The keep of fire, p.1
The Keep of Fire, page 1
DOZENS BURNED NATIONWIDE—CAUSE UNKNOWN
One Doctor Calls It “a New Black Death”
Beneath the headline was a photo: a dark, twisted shape like those in the photos Hadrian Farr had shown him. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, then scanned down the article.
Researchers have yet to discover the cause for the self-immolations that have been reported throughout the Midwest in the last six weeks. Some have labeled it a wave of copycat suicides, but in none of the deaths has a fuel or other flammable agent been identified. According to witnesses, many victims have shown symptoms of unusual behavior and high fever shortly before—
The article broke off, continued on an inside page. Travis dug into the pocket of his jeans, but his hand came up with only a scant collection of pennies. Not that it mattered. He didn’t need to read any more; he knew now where he had to go.
Maybe this really was like the Black Death. Maybe it was a disease—a disease transmitted by touch.
BY MARK ANTHONY
Beyond the Pale
The Keep of Fire
The Dark Remains
Blood of Mystery
This edition contains the complete text of the original
trade paper edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
THE KEEP OF FIRE
A Bantam Spectra Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam Spectra trade paper edition published
December 1999
Bantam Spectra paperback edition / December 2000
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1999 by Mark Anthony.
Map by Karen Wallace.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-15685. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79539-7
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
For Bert Covert—
who has been a Companion on
many wondrous quests
“Beware—it will consume you.”
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
Part One - Castle City
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Two - The Red Star
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part Three - The Shattered Man
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Part Four - Footsteps
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Part Five - Stone and Shadows
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
About the Author
1.
The burnt wind blew out of nowhere, scorching the mountains to their bones.
Dry weeds rattled in the ditches along the empty two-lane highway, all life baked out of them before they could really begin to grow. April had sublimated under the indifferent sun, May along with it, and in June the high-country valley was as brown as in the waning of September. Summer had smothered spring in her crib; the green child would not come again that year.
A man stepped out of the haze of grit and heat, like a dark flake of ash from the rippling air above a fire. The dust devil tugged once at the black shreds of cloth that draped the man’s wasted body, then danced away behind him. He staggered forward.
“Where are you, Jakabar?”
The words were the croak of a vulture, and his blistered lips bled as he spoke them. He lifted his head and peered at the wavering horizon with obsidian eyes—orbs without irises, without whites. He lifted a withered hand to shade the craggy desert of his face.
Something stirred in the coruscating air ahead.
“Jakabar?”
The shape gathered its outlines behind the distant silver membrane that spanned the road, then punched through and hurtled toward the man.
The beast approached with hateful speed, growing larger with each fluttering of his heart, until it filled his vision and a roar deafened him. Sunlight glared off armored crimson hide, and the thing clung low to the ground, as if ready to pounce. Its eyes flashed twice, and it let out a keening wail that pierced his skull and rooted him in place. He abandoned motion, waiting to feel the beast’s jaws close around him, to feel bones pop and flesh part.
Acrid wind ripped at him, and stones pelted his skin. The hollow grasses bent down, slaves before a terrible emperor, then rose as the world fell still. The man craned his neck to look behind him, but the creature already grew small and distant as it sped away.
He turned his gaze forward and forgot the beast. Again the fever rose within him, cauterizing thought and memory, burning away everything he was. He could envision the flames dancing along his papery skin. Soon. After all this time, it would be soon now.
He started to move once more but met resistance from the ground. He strained, then lifted a foot. Black strings of tar stretched from the sole of his scuffed boot to the pit where it had sunk into the surface of the road. He tugged his other boot free and lurched forward. He did not know what strange land he had found himself in. All he knew was that he had to find Jakabar.
“Beware,” he whispered. “It will consume you.”
The man staggered down the mountain highway, leaving a trail of footsteps melted into the asphalt behind him.
2.
Now that he was back, it was almost as if he had never left.
“It’s coming,” Travis Wilder whispered as he stepped out the door of the Mine Shaft Saloon.
He leaned over the boardwalk railing and turned his face westward, up Elk Street, toward the pyramid of rock that stood sentinel above the little mountain town.
Castle Peak. Or what he thought of as Castle Peak, for over the years the mountain had borne many names. In the 1880s, the silver miners had called it Ladyspur’s Peak, in honor of a favorite whore. According to local legend, when a gunslinger out of Cripple Creek failed to pay his bill, Ladyspur shot him dead in a fair gunfight in the middle of Elk Street. She died herself from cholera not long after, and she was buried how she had lived and worked: with spurs on her high-heeled boots.
Before that, on maps drawn in St. Louis—fanciful documents meant to lure dreamers across the tall-grassed prairies—it was named Argo Mountain, although the only gold ever found on Castle Peak was the warm light of sunrise or sunset.
For a few years prior to the gold rush of 1859, the name Mount Jeffrey had hung over the mountain, a name it had shared with a minor member of the Long Expedition of 1820—a lieutenant who one afternoon climbed to the summit with a bottle of whiskey. By the time Lieutenant Schuyler P. Jeffrey died of septicemia in a Washington, D.C., tenement five years later, his name had tumbled off the mountain. Although the empty whiskey bottle he had cast down was still there.
The Ute Indians, who from forested ridges had watched Long’s party stroll through the valley, had had their own name for the mountain: Clouded Brow, for the wreath of mist that often girded the summit. However, if the peopl e who dwelled here before the Utes had called the crag anything, then it had passed with them. And before that … no names.
One mountain. Many names. But eventually the peak and the town had both come to wear the name of Mr. Simon Castle—who made his fortune in publishing back East and who came west with a dream of constructing a grand new kingdom. He built the Silver Palace Hotel and the Castle City Opera House, then returned to Philadelphia eight years later, after his wife perished of tuberculosis and his sandstone mansion outside of town was struck by lightning and burned to the ground.
Castle Peak. The name fit for now, at least until a new name came along. And after that, when once again there were no people here and the valley dreamed alone, then it would be simply the mountain once more.
Travis gripped the railing. Behind wire-rimmed spectacles he pressed pale eyes shut as he pictured it: high up the slope the first aspens quickening, leaves whispering silver-green secrets, then moments later the low thrumming as the canyon cleared its throat and the lodgepole pines circled in a graceful tarantella. It was coming.
On any world, Travis could always tell when the wind was about to blow.
“I knew you’d come back,” Max said that white January day when Travis stepped into the Mine Shaft, still clad in the travel-worn clothes of another world.
It had been morning, and the saloon had been quiet and empty save for the two men.
“I knew it, Travis, even though … even though Jace said you died with Jack in the fire. I kept everything going for you—the bar, the mortgage, the books.…”
Max’s words got lost somewhere in his chest then, but that was all right.
“It looks wonderful, Max,” Travis said as he hugged his friend. “It all looks wonderful.”
And that was how Travis had come home.
The days that followed were strange and fragile. In some ways he felt as out of place as he had on Eldh, traveling in the company of Falken Blackhand. Things like indoor plumbing and electric lights and pickup trucks all had an exotic sheen. But just as he had on Eldh, he knew he would get accustomed to them. All he needed was a little time.
Unlike the inquisitive bard, no one in Castle City asked Travis for his story—where he had been for more than two months and why he had come back. Then again, people in Castle City didn’t usually ask a lot of questions. It didn’t really matter where you had been, only that you were here.
Jacine Windom came the closest to prodding Travis for information, and even the deputy’s questions, while sharp as the creases steamed into her khaki trousers, were narrowly directed.
“Were you at the Magician’s Attic the night of the fire?” Jace asked one afternoon at the saloon, straight-backed on her barstool, notepad and pencil in hand.
“I was,” Travis answered.
“Do you know what caused the fire?”
“Jack was struggling with an intruder. I was outside the antique shop—Jack told me to run. When I turned around, the place was in flames.”
“Did you get a good look at the intruder before you fled?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
It hadn’t been until later that he came face-to-face with them. In the White Tower of the Runebinders he had looked into alien eyes and seen death. But he didn’t tell Jace that.
Travis waited for more questions, but Jace flipped her notepad shut and stood up from the barstool.
“I think that’s enough, Travis. I’ll call you if Sheriff Dominguez needs anything else.” The deputy started for the door.
“Did you find him?” Travis looked up and met Jace’s brown eyes. “Did you find Jack?”
The deputy pressed her lips shut at that, then gave one stiff nod. “There’s a stone for him in Castle Heights Cemetery.”
“I’ll go see it, Jace. Thanks.”
The deputy headed for the door, although not before glancing back at Max. The look the two of them exchanged told Travis he had been right about one thing: Jacine had roped her stallion. Max was wearing Wranglers now.
But maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to remake yourself for another. Sometimes Travis thought he might like to have the chance, although he could never really picture what he’d become, or for whom he’d change. Or did it even matter? Maybe it was just the act of changing itself that was important.
After his conversation with Jace, the days had started to come easier. Travis’s cabin outside of town had been rented to someone else, so Travis had taken up residence in the empty space above the Mine Shaft. The old apartment was narrow and drafty, and the kitchen consisted of a hot plate and a sink, but it would do for now. Travis needed less than he used to; he had gotten used to traveling light.
Max had parked Travis’s battered green pickup truck behind the saloon, and one day Travis got brave enough to try to start it. He turned the key in the ignition, then laughed as the engine roared to life.
Since then he had lost himself in the day-to-day affairs of the Mine Shaft. Moira Larson’s book club met at the saloon every week—stuffy novels of class oppression traded for the sharp and vital wit of Evelyn Waugh. The dude ranch cowboys had progressed from single malt scotch to martinis. And Molly Nakamura still patiently taught saloon patrons to fold crisp sheets into origami chameleons and monkeys, and still always stroked with gentle fingers their mutant paper creations.
All in all, it was good and easy to sink back into his old life. And yet …
From time to time, as he wiped down the bar, or swept the floor, or gathered up empty beer glasses, Travis would find himself gazing out the window, toward the rocky slopes of Castle Peak, and thinking of the wind that blew down from the mountain. Thinking of traveling.
That journey is over, Travis. You’re here now, where you belong.
He opened his eyes and drew in a breath. Electric wires hissed overhead. Litter danced along the cracked surface of Elk Street, choreographed into glittering auguries. Yes, it was coming.
He turned his face to meet the approaching wind, ready to feel its crisp embrace, to sense the possibilities it bore on its wings. The witchgrass along the boardwalk trembled. Newsprint manta rays levitated off the ground. Tourists reached up to clutch brightly logoed hats—
—then lowered their hands and continued on.
A single hot gust lurched down Elk Street, then died in a limp puff. The wires ceased their music. The witchgrass fell still. The newspaper rays settled back to the pavement.
Sweat trickled down Travis’s brow, and the parched air drank it, leaving a crust of salt on his skin. There was no fresh awakening, no sense of endless possibility. Only the sun baking cement and wood and dirt until everything smelled like old, dry bones. He didn’t remember it ever being this hot. The sky was too hard, the valley too dull.
Travis reached up and fingered the piece of polished bone that hung from a leather string around his neck. The bone’s surface was incised with three parallel lines. He traced them with a thumb. Yes, it was almost like he had never left. Except he had left. And nothing would ever really be the same.
Travis sighed, let go of the talisman, and walked back into the saloon.
3.
The cool air inside the Mine Shaft was a balm to Travis’s skin. He stepped behind the bar, reached into the chiller, and brought out a bottle of root beer. He pressed it against his cheek, wincing at the frigid touch, then let out a breath and shut his eyes.
“You know, Travis, most people find it easier to drink if they take the cap off the bottle first.”
“People can be so boring sometimes.”
There was a snort of laughter. Travis opened his eyes to see Max lift a rack of glasses onto the bar.
“You’re weird, Travis.”
“That’s a relief. For a minute I thought I might be losing my touch.”
Max rolled his eyes and started unloading glasses.
Travis crossed his arms, leaned back, and watched his employee work. Max had done a good job keeping the saloon humming while Travis had been away. Better than good. And while Max clearly took pride in this fact, he had not hesitated in returning control of the operation back to Travis that wintry day in January.
Travis had been glad to take on the mantle of saloon proprietor again. Like everything about his old life, it felt warm and comfortable. And, like everything, it seemed different since his return. For more than two months the saloon had belonged to Max, no matter what the mortgage papers said.
