The keep of fire, p.27
The Keep of Fire, page 27
She looked up and saw the others staring at her.
Durge shook his head. “What does it mean, my lady?”
“It means,” Beltan said, setting down the stick and standing, “that the Burnt Ones—the krondrim—are on the move.”
“But why?” Lirith said. “What do they want?”
No one had an answer to that. The silence of the forest settled over them. Grace drew in a deep breath. It was time to finish this.
“Beltan,” she said in a low voice, “there’s more.”
She wasn’t sure how he knew. Maybe it was something about the tone of her voice or the expression on her face. Or maybe it was something else, some thought she projected. Regardless of what it was, the blond knight met her eyes.
“It’s Travis Wilder,” he said. “Isn’t it?”
She could do no more than give a stiff nod. Beltan knelt before her, reaching around Tira to lay big hands on Grace’s shoulders, his eyes hard as flint.
“What’s happened to him, my lady? You must tell me.”
At last air rushed into her lungs, and she was able to speak. In dry, emotionless words she explained the dream, the vision, and the purpose of her journey. She was dimly aware that she had told none of this to Meridar. However, if the knight was angry he did not show it. He still stared at the map Beltan had drawn in the dirt.
When she was finished, Beltan stood.
“It is not far from here to the bridge over the Dimduorn,” the knight said. “We can cross into Toloria tonight, then be to Ar-tolor before this time tomorrow.”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m coming with you,” the blond knight said.
40.
Travis was on fire.
The world should have been brilliant with the flames, but instead it was dark and suffocating. Hot, black fabric swaddled him, tangling around his limbs. The place seemed a tomb—confined and lightless, walled in stone. How had he gotten there?
The hands. Yes, that was it. The hands had reached out of the darkness, batting at him, tearing off his clothes so that he was naked once again. They had dragged him through swirling murk, jostling his body cruelly, piercing his flesh with fiery needles and sinking them deep into the joints between his bones. Then the motion had ceased, and he had been here, the walls compacting the gloom against him. The hands had wrapped him in a shroud of shadow, and the flames had risen up to lick at him.
Did they think he was dead? They had set him on a funeral pyre. He had to shout, to let them know they had made a terrible mistake, but the heat fused his jaw shut, melted bone and snapped tendons. They were burning him alive.
Master Wilder?
The roaring voice of the flames phased into words.
Master Wilder, can you hear me? Try to move your head if you can understand what I am saying.
The voice was kind yet stern. Travis wanted to obey, but molten bands encircled his body, paralyzing him.
Do you know what ailment afflicts him?
This voice was different from the first. Smoother and more sibilant, but sharper somehow.
I am not certain. But it is a fierce fever that has seized his body. Master Eriaun has spoken many runes of cooling over him, but I fear they have had little if any effect.
Is it the fire sickness, then?
By Olrig! Do not speak such a thing. How could it be such when he comes from so great a distance?
Forgive me, All-master. It is only that I have heard it said it begins this way. Yet you are right, of course. It is impossible the sickness could have reached so far as the place from which he came.
The soft voice was contrite, yet somehow this made it all the more damning. The kinder one—the one called All-master—answered with only a grunt.
Travis knew he had to speak, to tell them they were wrong, that the sickness they spoke of had indeed reached his world. He tried to open his eyes, only he wasn’t certain if he had done it. Then, like red dawn, a brightness stabbed into his skull. He recoiled, sinking back into darkness. However, just before the light vanished, he thought he saw a shadow against it. No, not a shadow, but a man with keen blue eyes and a white beard. Jack? Was it Jack come to put out the flames?
The voices were receding now.
Master Wilder!
It is no use, All-master. He cannot hear you.
No, you are wrong, Master Larad. Did you not see? He opened his eyes—for only a moment, yes, but he did.
If you say it, then it is—
The voices dissipated, smoke before a wind, and the roar rose again around him.
It was sometime later that he was aware of waking. He lay still, listening, but there was no sound, and the silence was like a balm for his shriveled soul. Perhaps the flames had done their work. However, if this was death, it was certainly better than dying. The tomb was cooler now, filled with silvery light.
He heard a rustling sound. Travis turned his head to one side. That he could see impinged upon him only after a moment, for he did not remember opening his eyes.
He could not see much. Even this soft illumination drove shards of glass into the backs of his eyes. The tomb was mostly a gray blur, although Travis could make out what might be stone walls, and he sensed that he was lying down on some sort of bed or bier. He blinked, and one more object came into focus.
At first Travis wondered if the man was one of the two speakers he had heard earlier, then something told him this was not so. The man seemed young. His face was broad, homely, and beardless, and even sitting he seemed short, although his arms and shoulders looked powerful. The man wore a robe of drab brown, and for some reason that struck Travis as wrong. Shouldn’t the robe have been gray?
The man smiled—a grotesque expression, yet not frightening. He must have seen Travis’s movement, and he stood and moved out of view. This sent a jolt of panic through Travis, but a moment later the man reappeared, a cup in his hand. A cool scent reached Travis’s nose. Water.
How long had it been since he had drunk? He tried to work his tongue, but his mouth might as well have been filled with cement. The man knelt beside the bed, slipped a thick arm beneath Travis’s neck, and lifted his head. Travis tried to drink, but most of the water spilled down his chin and onto his chest. However, a small amount passed between his lips, and he tasted metal. The man lowered him back to the bed.
The gray light was collapsing against the weight of darkness. Travis knew he didn’t have much time.
Where am I?
But he had spoken the words only in his mind. That wasn’t good enough. He forced his brittle lips to form sounds.
“Where …?”
This time Travis was certain he had managed to speak the word. However, the man only shook his head, smiling again, and touched a finger to his lips. He set down the cup, then patted Travis’s hand. Travis tried to speak again, but now exhaustion stole over him, dragging him down. The last thing he remembered was something damp being pressed against his forehead. The light contracted to a pinhole and vanished.
After that the world oscillated in and out of darkness, like a screen catching stark frames from a black-and-white movie. At times, in the periods of light, images racked into focus before Travis: the man in the brown robe again, now an empty chair, then blank stone, now men in paler robes, standing in a knot, murmuring. Once, two figures who shone like fairies hovered over him: one onyx and silver, the other azure and gold. It seemed a cool hand soothed his brow.
Do not let go of life, dear one, the gold fairy said. We must go, but we will return soon.
Then the lens of his vision fogged, and the image was gone. For a long time there was no light at all, and he feared the end had come and gone, and that this was all there would ever be. Then the flames rose again around him, and he knew this was not over yet.
This time the fire was urgent, as if desperate to burn him, to reduce his being to ash. As the flames reached their crest, hallucinations came again: shadows, then hands reaching out for him, the leering oval of a man’s face floating above, and a whispered word. Krond.
“Get you away from here!” a voice screamed.
He knew the voice was his own, yet he had no power over it.
Olrig help us, he’s burning up. Can you not do something, Master Eriaun?
It is beyond my power, All-master.
No, it is beyond all our power. As so many things are in this age. Even Olrig cannot help us now.
The end was close now. One final time the hot fabric of darkness covered Travis, draping him like the folds of a black, smoldering robe. At last he understood. He was the burning man now. This was to be his own transformation.
Fire forged his body into a rod. His spine arched, and his head went back as once more words that were not his own ripped themselves from his scorched lungs.
“It will consume you!”
Then the fire closed in and burned everything to cinders.
Darkness.
Silence.
And after a time … light.
A thin, gray line appeared against the blackness. The line expanded as Travis opened his eyes.
He blinked, and the light throbbed in time to the dull thudding in his skull. However, it was bearable. His body ached as if it had been bludgeoned, but at least he was aware of it beneath the rough blanket, and he could move his fingers and his toes. They had not burned after all.
Before he thought about what he was doing, he sat up. The motion sent dizziness surging through him, but he clenched his jaw and was able to ride it out. When he was able to open his eyes again, he let them move about the small, dimly lit space.
It was not a tomb, that much was clear. Nor was it exactly like a bedchamber. More like a cell. The room was barely long enough to contain the narrow cot on which he rested, and the stone walls were bare. A slit of a window had been cut near the ceiling, and it was through this that the light filtered. The only other objects in the room were a chair and a table, both austere and fashioned of wood.
There was a rattling sound, and he moved his eyes in time to see the low wooden door open. A short, stout man in a brown robe stepped through, holding a cup and a pitcher. He stopped short when he saw Travis, his brown eyes wide in his lumpy face. Then he grinned, a lopsided expression, and turned to step back through the door.
Wait, Travis tried to say, but the word was only a harsh croak. The door shut, and the man was gone.
Should he get out of bed and go after the man? Travis wasn’t certain he could, and before he decided whether to try the door opened again. This time two men in gray robes stepped into the cramped cell, the man in the brown robe limping behind them. One of the men was about Travis’s age, with black hair, black eyes, and a face crisscrossed by scars. The other man was old, his hair and beard white, and his eyes like blue stones. He leaned on a staff of ornately carved wood, but despite his age there was an air of solidness about him.
“Well,” the dark-haired man said, his tone sour, “he doesn’t exactly look like a runelord.”
The older man frowned. “Think before you speak, Master Larad. He hears you.”
The scarred man gave a penitent nod, but his eyes gleamed as he studied Travis.
The older man drew close to the bed. “Do you know what has happened?”
Travis thought, but it was like trying to cut fog into meaningful shapes with a dull knife. “I’ve been sick,” he said, the words hurting his throat.
The old man nodded. “And do you know who I am?”
Travis studied the man’s lined face. It was quiescent now, wise and peaceful—but this face could hold anger as well, could it not? “I saw you in the tavern. You’re the shining man.”
The dark-haired one laughed at this. “Shall that be your new title, Oragien? And a fine one it is. So much more dramatic than ‘All-master.’ ”
The older man shot the other a hard look before turning back to Travis. “Yes, it was I who came to your aid at the tavern near the town. But that is not important now.”
Travis’s eyes moved to the mist-colored robes the two men wore, surprised to find that he understood. “This is the Gray Tower, isn’t it?”
The old man—Oragien—gave a solemn nod.“It is.”
“And you’re runespeakers.”
“We are.”
Travis attempted to wet his lips, but his tongue was like a block of wood. “How … how did I get here?”
Oragien gripped his staff. “We summoned you.”
Travis rolled this over in his mind. He remembered words from the old cemetery on the hill. They’re calling for you even now. Can’t you hear?
So that’s what Brother Cy had meant. But it still didn’t explain why he was here, on Eldh. Travis opened his mouth, but he had moisture and energy for only one word.
“Why?”
Oragien started to speak, but the dark-haired man answered first, his words digging in like splinters.
“It’s simple, Master Wilder. According to the All-master, you’re going to save the Runespeakers.”
41.
The door shut, leaving Travis alone in the little cell.
He sank back against the hard cot, trembling and sweating. The fever had broken, and the sickness that had gripped him—whatever it had been—had passed. However, Travis felt dry and hollow: the husk left behind by a molting insect. He had talked with All-master Oragien and the other runespeaker, the sharptongued one—Larad—for only a few minutes. All the same, the act had left him as drained as if he had run a marathon after a week without sleep.
“It will be some time before you are truly recovered,” Oragien had told him. “What the source of your fever was, I cannot say. At first I thought it simply an ague caught from the rain, but the sickness seemed to be more than that. Regardless, you were caught in its throes for three days. You should not try to stir from this bed until you are strong enough.”
Larad had directed his sharp gaze at the elder runespeaker. “And what of this evening’s chorus? The others grow weary of waiting, All-master. They want to see this hero you’ve summoned for them.”
Oragien had drawn shaggy white eyebrows down in a scowl. “Hush, Master Larad. The man has been ill, and—”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll go to your … your chorus.”
Travis supposed his own expression had been as surprised as that of the two runespeakers. However, it was clear there was some disagreement between the two concerning him. That made it seem even more important to understand why they had called him from Earth.
And better yet, Travis, how they did it. The Runespeakers aren’t supposed to have that kind of power. Not anymore, at any rate.
Attending this chorus of theirs seemed like the best way to start understanding what was really going on. And while he still felt weak, Travis supposed he had enough energy to sit and listen to a few men in gray robes sing some songs.
At least, that was what he had thought when he told Oragien and Larad he would attend. Now, as he lay on the cot, he wasn’t so certain. Sweat rolled off his forehead in rivulets, and the blanket that covered his body was soaked. Maybe he would have to tell them he couldn’t go after all.
It was only when the door creaked open that he realized he had dozed off. His eyelids fluttered up, and he saw a short, brown-robed figure enter the cell.
“Hello,” Travis said.
The young man jumped, then his rubbery lips parted, pushing his lumpy features into a cheerful grin. Despite his weariness, Travis couldn’t help but grin back. The man hurried forward, then set a tray down on the small table beside the cot. On the tray was a clay crock, and from it rose a savory scent.
“What is it?” Travis said, pushing himself up a notch. His stomach growled. That was a good sign at least.
The man formed his hand into a scoop and brought it to his mouth. The message was clear: Soup—eat. He moved to the door.
“Wait,” Travis said, although he was uncertain why. Maybe it was just that, in the delirium of his fever, he had felt so alone. He searched for something to say. “Would you like to stay for a while, to talk?”
The man shook his head. Travis frowned. Why didn’t the other ever speak?
A thought struck him. Maybe the man couldn’t understand his words. Travis groped beneath the blanket, then his hand found the small pouch that contained the silver half-coin; they had left it around his neck. Of course—he had been able to speak to Oragien and Larad. Why not this man?
The other pointed to his mouth and shook his head again, and Travis understood.
It makes sense, Travis. Who could possibly be a better servant for the Runespeakers than someone who’s mute? There would certainly be no danger of him speaking any runes he happened to overhear.
“I’m sorry,” Travis said.
The man shrugged, then smiled. Obviously it was no great concern to him.
“I’m Travis Wilder. What’s your name?”
As soon as Travis asked the question, he regretted it. How could the other answer? However, the man pointed to himself, then to the narrow opening high in the wall.
Travis frowned. “Window? Ledge?” He snapped his fingers. “Sky.”
The man beamed, pointed to himself, and nodded. Travis grinned, then opened his mouth to say something more. However, instead of words, a great yawn escaped him. The young man—Sky—folded his hands and pressed them next to his cheek. Travis needed neither words nor half-coin to translate that message.
“Yes, sleep sounds good. After soup.”
Sky nodded, limped through the door, and shut it behind him, leaving Travis alone again.
The complaints uttered by his stomach grew more insistent, and Travis leaned over the table. The soup was thin, but salty and delicious. At first he tried using the wooden spoon Sky had left, but his hand shook, and he got more soup on the blanket than in himself. It was easier to pick up the crock and drink.
Even the simple act of eating was wearying. Travis set down the crock, arms trembling, then lay back. He wanted to think more about everything that had happened to him, but before he could, cool sleep stole over him.
