Beyond the Pale (30 page)

Beltan noticed his expression, and the knight’s brow furrowed in concern. “What’s wrong, Travis?”

The robed men and women continued to walk down the street. It was only a matter of seconds until one of them looked up and noticed the riders.

“Please!” Travis said, his voice hoarse. “We can’t let them see us!”

His companions hesitated, but the urgency of his expression spurred them to action.

“This way,” Beltan said.

They ducked down an alley, then waited in tense silence as the dark procession passed by. Travis clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to scream. When they were certain the robed ones were gone, the four emerged into the relative light of the street.

Falken fixed Travis with a sharp look. “And now you’re going to tell us what that was all about.”

Travis took a deep breath. “Did you see that symbol, the one drawn in ashes on their foreheads? The curved lines that looked almost like some sort of eye?” He licked his lips. “I’ve seen that symbol before.”

In quick words, Travis explained how he had seen the same symbol scratched onto doors all over Castle City the night when everything had changed.

When Travis finished, Falken shook his head, a grim light in his faded eyes. “I’m not sure what this means, but it can’t be good.”

“Indeed,” Melia said. “Especially given the fact those people were members of the Raven Cult.”

Falken stared at her. “What?”

The lady nodded, her jaw set in a hard line. “That symbol
is the mark of the new mystery cult of which I told you in Kelcior.” Her gaze moved to Travis. “Only it’s not meant to be an eye. From what I’ve gathered, it symbolizes the wing of a raven.”

“I’m liking this less and less by the moment,” Falken said. “But I still don’t understand Travis’s story. What does it mean?”

“It means,” Melia said in measured words, “the connection between his world and ours runs in two directions.”

Travis tried to grasp the implications of her words, but he couldn’t, not fully. Still, one thing he knew now beyond all doubt: He was not the only one who had traveled between worlds.

“Come on,” Falken said in a gruff voice. “Let’s get out of this blasted town.”

The next day dawned gray and sullen. So dim was the sunrise that when Beltan shook his shoulder to wake him, Travis blinked in confusion, thinking it still the middle of the night. He nearly crawled back inside his mistcloak, dawn or no dawn, but the big Calavaner pushed a steaming clay cup into his hands. By reflex, Travis inhaled. A rich, bitter scent filled his nose.
Maddok
. He gulped the hot liquid down as fast as he could and found, if not the desire, at least the energy to get up.

They rode south all that morning—although before long Travis wasn’t certain
morning
was the right word, for as the hours passed, the day seemed to grow darker rather than lighter. Droplets of moisture clung to everything—grass, stones, trees—and beaded like tiny pearls on Travis’s cloak. Before long the sound of thunder rumbled across the landscape, distant but drawing nearer. Black clouds, lit from within by flashes of green lightning, rolled out of the north to mantle the sky.

Beltan slicked wet, pale hair away from his brow and glanced up at the sky. “Isn’t it a little late in the year for thunderstorms?”

“Yes,” Melia replied in a guarded voice. “It is.”

Her words sent a shiver up Travis’s spine.

As if to punctuate the knight’s comment, a flash of lightning rent the clouds overhead, and the first big, cold drops of rain began to fall upon the paving stones of the Queen’s Way.

“We’d better find shelter, and soon,” Falken said.

Before the bard finished speaking, Beltan had spurred his charger ahead and vanished into the murk. The others rode on. A frigid wind rushed out of the north, snatched at their cloaks, and drove the rain in horizontal sheets across the land. In moments Travis was soaked to the skin. The mistcloak did little good, no matter how tight its weave, if he could not keep it wrapped around himself.

Another flash of lightning revealed the silhouette of Beltan riding toward them. The knight brought his horse to a skidding halt and shouted over the roar of the storm. “There’s a house not far ahead. I think it must be the manor of some local lord.”

Falken wiped at the stream of water that poured down his brow. “Then I believe we should prevail upon the lord’s hospitality.”

They were nearly upon the manor before Travis saw it—a blocky shape backlit by a flash of lightning. They dismounted, and Beltan grabbed the reins of their steeds.

“There’s a stable over there.” He pointed to a black rectangle. “I’ll take care of the horses.” The knight led the fearful animals into gloom and was gone.

Holding on to each other, Travis, Melia, and Falken stumbled toward the manor’s door. The bard pounded against the wooden surface.

“Open up!” he shouted. “Travelers seek shelter from the storm!”

There was no answer. Falken pounded again, but still the door did not open. Was the place abandoned? It was hard for Travis to tell through the rain, yet an atmosphere of decay seemed to hang over the manor. Falken exchanged grim looks with Melia, then struck the door one more time, so hard it rattled under the blow. His voice rang with authority.

“If this is still a civilized land, then by all the laws of hospitality, let us in!”

His words must have had an effect, for there came the
sound of a bar being drawn, and the door swung inward. At the same moment Beltan returned from the stable. Together the four stepped inside.

The door shut and sealed them in a cramped entryway little brighter than the gloom outside. Travis’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he saw the one who had let them in. She was barely more than a girl, clad in a mouse-brown dress. Dirt smudged her plain face but did not mask the fear in her expression. A grimy kerchief was knotted around her forehead, and a dark stain had seeped through the center of the cloth.

“Thank you for opening your door to us,” Falken said. “It is a dark day out there.”

The serving girl stared mutely and did not meet his gaze.

Falken tried again. “Can you take us to your lord, so that we may beg his hospitality?”

The girl gave a jerky nod. Without a word, she led them down a corridor and through a doorway. They found themselves in a drafty hall. Mold clung to stone walls, and a sullen fire sputtered in a gigantic fireplace, giving off much smoke, little light, and seemingly no heat. Beams—blackened with soot and time—arched overhead, and they made Travis think of the ribs of some huge beast that had just swallowed them alive.

A rattling voice spoke. “You must forgive my serving maid for not allowing you to enter at once. Kirtha is stupid, but I have no one else, and so I must tolerate her.”

Travis searched for the source of the voice, and only after a moment did he realize someone sat at a rickety table near the fireplace. The man was thin to the point of wasting. Pockmarks pitted his sallow face, and his lank hair clung to his skull and forehead. His purple robe might once have been fine, but was now soiled and threadbare.

With a bony hand, the lord gestured toward benches beside the table. Though his voice was haggard, it was not unpleasant. “Come, sit beside the fire and warm yourselves. I cannot offer you the greeting I once would have, but you are welcome to all that I have. Things change, yet let it not be said that Sebaris of Thale has forgotten the laws of hospitality.”

Melia made a graceful curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

With trembling hands, Kirtha took their wet cloaks from them and hung the garments near the fire. The travelers sat on the splintery benches, and the lord himself poured them cups of mulled wine. Travis took a sip. The wine tasted of vinegar and was cut heavily with water, but at least it was warming. The lord did not ask their own names, but for all Travis knew this was part of the laws of hospitality that seemed so important in this world. Or perhaps the lord was simply mad. Now that they were closer, Travis noticed a feverish light in his eyes.

Kirtha, who had left the hall while they drank their wine, now entered again with a tray she set upon the table. There was little enough for her to carry: some stale bread, a few cooked turnips, and some bits of gristly meat. Lord Sebaris gestured for the travelers to serve themselves, and they did so without relish.

“You wonder why there is so little for my board, yes?” Sebaris said. “I can see it in your faces. It is shameful, you think, that a lord should live thusly.”

“Not at all, my lord,” Melia said. “We are grateful for your generosity.”

Sebaris laughed: a forlorn sound. “You are well mannered, my lady. A few years ago, I would have offered you a feast suited for a queen.” His eyes grew distant. “But there is so little left now. They take it, you see. They take it all.” He gripped the arms of his chair with hands like claws. “Yet that is well, is it not? Better they take the silver, the wine, the food. Better they take those things than your—”

His words descended into a fit of coughing. Spasms wracked his emaciated body. At last the lord’s coughing subsided. He wiped his lips with a napkin, and the cloth came away dark with blood.

Melia regarded Sebaris, her expression solemn. “Who are
they
, my lord?”

He waved a thin hand to dismiss her words. His gaze was
present
once again. “Forgive me, my lady. I was babbling, that’s all. I’ve had a fever of late. Yet it’s nothing with which you need concern yourself.”

After that they ate in silence.

When they had finished, the lord cleared his throat. “I see there is a minstrel in your company.”

Falken had drawn out his lute and now wiped the instrument’s polished wood with a cloth.

“May I beg a song from you?” the lord said. “It has been long since this hall was graced by music.”

Falken lifted his lute and tested the strings. “This is an old song. Yet it is fitting for a day like this, I think.” The bard strummed the lute, then sang in a clear voice:

A blood-chilling shriek interrupted the bard’s song.

“Stop, you fool!” Sebaris cried. “They will hear you—they hear everything!” The lord was standing now, his eyes wild and filled with fear. “Don’t you know that song is forbidden?”

The travelers could only gape.

Several heartbeats passed, and Sebaris seemed to regain his senses. He slumped and let out a deep sigh. Falken helped the lord into his chair, and Melia poured him a cup of wine, which he gulped down.

Falken regarded the emaciated man. “If my song has given you offense, then I beg your apology, my lord.”

Sebaris shook his head. “No, do not apologize, good minstrel. It is clear you have traveled from distant lands—you could not know. And let us talk no more about the song. Kirtha will show you to a chamber now, where you can rest.”

Melia bowed her head. “You are most kind, my lord.”

“Not kind enough, I fear.”

He murmured these words, as if he spoke more to himself
than the others, and it seemed to Travis the light of madness shone in the lord’s eyes once more. But perhaps it was only the glow of the dying fire. They took their leave of Sebaris, gathered up their still-damp cloaks, and followed Kirtha from the hall. The serving maid led them down a murky corridor. She paused before a door and gestured for them to enter.

Melia gazed at the stained kerchief that bound the serving maid’s forehead. “I have some skill with healing, child,” she said in a gentle voice. “May I see your hurt?”

Melia started to reach for the bandage, but the girl shrank away from her touch like a frightened animal. She shook her head, her eyes filled with mute terror.

Melia withdrew her hand. “As you wish, dear.” Only the glittering of her amber eyes expressed her interest at this strange response.

Without asking for leave, Kirtha scurried down the corridor and was gone.

Falken shot Melia an inquisitive look. “I guess she didn’t appreciate your offer for help.”

“Indeed. But why, I wonder?”

Beltan let out a surly snort. “Well, you two can stay out here and talk about the motivations of serving girls all you’d like, but I’m going to go inside and get out of this mail shirt before it rusts solid. Riding all day in the rain is not good for armor.”

“Or for temperaments,” Melia observed.

They found the chamber as dank and chilly as the rest of the manor. The walls were cracked, the fireplace empty, and cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. There were a few benches for furniture, but these were so rickety the travelers spread their cloaks on the floor and sat there instead.

Melia smoothed invisible wrinkles from her midnight-blue garment. “Well,” she said in an exasperated tone, “what on Eldh was
that
all about?”

“You mean Sebaris, back in the hall?” Falken said. “That’s a good question. I would just like to know when it became forbidden to sing the
Lay of Glennen
in Eredane. It doesn’t make a great deal of sense.” He strummed the strings of his lute with a thumb, then shook his head. “In fact, none of this makes sense. A lone serving girl is hardly enough to
make up even a provincial lord’s household. There should be a dozen servants and retainers here. What’s going on in Eredane? First the town, now this place. Something is not right.”

“So it seems,” Melia said. “Regardless, I don’t think we should overstay our lord’s welcome.”

Falken nodded. “The storm should blow over soon. We can set out at dawn. I’m sure Sebaris will be more than happy to see us go.”