The keep of fire, p.26
The Keep of Fire, page 26
“What is it?” Daynen said. He tilted his face up, moving it from side to side. “It smells like fire.”
Grace could only nod.
“There’s something over there,” Lirith said, pointing across the burnt area. “Near the edge of the circle. I cannot … see what it is.”
Grace glanced at the witch. Something told her it was not with her eyes that Lirith had been looking. She turned her gaze forward again. Yes, she could see it now—something dark and shapeless lying on the scorched ground.
“I will see what it is,” Meridar said.
Durge glanced at him. “Be careful, Sir Meridar.”
However, the knight had already spurred his mount ahead. The charger pounded across the circle, clouds of ash flying up from its hooves. They watched the knight bring the horse to a halt, dismount, and kneel to examine something. Then he stood and signaled to them with a hand.
By the time they reached the far edge of the circle, Meridar had mounted again. Shandis whickered, her ears back, and Grace glanced down at the shriveled form on the ground. Relief coursed through her, and only then did she realize what she had dreaded she would see. However, the body was not human.
“I think it was a wolf,” Meridar said.
Durge lifted a gloved hand to his chin. “Indeed. But I have never known a wolf to wait for a forest fire to overtake it. Why did it not run?”
“But don’t you see?” a soft voice said. “It wasn’t a forest fire.”
The others turned surprised glances on Aryn. Had she sensed something Lirith had not? But maybe none of them needed magic to know who—no, what—had started this fire. Grace gazed back down at the burnt husk of the wolf, and she thought of the bear—the animal that had burst from the woods to attack Durge and kill Garf. She remembered the way it had snarled madly. And the burnt, blistered patch in its pelt.
A jolt of understanding stabbed her. She drew in a gritty breath and opened her mouth to tell the others what she had remembered and what it meant.
Her words were lost in the bright, high call of a trumpet. The sound drifted among the trees and reverberated across the clearing. Before any of the riders could speak, a man stepped from the shadow between two trees. He was tall, but beyond that Grace could see nothing, for a long brown cloak draped his body, and a green hood hung low over his face.
An oath sounded beside her—Durge—and Grace snapped her head up in time to see a dozen more figures step from the forest to stand on the edge of the circle. All wore cloaks and hoods of forest colors. Here and there Grace saw the hilt of a sword protruding from beneath one of the cloaks.
A small hand clutched at Grace’s. She looked down into Tira’s frightened eyes, then circled an arm around the girl and held her close. Lirith and Aryn cast startled looks at Grace, and Daynen stared forward, silent, his face taut. He did not need eyes or magic to sense the danger.
“We wish no trouble with you,” Durge said. “Let us pass, and none shall be harmed.”
The Embarran sat straight in his saddle, face grim. Meridar’s hand crept toward the hilt of his sword, but Grace knew it was no use. No matter how skilled Durge and Meridar were, they were two against a dozen. And the armed men had them surrounded.
Durge’s eyes flickered to Grace. She caught the message in them: When it begins, ride. Durge nodded to Meridar, then reached for the gigantic sword strapped to his back.
Another sound broke the silence of the barren circle. It was laughter.
“Stay your hand, Sir Durge. It’s been a bad enough day already. I really don’t want to finish it by dancing on the end of your greatsword.”
Durge froze as the figure closest to them stepped forward, raised his hands, and pushed back the green hood. Grace stared, breath suspended, then in a warm rush fear melted into joy. With one swift motion she disentangled herself from Tira, slid from Shandis’s back, and ran forward to throw herself into the arms of a tall, rawboned man with thinning blond hair and a smile like dawn after dark night.
“It’s good to see you again, too, Lady Grace,” Beltan said with a chuckle, and tightened strong arms around her.
39.
“It is not much farther, Your Radiance,” the tall, red-haired man leading Grace’s horse said.
Grace gazed down at him where he walked and sighed. She had thought she had left that title behind leagues ago, but apparently she had been mistaken. The man—no, the knight, she corrected herself, for despite their simple garb he and his companions were all knights of the Order of Malachor—had bowed low when Beltan had spoken her name.
Yet, as she rode, she was less and less certain it was the title and the obeisance that had bothered her, and increasingly sure it was something else. But what?
It feels right to you, Grace. That men bow to you seems only as it should be.
No, the thought was absurd. She was nothing and no one. The day she believed she was truly royalty was the day she drank enough tea of barrow root to turn her brain to jelly and send it running out her ears. She clutched Shandis’s golden mane with one hand, held Tira tight with the other, and let the knight lead her through the silent forest.
Grace hoped they would reach the knights’ camp soon. She ached to tell Beltan about the real purpose for her journey, but he and the majority of the men had gone on ahead to make things ready for the travelers.
“There’s a lot for us to talk about, Grace,” Beltan had said in the clearing, his bright expression falling dim. “But it’s better not to speak of it in this place. We can talk more where it’s safe, and after you’ve rested and eaten.”
He and the others had disappeared back into the trees then, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.
“Come, Your Radiance,” the red-haired knight had said, taking Shandis’s reins in hand. “We must lead the horses by a longer trail than those who walk on foot.”
Two more knights had stepped forward to lead Aryn’s and Lirith’s palfreys. All three of the knights seemed frightfully young—none of them could be more than twenty-five—but she remembered hearing that it was mostly the younger, landless men who were joining the Order of Malachor. For a moment she had been reminded of Garf, but she had forced the thoughts from her mind. This forest was already too damn somber.
“Sir Tarus,” Durge spoke now from atop Blackalock. The Embarran rode alongside Meridar at the rear of the party. “What can you tell us of the burnt circle?”
The red-haired knight who led Grace’s horse glanced back. “You had best ask Sir Beltan of that when we reach our camp, my lord. It was he who discovered the place.”
“What is there to know?” Aryn said in a quiet voice. “It’s dead. Utterly dead.”
The baroness hugged herself with her left arm, and Grace chewed her lip. Had Aryn tried to touch the Weirding in the burnt circle?
Durge gazed at the young woman, then blew a heavy breath through his mustaches. “It was ill fortune to come upon that place so unexpectedly.”
“And yet,” Lirith said in a musing voice, “it was good fortune to come upon Lord Beltan, was it not?”
Durge opened his mouth, but the solemn Embarran seemed to have no reply to that. Lirith’s lips curled in a smoke-red smile, and Grace found herself smiling as well. Only Lirith could manage a jest in a place such as this. Once again Grace was grateful the witch had stolen away with Aryn to come on this journey.
It was a good thing the Malachorian knights were leading the way, for even had Grace walked right past the camp, she would have missed it completely. Tarus brought Shandis to a halt before a thick wall of silver-barked trees that looked to Grace exactly like every other part of this forest. He lifted a pair of fingers to his mouth and let out a soft whistle.
Two shadows separated themselves from the murk beneath a tree and stepped into a shaft of golden light. Grace lifted a hand to her chest, startled. The men were no more than five paces away, but she had not seen them. Their garb blended perfectly with the surrounding woods—although here and there she caught the glint of steel beneath the green-and-brown cloaks. The knights saluted Tarus with a fist against the chest, and the red-haired man returned the gesture.
“They’re waiting for you,” one of the knights said.
Tarus glanced up at Grace. “Come, Your Radiance. Our journey ends just ahead.”
They moved through an arch of trees, and only then did Grace see that there was in fact a fairly broad track leading through the wood. They followed it for no more than a minute before Grace caught the sound of water over stone. The trees parted, and the bright note of a horn pierced the air. Grace stared, and Tarus grinned, displaying crooked but white teeth.
“Welcome to our humble fortress, my lady.”
Grace handed Tira down to the knight, then gazed around as she and the others dismounted. It was not exactly a glen, but the trees were more open there, where a small brook widened and flowed in a frothy cascade over a series of flat rocks. On the ground were a handful of canvas tents, but it was toward the forest canopy that Grace’s eyes were drawn. Tira disentangled herself from Tarus’s big, gentle hands and walked forward, gazing upward with solemn eyes.
Twenty feet above the ground, rope-and-plank walkways stretched between a dozen gigantic trees. Ladders were nailed to the trunks, leading to and from wooden structures tucked among stout branches. Grace opened her mouth, but before she could find words, a tall form parted from a nearby group of knights and strode toward them on long legs.
“Grace, there you are.”
Beltan grinned as he approached, and as always Grace was struck by the way the simple act of smiling could transform the blond knight’s face. Unlike his uncle, King Boreas, Beltan was not a handsome man. He was tall and straight but rangy, with long, white-blond hair far on its way to thinning at the crown. His green eyes were bright but small, and his face—adorned by a sparse yellow mustache that framed either side of his mouth—was broad and plain. However, when he smiled it was like a light shone upon him, concealing in shadow what was jovial but homely, and highlighting what had been hidden, and which was noble and beautiful.
Grace returned the knight’s grin. It was good to see him smile. There had been a time at Calavere when the expression had been all too rare.
“I was beginning to wonder if Sir Tarus had lost you.” Beltan winked at the red-haired knight.
Tarus spread his arms in mock apology. “I was just taking them by the scenic route.”
Beltan lifted a hand to give Grace a half-whispered aside. “Sir Tarus isn’t the brightest fellow, and he hasn’t quite discovered the fact that one tree looks much like another. But he’s pretty to look at, so I keep him around.”
The red-haired knight only smiled, as if he had not heard a word. Grace stifled a laugh.
Lirith drifted forward, holding the hem of her riding gown just above the leaf litter. “Are you certain you and your men are working here?” She raised her eyes to the trees. “To me, this all appears suspiciously similar to fun.”
Tarus scratched the red goatee on his chin, giving the witch a sheepish look. “The tree forts were Sir Beltan’s idea.”
The big knight shrugged. “And which king decreed that work can’t ever be fun?”
Lirith laughed, but then Beltan’s smile faded.
“And there are other reasons for not staying on the ground at night.”
They followed Beltan through the camp to a circle of stumps gathered around a fire pit. Along the way, Grace counted about fifteen men in the camp, and she supposed, from the number of tree structures, that an equal number were out on patrol or standing watch on the camp’s perimeters.
Daynen chattered as Lirith guided him by the elbow, asking what the knights looked like, how many tree forts there were, and other questions the witch was more hard-pressed to answer. Luckily, Tarus came to her side and helped by explaining how the knights had built the encampment. As they reached the circle and sat, Daynen moved on to ply another one of the men with more questions, his face shining. Lirith cast a grateful look at Tarus. The red-haired knight bowed.
“You should think twice before you show me such respect, warrior of Calavan,” Lirith said.
“And why is that, my lady?” Tarus said, straightening.
Lirith tapped a dusky cheek, as if searching for just the right words. “Queen Ivalaine is my … mistress.”
Tarus raised an eyebrow. The expression seemed genuinely startled, but only for a moment, then his grin returned. “I see. And does this mean you’re going to wave your fingers and turn me into a shrub, my lady?”
“Are you not afraid, warrior?”
“Oh, trembling.”
Lirith laughed, but the sound became a sigh, and when she spoke again the playfulness was gone from her voice. “I hope the time does not come when that is the case, warrior of Vathris. Indeed, there are those among your brethren who would believe that time has already come upon us.”
“And among your sisters, my lady.”
Lirith nodded.
Grace watched this exchange with interest. She knew the followers of Vathris tended to mistrust the Witches. But what had Lirith meant? What time did some believe had already come?
Before she could ask, Beltan was there, gesturing for her to sit on one of the stumps and pressing a pewter cup into her hand. Only then did she realize how thirsty she was, and she lifted the cup and drank: cool, spiced wine.
The other travelers joined her in the circle. Soundlessly, Tira clambered into Grace’s lap. Grace’s shock lasted only a moment, then she gathered the girl in close.
She needs you, Grace.
Or was it the other way around?
“What’s your name?” Beltan said in a gentle voice, kneeling before Grace and the child.
Shyly, Tira looked up, then just as quickly bent back over her doll, letting her crimson hair hide her face. Beltan glanced at Grace.
“What happened to her?”
Grace licked her lips. “Fire.”
Beltan stood and made a sharp gesture to Tarus. The young knight nodded and left them. Grace knew they would not be disturbed while they talked.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Beltan? Because of the fires.”
All looked at Aryn. Grace expected to see fear on her face, but instead the baroness’s visage was as smooth and serene as water at twilight.
Beltan paced inside the circle. “I was at our fortress in Galt when we first heard of them. It was two months ago, and I was just getting ready to lead a group of knights on patrol for an exercise. Then we heard that several villages had been burned, two in the northeastern region of Calavan, a few more in the marches of Toloria, beyond Ar-tolor. We thought maybe some of the wildmen who dwell in the Fal Erenn had organized themselves into raiding parties and had managed to ford the Dimduorn. I took thirty knights, and we rode here to set up an encampment and keep watch.”
For the first time since entering the camp, Meridar spoke, his voice hoarse. “But it was not wildmen you found, was it?”
Beltan clenched his jaw, then nodded.
“Have you seen them?” Grace said, surprised at the trembling in her voice. “The krondrim.”
Beltan rubbed his chin. “Krondrim. Yes, I heard an old man use that word to describe them once. But usually they’re just called the Burnt Ones.” He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen them. Just some of the work they do.”
“How long?” Durge said.
Beltan shrugged. “How long have they been coming down from the Fal Erenn? It’s hard to say. Two months, three. Maybe even longer. But we didn’t learn of their existence until a few weeks ago. When they …”
“When they burned a part of the forest just a league from here,” Durge finished.
Beltan turned toward the Embarran, his face hard. “That wasn’t forest, Durge. That was the village of Carnoc.”
It took them all a moment to find their voices again. They had come upon burnt villages before, but in each of them at least some ruins had remained. However, the destruction in the circle had been complete. Only the charred carcass of the animal—which Grace supposed now had been a dog—had remained. She had to tell the others what it meant.
“There was a burnt bear,” she said before she lost the courage.
Beside her Aryn stiffened, and Lirith reached out to grip the young woman’s left hand. Beltan cocked his head, listening.
“It came upon us just a league from Calavere. It …” This was still so hard to speak about. “It killed a friend of ours. The bear had a horrible burn in its pelt. The pain had driven it mad. I thought it must have been caught in a brush fire, but …”
Beltan shook his head. “That’s dark news. From what I’ve seen, they—the Burnt Ones—usually stick to the Dawning Fells. What you’ve said makes it possible that at least a few of them have made it across the highlands of Galt and have crossed into the Fal Sinfath.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “But I suppose in a way that makes sense.”
A frown creased Lirith’s brow. “How does it make sense, Sir Beltan?”
The big knight squatted, picked up a stick, and scratched a vertical line in the dirt. “Here are the Fal Erenn,” he said, then he drew a pair of rough shapes below the line. “And here are the marches of Calavan and Toloria. For the last few months, stories and incidents involving the Burnt Ones have been sparse, and all of them have been confined to these regions”—he pointed to the areas just beneath the mountains—“here, and here.”
“And now?” Durge said.
“Now we’re hearing new stories almost every other day, and they’re coming from”—Beltan hesitated, then circled his entire map—“they’re coming from all over this area.”
“Of course,” Grace murmured, her brain working quickly, piecing together all of the evidence. “It’s the progression in every pandemic. The first incidents are isolated—the infection cycle is so rapid that it kills faster than it can spread. But now the contagion has had time to adapt. It’s not killing its hosts as quickly, and that means the affected area can begin to grow. Only the lack of traveling in this world has kept it from spreading faster.”
