The Last Rune 6: The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  They reached the edge of the market. There, an old woman was taking small bottles of green glass from a table where they had been displayed and, one by one, opening them and pouring their contents into the gutter.

  Grace pulled her horse away from the others and rode close. “What are you doing, sister?”

  The woman did not look up. “Wrong,” she muttered. “All wrong.”

  “What’s wrong?” Grace said, shaking her head.

  “My simples, that’s what. All the good has gone out of them. There’s no use in selling them anymore. This morning I tried to weave a spell of plenty over my hens. Only they pecked at each other, and broke one another’s eggs. Sia is angry. She has placed a curse on the world.”

  The crone took another bottle and poured out its contents. The emerald fluid blended with the sludge in the gutter. Grace opened her mouth, but then she saw Brael motioning for her to follow. The old woman kept muttering as she emptied out her potions. Grace turned Shandis around and followed after the others.

  They rode on, to an inn near the town’s center. After a discussion with the proprietor, who was as jovial and red-faced as an innkeeper should be, they were led to rooms on the upper floor. Now that they were in Eredane, Grace should have presented herself to King Evren to request permission to ride through his Dominion. However, there wasn’t time for such formalities; the king’s castle of Erendel lay fifty leagues to the west. She told the innkeeper she was the daughter of a Calavaner merchant traveling on business for her father. No one would question her story. There were many travelers on the roads these days—another benefit of freedom.

  They took their supper in a private dining chamber and retired early to their rooms. As night fell, music and laughter rose from the common room below, but Grace felt no temptation to go down and join in the merriment.

  It was after midnight when she woke. The inn was silent, and starlight filtered through a crack in the shutters, slicing across the chamber like a silver knife. Grace tried to will herself back to sleep, but it was no use; her bladder would not be denied. She rose and used the chamber pot, then started back to bed.

  Halfway there, she halted and moved to the window. She hesitated, then opened one of the shutters. The window faced north, and she wondered if she might be able to see it: the rift.

  No. A haze of smoke hung over Glennen’s Stand. She doubted if the folk in this town even knew it existed. How could they, if they had been so willing to sing and clap and laugh in the common room below? Only perhaps some did know. Grace thought of the old woman in the market, pouring out her potions. Sighing, she reached to close the shutter.

  And froze. A shadow moved in the narrow street below. It slunk toward the inn, keeping low to the ground, avoiding any stray beams of light that spilled from nearby windows.

  It’s just a dog looking for scraps, Grace told herself, even though she knew it was too large to be one, that it moved nothing like a dog.

  A night breeze wafted down the street, and the shadow’s outlines appeared to ripple. The thing’s motions were slow and purposeful, almost languid; it seemed to ooze rather than creep as it drew closer to the inn, heading straight for the wall below her window.

  A door opened across the lane, and a beam of firelight fell onto the street. In an eyeblink the shadow slipped into the alley between the inn and the stable, vanishing as if absorbed by the darkness. Grace snatched the shutter back and locked it with an iron bar, her heart thudding.

  She considered waking Brael. However, that was absurd. What would she tell him? That she had looked out her window and had seen a drunken man crawling home? For that was surely all it had been. She climbed back into bed, and at last she fell asleep.

  By daylight, the memory of the shadow was less sinister, and she nearly forgot about it until Larad asked her as they rode from the town how she had slept, and she mentioned it to him.

  “You should have come to me at once, Your Majesty,” the Runelord said, his expression stern. “I could have spoken the rune of vision. We might have gotten a glimpse of it.”

  These words startled her. “It was only a shadow, Master Larad.”

  “If you wish, Your Majesty.”

  However, rather than reassuring her, the Runelord’s words ate at her like acid all that day, and she resolved that if she saw something out of the ordinary again, she would alert Larad at once.

  Only she didn’t, and as they continued their journey south, it became harder to maintain the same keen sense of urgency she had felt on setting out from Gravenfist Keep. Instead, the monotony of the journey dulled the edge of her fear as well as her mind. Every day was the same: The mountains rose up to their left, the plains swept away to their right, and the road stretched on before them: straight, predictable, and—as far as the eye could see—endless.

  Her urgency might have been renewed each night if she could see the rift, only she couldn’t. The air in southern Eredane was moist, and at night all the stars were lost in haze. By day the weather was unseasonably hot and muggy, and she found the woolen riding gowns she had packed heavy and oppressive.

  At last, on their twelfth day out from Gravenfist, the Queen’s Way veered sharply in its course, turning to zigzag its way up a steep ridge in a series of switchbacks. They had reached the juncture of the Fal Erenn and the Fal Sinfath, the Gloaming Fells.

  All that day they climbed upward, and in some places the road was so steep they were forced to dismount and walk in front of the horses so as not to exhaust the beasts—though Larad’s mule plodded along as placidly as it had when the road was level.

  They reached the top of the pass just as night began to fall. Before them lay the rock-strewn highlands of Galt, while behind and far below lay the rolling fields of Eredane. Grace panted for breath, for they had gone the last half mile on foot. Then she turned around, and her breath ceased. They had ascended far above the hazy air of the lowlands, and there was nothing to block her view.

  “It has grown,” Larad said beside her.

  A hard wind scoured across the highlands, evaporating the sweat from Grace’s skin. Though the stars were only just beginning to come out, there could be no doubting it: The rift had indeed grown, eating a dark hole in the northern sky. The dullness of boredom vanished; fear once again sliced into Grace’s chest with a sharp blade. She welcomed the pain, for it cleared her mind and reminded her of her purpose.

  Larad touched her arm. “Look, Your Majesty. Down there.”

  It took Grace a moment to see it in the failing light. Below them—far, but not so far as she might have liked—a dark blot moved along the road. It progressed rapidly, smoothly, ascending toward the highlands like a drop of dark liquid flowing up rather than down.

  “It seems your shadow has followed us,” the Runelord said softly.

  Grace knew it was anatomically impossible, but it felt as if her heart was lodged in her esophagus. “Can you see what it is?”

  Larad held out his right hand. “Halas,” he whispered. In the gloaming, the silver rune shone clearly on his palm: three crossed lines. At the same time his eyes glowed crimson, like those of an animal caught in the beam of a flashlight.

  The night was deepening. Grace couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the shadow halted, then flowed toward a crevice in the rocks, vanishing.

  She clutched the sleeve of Larad’s robe. “Did you see what it was?”

  “No,” he said, the red light fading from his eyes. “Whatever our stalker might be, I think it realized we had detected it. Even as I gazed at the thing, it seemed to melt away into the rocks. I doubt we will see it again tonight. Or at all, after this. It is likely to be even stealthier.”

  Grace wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “But why would someone be following us?”

  Larad did not answer. The sound of boots against gravel approached. They turned to see Sir Brael walking toward them.

  “The men have found a flat space just off the road,” he said. “A stone shelf affords some protecti
on from the wind. Shall we set up your tent there, Your Majesty?”

  Grace thought of the way the shadow had moved with liquid stealth along the road. “No,” she said, shuddering. “The moon will rise soon, and it’s close to full. We ride on to Castle Galt. We can be there by midnight if we hurry.”

  17.

  They reached Castle Galt just before midnight, as Grace had hoped. It was not a vast, walled complex like Calavere, but rather a blocky tower keep perched on a windswept spur of rock. They pounded on the gate, and though the guards answered, they were suspicious of any travelers who arrived so late, and would have turned them away. However, at that moment the king himself came downstairs, clad in a nightshirt and carrying a candle, drawn by the commotion. He recognized Grace at once, scolded his guards—though not too harshly, at Grace’s urging, for they were only doing their duty—and ushered the travelers inside.

  Grace pleaded with the king to return to his bed, and not to let them be a trouble, but he would not hear of it, and called for a late supper to be set on the board in the hall. His twin sister, Kalyn, appeared—looking fresh-faced as ever, despite being disturbed from her rest—and served them bread, meat, and ale with her own hand. Grace was careful to take only a polite sip from the tankard of dark, foamy brew that was set before her. She had heard stories about Galtish ale, and most of them ended with falling down and taking a long time to get up again.

  “C-c-can you tell us the reason for your j-j-journey south, Your Majesty?” Kylar said when they had finished eating. “I c-c-confess, I am surprised to see you here. Since the shadow appeared in the northern sky, most people k-k-keep close to their homes and do not stray far. These are strange t-t-times, to be sure. Goats go lost, and their owners don’t b-b-other to look for them. Old women stare at their looms as if they have never woven cloth in their lives. And it seems every other c-c-cask of ale my steward taps has spoiled.”

  “I’m sure Queen Grace’s reasons for traveling are her own,” Kalyn said crisply. She glanced at Grace, concern in her gentle brown eyes.

  “Of c-c-course,” King Kylar sputtered, looking mortified. The tassel at the end of his nightcap bobbed up and down. “P-p-please forgive me for b-b-being so rude, Your Majesty.”

  Grace pushed away her tankard. “No, I won’t forgive you, because you have every right to ask, Your Highness. You’ve been so kind to take us in at this late hour. I want very much to tell you, and—”

  Larad gave her a sharp look.

  “And it’s best if you don’t,” Kalyn said, touching Grace’s hand. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. We know that whatever you’re doing, it’s for the greater good. We needn’t hear the particulars.”

  Grace sighed. “Thank you.”

  “Now,” Kalyn said, “there is one thing you must tell us, and that is how we can help you.”

  After an abbreviated but welcome night’s rest, they set out again an hour after dawn. Grace considered telling Kylar to keep watch for their shadowy pursuer, then decided against it. Whatever the shadow was, it would not be lingering in Galt. The only thing Grace knew for certain was that it was following her.

  “Is something wrong, Master Larad?” she asked as they mounted the horses. The Runelord’s face was gray and pinched, and he seemed unable to stand up straight.

  She couldn’t understand his muttered reply, though she caught the words “hammer” and “skull.” Apparently he hadn’t heard the stories about Galtish ale.

  They made good time that day—despite Larad’s indisposition—for King Kylar kept the section of the Queen’s Way that passed through Galt in good repair. The pack mule was now laden down with supplies from Kylar’s larder and wore something of a betrayed expression on its long face. The beast really hadn’t signed on for all this, Grace supposed. She had taken to calling the mule Glumly, for that was he how did everything, though he never balked and always kept pace with the horses.

  They spent that night at a small, cheerful inn, though Larad hastily retreated to his room, hand to his mouth, when the innkeeper set a foaming tankard before him. The next day the road descended a rocky valley, following the course of a noisy stream, and by evening they made camp on the edge of greener, gentler lands. As they set out the next morning, Grace found herself leaning forward in the saddle, and it was afternoon of the day after that—their fourth out from Galt—when they crested a rise and she finally caught sight of what she had been straining to glimpse: a castle with seven towers rising on a distant hill.

  “Calavere,” she murmured, her heart quickening. Shandis let out a snort, and even Glumly pricked up his long ears. They cantered the last league to the castle, not afraid of tiring their mounts, for despite their haste Grace intended to stay there for a day. It would be good to rest—if only for a short while—in the company of friends.

  When they arrived at Calavere’s gates, they found Aryn, Teravian, and Lirith waiting for them.

  “How did you sense we were near the castle?” Grace asked as she gripped Aryn’s hands. “I can hardly reach more than a hundred paces with the Touch these days.”

  I don’t need magic to sense when you’re coming, sister, came Aryn’s warm reply over the Weirding. My heart knows.

  Grace laughed, holding the other witch tight, and for the first time in days she thought nothing of dragons or rifts or shadows. Teravian and Lirith pressed forward then, and there was a good deal of embracing all around—so much so that even Master Larad could not escape a hug or two, despite the Runelord’s best efforts.

  However, that evening found them all in a grimmer mood as they gathered in Teravian’s chamber for a private supper. Though the fare set on the table by the servants—roasted goose, golden loaves of bread, berries and fresh cream—was far more sumptuous than anything they had gotten on the road south, Grace found she had little appetite as she listened to Aryn and Teravian speak of affairs in Calavan and Toloria.

  There had been a good deal of unrest already that summer. The weather had been unusually hot; it had seldom rained, and when it did the storms were violent, pounding the crops in the fields to pulp. A two-headed calf had been born at a farm not far from the castle—an event considered an ill omen by most folk. Stranger still, stories told that the old witch who had gone to dispel the curse that hung over the farm had dropped dead when she tried to weave the spell.

  “But can that be, sister?” Lirith said, looking at Aryn.

  The young queen hesitated, then nodded. “It could, if the threads of the Weirding tangled around her tightly enough. Her own thread might have been strangled.”

  Lirith clasped a hand to her mouth.

  “A week ago, my castle runespeaker tried to speak the rune of purity at dinner,” Teravian said. “Only he couldn’t. ‘My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth every time I try to speak a rune,’ he told me. The poor man was nearly in tears. He returned to the Gray Tower the next day, saying that he would have a replacement sent to Calavere right away.” He looked at Grace. “But I don’t suppose one will come?”

  “Not if the rift keeps growing,” Grace said, trying not to think of the witch who had been strangled by her own spell. “Have you seen it here? I don’t know if it’s visible this far south yet—the last few nights have been cloudy.”

  Teravian picked up a glass of wine but did not drink. “Yes, we’ve seen it. Ten nights ago, it appeared in the north—a dark hole in the sky, just like you described.”

  “Are people afraid?” Grace said.

  Teravian frowned. “That’s the peculiar thing. I thought they would be. I thought there would be fire and panic, and I was ready to send my guards out to stop it. Only there was no need. The people go about their daily lives as before. They tend to their fields, their shops, their children. Only there is no joy to it, no meaning. They’re going through the motions, that’s all. Folk have stopped leaving offerings at the shrines of the Mystery Cults. They say the gods have abandoned them, only they do nothing to bring the gods back. It’s as if they’ve run out
of—”

  “Hope,” Aryn said softly. She sat in a chair near the window, her left hand resting on her full belly. “They’ve run out of hope.”

  Teravian set down his goblet and knelt before her. “There is hope, Aryn.” He laid his hand over hers. “It’s right here.”

  Despite the dread that seemed to be a permanent fixture in her chest, Grace found herself smiling. Aryn and Teravian hadn’t chosen one another. If fact, given a choice, surely either would have selected almost anyone else. All the same, in the three years since their marriage, love had grown between them, and it was all the more precious because it had been so un-looked for, like a flower blooming in the midst of winter.

  Aryn had bloomed herself. The lovely but tentative young woman Grace had first met in this castle was gone, replaced by a beautiful and regal queen. Her blue eyes were still vivid, but tempered with wisdom now, and her raven hair framed a porcelain face that was sharper than before, but no less kind. She seemed complete: a woman, queen, and witch in the full of her power. Even her withered right arm, so small and delicately twisted, was a part of the whole.

  Teravian had changed as well. Although he would never be brawny like his father, King Boreas, his lean frame had filled out, and he no longer hunched his broad shoulders. He wore a black beard now, like his father had, and when he bared his teeth in a grin, he reminded Grace of bullish King Boreas indeed—so much so that she felt a pang of grief in her chest. However, when he grew serious and thoughtful, which was far more often, it was his mother, Queen Ivalaine, who was reflected in the young king’s visage.

  “What I hope,” Aryn said, shifting in the chair and grimacing, “is that this baby comes soon.”

  “It will,” Teravian said.

  She glared at him. “You can’t know that.”