The keep of fire, p.44
The Keep of Fire, page 44
Grace thought of the dragon’s hissing words. “And do you think he was telling the truth?”
Falken shrugged. “It is said that dragons do not lie, for the truth serves their purposes better. Certainly there are none more wise and ancient than the Gordrim.”
“And none more cruel,” Melia said. The lady had guided her pale mount close to Grace and Falken. “The dragons speak truth. But they do not speak all of it, and what they do they utter in a way intended to taint, to poison, and to gnaw at the heart. The dragons want nothing more than to bring to ruin all of creation, and to return to the shapeless mists before time. Do not forget that when you think on what Sfithrisir told you.”
Falken sighed. “And you as well, Melia.”
The lady pressed her lips together, then turned her gaze away and said nothing more.
It was nearing dusk on that first day after leaving the valley when they came upon the first signs of the Burning Plague. While scouting, Beltan espied a village beneath a hill. However, when they reached the track that led to the village, they saw something that brought them all to a halt.
It was a scarecrow fashioned of sticks and rags, lashed to a pole thrust into the dirt. The crude effigy had been set on fire, then deliberately extinguished before the flames could consume it entirely. Even without words, the message of the scarecrow was clear: The Burning Plague is here.
They snatched cloaks to their faces against the gritty, ash-filled wind, then steered their horses wide of the silent village below.
The next day dawned hotter than the last. The sun oozed through the mist but did not burn it off, instead transforming it into a ruddy miasma that pulsed on the air as they rode.
The heat made Grace feel dull and weak, and she was always thirsty, no matter how often they stopped to scoop water from a brackish stream or pool. The flies were particularly bad; the insects descended from the hazy sky in black clouds, alighting on every bit of exposed skin. Dozens of times Grace was forced to lean forward and brush the flies from Shandis’s oozing eyes. In minutes they were back, thicker than ever.
Twice that day they came upon the half-charred scarecrows that warned of plague, once at a crossing of two tracks, and again in front of the burnt-out husk of a lone farm. At times, when the fog lightened a fraction, they saw columns of smoke rising in the distance, melding with the leaden sky. As dusk gathered, they glimpsed sparks of fire to the north, and they rode long into the night to leave the lights behind.
The next morning they came upon a village that bore no warning sign outside of it because there was no one left alive to raise one.
The others gave the village a wide berth, but despite Falken’s protests Grace insisted on riding among the houses. She needed to examine the victims, to see how the pandemic was progressing. She had to know what they were up against.
“I’ll go with you, my lady,” Durge said, and Grace gave his hand a grateful squeeze.
However, once in the village she wondered if Falken was right, if she should have ridden around it with the others.
Death had come swiftly there, that much was clear. Grace and Durge walked among the rude hovels with wine-soaked rags tied around their mouths and noses. Bodies lay strewn everywhere. It seemed that many of them had dropped in the midst of action—drawing water from a well, carrying a companion, digging a grave for an infant wrapped in a filthy shroud.
“My lady,” Durge said in a choking voice, “we should not be in this place.”
Grace swallowed her gorge. “I’ll only be a minute or two, Durge. You can wait for me outside the village.”
However, the knight planted his feet firmly on the ground as she bent to examine the bodies.
It was the Burning Plague, of that there could be no doubt. All the symptoms were in evidence: the blisters, the darkening of the eyes, the hardening of the flesh. However, in none of the victims was the metamorphosis as complete as she had seen before. All had died before reaching at most the intermediate stages of the transformation.
“We must be getting closer,” she murmured.
Durge stepped toward her. “My lady?”
“It’s killing them faster,” she said, standing and wiping her hands against her gown. “Much faster. But that makes sense. Virulence and mortality are always higher at the center of a pandemic region than at the fringes.”
“What does it mean, my lady?”
Grace met his somber brown eyes. “It means we’re getting closer to the origin of the contagion.”
They returned to the others outside the village, and Grace described what she and Durge had found. As they mounted their horses, Lirith glanced at Grace.
“Do you remember what Daynen said at Falanor?” The witch brushed ashes from her black hair. “About how Eddoc found Tira on his return from a journey to Perridon?”
“What is it?” Beltan said. “Do you think we might be able to find her home here?”
Grace stared at the witch and the knight. What were they saying? Dread spilled into her chest, and she tightened her arms around the girl on the saddle before her.
Aryn cast a haunted look over her shoulder, at the silent gathering of hovels behind them. “What if this village was her home?”
Lirith and Beltan did not reply.
“I believe,” Melia said, her amber eyes glowing, “that Tira wishes to stay with Lady Grace.”
At these words the girl threw her arms out to either side, tilted her head back, and laughed. Grace cast a startled glance at Melia, but the lady had already nudged her white mare into a trot. The others followed. And after that they spoke no more of finding Tira’s home.
It was late afternoon when Melia raised a small hand, bringing the party to a halt.
“Let us stop here for the evening,” she said.
Lirith eyed the horizon. “There is yet an hour of daylight left, Lady Melia.”
“True,” Falken said, nudging his horse forward. “But I think we could all do with a bit of rest in this place.”
Curious, Grace gazed past Melia and Falken and saw a ring of tall, narrow trees. The circle of foliage was dense and complete, save for an arch formed of intertwined branches, which provided entrance to a dim space beyond. Grace drew in a breath, and while she could still detect the faint, acrid stench of smoke, a new scent overpowered it, one as sharp, fresh, and invigorating as witch hazel.
“What is this place?” she said to no one in particular.
Travis guided his horse toward hers. “It’s a talathrin.”
Aryn glanced at him. “A talathrin. But what is that?”
“It’s a Way Circle, dear,” Melia said. “The Tarrasians created many of them of old, to offer a haven to those traveling through inhospitable lands.”
“Let’s make camp,” Falken said.
The travelers dismounted. As Melia started to slide from the back of her mount, Beltan rushed over, knelt, and made a step of one of his broad shoulders. Melia frowned, but it was too late for her to do anything save place her foot on his shoulder and hop lightly to the ground.
She turned and glared at the big man. “You’re my Knight Protector, Sir Beltan, not my footstool. I thought I told you not to do that anymore.”
Beltan nodded. “You did, Melia.”
“And didn’t you tell me that you were sorry?”
Again the knight nodded. “I did.”
“So what part of this puzzle am I missing?”
A grin illuminated Beltan’s broad face. “Just because I’m sorry doesn’t mean I won’t do it again.”
It was one of those exceedingly rare moments when Melia opened her mouth and no words came out. Grace laughed, and the others joined in the mirth.
“I really don’t see what’s so funny,” Melia said, folding her arms across her chest.
A small figure slipped past Grace and ran to Melia. Tira. The girl reached up and touched Melia’s arm. The regal lady stared in what could only be shock, then her frown crumbled, replaced by a smile that was sweet and almost shy, and which a quick hand could not quite conceal.
Tira ran back to Grace. Sighing, Grace hugged the girl close. The sound of laughter was as healing as the fragrance of the talathrin. Together they approached the arched entrance to the Way Circle.
The thundering of hooves halted them. Grace turned with the others to see Durge charging toward them on Blackalock. Clods of dirt sprayed in all directions as the horse came to a halt. Grace looked up into Durge’s craggy face and knew at once that something was wrong.
“What is it?” she said.
“There is smoke to the north,” the knight said. “Two leagues, perhaps less. It is moving in this direction.”
There was no need to say more. They cast ashen looks at one another, then headed for the horses. In minutes they were mounted again. Grace looked up and saw it: a thick, black pillar rising into the sky.
“They’re coming,” Travis murmured.
Falken glanced at Melia, then sighed. “Let’s go.”
The riders followed their shadows into the east, leaving the talathrin and the cool scent of water behind.
66.
Once again they rode long into the night, away from the smoke of fires. To the east a pulsing spark of crimson rose above the horizon, as if lighting the way for them.
But we’re no traveling magi, Travis. And it’s not a birth waiting for you beneath the star. Not if Sfithrisir was right.
He tried to keep the hissing words of the dragon from echoing in his skull, but it was no use. Maybe it would have been better if the dragon had not felt generous, if it had just burned them all. But Jack’s voice had spoken in Travis’s mind, and it had told him to step forward, to show his hand, and to reveal what he was to the dragon.
Runebreaker.
And what exactly was that? Travis wasn’t certain, but the dragon had said he was doomed to bring about the end of the world. It was absurd, of course. How could one person destroy an entire world? Only a monster could do that. But Falken said dragons didn’t lie. And maybe Travis wasn’t just a person after all.
Quiet voices spoke near him in the gloom.
“Where do you think it has been hidden, Falken?”
“I don’t know, Melia. The Barrens, perhaps. But that’s little more than a hunch. Let’s hope Tome will have found more to tell us when we reach Spardis.”
“Yes.” A long pause, then, “There is much I hope Tome will be able to tell us.”
The voices drifted away, and Travis did not try to follow. He wiped sweaty hands against his breeches, then rode into stifling folds of night.
The next day dawned to fog and swelter as usual. Travis packed his saddlebags, then carried them toward Patch, who was picketed with the other horses. He opened his mouth to say good morning to Lirith and Aryn, but as he approached the two turned and hurried away.
They’re just going to get their things, that’s all.
However, he knew that wasn’t entirely true. Ever since they had left the valley of the temple, he had barely spoken with the young baroness or the Tolorian witch. It was subtle; there was nothing that showed for certain they were avoiding him. However, they always seemed to have something else important to do when he was near them. And more than once he had felt a prickling on the back of his neck, and he had turned to see brilliant blue or smoky brown eyes just looking away.
“Let me help you with those,” a bright tenor said as Travis lifted the saddlebags toward Patch’s back.
Travis looked up. “It’s all right—I can manage.”
“I know.”
Beltan’s callused hands slipped over Travis’s, then took the saddlebags, easily tossing them over the gelding’s back. With deft motions the knight lashed them into place.
Travis regarded the blond man. “Thanks, Beltan.” Thanks for not avoiding me even though you know what I am now. However, these last words lodged in his throat.
Beltan grinned. “I’m still your Knight Protector, Travis. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was shirking my duties.”
Travis only meant to clap the knight’s shoulder, but somehow his arms encircled the other man, and he squeezed Beltan in a hug instead. Maybe it was just that, right then, Travis needed to feel the closeness of another human being, as if that meant he was human as well, and not a monster. The knight smelled of steel, sweat, and leather. It was a real smell, comforting.
At last Travis stepped back, and he saw that Beltan’s grin was gone, replaced by a solemn look. Had he offended the knight by being so familiar? He opened his mouth to apologize, but just then Falken’s voice rang on the hazy air.
“All right, everyone. Let’s get going.”
It was midmorning when, after dozing in the saddle for a time, Travis lifted his head to see Lirith just turning her gaze away. She had been looking at him—he was certain of it. Now she leaned to whisper something to Aryn, who rode close by. Grace was on the opposite side of the group. Before he lost his nerve, he nudged Patch’s flanks, guiding the gelding toward Grace’s slender palfrey. Tira, who sat before Grace, looked up as he approached, then bent back over her doll.
“What is it, Grace?” Travis said in a low voice.
Her green-gold eyes were startled. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. It’s those two.” His gaze flickered toward the baroness and the witch. “Why are Aryn and Lirith avoiding me?”
She clutched the reins. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Yes, you do.” He drew in a deep breath. “Grace, after all that we’ve done together, I think you can tell me.”
His words might have been needles for the way they drained the blood from her face. Her gaze moved past him, toward Aryn and Lirith, then moved back, meeting his own.
“I don’t really know how to say this, Travis. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you before, even when I should have. But I think the Witches are—”
“Ho, there!” Falken’s voice rose above the noise of hooves. “Everyone—we’re going to stop here for a minute.”
Travis and Grace reined their mounts to a halt. Falken dismounted, as did Melia. The two of them approached something that was all but lost in a tangle of weeds.
Grace glanced at Travis. “Should we go see what they’ve found?”
Travis was starting to dread the things the bard and the lady uncovered. However, he slipped from Patch’s back, then took Tira from Grace’s outstretched arms and set the girl on the ground as Grace hopped down. They followed after Falken, along with Aryn, Lirith, and Beltan. Durge remained astride his charger, gazing into the distance with sober eyes.
“What is it?” Lirith said, eyeing the milky stone that Falken had revealed by parting the weeds.
Travis drew closer. The stone was not natural. It was shaped like a pyramid, reaching about waist high. Although its surface was worn smooth by centuries, he could still make out the intricate patterns carved into its surface.
“It’s a talmaren,” the bard said, squatting down to peer at the stone. “A Way Marker—a relic of the war against the Pale King a thousand years ago.”
Aryn’s blue eyes went wide, and she took a step back. “A relic? Do you mean like the pylon?”
“No,” Melia said. “The talmareni had nothing to do with the Pale King. They were placed here by the Tarrasians who fought against Berash. Each one marked a place where a battle was fought and acted as a guide for those who came after.”
Beltan gestured to the Way Marker. “So what does it say? I’m afraid my ancient Tarrasian is a little rusty.”
Melia knelt and traced slender fingers over the surface of the talmaren. “Here fell Galarus of the Golden Horn and Tileros the Silent. Twenty maltheru were slain by their arrows before the coming of the siltheri.”
Travis shook his head. “What are they, Melia? Maltheru and siltheri, I mean.”
The regal woman stood. “Maltheru was the Tarrasian word for feydrim.” She turned her amber gaze on him. “And the siltheri were wraithlings.”
Travis adjusted his spectacles, and it almost seemed he saw them, like faint ghosts on the side of the nearby hill, two shining warriors, raining arrows down on a roiling horde of gray fur and yellow fangs, until the others drifted over the top of the hill: pale and deathly as frost on steel.
Grace’s voice dispelled the vision. “Falken, that symbol on the stone—it looks like the one on your brooch.”
Travis looked at the symbol on the talmaren to which Grace pointed: a stylized knot with four loops. She was right—the silver brooch that clasped the neck of Falken’s cloak bore the same four-looped knot.
The bard touched the silver brooch. “Yes. This is a symbol of Malachor.”
Grace frowned. “But I thought you said the Way Marker was a relic of Tarras.”
Now Falken laughed, although it was a sad sound somehow. “That’s right as well. It was the Empress Elsara of Tarras who founded Malachor, along with King Ulther of Toringarth. And do you see?” He ran a finger over the brooch. “The symbol is not quite the same as on the stone. It is the Star of Toringarth at the center of the knot, not the Sun of Tarras.”
Melia let out a sigh. “So many that were so brave perished in the War of the Stones. It was so long ago—sometimes I forget. Yet I must not.”
Falken laid a hand on her shoulder, his faded blue eyes filled with concern. Melia reached up and touched his hand, still gazing at the talmaren.
Travis scratched his red-gold beard. There was something here—something about this stone—that was important. But what was it? “You were born in the south, weren’t you, Melia?”
