Keystone (Gatewalkers)

by Frederickson, Amanda

  “If you forgive my saying so,” Archmage Taliesin said gently, “I believe her majesty should consider a rest instead.”

  Edouard looked again and realized Isil was practically swaying on her feet. “I’m sorry, love. I should have noticed. Here, I’ll take you back to our chambers.” He sighed. “And then I suppose I’ll see about Mae’s search party.” He wrapped his arm around his wife and escorted her from the library.

  ***

  Archmage Taliesin slowly closed his book, then took off his spectacles and absently bit the earpiece. “There are so many secrets in this place that you may yet drown in them.” He ran a finger under his high collar, touching the faint scar hidden there on his neck.

  ***

  Maelyn dreamed. Endless corridors twisted and branched before her, lined with countless doors. Her feet sounded no footsteps as she ran. So many open doors. She closed them, but even as she fought to pull one shut another would fling wide. She ran, though it felt as if lead encased her body. Sometimes she felt as if she lay on the floor, unable to move as the world spun around her, but then she would run again. Run, with no end to the doors.

  Maelyn tumbled down a stone stair into a huge, arched chamber. Dark galleries of columns surrounded her on all sides.

  Maelyn abruptly came to herself, knowing it was no longer a dream, if ever it had been. She knelt on an icy “floor,” but understood that it could as easily become a wall, or a ceiling. The realm of the bridge was a wild place, without logic or reason.

  As Maelyn watched, a green mist pooled onto the floor until it congealed into a woman’s shape. She was swathed in poison green gauze, fiercely beautiful and insubstantial as smoke. A Mara. Maelyn felt a visceral fear deep in her gut. This woman wanted to destroy her. She could see it in the slight flexing of the Mara’s clawed fingers and the burning hatred behind her smile.

  “Why, aren’t you a lovely thing,” the Mara said, her voice as harsh as the rasp of sword against stone, but somehow smooth as polished amber. She reached out and stroked Maelyn’s face, her lips parting to show slim fangs. “So… horribly perfect.”

  Maelyn felt her body stiffen. She could not move. She could not look away.

  “So trusting,” the Mara continued. “Do you always believe everything you see?” Isil’s features blossomed across the Mara’s face, innocent and frightened. “How could you, Maelyn? How is Seinne Sonne to keep Ard Ri trapped if there is no Keystone?” The fright vanished with a smirk.

  Maelyn felt her soul rip to shreds. She believed the illusion. She betrayed them all.

  “You have a chance yet to redeem yourself,” the Mara said, looping a black chain around Maelyn’s torso with casual ease. “Child of Gwalchmai. I summon you to open my lord’s Gate.”

  Maelyn had no voice. It sealed shut. Her neck would not turn to shake her head. Her lips moved. She could not say what answer they gave.

  The Mara’s eyes drained to void black. “My lord would have your answer.”

  Maelyn’s lips moved. A whisper emerged. “Save me.”

  Ugly, twisted features flashed across her face. “What did you say?”

  The words burst free. “Save me!” Mae screamed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Moving Mountains

  “What is it with you and basements?” Charlie muttered as she preceded Rhys down the stairs to the basement of the guild house.

  This basement, however, proved to be an armory rather than an apothecary. Racks of weapons, carefully wrapped for storage, lined the walls, along with stacks of wooden crates and barrels. Enough for a small army.

  “There you are,” Rhys said, indicating the racks of bows.

  Charlie wrinkled her nose. She had a feeling that it was more test than helpfulness on Rhys’ part. Charlie found an arm guard and a shooting glove that fit, then she immersed herself in the bows.

  “What does a Death Wind do?” Charlie said. “When you aren’t rescuing people.” What a job title.

  She ran her hands over the smooth curves and fine grains of the wood, delighting in the look, the feel, and even the smell of them.

  “A Death Wind is an independent operator within the guild. I do not work in a team or partnership. I fill my contracts alone. Death Winds are most often hired as temporary bodyguards or for tasks that do not require an entire troop.” Rhys leaned against the doorway, watching her.

  “Like assassinations?” With regret Charlie turned her back on the longbows – she’d never worked with them, for all their graceful and romantic looks. Their draw weights would probably be too heavy for her anyway. Longbows were for those who had the devotion to do them justice.

  “More like rooting out bandit nests. Or dangerous nuisances such as vampires.” A tiny smile played across his lips.

  “You hunt vampires.” Somehow that seemed awkward.

  Charlie turned to the short bows and recurves. She’d never been able to afford actual hand-shaped wooden bows or horn recurves and these were as beautiful as any she’d ever seen. Their plain, flawless grace showed careful skill and purpose. These bows were not made for summer camps, or for high school or college students competing at targets. These were made to be weapons that the archer’s life depended on.

  “On your world, are there not humans who hunt human wrongdoers? Natural born vampires are merciless predators, and many who survive being bitten by them do not choose to live peacefully. I cannot have another vampire killing in my territory.”

  “What about Gareth?” Biting her without so much as a by-your-leave wasn’t exactly living peacefully.

  “Gareth is careless, but not a killer. As yet. He likely would have taken your memories of the incident and left you there, dazed and confused but none the wiser. Or he might have taken a year’s worth of memories. Or your entire identity. But he would have left you alive. If there comes a time that he starts killing, then yes, I will hunt him.”

  Charlie strung the most likely bows, testing draw weights and lengths, finding three bows that she felt she could draw repeatedly without sacrificing too much range. She would test their performance at the actual targets to narrow it to one.

  Charlie hesitated, running her fingers over the most likely recurve bow. “What if you start killing?”

  “On that day, I pray that someone will destroy me quickly, because if I am that lost, there will be nothing left to save.”

  He sounded very certain. She hoped it never happened.

  ***

  The walled courtyard behind the guild house was set up as a practice yard. The three archery butts were ranged against the far wall, minimizing the danger of injury from stray arrows, while practice dummies at the other end were set up for sword practice.

  Charlie stuck a few arrows point down in the ground, took an open stance, and nocked an arrow to the string. “How come you’re walking around in daylight anyway?” No one else was in the courtyard, but she kept her voice low anyway since Rhys had sharp hearing. “Thought vampires were supposed to burn.”

  Rhys gave her a look as if she’d asked why he was breathing – which was technically another question she could ask, though she supposed that if eating was necessary, so were other bodily functions.

  “Is this another garlic thing?” Charlie pulled back the string, anchoring her hand on her jaw, so she couldn’t see his face anymore. She sighted on the target.

  “We do burn,” Rhys said, his voice carrying to her ears and no further. “But for those of us who were bitten, so long as we keep well fed we are merely sensitive to it. To the natural born, it is deadly in short order.”

  Charlie quickly discovered that when the arrows were not factory made identical it was harder to hit the target. Irregularities in the shaft and fletching made each fly a little differently. Out of the twenty or so arrows in the quiver, only a handful hit the target, most nowhere near the bulls eye. Not the best argument for her cause. It was hard to gauge how much was the bow, how much due to the arrows, and how much from her own being out of practice.


  “If you are sufficiently settled, I will be on my way,” Rhys said. “You are welcome to stay at Rosethorn Manor as long as you wish until I return.”

  If he returned. Charlie drew her arrow and sighted on the target. “I suppose this is goodbye then.” Fat chance.

  “Very well. Goodbye.”

  Charlie loosed her arrow and looked back toward Rhys. Gone already.

  As she went to collect the arrows from the target, the ground, and a spread of the near vicinity, Charlie spoke quickly to the pixies on her shoulders.

  “Tom, if you and Lallia were separated,” Charlie said, “would you be able to find her?”

  The pixies exchanged an alarmed look. “Separated?” Lallia echoed, an oddly apprehensive note to her voice. “We are already separated.”

  Tom nodded solemnly. “We are two halves of a single soul. The act of separation is what created us.”

  Charlie could sense her plan crumbling. “Does that mean you can’t be apart from each other?” If they couldn’t, she would have to scramble for a new plan. She glanced back toward the building. Rhys could already be on the road for all she knew.

  “I suppose it is possible,” Tom said reluctantly.

  “It wouldn’t be for very long,” Charlie assured him.

  Tom hesitated. “Tell us your plan.”

  “Ok then. Lallia, I need you to be nice and sneaky….” Charlie outlined her sketchy idea. The pixies exchanged an uncertain look, but Lallia reluctantly agreed.

  The pixies clung to each other, looking as if they thought they’d never be together again. They broke apart only grudgingly. Lallia cast a heartbreaking glance over her shoulder as she fluttered away.

  “Maybe I should go with her,” he said. “Just for a little while? Then I could come back….” His face was so wistful that Charlie loathed saying no, but if Tom decided he couldn’t leave Lallia to come back, that was the end of her plan.

  “It’s only for about a day,” Charlie said. She put her collected arrows back in the quiver, and headed back to start target shooting again. She had narrowed her choice to two bows. Deciding between them looked mainly like a choice of more power, versus one she could shoot more. Considering the circumstances, she was leaning toward shoot more.

  Tom’s face fell. “You’re right,” he said, trying to seem stoic and brave. But then he draped himself over Lallia’s usual shoulder and wouldn’t be moved.

  Charlie resumed shooting. She stopped short of collecting blisters, but by the time she stopped, her back muscles were yelling at her for not staying in better shape. Charlie collected her arrows one more time and returned to Rosethorn Manor to see what kind of gear she could scrounge up.

  ***

  Rhys left the guild house behind reluctantly. The girl had a plan up her sleeve, or she would not have asked for a bow. Nevertheless, mere words would not deter her. She would have to discover for herself that she could not treat this world as blithely as her own.

  If he were to find the Keystone pieces, he could not have a half grown girl hanging at his heels. She looked as if a strong breeze would carry her away. The craggy mountains of the Northern Reaches were brutal at the best of times. These were not the best of times.

  He had to trust that the provisions he made for her would suffice until he returned. Or until she could provide for herself if he did not return.

  Alta’s mage guild headquarters was situated in the shadow of Alta castle, between the castle’s rise and the elbow of the river. It was small as far as mage guilds went, used most often for bespelling boats and shipping out fresh fish to the corners of the kingdom. In Alta, the river and the sea were the primary modes for transporting goods, not costly gates.

  Rhys hated working with mage guilds. It was not as if he would blatantly use magic before someone who would be required to report him, but he resented the restriction. He had never registered with a mage guild and he never intended to. Though mage guilds themselves had existed for centuries, the requirement that all practicing mages register as members was due to Kinslayer Tolencal’s efforts to search out and destroy every last living member of High King Gwalchmai’s bloodline save his own offspring. Rhys also had personal reasons to dislike the practice, not the least of which being that he could be thrown in prison for not participating.

  Rhys bypassed the guild house and went to the circle of rune-embossed stone pillars behind the building. These were the permanent staging points for Alta’s gates, connecting the town to the major cities through the kingdom, a pillar for each gate. The gate keeper on duty sat snug in an insulated stone hut just off of the circle.

  “I need a gate to Cruatan,” Rhys told the man.

  “Two hundred,” the mage said without blinking an eye at the blatant gauging.

  “For two hundred I could book an entire vessel and take it to Iomara and back.” Rhys stabbed a finger toward the river.

  “Mayhap, but you want a gate to Cruatan, not passage to Iomara. If you wanted a gate to Iomara it would be fifty. I’ve got ten already waiting for that gate. No one wants Cruatan. Too many unnatural happenings.”

  “Fifty then for the gate to Cruatan, and be happy for the coin.”

  “Not a chance. One eighty.”

  “Eighty flat. Only because I have a contract.” Rhys flashed his wrist. “The lady wants it done in a timely manner.” It was something of a gamble, but as he said: the Cruatan gate sat idle, gaining them nothing.

  The mage’s thoughts played across his face. If Rhys was so eager to save time, he might insist on a higher price, but if Rhys decided to save the money and take a boat, and then go overland, the mage guild lost their fare entirely.

  The man ran an ink-stained finger across his lips. “One twenty.”

  The price was still high, but the gate would be opening for only one man. “Done.”

  The mage marked the price in his ledger as Rhys counted out the coin.

  Rhys hesitated before handing over the fare. “Before the end of the day, there may be a woman who comes looking for me. If she does, send her to Cruatan and charge the gate fare to the Alta Mercenary Guild.”

  The mage sniffed. “Two hundred.”

  Rhys glared at the man, sorely tempted to change his mind for him, but he refrained. “Done.”

  Surprise flickered across the man’s face, but he covered it and made another notation in his ledger. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

  ***

  At Rosethorn Manor, Charlie rifled through wardrobes, cabinets and drawers, coming up with a pack and a spare cloak.

  She stashed her bloodstained “real world” clothes in the pack, as well as the contents from her pockets. Next she raided the kitchen for non-perishable supplies, finding that most of the foodstuffs in the cabinets consisted of things that would not easily go bad. She packed what she hoped would last her at least a week and also dropped in the aloe that Taryn gave her. It couldn’t hurt.

  A small room on the second floor turned out to be devoted to weapons, though there wasn’t a single bow among them. Various racks and wall hooks held almost every kind of blade Charlie could imagine, carefully wrapped and oiled for extended storage. The array seemed heavy on the spears, with a variety lengths and blade styles. One set of hooks on the wall held a creepy naked sabre that seemed to drip blood from the edge, though there was no puddle beneath it. Most of the blades had the look of weaponry meant for action, not display, some with visible damage.

  Collected from the battlefield? Charlie wasn’t sure what to think of that idea. Looting in a video game was all well and good, but taking a weapon off of an actual corpse? A little disturbing.

  Maybe Rhys was just an avid collector. Who happened to work for a mercenary guild. Yeah. Right.

  Charlie picked through the smaller blades until she found a plain knife that fit her grip, and a sheath to hang it from her belt. She wasn’t planning to do any close-fighting, but that didn’t mean it couldn't happen.

  Charlie tied up the pack, rigged her
quiver to her belt, nudged Tom off her shoulder long enough to put on the cloak, and slung the pack on her back along with her bow in its protective wrap.

  “As set as I’m going to get,” she muttered.

  Tom made no comment, clinging despondently to her collar. Charlie was beginning to worry about him. He looked greener than usual.

  Charlie nudged him with her finger. “Next stop, Taryn’s to pick up Jack, then we’ll be following them.”

  Tom nodded, perking up slightly.

  ***

  “What, precisely, is your plan?” Jack asked, drawing paraphernalia out of his pack.

  They stood among the sandy hills outside Alta, where Jack deemed it safe to work his gate spell.

  “Tom can tell us which direction they went and about how far,” Charlie said. “So I figure we follow for a day or two, until it would be impractical to send us back. Then catch up.

  What little color remained in Tom’s face drained away. “As much as two days?”

  “Or less,” Charlie soothed. The pixie’s growing listlessness truly worried her now. They might have to shorten the time span for his sake.

  “Yes, yes,” Jack said. “I understand that much. What I do not understand is how we are to find the princess when High King Edouard’s own soldiers have not?”

  “We wing it,” Charlie said, unwilling to divulge Rhys’ bloodline.

  “Are you suggesting that we fly?” Jack seemed intrigued by the idea.

  “Is it possible?” Charlie said dubiously.

  “Ah,” Jack said, brow furrowing. “Not really. No.”

  Jack continued inscribing lines and symbols in the dirt. When he’d scribbled to his satisfaction, he turned to Tom. “Now then, little fellow. Let’s have it. Where is your lady?”

  Tom perked up. “They’ve gone a very long way. Rhys must have used a gate.” Tom duplicated Lallia’s air map, indicating a point much further north and to the east, almost on the border of the kingdom.