The Last Rune 6: The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  Farr moved forward. “Six feet of slipsand is not enough to have crushed him. I will call the morndari. If I can summon enough of the spirits, they will be able to pull him out.” He started to undo the bandage on his arm, then staggered.

  Vani leaped up, keeping him from falling. “No. You have lost too much blood already. You will perish as well.”

  “I have to try.” He tried to pull away from her, but he was too weak to break her grip. He gazed at her, dark eyes imploring. “Please, Vani. You know what he is fated to do. Let me go!”

  Vani clenched her jaw, then released Farr. However, before he could remove the bandage Larad spoke.

  “Wait—there is another way.” The Runelord held the iron box that contained the Imsari. He opened it and took out the three Stones. “I am not so skilled with the Imsari as Master Wilder, but I may be able to use them.”

  “If you’re going to use them, do it now!” Farr said, his voice edging into a snarl. “He’s been down there over a minute already.”

  Vani’s gold eyes locked on the Runelord. “You said you did not know the rune for sand.”

  “Then I will speak the rune of opening.” Larad gripped all three Stones in one hand. “Urath,” he intoned, and with his free hand he made a cutting motion.

  It was as if the ground had been struck by a gigantic hand. A golden wave rose up, spilling outward in either direction as the sand parted.

  “Urath!” Larad shouted, sweat pouring down his brow, and again he thrust with his hand. More sand flew up and out, and a trough formed in the sand, deeper and deeper.

  “Cease!” Vani cried.

  Larad lowered his hand and staggered back, clutching the Stones to his chest. The Runelord’s spell had formed a trench in the sand a dozen feet deep. At the bottom of it lay a crumpled figure.

  Avhir had been standing a short distance away, observing everything with bronze eyes. Now the T’gol stalked forward. “The walls of the trench are not stable. The sand is going to collapse back in.”

  “I will get him,” Vani said, and before anyone could move she jumped down into the trough. The T’gol landed lightly, but the vibrations from the impact were enough to cause sand to begin sheeting down the walls, pouring into the trough. She crouched and lifted Travis. His body was limp in her arms.

  “Take him!”

  Vani was even stronger than Grace had imagined, for with a grunt she stood and lifted Travis’s body above her head, though her face was lined with effort. Braced by Farr, Avhir reached down a long arm and grabbed Travis’s wrist. He pulled back, heaving Travis’s body out of the trough.

  The edges of the trench gave way with a groan, and sand flooded in just as a dark streak shot upward in a cloud of dust. The air shimmered, then Vani was there. The T’gol drew close as Avhir laid Travis’s body on stable ground.

  “Is he . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Avhir said. “He is dead. The slipsand suffocated him.”

  Vani looked at Grace, her gold eyes brilliant in the last of the daylight. “You are a witch. You can revive him.”

  No. Travis wasn’t dying, he was dead. All the same, Grace reached out with the Touch. Two years ago, she had failed to save a dear friend—Sir Garf—by connecting his life thread to hers; she had been held back by the dark blot on her own strand. Since then, she had learned to move beyond the shadow of her past; there was nothing to hinder her magic. However, magic itself was too weak now, and even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. His life thread had been extinguished. She searched, but there was nothing for her to connect her own strand to.

  Larad touched her shoulder. “You can do it, Your Majesty. You have the power.”

  “Witchcraft is the magic of life,” she said, the words bitter as poison on her tongue. “It can do nothing for the dead.”

  “I do not mean magic, Your Majesty. Were you not a skilled healer before you became a witch? Have you not revived others who were gone? I know you have—I have heard you speak of it.”

  These words jolted Grace, like the electric surge from the paddles of a defibrillator, causing her own heart to begin beating rapidly. For so long she had a been a witch, a queen; she had almost forgotten what she had been far longer, what she really was. But Travis hadn’t forgotten.

  Don’t worry, Grace. You’ll save me. I know you will. . . .

  He had known sacrificing himself would stop the sand creatures. Just as he had known Grace could bring him back. She was a doctor; she could do this. Except she didn’t have the equipment she needed: a crash cart, epinephrine, and a staff of nurses.

  What about magic, Grace?

  No, the Weirding was too weak, too easily tangled. For a moment she wondered if Larad might be able to speak the rune of lightning, to give his heart a jolt. But the amps had to be precisely tuned. Too much, and all hope was lost. There was only one way to do this.

  She knelt beside Travis, letting instinct and experience take over. How long had it been since he had stopped breathing? Two minutes, maybe more. They had to begin CPR immediately. She turned Travis’s head, and with two fingers she removed sand from his mouth and trachea, clearing his airway.

  “Vani,” she said, “kneel down beside him.”

  The T’gol did not question Grace’s orders.

  “Place your hands here, just above the base of his breastbone. When I tell you, perform fifteen chest compressions. Like this—press firmly with the heel of your hand, but not so hard as to fracture his ribs.”

  Grace moved around Travis, aware of his gray skin, his blue-tinged lips. She tilted his head back, pinched his nose shut, placed her mouth over his, forming a tight seal, and breathed. His chest rose, then fell. She breathed again, then leaned back.

  “Now, Vani. Fifteen compressions.”

  When the T’gol was done, Grace breathed twice into his mouth. She tasted sand and blood.

  “Come on, Travis,” she said, her voice strict: a doctor’s command. “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone. I know you can do this.”

  He didn’t move. As Vani continued compressions, Grace raised his eyelids. His pupils were fixed and dilated.

  No, she refused to accept this. He couldn’t be dead, not after everything that had happened to them, not after everything they had survived together. She breathed into him two more times.

  Vani performed another set of compressions, and again Grace breathed air into his lungs. Five times they repeated the pattern, ten. Grace grew dizzy; sweat streamed down Vani’s face. The others gathered around in the failing light, faces intent. Still Travis remained motionless.

  It’s no use, Grace. He’s been down too long. CPR can stave o f brain death only for so long. It’s time to call it . . .

  “No!” she shouted, furious at the doctor’s voice in her, at its dry, emotionless tone. This was not just another patient. This was Travis. Sweet, brave, foolish Travis whom she loved more than any other person on this or any world.

  “Move,” she said, pushing Vani out of the way.

  Grace straddled Travis. She raised a fist, then slammed it down against Travis’s chest. His body flopped with the force of her blow, then lay still. She checked, but there was still no pulse. She balled her fist and struck him again, in the center of the sternum. Again. And again.

  Farr’s hand closed around her wrist as she raised her hand one more time. “Stop, Grace. It’s over. Let him go.”

  A coldness came over Grace, as well as a steely certainty that could be forged only from purest rage. She looked up at Farr, and she saw her eyes reflected in his. They blazed with emerald sparks.

  “Let go of my hand now, or I will kill you.”

  Farr staggered back, his mouth open. Grace forgot him in an instant. She gazed down at Travis. It was almost as if his voice whispered again in her mind. I believe in you. . . .

  She believed in him, too. And she would not let him go. Grace brought her fist down against his chest. Hard.

  Travis’s eyes snapped open.

  His back arched as
he drew in a rasping breath. He clutched her arms—hard, hurting her—but she didn’t care. She pulled him into a sitting position, and he leaned against her, his body shaking as he coughed up sand. After a minute his breathing eased. She checked his pulse; it was rapid but steady. Then she probed with other senses. His life thread shone: a brilliant amalgam of blue silver and molten gold.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Welcome back, Travis.”

  He cupped her cheek in a hand, and despite the pain on his face, he grinned. “I knew you’d come to get me.”

  “I would never leave you behind,” Grace said, tears evaporating from her cheeks. “Not for anything.”

  She looked up, but Farr had already turned his back, walking away.

  35.

  They returned to their campsite at the dead oasis. Vani and Avhir offered to carry Travis, but he was able to walk on his own power with some help from Grace and Larad.

  They found the camels dead, but they had expected that. The beasts lay sprawled on the ground, their corpses drained of blood. Already the wind scoured at them, and soon their bones would join the others that scattered the oasis. They rested for a time, drinking and eating a little, though Travis would take only water. Night fell, and while they made no fire, it seemed to Grace that Travis’s skin gleamed in the dimness.

  “I believed you were dead, Travis, when you stepped into the slipsand,” Vani said, her golden eyes glinting like a cat’s in the darkness. “But you live. Truly it is Fate.”

  “I think Fate had a little help in the matter,” Travis said, holding up Sinfathisar. The Stone of Twilight shimmered in the moonlight. He set it in the box with the other two Imsari and closed the lid. “Thank you, Larad.”

  Larad said nothing, though it seemed the corners of his mouth twitched, curving upward.

  Travis took Grace’s hand in his “Fate was right about one thing, Grace. I would never have gotten this far without you.”

  Grace squeezed his hand. The joy she felt was too powerful to express in words.

  The darkness unfolded, and Avhir stepped into their circle. He crouched. “I gathered what supplies remained in the packs on each of the camels. There was little enough. This is the last of the water.” He set a waterskin on the ground. It was less than half-full.

  Larad eyed the skin. “That will not last us long.”

  “It will not have to,” Avhir said. “The dervish says we will reach Morindu tomorrow.” He gazed at a dark figure that stood on the other side of the dead oasis.

  “Why wait for tomorrow?” Travis said, standing.

  Surprise finally compelled Grace to speak. “You mean go tonight? What about the slipsand?”

  “It’s no easier to see in daylight than moonlight,” Travis said. “And the Scirathi could already be on the other side with Nim.”

  He was right, of course. They had to try. But Grace couldn’t help wondering who would retrieve them from the slipsand once all of them went under.

  “I’ll get the dervish,” Avhir said.

  Grace followed the tall man with her gaze, and a sigh escaped her. “He hasn’t so much as mentioned Kylees or Rafid.”

  “Our kind do not speak of T’gol who are no more,” Vani said, the words quiet but hard.

  Grace stared at her. “Why not?”

  “Because a T’gol does not think of death, or of others who have perished. When a T’gol dies, it is as if he or she never was. Their name is never mentioned among our kind again. That way we can fight with abandon, without fearing our own ends.”

  Grace thought she had never heard such sad words spoken in her life. She touched Vani’s hand. “I would still speak your name.”

  “You are not T’gol,” Vani said, and looked away.

  They were silent until Avhir and Farr stepped into their circle.

  “It’s no use,” the former Seeker said. “We cannot pass through the slipsand. Not this night, not tomorrow, not ever.” He swayed on his feet.

  Vani leaped up, steadying him. “You are bleeding.”

  There was a fresh cut on his left arm. Hand shaking, he drew out a cloth and pressed it over the wound. “For the last hour, I’ve been trying to call the morndari, but they won’t come. Either I don’t have enough blood left to sacrifice, or magic has grown too weak.”

  “Your magic, maybe,” Travis said. He stood. “Larad, give me Sinfathisar again.”

  Travis took the Stone of Twilight, and it seemed to pulse in the moonlight. Grace couldn’t help letting out a sigh. Magic was failing, but the Imsari seemed to have lost none of their luster or beauty. Why were they untouched?

  Travis bent his head, murmuring a word over Sinfathisar, then let go of the Stone. It did not fall to the ground, but instead hovered in midair.

  “Aro,” Travis said. “Go, seek out the way.”

  The Stone began to drift through the air, southward, away from the camp, hovering five feet off the ground.

  “Come on,” Travis said, walking after the floating Stone. The others exchanged looks, then followed.

  “Are you strong enough to walk?” Grace said to Farr.

  His face twisted in a look of disgust. “Don’t show kindness to me, not now. If I had kept you from doing your work, he would be—you would have been right to kill me.”

  She winced. “I wouldn’t have done that.”

  He gazed at her with dark eyes. “Yes, you would have.” He quickened his pace, moving ahead of her, and Grace could only stare after him.

  He’s right, Grace. You would have done it. Given a choice between Travis and Hadrian, you would have chosen Travis.

  Until that moment, something had been growing inside Grace when she was with Hadrian, something strange and beautiful, like a flower whose nature she couldn’t know until it unfurled. But now she realized it had been cut: a bud nipped from the stem before it could bloom.

  They passed over the ridge and came to a halt at the edge of the expanse of slipsand—to the place where Travis had died. Sinfathisar held its position, hovering in midair.

  “Guide us,” Travis said. “Aro.”

  And the Stone floated out over the slipsand.

  “This way,” Travis said, and stepped forward. The others came after him, following in his footsteps. They moved in single file, for there was no telling how narrow were the strips of solid ground between the patches of slipsand. Nor was there any way to discern with the eye where one ended and the other began.

  The moon rose higher into the sky. Its brilliance made the jagged rift in the southern heavens all the darker. The rift seemed to grow even as Grace watched, blotting out more stars. She felt sick, and did her best to keep her eyes on the ground.

  Their progress was slow, and many times the Stone of Twilight halted, suspended in place, until Travis spoke the rune of guiding and the Stone floated forward once more. As the moon passed its zenith, Grace and Larad began to stumble with weariness, and at one point Grace’s foot strayed from the path.

  Her foot sank, and instantly she felt the pull of the slipsand. However, Avhir was behind her, and was able to grab her shoulders, plucking her up and placing her back on the safe path.

  “Thank you, my friend,” she said, touching his cheek.

  He gave her a stern look. “I am not your friend, Sai’ana Grace. Do not care for me, as I cannot care for you.”

  “Why?” she said, too stunned to say anything else.

  “Because to do his task, a T’gol must have a heart of stone. To care for another is to open oneself to weakness.”

  He stalked away, and Grace gazed after him.

  “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. It was caring for another, opening oneself to that pain, that vulnerability, that made one truly strong. Strength was knowing you could be wounded, that you could lose. Her gaze drifted to a figure in a black robe, walking ahead. A sigh escaped her lips, and she continued on, careful to keep to the path Travis made.

  At last the moon sank toward the horizon. Farr shuffled his feet,
as if unable to pick them up, and even the T’gol moved with heavy steps. They had gone only a half mile southwards, but they had walked many more miles as they wound their way through the patches of slipsand. Of them all, only Travis still seemed fresh. He kept murmuring the rune of guiding, and he would wait for the others to catch up if he got too far ahead. Finally, as the eastern horizon lightened from jasper to rose quartz, Travis halted. He held out his hand, and Sinfathisar settled against his palm.

  “What’s wrong?” Grace said, too weary to feel panic. “Are we lost?”

  Travis shook his head. “We’re here.”

  Vani and Avhir probed carefully; the ground was stable. Travis held out the Stone, and Larad took it, nestling it back in the iron box with the other Imsari.

  “Your power is greater than ever, Master Wilder,” Larad said, raising a fractured eyebrow. “I could never have done what you did—commanding the power of a Great Stone for so long.”

  Vani’s eyes were locked on Travis, and so were Farr’s. Had they seen what Grace had, the way he had shone in the night? Long ago, in the city of Morindu, the god-king Orú was chained by his own people because of his terrible power. What would happen if Travis kept growing stronger?

  Only he can’t, Grace. Not if magic keeps weakening.

  Or could he? What if Travis was like the Great Stones? What if whatever was affecting magic had no effect on him?

  They ate a little as the horizon grew brighter and drank the rest of their water. It would do more good to carry it in their bodies, Avhir said, rather than in a skin. However, moments after drinking her share, Grace was thirsty again, her throat dry.

  She noticed Travis standing a short distance off. Again he had drunk a little water but had taken no food. She moved to him, and he smiled as she approached.

  “I was going to ask how you are,” she said. “Only you look wonderful. Better than I’ve ever seen you.”

  He drew in a breath. “I feel good, Grace. I don’t know why. I should be tired, and hungry, and thirsty, but I’m not.”

  Grace managed a grim smile. “I wish I could say the same.”