Beyond the Pale (75 page)

They gazed at each other in understanding, then he grinned, and she could not help grinning back. Maybe there was hope yet. At that point she meant to give him her thanks, to tell him they would talk again soon, and leave the chamber.

The words did not leave her lips, the door did not open. Instead the air folded, and she was in his arms. He bent his head—although he did not have to reach far, she was tall—and touched his lips to hers. She tasted wine and something more: passion. Greedy, she drank it like it was elixir.

His mouth pressed harder against her own. An electric sensation filled her. Her hands ran like small animals over his body. He was clad in breeches and a white shirt, but she could feel firm flesh beneath the cloth. It excited her, and he was excited as well, that was plain enough—Kyrene had been right on one account.

Her fingers found their way beneath his shirt. For a fraction of a second she feared what her touch might discover—

It could be anyone.…

—but his chest was hard, smooth, and unmarred.

His hand found the laces of her bodice, and they seemed to fall open at his touch. His fingers slipped inside, warm and gentle. A moan escaped her, and she pressed herself against him.

Much of who you are lies behind a door, and I cannot see behind it
.

Grace stiffened as the words drifted, unbidden, through her mind.

If ever you want to discover that power, you will have to unlock that door
.

Fear sliced through her. No, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t open the door. Not now, not ever. If she did, what was to stop the fire from leaping forth and consuming her?

With a cry, Grace pushed herself away from him. She stumbled, caught herself against the wall, and looked up. Logren’s expression was shocked and hurt. He reached a hand toward her.

“Lady Grace …”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

She did not give him a chance to answer. Grace turned, clutched the bodice of her gown to close it, and pushed through the door. Then she ran down the corridor and let the sound of her boots drown out his calls behind her.

Travis stood on one of Calavere’s high battlements and wrapped his mistcloak around him. It was freezing, but he had needed to get outside, to escape the smoke and stench of the castle, if only for a little while. The castle’s baileys were distant beneath him: Nobles, knights, peasants, and sheep all looked like playthings. Maybe they were, at that. He glanced up at the dark clouds that marched from the north. A new king was coming—or an old king, it didn’t matter. Maybe they were all playthings.

No, Travis, you can’t just give up like that. Someone has to stand against the Pale King, even if it’s just a fool, as in Falken’s story
.

He turned toward the frigid breeze, shut his eyes, and felt that sense of possibility he always did when he faced into the wind: Maybe the council would realize its mistake, maybe the Dominions would unite against the Pale King after all, maybe he would still find a way back to Colorado.

The air froze, the wind ceased, and the feeling of possibility vanished. He opened his eyes. There was nothing out here, only hard stone and a frozen landscape that would never thaw again.

He shivered. These were cold thoughts, and he was cold enough. Better to go back to the chamber and warm himself
by the fire, even if Melia and Falken were there. He stepped through the door that led from the battlement, shut it behind him, and moved into the dim room beyond.

A fist sprang out of the shadows and struck him square in the chest.

Travis hit the wall behind him—hard. He stared into the gloom in astonishment, then slid down the stones to the floor. His mouth gaped open. He tried to breathe, but it felt as if his lungs had been crushed—he could draw no air into them.

The shadows before him stirred. A piece of the darkness broke itself off, approached, and stood above him: a man clad in a robe of black.

Travis stared up at the robed one. Maybe it was terror, maybe it was reflex, but he shuddered, and a hoarse gasp of air rushed into his lungs. His hands scraped against the floor—breathing was more painful than suffocating. The man pushed back his hood, and Travis saw the symbol branded upon his forehead.

The Raven cultist grinned. With a rough finger he touched the brand: It was fresh and oozed yellow fluid.

“Do you like it?” he said in a cracked whisper. “I took it to show my dedication to my master. Soon all who live in the world will bear his mark. But not you, Runewielder.” His hideous grin broadened, and a knife appeared in his hand. “You will be dead.”

Travis tried to move, tried to get up, but his body would not respond. His hands flopped like dying fish on the floor.

The robed man crouched before Travis, his face only inches away. Travis gagged at a reek that emanated from him, a mixture of sweat, rot, and old blood. The cultist’s eyes flickered over Travis, and only then did Travis see that one eye was blue and the other brown. He remembered Grace’s words and shuddered.

“You have been difficult, Runewielder,” the robed man hissed. “First you killed the master’s little pet. Then you took the head of one of my brothers. But now the master has given the job to me, and I do not think you will escape this time.”

Travis stared at the knife. This didn’t make sense. Why
had the cultist attacked him? It was Grace they wanted to kill … wasn’t it?

He managed to croak a single word. “Why?”

“Why must I destroy you?” The cultist spat. “You are what cannot be allowed. A runespeaker is dangerous enough. But a runebinder—worse yet. The master does not care for runewielders, and runebinders least of all. He thought all were gone.” The grin again, black and festering. “And so they will be.”

The cultist raised the knife. Travis tried to shrink back, but there was only hard stone behind him.

“Pray,” the man whispered. “Pray to the White One on his throne, and perhaps I will not make it so very painful.”

Travis stared at the knife and wondered what part of his body it would pierce first.

What are you doing, Travis
?

He stiffened at the sound. It was not the cultist that had spoken, but rather a voice inside his head. A familiar voice.

Jack
?

By the Hammer of Durnach, don’t just sit there like a lamb at slaughter. Do something
!

I can’t, Jack. I can’t move
.

You don’t have to. Just speak the rune of stone
.

The rune of stone
?

Blast it, Travis! Must you always be so dense? You know the rune. All you have to do is speak it
.

But …

No buts, Travis. This world needs you. You have to do it. Now
!

Travis licked parched lips and drew in a breath of agony. The knife descended toward his heart. It would be this moment or never. He forced his lips to form the word.

“
Sar
!”

There was a scream, and a queer, liquid sound. Then came another cry, not of pain, but of pure, wordless hate.

“No! Free me! Free me and let me kill you!”

Travis’s eyes fluttered open, and shock replaced pain. A second ago the Raven cultist had been inches from him. Now the man was bound fast to the far wall by shackles of stone. They looped around his ankles, his wrists, his throat. He struggled, but even his unnatural strength was no use
against the bonds forged by the rune of stone. They merged seamlessly with the wall.

Something else caught Travis’s eye, resting on the floor between him and the cultist: a small iron box. It was open, and next to it lay a gray-green stone.

Panic replaced pain. The box must have fallen from his pocket when the cultist struck him, and must have opened when it hit the floor. Travis staggered to his feet. He limped forward—his chest still hurt, but his breaths came more easily now—then bent and picked up the Stone.

“You!” the cultist hissed. “It is you who holds Sinfathisar! It is you the Pale Ones followed before they lost the trail.”

Travis shuddered. He should go, he should get the others, but he could not help himself from asking a question in dread fascination. “Why? Why does the Pale King want the Great Stones?”

The cultist’s eyes burned into Travis, so intense he wondered if they would leave their own brand upon him.

“Once the master has all the Imsari, nothing will be able to stop him. All of Eldh will be his. And he
will
have them. Already Gelthisar lies within the iron necklace he wears, and soon your Stone will be set beside it.” Laughter wracked his body. “The Pale Ones will find you—they will see Sinfathisar’s trail. You might have stopped me with your runes, but the Stone has betrayed you.”

Travis snatched up the iron box, shut the Stone inside, and thrust it into his pocket. But he knew the cultist was right, knew that it was too late.

The Pale Ones will find you.…

“It doesn’t matter.” Travis hoped the defiance in his voice masked the dread in his gut. “You’ve lost. Your plan to murder a king failed. We’ll take you to the council, make you tell them what you’ve done, and they’ll have to believe. The Dominions will all stand together against your precious Pale King and shut him back in Imbrifale.”

The cultist gazed at him, then once more laughter bubbled from his lips. “The council? But what council is this you speak of that will do this thing?”

Travis stiffened, and his defiance evaporated. “What do you mean?”

The man did not speak, then he murmured something under
his breath in a weird singsong. “Things aren’t always what you think, for all can vanish in a blink.”

Travis shook his head. “What are you saying?”

“Please.” Now the cultist’s voice was a whisper of anguish. “Please, you must let me kill you.”

Travis recoiled from him.

The man’s voice rose to a shriek. He strained against the loops of stone. “No! I dare not fail him. You do not understand what he will do. Please, I must kill you! The master will—”

The cultist’s words ended, and his eyes bulged in their sockets. His hands curled into claws inside the stone shackles, and a gurgling escaped his throat. Then Travis saw it: A curl of smoke rose from the front of his robe. A tongue of flame followed, and the scent of charred flesh. The man screamed. Like a hot coal it burned through flesh and robe, then fell to the floor. The cultist’s scream ended. He slumped in the stone bonds, and his strange eyes stared in lifeless horror as the flames consumed him. Travis gazed down at the object that smoked on the floor, and sickness filled his stomach.

It was a lump of hot iron.

“How the Pale King got his hands on Imsaridur and Gelthisar, I don’t know,” Falken said. “But it certainly explains the harsh winter that’s assailed the Dominions.”

They had all gathered in Falken and Melia’s chamber, after Travis had found first Grace, then the bard and the lady, and had told them all what had happened. Now Travis sat in the horsehair chair before the fire. Melia had wrapped him in a blanket. He was sweating, and so hot he felt he would burn up, but he could not stop shivering. Aryn and Durge had poured spiced wine for all of them, and he did his best to grip his cup and sip the steaming liquid without spilling it.

Beltan scratched his head. “Maybe it explains it to you, Falken, but could you give a little hint to those of us who don’t happen to know the entire history of the world?”

Falken regarded the blond knight. “Gelthisar is the Stone of Ice, one of the Imsari, the three Great Stones. With its magic the Pale King could definitely summon cold winds and weather. Or weaken the Rune Gate.” The bard strummed a somber chord on his lute. “Both of which it appears he’s done.”

“But hasn’t Imbrifale been a land of ice and snow for centuries?” Melia said. She sat in the chair opposite Travis, the black kitten asleep in her lap. Evidently prancing around and biting at Travis’s ankles was exhausting work.

“You’re right, Melia,” Falken said. “The Pale King has always been associated with cold and ice, at least since the fall of Malachor.” He shot her a meaningful look.

Melia nodded and let out a deep breath.

Beltan groaned. “Now what?”

Melia glanced up at the knight. “It seems the Pale King has had the Stone Gelthisar, as well as the iron necklace Imsaridur, in his possession for centuries.”

Falken rubbed his chin with his black-gloved hand. “It would make sense. During the reign of Malachor, the Runelords guarded the dwarfin necklace Imsaridur, which contained the three Great Stones. But when Malachor fell, the Runelords were destroyed and the three Imsari were scattered.” Sadness flickered in his faded eyes. “We had always thought the Great Stones were lost, but it looks as if, somehow, Gelthisar and the necklace found their way to Imbrifale not long after Malachor was destroyed.” He gave Travis a sharp look. “And we know where Sinfathisar is. That leaves only one more of the Imsari—Krondisar, the Stone of Fire.”

Melia gazed into the flames that danced on the hearth. “And no doubt his minions search for it at this moment, even as they do Sinfathisar.”

Travis opened his mouth. He wanted to ask Falken and Melia what would happen if the Pale King gained all three Imsari and the necklace Imsaridur was complete once more. The ironheart had told him, but he wanted to hear it from them. However, a grim voice spoke before he could.

“Why now?”

All of them turned their attention toward Grace.

She had seemed in an odd mood when Travis found her in
her chamber—her gaze had been so distant—and she had not spoken since he had shown her and the others the cultist. Or at least what had remained of the cultist, for there had been nothing besides a heap of ashes and the half-melted lump of iron that had served as his heart. The stone shackles had been empty.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Grace said. “If he’s had this stone—the Stone of Ice—for so long, why has the Pale King waited until now to do something?”

Falken set down his lute. “Berash was defeated badly by King Ulther and Empress Elsara a thousand years ago. It was thought he was dead—though death does not necessarily mean the same to one such as him as it does to us. I would guess it has taken him this long to gather his strength again, and that only now is he ready to try to ride forth once more.”