The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  Not that Travis could imagine there was anyone who might detect them. As far as he could see, there was only desert. No trace of any living thing—plant, animal, or person—broke the monotony of sand and sky.

  They spent the day dozing as best they could beneath the cover of the shelter, though even in the shade the heat was oppressive, and any sleep led to fitful dreams from which they woke sweating, with heads throbbing. Travis considered speaking to Master Larad as a way to pass the time, but his mouth was too dry for conversation, and he had already drunk his ration of water for the morning. Besides, the Runelord was curled up on a small carpet and lay so still that Travis began to worry about him.

  He’s fine, Grace spoke in Travis’s mind, touching his arm. At least mostly. He’s still feeling seasick from last night’s camel ride. Or sandsick, I suppose. I gave him a simple that’s helping him keep down some food and water. He just needs to rest.

  Travis nodded, glad Grace was keeping an eye on Larad, then tried to rest himself. He could speak to the Runelord later.

  Throughout the day, the T’gol moved in and out of the shelter, appearing and vanishing like the shadows in Travis’s half dreams. He saw more of them than he had at night; even the assassins needed rest. In addition to Avhir, there was Rafid—a compact man with a harsh, brooding face—and Kylees, a dark-skinned woman who would have been lovely if she smiled. She didn’t.

  Travis did not speak to the T’gol, though he often felt their eyes—bronze, copper, and gold—upon him. Also, Rafid seemed often to glower at Farr, though the dervish appeared not to notice.

  At last the sun sank toward the western dunes. The T’gol dismantled the shelter and lashed the packs to the camels.

  “You’ve got a cut on your hand,” Grace said to one of the assassins. It was the woman Kylees.

  “It is nothing,” the T’gol said, starting to pull away, but Grace caught her hand with surprising speed and turned it over.

  “The wound is small,” Grace said in her brisk doctor’s voice. “However, there’s some swelling. It could be infected.”

  “I said it is nothing. There was a sand scorpion in my hut in the village yesterday. I was foolish enough to be slow in smashing it with my hand, giving it time to sting me. However, their poison is weak, and I bled it out with my knife.”

  “Good. Then it should heal well. But let me give you an ointment—”

  “I do not need your petty northern magics,” Kylees said, pulling her hand back and stalking from the camp.

  “Proud much?” Travis said, watching the assassin walk away.

  Grace sighed. “I think I embarrassed her. She shouldn’t have let that scorpion sting her. T’gol don’t like to make mistakes.”

  “Only sometimes they do,” Travis said, his gaze moving to Vani.

  Grace took his arm. “Come on. I think your rear end has a date with a camel.”

  They set out again as dusk stole over the desert. As before, the night zephyrs soon died down, and the silence of the desert was broken only by the groan of sand settling: an eerie sound that made Travis think of distant voices moaning in pain.

  Master Larad appeared to have grown somewhat accustomed to the gait of his camel. He looked only moderately nauseous, and Travis decided to see if talking might take his mind off his discomfort. With some effort, he managed to get his camel close to the Runelord’s.

  “So what was so important that you traveled hundreds of leagues, crossed the ocean, and rode a camel just to tell me?”

  Larad grimaced. “If I had known what the journey would be like, perhaps I would have rethought undertaking it.” His grimace became a bitter smile. “But is that not always the way, Master Wilder? The foolish blithely go where the wise dare not venture. So here I am.”

  “And?”

  “And magic is failing, Master Wilder,” Larad said, his eyes glinting in the light of the full moon. “Both runic magic and the magic of the Weirding, which is spun by witches.”

  Travis let out a breath. “Grace told me. But I think I knew it before I even came to Eldh. Magic is always weak on Earth, but the last few runes I spoke there seemed to keep going awry, even though they should have been simple.”

  “The runestones are crumbling,” Larad went on. “As are all bound runes. Do you understand what that means?”

  Of course he did. How could he not? He was the one who had broken it, then bound it again.

  “Eldh,” Travis said softly. “It’s a bound rune.”

  “Yes, it is. And if the power of runes continues to weaken, soon there will be nothing to hold that rune together.”

  Travis clutched the reins in numb hands. “Did you tell Grace this?”

  “Her Majesty’s thoughts have been focused on the rift in the sky, and on finding you. I saw no need to add to the knowledge that already weighs upon her.”

  “She believes I can stop the rift,” Travis said, sighing.

  The scars that crisscrossed Larad’s face were silver in the moonlight. “So the dragon said, and dragons can only speak truth. You have the ability to discover the Last Rune, Master Wilder, and to wield it. But there is one thing Queen Grace does not realize.”

  To Travis it was as clear as the moon. “The end of magic. If runes no longer work properly, how can I speak the Last Rune? Or bind it?” He was sweating despite the chill air. “But maybe there’s still time. Magic hasn’t stopped working, not completely.”

  “Yet it grows weaker each day, and you tell me that for you even simple spells go awry. What of greater magics? Have you tried any powerful runespells of late? Perhaps they cannot be worked anymore. Perhaps time has already run out. I journeyed here to tell you that. And to bring you these.”

  He reached inside his robe and drew out an object: a small iron box, carved with runes.

  Travis gave him a startled look. “You brought the Imsari with you?”

  “Magic is weakening, but the Great Stones can amplify the power of a runespell many times over. I thought you might need them in order to speak the Last Rune.”

  Larad held out the box. Travis started to reach for it; his hand ached to hold the Imsari, to feel them pulse against his palm.

  By force of will, he pulled his hand back. There was already too much temptation to use power in this place. “You keep them for now,” he said, the words hoarse.

  Larad gave him a quizzical look, then shrugged and tucked the box back inside his robe.

  They rode in silence after that. As the camel paced, Travis rubbed his right hand, feeling the tingle of the rune of runes on his palm. It was quiescent now, but if he spoke a rune it would flare to life.

  Or would it? Magic was growing weaker, and Travis hadn’t tried speaking a rune of significant power in over three years. What if he tried and couldn’t?

  Why not find out, Travis? Jack’s voice spoke in his mind. How about Lir? The rune of light can be used to work wondrous magics. It’s always been one of my favorites. We shall all speak it with you in chorus, and create a midnight sun blazing in the sky!

  A thousand voices murmured in Travis’s mind; he moistened his lips, preparing to speak the rune.

  “By Olrig!” Larad swore, gazing upward, his camel coming to a halt.

  The camel Farr rode halted as well. “So it is true, then.”

  Travis pulled on the reins, managing to bring his camel to a stop beside Grace’s. He followed her gaze toward the sky. The moon had set, and the stars were brilliant against the heavens—

  —except for a jagged gash in the south where there were no stars. Only darkness, grinning like a black mouth.

  “It’s another rift,” Grace said, her voice quavering.

  So the rift wasn’t a single tear in the fabric of the heavens. Instead, that fabric was full of holes. How long did they have before it unraveled completely?

  Before Travis could speak his thoughts, the night coalesced into a lithe shape: Vani.

  “We must seek shelter,” she said. “A blood tempest comes.”


  28.

  A keening rose on the air as they guided their camels after the shadowy shapes of the T’gol. Dust whirled on the air, and Travis fastened a cloth tight over his nose and mouth. Farr did the same.

  One of the T’gol glided down the slope of a dune. It was hard to see in the murk, but Travis recognized the short, compact shape of Rafid.

  “The blood tempest comes quickly!” Rafid shouted above the growl of the wind. “We will not be able to outrun it. It is almost as if it is drawn to us.” He cast a dark glance at Farr.

  Farr ignored the look. “We have to find shelter now.”

  Only there was none. The surrounding dunes were low with wide, wind-scoured flats between them. Already the air was thick with blowing sand. The stars winked out in the sky.

  Kylees stepped out of a swirl of sand. “Quickly, this way— there is a high dune ahead. It may offer some shelter. We must take the A’narai. Leave behind the weak if we must.”

  Vani moved past her. “We leave no one.”

  Kylees glared at Vani, then turned away.

  The wind had risen to a howl, and sand buffeted them from all sides. The T’gol used cloths to cover the faces of the camels, then each assassin took the reins of one of the beasts, leading them on. Travis huddled close to his camel’s neck, holding on with all his strength. He could not see three feet ahead of him; if the wind knocked him down, he would be lost.

  They had not gone far when the voices began.

  Lie down, hissed the wind. Let the sand cover you. . . .

  Before he realized what was happening, Travis was slipping out of the saddle; his fingers had let go of the camel’s neck. He groped but could not regain his grip.

  Strong hands caught him, pushing him back.

  “Do not listen to the voices!”

  His eyes stung and watered; he could not make her out, but he knew her touch. Vani. He thought he saw a shadow circle around to the front of the camel, then the beast began moving again.

  Travis wrapped his arms around the camel’s neck and shut his eyes. The voices continued to hiss in his ears; he clenched his teeth, trying to shut them out. However, that only seemed to make the storm angrier. The wind clawed at him from all sides, shrieking in his ears.

  Let go! Lie down! Your blood will join ours!

  He was so weary; his arms ached to let go. The wind scoured at his being, wearing it away like a stone. It was no use. He could not resist. . . .

  Just as Travis let go of the camel’s neck, the force of the wind lessened, and the shrill voices receded, growing fainter. He tumbled to the ground, then sat up and coughed sand out of his lungs. In the faint light he saw Vani crouching before him.

  “Are you—?”

  He gripped her hand. “The voices are more distant now.” She nodded, then vanished. A moment later Grace appeared out of a swirl of sand, collapsing next to Travis, followed by Master Larad. Farr stumbled into view and crouched beside them. His face was a mask of dust, and his eyes were hazed with pain. So even Farr had not been able to resist the power of the voices with ease. For some reason Travis felt a grim note of satisfaction.

  They were out of the worst of the wind now. In the gloom Travis made out steep slopes rising around them on three sides.

  “Where are we?” he called over the wind.

  “I don’t know,” Farr shouted. “I have never seen a dune shaped like this. But the high slopes are protecting us.”

  “We are still in danger,” Vani said, reappearing from a cloud of sand, along with the other T’gol. “We are in the center of the blood tempest now. If the winds shift and blow from the north, we will die. And even if the winds do not shift, we may not yet survive. Cover yourselves!”

  They huddled beneath blankets at the base of one of the slopes as the storm raged around them. Time no longer had meaning. There was only the keening of the wind, and the hiss of sand, and the murmur of voices. Travis curled up next to Grace beneath the blanket as a weight slowly pressed down on him. . . .

  The quiet was so sudden and complete it was deafening, making Travis’s ears ring. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move. It was as if strong arms held him, pinning his body in place. His lungs could barely expand to draw in a scant breath. Next to him, Grace made a small sound of pain. He tried to reach for her but could not.

  “They’re here!” called out a voice, though it was muffled, distant.

  There was a scrabbling sound, then all at once the crushing weight vanished. With a rasp of sand the blanket that had covered him and Grace was torn aside.

  Air rushed into Travis’s lungs. He blinked against the white light, then made out two dark silhouettes above him: Larad and Farr. Larad took Travis’s hand, pulling him out of the drift of sand, while Farr helped Grace to stand. She was coughing violently, but she waved her hand, indicating she was all right.

  “We could see no trace of you,” Larad said. “It was as if the sand had swallowed you. But Kylees told us to dig here, that we would find you. I don’t know how she knew.”

  Travis looked back. Part of the dune had collapsed, covering the place where he and Grace had huddled beneath the blanket with a mound of sand. Above, a row of tall, slender shapes jutted out of the top of the dune, exposed by the winds of the storm. At first Travis wondered if they were trees. Then he realized what they were: stone columns, their tops broken off so that they looked like a row of teeth.

  “What is this place?” he croaked.

  Farr gazed around them, his dark eyes narrowing. “Somewhere we should not be.”

  It was not a natural dune that had sheltered them from the storm. Sand had covered it, but the tempest had scoured much of that sand away, revealing the columns and walls of pitted, buff-colored stone. In one place the remains of a broad stairway plunged down into the sand.

  Grace turned around. “It looks like a temple.”

  “Or perhaps a palace,” Farr said, shaking sand from his black robe. “This might be the ruins of Golbrora, or perhaps one of the royal villas near Xalas. It is difficult to say. Those cities have been lost for eons, and their precise locations can only be guessed at.”

  Travis moved toward a rectangular block of stone that was half-exposed by the sand. The stone was large, its narrowest edge as wide as the span of his arms, and there were carvings on it, though they were too worn to be made out. Perhaps if he brushed away some of the remaining dust . . .

  Fingers closed around his wrist, halting him.

  “Do not touch anything,” Farr said, his eyes locked on Travis. “We are deep in the Morgolthi now. There’s no telling what ancient magics yet remain.”

  Travis pulled his hand back. “Isn’t that why you’re a dervish now? To look for things like this? For ancient magics?”

  Farr turned his back. “It’s time to make camp. Let’s find the T’gol.”

  The T’gol found them first. The assassins had explored the ruins, but they had not discovered anything that warned of immediate danger, and so had decided it was safe to stay in the ruins for the day. Not that they had much choice. Although it was still morning, the day was already blistering, and there was no sign of any other shelter.

  Rafid drew close to Farr. “Do not go exploring among the ruins, dervish. I will be watching you.”

  The former Seeker’s expression was unreadable. “And who will be watching you?”

  The T’gol spat on the sand, then turned and stalked away, vanishing like a mirage.

  “He fears magic,” Farr said. “It will be his death.”

  Vani gave him a sharp look. “Let’s set up a shelter.”

  They used blankets to create a makeshift canopy in the corner of a half-crumbled wall and huddled in the scant shade. As the hours passed, they sipped a little water from their skins and ate some dried fruit, though Travis could hardly gag it down. He did not feel hungry.

  He must have fallen into a fitful daze, for he woke with a start and sat up. His mouth was parched, and dried sweat crusted his skin. The
sun was sinking toward the horizon, and the shadows of the stone columns stretched across the sand. In another hour, it would be time to start traveling again.

  Grace was curled up on a rug next to him, asleep. Larad lay nearby, and beyond him was Farr. Their eyes were closed, their breathing shallow but steady. Travis gazed around. The camels huddled in the scant shade of the wall, heads drooping. There was no sign of the T’gol. No doubt they were keeping watch.

  Travis picked up the waterskin, took a sip, then sealed it, careful not to spill a drop. He started to lie back down, then halted.

  His eyes focused on the block of stone he had drawn close to earlier. It was canted at an angle in the sand, so that one end was completely buried. How big was it? There was no way to know how far it went into the sand. The block was a different color than the rest of the ruins, a nearly pure white. The low angle of the evening light cast shadows in the carvings on the stone so that he could almost make them out, only he was too far away. . . .

  Before he thought about what he was doing, Travis was walking toward the stone.

  I’m just going to look at the carvings, he told himself. I’m not going to touch it, so I’m not doing anything wrong.

  All the same, he moved quietly, and he cast several glances back over his shoulder to be sure the others were still asleep.

  He halted beside the stone. Its top was smooth, though here and there dark flecks, like the remains of black paint, were embedded in its porous surface. The carvings on the sides were easier to discern in the angled light of the sun, though they meant nothing to Travis. They were long and sinuous, forming interlocking patterns. It occurred to him that if Grace was right, if this really had been a temple once, then the stone must be some kind of altar.

  Travis licked his cracked and blistered lips, and the metallic taste of blood spread over his tongue. He was sweating, and a rushing noise sounded in his ears, along with a low susurration like a whispering voice, though it did not speak in words. At least not human words. All the same, Travis understood. The voice wanted him to touch the stone. His fingers stretched toward the stone’s surface. . . .