The Last Rune 6: The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  I’m speaking to you over the Weirding. It seems to still work, at least as long as I hold on to Nim.

  She felt amazement and wonder vibrate along the thread. And pain. Grace probed, letting her consciousness reach deep into Deirdre’s body, surveying the damage, making a diagnosis.

  It wasn’t good. Deirdre had been shot in the right shoulder, and the bullet had nicked her subclavian artery. She had lost a lot of blood. That she wasn’t already dead was a wonder. Something seemed to have slowed her metabolism. But time was running out. Deirdre was already going into shock; Grace could sense her organs shutting down. Now that she could use the Weirding, Grace might be able to stave off organ failure for a short while and keep Deirdre’s heart beating. But only if she could touch Deirdre. And even magic wouldn’t help if Deirdre didn’t get a blood transfusion—soon.

  Deirdre, we have to get you to a hospital.

  That’s not important right now. All that matters is the Sleeping Ones.

  You mean the Seven of Orú?

  Yes, the beings in the sarcophagi, came Deirdre’s reply. Despite her weakened state, her voice was clear over the Weirding, as if speaking this way was utterly natural to her. They seek some sort of transformation. I don’t know what it is, but it’s important. I think it has to do with the rifts in the cosmos.

  These words filled Grace with amazement; clearly Deirdre had learned much since Travis had left her and journeyed to Eldh.

  You’re right, Grace spoke in return. We’ve learned that the Seven have to come in contact with the Imsari, to heal the imbalance that’s tearing the worlds apart. Only . . .

  She thought of the drawing that showed the Stones and the Seven coming together, and the mysterious triangle symbol between them.

  Only there’s something we don’t know yet. There’s a key— something that’s needed to allow the Imsari and the morndari to unite. I think it has to do with the Last Rune.

  The Last Rune?

  Words were too slow. Grace gathered up everything she had learned, everything that had happened since Sfithrisir alighted atop Gravenfist Keep, and sent it in a single, glittering pulse along the Weirding.

  She could sense Deirdre reeling. Grace knew it had been too much to assimilate all at once, that it would take Deirdre time to sort out everything that had been transmitted to her.

  The Seeker was faster than Grace had thought. It’s the catalyst , Deirdre’s voice came across the Weirding. Something that

  can link the Sleeping Ones and Great Stones. The transformation the Seven seek can’t take place without it.

  Excitement flared in Grace’s chest. Hadn’t Sister Mirrim said something to Farr about a catalyst? Do you know what this catalyst is?

  She felt frustration, confusion in return.

  No, I don’t, came Deirdre’s reply. Only . . .

  Only what?

  I’m not sure, Grace. I’m so close to the answer, only I can’t . . . I can’t quite reach it, and . . .

  Deirdre had descended the last few steps, and she sank to her knees. Blood spattered the white marble floor. Deirdre’s face was like marble itself. Grace had to do something. She thought about it only a moment, then she connected Deirdre’s thread to her own.

  Grace gasped as she felt her own life force rushing out, flooding into Deirdre, sustaining the Seeker. Across the room, Deirdre’s eyes fluttered, and her back arched. At the same time, thoughts, feelings, and knowledge hummed back along the thread, into Grace. In an instant, Grace understood everything.

  Before too much of her own life force drained from her, Grace broke the connection. She had done all she could with magic; she had stabilized Deirdre, but the Seeker had to have more blood or she would die.

  Grace . . . ?

  Oh, Deirdre, Grace said inwardly. She had seen it all, had felt it all: Deirdre’s quest to unravel the mystery of the arch, only to discover the truth behind everything. The Seekers were a lie. For over four centuries, the Philosophers had desired only to get to Eldh, to learn the secret of true immortality. The Philosopher Marius Lucius Albrecht had tried to stop them, and he was dead. Deirdre’s partner Anders was in a hospital. And Beltan . . .

  Grace searched among the threads. There—she saw one brighter than the others, tinged with emerald. It was Beltan. He was lying on the floor in the shadows of the mezzanine. He was motionless, but he was still alive, still strong. The woman, Phoebe, had placed him in some kind of stasis. However, Grace could already sense Beltan trying to break out of it. He was struggling against the hold on him, and he was winning.

  Grace couldn’t help a sharp smile. Drugs, poisons, magic— even Galtish ale—none of them affected Beltan as severely or for as long as they did other human beings. It wasn’t just because of the fairy blood in his veins. When he was still a boy, his mother, the witch Elire, had made him drink draughts she brewed in order to increase his tolerance to such toxins. Had Elire possessed some shard of the Sight? Had she known that he would need such resistance more than once in his life? Grace didn’t know, but she was grateful all the same.

  Come on, Beltan. You can do it. You can break her spell.

  She could not hear his voice, but she felt his will, his strength. He was breaking free. . . .

  “No!” a woman shrieked.

  Grace’s hold on the Weirding snapped, and her eyes opened. Across the room, Vani stepped back as the last of the security guards fell to the floor. Travis and Farr stood nearby, both breathing hard. Travis’s skin was glowing like that of the golden beings who slumbered in the sarcophagi. Blood trickled from Farr’s lip, but he appeared otherwise unhurt.

  “So much for your guards,” one of the men said, giving Phoebe a sour look.

  “Stop your sniveling, Arthur,” she snapped. “I see, as always, I will have to take care of this myself.” She bent down and picked something up off the floor.

  It was a gun. She pointed it at Travis.

  “I believe your wizard is too tired to pull one of his little tricks again,” she said.

  Grace glanced at Larad. He gripped Sinfathisar, and he was muttering under his breath, but the Stone remained quiescent in his hand. Vani was too far away. The T’gol would not be able to close the distance in the moment it took Phoebe to pull the trigger. She took aim at Travis’s heart.

  “You don’t understand,” Travis said.

  Phoebe’s eyes flashed. A less arrogant person would have simply shot him, but it was clear she could not let such a challenge go unanswered.

  “I am a Philosopher. I understand all.”

  Travis laughed, and her face blanched with rage. “No,” he said, taking a step closer. “You understand nothing. You’re ignorant thieves, that’s all.”

  “Stop!” she said, shaking the gun at him. “I do not need to listen to your ravings. There is nothing you know we do not.”

  Travis shrugged. “Suit yourself. Then again, I’ve been to the otherworld, to Eldh, a half dozen times. And isn’t that where you’re trying to go? If you want, I can tell you all about the Sleeping Ones—who they are, why they’re here, and what they want.”

  One of the black-robed men took a step toward Phoebe, a hungry look on his bearded face. “He knows something, Phoebe, and he seems inclined to tell us. Why not talk to him before we kill him? What harm can it do? Even if he’s mad, as you say, he might know something useful.”

  Phoebe did not look as if she appreciated the opinion. Her eyes became slits, then she nodded. “Very well, Gabriel. We’ll humor you, though I think it’s a waste of time.” She waved the gun at Travis. “Go on. Tell us what you think is so terribly important. And be swift. The gate will not stay open indefinitely, and I do not want to waste more of the blood of the Sleeping Ones to open it again.”

  Travis moved toward one of the sarcophagi, gazing at the figure inside. Phoebe trailed him with the gun.

  “They’re nothing to you,” Travis said softly. He looked up at Phoebe. “They’re something to be used, a means to an end, that’s all. I s
uppose you think they can give you true immortality.”

  Phoebe tightened her fingers around the gun. “They can and they will. We know that what granted them eternal perfection is in that room, on the other side of that gate. And we will have it.”

  “That’s not what they came here for.” Travis bent over the Sleeping One, as if speaking to the golden man. “That’s not why they came to Earth, to give their blood to the likes of you. They’ve been waiting. Waiting for a time when the two worlds would draw close, when they would have a chance to do what they knew they had to do.”

  “And what, pray tell, is that?”

  “They intend to heal the world. All the worlds. The rifts in the sky are the beginning of the end. Don’t you see? You can’t escape them by going to Eldh. The rifts are there, too. If the Seven don’t unite with those Stones my wizard friend is holding, then it’s over. For Earth. For Eldh. For everything.”

  The black-robed men exchanged startled looks. For a moment, even Phoebe’s visage seemed clouded by doubt. Then her expression grew hard once more.

  “By unite, you mean consume, don’t you? What you propose would destroy the Sleeping Ones, wouldn’t it?”

  Travis shrugged. “It might. I don’t know. But if the union doesn’t happen, there will be no Earth, there will be no Eldh. There will be nothing at all.”

  The bearded man, Gabriel, gasped, and some of the others muttered among themselves. However, they all looked to Phoebe. Her lips curled in a sneer.

  “You lie. You want the blood of the Sleeping Ones for yourself, and you tell us these fantasies to trick us. But it won’t work.”

  Before Travis could speak, she leveled the gun at him. Grace reached out with the Touch. Phoebe’s thread was a brilliant gold. If Grace could take hold of it, she might be able to stop Phoebe from—

  There was a deafening crack! of thunder. Grace staggered back. For a dazed moment she wondered if Phoebe had fired and missed, if the bullet had struck Grace instead, knocking her back.

  The thunder grew into a roar. A crack snaked across the marble floor. Phoebe stumbled into the other Philosophers, the gun flying from her hands. Travis lurched against Vani and Farr, and Larad fell to his knees. Sinfathisar spilled out of his hands, rolling away from him, skittering across the heaving floor toward Grace.

  Again came a crack!

  “No!” cried a shrill voice.

  Grace managed to look up. On the dais, the stone arch vibrated and twisted, a wishbone gripped by two angry hands. With a sound like a piano wire breaking, one of the supporting steel bands snapped, then another, and another. The blue fire flickered and winked out. The image of the throne room on the other side vanished.

  With a groan, the arch collapsed into a heap of rubble.

  47.

  Deirdre felt light.

  The green-gold power that had rushed into her through Grace’s life strand buoyed her like the helium in a balloon. The pain in her shoulder had faded, and her breath came easily. When the floor stopped shaking, she was one of the first to regain her feet. Beneath her boots, the marble was stained red.

  You’re bleeding to death, Deirdre. You can’t feel this good. It’s impossible.

  Only she did feel good. Whatever Grace had done to her, it had made her feel awake, alive. Her mind was a flawless crystal, reflecting everything around her in its facets. Across the room, Vani was helping Farr to his feet, while Travis had pulled himself up using one of the sarcophagi. When he fell, Master Larad had struck his head on one of the steps of the dais. Blood oozed from his scalp, and pain etched the scarred mosaic of his face. He clutched a small iron box in his hand.

  “The Stone of Twilight!” the Runelord shouted.

  Deirdre saw it. The gray-green orb had rolled across the floor and stopped a few feet from where Grace knelt, Nim clutched in her arms. Grace started to reach out a hand, then hesitated; from what Deirdre knew, it was perilous for anyone save a Runelord to touch a Stone.

  “So much for your gate,” Travis said, stepping over a crack in the floor, eyes on the heap of rubble on the dais.

  Phoebe flicked her veil over her shoulders. “The gate can be easily reassembled. The same will not be said for you once we are finished with you. Kill them for what they’ve done!”

  The remaining Philosophers were untangling themselves from their robes. One of them gave the gold-eyed woman a startled look. “Are you serious, Phoebe? You mean do it ourselves?”

  She glared at him. “For once in four centuries, stop being a worm, Arthur. Yes, I mean do it ourselves. Use your knife!”

  From her gown, she pulled out the curved dagger she had used to draw blood from the Sleeping Ones. The men took out their own daggers. Arthur fumbled his, nearly dropping it. But others—like the bearded one, Gabriel—held their weapons firmly. Vani and Farr were the closest to the Philosophers. The T’gol started to spring into motion.

  Phoebe’s gold eyes flashed. Vani ceased moving in midair and toppled to the floor, rigid as a sculpture of black stone. Hadrian remained standing, but he was motionless as well, his eyes staring blindly. Travis gave the two a startled glance, then returned his gaze to Phoebe. He took a step back.

  Deirdre, Grace’s voice sounded in her mind, what has she done to them?

  It’s a spell, Deirdre spun the words back, surprised how easy it was to do so. It’s the same one she cast on Beltan. I don’t know how to break it. She thought about what she had learned from Grace. Though if all magic is gone except that closest to the source, then she must have drunk the blood of the Sleeping Ones recently. Otherwise, I don’t think she would have been able to cast the spell at all. Either way, she won’t be able to do it again for a while. It weakens her, and it takes time for her to recover.

  What about the other Philosophers? Can they do the same?

  Deirdre glanced at the gold-eyed men. Their eyes shifted between Travis and Phoebe.

  I don’t think so. She directed the words toward Grace. If they could cast the same spell, they would have done it already. I don’t think they’re as strong as she is.

  Or as strong as Marius had been, or his master before him. Either might have been the leader of the Philosophers. Only neither had wanted what the others craved—true, eternal immortality—and so it was Phoebe who had become their queen.

  “Take him!” Phoebe said, pointing her dagger at Travis.

  The men hesitated, then started forward, blades before them.

  “Dur!” Travis shouted.

  However, magic was all but gone. Without the Imsari in hand, the rune was powerless. Travis cast a look at Larad. The Runelord fumbled with the box. But he was too far away to get the Stones to Travis, and too weary to speak runes himself. Both Deirdre and Grace were on the opposite side of the room. Neither could reach him in time, even if they had the power to stop five men. Except maybe they did.

  Deirdre, help me. . . .

  Grace had already come to the same conclusion. Travis edged past the motionless forms of Vani and Hadrian.

  “Run, Father!” Nim cried, but he couldn’t. The Philosophers had him cornered against a column that supported the mezzanine above.

  Deirdre shut her eyes, concentrating. I don’t know what to do, Grace.

  I’ll show you how. Weave the threads, like this. . . .

  Understanding flowed across the web of the Weirding. Of course—it was so simple. Deirdre grasped the silvery threads in imaginary hands, braiding them into knots.

  Deirdre opened her eyes in time to see two of the Philosophers drop their knives and fall to the floor, limbs flopping against the marble like fish on dry land.

  Phoebe shot Grace and Deirdre a poisonous look. Then she searched the floor with her gaze. She was looking for the gun she had dropped, Deirdre was sure of it. The remaining Philosophers closed in around Travis; his gray eyes flicked left and right, but he could not escape. The man Gabriel raised his dagger.

  Again, Deirdre! Weave with me!

  Deirdre reached out to grasp t
he shining threads—

  —and her hands touched nothing. The shimmering web vanished.

  “Nim!” a voice cried. “No!”

  Deirdre opened her eyes. It was Grace who had shouted. She reached forward, trying to catch Nim, but she was too slow. The girl had wriggled free of her grasp and was running forward.

  “Father needs the Stone,” the girl said. She crouched, the hem of her gold shift brushing the floor, and closed her fingers around Sinfathisar.

  Deirdre held her breath, waiting for something terrible to happen, for green-gray energy to engulf Nim.

  It didn’t. The girl stood, holding the stone. “Father!” She started to run across the room. Grace scrambled after her, and Deirdre followed, feeling so light that her boots hardly touched the floor.

  “Now!” Phoebe said. “Do it!”

  Hands reached out, gripping Travis, holding him tight. Gabriel’s knife flashed, descending. Nim screamed—

  —and the room changed. The air rippled like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble. The domed room with the mezzanine and the ruined gate vanished, replaced by a space that Deirdre—from the thoughts and memories Grace had granted her—recognized as the throne room in Morindu the Dark. Deirdre and Grace halted. The Philosophers snapped their heads up. Phoebe stared at the mummified figure on the dais.

  Nim screamed again, and another series of ripples radiated through the air. The throne room was gone. They were back in the domed chamber on Earth.

  A roar sounded, reverberating off the dome. Something launched itself from the edge of the mezzanine, landing like a great cat behind Gabriel. Big hands grabbed the Philosopher by the scruff of the neck, hurling him back, away from Travis.

  “Get away from him!” the blond man growled, his eyes flashing green. He moved stiffly, but he was still faster and stronger than the Philosophers. He grabbed another one of them— Arthur—and tossed him across the room. The Philosopher landed, wailing, not far from Phoebe’s feet. The other retreated.

  “Beltan,” Travis said, his voice thick with wonder. He touched the blond man’s cheek.

  “What’s happening, Travis?” Beltan said, confusion in his green eyes.