The Gates of Winter (34 page)

“Every part of this keep—every stone and every beam—has been bound with runes of power,” the old runespeaker said. “Great magic yet abides here.”

So Falken had said, but how could they awaken that magic to help them? Grace fingered the bound rune in her pocket. If it was really a key, then where was the keyhole it fit? So far she had seen nothing, but surely they would find it as they cleaned out the keep.

By evening, the keep's courtyard had been cleared, and in the barracks the men had swept away a foot of dirt to find solid stone floors beneath. They used the canvas from the tents to fashion temporary roofs, while a corral for the horses had been built outside the keep from freshly felled duskneedle trees.

That night, as stars shone in the sky, they gathered around a great bonfire, and the last casks of wine—which had been saved for just this occasion—were all tapped so that every man and woman could have a cup or two. Some of the men had brought drums and flutes, and they played boisterous music, while others stomped and clapped their hands and a bold few broke into a wild dance.

Grace sat on a log bench on the edge of the firelight, content to watch rather than join in, while Tira slept soundly in her arms. A great whoop rose from the men when a number of the women—the Spiders Samatha and Karthi, and most of the younger witches—picked up the hems of their skirts and joined in the dance. Lursa laughed, her cheeks bright from the fire and exertion, as one of the Calavaner knights whirled her around in strong arms. Grace couldn't help laughing herself. The Witches and the Warriors were supposed to be enemies, but she would never have known it looking at the dancers.

“Do you think it's a good idea to light so large a bonfire, Your Majesty?” said a gloomy voice beside her.

Grace didn't know when Durge had sat down on the log; his charcoal gray tunic blended with the gloom.

“The night's cold,” she said. “The fire keeps them warm.”

“And the dancing?”

She smiled. “That too. Among other things.”

All of the ladies had found a partner in the dance. Lursa was still laughing, her plain face made pretty with mirth, and the knight's eyes were bright with a light that came not just from the fire. Senrael stood not far off, glaring at the couple. Lursa was going to have to be careful if she wanted to remain the coven's Maiden. Then again, there were a few younger witches in the coven who would do just fine. Grace hoped Lursa did what she wanted.

Durge looked back over his shoulder, into the darkness. “The Rune Gate lies but three leagues from here as the raven flies, on the other side of Shadowsdeep. His spies will see the fire. The Pale King will know we've come.”

“Good,” Grace said, surprised to realize she meant it. “I want him to know I'm here. I want him to be afraid.” She gripped the hilt of Fellring, belted as always at her hip. “Maybe he'll think twice before he forces the Rune Gate open again.”

Durge shook his head. “He will come. Once the last rune sealing it breaks, the Rune Gate will open, and all the hordes of the Pale King will be upon us.”

“That's one thing I don't understand,” said a clear tenor, and they looked up to see Master Graedin approaching, along with All-master Oragien. “How is it we've already encountered
feydrim
and wraithlings if the Rune Gate is still shut?”

Grace had actually been thinking about that one for a while. They knew the Pale King had managed to get a few wraithlings to Earth, using Gelthisar to send them through the crack between the worlds—the gap Travis had inadvertently created when he traveled back in time to Castle City and met Jack Graystone. However, Grace doubted the Stone of Ice had allowed Berash to get his minions through the Rune Gate, and they couldn't sail the Winter Sea. The fairy ship had navigated the roiling, icy waters around the northern shores of Imbrifale, but Grace doubted any mundane ship could manage that feat. That meant the Pale King's slaves must have come through the mountains.

She looked up at Graedin. “Falken told me that the Ironfang Mountains, which border Imbrifale, were woven with perilous illusions by witches long ago.”

“That's so,” Oragien said. “What's more, the Runelords of old spoke the rune
Fal
over and over, raising the Fal Threndur to great heights and filling them with treacherous chasms. They make a strong prison around Imbrifale.”

Grace snapped her fingers. “Right, but no matter how strong it is, no prison is perfect. Say the odds of getting through the Ironfang Mountains, with all their chasms and illusions, were one in a hundred. If the Pale King threw a thousand
feydrim
at the mountains, then ten would make it through. That could explain the creatures we've seen.”

“But we've seen hundreds of
feydrim
over the course of the last year,” Durge said.

Despite her proximity to the bonfire, a chill gripped Grace. She was a scientist; she knew numbers couldn't lie, and her mind couldn't help doing the math.

“That would mean there are thousands of
feydrim
within Imbrifale,” Graedin said, looking ill.

Grace shook her head. “No, tens of thousands.”

“You cannot know that for certain, Your Majesty,” Oragien said, though his troubled eyes belied his reassuring tone.

However, he was right. They didn't know for certain how great the Pale King's army was. Maybe the odds of getting through the Fal Threndur were not so high as she thought, which meant the Pale King's forces would number far less. She started to speak these ideas, but her words were lost as the bright call of a horn echoed off the cliffs. The music and dancing ceased, and warriors went scrambling for their swords.

Before Grace could move, Samatha was there. “A band of knights in black armor ride up the valley,” the Spider said. “There are about thirty of them—at least that we can see in the darkness.”

Master Graedin shot Grace a frightened look. “Maybe it's just a small band then. A patrol like we saw in Embarr.”

Or maybe it's the vanguard for a larger force,
Grace thought.
Maybe Kelephon has found you after all.

“What should we do?” she said, looking at Durge.

“We cannot hope to hide from them, Your Majesty. Our fire will have given us away. They know we're here.”

“Then I'll talk to them.”

“You might want to fight first and talk later, Your Majesty,” Samatha said, hand on the dagger tucked into her belt.

Despite her fear, Grace gave the Spider a sharp smile. “I find people are much harder to talk to you when their heads aren't attached to their bodies. And I need to find out what these knights are up to.” She stood and handed Tira to Master Graedin. “Keep watch over her.”

Tira sleepily coiled her arms around his neck. The young runespeaker nodded.

Grace moved swiftly through the camp, Durge, Samatha, and Oragien beside her.

“All-master,” she said to Oragien, gently but firmly, “you should stay behind.”

The elderly man shook his head. “It was ever the purpose of the Runelords to serve and protect the lords of Malachor, Your Majesty. We Runespeakers trace our lineage back to the Runelords, just as you trace yours to Ulther's heirs.”

Grace's instinct was to order him to stay back. Instead she gritted her teeth and nodded. Warriors rushed around her, falling into place as Paladus barked orders. Grace reached the entrance of the courtyard. There was no gate; it had rotted away long ago. Dim shapes moved in the valley below, coming closer, like black moths drawn to the light of their bonfire.

Sir Tarus approached. “Should we attack, Your Majesty? We have every advantage—numbers, a fortification, the slope.”

She shook her head. “I want to talk to them. I have to find out what Kelephon is planning. If the Onyx Knights are massing in the valley, we could be fighting a battle on both sides.”

“That would cut us off from King Boreas and the Warriors of Vathris,” Durge rumbled. “We could not win such a battle.”

“Here they come,” Samatha said. “There still must be only the thirty of them. Were there more, Aldeth and the others would have seen them by now and warned us.”

Unless the Spiders had been captured. Grace stepped forward, chin high, as the troop of Onyx Knights brought their black horses to a halt a dozen paces away. Both men and beasts blended with the night, like things of shadow.

“You are not welcome here,” Grace called out.

“Oh, I beg to differ, Your Majesty,” said a booming voice. One of the closest knights climbed down from his horse and stalked forward, spurs clinking. He was a huge man—their leader by the three stars on his breastplate. “I think we're welcome here indeed. In fact, I imagine you'll be breaking out the ale for us. You do have ale, don't you?”

Oragien raised his gnarled staff.
“Lir!”

Silver light rent the darkness to tatters. The massive knight halted, raising a gloved hand before his visor. His black armor was scratched and dented, and not all of the pieces seemed to match.

“Blast it, runespeaker,” the knight growled. “Now I can't see a thing. How am I supposed to drink my ale if I can't find the cup?”

As Grace stared in wonderment, a shapeless figure appeared from behind the knights and shambled forward on sticklike limbs.

“Well, don't just stand there like a village idiot,” the old hag said, holding out bony arms. “Give old Grisla a hug.”

“Get back, witch,” roared the enormous knight in black. He tugged off his helm, releasing a wild profusion of red hair. His bushy beard parted in a grin. “If anyone's doing any hugging of beautiful queens, it's going to be me.”

Before Grace could move, King Kel caught her in meaty arms, picked her up off the ground, and proceeded to crush her to jelly while his booming laughter filled the night.

37.

Deirdre Falling Hawk stared out the window of her flat as rain drizzled down from a gray London sky.

“Where are you?” she murmured. “Whoever you are, whatever it is you want, I need you to contact me. Please.”

Below, a black car sped down the street. Her heart leaped in her chest. Then, with a splash of rainwater, the car swung around a corner and vanished. She sighed, then sat again at the table. The computer the Seekers had given her whirred quietly. Emerald words pulsed on the screen.

What do you want to do?

“I wish I knew,” she muttered, picking up the photograph of the clay tablet. The photograph that had mysteriously appeared on her desk after someone had broken into the office she shared with Anders. Her eyes blurred, and the symbols in the photo rearranged themselves into new patterns, ones she felt she could almost understand.

Only she couldn't. She had some skill with Old English, and she knew a fair amount of Gaelic, but she was no expert on lost languages. That was why she had given a copy of the photograph to Paul Jacoby. He had the reputation as one of the finest classical archaeologists in the Seekers, and he had made a specialty of ancient writing systems.

Luckily, Jacoby had been so thrilled to see the photograph, he had been more than willing to swear an oath on the Book not to tell anyone else about it. Deirdre hoped she could trust him; she thought she could. Then again, she wasn't certain if she could trust anyone right now.

Or maybe it's you that can't be trusted, Deirdre.

Was that really why Nakamura had assigned Anders to be her new partner? After all, it provided a convenient way to keep a former security guard close to her at all times. And gods knew Anders had a way of showing up at her door at odd hours. She had left the Charterhouse early yesterday, grumbling something about having a headache, and he had shown up at her door at half past six with a bottle of porter and another of aspirin.

“If one doesn't solve the problem, the other will,” he had said in his incessantly cheery voice.

Every instinct in her had told her to send him away, but it was hard to believe he was really here to spy on her. She had opened the door, and they had sat on the couch—she in baggy sweats, he in the designer suit he had worn to work—watching reruns of
Are You Being Served?
While she wasn't certain if she had the porter or aspirin to thank, by the time Anders had gone, her headache had as well.

It was only after he left that she noticed her computer had been switched on the whole time, sitting on the table next to the folder with the photograph. Had he seen what she was working on? He would have had a few moments to himself while she poured the beer in the kitchen.

Stop it, Deirdre. Farr's the renegade, not you. He's the one they're keeping watch for.

“I wish you were here, Hadrian,” she said, setting down the photograph. “You'd know what to do.”

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, then fell to her lap. There was no point in doing another search. She had tried every possible combination of keywords, but even with Echelon 7 access she had found nothing. Which left only one possibility.

The tablet was part of the Philosophers' private collection.

There was no other answer. Echelon 7 granted her access to everything in the Seekers' catalogues—everything except what the Philosophers kept secret for themselves. Which meant whoever had left the photograph on her desk had access to the vaults of the Philosophers. And that could only mean . . .

“You're a Philosopher yourself,” she said, touching the keyboard.

Of course, Deirdre had no evidence that the individual who had spoken to her using her computer was one with the person who had placed the photograph of the tablet on her desk. However, she couldn't believe otherwise.

I know you're out there
, she typed on the computer.
I know you're watching me. What do you want me to do?

She hit Enter, and the computer let out a chime.

Error. Search request not understood.

Deirdre slammed the computer shut, shoved it into her satchel, and stood. It was long past time to get to work.

She was drenched by the time she reached the Charterhouse.

“Good morning, Miss Falling Hawk,” Madeleine said. She paused in her typing, peering at the wall clock. “Wait just a moment—there we go. Good afternoon.”

Deirdre winced. “I sent an e-mail. I said I was working at home.”

“E-mail is for barbarians,” Madeleine said. “Where is your umbrella?”

“I don't have one.”

The receptionist made a clucking sound. No doubt only barbarians failed to purchase umbrellas when in London.

Deirdre headed down to her office, expecting to find Anders pounding away at his computer, but he wasn't there. Most likely he was out at lunch. It was just as well. This way she could have a bit of quiet to get some work done, though she would miss his coffee. She lifted the pot, but it was cold and empty.

Settling for a glass of water, she sat at her desk, opened her computer, and brought up the files concerning the Thomas Atwater case.

Atwater was the journeyman who, in 1619, had broken the Seventh Desideratum by returning to a former place of employment that the Philosophers had forbidden him to enter. However, as far as she could tell, there was no record of any punitive action. In fact, according to the fragmented accounts she had managed to find, Atwater had quickly risen in the Seekers, becoming a master before his untimely death at the age of twenty-nine.

Deirdre hadn't been particularly excited when Nakamura had assigned her this task, but perhaps he was onto something. Had the Philosophers evolved in their application of the Desiderata over the centuries? If so, understanding the various historical precedents might give the Seekers some power to argue interpretation of the Desiderata with the Philosophers, and that could give them more flexibility in their investigations.

However, over the last couple of days, Deirdre had run into something of a brick wall with regard to the research. There was nothing in the old records that indicated why Atwater hadn't been punished for his infraction. She performed several more searches as the clock ticked away the silent minutes, but to no avail.

She was still staring at the screen when Anders stepped into the office. On reflex she slammed the computer shut. He seemed not to notice, and he shot her a broad smile.

“Afternoon, mate. Glad to see you made it in. Is the head better?”

“Yes,” she said, then winced and held a hand to her forehead.

He clucked his tongue and moved to the coffeepot. “Looks like you mean no. We'd better get some caffeine in your system. I imagine the Seekers want your mind in tip-top shape.”

Once again she chided herself for being so suspicious of Anders. He had been nothing but friendly and helpful these last days. She opened her computer, and when he brought her a steaming mug, she accepted it with a genuine smile.

By six o'clock, the effects of the coffee had worn off. Deirdre had followed a few more leads in the Thomas Atwater case, but all of them had been dead ends. As interesting as this case was, she was going to have to move on. The fact was, she would probably never know the full story of Atwater's transgression and why the Philosophers hadn't punished him.

Anders put on his jacket and announced he was off to the pub for a pint with some friends. He invited her along, but she declined. After Anders headed out, Deirdre began packing up her own gear. All she wanted was to spend a quiet evening on the couch in front of the television.

A knock on the door startled her. She looked up and saw Paul Jacoby standing in the open doorway.

“Hello, Deirdre. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course, Paul.” She noticed the folder in his hands. “Do you have something for me?”

“I think so.” He hurried into the room. Jacoby was a small, balding, bespectacled man of around fifty. His graying mustache, crooked bow tie, and worn corduroy coat lent him a comfortable, scholarly look. He fumbled with the folders, pulling out papers and setting them on her desk. “This is fascinating. Quite extraordinary. In fact, I've never seen anything like it.”

“Nothing at all?” Deirdre said, her hopes falling.

“Oh, I don't mean this part, of course.” He pointed at the photograph of the clay tablet. “The inscription at the top here is clearly written in Linear A.”

“Linear A?”

“It's one of the earliest writing systems we know of. It was developed by the Minoan civilization that arose on Crete about three thousand years ago, and it was used to write an early form of Greek. This is a nice example of it. However, it's this inscription that astounds me.” He pointed to the runelike symbols on the bottom half of the tablet. “I've never seen writing like this before. I did a full search of the linguistic databases, but there was no match. These symbols are of utterly unknown origin. There is nothing else like them.”

Deirdre touched the silver ring on her hand. What would Jacoby think if he knew those same symbols were engraved inside the ring, as well as on the old keystone in the photo she found—the keystone taken from the building that would one day house Surrender Dorothy?

“Can you read the lower inscription?”

Jacoby shook his head. “No, though I might be able to in time. Whoever made this tablet wrote the same inscription twice, in two different writing systems. I was able to translate the passage written in Linear A.” He fumbled with more papers. “Here we go. Mind you, this is only my preliminary translation. I'll need time to refine it. But in general, it reads, ‘Forget not the Sleeping Ones. In their blood lies the key.' ”

Deirdre gripped the edge of the desk to keep from staggering, hoping Jacoby—focused as he was on the papers—didn't notice her reaction. According to the report she had read, traces of blood had been found on the keystone. Blood with otherworldly origins. But what did it mean? And who were the Sleeping Ones?

Jacoby was still talking excitedly. “You don't have access to the original tablet, do you? It would help enormously to get chemical composition data to help place its geographic origin.” He flipped back to the photograph and brushed a finger over the lower inscription. “In a way, as different as it is, the two languages appear not entirely unrelated. I can't be certain, but my supposition is that you could actually derive Linear A from this lower language. That would be exciting news. We believed Linear A was the oldest writing system in the Aegean region, but it may be that another system preceded it.”

Deirdre took the folder and closed it, forcing her hands not to tremble. “Thanks, Paul. You've been a big help.”

He smiled and adjusted his glasses. “You're quite welcome, Deirdre. And I trust you'll be so kind as to inform me if you find any more examples of this new writing system. We'll need more samples if we're to decode it.”

“Of course,” she said, hardly hearing her own words.

Jacoby nodded and left the room. Deirdre stared at the folder in her hands. An idea buzzed like a bee in her brain, insistent, but too swift to catch hold of.

“So what was that all about?” said a smoky voice.

Deirdre turned around. Sasha stood in the doorway. She wore stirrup pants and a tweed jacket with elbow patches. All she needed were jodhpurs and a riding crop to complete the faux jockey look.

Deirdre sighed. “Sasha. You startled me.”

Sasha sauntered into the room. “It's unusual to see Paul Jacoby over here.” She ran long fingers through a bouquet of lilies Anders had brought in and bent down to smell them.

“I had asked a small favor of him,” Deirdre said, not sure how much she should say. It was just Sasha. Then again, Sasha seemed to know more about what was going on in the Seekers than Deirdre ever did.

Sasha looked up from the flowers. “Paul Jacoby is a specialist in linguistics, right? Only I thought you were researching historical violations of the Desiderata.”

“It's a little side project.”

Sasha gave her a sharp look. “I thought as much. You have a sneaky look about you.”

“I do not,” Deirdre said, crossing her arms, hunching her shoulders, and taking a step back. Belatedly, she realized that probably made her look even sneakier.

“Be careful, Deirdre,” Sasha said, wagging a finger at her.

“Be careful of what?”

“I don't know. I think . . .” Sasha cast a glance at the open door. “All I know is they keep watch, all right?”

A shiver ran up Deirdre's spine. “Who's keeping watch? Do you mean Anders? Is that why they assigned him as my new partner—to keep watch in case Farr contacts me?”

Sasha shook her head. “I don't know, and I don't intend to know. And if you're a smart girl like I think you are, Deirdre, you won't start turning up stones that are better left untouched. I've learned it's best to keep your curiosity outside of the Seekers, no matter the access number on your ID card.”

Deirdre didn't know how to respond to that. Sasha was attaché to some pretty high-up people in the Seekers. What did she know that Deirdre didn't? Before she could ask, Sasha headed to the door, then glanced back over her shoulder.

“I love you, Deirdre, and I don't want you to come to harm. So be a good girl. I mean it.”

Then Sasha was gone.

An hour later, Deirdre stumbled through the door of her flat, cold and drenched once again. Maybe Madeleine was right about the whole umbrella thing. She shucked off her wet clothes and spent the next twenty minutes under a hot shower. As she toweled off, she thought again about what Sasha had said, only it didn't make any more sense than it did the first time around. Besides, Deirdre had other matters on her mind.

Forget not the Sleeping Ones. In their blood lies the key.

Only the key to what? The inscription was important, Deirdre was sure of it. But how? Blood had been found on the old keystone—blood with a DNA signature similar to Glinda's and the other denizens of Surrender Dorothy. Fairy blood.

Connections sizzled—that was it. Travis and Grace had used the blood of the fairy they rescued from Duratek to activate the gate artifact and step through to the world AU-3. Could it be possible the keystone was similar in nature to the gate? Was it part of a doorway—not a door to another room, but one to another world? Maybe. But what did that have to do with anything she was working on now?