Authors: Mark Anthony
Boredom stole over him. Before he even thought about taking it out of his pocket, he found the iron box in his hand. He looked up and for a moment watched the shadowy forms by the fire. Neither Falken nor Melia moved. He opened the box.
A sigh escaped his lips. The stone was even more beautiful in darkness. It caught the starlight and wove it into a gray-green aura that shimmered just above its surface. He bent over the box, enraptured.
A low thrumming brought him out of his trance.
Travis shook his head. Although it only seemed a minute or two since he had last looked up, the stars had shifted in the sky above. How long had he been gazing at the stone?
The thrumming sound grew, and a chill danced along his spine. He closed the stone in the iron box, shoved it back into his tunic, and stood to peer into the gloom. Then he saw it: A pale glow shone against the distant dark. Twice before had seen the same light: once at Jack’s antique store, when the intruders had attacked, and once again on the highway north of Castle City, just before he stepped into the old billboard. Even as he watched, the light drew nearer.
Travis ran back to the campfire and shook Falken’s shoulder.
The bard groaned in annoyance. “What is it, Travis?”
He whispered a single word. “Danger.”
Falken sat up, at once alert. “Wake the others.”
Moments later they gathered around the remains of the campfire, which Beltan had extinguished with a flask of water.
“It seems, Travis,” Melia said, “the enemies of your wizard friend Jack have found you. I suppose it was only a matter of time. Though I wonder why now, and here, and not before.”
Travis lifted a hand and touched the iron box through the coarse fabric of his tunic, but he said nothing.
Beltan’s hand slid to his sword. “What do we do? Fight?”
“No,” Falken said. “We ride.”
Scant minutes later they nudged their mounts forward, onto the broad swath of the Queen’s Way. The glow was closer now, a ghostly blue-white to the north. They turned
away from the light, but before they could spur their mounts down the road, Falken swore an oath.
“What’s wrong?” Melia said.
“Look.”
Faint but clear, another patch of light glowed against the darkness to the south. Travis’s hand crept inside his tunic, and his fingers brushed the iron box. A powerful compulsion to open the box filled him, and he started to draw it out.
Melia turned in her saddle, and her amber eyes bored into him. He clenched his jaw, resisted the strange urge, and withdrew his hand.
Falken moved his horse near Melia’s. “What do you think they are?”
“I know of only one thing that comes in such light. But it can’t be. It has been so long.”
“Well, I’m not exactly eager to wait and see if you’re right.”
Beltan’s charger pranced a nervous circle. “Now what do we do?”
“We can turn west and travel overland,” Melia said.
The big knight shook his head. “There’s nothing to the west but open plains. We would be completely exposed.”
Melia made an exasperated sound. Evidently this wasn’t the response she was looking for.
“There is another way.”
It was Falken who spoke.
Melia gave him a withering look. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
Falken eyed the approaching patches of light. “This isn’t the time to be stubborn, Melia. The mountains offer our best chance at finding cover.”
“This isn’t fair, you know.”
“Fair has nothing to do with it.”
Travis tried to swallow the panic that clawed its way up his throat. Was he imagining it? Or were those thin silhouettes he saw against the approaching light?
Melia crossed her arms and glared at the bard. “Very well, Falken. We’ll take your detour. But if we’re late to the council, it’s on your head.”
“As if it wouldn’t be anyway.”
They turned away from the road, guided their mounts between the two timeworn standing stones, and cantered up the winding path beyond.
All through the night they picked their way up the treacherous trail, deeper into the shadowed mountains. Travis clung to his mount’s back and dug his fingers into the gelding’s mane each time the horse stumbled on an unseen stone. Neither moon nor stars shone in the cloud-cloaked sky, yet Melia led the way with confidence. Her mare drifted through the gloom like a ghost, and the other horses followed their companion by scent. From time to time Travis thought he glimpsed two sparks of amber light ahead, piercing the dark like the gleaming eyes of a cat, but he couldn’t be certain his own eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.
At first, as they rode along the narrow trail, Travis looked back over his shoulder every few minutes, and each time he expected to see blue-white light rending the night behind them. However, all he saw was unblemished blackness. There was no sign of his mysterious pursuers. Finally weariness stole over him and blunted the edges of his fear. In the end he slipped into a sort of waking dream: a dull trance filled only with darkness and the ceaseless
clop-clop
of the horses’ hooves.
He woke with a start to the sound of murmured voices on the chill, moisture-laden air.
“Whatever you did to conceal our trail, it seems to have worked. I don’t think they’ve followed us.” That was Falken’s low, musical voice.
“How much farther is it?” Water over copper. Melia.
“Actually, I believe we’re nearly there. Though I grant you, it’s been a long time since I last journeyed to this place. A long time indeed.”
“Should we rest here a while?”
“No, let’s press on. I think it might be safer to make camp once we’re there.”
Travis blinked, and only then did he realize he could see.
A pearly luminescence had crept into the fog, and all around them he made out the muted outlines of rugged mountains: dimmer patches of gray against the glowing air. The trail passed between the outstretched arms of two horned peaks, and they entered a valley bounded on all sides by forested ridges. A crisp morning wind rushed into the vale and tore the mist to tatters. The white-gold light of the dawning sun broke through the shroud of fog.
That was when they saw it. It stood like a pale sentinel atop a mound in the center of the valley. They brought their horses to a halt.
Even in ruin the tower was glorious. Smooth walls of ivory soared skyward in a single, tapering spire. There were no windows in its surface, nor ledges, nor turrets—nothing that might mar the perfect symmetry of its form. Yet time had not been so mindful of the tower’s airy perfection as had its creators. The summit of the spire, which should have risen to a slender point, ended abruptly in a jagged crown of broken stone. Heaps of dirty white rubble, overgrown with moss and weeds, surrounded the tower. Dead vines clung to the walls like veins.
Travis’s breath conjured ghosts on the cool air. “Where are we, Falken?”
The wind tugged at the bard’s black-silver hair. “This was the White Tower, the tower of the Runebinders. It was one of three bastions of runic magic founded after the fall of Malachor, over seven hundred years ago, by the followers of the Runelords.”
Travis nudged his horse forward. “The Runelords?”
Falken nodded. “The Runelords were the greatest wizards Falengarth has ever known. Much knowledge was lost in their passing, knowledge that will never be regained. But some of their students fled the destruction of Malachor. They raised three towers in exile, to preserve the arts of speaking, binding, and breaking runes.”
“But what happened to them?”
“Both the White Tower and the Black Tower fell many centuries ago, and the arts of runebinding and runebreaking were lost from the world. Of the three, only the Gray Tower stands today, and even so the power of the Runespeakers is but a faint shadow of what it once was. No more than a
fraction of what is carved upon the runestone in the Gray Tower is understood by the Runespeakers today—and it is but one of nine runestones that were created by the Runelords long ago.” The bard’s words drifted away on the wind.
Melia laid a gentle hand on his arm. “All things must rise and fall, Falken. It is simply the way of the world. Of all worlds.”
A smile touched his lips. He shrugged, as if to say,
I
know
. But the sadness in his blue eyes did not fade altogether.
“Come on,” he said in a gruff voice. “Let’s find a place to make camp. If I don’t have a hot cup of
maddok
, and soon, I’m going to get very testy.”
The four travelers rode into the valley, and the ancient spire loomed higher above them. They made camp in a grassy depression not far from the base of the tower. Soon they sat around a cheerful fire, bellies full from the breakfast Melia had prepared, and sipped hot
maddok
from clay cups
“How nice that everybody is so comfortable they feel no pressing need to clean the dishes,” Melia said in a voice that was dangerously pleasant.
The others leaped to their feet and set to the task.
Weary after the night’s forced ride, they spent the remainder of the morning resting. Travis curled up in his mistcloak, and when he finally woke the sun was already near its zenith. He rubbed bleary eyes and sat up. Beltan sat nearby, clad in his green tunic, polishing his mail shirt with a cloth. Melia and Falken stood by the fire, speaking in low voices.
“You’re certain you should go alone?” Melia said.
“I’m not expecting any trouble inside, but it’s been centuries since anyone set foot in this place. There’s no telling what’s in there. I think it’s better for one person to venture in and see rather than all of us. Besides, studying the stone is a one-person job.”
Melia did not look pleased. “Be careful, Falken.”
She and the bard locked gazes, and it seemed some unspoken message passed between them. Falken nodded. Without further words he left the hollow where they had made camp and walked toward the ancient tower. Travis watched until he stepped into the mouth of an arched doorway and disappeared into the ruin.
Melia turned around and regarded Travis and Beltan, her expression critical. “There’s soap in one of the saddlebags, and I believe there’s a stream over that hill.” Her nose wrinkled. “You two may wish to take advantage of it.”
Travis and Beltan exchanged looks.
“I’ll get the soap,” the knight said.
The day had turned warmer than usual, which was to say it was merely brisk rather than frigid. However, the sun was bright and the air still, and Travis could imagine worse bathing conditions—although these would likely involve chipping a hole in ice first. He and Beltan crested a rise and found the stream Melia had seen. It was little more than a brook that tumbled over polished stones, but in one place it formed a clear, sandy-bottomed pool, several feet deep in the center, and perfect for washing. They shucked off their clothes and, before they lost all their nerve and body heat, plunged in.
The water was bone-achingly cold, but after a minute or two numbness set in, and after that the pain was almost bearable. They scrubbed with the soft, brown soap, then dived under to let the current wash away the sweat and grime of travel. After several seconds of submersion, the cold threatened to crack Travis’s skull, and he stood up and gasped for air. A moment later Beltan broke through the surface in a spray of crystalline droplets.
“By the balls of Vathris’s Bull!” the knight roared.
Travis cringed. “You know, that’s probably not the most appropriate oath for bathing in cold water.”
The other man snorted in agreement. He slicked his long, thinning hair back from his brow. That was when Travis noticed the knight’s scars.
In stark contrast to his bright demeanor, Beltan’s body spoke of a life of hard and violent work. The Calavaner was muscular, but not at all like some gym-toned magazine model from Earth. More like a wild Serengeti lion, hungry and feral and ribs showing, a patch of tawny hair in the center of his chest. Countless fine white lines crisscrossed the knight’s fair skin, along with a number of pink welts. Travis raised a hand to his own chest. True, he had sacrificed most of the old layer of fat to the rigors of this world, but beneath the sandy brown coils his skin was smooth and unmarked.
How had he ever dared to think he had known hardship in his life?
“What is it, Travis?”
Beltan’s high forehead was furrowed in a frown. Travis fumbled for words.
“I’m sorry. It’s just … your scars … I didn’t know.”
The blond man shrugged. “I’m a knight. It goes with the territory.”
“Doesn’t it ever make you want to stop? Being a knight, I mean.”
“Not really. You get used to bleeding.”
“I don’t think I ever would.”
“You might be surprised. I think you’d make a fine knight, Travis.”
Travis laughed and tried not to notice how hollow the sound was. “I don’t think anyone on this world will ever mistake me for a knight, Beltan. The worst scar I have to show is from a paper cut.”
It had been meant as a jest, but Beltan didn’t laugh.
“Not all wounds leave scars that show, Travis.”
Almost any other words he might have expected. Not those. Travis took a step backward in the pool and stared. Had the knight guessed something about him? But how could Beltan know? He had never told another.
I love you, Travis
.
I love you, too, Alice. Now go to sleep. You have to sleep for the medicine to work
.
Will you be here when I wake up
?
I promise
.
Cross your heart
?
Cross my heart and hope to die
.
Okay. Good night, Big Brother
.
’Night, Bug
.
Travis opened his mouth. The knight’s blue eyes pierced him like a blade. In that moment he almost told Beltan—almost told him everything, how he had broken his promise, and how afterward the stifling silence had mantled the Illinois farmhouse.
A chill wind rushed down from the ridges above the valley, its touch icy against his wet skin. He shivered and swallowed the words he had been about to utter.
“We’d better get out of this water if we want to thaw before spring,” he said instead.