by Mark Anthony
Grace gazed again at the dark columns rising into the distant sky. Then she tucked the rune into her pocket and followed after the hag.
Over the next three days, the restoration of Gravenfist Keep continued at a furious pace. Grace doubted this fortress had ever housed quite such a curious army as it did at the moment. There were knights and soldiers from all seven of the Dominions, working alongside witches and runespeakers and Queen Inara's Spiders. What was more, King Kel had brought not only his warriors, but his entire band of followers.
As a result, when stern-faced Embarran knights called for rope or hammers, those things were likely to be brought to them by wenches with frowsy hair and saucy smiles—something which caused even the stolid Embarrans to blink a time or two. In addition, the job of the camp's cooks was made easier by Kel's wildmen, who spent all day scrambling through the underbrush up and down the valley, catching rabbits and quail with their bare hands and bringing them back—usually in their mouths—for the cook's pot.
Despite the motley nature of the army, everyone had their place. The Embarrans were more than stout warriors; they were superb engineers. Under the command of Durge and Sir Vedarr, they made quick work of shoring up the walls. They fashioned sledges that rolled on logs, so that massive stones could be hauled to and fro, then raised into place with levers, and they mixed mortar from limestone and clay found not far from the keep. They also built a series of sluices that brought water from a nearby spring, and they engineered pumps that moved the water to a cistern at the top of the keep, where it could be used to put out fires.
The runespeakers proved invaluable as well. That first day, under Oragien's lead, they went to an abandoned quarry down the valley. There they spoke the rune of stone again and again, splitting slabs of slate into smaller pieces. Soon there were shingles enough to repair the roofs of both barracks and keep. After that, they spent their time inside the keep and along the wall, speaking the runes of wood and stone until their voices were hoarse. Thanks to the power of the spells, even the heaviest beams and most massive blocks remained cooperative as the engineers moved them into place.
The witches wove their own spells, and though they were subtle magics, they were powerful. They blessed the waters of the spring so that they ran clean and pure, and so that a drink would lend a tired man energy and strength. At the base of the great wall grew patches of brambles, and the witches spent long hours weaving the threads of the Weirding, encouraging the thorny bushes to grow thick and to a great height, until soon they were like a wall themselves.
Grace took part in weaving these spells when she could, helping to guide the coven's magic along with Senrael and Lursa—who had managed to retain her position as the coven's Maiden. When Grace asked how she had resisted the advances of the knight she had been dancing with, Lursa had winked.
“He thinks I didn't resist, that's how.”
Grace gaped at her. “You mean you cast a spell of illusion on him?”
“A very small one, sister. Sex is more than enough to befuddle the mind of the average man; magic is hardly required. It was simple to make him believe he was getting quite a bit more than he really was.”
Senrael let out a cackle. “That's my girl! You deserve a man of peace for a husband, not a man of war.”
However, as Lursa and Senrael moved away, Grace noticed how the young witch's gaze traveled across the courtyard, falling upon a knight who was sharpening his sword—it was he. He looked up and waved at Lursa, his eyes lighting up, and a smile touched the young woman's lips. Grace smiled as well; something told her Lursa did not plan to keep up the illusion forever.
Later that day, Grace found herself speaking with Aldeth. Like everyone, the Spiders had been keeping busy. They had scouted out the keep and surrounding land, and Aldeth had important news: He had found a secret passage.
The entrance lay in the basement of the keep, concealed behind a block of stone cleverly hewn to look like part of the wall. Aldeth and Samatha had followed the narrow passage beyond as it turned and twisted for nearly half a league through the dark. At last they had come upon another door, only it was sealed with a rune, and so they had been forced to come all the way back to the keep to fetch one of the runespeakers.
Master Graedin had traveled back through the passage with them, and he had been able to decipher the runes carved into the door, speaking them to release the spell that locked it. Once it opened, they found themselves looking out over Shadowsdeep.
“The door lets out partway up a steep crag,” Aldeth said, “but there looks to be a faint path winding down into the vale. Someone could use this passage to enter Shadowsdeep unseen.”
“And someone has,” Samatha added. “I saw footprints in the dust near the doorway. At least one man came this way in recent years.”
Grace realized she knew who it was. “It was Falken. He came to Shadowsdeep two years ago, when he first began to suspect the Pale King was stirring again. He's not a runespeaker, but I imagine he knows enough about runes to have been able to open that door.”
Aldeth dusted cobwebs from his mistcloak. “I believe we'll find the passage useful as well, Your Majesty. There's a clear view of the Rune Gate from the crag where the passage lets out. We'll be able to see the army of the Pale King the moment it begins its march.”
Grace supposed that was something. “I'll want one of you Spiders to keep watch at the door at all times. And make sure you always have a runespeaker with you. Once the Rune Gate does open, you'll need to shut that door again.”
Despite the dark clouds looming on the horizon, as the days passed, Grace found her spirits lifting. While it was more the result of sweat and muscle than magic, it seemed miraculous how swiftly the keep was taking shape. Soon the wall was strengthened, the crenellations and machicolations built, and all the roofs repaired. After that, the men spent their time gathering piles of large stones that could be dropped on the heads of the enemy, sharpening swords, and fashioning arrows. Everything was coming together better than Grace could have dreamed.
Everything, that was, except for one thing: Though they scoured the keep from top to bottom, they still had not discovered the keyhole into which the rune of hope would fit.
Grace paced back and forth across the keep's main hall as Durge stood nearby. This room had been the filthiest in the keep, being the lowest besides the dungeon, and the men had only just finished clearing out the last of the dirt and debris. Now some of them wiped the floor with rags, cleaning away the last layer of grime. The floor was beautifully crafted, laid out with small pieces of slate of varying shades of gray. More men brought in armfuls of rushes and strewed them over the floor, covering the slate tiles to protect them from the passage of countless boots.
Grace rubbed a thumb over the surface of the rune. “It just doesn't make sense, Durge. If this really is the key to awakening the keep's magic, why would they have put the keyhole in a place where it's impossible to find?”
“They probably didn't,” said a ringing voice.
They looked up to see All-master Oragien enter the hall, Master Graedin at his side. The old runespeaker smiled in answer to Grace's look of confusion.
“I imagine that, to the builders of this keep, the keyhole was so obvious they didn't ever bother to write down where it was located. Only to us, seven centuries later, does it seem such a mystery.”
Grace supposed he was right. “You said the stones of this keep are bound with runes, All-master. Isn't there a way you can speak runes to awaken the keep's defenses?”
Master Graedin answered before the elder runespeaker could. “I'm afraid not, Your Majesty. Only a bound rune can be used to awaken another bound rune.”
Oragien gave the younger runespeaker a sharp glance. “You are clever, young Master Graedin, but you do not know all things yet.” He looked at Grace. “It is true that one cannot awaken a bound rune simply by speaking its name. However, there are other ways a bound rune might be invoked. Their magic may be crafted in such a
way that certain things might awaken it.”
Grace shook her head. “What sort of things?”
“A bound rune might awaken when touched by water or heated in a fire, or even when the stars stand in a certain position in the sky. Almost anything might trigger the rune's magic. It's entirely up to the one who created it.”
Grace chewed her lip. Oragien's words made her think of something Grisla had said. Just because you have a key doesn't mean there's got to be a hole to stick it in. . . .
Maybe they had been going about this all wrong. Maybe the reason they hadn't found a keyhole wasn't because they had missed it, but rather because there wasn't one.
“Hope,” she murmured, gazing at the rune. “What gives us hope?”
“Life,” Graedin said without hesitating. “Where there's life there's hope.”
Grace looked at him. “Yes, and what else brings hope?”
Oragien stroked his long white beard. “The coming of spring brings hope. And the sight of an eagle soaring.”
“A banner snapping in the wind,” Graedin said excitedly. “Men clasping hands in friendship. A field of ripe grain. Holding a newborn baby.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “No babies here, Master Graedin. We need something else.”
“Dawn,” said a rumbling voice.
They all stared at Durge. The Embarran blinked, taken aback by their sudden attention.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I will not interrupt again.”
Grace clutched his arm. “No, Durge. You're right. Dawn brings hope. Morning after night. Light after dark.”
She had studied the rune countless times, examining the creamy stone and the three silvery lines that marked its surface. However, in all those times, had she ever looked at the rune outdoors when it was daylight? She couldn't remember.
It was afternoon outside the keep, and sunlight shafted through high windows at one end of the hall like columns of gold. Grace drew near one of the sunbeams. It couldn't be this easy. All the same, she held out her hand, so that the sunlight fell full upon the rune, turning the white stone gold.
Nothing happened. She counted ten heartbeats, twenty. Her hand grew warm in the sunlight and began to sweat. She sighed.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Durge said behind her. “I did not mean to get your hopes up.”
“What's going on in here?” Sir Tarus said, striding into the hall along with Commander Paladus.
“Nothing, unfortunately,” Grace said. She pulled her hand back, out of the sunbeam.
On her palm, the rune continued to glow a soft gold.
“But that can't be,” she murmured.
Only it was. In fact, the rune was getting brighter. The silver lines glowed like fiery copper now. The rune was hot and heavy against her palm.
“By all the gods,” Paladus swore. “It's growing.”
The disk had been the diameter of quarter. Now it was twice as large. Three times. It grew so heavy Grace fumbled, and it fell to the rushes on the floor. They gathered around—not too close—watching as the rune grew until it was the size of a dinner plate. It shone so brightly now they had to squint to look at it.
“Look,” Oragien said softly.
A shaft of light shot up from the surface of the disk, brighter than the sunbeams that fell into the hall. Dust motes swirled inside the golden column, each one burning like a fiery spark. Then the sparks drew closer to one another, chaos becoming order as they arranged themselves into a recognizable shape.
It was a man. He was tall and proud, his features stern, his robe blazing with symbols of power. Grace had no doubt he was a runelord. Or had been when this magic was created centuries ago.
“Greetings, Lord of Malachor, Bearer of Hope,” spoke the image of the runelord. His eyes shone like coals. “As you have been given this rune, so have you been given a most sacred duty, one above all others borne by the heirs of King Ulther. It is your burden to awaken the magic of Gravenfist Keep if times of darkness come again and peril approaches.”
“But how?” Grace whispered, staring at the shining figure. “How do I awaken it?”
The runelord wasn't really there; this was only an image—a kind of magical recording made long ago. All the same, his words seemed an answer to her question.
“By our hands, we forged Gravenfist with magic,” the image of the runelord spoke on. “We imbued its stones with enchantments of power. And once the stones are awakened, no thing of evil will bear their touch and live. To wield these defenses, you have only to command them. The keep will know the heirs of King Ulther. Ever has the blood of Malachor been the key to hope—so your father and your mother will have told you. May the light of the Shining Tower never fail.”
As the sound of these last words faded to silence, the image of the runelord flickered and vanished. The rune lay on the floor, dim and small once more.
Tarus let out a snort. “Well, that wasn't terribly helpful.”
“Fascinating,” Oragien said, apparently not hearing the Calavaner. “Utterly fascinating! I imagine it was not only the sunlight that awakened the bound rune. Surely its magic required that one of Ulther's line hold it.”
Grace bent and picked up the rune; it was cool against her hand. “I suppose the runelord thought he was being clear,” she said to Tarus. “Didn't he say something about how my mother and my father would have told me? The runelord assumed I would have knowledge of these things already.” Only she didn't; her parents had died when she was an infant.
Durge blew a breath through his mustaches. “For a stone marked with hope, it brings little enough. But perhaps there is some riddle in the runelord's words, one we would be able to fathom if we had long months to decipher it.” The Embarran cleared his throat. “Which we don't, of course.”
“Can you make the message speak again?” Paladus said.
They could. Each time Grace held the rune in a beam of sunlight, the image of the runelord appeared. However, each time his message was just as mystifying. There was something she was missing, something she was supposed to know but didn't.
Paladus laid a hand on her shoulder. “Do not fear, Your Majesty. It is better to put trust in our skills as warriors rather than in the work of magicians who died long ago. We will hold this keep against the enemy, enchantments or no.”
Grace gave the commander a grateful smile. However, as the day went on, her spirits plummeted. Some heir to an ancient kingdom she was. She was already supposed to know how to awaken the magic of Gravenfist. Only she didn't have a clue.
Sunset found her atop the keep once more, watching the gloom gathering in the distance. The columns of smoke were higher than ever, and a sickly greenish light flickered behind them. The sun slipped behind the sharp rim of the mountains. If dawn brought hope, then what did dusk bring?
The sound of bare feet padding against stone approached from behind her. Grace turned around, and despite the thick bands of fear around her heart, she smiled.
“Tira. What are you doing all the way up here?”
As usual the small girl wore only her thin ash gray shift, her arms and feet bare.
“I'm sorry we haven't had much time to play these last few days,” Grace said, and she meant it. “But I'm tired of thinking about runes and fortresses. Let's go have some supper, and then maybe we can find something new for your dolls to wear.”
Grace expected this to elicit a smile. Instead, while the right side of the girl's face—the scarred half—was as impassive as ever, the left side bore a look of sadness.
Concern rose within Grace. She knelt and touched Tira's thin shoulders. “What is it, sweetheart? Is something wrong?”
Tira reached out and laid her small hands on either side of Grace's jaw in a gentle embrace. A warmth filled Grace, and she sighed. Then Tira lowered her arms, and warmth became a terrible chill. The girl took a step back, and slowly Grace stood.
“You're leaving me,” she said.
A tear rolled down the side of Tira's face. In a pu
ff of steam it was gone.
Grace's own cheeks were cold and wet. She was shaking. “I don't want you to go.”
Tira gazed at her, then climbed atop the low wall that edged the battlement. The wind tugged at her thin gown.
“Please.” Grace was weeping openly now. She held out a trembling hand. “Please, don't leave me.”
Tira reached out a chubby hand. The tips of her fingers brushed Grace's.
“Mother,” she said.
Then she rose into the evening sky. She ascended swiftly, a spark of crimson light rising up to join the first stars of evening. For a moment she shone among them, like a tiny ruby. Then the light winked out, and she was gone.
Grace staggered, catching herself against the wall. She felt so horribly cold—a husk empty of life. She had known this day would come. However, that did nothing to lessen the bitterness of it. Why had Tira left her?
“She has done what she can here,” said a croaking voice behind her. “And she is needed elsewhere. This battle is up to you now, daughter.”
Grace turned around, wiping the tears from her eyes with a rough hand. “Is it really?” she said, her voice hoarse with grief. “What about Runebreaker? Isn't he supposed to be the one who decides everything in the end?”
Grisla shrugged knobby shoulders. “And which Runebreaker do you mean?”
A breath escaped Grace. She didn't know how to answer, and it didn't matter. Her place was here, at this keep.
“Are you going to leave me, too?”
The hag let out a cackle. “I think not, daughter. One has to be somewhere when the end comes, and this seems as good a place as any for the likes of me.”
The aching in Grace's heart didn't ease, but all the same she felt her fear recede a fraction. At least she wasn't alone. She still had Grisla and Kel, Tarus and Paladus, and the witches and the runespeakers and the Spiders. She still had Durge. For now at least.
Grace turned and gazed out over Shadowsdeep. True to its name, purple shadows filled the valley. “There's no hope, is there? Despite the rune in my pocket, we don't have a prayer of winning.” She turned back and faced Grisla.
