The Last Rune 4: Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  Grace couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of it. “No, Falken, I’m quite certain that it’s I who owe my life to you. And to Melia.”

  Together they gained their feet, and somehow—whether it was the Touch or her doctor’s instinct—Grace knew that, despite the depth of his wounds, Falken was going to survive.

  As long as any of them were going to survive, that was.

  “How sad,” the runelord sneered, “to see a man so utterly broken and defeated.”

  Despite her fear, Grace felt a spark of defiance blaze to life within her. She held her chin high and cast a stern look at the runelord. In that moment—for the first time in her life—Grace felt like a queen.

  “You will never defeat me,” she said.

  Kelephon took a step back, as if she had slapped him. His voice grew shrill. “Silence, witch! I’ve already defeated you. You’re as full of pride as your wretched ancestors. So high, they believed themselves, so far above everything and everyone. The Runelords were the greatest wizards in the world, and I stood first among them, and yet Queen Agdala and King Hurthan thought they could order me about like a servant. But I showed them, just as I’ll show everyone, that I am not to be commanded.”

  As he spoke these words, Grace understood everything. She had known attending physicians at the hospital who had so doubted their own worth that they could only feel secure ordering others. They were no different from schoolyard bullies. And Kelephon was no different from them. Only this was a bully who possessed far more power than she could comprehend.

  “You’re going to betray him, aren’t you?” Grace said, her voice clinical. “The Pale King. It’s been your plan from the start. You wanted to rule Malachor, but the only way you could think to do it was to destroy it first. You gave the Stone of Ice to the Pale King in exchange for immortal life. Then you took control of the knights of Eversea, knowing you could use them to get Fellring. And once you have Ulther’s sword, you’ll have everything you need to slay the Pale King and take his place.”

  She held the cracked blade out before her. On reflex, Kelephon started to reach for it, then snatched his hand back.

  “That’s right, Your Majesty. And once I kill Berash, I’ll take my Stone back from him. As well as the other Great Stones, for I’ll wait until he’s gained them all before I strike. Then I’ll take the iron necklace Imsaridur from his dead body, and I will rule not just Malachor reborn, but all of Falengarth.”

  “You can’t,” Falken said, voice hoarse.

  “Why not?” Kelephon snapped. “What difference does it make which master you serve, the Pale King or me? Either way, you will be slaves. Except that’s not entirely true. For while Berash fancies making both you and Ralena willing servants with hearts of iron, I prefer to see all of you dead. And soon enough, you will be. None of you will be able to see the glory of my eternal rule, but you can take satisfaction in knowing that, without your help, my ascendance could never have come to pass.”

  The runelord turned on his heel and strode away across the deck. Beltan let out a cry of fury, straining at the ropes, but at a hiss from Vani he stopped.

  “So he really means to betray the Pale King?” Beltan said when he had regained some of his composure.

  Vani grimaced. “No, I’m certain he was merely making a jest to amuse us.”

  Falken’s wolfish face was haggard, but he was standing up straight now. “I suppose that’s why Kelephon couldn’t land in Omberfell. His knights would have slain the Raven Cultists, and that would have alerted the Pale King to his treachery.”

  Grace moved to Vani and Beltan and picked at the ropes, seeing if she could loosen them, but the bonds were too tight, and they had taken her knife from her boot. Perhaps she could use a piece of the sword, but what good would it do anyway? There were a hundred knights on the ship, and if they jumped into the water, they would die of hypothermia in minutes. Kelephon was right; there was no hope. Either the Pale King would rise again, or Kelephon would murder him and take his place. Either way, Eldh would fall under shadow. Forever.

  “It’s no use,” she said, and she wasn’t certain if she meant the ropes or everything. All anger, all fear, all feeling poured out of her. She leaned against Beltan, laying her head against his chest.

  Grace...

  “What is it, Vani?”

  The T’gol craned her head around. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Grace looked up. She had heard a voice. And it couldn’t have been Beltan or Falken. It had been a woman’s voice. She opened her mouth, but then the voice spoke again. It was the same voice she had heard in the darkness before she woke, only this time she knew it was real. And she knew to whom the voice belonged.

  Grace, please, you have to hear me.

  She was almost too astonished to think. Then, tentatively, she reached out with the Touch. Aryn?

  There was darkness, then the bright energy of connection.

  Yes, Grace. It’s me. By Sia, I can hear you as if you were in the room with me!

  Oh, Aryn. Sorrow filled Grace, and wonder, and joy.

  Grace, what’s wrong? Are you well? What’s happening to you? We’ve been so worried.

  She didn’t know how to reply to that one. Where are you, Aryn?

  I’m in Calavere. I’ve been searching and searching for you, all last night and all today. I’d almost given up hope I could do it, but now I’ve found you at last.

  What? But how can—?

  I understand it now, how to speak across the Weirding no matter the distance. But there’s something I need to tell you first. You have to know it before you get to the Black Tower. You see, I’ve learned that there’s a second—

  “Grace!”

  This time the voice really was Vani’s. Grace opened her eyes, and her heart froze. Kelephon strode toward them with swift purpose. There was something in his hand: a small disk of creamy stone. None of the dark knights were in view anymore, only the slaves who manned the sails.

  “By the tower and the light,” Falken murmured. “No.”

  Beltan was facing the wrong direction. He tried to twist his head around. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  Grace couldn’t take her eyes off the object in Kelephon’s hand.

  What’s happening, Grace? I can feel it—something’s terribly wrong.

  She forced her mind to piece together the words, to send them over the humming strands of the Weirding. Aryn, we’re in trouble. We—But there was no time for words. Instead, she gathered all that had happened since leaving Tarras, all that was happening now, into a single thought and sent it hurtling along the threads. She felt shock come back to her, then understanding.

  Oh, Grace...

  Kelephon had come closer. She could see some sort of angular symbol incised on the disk in his hand.

  “Don’t look now,” Beltan said gruffly. “He’ll see you if you do. But it’s just visible off to starboard.”

  “What is?” Falken whispered, inching toward the blond knight.

  “The white ship,” Beltan said. “It’s coming toward us. Fast.”

  Vani went stiff. “We must find a way to get free.”

  Grace’s mind raced. It was coming for them, the white ship that had borne them over the Winter Sea. But even if it drew near, how could they get to it? Kelephon could stop them with a single rune.

  Or could he? Hadn’t her magic been able to free the others from the rune of sleep? Runes were the magic of creation, of permanence, and of destruction. But witchcraft was the magic of life. Surely it was just as strong in its own way. And this time, she would have help.

  Aryn, listen to me—I need you. Words were too slow; again she sent an entire thought across the Weirding. Aryn seemed to withdraw, and for a terrible moment Grace feared the connection had been broken. Then, to her relief, she sensed the familiar sapphire brilliance of her friend. Only there was another presence with her this time, subtle and deep.

  We’re here, Grace.

  Kelephon came to
a stop before her. Grace forced herself to meet his gaze. The runelord couldn’t overhear words spoken over the Weirding; as long as she kept her eyes open and her focus on him, he couldn’t know she was casting a spell.

  “Why have you sent your men below, Kelephon?” she said.

  A smile sliced across his hawkish face. “I think you know, Your Majesty. I’ve decided there’s no point in waiting. I can work the magic just as well here as at one of our fortresses.” He tightened his hand around the rune of blood.

  “Get away from her!” Falken shouted.

  Kelephon spoke the word in a bored tone. “Meleq.” A dozen planks snapped up from the deck, forming a wooden prison around the bard, halting him. Vani and Beltan both strained at the ropes, but it was no use. Sindar stood apart, his back to them all.

  “It’s time, Your Majesty.” Kelephon drew close to her. The air seemed to grow colder yet. “Now your blood—and your sword—will be mine.”

  Grace forced herself to stand still, both her hands wrapped around the hilt of the sword. Kelephon raised the disk before her. She could see the rune clearly: five short lines arranged in parallel, like dark drops falling. Then the runelord pressed the disk against her brow. It was smooth and cool. The light of triumph glinted in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak one final word.

  Now! Grace called out in her mind, and she felt two other strands bind with her own.

  Energy surged through her, more than she had ever felt in her life. It was so much that it almost washed her away like a leaf caught in flood, but somehow she held on to the energy, shaped it, and flung it all at the man before her.

  It struck him like a blow. The word Kelephon had been speaking turned into a cry of pain and shock. He staggered back, arms going wide, and the rune flew from his splayed fingers. All of them watched as it traced an arc, white and shimmering, through the air. Then the rune descended, past the rail of the ship. Grace heard a faint plop as the sea swallowed it.

  “No!” Kelephon cried. “Blood is the key to everything!” He lurched away from Grace, toward the ship’s rail, and stretched out both hands. “Sharn!”

  The sea frothed and boiled. A column rose up like a jet from a fountain. Spinning atop it was a disk of white stone. But the ship had already moved far beyond the column of water.

  “Bring the ship around!” Kelephon screamed. “Bring it around!”

  Slaves scurried, lines groaned, sails snapped. The ship began to turn, but it was a ponderous movement.

  Grace moved to Vani and Beltan. Aryn, help me. Again she felt the surge of bright energy. She touched the bonds, and they fell into loose coils around the base of the mast. Beltan and Vani sprang free. Grace turned and brushed her hand over the wooden planks that imprisoned Falken; they fell clattering to the deck. Rope and wood were dead now, but they yet remembered life.

  Kelephon whirled around, his expression livid. “Gelth!”

  Grace felt a sensation of cold, like a gust of icy wind, but it quickly passed, driven off by the warmth of the life energy that spilled into her from the Weirding, and from Aryn. However, Vani, Beltan, and Falken all ceased to move. Each one was encased from head to toe in ice. Panic shredded Grace’s heart.

  No, sister, spoke a calm voice in her mind—not Aryn’s voice. If you would help them, you must let fear go.

  Grace didn’t know to whom the voice belonged, but it was right. Kelephon had turned around again. He hadn’t bothered to wait to see if his rune had worked on her; in his pride, he had simply believed it would. Now he leaned over the rail, muttering the rune of water over and over, keeping the white disk dancing on the waterspout. The ship had come around. It was heading toward the frothing column.

  She had to do something. But what? Perhaps she could knock him into the ocean, but what good would that do when water was at his command? Grace took an uncertain step forward, Fellring in her hands.

  Sindar stepped before her.

  “No, don’t stop me,” she said. Shouldn’t he have been frozen by the runelord’s spell? “I have to do something.”

  “I know.”

  His words were quiet, but there was something to them—a clarity, a power—that made her tear her gaze from the runelord and look at the slender man. A gasp escaped her.

  “Sindar—you’re shining.”

  He smiled. Light danced around him like a silver corona. “I’ve finally remembered, Grace. Who I am, and what I’m supposed to do. I was so tired. What I did in the water, it was too much. It made me forget everything. But I’m stronger now, and it was the runelord’s own words that helped me.”

  Grace shook her head. “What do you mean? What words?”

  “Blood is the key to everything.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. You saved me once, Grace. And for that, I loved you. Now it’s my turn to save you.”

  Fellring twitched in Grace’s hands. As if it had a life of its own, the sword rose, until it was pointed directly before her. Sindar shut his eyes—green-gold, just like Grace’s own—and stepped forward.

  The point of the sword slid easily into his body. The fragile blade didn’t shatter.

  “No!” Grace choked, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t pull the sword back. Agony flickered across Sindar’s face, then rapture. The corona grew brighter, like diamondfire, and the silver-haired man was gone. In his place was a willowy being of light.

  Horror became wonder. “You,” Grace said, gazing into large, ancient eyes. “You’re the one we found on Earth. And it was you who saved us in the sea after the shipwreck, wasn’t it? But why? Why are you doing this?”

  The voice was more like the music of crystal chimes, but all the same she understood the fairy’s words.

  It was not the bard Falken who took the infant from the dead queen long ago. It was one of my kin. The baby was too small to live, so the fairy bore it within herself until the infant was strong enough. Then the infant was left on a stone where the bard came upon it. But some memory of the light of the fairy dwelled yet in the child’s blood, and it was passed from father to daughter, from mother to son, and dwells in you still.

  After you saved me from the cruel prison of iron, how could I not love you when I saw the light of my own kind shining in your eyes? It is bright within you, even as my own blood is bright within your friend, the knight. And yes, my kind can love, though to us the word does not mean what I believe it does to your kind. To us, to love another is to know you are but two beams from the same source of light.

  So I followed you, and when your ship descended into the sea, I saved you. But the e fort was too great, and I was yet weakened by what had been done to me on the gray world across the Void, and I was nearly lost. My light would have dimmed forever, but at the last I cast myself into mortal form, that my spark might have a shell in which to heal. But that form was so limiting, I could not remember my purpose. Only now I have.

  The words came to Grace in the space of an instant, along with an emotion so deep, so vast, she couldn’t possibly have expressed what it was, except to say that maybe it was like being a star: so tiny in the night sky, but so bright and pure, like all that was perfect reduced to a single, shimmering point.

  “But what is it?” Grace whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “What is your purpose?”

  Only this, Ralena. By the blood of my kind was it forged. By my own blood it is remade anew. Keep this sword close, for if you do, then we will always be together.

  The form of the fairy grew brighter yet, so that Grace thought she must go blind if she didn’t turn her head. Only she couldn’t look away, and the light didn’t burn her eyes. Instead it shrank down, collapsing into a blazing line. Then she realized that the line was the sword in her hand.

  The light vanished. Grace raised Fellring before her. All traces of the cracks that had marred it were gone. The sword was gleaming and whole, the runes tracing it from hilt to tip in an unbroken line.

  There was so much to think about,
so much to comprehend, but there was no time. The dark ship had drawn close to the waterspout. The column of water coiled forward like a crystal serpent. Kelephon reached out and snatched the rune of blood. He turned around, holding it in his hands.

  His eyes went wide, locked on the sword in Grace’s hand. She stood three paces before him.

  “But that’s impossible,” he said, his voice soft with puzzlement.

  A strength welled up in Grace, not that of a witch, or a queen, or even a doctor, but simply that of a woman who knew one who loved her had given everything for her. She would not let that gift be for nothing.

  “I will keep you close, Sindar,” she murmured. “I promise.” She stepped forward and thrust with the sword.

  Perhaps her body recalled some of her training with Beltan, or perhaps Fellring understood her wishes and obeyed them without hesitation, for the point of the blade slipped through a narrow gap in Kelephon’s armor and sank easily into his right shoulder. Blood sprang forth. It fell on the bound rune in his hand, and the white stone drank the fluid, turning crimson as the ship’s sails. More blood flowed into the rune, and more, as if the fluid were being pulled into it.

  Kelephon stared at the rune, horror blossoming in his eyes. “Reth!” he said in strangled voice. The stone disk shattered in his hand, and the broken pieces fell to the deck.

  Grace withdrew the sword from his body, and Kelephon cried out again. She poised the tip at his throat. “Release them,” she said. “Now.”

  The runelord twitched a finger. “Reth,” he said again, and the ice crumbled away from Beltan, Vani, and Falken. The three staggered, falling to their knees, but they were alive.

  “Look,” Vani said, pointing with a shaking hand.

  Grace glanced to one side and saw the white ship draw close, sleek and graceful as a swan. Goat-men and tree-women scurried about on the deck. A plank of silvery wood reached up toward the deck of the crimson-sailed ship. She turned her gaze back to Kelephon.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Beltan said.

  Falken’s expression was hard. “You should kill him, Grace. Now, while you have the chance.”