by Mark Anthony
“I’d say he’s fairly not-happy as well,” Grace said. “Just in case you were wondering.”
Tarus took her elbow. “Come, my lady. We’ve already got one hole in the castle wall. We don’t need him opening another with his bare fists. Perhaps you can calm him down.”
Grace tried to tell Tarus that it was Lirith who had a way with wild beasts, but by then it was too late. They had already crossed the threshold into the king’s chamber.
“What is the meaning of this, my lady?” Boreas said, advancing on her before she could draw a breath, shaking a wadded-up parchment in his hand.
Melia glided from the corner of the room. “Perhaps if you stopped waving it at her and let her read it, she might be able to tell you, Your Majesty.”
The king grunted and held the paper out. Grace took it and smoothed it out so she could read the words penned in a flowery hand. She scanned the missive.
“Does that say what I think it does?” the king said in a dangerous voice.
Grace nodded. “As long as you think it says that this one company is all Tarras can spare. Emperor Ephesian offers his regrets, but he says that the present state of affairs in the empire do not allow him to send more.”
“I don’t need regrets, I need men!” Boreas snatched the parchment from Grace and tossed it into the fire.
Falken glanced at Melia. “The ‘present state of affairs.’ What does that mean?”
“The usual, I imagine,” Melia said, coiling a hand beneath her chin. “If Ephesian were to send a large portion of his army north to the Dominions, his position would be greatly weakened, and his enemies wouldn’t be able to resist taking the opportunity to depose and execute him.”
Falken scratched his beard. “If you can never do anything with your army, what good is being emperor?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that one, dear.”
Grace glanced around the room, but there was no sign of Beltan. That was unfortunate. He had a deft manner with his uncle, and she could have used his assistance. However, she had seen little of Beltan these last few weeks. She knew he still blamed himself. Beltan was the last one to see Travis, and the knight believed he could have done something to stop Travis from leaving.
Only there was nothing any of them could have done. Grace had learned over the course of this last year that Travis could be as stubborn as he was kind. She had read his message—badly scrawled in charcoal on the hearth in his room—through the tears in her eyes.
Dear Everyone,
I’ve gone to stop Duratek. You can’t follow me, but even if you could, promise me you won’t. This is something I have to do alone. I love you all.
—Travis
It was so foolish, and so selfless and brave. Just like Travis. If he could face such an impossible task, Grace could face this.
She stepped forward and laid a hand on Boreas’s arm. “Your Majesty, we must work with the tools we have been given.”
“And what will we be able to forge with such poor tools as these, my lady? I need to build a wall to defend the Dominions, and in answer to my call I am sent a handful of sticks and stones.”
Grace sighed. She hated to admit it, but Boreas was right; his call to muster had yielded only an army of disappointments. The Order of Malachor, founded just over a year ago at the Council of Kings, was in shambles. King Sorrin of Embarr had recalled his knights from the Order months ago. The knights from Brelegond had vanished without word not long after, and now that Dominion had become as silent as Eredane.
Some knights had come from Toloria, sent by Queen Ivalaine, and Grace wasn’t certain whether to be surprised or not. From what Lirith and Aryn had told her, the Witches intended to work against the Warriors of Vathris. However, Ivalaine was a queen as well as a witch, and Toloria was Calavan’s most ancient ally. Surely she had had no choice but to send some of her knights—though their number was few, only thirty.
Galt had sent a similar number of knights. We are hard-pressed to guard the passes through the highlands, King Kylar wrote in his missive to the king. The dark knights of Eredane grow restless, and they seek a way south. Would that we could spare more men for you, but to speak the truth, we cannot spare even these I do send.
Queen Inara’s news was just as bleak. She wrote of dark clouds gathering to the north in Embarr, and of unrest in her own Dominion. As a result, she had sent just twenty knights, though she also granted Boreas five of her Spiders in addition to Aldeth. May they help you in ways a warrior cannot, Inara wrote.
Grace appreciated Queen Inara’s gesture, but she wondered if it was really a good idea to have so many spies in one castle; there was no telling what they were up to. The Spiders were as hard to pin down and bring together as drops from a spilled bottle of mercury.
Then again, if the Spiders could discover the location of the Duratek agents who had destroyed the castle’s towers, then Inara’s gift would be great indeed. Except one of Inara’s own keeps had blown up, and the Spiders hadn’t been able to stop it.
Then maybe Travis will, Grace. If anyone has the power to keep Duratek from reaching Eldh, he does.
But even if Travis succeeded, Duratek was hardly the only peril facing the Dominions. The Raven Cult had been reborn stronger than before. The Onyx Knights still controlled Brelegond and Eredane, and surely they would make their move on Embarr soon. Feydrim and wraithlings stalked the land. All the signs pointed to one thing: The Pale King would soon ride again.
Amid all this cold and gloom, one spark of unexpected hope had come a few days ago, when a band of twenty men in gray robes arrived at the gates of the castle. They were runespeakers from the Gray Tower, and while they seemed either woefully young or overly wizened, they were led by All-master Oragien himself.
Oragien was a tall and surprisingly hale man despite being well into his eighth decade. His blue eyes were keen beneath shaggy white brows as he greeted King Boreas in the great hall.
“We are not what we once were,” Oragien had said in his resonant voice. “But we have been learning since Master Wilder left us. Our forebears created the Rune Gate that bound the Pale King in Imbrifale. It is only right that we stand in Shadowsdeep when that gate opens once more.”
“I welcome you and your runespeakers, Oragien,” Boreas had said in a gruff voice. “Would that more remembered their call to duty as you do.”
Even with the addition of the runespeakers, it was a small and motley force that had gathered in answer to Boreas’s call to war: some eighty knights, the single Tarrasian company, plus the handful of Spiders and the twenty runespeakers. As she watched the missive from the emperor burn, Grace searched for something, anything cheerful she could say.
“What of your own men, Your Majesty?” she said, hitting on the first topic that came to mind. “How many men has Calavan been able to raise?”
Once again, she had miscalculated. Boreas’s visage darkened, and his hands became fists. “It seems even my own barons grow stingy these days. They think they can fulfill their oaths of fealty by sending me but seventy knights and two hundred foot. All the more reason my son and Lady Aryn must wed quickly. I would have at least one baron who is loyal to me.”
Grace had at least hoped for good news from Calavan. Even with these new forces, that gave them fewer than five hundred men. Five hundred to stand against the entire army of the Pale King. It was like throwing a pebble at a river in an effort to dam it.
Her thoughts must have been plain to see, for Boreas moved close and touched her cheek. His hand was rough and warm.
“Do not despair yet, my lady.” His voice was low, rumbling through her chest. “The muster I called as king has yielded us little, but I have sent out another call to war, one I believe will be heeded by far many more.”
Grace gazed into his eyes, then a gasp escaped her. “The Warriors—the followers of Vathris Bullslayer. You’re summoning them here.”
She saw the king and Sir Tarus exchange a fleeting look. So Tarus already knew.
No doubt Beltan did as well.
“Can you really expect them to come?” Falken said. “What if their kings and queens command them otherwise?”
Boreas gave the bard a sharp look. “There are powers even higher than kings and queens, Falken Blackhand. And there are vows that bind more tightly than vows of fealty. Throughout the centuries, the followers of Vathris have waited for one day to come. For one thing.”
“The Final Battle,” Grace murmured.
Boreas bared his teeth. “Can the war that comes be any other? The men of Vathris will heed the call. If they believe, then they must.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Melia said, smoothing her blue kirtle, “but I know something of the temple of Vathris in Tarras. I do not imagine the high priests will appreciate a call to war issuing from the north. And while there are many worshippers of Vathris in the Dominions, surely there are ten times that number in the lands of the south.”
Boreas let out a grunt of disgust. “The high priests of Tarras are fanatics and fools. They have forgotten their true purpose and do naught but scheme to find ways to bring men under their power, and to use that power for their own ends.”
“Is it true,” Tarus said, a pained expression on his face, “that the priests in Tarras are forced to offer up the jewels of their manhood in a golden bowl on the altar of Vathris?”
“That and their sanity,” Boreas rumbled. “I doubt an army of eunuchs is what Vathris had in mind when he foretold the coming of the Final Battle.” He stalked toward Melia. “The priests may have forgotten the legends, but the men of Vathris have not. It may take some time for the men of Tarras to come, and even longer for the men of Al-Amún across the Summer Sea. But they will come.”
Melia’s amber eyes were thoughtful. “Yes, I believe they will.”
Grace felt hot; she had been standing too close to the fire. Dizzying visions of warriors and feydrim and iron gates swirled in her mind, and she herself stood at the center of it all, holding a shining sword. She had to get out of here, away from the fire, and talk to Lirith and Aryn.
But to talk to them of what? The Witches, and how they sought to stop the Warriors, who they feared would fight on the side of Runebreaker in the Final Battle? Grace wasn’t sure. One thing she was sure of was that Aryn was still hiding something—not just from her, but from Lirith as well.
Grace had hardly had a chance to speak to Aryn these last weeks, occupied as the baroness was by Lord Farvel’s endless questions regarding her coming wedding. Grace wished the young woman was here now. Or perhaps it was better she wasn’t, with all this discussion of the Warriors and the Final Battle.
You don’t really believe Aryn would betray Boreas, do you, Grace? She loves him like a father.
And what of herself? She was a witch, too. Not so powerful as Aryn, nor so experienced as Lirith, but a witch all the same. Was she bound to betray Boreas as well?
She struggled for something to say, something that would distract Boreas from the guilt she was certain shone on her face. However, before she could speak, Falken moved to her.
“It’s time, Grace,” he said in a soft voice.
She wanted to believe she didn’t know what he was talking about, but she did. Slowly, she drew Fellring from the scabbard at her side and held the blade before her. The runes on its flat caught the firelight, gleaming red as if writ in fire.
Falken’s eyes were locked on her. “The Warriors of Vathris gather, but it will take time for them to come together. Time we may not have. The Rune Gate could open any day. We need to take what men we have and march north to Gravenfist Keep.”
“Gravenfist Keep?”
“It is an ancient fortress, the greatest ever raised by Malachor. The keep sits atop a narrow pass, guarding the only way out of Shadowsdeep—and out of Imbrifale. If the Rune Gate opens, Gravenfist Keep is all that stands between the Pale King and the rest of Falengarth.”
No, it wasn’t nearly enough. What good was a ruined keep manned by five hundred men and one skinny woman with a too-big sword against all the vast hordes at the Pale King’s command?
“I can’t do it,” she croaked.
Falken actually laughed. “Yes you can, Grace. You’re Ulther’s heir. Everyone knows it. You don’t see the light in the eyes of the men when they see you holding that sword, but the rest of us have.”
Boreas, Tarus, and Melia all nodded, and Grace felt her knees go weak.
“But the keep—what if it isn’t even standing anymore?”
“It yet stands,” Falken said. “I saw it myself when I dared to venture into Shadowsdeep over a year ago. It is in disrepair, but it is still strong. It was said both runelords and witches had a hand in the building of Gravenfist, and that they wove its very stones with enchantments of power. If you could find a way to awaken those ancient defenses, you could hold the Pale King’s army at bay with just ten men, or even by yourself. Five hundred will be enough to hold back the Pale King until the Warriors of Vathris can reach you.”
Her stomach clenched into a hard knot. “Defenses? What kind of defenses?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Falken said.
A groan escaped her. “Well, that’s just great. I don’t suppose there’s a button on the wall labeled ‘Push here for magic’? What if I can’t find a way to turn on these defenses you’re talking about?”
Her words didn’t rattle Falken in the least. His eyes shone as he wrapped his gloved fingers around her sword hand. “You will, Grace. You will because you have to.”
No, she tried to say. I can’t do it. I won’t.
Instead she met the bard’s eyes and gave a grim nod.
9.
That afternoon, Grace ventured down the winding paths of Calavere’s garden. She wasn’t certain what she was looking for. If it was solitude, then she found it in abundance. In winter, the garden was a half-wild thicket—the hedges untended, the paths all but obscured by dried leaves—as if a section of primeval forest had been transported from Gloaming Wood to the middle of the castle’s upper bailey.
If it was signs of spring stirring she had come looking for, then the effort was in vain. Here and there, Grace stooped down to dig through the loam with her fingers. On Earth it would be the middle of February; crocus would already be poking up through the snow. However, she could do no more than pry away a thin sheet of soil; beneath, the ground was frozen hard as iron.
Falken had said the bitter weather was the work of the Pale King and the one Imsari he possessed—Gelthisar, the Stone of Ice. Was this what Berash had planned for Falengarth? A land of frost and snow, where springtime never came?
Grace stood, shivering inside her fur-lined cape. After their meeting that morning, Boreas had begun giving orders; what forces they had were to prepare to march north in three days. There was no point in delaying, the king had said. The journey would be a long one, since they would be forced to avoid Eredane and its Onyx Knights, and instead travel through Toloria, then follow the eastern edge of the Fal Erenn north through Perridon and Embarr to Shadowsdeep.
Grace hadn’t bothered mentioning that, by the time they reached Embarr, it could be under the sway of the Onyx Knights as well, and even if it wasn’t, the Raven Cult was rampant there. However, none of that mattered. Much as she wanted to find an escape, she knew there wasn’t one.
She touched the hilt of Fellring, belted at her side. You sacrificed yourself to reforge this sword, Sindar. Am I supposed to sacrifice myself to reforge the Dominions?
Only sacrificing herself wasn’t what she was afraid of. At Denver Memorial, she had always given of herself without limits to heal the wounds of others. No, it was sacrificing the hundreds who were to march with her, and the thousands more that would follow after with Boreas, that terrified her.
If there’s no way to stop these things from happening, Grace, then you can’t let it all be for nothing. You have to get to Gravenfist Keep, and you have to find a way to hold the Pale King back.
Only how was
she supposed to discover the key to unlocking the magical defenses of a centuries-old fortress? Falken always seemed to know about everything, but even the bard didn’t know how she was supposed to accomplish this. It was hopeless. She sighed and turned to walk from the garden.
Music chimed on the cold air, high and distant—the sound of bells.
Grace froze, listening. She could hear wind over branches and the thudding of her own heart. Then it came again, faint but clear, like sleigh bells on a winter’s night.
She turned and ran farther down a path. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? They were more ancient than anyone. If anyone knew what she had to do, the Little People would. Clutching her cape, she raced around a bend in the path—
—and came to a halt. The path ended in a grotto; there was no way to continue on. Yet Grace was sure this was the direction the sound of the bells had come from.
“Are you searching for something, Grace?”
A lithe form separated itself from a shadow and stalked forward.
“Vani,” Grace said the name like a gasp. “I didn’t see you there.”
The T’gol shrugged, as if to say this was only to be expected. Grace knew Vani hated the cold. What was she doing out here?
“Did you hear them?” Grace said.
“Hear what?”
“The bells. I was following the sound of them when I ran into you.”
Vani frowned. Dark circles hung underneath her eyes, as if she had not slept well lately. “I heard no such sound. The only noise was the sound of your approach.”
The sound of the bells had been distant, but the T’gol had keen ears. Surely if Grace had been able to hear it, Vani should have as well. Unless the music had been meant only for Grace. But if so, why had they led her to this place? She doubted Vani knew anything about Gravenfist Keep or its ancient magic.
