Beyond the Pale (68 page)

“I think you’ll survive, Travis. But you have a lump the size of Galt growing back there. Lady Grace should take a look at it.”

Grace started to move toward the bed, then halted. The corpse of their attacker was in her way. Falken knelt beside the body and rolled it over.

“So who was this?” the bard said.

Melia pointed to the head. “I think the part over there might be of more use in answering that.”

Falken grunted, then picked at the hood that tangled around the severed head to expose the face. It was harsh and craggy, with dull brown eyes. Grace did not know him.

“Medarr,” Durge said like he was chewing stones.

The others looked up at the knight.

“You know this man, Durge?” Falken said.

“So this is where King Sorrin’s missing knight was,” the Embarran said with a sigh.

Melia gazed at the head, and her eyes narrowed to slits. “You mean this man was a member of Sorrin’s personal guard? But why would he attack Grace, and while wearing the robes of a Raven cultist?”

“Not just the robes.” Falken had turned over the dead man’s forearm. The puckered brand stood out against his white skin. “He’s a member of the Raven Cult all right. Or at least he was.”

“Are there any other marks?” Melia said.

Falken pulled open the robe that covered the corpse. “No. He looks like he’s been in some battles, though. There’s a nasty scar on his chest, but other than—”

“Stop!” Grace shouted as Falken started to pull the robe closed again.

The others stared at her. Falken snatched his hand from the corpse. She didn’t want to see this, but she made herself gaze down at the body. The scar was thick and pink, and snaked down the center of his bare chest. She had seen a scar just like it once before.

“Cut him open,” she said.

Melia’s visage grew concerned. “What are you talking about, dear?”

“Do it, Durge.” Now Grace’s voice was calm, emotionless, a doctor giving orders in a trauma room. “Cut open his chest.”

“My lady,” the knight said, “perhaps you should—”

“Give me your sword, then. I’ll do it.” Before he could react she snatched the blade from his hands. It was heavy. She dragged it clumsily to the body.

“No, Grace, don’t do it,” Travis said in a sick voice, but she ignored him.

She had to know, she had to be sure. The others faded away, along with the room. It was only her and the corpse. She rested the tip of the sword on his chest, then leaned on the hilt with all her weight. Ribs crunched as the blade sank into his body. She worked it back and forth, then cast it aside and sank to her knees beside the cadaver. With her bare hands she reached into the incision and pulled. It was hard to get a grip, the ribs were too strong. She needed leverage. There, the attacker’s knife. She picked it up from the floor, wedged it in the incision, and gave an expert tug, opening up a gap in his chest. Black blood flowed out.

“By all the gods!” Falken swore.

“I don’t understand,” Beltan said, his voice tight. “What is it?”

Grace whispered the words, a terrible diagnosis. “It’s a heart made out of iron.”

She dropped the knife. Strong hands helped her to her feet.
Durge. Her own hands were covered with blood. All eyes were on Grace now.

“What’s going on, Grace?” Travis said, his face pale with pain and fear.

Grace opened her mouth, but Falken spoke first.

“You heard my tale at the council,” the bard said. “How the Pale King had a heart forged of iron. What I did not tell was that Berash gave his slaves enchanted hearts of iron as well, to bind them to him.”

Melia’s eyes were thoughtful on Grace. “How did you know of the ironhearts, dear?”

She took in a shuddering breath. How could she explain it all, that night in the ED when everything had changed? “I’ve seen one before. On Earth.”

“But how could one of Sorrin’s personal knights be a servant of the Pale King?” Beltan said.

Durge stroked his mustaches. “And why would a slave of Berash wear the robes of a Raven cultist?”

“Don’t you see, Durge?” It was Travis. He stood now, as if forgetting the blow to his head. “The Raven Cult is linked to the Pale King. Which means it’s the Pale King that’s behind the murder plot in the castle.”

Falken raised an eyebrow. “Murder plot?”

Grace and the other members of the Circle of the Black Knife exchanged guilty looks.

“I think some people have a bit of explaining to do,” Melia said in a crisp voice. Then her gaze fell back to the corpse, and her words grew soft. “But that can wait until the morning light.”

“We’ll have to tell the council about this,” Falken said.

Melia glanced at the bard. “And what will we tell them?”

The bard drew in a deep breath. “That the Pale King is even closer to freedom than we feared.”

Grace shivered at the bard’s words, and she knew there was no magic—in this or any world—that could have warmed the terrible chill inside her.

Grace gazed out the window of her chamber at the iron-gray dawn and knew she had to tell King Boreas everything.

She turned from the window, shivered, drank some of the
maddok
a servingwoman had brought at first light, then dressed before the fire. Lately she had worn the brighter gowns in her wardrobe: amethyst, ruby, jade. She had gotten too good at donning the garb of this world—she had let the costume grow too comfortable. Today she chose a plain, uncomfortable gown the same color as the mist that shrouded Calavere’s towers. If she could have found her old chinos and white blouse, if they had not been burned to ashes, she would have worn them.

Don’t forget who you are, Grace Beckett. You couldn’t cure all the suffering in one Emergency Department in one middling-sized city. You couldn’t even come close. What makes you think you alone could heal an entire world
?

She stepped away from the fire, looked up, and saw a ghost through the window: pale and translucent, gown merging with the fog in which she drifted, green-gold eyes bright in her hollow visage. Grace studied the ghost. Once, in the ED, a hysterical man had claimed he had seen
Señora Blanca
, the Lady in White, and that he was doomed to die before the night was over. At seven-thirty tests had shown him to be in
good health. At three minutes to midnight Grace had called his time of death.

She met the ghost’s ethereal eyes. Maybe she should have been afraid. Instead she grinned, and the ghost grinned back at her, the expression cadaverous yet gleeful. But then, how could you be afraid when the only thing haunting you was yourself? Grace finished her
maddok
, set down the cup, and walked from the chamber to meet her doom.

“Good morrow, my lady.”

The voice was deep and gloomy, and it made Grace smile like no cheerful greeting could have.

“Durge. Did you stand here all night?”

“No, my lady. I occupied myself for a time by pacing.”

Grace examined Durge’s weathered face: It was etched with lines, but no more than usual. When did the knight sleep? She didn’t know, but she was grateful for his presence. It seemed unlikely the Raven Cult would make an attempt on her life twice in one night—but then it seemed unlikely they would want her death at all.

“What service may I do for you, my lady?”

“You can go get some rest, Durge. Please.”

“There will be time for that later.”

The voice that came from her lips was automatic, the drone of an overworked doctor. “Prolonged deprivation of sleep can cause hallucinations and feelings of extreme euphoria.”

“Flights of fancy and bliss?” Durge said in a chiding voice. “My lady, I am a knight of Embarr.”

She bit her lip. What was she thinking? “I’m sorry, Durge. Yes, there is something you can do. Go to the Lady Aryn and bring her to King Boreas’s chamber.”

The knight bowed, then without question turned and strode down the passageway. Grace pressed her eyes shut. She didn’t deserve such loyalty.
One day I’ll give him an order that kills him
. No, she couldn’t think like that. Durge was not just her Knight Protector. He was her friend. She opened her eyes and hurried down the corridor.

When she knocked on the door at which she had stopped, it was Falken who answered.

The bard’s face was haggard, his blue eyes more faded than
ever. All the same, he managed a smile. “Lady Grace. I trust you had no more visitations since we last met.”

“Only Durge. He spent the entire night outside my door.”

“Good,” Beltan said. The blond man stood behind the bard. His face was grim, but in his hand, instead of a sword, he held a hunk of brown bread.

Falken gave Grace a wink. “We had a doorstop of our own last night. I think it’s all that chain mail. It makes them want to just stand in one place and not move.”

Grace clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing.

“I heard that!” Beltan said. He stuffed more bread into his mouth.

“No wonder knights have to wear armor,” Melia said. “They’re awfully sensitive.”

The small woman stood near the fire. Travis sat in a chair before her. She dipped a cloth in a bowl of hot water dotted with herbs and pressed it against the back of Travis’s head. He winced in pain.

“How is he?” Grace said.

“The bloodbane you gave me is working. The swelling is going down. I believe he’ll live.”

Travis grimaced. “That’s your opinion, Melia.”

“Yes, dear,” Melia said. “And remember, it’s the only opinion that counts.”

“Are you going somewhere, Lady Grace?” Falken said.

She turned to face the bard. “Yes, Falken, I am. And I was hoping you all would come with me.”

He raised an eyebrow, and the others gazed at her in curiosity.

Ten minutes later they halted at the closed door of King Boreas’s bedchamber. Aryn and Durge were already there. The baroness regarded Grace and her entourage with puzzled blue eyes. Her gown was on crooked and her hair tousled.

“Grace,” she said with a yawn. “What is going on?”

Grace swallowed hard. There was no backing out now. “We’re all going to have a chat with the king.”

Aryn’s sleepy eyes grew large.

Melia regarded Grace. “And what exactly are we going to tell him, Lady Grace?”

“Everything.”

There was a moment of perfect silence, then a half-dozen voices began speaking at once.

Grace held up her hands. “Please, everyone, listen to me.”

The others fell silent and looked at her. Grace hadn’t really expected that to work. Now that she had their attention, she supposed she had no choice but to talk.

“I know I was the one who didn’t want to speak to Boreas before. But that was before we knew what … what we learned last night.” She glanced at Falken and Melia. “There are some things we need to tell both of you as well. You’ll hear it when we talk to the king. But I had reason to believe Boreas might be behind the plot to murder one of the other kings or queens in the castle, only now we know he isn’t. It’s been the Pale King all along.”

“Murder?” said a gruff voice. “The Pale King? Of what do you speak, my lady?”

As one they turned to stare at the speaker. He stood in the now-open doorway, clad only in a white nightshirt that reached to his knees. His steely eyes were locked on Grace. They were not furious, as she might have expected. Instead they were thoughtful and—she almost could believe—sad.

“Your Majesty!” she said. “I didn’t know you were awake yet.”

“And who could sleep when there’s a revel going on outside his door?” He eyed the others gathered behind Grace. “I see you and my ward have developed the same ill taste in friends as my beloved nephew.”

Grace started to stutter an apology, but Boreas waved her words away. “Enough, my lady. You’ve sounded the trumpet, it’s too late to call off the charge. Come in. Or are you going to make your enemy stand here and freeze his sword and jewels as an added insult?”

Grace ducked her head. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”

She followed him into the room, and the others came after. The king’s bedchamber was neither larger nor more comfortable than her own, although the bed was so massive—the posts hewn from great logs of oak—that it looked as defensible as a small hill fort.

“So what do you have to tell me, my lady?”

Even as Boreas spoke his question he turned, hiked up the front of his nightshirt, braced his muscular legs, and proceeded
to fill a brass chamber pot. If he had meant the action to disarm her, to throw her off-balance, he had failed. Grace had emptied more bedpans in her first year of residency than he could have filled in a decade.

She approached his back. “There is a plot in Calavere to murder one of the rulers attending the Council of Kings.”

He finished his business and turned to regard her, as if she were the only one in the room. “How long have you known this?”

She did not flinch. “For several days now, Your Majesty.”

“And why did you not tell me before? Are you not my spy, Your Radiance?”

“I did not tell you because I feared you might be the one behind the plot, Your Majesty.”

Grace tensed her shoulders. She expected the king to react with rage, to bear down on her, to grab her with his strong hands and toss her aside or tear her into small pieces. After the way she had betrayed him, it might almost have been a relief.