The keep of fire, p.47
The Keep of Fire, page 47
“It’s all right, Travis,” Grace said quietly. “It’s still Melia and Falken.”
I know, he wanted to say to her. But is it still me?
Instead he lay down, rested his head in her lap, and wept.
70.
From Shandis’s back, Grace surveyed the castle that thrust upward from the misty waters of the lake below.
Well, I guess I made it here after all, Boreas.
She reached inside her cloak and fingered the stillcrisp parchment folded inside a pocket. It seemed an age since Boreas had given her the letter of endorsement. On the journey, she had seen things and done things that she had never—could never have—imagined. And she had all but forgotten the mission given to her by King Boreas that summer morning in Calavere, to act as his spy in Castle Spardis. Yet, in the end, their travels had brought her here, right where she was supposed to be, and right on time.
Minus two knights and one boy, Grace.
Her heart stumbled in mid-beat. Had it been worth it? Had this mission been worth the deaths of Kalleth and Meridar? And that of Daynen?
But Grace knew that none of it—their journey, saving Travis, the task Boreas had given her—would be worth anything if they did not find a way to stop Dakarreth from gaining the key to the Stone of Fire. Yet Grace hardly even believed in gods. How was she supposed to fight one?
But you’re not going to fight him, Grace. Not you and not Travis. Falken and Melia are traveling to the Keep of Fire, and they’re going to face Dakarreth. Alone.
While Falken and Melia had been adamant about this point when they discussed it that morning, Beltan had spoken with a vehemence Grace had never witnessed before, his voice hard and unmalleable as the sword at his hip.
“You’re not going into the Barrens, Grace. And neither is Travis. Do you understand?”
Both stared at the blond knight, too stunned to speak.
Beltan crossed his arms over the broad expanse of his chest. “The dragon said both of you would die if you went to the Keep of Fire. So you’re not going. Instead you’re staying in Spardis where I can keep watch over you.”
Grace knew she shouldn’t speak the words, but they escaped her all the same. “And what of Lady Melia?”
Beltan’s green eyes hardened, but Melia stepped forward, laying a slender hand on his arm.
“I have released Sir Beltan from his duties as my Knight Protector.”
The expression on the knight’s face gave way to shock as he looked at Melia.
“For the moment,” she said crisply, meeting his eyes. Then she regarded Grace again. “It is best that Falken and I make this journey ourselves, dear. We will be traveling to places where … mortals cannot tread. All of you can remain safely in Spardis until we return.”
If you return, Grace added to herself, but she didn’t speak the words. For if Melia and Falken failed, it didn’t matter what any of them did. The fire would find them all.
Now, from the back of his jet stallion, Falken pointed toward the castle. “Shall we?”
Aryn clutched her cloak around her shoulders. “Yes, let’s. It will be good to get out of this chill and damp.”
Grace huddled inside her own cloak. More than once she had been tempted to fling the garment from the back of her horse as they rode across the ever-hotter expanses of Perridon. However, that afternoon as they drew near the castle, the temperature plunged, and moisture beaded like fine pearls on every surface. This was Perridon as Grace had imagined it: shrouded in cool fog and mystery.
Durge led the way down the slope, and the others followed. Even were it not for the shifting fog, Grace knew it would be no easy feat to count the towers of Spardis. Great and small, fat and slender, soaring and squat: They crowded on the island in the middle of the dull silver lake.
As they rode, Grace guided Shandis toward Melia’s pale mare. There was something she wanted to know.
“Where did he go, Melia? Tome, I mean.”
Melia kept her gaze on the castle ahead. “He had other things to attend to, dear. And this is not a task for one such as Tome. He was ever the gentlest of our kind.”
Grace shivered, and not only from the mist. Our kind. One of the Nine, she means. She stared at the regal lady, then her eyes moved to the bard who rode nearby. Knowing the truth about Melia and Falken had changed everything. They were immortal—Grace could never forget that. Yet it changed nothing as well. Just because Grace knew something about them she hadn’t before, it didn’t mean the two were any different. If the knowledge had changed anyone, it was Grace.
They reached the causeway that spanned the flat surface of the lake, then guided their horses onto it, hooves clopping against stone. The fog closed in, concealing the water, and Grace had the odd sensation that they were crossing a bridge over a sea of clouds. Then the fog parted, and an expanse of ironbound wood loomed before them.
Lirith glanced at Falken. “Is it usual for the gates to be closed by day?”
“In Spardis it is,” the bard said with a laugh. “Suspicion is the rule, not the exception.”
Durge glowered at the closed gates. “And how are we to gain entry?”
“We knock,” Melia said. She dismounted and glided toward the gate.
Falken, Grace, and Aryn followed after Melia while the others remained with the horses. However, knocking was not necessary, for a small grille opened in the gate as they drew near.
“Begone!” a voice rumbled. “You are not welcome here!”
Falken gave Melia a wolfish grin. “I like it here. They seem friendly.”
“So I noticed,” she said.
They stopped before the gate. Through the small opening, Grace glimpsed a steel helmet and a pair of decidedly unfriendly eyes.
“I am Falken Blackhand,” the bard said. “With me is the Lady Melia, Her Highness Aryn, Baroness of Elsandry, and Her Radiance Grace, Duchess of Beckett. We beg hospitality of the king.”
The eyes widened at the bard’s words, then grew hard again. “I cannot grant your request, Lord Falken. There is no king in Perridon, and the regent has ordered the gates of the castle be sealed as a ward against plague. You must go.”
Grace had to admit, it was a reasonable order—self-imposed quarantine to avoid contagion. Still, they had to get into the castle. She reached into her cloak and pulled out the folded parchment.
“I have a letter of endorsement from King Boreas. He has asked that you—”
“I do not serve King Boreas,” the voice behind the gate said, angrier now. “I have told you—the regent has forbidden any to enter Spardis until his return. Now go.”
Grace opened her mouth, but Melia drifted past her. Her amber eyes glowed beneath half-closed lids. “But the regent is expecting us,” she said in a soothing voice.
A pause, then the voice spoke from behind the door—duller now. “The regent is expecting you.…”
“We are his guests,” Melia said.
“Yes, you are his guests.…”
“Good,” Melia said. “Now, you must open the gates to us, lest the regent be displeased with you.”
Terror flooded the eyes beneath the helmet. “No! The regent must not be displeased!”
The small opening snapped shut, then there was a grinding noise, and a larger portal set into the gates opened. The bard motioned to the others, who followed after with the horses.
Falken leaned close to Melia as they stepped through the doorway. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist tampering with him.”
“I didn’t tamper,” she said. “I merely nudged him toward the only logical conclusion.”
“Nudge. Tamper. I don’t see the difference.”
“The difference is that I got us in, and you didn’t.”
Before Falken could reply, Melia proceeded through the gate, chin high.
The guard—clad in armor of some dark, polished metal—appeared before them. He gave a precise bow. “You may leave the horses here—I assure you your steeds will be well taken care of. Now, if you will follow, I will take you to the great hall and the chamberlain at once.”
“Of course you will, dear,” Melia said.
If the guard chose the most direct route to the great hall in his urgency, Grace wouldn’t have known it. This seemed more maze than castle, and the mist didn’t help. She quickly lost all sense of direction as they wove among the towers, passed through narrow archways, and crossed slender bridges.
Melia groaned as they walked. “The Perridoners have to make everything complicated, don’t they?”
Falken shrugged. “I think it’s something in the water.”
At last the guard pushed open a set of double doors, and they entered a space that looked much like the great hall of Calavere. Rushes covered the floor, and high, tapestry-draped walls rose to smoke-blackened beams. At the far end of the hall was a dais, atop which was an ornately carved chair, empty at the moment. However, another chair had been set on the lowest step of the dais, and this was occupied by a small, sunken-chested man whose eyes—small and darting in his pockmarked face—reminded Grace of the pet ferret a medical student had once brought to the hospital only to lose it in the ventilation system.
The guard presented them, and at first the chamberlain—whose name was Lord Siferd—was enraged that they had been allowed into the castle. However, after a brief conversation with Melia, Siferd’s attitude improved remarkably.
“You must forgive me,” he said, quivering before Melia. “I had no idea I had been brought such exalted guests. Be assured those responsible will be punished. Severely.” Siferd cast a withering glance at the guard, whose eyes bulged.
“Not too severely,” Melia said, laying a gentle hand on the chamberlain’s arm.
His head bobbed. “Of course, my lady.”
Melia’s smile was more than a little smug.
Grace approached the chamberlain. She might as well not waste any time getting started. “Lord Siferd, we were told the regent is away.”
“Yes, my lady, it’s true. I doubt you are aware, but there have been rumors of plague in some of the more remote regions of the Dominion. The regent has ridden forth to see what he might do for the people.” He clasped a hand to his concave chest. “Such a brave and kindly man he is.”
“I’m sure,” Grace said. “But in the meantime, might we see Queen Inara?”
Siferd sighed. “Alas, no. The queen is in seclusion while she mourns the loss of her husband, King Persard.”
Grace chewed her lip. That was bad news. She had wanted to speak to the queen. Young though she was, Grace knew Inara might have insights into the political situation here.
“What of Duke Falderan or Lord Sul?” she said. “Might I see one of them?”
“Once more, I fear I must disappoint you, my lady. After the king’s death, Lord Sul departed for his home in the north of Perridon. And while Duke Falderan is in residence here at Spardis, he fell gravely ill this spring and is receiving no visitors.”
Grace couldn’t suppress a frown. Why was everyone she wanted to talk with unavailable? But then, she should have known Inara would still be in mourning. It had been less than two months since her husband’s death. And it was logical that Lord Sul had returned to his home; no doubt the new regent had counselors of his own. As for Falderan falling ill—Grace of all people knew the high likelihood of catching a disease on this world. There was the Burning Plague, after all.
Except, from what she had seen—and from the guard’s words at the gate—it was clear that the Burning Plague had not yet reached Spardis. But that was strange, for all the evidence had pointed to Spardis as the epicenter of the pandemic.
Grace let out a breath. King Boreas had told her to expect mysteries in Castle Spardis, and she had found them. At least she wouldn’t want for things to do once Melia and Falken left.
Siferd clapped his hands, turning from Grace to regard the others. “Well, if there are no more questions, I shall have rooms prepared for you—the finest in all of Spardis.” He bowed to Melia repeatedly, then scurried from the great hall.
Falken glanced at the amber-eyed lady. “You know, you really have to teach me that trick sometime.”
“Not on your life,” Melia said.
71.
“You have to admit,” Grace said to Travis, glancing back at the bard and the amber-eyed lady across the great hall, “former goddesses and immortal bards do have their uses. I think the poor chamberlain’s feet were hardly touching the floor when he left to go find rooms for us.”
Travis smiled at Grace—he appreciated what she was trying to do—but he wasn’t certain he was ready to joke about it. Not just yet, anyway. His smile dissipated.
She hesitated, then touched his shoulder. “We’re the ones who are different you know, not them. They didn’t change just by telling us who they really are.”
“I know, Grace.” He looked down at his hands. “Believe me, I know. I just need a little time to get used to it, that’s all.”
She folded her arms over her chest and turned away. “I suppose it’s easier for me, really. In a way, everyone’s like a stranger to me. Maybe that makes it harder to be surprised by anything I learn about other people.”
A needle pricked Travis’s heart. He took a step toward her. “Am I a stranger to you, Grace?”
She nodded, her back still turned to him. “But I love you, Travis.”
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak the words he wanted more than anything to say—
I love you, too, Grace.
—she walked away across the great hall, toward Lirith and Ayrn, who sat on a bench with Tira.
Travis sighed, then turned and moved to the saddlebags heaped in a corner. Durge and Beltan had left to make certain the horses had been properly stabled. He supposed he could be useful by organizing the group’s possessions. He knelt to begin sorting through the foodstuffs—then snatched his hand back too late to avoid a swipe of four needle-sharp claws.
“I really don’t know what you have against me,” he said in a sulky voice, clutching his wounded hand.
The black kitten licked its whiskers and returned to the nap it had been taking in one of the saddlebags. Travis edged away from the creature. As he moved, a slender shape caught his eye. He stood up, gripping the runestaff All-master Oragien had given him.
The staff was still wrapped tightly in felt—Travis had not uncovered it on the journey. There hadn’t been much time for study, he told himself, although he knew that wasn’t the true reason he hadn’t examined it. Even now he could feel it—muted through the thick felt, but unmistakable—like a faint vibration resonating along the shaft. Power.
Just what you need, Travis. Another way to hurt people.
He started to set the runestaff back down.
“Are you ever going to uncover it?” a voice said behind him.
He turned, clutching the staff. “Melia. I didn’t hear you coming.”
“Of course not, dear.” The lady glided closer. “You can’t keep it hidden forever, you know. Someday you’ll have to bring it into the light and see what has been given you.”
He tightened his fingers around the staff. “I didn’t ask for it, Melia. I didn’t want it.”
“And does that make a difference?”
She was right, of course. He ran his fingers over the felt, wondering what secrets would be revealed when he removed it.
“I’m so sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, dear.”
He looked up, and his heart caught in his throat. It seemed impossible that one such as she should weep for him, but now tears shone in her eyes. Suddenly his earlier anger seemed selfish and stupid.
“But you did, Melia. You did tell me. And that’s all that counts.”
“No, we should have told you before we did. I see now how it wounded you that we didn’t.” A sad smile touched her lips. “I suppose we thought we were protecting you.”
He almost laughed. Wasn’t that why he kept his own power under wraps, just like the runestaff? To protect people? Yes, Melia and Falken had lied. Just like Deirdre and the Seekers had. But at least none of them had used the truth to harm. Like the dragon did. Like Duratek. And which of them was Travis like? Melia said he couldn’t keep things hidden forever. But if he let his power into the light and used it—knowing as he did that it could hurt others—how was he any less a monster than Sfithrisir?
An icy blade pierced the fog that clouded his mind, bringing with it clear understanding. Yes, there was another way after all.…
A shadow touched Melia’s brow. “Travis, your face—what’s wrong?”
He was spared having to speak a lie of his own, for at that moment Beltan and Durge burst through the doors of the great hall, their mail shirts chiming in chorus.
Falken stepped toward them. “What is it? Is something wrong with the horses?”
Beltan snorted. “No, despite Durge’s predictions, they’re just fine. It’s the queen.”
Grace stood. “The queen? You mean Inara?”
“We glimpsed her a moment ago,” Durge said. “She was walking across the inner bailey with her ladies-in-waiting.”
In three long strides, Beltan covered the distance to a shuttered window. “If I’ve got any sense of direction left at all after mucking around this rattrap of a castle, I think we’ll be able to see her from here. If any of you want to get a look at her, that is.”
Together they clustered around the window. Travis peered over the heads of the others, into the narrow courtyard below. At first all he could see was a lone peasant hauling a cart of peat across the cobbles. Then a slight figure veiled in black drifted into view, her head bowed. Three woman followed behind, one of them carrying a wriggling bundle wrapped in white.
“That must be her son, Perseth,” Falken said.
Aryn sighed. “She looks so sad. Do you suppose she really loved King Persard after all?”
Durge let out a rumbling breath. “It is impossible that one so fair in the spring of life could truly love a man well into his winter.”
