The Last Rune 4: Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry, Grace. I know it wasn’t my fault. I was just a sword in Dakarreth’s hand; he was the killer, not me. And no man could have resisted the Necromancer, not even Falken. After all, he did something to Falken’s hand a long time ago. Well, this is what he did to me. But I won’t let Dakarreth win, not after Travis gave up everything to defeat him.”

  Despite her sorrow, Grace found herself smiling. How could she not? Beltan had every reason for rage, or despair, or madness. Instead, he had chosen life and love.

  The knight pulled his hand from hers and gently brushed a tear from her cheek. “You’d better stop that, Grace. The librarian will toss you out if you get one of his books wet. You saw the fit he threw when I brought that bottle of wine in. Now, let’s get some more books so we can keep working.”

  The knight scooped up an armful of volumes and headed across the library. Grace drew in a breath, then rose and turned around.

  And found herself gazing into a pair of golden eyes.

  A woman stepped from the shadow between two bookcases, into a beam of honey-colored light. As always, she wore clinging black leather, and her dark hair was slicked back from the striking oval of her face.

  “Vani,” Grace breathed. “How long have you been there?”

  “Not...long.”

  Grace studied the Mournish woman. She knew Vani was a princess, descended from the royal line of the city Morindu the Dark. And she was also T’gol—an assassin, trained since childhood in the art of killing others.

  “You heard everything, didn’t you?” Grace said.

  “I did.”

  Grace licked her lips. “You have to understand, Vani. It wasn’t his fault. Just because he—”

  Vani held up a hand. “I will not judge him for his deed. That is not for me to do.”

  Grace winced. Like Beltan, Vani loved Travis—although for different reasons. For the knight, it was a matter of his heart. For Vani, it was a matter of fate. And they had both lost him.

  A weight pressed down on Grace. She turned away. “Beltan is a good man, Vani.”

  “I know.”

  They were silent for a time.

  “The Mournish will be leaving Tarras soon,” Vani said at last. “They usually travel farther south this time of year, to the cities south of Tarras.”

  Grace turned back, startled. “Are you going with them?”

  Vani smiled, but it was a bitter expression. “I would think my fate lies with you and your companions. If you will have me, that is.”

  Whatever the tension between the T’gol and Beltan, Vani was her friend. Grace felt an impulse to rush over and catch the other in an embrace, but she supposed making sudden moves around an assassin wasn’t a good idea. She settled for a warm grin instead. “I’m glad you’re not leaving.”

  Vani moved to the table and brushed a finger across one of the open books. “You seek knowledge of the gates in these?”

  “We’re trying,” Grace said.

  “The sorcerers of Morindu kept their secrets close. It’s not likely you’ll find revelations here, however old these may be.”

  Grace let out a sigh. “I know. But I have to do something. I suppose I was just hoping.”

  Again a smile touched Vani’s lips, only this time it seemed a secret expression. “There is always hope.”

  The two spoke for a few more minutes, and Grace learned that the Mournish intended to have one more feast before they packed their wagons and began their wandering once more. Vani’s al-Mama had invited Grace and the others to the Mournish camp the next night to take part in the festivities. Grace accepted the invitation, knowing they could all use a break. Besides, it would give them a reason to decline the emperor’s invitation.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow night,” Grace said.

  The dusty library air was already rippling, folding back in on itself. Vani was gone.

  Beltan was still off somewhere putting away books. Grace picked up a stack to do the same. She wandered through the dim rows of bookcases, making sure she put each tome back in its proper space, fearing what one of the librarians would do to her if she didn’t, emperor’s ring or no. Soon she had one book left. After much searching, she found the gap on the shelf where it belonged. She slid the thick volume into place.

  Or at least she tried to. The book stopped with two inches to go. Grace pushed, but the book wouldn’t slide in any farther. Now that she thought about it, it was because the book had been sticking out slightly that it had caught her eye in the first place. She pulled the tome back out and peered into the gap.

  Something was in there. Grace reached in, and her fingers found something flat and hard. She pulled it out. It was a book.

  She convulsed in a powerful sneeze. Make that a dusty book.

  She set down the other tome and regarded the volume she had pulled from the gap. It was uncharacteristically slim. She supposed it had gotten pushed behind the others on the shelf and lost there. A long time ago, by the looks of it. Grace used a corner of her gown to wipe the dust from the leather cover. On it, written in tarnished gold, was the title Pagan Magics of the North.

  She flipped through the yellowed pages. All the books she had looked at so far were composed in a bold, blotchy, flowery script on thick vellum, but this book was penned on crisp, smooth paper in a spidery but even hand. A few words caught her eye as the pages fluttered past: Malachor, Runelords, Eversea...

  “What have you got there, Grace?”

  She turned around. Beltan’s face was smudged with book dust, and his green eyes were curious.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” she said. “It was lost behind the other books on the shelf. And it’s not a history of Tarras. It seems to be about myths and legends of the north.”

  “That’s probably why it was lost. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but these Tarrasians seem to think they’re the center of the world.”

  “That’s probably because, for a millennium, they were.”

  Beltan grunted. “Old habits die hard.”

  Grace glanced out one of the high windows. The sky was fading to slate; it was time to go. However, she was loath to leave this book. What if one of the librarians filed it away in a place where she couldn’t find it? True, she was searching for knowledge of the south, not the north. All the same, her hand tingled as she pressed it against the cover.

  “I’m going to check out this book,” she decided aloud.

  Beltan raised an eyebrow. “Check it out? What does that mean?”

  “I mean borrow it,” Grace said, heading toward the main desk near the entrance of the library.

  Beltan gave her a sly wink. “Now I get it.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ll just create a little distraction while you make off with the book.”

  She shot him a horrified look. “Beltan!”

  Several students and a passing librarian looked up as her voice echoed throughout the library. Grace winced and steered Beltan quickly away.

  “Listen to me,” she said, this time keeping her voice low. “I am not stealing the book. So no distractions of any kind. Do you understand?”

  The blond knight looked slightly hurt. “Whatever you say, my lady. But if you get caught pilfering, don’t blame me.”

  They had reached the front desk; there was no more time for whispers. Grace handed the book to one of the librarians behind the expanse of glossy wood.

  “I’d like to borrow this please.”

  The librarian took the tome. “What is this?” She flipped through the book, and her pinched face grew even tighter. “Wizards? Spells? Dragons? I had no idea there was such rubbish in this library. I’ll take care of this.”

  She started to turn away, but Grace was faster, snatching the book out of her hand.

  “If I could just check it out now,” Grace said, trying to sound demure.

  The librarian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not a student here, are you? Do you have a library token?”

  Grace swal
lowed hard. “No, but I do have this.” She lifted her right hand, displaying Ephesian’s gold ring.

  The librarian appeared unimpressed. “Madam, even the emperor himself cannot borrow a book without a library token. You’ll have to petition the archdean for a token and come back—”

  “Wait,” Grace said. She hated to do this, but there was no choice. “I forgot. I do have a token. Right here.”

  Hastily she reached out with her mind and touched the Weirding—the shining web of power that flowed through all things. She wove several threads together into a hasty spell and held out her hand.

  The librarian blinked, staring at Grace’s outstretched hand, then gave a curt nod.

  “So you have a token after all.” Her dry voice bore a note of disappointment. “Very well, you may borrow the book. But you must sign for it first.”

  With a quill pen, Grace scratched her name and the title of the book on a piece of parchment, then turned, leaving the fussy librarian at her desk.

  “What just happened back there?” Beltan said, as they stepped out the door of the library. “Your hand was empty, but she acted like she was seeing exactly what she wanted to see.”

  Grace could still feel the faint hum of power in her hand. “So she did.”

  Beltan gave her a sharp look. “And using magic is different from stealing how, my lady?”

  Grace laughed and took the knight’s arm. “It’s far more polite,” she said, and they started across the university grounds as purple dusk fell.

  4.

  It was late, and Grace’s head ached.

  She lifted her gaze from the book on the table and rubbed the back of her neck. Her eyes seemed to have forgotten how to focus. The others had gone to their rooms an hour before, and Grace knew she should go to sleep as well if she intended to have the energy for the next day’s revel with the Mournish.

  At supper, she had told the others of Vani’s visit at the library. When she mentioned that the Mournish woman would not be leaving with her people, Beltan had turned away, so that Grace could not read his expression. As if she would have had the power anyway. She was still a neophyte when it came to the subject of human emotion, and unlike medicine or history, it was not something she could learn in a book.

  Grace had planned to show Pagan Magics of the North to Falken, but he had spent the day going over the notes he had made at the Library of Briel, only without much to show for it. After accepting her necklace back, she decided to show him the book in the morning. Providing he woke in a better mood.

  A warm zephyr fluttered the gauzy curtains. Outside the window, Grace could see a pulsing crimson spark low in the sky. Tira’s star was rising, beginning its nightly sojourn across the heavens.

  Just one more page, Grace. Then bed. Doctor’s orders.

  Falken had told them much of the War of the Stones, and Malachor, and the Runelords. However, the book contained more details than Falken’s stories. She was especially fascinated by references to Eversea—a land far to the west in Falengarth, where it was said many who fled the destruction of Malachor went after that kingdom fell. Could it be that people of Malachor—distant cousins of hers—still dwelled there?

  Another question occurred to her. She doubted any of the scholars at the University of Tarras were experts in northern mythology. So who had written this book? The binding seemed somewhat newer than the rest of the volume; Grace suspected the title page had been lost when the book was rebound, along with the identity of the author. Regardless, it was riveting. Stifling a yawn, Grace flipped the page.

  The yawn became a gasp.

  It was faint, faded by time, but clear. Someone had marked in the book with what looked like black pencil. A brief passage of text was underlined:

  ...that gods, dragons, and witches of the Sight have all foretold his coming. The one named Runebreaker will shatter the rune Eldh, which was the First Rune spoken by the Worldsmith, who bound it in the Dawning Stone at the very beginning of the world. And so the First Rune shall also be the Last Rune, for when it breaks, the world shall end....

  Disturbing as they were, it was not these lines that froze Grace’s blood. Instead, it was the three words penciled hastily, almost desperately, in the margin next to them:

  “No,” Grace whispered. “No, it can’t be.”

  She dug in the pouch tied to her sash, pulled out the silver half-coin, and shoved it across the table. Again she looked at the book. Even though she could still read it with effort, the text on the page was now strange and archaic-looking, written in Eldhish letters. But the penciled words were written in English.

  Eyes wide, Grace looked up. This was impossible. And there was something else. There was something about the words in the margin—the way the letters were shaped—that disturbed her even more. Only what was it? She stared at the window, thinking. Outside, the red star gazed back like a fiery eye.

  The eye blinked shut.

  Paralyzed, Grace kept watching, waiting for the crimson spark to shimmer back to life.

  Nothing happened. Dread flooded her chest. Trembling, she rose and moved to the window. There were no clouds. The moon was a great sickle, and stars scattered the night sky like shimmering chaff. But where the crimson spark had shone moments ago there was only a black void in the heavens.

  The red star—Tira’s star—had vanished.

  Grace jumped at a sharp knock on the door. After a moment she gathered her wits enough to stumble to the door and fling it open. It was Falken.

  “Melia wants you. Downstairs.” The bard’s eyes were every bit as startled as she knew her own to be.

  They found Melia at the table where they took their meals when rain precluded dining in the courtyard. The lady looked up, the expression in her amber eyes far too deep for Grace to fathom. Aryn and Beltan appeared moments later.

  The knight yawned. He was clad only in a long nightshirt. “What’s going on? I was dreaming about ale. And not the feeble stuff they make down here, mind you, but real, Galtish ale—the kind that socks you in the gut, then picks you up off the floor, puts a strong arm around you, and walks you back to the bar, grinning all the way.”

  Aryn adjusted the diaphanous robe she had thrown on and frowned at the blond man. “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming about Galtish men rather than Galtish ale?”

  “Either way, I’d still rather be sleeping.”

  “What’s going on, Melia?” Falken said.

  Melia’s visage was tightly drawn. “I was hoping Grace might have an idea.”

  Aryn glanced at Grace. What is it, sister?

  “Tira’s star,” Grace croaked aloud, struggling for breath. “It’s gone.”

  They talked as the crescent moon arced outside the high windows. Melia’s kitten soon made an appearance, prowling across the table, begging affection from each of them in turn. At some point the servants must have come in, for cups and a steaming pot of maddok appeared on the table. Grace gladly accepted a cup when Aryn handed her one. Despite the balmy night, she felt cold.

  Of them all, only Grace had actually been gazing at the red star the moment it vanished—although Melia had evidently noticed its disappearance within moments, given how quickly Falken came to Grace’s door. Unfortunately, none of them had an explanation for what had happened.

  Aryn’s blue eyes were bright with worry. “You don’t think... you don’t think Tira is...”

  “She’s a goddess, dear,” Melia said, her tone reassuring. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  Beltan scratched his chin. “What about the Stone of Fire? Tira was supposed to protect it. What if she’s lost it? That would be bad, right?”

  “More than bad,” Falken said. “It would be disastrous. The Pale King still seeks the Stones of Fire and Twilight to set beside the Stone of Ice in the iron necklace Imsaridur. And his master, Mohg, is trying to get back to Eldh. There’s no doubt this comes at a dark time.”

  Melia looked at Grace. “You were gazing out the window at the time, dear. Did
you see anything strange in the moments before the star vanished? Anything that might have presaged what happened?”

  Grace wished she had, but she shook her head. “I was reading a book I borrowed from the university. My eyes were tired, and I looked out the window to rest them. I saw Tira’s star. And then it was...gone.”

  Falken gave her a sharp look. “What book were you reading?”

  “It’s called Pagan Magics of the North. I was going to show it to you earlier, only after the Library of Briel you didn’t seem in a very probook mood.”

  Falken grunted. “I can’t argue with you there. But I have to say, I know most of the books ever written about northern magic, and I’ve never heard of that one. Could I look at it?”

  Glad to have something to do, Grace hurried upstairs and retrieved the book. She returned to the others and handed it to Falken. The bard turned it in his hands and thumbed through the pages. Grace explained how she had found it.

  “Interesting,” he said with a frown that said strange . “The text is definitely written in High Malachorian. But I’ve never seen paper of such fine quality, and the binding is Tarrasian. I doubt Pagan Magics of the North was the volume’s original title. It’s far too condescending to be anything but the creation of a Tarrasian scholar. I suppose whoever renamed the volume tossed out the original title page.” He shut the book. “I doubt we’ll ever know who wrote it, but it does look interesting. Would you mind if I borrowed it, Grace?”

  “No, but there’s something I want you to look at, something I saw just before the red star vanished.” She sat next to him and tried to keep her hands from shaking as she turned to the last page she had been reading.

  Falken’s eyebrows drew down in a glower. “I find it despicable when people mark up books that aren’t their own. And what’s this written here in the margin? It’s gibberish.”

  Grace reached into the pouch at her sash and took out the silver half-coin. “Here,” she said, pressing the coin into Falken’s hand. “Now read it.”

  He glanced again at the book, and his eyes went wide. He looked up at Grace. “It can’t be.”