Authors: Mark Anthony
After a thousand years, the Rune Gate opened.
Travis raised a hand to shade his eyes against the terrible glare, but it was no use. The light pierced his flesh, his skull, his mind. This was the end.
Another sound drifted on the air. It was soft—so soft he nearly didn’t hear it. His eyes moved downward to the knight who lay at his feet. The sound came again: a low moan from Beltan’s lips. In the glare Travis could see the knight’s chest rise and fall. The breath was weak and shallow, but there was no mistaking it. Beltan was alive!
But not for long, son
.
It was not Jack’s voice that spoke in his mind. Instead the voice was dry as a rasp, sweet as honey, and fierce as lightning. He stiffened at the sound.
Even now the good knight’s lifeblood does seep into the cold ground. And he will be cold himself soon enough. Unless you do something, that is
.
Travis shook his head.
But I can’t do anything
.
You have to, son
.
No, I can’t. I only break things
.
The voice was hard and merciless, an accusation.
Is that your choice then
?
The cold in Travis gave way to rage. It blazed up inside of him. No more. He could take this no more.
You don’t understand
! He shouted the words at the voice, at himself.
It was me! Don’t you see? It was me who killed her! Alice
!
He did not wait for a reply from the voice. Now the words spilled out of the darkness of his mind, as if from his own long-sealed gate that had finally opened.
My parents left me to take care of her when they went to Champaign. She was sick. She was always so sick. So I read the instructions on the bottle of pills, but I mixed them up, like I mix everything up. Don’t you see? Don’t you see what happened? I got the numbers on the bottle wrong. I think she knew. I think she knew it was wrong, but she was so tired. She was so small and tired. So I gave them to her, and
she took them, and she said she loved me. And she never woke up
. The despair was so great he thought it would crush him.
There was a pause. Then,
And what if you had not given her the medicine at all? Would she not have perished then
?
Travis wailed the words inside himself.
No, that’s not it
!
Yes it is, son. That’s exactly it. Right or wrong, life or death. We all have to choose
.
But what if I choose the wrong thing
?
What if you choose the right thing
?
Then the voice was gone.
The brilliant glare washed over Travis. Tears froze against his cheeks. It hurt—it hurt so much—but after all his drifting, after all his running, here in the end, in this place, he saw the truth. There was only one thing worse than choosing wrong, and that was not choosing at all.
I love you, Travis
.
I love you, too, Alice
.
Travis gazed into the light and made his choice.
For a frozen instant he saw through the gap into the icy Dominion of Imbrifale. Beyond the Gate was a vast host of shadows. They roiled against the light, baring fangs, stretching talons, tossing curved horns in hate and suffering. In the midst of the host, on a gigantic onyx beast that snorted fire and struck sparks with cloven hooves, was a terrible figure. He was tall, and pale, and crowned by ice. Against his snowy breast rested a necklace forged of iron, and in it was set a stone as white as his skin. His eyes flickered up and met Travis’s. In them was an endless world of hatred.
Travis could have let those eyes freeze his heart. Instead he reached into his pocket, drew out the Stone, and touched it to the Gate.
Be whole
!
There was light, then thunder, and a cry of perfect fury that splintered Travis’s bones, cracked his teeth, and turned his brain to jelly.
Then came darkness and sweet silence.
Travis blinked. Shadowsdeep was dim once again, but now a wind ruffled his hair, and while it was cold it was no longer so bitter. The stars wheeled slowly above, and the moon soared above the dark peaks.
The Rune Gate was shut now, a smooth slab of iron with no trace of a crack. Travis gazed at the three impressions set into the Gate. Now one of them was no longer empty. Set into it was a disk of creamy stone:
Sinfath
, the third seal, whole once more.
Travis held his breath. It was only a single seal where before there had been three, but he had to believe it would be enough.
A groan drew him away from the Gate.
Travis tucked Sinfathisar back into his pocket and knelt in the snow beside Beltan. The wounded knight’s face was gray beneath the mask of drying blood, and his breathing was labored. There wasn’t much time.
Slender forms drifted from the shadows where once the feydrim had skulked. They gathered around, clad all in gossamer, and a gentle radiance bathed the knight. His eyes were shut, almost as if he were sleeping. Travis smoothed Beltan’s pale hair back from his bloody brow. Then the fairies reached out with shining hands and lifted the fallen knight from the snow.
Logren’s empty corpse toppled off the edge of the dais and fell in a heap to the floor below.
Grace could not prevent her lips from turning upward in a scalpel-sharp smile.
So much for the prognosis of living forever, my lord
.
A cry of pain echoed off the rafters. Grace jerked her head up. Logren was dead, but this was not over.
Below the dais, the blue nimbus that emanated from Melia flickered like a dying candle. The small lady staggered, a hand clutched to her brow, and Falken reached for her. The feydrim hissed in glee, then scrambled onto the edges of the overturned tables, ready to spring upon their prey. The men-at-arms fell back, eyes afraid.
Grace reached out a hand, but there was nothing she could do to help them. Besides, the feydrim would have her and the others that stood on the dais soon enough. Despite this
realization, the exultation inside Grace did not fade. Maybe they hadn’t won, maybe they hadn’t defeated evil, not completely, but at least they had stood against it, had made it hurt, and had not given themselves up to it without a struggle. She wasn’t certain that meant something. She hoped it did.
Melia’s azure nimbus went dark, and she slumped into Falken’s arms. Fangs bared, the feydrim leaped forward—
—then shrieked in agony and fell to the floor.
Grace stared at the feydrim. They whined like frightened dogs, writhed on the floor, and bit and clawed at themselves. Something had happened, something that terrified them. But what?
The men-at-arms did not waste their chance waiting for an answer. They stepped forward and—those who still gripped them—plunged knives into the feydrim who had made it over the barricade. Around the great hall, the revelers held each other as they stared at the cowering creatures.
Grace felt a tingling and looked up. Across the hall she saw a white oval: Aryn’s face, round with fear and amazement. Next to the baroness, in the hollow center of the artifact of Malachor, was suspended the iron heart that moments ago had rested within Logren’s chest. Grace felt the words, faint but clear, vibrating over a thread of the Weirding.
How did you know
?
Later, Aryn. I’ll explain later
.
With the threat of the feydrim gone, new dread cut through Grace, and she moved away from the edge of the dais. There was another who needed her attention now. The rulers and counselors cast looks of amazement in her direction, but she ignored them. She moved to a smoke-gray form that slumped against the wall at the back of the dais.
“Durge,” she whispered as she knelt beside him.
The knight’s head bowed forward, and his brown hair and mustaches were crusted with blood. Through countless rips in his clothes she could see the gashes in his flesh. His hand lay still—terribly still—on the hilt of his greatsword.
Grace reached out to examine him, then froze. What should she do? An aching filled her throat, and her eyes stung, so that it was hard to see him.
What do I do
?
She didn’t understand. Always she treated the wounded and broken with cool efficiency. Now her hand was frozen, her mind blank.
Then she knew why. Never before was the broken person in front of her also a friend.
Be a doctor, Grace. You’re his friend, but if he has any chance, you’ve got to be a doctor now
. She drew in a deep breath and forced her trembling hand to reach out and touch his neck to feel for his pulse.
Nothing. Not the faintest flutter. Fear stabbed her. She shifted her fingers. Maybe it was the blood, maybe it was the position of his head, maybe—
—her fingers halted. Beneath them, slow and strong, beat the rhythm of life.
A breath of relief escaped her. Now she was indeed a doctor, and she examined him with swift skill, cataloging his injuries. They were many, but only a few of the wounds were deep, and these had not struck any vital areas. Yes, he would recover, she had only to keep the wounds clean, to be certain there was no infection or—
His brown eyes were open—barely, but he was awake and watching her. Grace halted her examination, then regarded him, her lips pressed together. She had not cried in over twenty years. Now crystal tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Don’t weep, my fairy queen,” Durge said in a hoarse voice. “Please don’t weep. Am I dead, then? Have I traveled to the Twilight Realm?”
Now Grace laughed even as her tears flowed, impossible but marvelous, like rain from a sun-drenched sky. “No, Durge. You’re very much alive.”
The knight seemed to consider her words, then he heaved a sigh. “Oh, bother.”
Grace threw her arms around him.
A heavy sound thrummed over the great hall, and a gust of cold wind whipped at Grace’s hair and set torches to guttering all around. A gasp rose from the revelers. Grace stood and breathed in the clean scent of snow.
The doors of the great hall had opened. Beyond was not a stone castle corridor, but an icy vale lit by a moon that floated above jagged mountains. Grace watched, entranced,
as they drifted through the door: tall, slender, and radiant. A thrill coursed through her.
So that’s what they look like. Fairies
.
In their arms they bore a figure that seemed to sleep. A man, Grace thought, but it was hard to be certain, for the soft light that emanated from them obscured her view. With a chiming sound the fairies moved through the hall, gossamer fluttering. The crowd parted to let them pass. Melia had awakened, and now she leaned against Falken. The bard and the lady gazed at the light elfs, their faces thoughtful.
With the help of Kylar and Ivalaine, Boreas had staggered to his feet, his eyes hazed with pain but open and aware. Tressa had draped Eminda’s body with a cloak. Now the red-haired witch moved to stand beside her queen. All watched as the fairies floated onto the dais. The light elfs bent their tall forms and set their burden on the stone at Grace’s feet. Then they straightened, and Grace gazed into eyes like ancient silver stars.
Yes, she understood.
She knelt beside the fallen figure. It was Beltan. He had been gravely injured, that was clear to her at once. The gash in his side was deep. Even on Earth his prognosis would have been uncertain. Here, in this world, he should be dead. However, the bleeding had stopped, and his breathing was deep and even. Grace laid her hands on his body and felt it with perfect certainty: It would take time, but the knight would heal.
“The Rune Gate is shut once more,” a voice said. It was not loud, yet it carried over the great hall all the same. “The Pale King is imprisoned again.”
Grace rose. Across the hall another figure stood in the impossible doorway, clad in a baggy tunic, his hair and beard shaggy, his gray eyes solemn behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He stepped into the hall, then raised high an object in his hand: a gray-green stone. Sinfathisar. He whispered something—the words might almost have been
be whole—
then the Stone in his grip shone, and a radiance welled forth. All raised their hands to shield their eyes. Then the light dimmed, and the revelers lowered their hands to stare in renewed wonder.
The cowering feydrim were gone. In their place were queer
people with cloven hooves and antlered brows, swan-necked women with dragonfly wings, and small green men with beards of leaves. Little People. More odd forms stepped from the shadows, led by a tiny figure in yellow and green.
The Little People moved forward and gathered the twisted bodies of the dead feydrim into their arms. Sorrow mingled with joy on their strange faces. The fairies drifted down to join them.
Grace held her breath as a pair of nut-brown eyes met her own. Trifkin Mossberry nodded to her, his ancient eyes knowing. Then, with a shimmering sound like bells, the Little People and the fairies were gone. The doors of the great hall shut. Grace knew that when they opened again it would be onto a castle corridor, not a vale of snow.
Across the hall, the shaggy man in the too-large tunic lowered the Stone and stumbled forward.
Now a joyous word burst out of Grace. “Travis!”
He looked up, saw her, and grinned. His lips formed a word.
Grace
. She leaped down from the dais, then she was running. He was running, too, and the crowd moved aside for them. They met in the center of Calavere’s great hall and caught each other in a fierce embrace.
The long winter night was over.
The Council of Kings met the next morning, on Midwinter’s Day, to decide the fate of the Dominions.
In the council chamber, Grace took her seat on the bench beside Aryn. She squeezed the baroness’s hand, and the young woman squeezed back and smiled. However, the expression was as fragile as it was lovely, like a fine web of frost on a fallen leaf. The baroness was not clad in her usual sky-blue, but instead in a gown the color of a winter dusk.
Grace studied her friend. Something was wrong—something had happened to Aryn last night which the young woman had not talked about—the doctor in her knew it instinctively. Except this was no wound of the body. What could it be? Grace’s powers of diagnosis failed her. Yet whatever
it was it could wait, at least a little while. Today Aryn smiled, and the day had dawned cold but bright over Calavere.