The Last Rune 6: The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  The dragon sidled closer and the air about it rippled, distorting everything around it like images seen through crystal. It felt as if Grace’s own body was stretching and contracting in impossible dimensions. The sensation was not painful, but wrenching and deeply wrong.

  “You believe order gives power and purpose,” the dragon said. “But you are mistaken. Order only limits, confines. In the chaos before this world existed, there was such freedom as you cannot possibly imagine. There were no limitations, no arbitrary rules to be obeyed. I would destroy this world, yes. I would return to the mayhem of before.”

  “Then why fight against the rift?”

  Sfithrisir’s wings spread out like smoky sails. “Because the rift discerns not between a world of stone and air and water and fire, or a world of formless mists! At the rift’s borders, all of being ends—order and chaos alike. It is the annihilation of all existence, not only for this world, but for all those worlds that draw near to it.”

  A shard of understanding pierced Grace, freezing her heart and shattering her soul. She could comprehend destruction. A rock could be crushed to dust, a piece of wood burned to ash, a living organism sent back to the soil that gave it life. But in each case something—dust, ash, soil—remained. Travis had destroyed the world Eldh when he broke the First Rune, but even before he forged the world anew something had existed. He had told her about it: the gray, swirling mists of possibility.

  But the rift was not like that. Inside it was neither light nor dark. It was a place without potential, without possibility. It was a vacuum, a field in which nothing existed, or could ever exist. In that moment, in the presence of Sfithrisir, Grace truly understood what the rift was. It was Pandora’s box emptied of everything it had contained.

  It was the end of hope.

  Grace clutched her stomach. She was going to be ill. No human mind should try to comprehend what hers just had. But already the crystalline moment of understanding was passing, her mortal faculties too feeble to hold on to it.

  “It’s . . . it’s like the demon below Tarras, isn’t it?” she gasped. “The sorcerers had bound one of the morndari, and it wanted to consume everything in the city. It almost did.”

  “Wrong again, mortal. The spirits, the beings which the sorcerers call Those Who Thirst, come from a place which is like this world reflected in a mirror. It is the opposite of this creation in all ways, a place not of being, but of unbeing. Yet all the same, it is something; it exists. The rift will eradicate the morndari just like everything else.”

  Despair weighed upon Grace, pressing her down like a hundred blankets. The dragon’s words rang in her mind. The world would cease to be. And those worlds which drew near it.

  Earth, she said to herself. He means Earth. But the name hardly felt real, as if the world it signified was already gone, its lands, its cities, its people swallowed by the rift and replaced by nothing at all.

  “How?” Grace said. “How can Travis and I do anything to stop it?”

  “I am wise beyond all,” Sfithrisir said, letting out a soft hiss of steam. “Yet even I do not know the answer to that question.”

  Sudden anger filled Grace. She clenched a fist and shook it at the dragon. “I don’t believe you. You’re supposed to know everything. Even Olrig had to steal the secret of the runes from you.”

  Sfithrisir’s head bobbed in what seemed a shrug. “And can you truly steal knowledge, mortal? Is not the knowledge retained by the one it is stolen from even as the thief makes off with it?”

  Grace’s anger faded. Somehow the dragon’s words made sense to her. Olrig stole the runes from the dragons, who had heard them spoken by the Worldsmith. But Olrig was the Worldsmith.

  There have been countless Worldsmiths, Grace. Olrig or Sia or whoever the last Worldsmith is wasn’t the first. The world before this one was destroyed, and afterward only the dragons remained. They’ve always been there, watching, listening, hoarding knowledge. Then Olrig learned the runes of creation from them, just like all the other Worldsmiths before him must have, and used the runes to make Eldh.

  Which meant, much as the dragons loathed creation, they were part of its cycle. And that was why Sfithrisir had come to her. If the rift continued to grow, Eldh would never be created again. Or destroyed again.

  “You don’t know we can stop it,” Grace said, looking up at the dragon, meeting its smoldering eyes. “If there’s nothing in the rift, then your knowledge ends at its borders. There’s no way you could possibly know that Travis and I have the power to stop it.”

  The dragon’s wedge-shaped head ceased its constant movement. “Perhaps your mind is not so limited after all. No, I cannot see into the rift, and so I know not how it can be defeated. All the same, much as I loathe this creation, I know it must be saved, and that you and Travis Wilder have the power to do so. The knowledge of it is woven into the very fabric of this world, and I have read it there. I do not know how to close the rift. But this one thing I do know: Only the Last Rune can save this world.”

  “You mean the rune Eldh?”

  “No,” the dragon hissed, eyes sparking. “Eldh was the first rune spoken at the forging of this world, and it was the last rune at the end of this world. But what will be spoken at the end of all being, of all worlds? Even I do not know the rune for that.”

  The dragon uncoiled its long neck, stretching its head toward the sky, spreading its wings. Red light tinged the horizon. Dawn was coming. The dragon beat its wings. Its talons left the stones of the battlement.

  “Wait!” Grace shouted over the roar of the wind, reaching a hand upward. “How can I find out what the Last Rune is?”

  “Seek the one who destroyed this world.” Sfithrisir rose upward in a cloud of smoke. “He will come in search of it.”

  The creature beat its gigantic wings, and Grace was knocked back by the blast. By the time she looked up, the dragon was a red spark in the gray sky. The spark winked out and was gone.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, and Grace turned to see Sir Tarus along with the Spiders Aldeth and Samatha running toward her across the battlement.

  “Your Majesty!” Tarus said breathlessly as they reached her. “Are you injured? By all the Seven, that was a sight I never dreamed I would see in my life. Are you well? Did it harm you?”

  She was so dazed she could only shake her head.

  Samatha gripped a bow, aiming an arrow at the sky, then swore. “It’s gone. I can’t see it anymore.”

  “It’s not as if an arrow would have done you any good against a dragon,” Aldeth said with a snort.

  Samatha lowered the bow and glared at him, the expression making her face even more weasel-like. “And how would you know? Have you ever met a dragon before?”

  “No,” Aldeth said. He looked at Grace, his gray eyes solemn. “But Her Majesty has.”

  Grace gazed up at the sky. It was getting lighter. The stars had faded, and she could no longer see the rift. Only it was still there. And it was growing.

  “What is it, Your Majesty?” Tarus said, touching her arm. “Are you certain you are not harmed?”

  “I’m fine, Sir Tarus. Let’s go downstairs. I need to talk to Melia and Falken at once.”

  However, it was Aryn and Lirith she spoke to first.

  Their voices came to her across the Weirding just as the sun crested the summits of the southern mountains. She was in her chamber, hastily donning a gown so she could go downstairs, when Aryn’s voice spoke to her as clearly as if the blue-eyed witch had been in the chamber.

  Grace, can you hear me?

  She gripped the back of a chair, gasping in surprise and delight.

  Aryn, yes, it’s me. I can hear you just fine.

  Happiness hummed across the threads of the Weirding, and love. But there was more. A sense of urgency, and something else. Before Grace could ask about it, another voice spoke— deeper, smokier.

  Sister, it is so good to be with you again, even if only over the web of the Weirding.

&
nbsp; Despite all that had happened, Grace couldn’t help smiling. “Lirith,” she murmured aloud. Then, in her mind, How is Sareth? And little Taneth? And your al-Mama?

  Very well, though given to fussing a bit.

  Which one do you mean?

  All three of them, I confess, Lirith said, her laughter like chimes in Grace’s mind. But I departed the south several weeks ago. Taneth and I are in Calavere now, with Aryn and Teravian. They’re both doing well, and Aryn looks beautiful.

  No, I look large, came Aryn’s reply. I don’t think I’m ever going to have this baby. I’m just going to keep getting more enormous. Soon I won’t be able to fit in the castle at all, and Teravian will have no choice but to erect a gigantic tent for me in a field.

  Grace could imagine Lirith pressing dark, slender hands against Aryn’s belly. Do not believe her, Grace. The baby is healthy and will come very soon. And I can see in Teravian’s eyes every time he looks at her that he has never found his queen more lovely.

  Grace didn’t doubt it. She sighed, wishing she could be there with the two witches and spend all day laughing and talking about such simple joys. Only . . .

  What is it, Grace? Aryn said. Something is wrong, isn’t it? Lirith was certain of it when she woke this morning.

  Grace gripped the chair. Have you had a vision, Lirith?

  No, I haven’t. And that’s what’s so strange. I haven’t had a vision in months. Or at least . . .

  At least what?

  She could sense Lirith struggling for words. I suppose I have had visions. Or what feels like a vision of the Sight to me. The same queer feeling comes over me, and my gaze goes distant, or so Sareth tells me, and I have the usual headache when the spell passes. Only it’s as if the magic is broken somehow. I never see anything with the Sight anymore. Instead, I see nothing. Nothing at all.

  A coldness came over Grace, and she sank into the chair. Your magic isn’t broken, Lirith.

  She told them everything, sending words, thoughts, and feelings over the Weirding, so that in moments they knew all that had happened. I think you did have a vision, Lirith. If Sfithrisir is right, if the rift keeps growing, then that’s all there will be in the future: nothing. Just as you saw.

  She could feel both Aryn and Lirith recoil in horror. However, neither had seen the rift, nor had they heard of anyone who had. That gave Grace a small amount of hope. The rift must only be visible in the far north. That meant it was still small. And that meant there was still time to do something. At least, she had to believe that.

  Do you think the rift has something to do with what’s happening to rune magic? Lirith said.

  Grace curled up in the chair, hugging her legs to her chest. I suppose it’s too much to believe it’s a coincidence. And it’s not just the Runelords. Lately, the witches here have been struggling with weaving spells.

  That is troubling news, came Aryn’s reply. I confess, it was more difficult than usual to reach you over the Weirding. Were it not for Lirith’s aid, I’m not sure I would have succeeded.

  So magic was being affected in the south, not just the north. That was troubling news.

  I have to go, Grace said reluctantly. I have to talk to Melia and Falken about what we’re going to do.

  Wait, Grace, Lirith said, and something in her voice made Grace sit up straight in the chair. We have news ourselves. Such strange news . . .

  Grace stared, her body going numb, as she listened to Lirith speak of the letter she had received from Sareth just last night, brought to Calavere by a rider from the south. After three thousand years, Morindu the Dark, lost city of sorcerers, had been found. But it was not so much the news that stunned Grace as the name of the dervish who had brought this knowledge to the Mournish.

  Grace, I’m getting tired, Aryn said when Lirith finished. I know there’s so much to talk about, but I can’t hold on to this thread any longer. It keeps slipping through my fingers. We’ll have to talk again later.

  “No, wait!” Grace cried out, standing. “Please don’t go!” But their threads had already slipped away.

  She moved to the window, gazing outside, letting the morning sun fall on her face. A hawk wheeled against the flawless blue sky.

  “How?” she murmured, her hand creeping up her chest, pressing against her heart. “How did you get here, Hadrian?”

  That was a question that would have to wait. However, this news changed everything. Grace no longer needed Melia and Falken to help her decide what to do. She already knew.

  Seek the one who destroyed this world, the dragon had said. He will come in search of it. . . .

  Travis would help her find the Last Rune—the rune that had the power to stop the rift.

  And now she knew where she would find Travis.

  Grace turned from the window, opened the door, and went downstairs to tell Melia and Falken that she was leaving Malachor.

  12.

  Vani and Beltan were already moving toward the back of the flat before the sound of falling glass ceased. The blond man paused to grab his sword from the wall above the sofa. Its broad blade gleamed, a decoration no longer.

  “Travis,” he said gruffly, “you and Deirdre stay in here.”

  Travis gave a wordless nod, then the knight and the T’gol vanished into the darkened hallway. His heart raced, but all it would take was a single spell cast by a sorcerer and its beating would stop forever.

  He bent down on one knee. “Come here, Nim.”

  The girl walked to him, her gold-flecked eyes solemn, and pressed a small hand against his cheek. “You shouldn’t be afraid. Mother always sends the gold men away, and this time she has my father Beltan to help her. He’s very strong, you know.”

  Despite his fear, Travis couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, he is.” He scooped the girl into his arms, amazed at how light she was, and stood. Deirdre was frantically dialing a number on her cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” Travis whispered.

  She held the phone to her ear and ran a hand through her shaggy red-black hair. “Calling for backup.”

  Holding Nim, Travis took a step toward the hallway. He couldn’t see Beltan and Vani anymore; they must have slipped into the bedroom. There was no sound now. What was happening in there?

  By the hand of Olrig, why don’t you go find out for yourself? Jack Graystone’s voice spoke in his mind. You’re a Runelord, Travis. You can take out a mere sorcerer. You’ve done it before.

  Yes, he had slain a sorcerer before, but not with rune magic. It had been in Castle City, in the year 1883, when he had finally come face-to-face with the Scirathi who had followed them through the gate. A drop of blood from the scarab had entered Travis’s veins, and that blood of power had allowed him to turn the death spell back on the Scirathi, slaying him.

  That’s right, I quite forgot, Jack’s voice spoke excitedly in his mind. Runes won’t be much help on this world without the Great Stones to lend them some punch. But you’re a sorcerer now yourself, and a fine one at that. You have nothing to fear from them, my boy.

  Travis was quite certain Jack was wrong about that. All the same, he started toward the kitchen to get a knife.

  Behind him, Deirdre swore softly. Travis halted and turned around. “What’s the matter?”

  She lowered the cell phone. “My partner, Anders, wasn’t home. I was leaving a message on his machine, only then there was a burst of static and the phone went dead.”

  Nim tightened her arms around Travis’s neck. “The air feels funny,” she said. “It’s all tickly.”

  Travis tilted his head back and shut his eyes. He didn’t know how she had sensed it, but Nim was right. Power crackled on the air.

  His eyes snapped open. “Deirdre, get away from the—”

  The front door of the flat burst open in a spray of wood.

  Deirdre stumbled to her knees under the force of the blast, the cell phone flying out of her hands. Travis hugged Nim to him. In the doorway stood a figure clad in black, a serene gold face ne
stled into the cowl of its robe. Before Travis could think, the sorcerer raised a hand, stretching its fingers toward him.

  Nim screamed, and Travis felt his heart lurch in his chest.

  “Meleq!” he shouted.

  The rune was weak—weaker than he would have expected even here on Earth—but it was enough to lift a chunk of wood from the floor and fling it at the sorcerer. The blow was far too feeble to cause damage, but on instinct the sorcerer moved his hand to bat the chunk of wood aside. Travis felt his heart resume its rapid cadence.

  “Sinfath!”

  A sick feeling came over him, just as when he had tried to bind the broken plate and failed. The sorcerer stepped through the door. Travis swallowed the bile in his throat.

  “Sinfath!” he shouted again.

  This time it worked, though again the rune was pitifully weak. All the same, a foggy patch of gloom precipitated out of thin air around the sorcerer. It would obscure his vision, but only for a moment.

  “Come on,” he croaked, grabbing Deirdre’s hand and hauling her to her feet. Clutching Nim to his chest, Travis ran toward the hallway, Deirdre stumbling on his heels.

  They were only halfway across the living room when the windows shattered, knives of glass slicing the curtains to shreds. Black gloves parted the tatters of cloth, and a second figure hopped down from the windowsill, robe fluttering like shadowy wings as it alighted on the floor.

  Travis stopped short, and Deirdre crashed into him. He shot a glance over his shoulder in time to see the last effects of his runespell dissipate. The first sorcerer stalked toward them, while the second positioned himself in front of the entrance to the hallway, blocking their egress.

  “What do we do?” Deirdre hissed, grabbing his arm.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Behind the second sorcerer, the air in the hallway rippled, like the surface of a pool disturbed by a falling stone. Travis’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral grin, and the Scirathi tilted his gold mask to one side in what seemed a quizzical expression.

  “You forgot something,” Travis said.