by Mark Anthony
After Falken called to him, Sindar approached and took one of the cups. He bid them good morrow before he drank. Beltan noticed that his green-gold eyes seemed to move often toward Grace. Then, without a word of explanation, Sindar returned to his place at the front of the ship.
“Do you think he’s all right?” Grace said.
Falken set down his cup. “I’m not sure. I think maybe he’s wondering who he really is, and why it is the Little People chose him for their purposes.”
“He’s not the only one,” Beltan said with a snort.
Vani prowled back and forth on the deck. “Falken, do you know how long it will take us to get to Toringarth?”
“With this haze, it’s impossible to tell where we are. But it seems to me we’re traveling swiftly. More swiftly than any usual ship. My guess is it won’t be long. A day or two, that’s all. In the meantime, it seems we’re safe enough here.”
“Really?” Grace said, folding her arms over her chest. “And I was just thinking that we’ve never been in more danger.”
Beltan knew Grace was right. He had never believed in the Little People until a year earlier. And while he could no longer deny their existence, he wasn’t about to let himself get used to them. They were strange and terribly old. What they did, they did for their own reasons. And while he supposed they bore no particular enmity for men, they bore humankind no love either. For most of history, Falengarth had belonged to them. Then, when men marched across the continent over a thousand years before, the Little People were forced to retreat to the Twilight Realm, from which they were only now, in these dark times, returning.
“They want you to find Fellring, don’t they, Grace?” Beltan said. “That’s why they’re helping us.”
Grace gripped the steel pendant at her throat, and Falken nodded.
“We knew the seal Travis put on the Rune Gate couldn’t hold forever,” the bard said. “All the signs point to the gate weakening again. If the Pale King rides forth, the only thing that can stop him is Ulther’s sword. And the only one who can wield it is you, Grace.”
She shook her head, but she didn’t protest. Beltan understood her fear. Last year, he had stood with Travis before the Rune Gate, and he had felt the dread, the power, the majesty pouring through those iron doors. He loved Grace; he would do anything to protect her. And he knew she was strong. Perhaps, in her way, stronger than any of them. But she was just one woman. How could she fight the ancient king of a vast army? Sometimes he wondered if Falken put too much stock in his own stories.
“He wants to open a door for Mohg, doesn’t he?” Grace said softly, to no one in particular. “The Pale King. Berash hasn’t forgotten his master, the one who made him. He wants to open a gate so the Lord of Nightfall can get back to Eldh and reforge the world in his own image.”
Vani glowered at these words. “I know nothing of Old Gods. But I do know something of gates. And the only two that I know to exist are now lost. One was surely consumed in the destruction of the Etherion. And the other is lost with...”
Her words faltered so briefly Beltan was sure the others didn’t notice.
“...with our companions. I don’t see how the Pale King can open a door for his master without one of the gate artifacts.”
“He can,” Falken said. “All he needs are the three Great Stones. He already has Gelthisar. And there’s already a crack between our world and Travis Wilder’s. That’s how Melia and the New Gods sent Grace there thirty-odd years ago, and that’s how the Pale King sent his own ironhearts there as well, probably around the same time. If Berash fits the iron necklace Imsaridur with the other two Imsari, he’ll have all the power he needs to rip the crack wide open. Mohg will step through, and he’ll take the Great Stones from the Pale King and use their power to break the First Rune.”
“Eldh,” Grace murmured, face gray as the mist. “He’ll break the rune Eldh and shatter the world.”
Falken gave a grim nod. “And then Mohg will remake Eldh in his own image. He’ll be the new Worldsmith, and all of Eldh will fall under his shadow forever.”
“And Earth, too,” Grace said. “They’re like two sides of a coin—just like the coin Brother Cy gave me and Travis. Earth and Eldh. What happens on one happens to the other.”
Falken didn’t disagree.
Even though his mother had been a witch, Beltan had never been comfortable with magic. Elire’s spells hadn’t been powerful enough to save her in the end. All of this talk of gods and runes left a queasy feeling in his stomach.
“Mohg can really do that?” he said. “Remake Eldh?” Falken nodded. “The Imsari hold the power to break runes as well as to bind them. We’ve seen that firsthand with Travis. Whoever holds all three will have everything he needs to destroy Eldh, and then forge it anew.”
Vani rested her hands on her hips. “Wait a moment. As you said, we’ve seen Travis Wilder work great deeds with the Stone in his possession. What did you name it? The Stone of Twilight?”
“It’s called Sinfathisar,” Falken said.
“But Travis is lost.”
A cold hand seemed to grip Beltan’s heart. He understood what Vani was getting at. “That’s right. Travis has the Stone of Twilight. As long as he stays lost, there’s no way Mohg can get it.” Which meant it was better if Travis never came back to Eldh. He saw pain flicker across Vani’s face, and he knew she had come to the same realization.
“How do you know?” Grace said, her eyes haunted. “How do you know Mohg can’t get to Travis where he is? Maybe Mohg has already gotten Sinfathisar. And Krondisar, too. Maybe that’s why Tira’s star has vanished.”
Falken laid a hand on her arm. “No, Grace. Whatever’s happened, that’s not it. Because if it had, we’d have already lost. Remember the words in the book—somehow Travis wrote that message. We know he didn’t do that before he was lost, so somehow it had to be after. And you still have the iron key Sky gave you. We’re going to get the shards of Fellring, and then we’re going to the Black Tower. We’ll find Travis there.” He tightened his grip on her arm. “I promise you.”
Grace pressed her lips into a thin line and said nothing.
And what about you, Beltan? Do you think Falken’s right?
He didn’t know. On the one hand, it seemed a grave peril for Travis to return to Eldh with Sinfathisar. They had to do everything they could to keep the Stone out of the Pale King’s hands. Then again, Beltan knew that he would risk any danger, no matter how dire, to see Travis again, to tell him how he felt.
Really, Beltan? Even if it meant hearing him tell you that it’s another he wants, not you?
Feelings rose in him: a muddied torrent of fear, need, and anger. He glanced at Vani. She was looking at him. He could feel his lip curling back from his teeth and couldn’t stop it. Her eyes narrowed, then she stalked away into the mist.
They spent the rest of the day pacing, restless. Time slipped past silently, like the white ship as it ghosted through the Winter Sea. For a time Beltan leaned over the rail, watching chunks of ice go by. As the day wore on, the pieces of ice grew larger and more frequent. However, none of them so much as grazed the hull.
The mist cleared with the coming of night, and once again stars glinted in the sky like chips of crystal. The pitcher on the table was refilled with the clear liquid, of which they again partook—although Sindar continued to remain apart. It seemed to Beltan that the man’s green-gold eyes were troubled, and occasionally a spasm would pass across his face, usually when he was gazing at Grace. Were his fragmented memories coming back to him?
Once again the clear, sweet liquid lifted Beltan’s spirits, although it couldn’t entirely calm the pain in his chest. It felt like a splinter of ice had lodged in his heart, and it was working its way deeper. He was glad when, after setting down her cup, Vani stalked away, vanishing like one of the shadowy figures that slunk about the boat, working at tasks Beltan could neither name nor imagine.
After that, Beltan again stood at the rail,
looking for dark silhouettes reaching up from the horizon to blot out the stars— a sign that land was close at hand. According to Falken, no one had been to Toringarth in centuries. What would they find there? However, despite straining his eyes, Beltan saw nothing but the dim shapes of icebergs drifting like ghostly islands.
“What do you think happened to her?” Grace said.
Beltan nearly jumped. He had been concentrating so hard he hadn’t seen her approach. She was gazing at the sky. Not the north, but the south. He understood. She was gazing at the place where the red star had shone.
“I don’t know.”
Grace shivered, although it couldn’t be from cold, not there on the ship. “Do you think Tira’s all right?”
“She’s a goddess, Grace. I’m sure she’s fine.”
Except they knew now that gods weren’t invulnerable, that they could be killed. The demon had taught them that.
Grace sighed and looked down. There was something in her hand. Beltan moved closer; it was the iron key Sky had given her in Tarras, the key to the Black Tower of the Runebreakers. She must have heard Beltan’s sharp intake of breath, because she looked up at him.
“We’ll find him, Beltan.” Her words were quiet but strong. “We’ll find him for the world. And for you.”
He clenched his jaw; the splinter of ice dug a fraction deeper into his heart. “I’m not so certain it’s for me that he wants to be found.”
“He loves you,” Grace said simply.
“What’s love against fate?”
Grace closed her hand over the key. “If the Mournish are right, he doesn’t have a fate.”
In the night, two glints of gold shone for a moment, then were gone.
“No,” Beltan said, voice gruff. “But she does have a fate. And maybe I do, too.”
One of the queer shadows passed nearby, and he shuddered.
Grace touched his shoulder. “You can feel them, can’t you?”
“I’ve been feeling them ever since Omberfell. But the feeling is stronger here. It’s like snow.” He shook his head. “No, it’s like cold fire. I can feel it in my blood.”
Grace touched her necklace. “Maybe we all have something in our blood. Like a mystery waiting to be discovered. Something we can’t escape no matter how hard we try.” She lowered her gaze, and her words seemed for herself rather than him. “No, I won’t believe that. I won’t believe everything is planned out, that there’s no way to avoid destiny. All of this, all we’ve done—it can’t be for nothing.”
“Grace?”
“Promise me, Beltan.” She looked at him. “Don’t let fate decide what happens to you. Or to Travis. Promise me you’ll be the one to decide in the end.”
Beltan wasn’t sure he understood. How could he decide something if it wasn’t in his power? However, there was an urgency in her eyes, so he nodded and promised he would do his best. This seemed to satisfy her, and she left him to go look for Falken.
Beltan had no wish for more conversation himself. Some said misery favored companionship, but Beltan knew it flourished best in solitude. Sindar was at the prow of the ship again, and Grace and Falken would likely be at its center, so Beltan headed toward the ship’s stern.
He tripped over something that made a bright clang. Beltan let out a curse, then bent down to see what it was that had caught his boot.
It was an iron ring fitted into the deck. In the dim light he saw the outline of a square—a trapdoor. He knew it hadn’t been there before; he had gone over every inch of the ship.
“You should go fetch Falken,” Beltan whispered. He knew the bard would want to see this. However, even as he thought this, Beltan gripped the ring and pulled. The hatch lifted easily, making no sound. Beyond was darkness. Beltan reached into the opening and felt the first rung of a wooden ladder. He held his breath a moment, then swung himself through the opening and climbed down the ladder.
He wasn’t certain when he first became aware of the light. It was soft at first but grew stronger as he descended. The light was not the smoky red of a torch, but rather a gentle green-gold that made him think of Grace’s eyes. A scent rose on the air, fresh as water, and he realized that he had been climbing for some time, that he must have gone several fathoms down, impossible since no ship had so deep a hold. He glanced up, and he could see the ladder leading up to the black square of the trapdoor, and beyond that the faint pinpricks of stars. Somewhat reassured, he continued his descent.
The ladder ended. His boots landed on, not hard wood, but spongy turf. Beltan turned around, and wonder filled him.
He was in a garden. Slender trees grew in a circle all around, their arching branches entwining into a canopy overhead, their leaves fluttering in a warm breeze. Drops of sunlight dappled the mossy ground like scattered coins. Daisies gazed at him with moist eyes; somewhere birds sang.
“This is impossible,” Beltan said, but the words were merely a habit, like blinking. Everything about this ship and this journey was impossible; all the same, here he was. He drew in a breath, and a feeling of peace filled him. Whatever this place was, surely no evil could come here.
He walked deeper into the garden, brushing flowers with his fingertips. There was a path, leading off through a grove of trees; he followed it, and the sound of water grew louder. A curtain of ferns draped over the path. Beltan parted the fronds. Beyond was a grotto where a brook tumbled over stones into a pool. Lilies floated on the water. A thirst rose in him, and he knelt to drink from the pool.
Just as he brought his cupped hands to his mouth, there came a soft sound behind him: footsteps against the mossy ground. He froze. Perhaps there was danger in this garden after all. Beltan waited, ready to spring into action. The footsteps stopped. In the mirror of the pool, a face appeared over his shoulder, next to the reflection of his own.
His heart ceased to beat. Water poured between his fingers, and ripples spread out over the pool, obscuring the image. Beltan rose and turned around.
He looked just as he had in Tarras, that night they met beyond the circle of the Mournish campfire: all in black, his head smooth-shaven, wearing a reddish goatee and silver earrings. Different than he looked when they first met—paler, older— but still him. His gray eyes were solemn, only then he smiled, and with a sharp jolt Beltan’s heart started beating again, faster than before.
“Travis?” The word was barely a whisper. He swallowed. “By the Blood of Vathris, is that really you?”
Travis kept smiling as he moved closer. He smelled clean, alive, like the forest. A wave of dizziness crashed over Beltan, and he staggered. Travis gripped his arm with a steadying hand. His touch was warm and solid.
Beltan was trembling, trying to comprehend. “We thought we had lost you in the Etherion—I thought I had lost you. Only you weren’t there. We learned that when they cleared away the rubble, and we’ve been searching ever since, for you and the others. But we didn’t know where you’d gone. And now you’re here. Except how can that be? How can you—?”
Travis lifted a finger to his lips and shook his head. He was right; there was no point trying to understand. Wasn’t this ship impossible, this garden? Why shouldn’t Travis be there? How he had come to be in that place, where the others were—those were questions that could wait. At that moment Beltan had to tell him what he had been wanting to say for the past year, and this time no one could possibly interrupt them.
Beltan’s voice grew fiercer. “I didn’t give up looking for you. I would never give up, no matter how far away you were, no matter how many worlds were between us. I knew the day I met you in Kelcior that I was going to love you, that I would never be able to stop myself. You’re the one thing in my life that makes me feel like a better man.” Beltan dared to press a hand to his cheek, stroking the roughness of his beard with a thumb. Still Travis did not speak.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything. I know you’re as far above me as the stars above the stones. You’re a runelord, after all, and I’m jus
t a bastard. And I know...” The words were bitter, but Beltan forced himself to speak them. “...I know that you love Vani, and that she loves you. I haven’t been very kind to her on this journey, but she’s strong and brave and good. You deserve someone like her. And I’ll keep away from you both, if that’s what you wish. I just wanted to tell you what’s been in my heart all these months, and now I have.” Beltan felt a strange resolve; it was sorrowful, yes, but comforting as well. He knew what he had to do. “So if you want me to go away, I will. Just tell me what you want me to do.”
Travis smiled again, then kissed him.
Beltan was stunned for only a moment, then he returned the embrace. It felt easy, natural, for Travis was nearly as tall as he. They pressed against one another, as if making up for the distance that had separated them before. A tingling welled up in Beltan, warmer and more urgent than what he felt when the fairies passed nearby. This was not the answer he had expected, but by all the gods he would accept it.
A soft sound of dismay escaped him as Travis stepped back, but delight returned as Travis pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it down. He was leaner than that day when they had bathed together in a frigid stream in Eredane, talking about scars; his body had been hardened by his travails on two worlds. Dark red hair traced a line down his stomach. Beltan shrugged off his tunic and they stood close again, chest to chest.
So many times Beltan had imagined this moment, but his foolish fantasies were nothing to this. It was neither awkward nor overpowering. Instead it felt simple, true. Not as if they were meant for one another, as if it were fate. Instead it was like stumbling upon a key lying in the road and finding that, against all odds, it fit the lock to his heart. Whether he would turn the key was up to him. Grace was right—it wasn’t destiny. It was his choice. Their choice.
“I love you, Travis Wilder.” Beltan said the words like a vow, circling his arms around Travis, meeting his gray eyes. “No matter what may be, no matter where we are, I will always love you.”
Travis laughed, then sank to the mossy ground, pulling Beltan down after him.
