Beyond the Pale (79 page)

Break it, Travis
!

Jack. It was Jack.

Break his rune
.

His throat was a desert, his tongue baked in his mouth. He could barely form the sound, then he did.

“
Reth
!”

He felt more than saw his hand flash as he spoke the rune of breaking. The searing heat vanished, and he felt the magic rush away from him, back toward its source. There was a scream, cut short, followed by a thud.

Travis pulled himself to his feet, swayed, then caught himself. Rin sprawled on the floor, and Travis staggered toward the young runespeaker. His eyes stared upward, blank with death, and a wisp of smoke curled from his open mouth. The force of the blow had torn his tunic to shreds. Travis could see the ragged scar that snaked across Rin’s broad chest.

Well-done, Travis! When you sundered his magic, you sundered his mind as well
.

He clenched his right hand into a fist. No—he had not done well. He had broken his promise again. Travis turned, ran down the stairs, and burst into the frigid night. He
gulped the freezing air into his lungs, but it could not quell the sickness in his guts. Hands on knees, he spilled his fear and revulsion on the frozen mud.

You had to do it, Travis. You must understand, it was the only way
.

No, he was tired of the voice. He didn’t want to listen. Travis stumbled through a doorway, back into the shelter of the castle. He had to get to the great hall. Falken would know what to do. Or Melia. They would know how to save everyone, how to save him.

Travis staggered down the passage. However, he had not gone far when light spilled through an opening ahead. He turned around—the glow sped from that direction as well. Figures moved in the light and reached out spindly hands. The gesture seemed almost loving, but he knew that embrace held only coldness and death. He moved in the last direction left to him, down a narrow side passage.

After only a dozen steps the passage ended in a blank wall of stone. He ran his hands over the wall, but there was no latch or crevice to be found. It was a dead end. Travis turned around and slumped with his back against the wall. He was too tired anyway, too tired to keep running. Through the fabric of his tunic he clutched the iron box.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” he whispered.

Then he watched as the pale light brightened before him.

Aryn, Baroness of Elsandry, stood in a corner of Calavere’s great hall and watched the revelers gather for the Midwinter’s Eve feast.

She had chosen a spot near a side door, next to a cluster of leafless saplings that had been brought inside for decoration, in an attempt to look inconspicuous. Not that this was so difficult for her. All her life people had had a tendency to walk right past Aryn without looking at her. Because if they looked at her they would have to look at her arm, to acknowledge it was there, and that was something they did not care to do. Aryn sighed as revelers passed by in bright garb,
laughing. None turned a head in her direction. It was all right—she had had nineteen years to get used to it. Besides, as she had learned as a child, it was better to be ignored than stared at.

Aryn huddled inside her azure gown and cape of white rabbit fur. Despite the garments, despite the smoke and press of bodies in the great hall, she was cold. If Grace and Goodman Travis were right—and she had no reason to doubt they were—then Alerain’s murderer was somewhere in this hall, right at that very moment.

She let her blue eyes run over the throng of nobles, knights, and servants. It could be any one of them, it could dwell behind the mask of any face: evil. She studied reveler after reveler, searching for any hints or signs, and if it was more often those who were beautiful, or handsome, or well shaped whom her eyes bored into, then it was only logic. Always it was assumed those who were ugly or different were evil, or had done some terrible deed. For what could their appearance be, but punishment for some loathsome crime?

Aryn knew different, and her lips twisted in a bitter smile. Why pick such a simple disguise? No, the murderer was too clever for that. Far more effective to hide evil behind a comely smile, or a square jaw, or eyes you could fall into for days.

More nobles flooded into the great hall, and Aryn’s heart fluttered like a trapped sparrow inside the bodice of her gown. She knew King Boreas would be looking for her. Without Alerain, the duties of organizing the feast had fallen to her. However, she had made all the arrangements with the cellarer and the kitchenwife. They would see to it the nobles were fed and given their wine.

But what if they forgot the mead
?

Panic gripped her. King Persard of Perridon preferred mead to wine and would cause a row if he did not have it. And King Sorrin would drink only the fresh milk of a goat—although from his gaunt appearance he could have stood to drink a bit more of it. What if the cellarer and kitchenwife forgot? Aryn lifted the hem of her gown and started forward.

No, Aryn
. She forced herself to stop.
You have to let them worry about it, them or King Boreas. It can’t always be up
to you to make certain everyone has exactly what he or she wants. You have more important things to accomplish
.

Aryn blinked at this thought. Where had it come from? All her life she had focused on the needs of others. It was the only thing that put them at ease around her. Never once had she denied King Boreas anything she thought he wanted. Yet all the same she knew if, at that moment, she heard him bellow across the hall for her, she would not come running as she usually did. From where had this resolve come?

Her eyes flickered to the high table at the far end of the great hall, and she knew her answer was there. Queen Ivalaine gazed over the feast with ice-colored eyes, her regal visage calm yet powerful. Next to her sat Tressa: smaller, plumper, sweeter of face, yet strong in her own motherly way. At the other end of the table Grace sat beside Logren of Eredane. The two were bent close in conversation, his eyes were intent upon her. Had she worked some magic upon him?

Don’t be a fool. Grace wouldn’t do that … would she
?

The baroness took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on her part of the plan. It was up to Grace and Travis to determine the identity of the murderer. Once they knew, Grace would signal Aryn. Then it would be Aryn’s turn to act. She was to approach the murderer and quietly inform him that he had an important message. Then she was to lead him to a nearby antechamber where waited not a messenger, but Durge and his Embarran greatsword. In addition, Beltan would be standing outside the great hall and would follow Aryn as she accompanied their quarry to the antechamber.

The fluttering of Aryn’s heart quickened. Could she really do this? She was grateful for Grace’s trust, but Aryn knew better than anyone her own limited talents at deception. What if the murderer saw right through her lie? No, she couldn’t think that way. She had to believe it would work.

Aryn shut her eyes and murmured a small prayer to Yrsaia. She had not told Grace she followed the Mysteries of the Huntress. She supposed Grace might have laughed at her for this—no, that wasn’t true, Grace would never mock her, not like others sometimes did. However, Aryn sensed Grace was not one to turn to gods or goddesses for help. Grace was
accustomed to relying on herself. Aryn hoped one day she could be that strong, that regal, but until then it couldn’t hurt to ask the help of the Huntress. After all, they were hoping to catch a murderer that night.

“Your Highness, this is good fortune.”

Aryn’s eyes flew open in surprise at the smooth sound of the voice. A man stood before her, only slightly her greater in years and height. She took him in piece by piece—gold curls, neatly trimmed beard, broad shoulders in a crisp red tunic—before she recognized him.

“Lord Leothan!”

He bowed low, then rose again. “I was hoping I would have the opportunity to speak with you at the feast, my lady. I did not realize my chance would come so soon.”

She shook her head and tried to understand. What could he possibly want of her?

“My lady, I have wronged you.”

Aryn could only stare. Now sorrow touched his face, and it made him even more beautiful yet.

“Wronged me?”

“Terribly.” He stepped closer, although he maintained an honorable distance. “My lady, when I came to this court I was arrogant and full of myself. I thought by belittling others I made myself all the greater.” He shook his head. “I was a fool, of course, I know that now. You see, recently I took ill …”

Aryn tensed at these words. Could he have known? Did he realize she was the cause of his pain? No, his eyes showed only concern.

“… and being confined to my bed gave me time to think, and to reflect on my own imperfections. I thought about the way I had acted—to you and to others, my lady—and I was ashamed. I resolved, once I recovered, to make amends.” He drew in a deep breath. “I know it is impossible that you could forgive me, yet I must ask it all the same.”

To her astonishment, he sank to one knee before her and bowed his head.

“My lady, I beg you, will you pardon my insult to your honor?”

She clapped her hand to her mouth. What could she say?
Anguish flooded her chest. She was the cruel one, the one who had truly harmed.

“Please, my lord,” she said. “Oh, please rise. There is nothing to ask forgiveness for.”

Leothan did as she asked, regained his feet, and now he smiled at her. “Tell me, my lady …” He cocked his head and studied her. “… is there something different about you than before? Your hair perhaps?”

Aryn shook her head. How could she explain? Yes, there was something different, but not anything another might see. Or was there after all?

He glanced around them. “My lady, might we speak in private for a moment? There is another matter I would like to … to speak to you about, if you will.”

He motioned to the side door behind her, and the gesture seemed almost shy. A tingling shimmered on the surface of her skin. What could he have to say to her that could not be said before the eyes of all in the great hall? Possibilities filled her mind, and the tingle grew stronger. She glanced up. Revelers still streamed through the doors of the great hall. There was yet a little time before the feast began.

Aryn met Leothan’s eyes and nodded. He laid a gentle hand on her elbow and guided her through the side door. It shut behind them. They were in the antechamber alone.

“What is it you wished to speak to me about, my lord?” She hoped she knew the answer, but she didn’t dare think it, didn’t dare believe. Then he spoke, and her wishes came true.

“I was a fool to turn away from you, Aryn. Now I have a second chance. I won’t throw it away again.”

He moved toward her, close now. She could feel warmth radiate from him.

“May I kiss you?” he whispered.

Aryn shivered—in delight and in trepidation. Uncertainty crept into her mind. Could Leothan really have experienced such a change of heart? She forced the question aside. He was here, and he was beautiful. That was all that mattered.

She turned her face up toward him. “Yes, my lord.”

Leothan smiled, coiled his arms around her, and held her tight. His lips were fire against her. Never before had she kissed a man—not like this, not out of passion. She drank it
in greedily. Maybe she could weave some magics of her own.…

His grip on her tightened, and he pressed harder, until his lips crushed against her. It hurt, and she tried to pull away, but his arms were like bands of steel. They crushed against her rib cage—it was hard to breathe.

She managed to turn her head. “My lord …”

“Stop struggling, my lady.” He gritted the words between his teeth. “Isn’t this what you were dreaming of?”

Aryn stared at him. Passion fled her, and left her chest cold and watery with dread. She tried to twist out of his grasp, but he held her left arm tight, and her right was useless—it flopped against his chest without effect.

He shoved her against the wall, and her breath rushed out of her in a painful
whoosh
. She moaned. How could she have been so blind? She had been tricked by his words and his beauty, guilty of the crime of which she had accused others. Now she would pay for it.

Leothan leaned against her, and she could feel his hardness grind against her stomach.

“No, my lady,” he said with a hideous grin. “Don’t scream, or I promise you it will be much worse.”

He held her with one hand and with the other reached for the front of his breeches. It was her only chance. She twisted to one side and thought she had it, thought she would break free. Then he grabbed her again. Her left hand flailed and caught at the collar of his tunic. He whirled her around, threw her hard against the wall. There was a ripping sound, and pain sparkled through her.

She blinked, and her vision cleared. He stood before her again, his face no longer beautiful, but a twisted mask of hate and desire. In the struggle, the front of his tunic had been torn open. Aryn glimpsed his chest—broad and smooth—then he moved, the fabric parted more, and she saw it. The wound ran down the center of his torso, the ragged edges held together by crude stitches.

A new horror flooded Aryn. She was in danger, but in a way she had not imagined. It was not the desire of a man she faced, for the thing before her was no longer human. She tried to free her arm, but he was far too strong.

He grinned. “It takes two hands to fight me, my lady.”

No. She wanted to call out to Grace or to Beltan. They would help her. But he squeezed the breath out of her, and she could not make a sound. His leering visage drew close to hers. She could smell the scent of decay that rose from the gory wound in his chest.

“Your face is pretty,” Leothan hissed. “Too bad you are a monster, my lady. But I feel generous this evening. I will make a whole woman of you.” He reached again for his breeches.

Aryn stared at him. Her fear melted away, and hot anger boiled up in its place. All her life she had endured people like this: people without hearts. All her life she had deferred to them, to avoid upsetting them with her hideousness, her deformity. No more. The anger welled up, thick and crimson. Aryn let it fill her, until she felt light, buoyant, and strong. She locked her eyes on his and spoke the words, trembling with the power of nineteen years of rage.