Authors: Mark Anthony
He’s disguising his voice. He doesn’t want the other man to know who he is
.
“Well, I’m here now,” the bareheaded man said. His own voice was muffled by his turned back and the moan of the wind through the standing stones.
“Is everything in place?”
“It will be.”
“What do you mean it
will
be?” The hooded man took a step forward. His voice could not disguise his anger. “All was to be ready this night. That was what we agreed upon.”
“I’ve been leaving signs for my associates, but it’s hard to find time when I’m alone. And there are prying eyes about the castle. I’ve done the best I can.”
“Then your best is not good enough. Another reckoning of the council could come at any time. It is imperative it go our way.”
Grace strained to move closer, but she could not. The wind seemed to hold her back. Or perhaps it was some power of the massive stones.
“And it
will
go our way,” the shorter man said. “Soon six rulers will sit at the council table, not seven. Which of them will be missing we won’t know until our moment comes. Regardless, there will be no more deadlock.” He put his hands on his hips, confident. “So do not worry yourself.”
“You knave!” the hooded one hissed. “How dare you tell me what I should or shouldn’t do?”
It happened in an instant, so quickly Grace barely saw it. A dagger appeared in the tall man’s hand, spirited from the folds of his cloak. The blade flashed in the moonlight, the shorter man stumbled back, and the horses let out a whicker of fear. Now blood spattered the ground: bright winter berries scattered on the snow.
The bareheaded man clutched his side. Crimson welled forth between his fingers. “You … you stabbed me.” His words were no longer confident but quavering.
“Only a sting to remind you who your master is,” the hooded man said. “I promise you, the next time you act so bold before me the bite will be much deeper. And believe that I know where to place the knife. Now get yourself back to the castle, and see to it you finish what we’ve started.”
The shorter man made a shallow bow, still clutching his
wound. As he did this, the other’s hooded visage rose and gazed past him—
—directly at Grace. He cocked his head, almost as if he saw something on the frosty air.
Cold and panic were one. Grace tried to claw at the air, but she could not grasp it, could not move. No, it was impossible. He couldn’t possibly see her.
The hooded man took a step forward.
No
!
Somewhere far away numb hands let something fall, then Grace herself was falling. All of it vanished in an instant—the men, the standing stones, the crescent moon—replaced by a vast well of darkness into which she tumbled. Down she fell, toward a lake of darkness from which she knew she would never emerge.…
“Lady Grace!”
Grace’s eyes snapped open, and she drew in the shuddering gasp of a drowning victim shocked back to life. Ivalaine stood above her, her face hard and impassive. Tressa knelt beside the chair in which Grace sat, her brown eyes warm with concern. Aryn hovered behind the two women, her face a tear-streaked mixture of fear and relief.
Tressa clucked her tongue as she rubbed Grace’s hands. “Your skin is like ice, child.”
It was hard to speak, but somehow Grace forced the words out. “What … what happened?”
A shadow touched Ivalaine’s brow. “You were almost lost, sister. Three times I called to you. Had you not come back this last time, you never would have come back at all. You are lucky Lady Aryn and Lady Tressa came looking for you, to invite you into their studies in light of Lady Kyrene’s absence.”
Grace shivered, and feeling coursed back into her limbs, hot and tingling. “I don’t understand,” she said through clattering teeth.
Ivalaine lifted something in her hands: a knife with a black hilt. Grace clenched her jaw.
Ivalaine’s face was carved from stone. “Do not again attempt things Kyrene has not taught you, Lady Grace.”
No more words were needed. Grace gave a jerky nod.
“Come, Tressa.” Ivalaine set the knife on the sideboard.
The red-haired woman cast one last concerned look at Grace, then rose.
“See to the Lady Grace, sister,” Ivalaine said to Aryn. “You are finished with your studies for today. I think you have both learned enough this evening.”
The queen of Toloria turned and left the chamber, Tressa behind her. As soon as the door shut, Aryn was on her knees beside the chair. She rubbed Grace’s hands.
“You’re cold as snow! What happened to you, Grace? When we found you, you seemed so far away.”
Grace opened her mouth, but words were beyond her now. All she could do was shiver and hope the fire would thaw her before it burned her alive.
Travis set down his tablet and unclenched his fingers from the stylus. The doves were roosting for the night in the rafters high above. It was time to go.
He left the tablet where Rin would find it—things had been going better since his conversation with the young runespeaker—then headed downstairs and opened the tower’s door.
“Oh!” he said at the same time she did.
She had been in the act of lifting her hand to rap on the door as he opened it. Grace.
She recovered her composure. “Travis, I have to talk to you.”
He only nodded, too surprised for words.
She clutched her arms over her chest. “Can I come in?”
“I’m sorry. Of course, please.”
Grace hurried in, and he shut out the wintry blast. She pushed back the fur-lined hood of her cape. Her face was pale with the cold, but her eyes, as they always did, glowed like a summer forest.
“Can we speak here, Travis?” She glanced at the wooden ceiling above.
Travis frowned. “It’s only Rin and Jemis up there. And
they couldn’t hear us anyway. They’re all the way up in the attic chamber.”
Grace took a step forward. “Good, because I don’t want anyone else to hear this.”
By the time she finished her story Travis’s face was as white as her own.
He drew in a breath. “I think we need help, Grace.”
She nodded. “Do you mean Melia and Falken?”
Travis thought about this, then shook his head. “No, let’s not bring them into it, at least not yet. They’re both too busy with the council. Let’s see what we find out, then we can tell them if we learn anything more.”
“Who are you thinking of, then?”
Travis scratched his red-brown beard. He really should get around to shaving it. “They say the way to fight fire is with fire, Grace. If there’s a conspiracy in the castle, then maybe we need to start a conspiracy of our own.”
“What do you mean?”
He grinned at her. “Come on. I’ll tell you as we go.”
It was just after sunset when they met in Grace’s chamber. Twilight had coiled its purple cloak about the castle, and outside the window the moon glowed in the sky. Even at just a quarter it was far larger and more brilliant than the moon of Earth. Would Travis ever see that smaller, more distant satellite again?
“What’s going on, Grace?” Aryn said.
The young baroness stood near the window. She held a cup of wine in her left hand but did not drink from it. Her eyes flickered toward Travis, and it was clear her question could as easily have been,
What’s he doing here, Grace
?
Travis clutched his own cup of wine.
Stop it. She’s only wondering what this is about, that’s all. You’re not a servingman in this world any more than Grace is a duchess. Maybe if you quit acting the part, people would stop thinking you’re one
.
“Something has gone wrong, of course,” the knight Durge said. He sounded almost pleased. “Lady Grace would not summon us here with such urgency if that were not the case.”
Grace took a step forward. “Aryn, Durge, you both remember Travis Wilder.”
Aryn gave a polite but shallow nod. Durge made a bow.
“Goodman Travis,” the knight said in his solemn baritone.
Grace licked her lips. “I’ve learned something. Something about the Council of Kings.”
A frown alighted on Aryn’s brow. “Do you really think we should discuss this in front of Lady Melia’s man?”
Travis winced.
Grace drew in a breath, then blurted the words out all at once. “He’s from Earth, Aryn. From the same place I am.”
The baroness’s blue eyes grew large. She stumbled back and might have spilled her wine, but Durge was there to steady her with a sure hand. The knight glanced at Aryn, then at Grace and Travis in turn. His somber face was thoughtful.
“I don’t know what to think of this
Earth
you speak of,” he said. “But if Goodman Travis is one of your kinsmen, Lady Grace, then he is welcome here.”
Grace shook her head. “No, Durge, you don’t understand, it’s more than that. Much more.…”
Soon the knight’s deep-set eyes were nearly as round as Aryn’s, but he did not interrupt Grace. When she finished he stroked his drooping mustaches.
“Of course,” he said in a soft voice. “I always knew it was so. There were no footprints in the snow in the hollow where I found you, in Gloaming Wood. Ever did I say it was as if you had drifted from the sky, and I had wondered if perhaps you had come from the realm of the fairy folk. So it is from a different world you hail. But I was not so far from right, was I?”
“No, Durge, you weren’t.” Grace’s voice was hoarse, and her eyes shone.
The knight was still for a moment, then stepped forward, knelt before her, and bowed his head. “Do not trouble yourself, my lady. I have pledged my sword to you, and an Embarran’s word is stronger than steel, more enduring than stone. It does not matter what world you are from.”
Now Grace laughed. She touched Durge’s stooped but strong shoulder.
“Rise, Sir Durge. Oh, please rise.”
He did, and she caught his hands in hers, and his eyes
went wide all over again. Aryn ran toward Grace and threw her left arm around the taller woman. The baroness was weeping, and Travis’s own throat grew tight. Even in other worlds there were good people.
Aryn pulled away from Grace and turned toward Travis. Her young face was earnest. “I’m so sorry, Goodman … I mean, Travis. I didn’t know. Do you think—not now, but someday—you could forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” He smiled at her. “And you can call me whatever you want. I don’t think there’s any shame in being called a good man.”
Durge laid a hand on his shoulder. “No. There is not.”
“I have the feeling I just missed something,” said a bright tenor.
Travis looked up to see a broad, familiar figure standing in the doorway.
“Beltan!”
The big knight bowed in reply.
“How did you find us?” Travis said. “I looked all over the castle for you, but I couldn’t find you.”
“I got the Lady Grace’s summons. A page brought it to me in the stables.”
Travis glanced at Grace.
She gave a little shrug. “Being mistaken for royalty does have its advantages.”
“Apparently.” He took a step toward the blond knight. “I’m glad you could come, Beltan.”
The knight’s jovial face grew solemn. “I can’t just hide in old tombs, Travis. One day that will be my place, but not now, not while I’m alive. Thank you for reminding me of that.”
Travis opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say.
Grace shut the chamber door, and this time she slid a wooden bar over it. “We’d better get started. It won’t be long before someone comes looking for at least one of us.”
All eyes turned to Grace. It was time for the real business at hand.
Aryn glanced at Beltan, then back at Grace. “Should we tell him?”
“It’s all right,” Travis said. “Beltan knows.”
“Knows what?” Beltan said.
“That I’m from another world. And Grace, too.”
The big knight snorted. “Oh, that.”
Aryn raised an eyebrow. “You seem to take it in stride.”
Beltan crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Believe me, you get used to surprises when you travel with Melia and Falken. The fact is, you can act astonished only for so long. Your face just gets tired of all that jaw-dropping.”
Now the baroness gazed at Travis in a new light, her blue eyes curious.
“Grace,” he said to get himself out of the spotlight, “tell them what you told me.”
Grace nodded, and the others listened as she paced before the fire and spoke in low tones: the doors, the knife, the spell, and the circle of stones. When she whispered how she had learned this magic—that she and Aryn were studying with Queen Ivalaine and the Witches—both Durge and Beltan took a step back. Beltan started to make a motion with his hand, his thumb and littlest finger outstretched, then stopped himself.
“It appears we are not quite through with Lord Beltan’s surprises,” Durge said when Grace had finished.
She took a halting step toward him. “Durge, I’m so sorry, I should have told you.”
His expression was incredulous. “Why, my lady? It is not my place to question your actions. And there are matters at hand that
do
require my attention.”
“Like the fact that there’s a conspiracy of murder in Calavere,” Beltan said. Now his face was nearly as grim as Durge’s. “Again.”
Beltan and Durge had more questions, and Grace and Travis answered them as best they could. They knew little enough, but for all the enigmas a few things were clear. A plot was afoot in the castle to murder one of the rulers attending the Council of Kings, and the new Raven Cult was behind it. Travis couldn’t imagine what a mystery cult could get from murdering a king, but there was no doubting the cult’s involvement. Grace had seen a cultist drop the black knife in the act of carving the Raven symbol into a door. That same knife had taken her—by means of magic—to the circle of standing stones. The knife must have belonged to one of the two conspirators Grace had seen. That meant one
of them had access to the castle. But who was it? That was another unanswered question.
“I still don’t understand what the doors mean,” Beltan said. He ran a hand through his long, thinning hair. “I grant you there’s no great surprise in that. Still, if someone could explain what two storerooms have to do with a murder plot, I’d be grateful.”