Blood of Mystery (35 page)

Falken still looked skeptical, but he didn’t disagree.

“What happened then?” Grace said, entranced.

“We built a raft and floated down the Fellgrim,” Kel said. “We were nearly to Omberfell when we spied the four knights who were waiting for their brothers from the keep. We waited until they took their armor off to clean it. Without that armor, it was easy enough to jump them, stick swords in them, and dump them in the river. Then I picked my three best men, and we put on their armor while I told the rest of my folk to head in this direction and find a good hiding spot.”

“One of the knights was truly as large as you?” Vani said, openly incredulous.

“Close but not quite, lass.” Kel snorted. “Lucky for me. But still...It was a bit of a tight squeeze. I’m not sure I’ll be siring any more whelps in the near future, if you know what I mean.” He adjusted his breeches with a grimace, and Vani studiously looked away.

Beltan rolled his empty wooden cup in his hands. “So when did the other knights, the ones from Kelcior, finally show up at the meeting place?”

“Only this morning,” Kel said. “They were in a great hurry, so it was easy enough to trick them into thinking we were their brothers, and that I was the leader of the band. We learned quick enough what they were up to. It seems there was this woman they were bent on finding and killing at any cost, and they had reason to believe she might have washed ashore not far from there. If she wasn’t already dead, they wanted to finish the job.”

Vani nodded. “It was a week ago their ship spied us. They might have guessed that we sank, but there was no way they could land to see if you survived, Grace.”

“So they landed in Omberfell and sent a runner to Kelcior for reinforcements to help search for Grace,” Beltan said.

Falken rubbed his chin. “But there were at least a hundred knights on that ship. Why not just dispatch a band of them to go after us?”

Vani shrugged. “Perhaps the ship and its men were needed elsewhere right away.”

It was possible, but Grace knew there was some part of the story they were missing. If the Onyx Knights really wanted her so badly, why not send all the men on the ship after her?

The question would have to wait for later. The horizon was turning to gray, and Grace felt her head drooping.

Falken let out a breath. “Regardless of why the knights acted as they did, we owe you our lives as well as our thanks, King Kel.”

The big man grinned, clearly pleased to hear these words. “And I won’t let you forget your debt. I should have known you’d be tangled up in all of this somehow. Darkness follows you like a cloud follows lightning, Falken Blackhand.” He scratched at the thicket of his beard. “Although your hand is black no more. Or never was, I suppose.”

Falken flexed his silver fingers. His hand was undamaged despite the sword he had deflected with it.

“No, it isn’t.” The bard sighed and looked up. “So what are you going to do now, Kel?”

The king scowled. “I hadn’t thought that far. Wait!” He snapped his fingers. “I know—I’ll ask my witch.”

Falken’s eyes went wide, but before the bard could sputter anything, Kel stood up and bellowed. “Where is Grisla? Somebody bring me my witch!”

A scraggly-looking bush gave itself a shake, and only after a moment did Grace realize it wasn’t a bush at all, but a woman clad in drab tatters.

“I’m right here, Your Obstreperousness,” the witch said in a complaining croak. She looked ancient beyond years. Her back was a gnarled hump, her gray hair lank as wet cobwebs, and her one bulbous eye looked ready to pop right out of her skull.

Falken groaned. “Not you again. What are you doing here?”

The witch hobbled forward and made a mocking bow. “I’m just like a rash, Lord Catastrophe.”

“How so?”

“I’m everywhere you don’t want me to be.”

Falken muttered angry words under his breath, and the crone clucked her tongue.

“Such language, Lord Expletive. You are unkind to an old witch. And after one of my own sisters made that pretty silver hand for you.”

Falken glared at her. “The witch who made this for me was kind and beautiful.”

The crone brushed her withered face. “The young grow old, kind hearts harden, beauty withers. How do you know I’m not she? Perhaps I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

The bard crossed his arms and turned his back. However, Grace could only stare. The crone reminded her strongly of Vayla, the old wisewoman she had met in the village beneath Calavere, and whom she had last seen a year before in the castle’s council chamber. But it was impossible this was the same woman. Calavere was far away. And Vayla had never been quite so...impertinent as this. Besides, Kel had called her Grisla, and it seemed the crone had served the petty king for some time. After all, Falken recognized her. The resemblance had to be a coincidence.

“And what are you staring at, Lady Broken Sword?”

“Nothing,” Grace blurted out of shock. “I was just...that is I...”

The witch snorted and glanced at Falken. “If you don’t mind my saying, she’s a bit dim for a queen. Then again, I suppose wits never were a prerequisite for royalty.” She cast her one eye in a pointed look at Kel.

The king seemed not to notice. “Read your bones for me, witch.”

Grisla squatted and drew a handful of thin, yellowed objects from a leather bag. Grace supposed they were metacarpals— finger bones. Each one was incised with an angular symbol. The crone held the bones between her hands and mumbled some words, then threw them on the ground.

She blew out a breath, lips flapping.

Kel bent close, expression curious. “What is it?”

“A great mess.”

Kel’s visage darkened. “Well, cast them again if the magic’s gone afoul.”

“It’s your brain that’s gone foul, like a joint of meat in the summer sun.” The witch fluttered crooked fingers over the bones. “A mess is what you’ve gotten yourself into. If you go back to Kelcior, you’ll be in terrible danger, and you’ll almost certainly die in a horrible and embarrassing manner.”

The king crossed his arms. “Well, that doesn’t sound promising. What if I stay here in Embarr?”

“Even worse.”

Kel ran a hand through his hair. “Well if I can’t go back, and I can’t stay here, then I suppose I’ll have to go somewhere else.”

The witch rolled her eye. “What a brilliant conclusion, Your Utter Obviousness.”

“Do your bones say where I should go?”

Grisla let out a disgusted snort. “I’m a witch, not a holiday planner. You’ll have to decide for yourself.” She gathered up her bones.

As the others spoke with the king, Grace moved closer to the witch. “They’re runes, aren’t they? The symbols on your bones. You gave one to Travis once, the rune of hope.”

“And does he still have it?”

“The rune, you mean?”

“No, hope.”

Grace thought about that. “I suppose I have hope for him.”

“As do we all,” Grisla muttered, stuffing the bones back in their bag. “As do we all.”

“I never knew it was possible.” Grace gestured to the bag. “I didn’t know witches could use runes. I thought that women can’t wield them.”

Grisla gave her a piercing look. “Can’t wield them? Or aren’t allowed to wield them?”

It was a good point. How many professions had women on Earth been kept from pursuing over the centuries, not because they were incapable of doing them, but simply because men refused to allow them to? Maybe the Runespeakers simply wished to keep their order exclusively male. But what about the reverse?

“It’s true I’ve never seen a woman runespeaker,” she said. “But I’ve never seen a male witch, either.”

Grisla displayed a haphazard collection of teeth in a grin. “Haven’t you, lass? I think you have, though it’s true he couldn’t see you. Not with mortal eyes, at least.”

Grace shivered. “You mean Daynen, don’t you?” She knew the blind boy they had found in the village of Falanor had seen a vision of his own death, a vision that had later come true.

“Another one, you’ll see,” Grisla said, her voice softer now, and again Grace was reminded of the old wisewoman Vayla. “Not a boy this time, but a man freshly made. His talent is strong—as strong as your own. But then, a hammer must be every bit as strong as the anvil it strikes against, no?”

Grace wasn’t sure what that meant. She hugged her knees to her chest, wondering if it could all really be true. “So men can be witches,” she murmured. “And witches can wield runes. But I don’t understand it. They seem so different. Rune magic and the Weirding, I mean.”

Grisla shrugged knobby shoulders. “Sometimes two things that seem different turn out to be the very same thing.”

Grace couldn’t think of a case where that could be true. Or could she? She stared at the witch. “Vayla?” she whispered.

The old crone laughed softly. “Farewell, daughter.” Then she turned and hobbled away, disappearing into the gray light of dawn.

40.

It was late morning of the following day when they reached the port city of Omberfell. They brought their four stolen black chargers to a halt on a scrub-covered ridge south of the city. Below them stretched a colorless patchwork of fields that ended in the rough line of the shore. Beyond that was only ocean, dull and flat as a sheet of crudely forged iron.

The wildman who had guided them grunted and pointed toward the city. Then, without a word, he gathered his mangy furs around himself, dropped to all fours, and scurried away into the underbrush.

“Talkative fellow, wasn’t he?” Beltan said, gazing at the bushes where the wildman had vanished. “I think the only thing he said in the last day was his name. Ghromm.”

Falken glanced at the knight. “Are you sure that was really his name? I thought he was just clearing the feathers out of his throat after swallowing that sparrow in one bite.”

“Good point,” Beltan conceded.

Vani turned her golden eyes on the knight. “Reticence is an admirable quality others would do well to emulate.”

Beltan started to sputter some hot reply, but Grace nudged the flanks of her charger and managed to interpose the beast between the knight and the
T’gol
. “I wish we could have given Ghromm something,” she said to Falken. “As a reward for leading us here.”

The bard shook beads of dew from his blue cloak. “Gold doesn’t mean anything to one like him. King Kel will know how to reward him.”

No doubt with scraps of meat, Grace imagined. The day before, when they took their leave of the petty king, Kel had thrown bits of rancid venison to the wildman and had instructed him to guide them to Omberfell by unseen ways.

“There could be more of these dark knights around,” Kel said in his gruff voice. “And there are other dangers that lurk about these moors.”

Grace thought of the
feydrim
they had encountered in Seawatch, and she didn’t doubt the king.

“What are you going to do now, Your Majesty?” she asked Kel, as they were about to depart.

The king scratched his bushy red beard. “My witch says I can’t stay here, and that I can’t go back to Kelcior, either. So I suppose I’ll just have to go somewhere else.”

“And where will that be?” Falken asked.

Kel let out a booming laugh and slapped him on the back. “You think I’d tell you, my good Grim Bard? Trouble follows you as closely as dingleberries follow a bull.”

Falken winced at the analogy, but Grace found herself smiling. She liked the big, boisterous king, and she hoped she would see him again someday. And not just him. However, even though she looked around as they mounted the black chargers, she saw no sign of the hag Grisla anywhere.

Kel’s wildman had shunned roads, instead leading them along winding game paths and directly over heath and down, avoiding all signs of habitation as they went. Grace didn’t know if it was due to the wildman’s skill or to luck, but they encountered no people as they went, and no creatures larger than the few birds the wildman occasionally caught and killed with his bare hands and ate raw.

Now the wildman had left to hurry after King Kel. And Grace knew there was only one direction she and the others could go. To the city, and north across the sea.

“Let’s get going,” Beltan said. “There’s no use hanging out here in the cold, not when there’s ale so close at hand.”

“How do you know that?” Grace asked him, curious.

The blond knight shrugged. “Cities have taverns. Taverns have ale. It’s a pattern I’ve noticed over the years.”

Falken adjusted the rags that concealed his silver hand. “Be on your guard, everyone. After what happened in Seawatch, I think we’ve learned we can’t trust anybody in Embarr.”

It was hard to get a good view of Omberfell until they were close. A haze obscured the air, muting all colors to shades of gray, although whether it was from fog or smoke Grace couldn’t tell. The city stood on the banks of an estuary, where the River Fellgrim oozed into the Winter Sea. Beyond, Grace could just glimpse rows of docks and the tall masts of ships, rising like a leafless forest in the fog.

As they drew near the city’s walls, they merged with a steady stream of people moving toward the gates, no doubt coming for reasons of trade. To Grace’s relief, the people didn’t appear any more grimy or somber than common folk in Calavan or Toloria. She wasn’t certain what she had been expecting—perhaps the same faces of despair she had seen in Galspeth.

Though the main road leading to the gate was crowded, things moved with surprising efficiency. Of course, this was Embarr. Even the average peasant here was likely to be as much an engineer as a farmer. Logic and order were revered, and the dreary landscape certainly wasn’t likely to inspire flights of fancy in the general populace.

They took their place in the line of people waiting to have their goods examined before passing through the archway. However, a stern-looking guard gestured at them, and for a moment panic clutched Grace’s heart. Their warhorses towered over the wooden carts and shaggy ponies, making the guard suspicious of them; they should have abandoned the chargers outside the city.

There was nothing to do but obey the guardsman. They guided their mounts toward him.

“There is no need for you and your retainers to wait in that queue, my lady,” the guard said. “You may enter here at once.” He gestured to a smaller side gate.

Grace could only stare. However, Falken smoothly interposed himself.

“The countess thanks you. She is weary from her journey and looks forward to her rest.”

“Are you guests of the duke?”

“Not yet,” Falken said. “My lady comes of her own accord to seek an audience.”

“You’ll be wanting to find the Sign of the Silver Grail, then,” the guard said.

Falken nodded. “It’s the finest lodging in the city, is it not?”

“That it is, my lord. All nobles who journey to Omberfell stay there until the duke summons them to the keep.”

The guard told Falken where they would find the Silver Grail, and Falken thanked him with a coin. As they rode through the side gate, Grace let out the breath she had been holding. Now that she thought about it, it wasn’t a great mystery that the guard had mistaken them for nobles. In the Dominions, only the nobility could afford to keep horses like the chargers they rode.

The Silver Grail was situated near the center of the city, not far from the stone fortress that rose on a hill above Omberfell. No doubt that was the duke’s keep. To Grace’s relief, the banners that flew from the towers of the fortress were purple, not crimson.

Slate-roofed houses crowded along either side of the narrow cobblestone streets down which they guided their horses. The city looked much like others Grace had seen in the Dominions. However, as she looked closer, she noticed that everything appeared to be remarkably clean and ordered. The streets were free of debris, and frequent iron grates—as well as the general lack of streams of raw sewage—indicated some sort of sewer system had been installed. Although drab in color, the houses were all neatly kept, their doors painted brown or a deep moss green. The people who passed by seemed generally sober, but not furtive or fearful, and they neither dawdled nor hurried as they moved about their tasks.

Falken guided his horse close to Vani’s. “Are there any signs of the Onyx Knights around?”

“I see no indication of their presence,” the
T’gol
said, scanning the streets. “If the knights had laid siege to this city, I would expect signs of strife. However, all seems to be in good order.”

Beltan let out a snort. “Everything seems boring, you mean. No offense to Durge, but I had forgotten how dull and predictable Embarrans can be.”

“At least the trains probably run on time,” Grace said with a smile.

They reached the street the guard had described and saw a sign painted with a cup that was not so much silver as putty gray. However, the three-storied edifice was built solidly of stone, and despite the lateness of the year pansies bloomed in the flower boxes mounted beneath each of the building’s windows.

As they entered the inn, a white-haired man hurried toward them and bowed low. Once Falken told their story, the proprietor, whose name was Farrand, was more than happy to accommodate the traveling countess—who for delicate political circumstances could not reveal her name until she was able to see the duke.

Again Grace was struck by the fact that common folk didn’t ask questions of nobles. Farrand accepted the bard’s fantastical tale without so much as an eye blink. He instructed a boy to see to their horses, then led them to their rooms on the third floor. These were spacious and clean, if spare in their appointments. Grace was beginning to think Beltan was right about the dull nature of Embarrans. Didn’t these people know how to have fun? Then again, despite his serious nature, Durge was anything but boring.

Maybe Durge is an exception, Grace. It could be he was the
flighty one in his family.

This thought made her laugh aloud, but when the others stared at her, she only responded with a smile. It made her feel good to think of the stolid Embarran knight.

After they stowed their few things and washed the grime of travel from their hands and faces, they headed down to the inn’s common room to find food. And some ale for Beltan.

The midday meal was long over, and the common room was all but empty at that hour. However, Farrand was happy to see to their needs. They sat at a table in a private corner and ate a rich meal of pheasant pie, hare stewed with herbs, and dried apricots in cream. Grace wondered how much gold this would cost, and if it would leave them enough to buy passage on a ship. However, she was supposed to be a countess, and no doubt it would draw suspicion if she didn’t eat like one.

After servants cleared away the dishes, they drank the warm, gritty cups of ale Beltan ordered for all of them.

“It tastes like boar’s vomit,” Vani said after taking a sip.

She pushed the mug aside. Beltan quickly drew it toward him; his own was already empty.

“So what do we do now?” Grace said to Falken.

The bard picked at the bandages that concealed his silver hand. “I suppose I should go down to the docks and start looking for a ship to take us across the Winter Sea. I had hoped to get to Omberfell before the first of Valdath, but we’ve missed that by a week now.”

Grace hadn’t realized so much time had already passed. Midwinter’s Day was less than a month away. “Is that a problem?”

“It might be. The farther we are into Valdath, the more ice there will be floating down on the currents from the north. If there’s too much, no captain will be willing to risk taking us across the sea.”

“What if we can get a ship to take us across the sea, Falken?” Grace said. The closest servants were on the other side of the common room, and she kept her voice low. “How do we know the Onyx Knights won’t just follow us again?”

“They can’t know we’re here,” Beltan said, wiping foam from his mustache. “There’s no way they could follow us.”

Vani gave him a sharp look. “They followed us on the
Fate
Runner.
”

“That’s right,” Falken said. “And I still wonder how it was they knew we were on that ship.”

Grace reached up, feeling her necklace beneath the bodice of her gown. “It was the girl in Galspeth, the one at the tailor’s shop. She was a member of the Raven Cult—I’m sure of it, after what we saw in Seawatch. And she saw my necklace. The knights must have questioned her. Or maybe they’re in league with the Pale King, just like the Raven Cult is. Maybe the knights are like holy warriors for the cult.”

“Maybe,” Falken said, his tone skeptical. “But if the Onyx Knights serve the Pale King, why did they kill the
feydrim
at Seawatch? That doesn’t make sense.”

Beltan set down the empty ale cup. “That’s not the only thing that doesn’t make sense. We know the Onyx Knights want to kill you, Grace. But you heard that old countess at Seawatch. She said the Pale King wants you alive for some reason. So how can the knights and the Pale King be on the same side?”

A shudder ran through Grace. What could the Pale King want with her? She was Ulther’s sole heir. Didn’t that make her Berash’s mortal enemy? That was what the legends said.

“I’m not sure what it all means,” Falken said. “But I think it’s more important than ever that we find the shards of Fellring. And that means we’ve got to find a ship to—”

Soft, musical laughter rose on the air. The sound came from a dim alcove Grace hadn’t noticed before. She strained her eyes and thought she saw a shadowy figure sitting within.

Beltan reached for the knife at his belt. Vani was already on her feet.

“Show yourself,” the
T’gol
said.

“As you wish, my lady,” said a voice as clear as the laughter. “But I beg you not to snap my neck, at least not before you’ve heard my excuse for eavesdropping.”

A man stepped from the alcove. He was beautiful.

Tall and slender, the stranger was clad all in soft shades of gray, and he moved lithely, like a dancer. His shoulder-length hair was pure silver, but the color had to be premature, for by the smoothness of his face he was no older than Grace. His features were fine, even delicate, and his eyes were a vivid green flecked with gold, like emeralds in sunlight.

“Who are you?” Beltan growled. “And why were you listening to us?”

“I suppose I can’t claim to be a friend, now can I?” the man said. “But I believe I can help you all the same. I’ll tell you right off that you’ll never be able to hire a ship to take you across the Winter Sea. And as for why I was listening...” He shrugged. “That was quite by accident. I had simply retired to this quiet alcove to doze after dinner. Then I woke to the sound of your voices. And I hope you’ll forgive me that I didn’t make myself known at once. But you were all saying such fascinating things...”

Grace cast a startled look at Falken. The man had heard everything they said. All the same, for some reason she didn’t feel afraid. There was something about the other—his voice, or perhaps his striking eyes—that seemed almost familiar to her. Had she seen him somewhere before?