“Then let’s go in,” Vani said, “and get out of this wretched cold.”
Like the main gates of the city, the doors of the keep were made of brittle iron, and working together Falken and Beltan wrenched them open far enough to slip through, although Sindar seemed loath to do so. Only after Grace coaxed him did the slender man dart through the gap, careful not to touch the iron gates as he did.
Unfortunately for Vani and her thin southern blood—as well as for the rest of them—it was colder inside the keep. The thick stone walls held in the chill. Despite the cold, a foul scent hung on the air. Grace found herself thinking of her days in medical school, and of the steel cold room next to the Gross Anatomy Lab where cadavers waited before they were infused with formalin to preserve them.
Like the city, the keep was empty. Bits of rotted furniture scattered the floor, and the remnants of tapestries—gray and feathery as cobwebs—hung from above, rippling as the five walked past. They followed a broad passage toward the center of the keep, then came to a pair of large iron doors. The doors were shut.
These were not so corroded—or so easily opened—as the outside gates. Grace and Beltan gripped the iron handle of one door, Falken and Vani took the other, and after some tugging they managed to wrench the doors open with a
boom
. A puff of frosty air rushed out. The sound rolled away through the keep like thunder.
Grace led the way into the vast space beyond. It occurred to her she should have let Vani go first, to make sure the way was clear, but somehow she knew her leading was right. After all, it was her heritage, wasn’t it?
Two rows of columns, carved like trees, marched in twin colonnades, their stone branches weaving high overhead to form the arch of the ceiling. Sunlight shafted through narrow windows, and tiny crystals of ice danced and glittered in the sunbeams, disturbed by the opening of the doors. Frost covered the floor, as thick and feathery as white moss. It crunched to dust under their boots as they entered.
At the far end of the hall, on a dais, was a chair of stone. It was carved in massive proportions, as if the ones who had sat upon it had been giants. But Grace supposed they had been men and women, mortals just like her. Slowly, the five approached the throne. Like everything in the hall, the chair was covered with ice. Several large, jagged crystals rose from its back like the points on a white crown.
Grace looked around, but she saw nothing save for the columns and the throne. “Are you sure the shards would be here, Falken? Couldn’t they be somewhere else in the keep?” Flecks of ice snowed down, jarred loose by the sound of her voice.
“No,” the bard said quietly. “This was the heart of the kingdom. If they were on display for all to see, they would be here.”
However, though they looked all over the hall, they saw no sign of a broken sword. Vani found a bit of corroded iron in the fireplace, but it looked like the tip of an old poker, and Beltan found some hinges from a side door long since rotted away. They brushed patches of frost from the floor and the columns, revealing only stone. Nor were there alcoves or niches where such precious objects as the shards might be displayed.
“Maybe they’re in a secret room,” Beltan said.
Falken let out a cloudy breath. “That would hardly qualify as ‘plain for all the people to see.’ ”
“Might the shards have rusted away?” Vani said, weighing the scrap of iron in her hands.
“No,” Falken said. “Even broken, there is deep magic in Fellring, imparted to it by the blood of the three fairies who threw themselves upon it.”
Sindar turned around and stared at the bard. “What did you just say?”
The bard cocked his head. “Do you know the story of Fellring?”
Sindar shook his head, and briefly Falken related the tale Grace had heard before: how a thousand years ago King Ulther had stood alone before the Rune Gate, waiting for the Pale King to ride forth and strike him down. Then three fairies had drifted toward him across the field where his army lay scattered. The radiant beings had thrown themselves upon Fellring, and their blood had entered the sword, enchanting it. Thus, when Ulther smote the Pale King, the sword pierced his breast and clove his iron heart in two, defeating him—if not quite slaying him. At the same time, the sword shattered. Ulther fell to his knees, and the Pale King’s Necromancers drew near. However, at that moment the armies of Tarras, led by the Empress Elsara, entered Shadowsdeep. The forces of the Pale King, quailing at the sight of their fallen master, fell before them. Most of the Necromancers were slain, and a few fled back to Imbrifale with their fallen master. And Elsara came to Ulther, recovering both the king and his broken sword.
As Falken finished, a visible shudder ran through Sindar. He passed a hand before his eyes.
“What is it?” Grace said, touching his shoulder.
“I don’t know. Nothing.” He lowered his hand and met her eyes. “The bard’s tale sounds familiar somehow, that’s all.”
“Maybe you’ve heard the story before,” she said. “Maybe you’re remembering it.”
“Maybe.”
Vani rested her hands on her hips. “What do we do now?”
“I say we search the keep,” Beltan said.
The assassin and the knight started to discuss plans with Falken, while Sindar seemed lost in his thoughts. Grace was too cold to just stand there; she had to keep moving. Without thinking about it, she approached the throne. She started to take a step up the dais, then hesitated.
And why shouldn’t you ascend, Grace? If Falken’s right,
then you’re the only person in the world who can claim to be
descended from Ulther. That means you’re the Queen of
Toringarth as well as Malachor.
Marvelous. Chalk up two dead kingdoms under her name. Careful not to slip, she walked up the steps. Perhaps having a different view of the hall would help give her an idea of where the shards might be.
The hope was futile. The hall looked no different from atop the dais. Falken, Vani, and Beltan were still talking in low voices. Sindar had wandered off a bit from them, and he gazed down at his clasped hands. Grace sighed and turned her attention to the throne.
She considered trying out the massive chair, but it was covered with frost, which would make sitting in it a chilly proposition. The white crystals that fanned out from the back of the chair were particularly large. Curious, she reached out to touch one.
A small cry escaped her. Red oozed from her fingertip. She snatched off her glove. The gash was clean and deep, as if made by the sharpest scalpel.
“Are you all right, Grace?” someone said. Beltan maybe. Grace hardly heard him. Instead, she frowned, staring at her bleeding digit, forgetting her pain.
Maybe it was a scientific hunch, or maybe it was the Weirding that told her something was other than it appeared. Regardless, Grace leaned forward and breathed on the crystal that had cut her.
The frost melted under her warm breath, beading up on a smooth surface engraved with angular symbols. She blinked, and for a brief moment—before the water turned to frost once again—she saw her own startled eyes reflected in polished steel.
Despite the cold, a warmth filled her. She grabbed the corner of her cloak and rubbed at one of the crystals, and another, and another, wiping away the rime of frost. Then she stood back.
They weren’t crystals of ice at all. They were jagged pieces of steel whose ends had been set into the back of the chair. If she were to sit in the chair, they would hover just above her head like a crown, where anyone standing in the hall could see them. Hand trembling, Grace took the steel pendant at her throat, pulled it to the end of its chain, and held it against one of the pieces of metal protruding from the chair.
The rough edges fit perfectly, the angular runes flowing unbroken from one piece to the other. In her mind, she thought she heard a high, singing tone, like that of a tuning fork. She looked up at the crunch of footsteps and saw the others standing at the foot of the dais. Tears rolled from Falken’s bright eyes, freezing on his cheeks, only somehow the bard was smiling.
“You found Fellring, Grace.”
50.
Grace removed the shards from the back of the throne. They came free easily, with just a tug, as if they had been fitted loosely into the stone, although she was certain that wasn’t the case. It was just as Falken said: The shards knew her blood. They hummed beneath her touch, until she could hear a dozen tones in her mind. But the chord was dissonant, meaningless; the voice of the sword had been broken long ago.
As Grace freed the shards, she arranged them on the seat of the throne like the pieces of a puzzle, using the runes engraved along the flat as a guide. Each piece fit against the next with an audible
snick
, and it seemed the shards gripped one another as if they were magnetized. Grace could pick up two pieces, and they would not come apart on their own, although she could pull them loose with some effort.
When Grace finished, the sword was complete. The last gap was filled when she removed her necklace, freed the pendant from the wire that fastened it to the chain, and fitted the final piece in place. The sword was surprisingly delicate. Its flat was about the width of two of her fingers, tapering to a slender point at the end. It was hard to believe this was the weapon Ulther had used to defeat the Pale King. All the same, even broken, there was a deadly beauty to it.
Attached to one of the end pieces was a steel hilt, but the wood and leather that had formed the grip had rotted away centuries before, so Grace wrapped a handkerchief around the hilt instead. She picked up the sword. Despite the cracks that marred its surface, the blade remained in one piece. She moved it back and forth gently; yes, the sword would hold together if she were careful with it. However, one good blow, and she knew the blade would fly apart. Whatever magic held the shards to one another, it was not enough to repair the blade all on its own.
Grace turned around, holding the sword, and looked at Falken. “Now what?”
The bard ascended the steps of the dais, his blue eyes brighter than Grace had ever seen them. “We have to find a way to reforge the blade.”
“I don’t think we’re going to find any smiths around here,” Beltan said. “Not that I’d mind standing next to a forge full of hot coals right now.” He rubbed his mustache, trying to remove some of the icicles.
“No,” Falken said, studying the sword, but careful not to touch it. “Fellring was forged by the art of dwarfs and imbued with the blood of fairies. No mundane smith will be able to rework this blade. He might join the pieces, but he could never make its magic whole.”
“If the blade cannot be repaired,” Vani said, hands on hips, “why did we journey all this way to retrieve it?”
Falken opened his mouth, but Sindar—who had been quiet all this time, hunched inside his cloak—interrupted. “We need to get back to the ship.”
Grace lowered the sword. “What is it?”
The silver-haired man shook his head. “I heard...I’m not sure.” He clasped and unclasped his hands. “I simply think we should be getting back, that’s all.”
“There’s nothing more for us here,” Falken said. “It’ll be warmer on the ship, and we can decide what to do from there.”
Grace tore a shred from one of the rotten tapestries and wrapped it around the sword. Beltan offered to carry the blade, but Falken shook his head, and Grace knew the bard was right. Fellring
wanted
her to carry it. Besides, the sword was shockingly light. She carried it easily, using both hands, as they left the hall.
“Please,” Sindar said. “We have to hurry.”
Grace squinted against white light as they stepped out of the keep. She had thought it would still be morning—everything seemed frozen in this city, even time itself—but the pale eye of the sun stared down from the zenith. Hours had passed since they had left the ship.
Speaking of the ship, where was it? From the top of the steps outside the keep they had a clear view of the fjord, but the bay was empty; even the gulls seemed to have fled.
You
can’t see the pier from up here, that’s all, Grace. It’s too close
to the city.
There was no time to keep looking; Sindar was already moving down the steps of the keep. The others hastened after him. They made their way through Ur-Torin, not speaking or pausing, concentrating on keeping up with Sindar’s long strides. As they turned onto the avenue that led to the city gate, a harsh call rang out. Grace looked up. At first it was only a silhouette against the sky, perched atop a slate roof. Then it spread dark wings and opened its beak to let out another raucous call. Black eyes bored into Grace. The raven launched itself upward and winged away over the city.
“I don’t like this,” Falken said. “I think Sindar’s right. We should hurry.”
“I saw nothing guarding the gates,” Vani said, stepping from a rippling patch of air, and only at that moment did Grace realize the assassin had been gone at all.
Beltan gripped his sword. “Let’s go, then.”
Sindar was walking through the gates. Grace adjusted her hold on Fellring as they hastened after him. The stone arch slipped past, then they were beyond the walls. Grace caught sight of Sindar just ahead. He was no longer moving, and instead stood at the point where the road began to slope down to the edge of the bay.
They reached him, and Grace could finally see the pier jutting out from the rocky shore not far below. A ship was moored against the pier, just as she had expected. Only the vessel wasn’t small and white. Instead it was massive, its hull fashioned of wood dark like iron, its deck surmounted by three masts bearing crimson sails. On the mainsail was a symbol: a black crown encircling a silver tower. There was no sign of the white ship anywhere.
Bitter air filled Grace’s chest, freezing her heart. “No,” she whispered, cradling Fellring in her arms. “Not after we’ve come all this way.”
Falken let out an oath in a flowing tongue. Dully, Grace supposed it was ancient Malachorian, but the magic of the half-coin allowed her to understand.
May the Light protect us.
Vani circled around, hands ready, gold eyes searching.
“Get back into the city,” Beltan growled. “Now! We have to find a place we can hold against them.”
Sindar shook his head. “No. We’re already too late.”
Beltan glared at Sindar. The blond man started to reach for Grace, to grab her arm and pull her toward the gate. Then a deep voice spoke a word.
“Reth.”
Like a mirror struck by a stone, the air in front of them shattered. Fragments of sky, water, and stone flew in all directions, then vanished, revealing a new vista in their place. Grace could still see the shore, the bay, and the dark ship. But now she could see the man who stood not a dozen feet before them, as well as the men in black armor arranged in precise rows on the pier. There were at least a hundred of them.
The man took a step toward them. He was clad like the knights below, although his armor was more ornate than theirs. Spikes curved upward from his shoulders, and twin horns crested his black helm. A cloak fluttered behind him, like a shadow the wind was trying in vain to tear free. On his breastplate were emblazoned five silver crowns.
With a roar, Beltan drew his sword and lunged forward. However, the black knight was ready. He twitched a finger and spoke another word.
“Hadeth.”
Grace saw the frost crystals snake their way up Beltan’s sword a heartbeat before the blade contacted the dark knight’s breastplate. The sword shattered like a rose dipped in liquid nitrogen, and she clamped her eyes shut against the spray of metal splinters. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Vani stepping from thin air next to the knight.
“Gelth,”
his voice echoed from inside the visor.
This time it was ice, not frost. The substance seemed to condense out of empty air, encapsulating Vani’s boots like a thick sheath of crystal, climbing her legs up to her knees. A cry escaped the
T’gol
. She struggled, but the ice held her fast. The knight stepped to the side, moving out of her reach. Snarling, she reached inside her leather jacket, then flicked her wrist. Three metal triangles sped toward the knight.
“Dur,”
he said, and the triangles stopped in midair, turned, then hissed back toward Vani. The assassin was pinned in place by the ice; she couldn’t leap away. Instead she bent over, ducking to avoid the three projectiles—which Grace was certain were poisoned.
Beltan bared his teeth, ready to launch himself bodily at the dark knight, but Falken grabbed the blond man’s arm.
“Hold, Beltan. I don’t know how he’s doing it—from everything we’ve learned, I believed the Onyx Knights despised magic—but he’s speaking runes. And he’s doing it better than anyone I’ve ever heard in my life, even Travis Wilder. He’ll strike you down before you can so much as touch him.”
Beltan’s body was rigid, but he didn’t shake off Falken’s grip. “He’ll kill us anyway.”
Falken shook his head. “I imagine he has some plan for us, or we’d already be dead. All it would take to kill us is a single word.”
Laughter emanated from inside the black helm. “Well-spoken, Falken of Malachor. Then again, you of all people know how deadly mere words can be.”
Sindar still wasn’t moving. He seemed to stare at the sea rather than the black knight. Grace was shivering; she couldn’t stop. She wanted to move to Vani, to help her. The
T’gol
’s face was ashen with pain. How long would it be until frostbite set in, until the sheath of magical ice caused irreparable damage to her feet, her legs? But all Grace could do was gaze at the black knight, and whisper, “Who are you?”
“I know who he is,” Beltan spat. “Look at his armor—five crowns. I know a war general when I see one, and I’d bet my sword this is Gorandon himself, the man who leads this bastard order of knights.” He glared at the armored figure. “Aren’t you?”
The other gave a curt nod. “I believe it’s you who is the bastard, Sir Beltan. But otherwise you’re correct. Which is fortunate for you, as you have no sword with which to settle the wager had you lost. Gorandon is the name my people call me. Then again, I believe Falken would know me by another name.”
The bard’s face was red with cold and anger. “What are you talking about? I don’t know you.”
“Really, Falken? Has your memory failed you after so many centuries? Or did Dakarreth’s spell simply addle your already deluded brain? Let me remind you, then.” The knight reached up, gripped his helm, and lifted it from his head.
He was older than Grace would have guessed from his powerful voice; his white hair fluttered in the wind, and his face was deeply creased. All the same, he was handsome, and obviously still hale; the width of his shoulders was due not just to his armor. Above a hawklike nose, his eyes were the color of ice at dusk. His expression was not stern, but rather mocking, intelligent. Cruel.
More shocking than the man’s age was Falken’s reaction. The bard pressed his silver hand to his chest and staggered. His face was white as frost.
“It can’t be,” Falken whispered, and the man in black armor smiled, a wolfish expression not unlike the bard’s own grin. In fact, given their similar looks, the man might have been Falken’s uncle or cousin. Except Falken was over seven hundred years old; his family had all turned to dust long ago. “Kelephon,” the bard murmured.
“So, you remember me after all,” the dark knight said.
Falken opened his mouth, but words—always his power and his pride—seemed to have fled him.
Beltan shot a hard look at the bard. “Kelephon? I don’t know that name.”
Grace did. She remembered the story Falken had told them once, of the trio of runelords who had fled the destruction of Malachor with the three Imsari, the Great Stones. Jakabar took the Stone of Twilight and fled across the void between worlds to Earth, where he became Travis’s friend Jack Graystone. Mindroth followed centuries later, after the Necromancer Dakarreth stole the Stone of Fire from him. But the third runelord, the one who took the Stone of Ice, vanished. No one knew what became of him. And his name was—
“Kelephon,” Grace said. “You’re the last of the three runelords who escaped the fall of Malachor with the Great Stones.”
The man bowed to her. “You know your history well, Your Majesty. But I suppose that’s only natural.” He eyed the sword in her hand. The shred of cloth had slipped from the blade, and to Grace it seemed—just for a moment—that a light flickered in his eyes. A light like fear.
“So that’s the legendary Fellring,” he sneered. “I must say, it doesn’t look like much.”
Despite his scoffing tone, Grace noticed Kelephon made no effort to take the sword from her. It was utterly foolish—it was clear this man had the power to destroy them with a word—but the scientist in her couldn’t resist an experiment. She moved the point of the sword a few inches closer to Kelephon. He took an unconscious step back, then shot her a withering look, as if realizing what she was doing.
Falken was crumpled over, like someone had punched him in the stomach. “I don’t understand, Kelephon. I thought you were lost. I know the Pale King has Gelthisar, the Stone of Ice, that he’s had it for centuries. But how did you survive his wresting the Stone away from you? What have you been doing all these years? And why are you dressed as the leader of these knights?”
“He
is
their leader, Falken,” Beltan said, gripping Falken’s shoulders, supporting the bard. “And the reason he’s still alive is because he gave the Stone of Ice to the Pale King in exchange for his life. Make that his immortal life. There’s no other answer—even I can see that.”
Grace knew Beltan was right. Kelephon had fled with Gelthisar after the fall of Malachor, and not long after that the Stone came into the Pale King’s possession. Now, seven centuries later, here was the runelord, alive and well before them.
But is he really alive, Grace?
She hesitated, then reached out with the Touch, probing for his life thread. There—it was hot and bright as a thread of tungsten in a lightbulb. There was no dark lump of metal in his chest, but rather a warm, beating heart. He was alive, just like Falken was.
Maybe he didn’t give the Stone of Ice directly to the Pale
King, Grace. Maybe he gave it to Dakarreth. After all, the
Necromancer cursed Falken with immortality so Falken could
always remember how he helped destroy Malachor. Dakarreth
could have worked the same magic on Kelephon as a reward in
exchange for the Stone. And then the Necromancer could have
presented the Stone to the Pale King.