim or the Little People. Even Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe were nowhere to be found. Earlier Grace had gone to their chamber with Travis, in order to thank them, but they had found only an empty room with rotten tapestries on the walls. The weavings were dim with dust and smoke, but Grace had been able to make out slender trunks and arching branches. She and Travis had exchanged looks, and they both had known where Trifkin had gone.
Still, the events in the great hall the night before had been no dream. Men-at-arms had carried Logren’s corpse from the hall, and they had burned it outside the castle walls. The high counselor of Eredane was no more than ashes now, but his iron heart still lay suspended in the center of the relic of Malachor—the relic whose ancient purpose they now understood.
Nor was Logren the only casualty. Grace’s eyes moved over the council chamber, but she did not see two sharp glints of emerald watching her and never would again.
The rulers had already taken their places at the council table. There were two empty seats now, one for Chair Malachor, the other for Chair Eredane. Grace gazed at the empty seat. Who would rule the Dominion of Eredane now that Eminda was gone? Grace thought back to her fireside lessons in politics with Aryn. She almost smiled—those days seemed so long ago now, and she had learned so much since then.
From what Grace remembered, Eminda had two children—a daughter and a son—but both were under seven winters old, and Eminda’s husband, who had been ostensibly ruling since her departure for the council, was said to be a drooling idiot. Grace knew neither of those children would ever touch the throne of their mother’s Dominion. These were
troubled lands, and if the history of Earth had taught her anything, it was that in such places strong hands always seized control. No doubt some baron in Eredane already schemed to take the crown. Would this king be more enlightened than Eminda—or darker yet?
Grace tried not to think about the answer to that question. She watched sunlight fall through high windows and listened to the music of doves.
The council chamber fell silent. In a stiff motion King Boreas gained his feet. He was solid and imposing as ever in his black garb, but there were circles beneath his eyes, and the edge of a vivid bruise crept from beneath his beard and along his cheek.
Boreas had always terrified Grace. The king of Calavan had always seemed so invincible to her, so whole. Now she knew that wasn’t so. Boreas could be hurt just like anyone. That should have damaged her respect for him, but it didn’t. Instead it made her like Boreas a little bit more.
“Once again Falken Blackhand has asked to address the Council of Kings,” Boreas said without preamble in his booming voice. “His request has been granted.”
A murmur ran around the chamber, but it was not derision this time as much as anticipation. Falken stood near the council table. Boreas nodded to him, and the bard approached. He was clad in the same travel-stained garb he had worn that day Grace had first met him: a faded gray tunic and a cloak the color of deep water, clasped by a silver brooch.
Usually Grace saw Falken in Melia’s company, but that morning the lady was not present. Instead she was tending to her Knight Protector, Beltan. Last night, with the help of several men-at-arms, they had carried Beltan to Melia’s chamber. Melia’s face had been drawn, her eyes haunted, and though Grace had thought it impossible, she had realized then that the regal lady was afraid. This had startled Grace. Melia had always seemed so cool, so distant.
Maybe your instincts aren’t always as correct as you think they are, Grace. Maybe you misjudged her.
Grace had examined Beltan. He was alive and awake, but he was still seriously injured. The wound in his side particularly troubled her, for it had pierced the abdominal wall. A case of peritonitis was serious enough on Earth. On Eldh it would be fatal. Yet every time Grace laid her hands on the knight, she knew with utter certainty this would not happen, that he would live and—in time—heal.
This instinct she had decided to believe. Kyrene had been flawed, but the power she had revealed to Grace—the Weirding—was not. It was life. She would trust it.
Grace had given Melia some simples, and instructions on how to use them, then had departed. Her last glimpse was of the lady seated beside the sleeping knight’s bed, framed by the light of a single candle, her hair spilling forward as she bowed her head. Melia’s small hand lay on Beltan’s larger one, and a soft sound rose and fell on the air. It was a prayer, Grace had realized. Then she had shut the door.
“Once before, this council listened to my words, and it was not moved by them,” Falken said in a sober voice. “I ask that it listen again. Last night was the longest night of the year, and we have survived to see the dawn. Now the sun returns. From this day on, the days grow longer, and that is cause for celebration. But the winter is not over yet.”
Falken’s voice rose to fill the chamber. The onlookers leaned forward on their benches. The rulers watched him with intent eyes as he prowled around the table.
“The Rune Gate has been sealed. The Pale King will not ride forth. That is cause for wonder. But do not dare forget what happened last night. The Pale King is defeated, but he is not dead. He still holds Gelthisar, the Stone of Ice. His servants still move at will in the Dominions. And where once three seals bound the door of Imbrifale, now there is but one.” The wolfish bard clenched his black-gloved hand into a fist. “No, this winter is far from over.”
The bard regarded the council, then bowed. “That is all I have to say.” He moved back to his seat.
Boreas met the eyes of each of the other rulers in turn. “You all know the matter before you. This council will now make its final decision.”
He emptied a leather pouch into his hand: stones white and black. He passed two stones to each of the rulers. They made their selection beneath the table, then held closed hands out. Grace tightened her grip on Aryn.
“War,” Boreas said as he unclenched his hand. The stone on his palm was white.
Kylar nodded. “War,” the young king said in a steady voice, and he revealed his own white stone.
Persard, Sorrin, and Lysandir opened their hands: white stones on all. Grace’s heart soared. They had finally listened, they had finally believed. The reckoning had been won. Then she held her breath, for there was still one stone to be cast.
All eyes turned on Ivalaine. The queen of Toloria gazed forward, her beautiful face impassive, then she opened her hand. On it rested a white stone.
“War.”
A gasp of relief rose from the onlookers. Victory sparked in Boreas’s eyes. He rose to his feet again.
“This council is decided,” he said in a voice that thrummed in the tower’s stones. “The Dominions shall prepare to make war upon the Pale King and his forces. When next we meet, it will be to determine the arrangements of our armies. Until then, this council is recessed.”
Rulers and onlookers alike rose to their feet, but Grace remained sitting. She could not take her eyes off the shattered disk in the center of the table. The rune of peace: broken. She would have spoken a prayer, like Melia had, if only she had known one.
The nobles filtered past Grace and Aryn as they walked from the council chamber. Falken grinned at her, and she could not help returning the expression. Not far behind the bard came Ivalaine and Tressa.
Ivalaine gave a cool nod to Grace and Aryn, then turned her face forward as she walked from the hall. The queen of Toloria’s ice-colored eyes shone. She had chosen war, but the Witches still schemed something. Only what was it? A thrill tingled inside Grace. Maybe she would find out. And then? But she could decide that when—and if—the time came.
Tressa smiled at Grace and Aryn as she passed. “We shall see you soon, sisters.”
Then the red-haired witch and her queen were gone. Grace felt Aryn’s fingers tighten around her own. Then she forgot the Witches as another figure approached her.
“Durge!”
She started to rise from her seat, but he shook his head.
“No, my lady,” he said in his somber voice. “A mistress must not rise for her servant.”
“You aren’t my servant, Durge.”
“But I am, my lady. And grateful to be so.”
Was he truly grateful? Grace examined the knight and saw what service to her had given him. His weathered face was marked by a dozen scratches just starting to scab over. His hands were worse. And the slight dragging of his foot he was trying to hide bespoke more injuries. Yet somehow he had stood alone against five feydrim, and he had slain them all.
How? she had asked him last night. How did you manage it, Durge? I would have given up, even with your greatsword.
No, my lady, he had said, I don’t believe you would have. I think neither of us is one to take the easier road. Dying is simple. It is living that challenges us.
She had only gazed at him, amazed. Leon Arlington would have understood.
Now Durge made a stiff bow despite his wounds. “Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?”
She reached out and touched his cheek. “You can rest, Durge. Your wounds aren’t deep, but you lost a lot of blood.” She raised a finger to stifle his protest, then assumed an imperious tone. “No, Sir Durge, I won’t tolerate argument on this matter. You are my servant, after all.”
He stared at her, then—and afterward Grace was never quite certain—she thought she saw the corners of his lips flicker upward.
Durge nodded again, then departed—although before he did his gaze lingered a moment, and not upon Grace. However, the young woman in blue only stared forward with stricken eyes. Then the Embarran knight was gone.
The
line of nobles had turned to a few stragglers. The chamber was almost empty. A figure in black strode toward Grace and Aryn. They rose before him, although Grace remembered not to curtsy.
“Lady Grace, I thank you for your assistance these last months,” Boreas said in a gruff voice. “However, I have another request to ask of you, and I trust you will not refuse me.”
Grace exchanged looks with Aryn. “Your Majesty, I—”
He lifted a hand and once again waved her words aside.
“Don’t interrupt me, my lady. There is yet room in the castle’s dungeon.”
Grace started to laugh, then stopped, not entirely certain this was one of his jests.
“The bard was right,” Boreas said. “Winter is far from over, and it will be long before the roads are easily passable. Thus I request that you remain in my court, at least for the winter, and afterward for as long as you like.”
Grace opened her mouth but could speak no words. Boreas advanced on her.
“What say you, my lady? Will you stay with this king?”
Grace gazed at him. Then, before she knew what she was doing, she threw her arms around him and buried her face against his thick neck. It was not at all how one responded to a king. No doubt he would call for his men-at-arms. He did not. Instead he enfolded her in strong, gentle arms. Then he pushed her away.
“Good morrow, my lady.”
Then the king departed.
A hand on her shoulder. Grace turned and looked into azure eyes. The baroness seemed older now, and Grace’s breath caught in her lungs. Aryn wasn’t pretty anymore. She was beautiful.
“Are you coming, Grace?”
She shook her head. “You go on, Aryn. I’ll be along soon. I just … I just want to stay here for a moment.”
The baroness smiled—once again the expression was both sweet and sad—then she turned and left the council chamber. Grace drew in a breath. She needed to think for a moment, to take in all that had happened. She turned around, looked out over the empty space, and let the silence fill her—she was alone.