The Last Rune 6: The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

Do not trust the dervish . . . the desert changes a man . . .

  What had Sareth meant by those words? Did he believe Hadrian Farr to be dangerous in some way?

  All dervishes are dangerous, Grace. By definition. They’re people who’ve shunned the laws and ethics of their society in order to learn ancient secrets of sorcery. There’s no way you can trust someone like that. They’ve already shown they’re not beholden to anything. Anything except the quest for knowledge, for power.

  Only Farr hadn’t given up the laws of his society. He wasn’t one of the Mournish; he was from Earth. And while she supposed it was possible Farr did crave power, she thought it more likely his thirst for knowledge had compelled him to become a dervish. Farr was a Seeker through and through; more than anything he wanted to learn, to comprehend mysteries no other person before him had. That wouldn’t change just because he somehow found a way to Eldh.

  Or would it? He has worked blood sorcery, and he cannot possibly be the same as you knew him. . . .

  Perhaps. But had she ever really known Hadrian Farr anyway? He had helped her, yes. First on that October night when all of this began, when he aided her escape from the ironheart detective at the police department, and again when she and Travis returned to Denver in a desperate attempt to save Beltan’s life. But while he had had files and photos and documents about her, she had nothing to tell her about Farr. Other than his eyes, she still could not picture him in her mind. He was like a vague silhouette, wreathed in cigarette smoke and lit from behind. What would she say to him when she saw him? She didn’t know. All the same, a thrill ran through her when she thought of seeing him again, of being close to him. Unconsciously, she urged Shandis into a swifter pace.

  Late that afternoon, as they neared the port city of Kalos, one of the T’gol reappeared; it was the woman, Kylees.

  “Avhir has gone ahead to arrange passage on a ship,” the assassin said. She resembled Vani only in that she was lean in her black leathers, and her dark hair was closely cropped. She was smaller than Vani, even petite. Clad in one of the colorful dresses favored by young Mournish women, she would appear pretty and vulnerable. Grace had no doubt many large, strong, foolish men had thought the same thing. Just before their necks snapped.

  “Is Rafid with Avhir?” Grace asked.

  The T’gol scowled. “Do you think I am not strong enough to protect you as well as Rafid or Avhir if your pursuer appears?”

  That wasn’t what Grace had meant. She had only been trying to be polite.

  “Keep close,” Kylees said, and moved swiftly down the road.

  Grace did as instructed. She had told Avhir about the shadow that had followed them, and though they had seen no signs of pursuit, it was a good idea to stay vigilant.

  They reached the city just as the sun melted into the sea. Kalos was situated on a narrow peninsula that formed the southern tip of the continent of Falengarth, and so was surrounded by water on three sides. On the east, tall cliffs formed a deep harbor, and this—along with the fact that the Summer Sea was narrower here than anywhere else—made Kalos a bustling city of traders, merchants, pilgrims, and other travelers. It was a good place to begin a journey. And to lose pursuit.

  Avhir appeared as they rode through the city’s gates. “I have found a ship to bear us across the sea,” he said to Grace. “Tonight we will stay at a hostel in the Merchant’s Quarter. Try not to speak to anyone, but if you must, tell them you are the daughter of a northern spice trader and that you are here on an errand of business for him.”

  That wasn’t going to be a problem. Grace didn’t plan on engaging in any idle chitchat with the locals. When they reached the hostel, they retired at once to their rooms and did not leave again until first light, when they set out for the shipyards. Though the sun had not yet risen, Kalos was already awake and bustling with activity. Grace bought dates from a smiling, toothless man, and she and Master Larad made a breakfast of them as they rode through the city.

  They were nearly to the docks when Grace saw a man in a white robe surrounded by a crowd of people. She supposed he was a priest of one of the Mystery Cults, preaching to a group of followers. However, as she and Larad drew nearer, she saw that the man’s white robe was dirty and ragged, and that it did not bear a holy symbol of any of the New Gods. Instead, a blotch as black as old blood was painted on the center of robe, over his heart. The man was speaking, his voice chantlike, but the people gathered around him seemed not to listen; instead, they stared at the ground or into thin air with slack expressions. They were filthy, their faces darkened by flies.

  “You!” the man said, his voice rising into a shout. He was pointing at Grace and Larad. “Do not think you can flee it on a ship! It does not matter where you go. The Mouth will eat you.”

  Grace pulled on the reins, bringing Shandis to a halt. He was right. What did she think she was doing? There was no point in going south across the sea. Nothing she could do would change anything. She started to nudge Shandis toward the man in the dirty white robe.

  “Come, Sai’ana Grace.” The air rippled, and Avhir was there, gripping Shandis’s bridle. “The ship is ready to sail.”

  Grace blinked, and the torpor fell away from her, replaced by urgency. Yes, they had to go at once. She and Larad rode after Avhir as the T’gol led the way into the dockyards.

  The ship Avhir had arranged for their passage was a sleek two-masted spice trader. It reminded her of the Fate Runner, the ship on which she had first journeyed to Tarras and which had carried her back north, only to founder and sink off the coast of Embarr after they were attacked by Onyx Knights. She thought about Captain Magard, and his rough, kindly humor. And the way he had died in the keep of Seawatch—the same keep where Lord Elwarrd had died rather than let his ironheart mother deliver Grace to the Pale King.

  For a short while, Grace had almost believed she could love Elwarrd—if that was even something she was capable of. It was only now, as she thought of him for the first time in years, that she realized how much the handsome, dark-eyed lord had reminded her of Hadrian Far. . . .

  “Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” Larad asked as they dismounted at the end of the pier.

  Yes, Grace suddenly realized, there was. “I forgot about Shandis and Glumly. What are we going to do with them? We can’t just leave them here.”

  Larad looked as if he would be perfectly content to leave the mule behind, but Grace sighed, stroking both Glumly’s and Shandis’s muzzles. Fortunately, she had worried for nothing.

  “I have hired a courier to return your mounts to the Mournish,” Avhir said, appearing out of thin air, and Grace was too grateful for his words to be annoyed at the way the T’gol had startled her.

  “That was kind of you,” she said.

  He waved the words aside with a long hand. “It was not done out of kindness. You must focus on your fate. Your mind must not be distracted by petty concerns such as the welfare of an animal.”

  Grace didn’t care what he said. It felt like kindness. She kissed Shandis’s flat face and tried not to cry. “Lirith will take good care of you,” she said, then she stepped back as a young man led the honey-colored mare and the mule away.

  They boarded the ship, and apparently they were the last cargo to be loaded, for almost at once the plank was pulled back, the lines thrown down, and the sails unfurled. The ship pulled away from the dock, speeding out into the harbor and toward open sea. Grace gripped the rail and faced into the wind, letting the spray moisten her face.

  “Something is wrong with this ship,” Master Larad said behind her. “Terribly wrong.”

  Grace turned around. The Runelord clutched one of the masts. His face was an unnatural and vivid shade of green.

  “The floor is heaving as if it’s about to rend apart,” the Runelord gasped. “This cannot be right. We must abandon ship!”

  Grace couldn’t help a laugh. “Not just yet, Master Larad. The rolling is perfectly normal. And it’s called a deck, not a floor.”


  “Normal? You mean this is how it’s going to be for the entire passage?”

  “No,” Grace said cheerfully. “Once we’re out of the harbor, the rolling will be much more pronounced.”

  Larad stared at her, an expression of horror on his scarred face. Then he ran to one side of the deck and leaned over the rail. Grace didn’t know the rune for nausea, but it seemed Larad was quite familiar with it. Fortunately, she had packed some herbs in her luggage.

  You’d better go brew him a simple, Grace.

  She went in search of Avhir, to find out where her things had been stowed. The T’gol found her first.

  “We have conducted a search of the entire ship, Sai’ana Grace,” the T’gol said. Even in the bright morning light, it was hard to look at him, as if his body was a projection that was slightly out of focus. “There is no one on board save for ourselves and the crew.”

  Grace nodded. It was impossible that someone could be on the ship and the T’gol would not find them. Even so, she had made her own inventory as they boarded the ship. She had used the Touch to seek out and locate the life thread of every living organism on the ship, down to the last rat. It had been exhausting work—the web of the Weirding had kept knotting and tangling in her fingers—but she had done it, and she knew Avhir was right. Whoever or whatever had been pursuing them, it was not on this ship.

  “The passage to Al-Amún will take two days, Sai’ana Grace. I suggest you use that time to rest. I will show you to your quarters.”

  She took Avhir up on his offer, but she did not stay in her tiny cabin belowdecks. Instead she fashioned a quick simple and went in search of Master Larad. On deck, the crewmen were lashing down ropes; they had given the ship full sail now that they had left the harbor behind.

  “Excuse me,” she said to one of the sailors—a man with blond hair and a boyish face. “You haven’t seen a sick wizard around, have you?”

  “No,” the sailor said.

  He was tying a rope to a metal hook. As he worked, Grace noticed a rather nasty-looking gash on his arm. It was fresh and had barely begun to scab over. He had probably gotten it while working the ropes; a loose line could crack like a whip.

  She started to reach for him. “Would you like me to take a look at that cut? I’m a healer.”

  “You’d best leave me be and go to your cabin,” he growled. “A woman has no business on a ship. It’s bad luck.”

  Then he turned his back on her, grabbed a rope, and scrambled up into the rigging. So much for that sweet, boyish face. She started along the deck, continuing her search for Master Larad, and hoping her sea legs decided to show up soon.

  She found the Runelord still leaning over the rail. With effort, she managed to get some of the simple down him, and then with the help of Kylees transferred him to his hammock in the main hold belowdecks. Grace had asked Rafid for help first, but he had scowled and stalked away. A moment later Kylees appeared.

  “What’s wrong with Rafid?” Grace asked.

  “He will not touch a sorcerer except to slay one,” Kylees said.

  “Larad’s not a sorcerer. He’s a wizard.”

  Kylees did not answer. Despite her small size, she looped Larad’s arm around her shoulder and hauled him to his feet.

  Grace spent most of the voyage at Larad’s side, bathing his brow with a cool cloth and getting what herbs into him she could. Blessedly, the passage was short and the winds fairer than usual of late, and it was just after dawn two days later when they sailed into the harbor at Qaradas.

  Master Larad’s condition improved almost immediately upon disembarking, though he remained pale and weak. Grace knew that speed was of the essence, but she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to wait a day in the city to let Larad recover his strength.

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” the Runelord said, “I would rather ride at once. At the moment, I wish to get as far away from water as possible.”

  “Then you shall get your wish,” Avhir said, appearing out of a swirl of dust. “The others have arranged camels and supplies for our journey. We will set out for Hadassa at once.”

  Grace bit her tongue to keep from thanking the T’gol. She cast a glance at the ship—her last connection with the lands of the north—then followed Avhir and Larad through the gritty streets of Qaradas.

  19.

  The blond-haired sailor walked along the pier, away from the docked ship.

  “Where are you going, Madeth?” a rough voice called out. A group of his crew mates gathered near the end of the pier. “We’re off to find ourselves some wine and dancing women. I’ve heard that in Qaradas they wear nothing under all those fluttering scarves.”

  The sailor called Madeth did not stop walking.

  “Ah, forget him,” said another man. “He’s still a boy. He’d only get in our way.”

  The sailors moved away down the dock. That was good. He could not allow himself to be seen.

  Why? a part of him started to question. Why can’t I be seen? Where am I going?

  However, those tremulous thoughts were quickly drowned out by a surge of hot blood in his brain. His legs pumped with mechanical efficiency, carrying him into the city. His eyes scanned back and forth until they found what they sought: the mouth of an alley between two white buildings. He moved into the alley, away from the hot eye of the sun, letting the dim coolness envelop him.

  The alley was empty save for a dog that snarled at him. Its ribs were showing. He ignored the beast as he had the men. It was time.

  He pulled away the rag he had bound around his arm two days ago. The wound beneath was puckered like an angry mouth. Pus oozed from beneath a crusted scab, and red lines spread out from the gash, snaking up his arm. He had gotten the cut while loading the ship, gouging his arm on an exposed nail while he hoisted crates on the dock at Kalos.

  And then what happened? He tried to remember. He had cut himself, and then all at once everything went dark, as if a shadow had fallen over him. There was pain—far more pain than a simple cut on his arm should cause, coursing through his body. And then . . .

  Oh, by all the gods, then—

  Again blood sizzled in his brain, erasing the thoughts. With his free hand he dug under the scab, prying it loose, and pressed his fingers into the wound, opening it up and tearing it wider.

  Blood gushed out, and Madeth screamed.

  He staggered back against the wall. Dark red fluid poured down his arm, raining onto the ground and pooling there. The puddle grew larger, then the blood began to flow—not down the gutter—but upward, into the air. It gathered in on itself, rising up before Madeth, twisting and writhing like one of the water-spouts he glimpsed from time to time on the open ocean. And which he would never glimpse again.

  His heart ceased its work; there was nothing left for it to pump. The column of dark fluid undulated and took on a new shape: that of a man. Two hot sparks appeared in its face, glowing like eyes. They watched as the empty husk of the young sailor slumped to the ground. The dog’s snarling became a piteous whine as it backed deeper into the alley.

  A glistening arm lashed out, reaching much farther than a normal man’s might, and the whining was cut short. The arm retracted, drawing the body of the dog closer, and in a moment its empty body lay crumpled next to that of the sailor.

  The creature’s body rippled with pleasure. It re-formed itself into a tight ball and rolled to the back of the alley, then let itself sink back into a puddle on the ground. This form took the least energy to maintain, and it was best to conserve; soon, it would need all its strength. It would rest while the hot eye glared down from the sky. Then, when darkness covered the world, the hunt would begin again. She was close. It could taste the nearness of her blood. It would pursue.

  And when this over, when it had brought its creators to what they sought, it would drink her dry.

  20.

  Deirdre winced as a crash emanated from the other side of the paneled mahogany door. This was not going well. They had lef
t Beltan alone in the parlor, hoping some rest might calm him. Instead, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. Another crash sounded. She tried to picture the parlor’s decor. There weren’t any Roman busts, Ming vases, or priceless medieval artifacts in there, were there?

  Not anymore, she thought.

  She looked up to see Anders hurrying down the corridor, a satchel in hand. Thank the Great Spirit, he was back.

  “How is he?” Anders said in his gravelly voice. He had donned a fresh suit—one with two sleeves.

  “Fabulous,” Deirdre said. “In a screaming, thrashing about, throwing things against the wall sort of way.”

  “I figured as much,” the Seeker said. “Big warrior types never have tidy little emotional outbursts. He’s got to be pretty broken up.”

  Something thudded against he wall, rattling it.

  “Him and the parlor,” Deirdre said. But that wasn’t fair. Beltan was just displaying what all of them were feeling inside. The Scirathi had taken Nim. Travis and Vani had followed through the gate, but there was no way to know if they had succeeded, if they had managed to pursue the sorcerers to Eldh, or if they had been lost in the Void between the worlds. Beltan had just met his daughter. Now he might well have lost her forever, and his life mate as well. Given similar circumstances, Deirdre doubted her outburst would have been very tidy either.

  “I brought some of his clothes from their flat,” Anders said, hefting the satchel. “Maybe a shower will help settle him down and clear his head. Let’s talk to him.”

  Deirdre was doubtful, but it was worth a try. “You go first.”

  Anders opened the door, then ducked as a coffee cup whizzed over his head, past Deirdre, and shattered against the wall of the corridor.

  “Hey, now,” Anders muttered under his breath. “I hope that wasn’t aimed at me.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to go in,” Deirdre said, and shoved him in the back, urging him forward.

  No more projectiles hurtled their way as they entered the parlor and shut the door behind them. The destruction was not as bad as Deirdre had feared, and was largely limited to their coffee cups and saucers from the night before. She made a quick survey of the room. There was a large Grecian urn on a pedestal next to the fireplace, looking both priceless and fragile, but it was untouched.