The keep of fire, p.37
The Keep of Fire, page 37
The fire leaped up, and he threw his head back to scream.
55.
Grace stumbled after the young man in the brown robe, following him down a twisting staircase, nearly biting her tongue with each jarring step. She was tall, but the gray robe was still too large, and it caught around her ankles, threatening to trip her and send her tumbling down the steps.
There were so many questions she wanted to ask the other. What was his name? Why had he come to the cell? And what did he want? But even a single word had been nearly beyond him. Nor was there time to stop and chat. The young man was helping her try to save Travis—that was all she really needed to know.
The staircase ended, and they stood before a triangular opening as tall as three men. Hot crimson light poured through, infusing the air like plasma. Grace stepped forward, then realized she was by herself. She looked back over her shoulder. The young man stood on the other side of the line between light and shadow.
“Aren’t you coming?”
He pointed to the ceiling, then brought his wrists together and snapped them apart. I must help the others free the knights, my lady.
Grace froze. Alone. How could she do this alone? Those men out there meant to murder Travis.
Get a grip on yourself, Doctor. Just change the gray robes to white coats and you’ve got a bunch of attending physicians who made a bad diagnosis. All you have to do is tell them the procedure they’re about to attempt is wrong. It’s not as if it’s something you haven’t done a hundred times.
Grace sucked in a breath like a woman just taken off a respirator: alive, for the moment. She nodded to the young man, and he smiled. He moved his hands from his collar to the top of his head. Pull your hood up, my lady.
Grace did this, then looked up to see he was already gone. She turned and stepped into the light.
It took several blinks for her eyes to adjust to the full glare of sunset. The sharp summits of the Fal Erenn stabbed at the sky like black knives, and red light rained down. When she regained full vision, she saw that the last few runespeakers were falling into place in a semicircle thirty yards away. Grace picked up the hem of the robe and hastened after them. She fell in behind the last man just as he was stepping into place. There seemed no more room for her in the formation, so she stood a pace to one side and a pace back. Her heart thudded against her ribs, and she knew at any moment one of the runespeakers would turn toward her, point a finger, and shout the word impostor.
Instead, all faced forward as a weary voice spoke.
“It is sunset. Let us be done with this.”
Grace pushed her hood back an inch—just enough to get a clear view. Two runespeakers stood near the stone. One was Oragien. The other was the man she had seen at the gate last night, the one whose face had been rendered a broken mosaic by countless white scars.
Oragien’s voice drifted thinly over the plateau. “Do you understand the crime for which you are to be punished, Master Wilder?”
It was the scarred one who answered, his words like the lashes of a whip. “He has defiled the runestone. The runestone, which is the heart of our tower and the source of all we are. His punishment has been decided.”
Grace licked her lips. She had to do something. But what? Inside the sleeve of her robe she clutched the stone hand of Olrig. It had to be important—why else would the young man have given it to her? However, Grace had no idea what she was supposed to do with it, and time was running out. On the farside of the standing stone, two men stood ready with torches.
You’ve got to say something, Grace. Anything. It doesn’t matter—just so it makes them stop what they’re doing.
Grace opened her mouth, but Oragien beat her.
“Have you any words to speak before the end?”
Again the scarred man answered for Travis. “He’s spoken enough lies already.”
This time a glare from Oragien silenced the scarred one.
“I’ve only told you the truth, Oragien,” a quiet voice said.
Travis gazed at the All-master. His face was ashen, his sandy hair dark and damp with sweat, but his gray eyes were calm behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. The hot wind snatched a whisper from Grace’s lips.
“Oh, Travis …”
Oragien hung his head, and the scarred man made a sharp gesture. The men with torches approached the standing stone. As they did, the scarred one moved back, his gray robe melding with those of the other runespeakers, and Grace lost sight of him. She looked back at Travis. Torches contacted dry wood. In seconds thick smoke rose upward.
Now, Grace. Just scream. Scream for them to stop.
But this wasn’t a trauma room in the ED. Nor was this Castle Calavere. She was neither doctor nor duchess. Her commands would not be obeyed here.
Travis had turned his head away from the smoke, and now he seemed frozen. What was he doing? Then she saw his lips form a word, and she knew what it was.
Grace!
Shock coursed through her. So he had seen her—not her true self, but her vision-self.
Which means you weren’t supposed to be there, Grace.
This thought filled her with sudden hope. She had not failed her destiny after all. Instead, she could still shape it. But she had only seconds now. Travis’s body went rigid with pain. He threw his head back, and just as had happened in the vision, a scream ripped itself from him.
“Olrig’s hand will save me!”
Grace started to step forward, to throw herself on the heap and beat the flames back with her body if she had to. Hard fingers gripped her arm, halting her.
“The hand!” a dagger-sharp voice hissed in her ear.
She turned and stared into a pair of dark eyes set deep in a shattered face.
“What are you waiting for?” the scarred man spat. “The hand of Olrig—throw it to him! The rune of runes bound into it will counter the power of the null stone.”
For a frozen moment Grace stared in mute confusion. Then, like a needle, understanding pierced the dull membrane that shrouded her mind. Olrig’s hand will save me. It was not a plea to a god for help. It was a set of instructions. She stepped forward, drew the stone hand from her sleeve, and threw it toward the flames at Travis’s feet.
Grace had never been the athletic type; this time her aim was perfect. The runespeakers stared as sparks flew up where the hand landed on the burning wood. Travis looked down, a fierce grin added to the pain upon his face, then he spoke a word just as the sun dipped beneath the western mountains.
“Reth.”
The fire was snuffed out, and a crash like thunder rolled across the plateau. Then the arc of the rising full moon cleared an escarpment, and by its cool light Grace saw a scene that made her gasp as one with the runespeakers.
Travis stepped away from the pile of half-burnt sticks, trailing the ropes that had bound him, his face smudged with soot. Behind him, the standing stone lurched at an odd angle. A deep crack ran through its center; the stone was broken.
“Yes!” a voice whispered behind Grace. “By Olrig, yes!”
Grace cast a stunned glance back at the scarred man. The shattered fragments of his face had rearranged themselves into an expression of triumph. Grace didn’t try to understand. Instead she ran toward Travis. He stared at her, his gray eyes confused. Then she laughed and threw back her hood. Now his eyes went wide behind his spectacles, and he staggered toward her.
“Grace?”
“I’m here, Travis. I’m really here.”
Tears made tracks down his fire-darkened cheeks. “Grace,” he said, and threw his arms around her. “You came.”
She stiffened, knowing she should push him away, should examine his legs to determine how severely they were burned so she could prescribe the proper treatment. But she let herself melt against him instead. This was a kind of healing as well.
A murmur rose from the gathering of runespeakers, and both Grace and Travis looked up.
Oragien stared at the broken stone. “This is impossible.…”
“No, All-master, it is not.”
Another runespeaker approached, thin scars gleaming in the light of the moon.
“Master Larad,” Travis said.
Larad cast a feral grin at him, then looked back at Oragien. “Too often we have called something impossible when what we really meant was we were afraid to try.”
Another runespeaker approached: a plump little man with small, blurry eyes. He clasped and unclasped his hands. “But what does this mean for Master Wilder’s punishment?”
Master Larad let out a chuckle. “Do not fear, Master Eriaun.” Now he raised his voice so all could hear. “The null stone has cracked. The old laws speak clearly on this: The judgment is void, and Master Wilder is free. Go back to the tower and think on what has happened until we meet again for chorus!”
The runespeakers muttered among themselves, then several of them turned and walked slowly back to the tower. More followed, and more, disappearing through the tower gate, until the plateau was nearly empty.
“You understood my message, Grace.” Travis lifted an object he had been holding: the stone hand. “You realized this would help me break the null stone.”
“Actually, I didn’t.” She glanced at Master Larad.
Travis frowned. “But I don’t understand.”
Oragien leaned on his staff. “Nor do I.”
“I knew the statue of Olrig was as ancient as the null stone,” Larad said, “that both were forged by the Runelords of Malachor. And I suspected that the rune of runes bound into the hand would counter the rune of silence bound into the null stone. For the Allrune is supreme above all other runes. That is why I had Sky give the hand to your friend.”
“But why?” Travis said. Gently, he disentangled himself from Grace. “I thought you wanted me dead. Why did you help me?”
“For the same reason I did my best to convince you to break the runestone—to wake my brethren, to show them that nothing is impossible if we haven’t tried it, to make them give up the shadows of the past so that we can learn anew for ourselves. That is how the Runespeakers will regain their place in Falengarth—not by one runelord’s hand, but by the hands of all of us.”
Oragien’s face was grim as wind-worn stone. “You might have spoken to me, Master Larad.”
The harshness crept back into Larad’s voice. “Yes? And what would you have said, All-master?”
Oragien clenched the staff. “You mentioned the old laws, Master Larad. They speak clearly on this matter as well. I do not know if what you have wrought is for good or for ill. I will hazard that likely it will be for both. But either way you will be punished for these acts.”
Now the sharpness fled Larad’s face. “I know,” he said.
Grace stepped toward Larad, but before she could ask him more—why he had given her the stone hand, and why Larad had not used it himself—several figures appeared in the tower’s gate, then ran across the plateau.
“Travis!” a bright voice called.
Travis looked up, then laughed. “Beltan!”
The blond knight was the first to reach them, followed closely by Durge, Aryn, and Lirith leading Tira. Behind them came a crooked figure in a brown robe.
“I knew you’d return to us,” Beltan said. He threw his arms around Travis. “I knew it.”
The two men embraced as the others laid their hands on Travis’s shoulders. Finally, Travis stepped back and cast a smile toward the mute young man.
“Sky—I should have known you had a part in all this.”
The young man bowed low. You’re welcome, Master Travis.
Durge eyed the smoldering pile of sticks and the broken standing stone. “What has happened here?”
“That is a question I would very much like to hear the answer to,” a shimmering voice spoke.
All looked up to see two figures step out of a shadow and into the moon-drenched twilight. Grace’s heart fluttered in her chest, but it was wonder and not fear that filled her.
Oragien made a stiff bow in the direction of the regal, amber-eyed lady in blue and the man with silver-shot hair and one black glove. “Lady Melia, Master Falken. It is good you have returned.”
Grace searched but found she had no words that could possibly express her feelings. By the looks—and silence—of the others, they were in a similar predicament.
Melia glided forward, her blue kirtle whispering. “Well, I see you’re causing trouble as usual, Travis.”
Grace could see Travis’s wince. Falken’s low, musical laugh rose on the evening air.
“By the gods,” the bard said, “it’s good to see all of you again.”
Now Melia smiled, her amber eyes glowing. “Oh, Travis.”
She pressed her cheek against his chest. He blinked, then sighed and folded his arms around her. Finally, she pulled away and moved to Grace.
“My dear one, you’re more beautiful than ever.”
Grace didn’t know what she could possibly say, so she hugged Melia tightly instead.
“All right, dear. You mustn’t break me.”
“Sorry,” Grace murmured, releasing the small woman. Grace seemed to have only two modes for expressing affection: off and maximum power.
“Of course, dear.” Melia smoothed her kirtle, then she paused and moved toward Lirith and Tira. She knelt before the girl. “And who is this?”
“Her name is Tira,” Grace said, but before she could say anything more, the girl flung her arms around Melia’s neck and pressed her lips against the coppery skin of the lady’s cheek.
“Yes, dear, I love you, too,” Melia murmured.
Apparently satisfied by these words, Tira let go and pressed her small body against Lirith’s skirts once more.
Grace marveled at the girl’s unusual display, but she could wonder about it later. “Melia, Falken,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Melia gestured to them all. “Why, we’ve been waiting for you, of course.”
“That’s right,” Falken said. “And it’s about time you’re all here. We have to go find Krondisar.”
56.
At dawn, two days after the full of the moon, the companions gathered beneath the Gray Tower of the Runespeakers to continue their journey east. Travis was amazed at how quickly they fell into their old traveling routines.
“I’ll get the horses ready,” Beltan said.
“Of course you will, dear,” Melia said, her coppery skin glowing in the warm morning light.
Falken glanced at Melia with faded blue eyes. “So, are you sure you know how to find this place?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Not entirely. Why?”
The amber-eyed lady folded her arms across the bodice of her blue kirtle. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Travis pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “So, where is it that you want to go?”
Both the bard and the lady turned looks of displeasure on him. “Please don’t interrupt us while we’re having a discussion, Travis.”
He sighed as the two bent their heads together to speak in low voices. “Here we go again.”
However, his sigh phased into a laugh as he caught Grace’s brilliant green-gold eyes. She laughed as well, and at their combined mirth Falken and Melia halted their conversation and looked up.
“What’s so funny?” Falken said with a frown.
“Oh, you wouldn’t understand,” Travis said, then he linked arms with Grace, and the two strode after Beltan to the stable.
“Someone’s getting just a trifle pert, isn’t he?” Melia said behind them.
Falken’s only answer was a snort. Travis leaned his head against Grace’s, and she clutched his elbow as she shook with glee.
“I’ve missed you, Grace.”
“I know.”
Besides his laughter, there were other differences between this journey and the trek Travis had made once with Falken, Melia, and Beltan from the Winter Wood to Calavere. For one, Durge moved to help Beltan with the horses, the Embarran knight’s chain mail absorbing the sunlight while the Calavaner’s reflected it. For another, Aryn stood near Melia and Falken, and while the baroness seemed both paler and quieter than Travis remembered, her sapphire eyes were even brighter.
With Grace and Aryn had come two Travis didn’t know. In some ways Lirith reminded him of Melia. Both had black hair and mysterious smiles. However, Lirith’s tresses fell in tight coils about her shoulders, unlike Melia’s smooth, midnight wave, and Melia’s skin was copper, while Lirith’s reminded Travis of dark, polished wood. And while Melia’s mysteries were as distant as stars in the night sky, Lirith’s were shadowed and inviting, like a cool, deep cave beckoning in a blazing desert.
Then there was the other Travis did not know. He searched with his eyes, then found her perched on a rock apart from the others, cradling a small object in her arms. Yesterday, Travis had listened as Grace told the harrowing story of their journey to the Gray Tower, including the events in Falanor. Several times Travis tried to introduce himself to Tira, but on each occasion the girl turned from him, circled her arms around Grace’s or Lirith’s neck, and hid her half-scarred face behind a cascade of fiery red hair.
Now Tira looked up, and Travis caught her eyes—one perfectly formed, the other drooping in the melted ruin that was the right side of her face. He froze. For a second, as had happened once before in the ruins of Kelcior, it seemed an aura of light shone around each of his companions.
The aura about Grace was as green-gold as her eyes, although muted, and dimmer than he would have thought. In turn, Aryn’s aura was sapphire blue and so bright he could hardly look in her direction, while Lirith’s was as warm as honey in sunlight. Durge had appeared from the stable, leading a trio of horses, and while Travis would have guessed the knight’s aura to be as gray and somber as mist, instead it was blue steel. Then his eyes moved again to Tira. For a moment he saw it flickering around her thin body: a corona of hot fire.
“Travis?”
He adjusted his spectacles, and the auras were gone. He looked at Grace and managed a grin that was nearly all genuine. “Let’s help with the horses.”
