“Are you all right, Deirdre?” Anders asked, his voice husky. As always, he pronounced her name
DEER-dree
, but she no longer found it quite so annoying as she used to.
She did her best to smile. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
“You said there was writing on the keystone,” Travis said, his gray eyes curious. “Were you ever able to read it?”
Deirdre nodded. “My mysterious helper gave me a photograph of a clay tablet that bore the inscription on the keystone, as well as the same passage written in Linear A. Back then, I wondered at the connection, but now it’s fairly obvious.”
“To you, maybe,” Beltan said with a grunt.
She grinned at the blond man. “Linear A is the writing system used by the Minoan civilization on ancient Crete.”
Vani’s expression was guarded. “So what does the inscription on the keystone say?”
“It says, ‘Forget not the Sleeping Ones. In their blood lies the key.”
“The key,” Travis murmured, looking at Nim. However, whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.
There was one last thing she had to tell them. Deirdre took off the silver ring Glinda had given her and showed them how the same inscription as on the keystone was written inside it. However, there was one thing she did not tell them, and it was the one secret she had allowed herself to keep even from Anders: how, in the moment they had kissed, Deirdre had loved Glinda with all her being.
“ ‘The Sleeping Ones,’ ” Beltan said, scratching the tuft of blond hair on his chin. “That doesn’t really sound familiar. What does it mean?”
No one, not even Vani, offered an answer.
Deirdre slipped the ring back on her finger. “The inscription talks about blood, and traces of blood were found on the keystone—blood with DNA similar to Glinda’s. Whoever they were, these Sleeping Ones were important to the folk at Surrender Dorothy for some reason.” Though why that was, they would never know, thanks to Duratek.
“This all seems a small complication,” Vani said, standing and stalking around the table. “True, the gate will not be complete without this keystone. However, it could be in a vault in this very building. Cannot this Philosopher ally of yours deliver the keystone to us?”
Deirdre opened her mouth, not certain how she was going to answer that. Would the unknown Philosopher really respond to a direct request for help? Before she could speak, there was a knock at the door, and the butler entered. On the silver tray he carried was not another pot of coffee but a manila envelope.
“A message just arrived for you, Miss Falling Hawk,” he said, holding the tray toward Deirdre.
She stared at the envelope. “Who’s it from?”
“I have no idea, miss.” The butler looked slightly ruffled, as if she were accusing him of snooping.
She took the envelope off the tray. “Thank you, Lewis.”
The butler retreated from the parlor; the door shut.
“It’s from him, isn’t it?” Travis said. “Your Philosopher friend.”
Anders thumped the table. “Well, that was right on cue. He’s an eerie fellow, but you can’t fault his timing, now can you?”
Deirdre was beyond words. She forced her trembling fingers to open the envelope. Inside was a folded up sheet of newsprint. Trying not to tear it, she unfolded the sheet and spread it on the table. It was a page taken from the
Times
—the coming day’s edition, according to the date. It must have come right off the presses.
They all leaned over the page. At the top was a large article about Variance X, the growing stellar anomaly that astronomers had observed beyond the boundaries of the solar system. However, the article didn’t hold Deirdre’s attention. Nor did the headlines about devastating typhoons in India, or the jittery United States stock markets. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the small headline at the bottom of the page: DARING ARCHAEOLOGICAL THEFT ON CRETE.
Numb, she scanned the article. It described how a stone archway was stolen mere hours after it had been revealed live on the program
Archaeology Now!
There was no clue as to the perpetrators, but one worker at the site reported seeing men dressed in black and wearing masks.
Gold masks.
Vani looked up, her own face becoming a mask: one of fury. “Sacred Mahonadra, they have taken it!”
Beltan and Travis exchanged a grave look, and Deirdre understood what it meant. Somehow, the Scirathi had taken the gate, and without it there was no way to open a doorway to Eldh. But the gate wouldn’t do the Scirathi any good either, not without—
A sound like the crackle of electricity permeated the air, along with the metallic scent of ozone. Deirdre turned, and her heart became stone. On the other side of the parlor, a circle of darkness hung in midair, rimmed by blue fire. Nim was no longer on the sofa. Instead the girl padded across the carpet on bare feet, approaching the mouth of the portal.
Vani sprang forward. “Nim, get away from that!”
Fast as she was, Beltan was ahead of her, leaping over the back of the sofa. Travis scrambled after them.
Nim stopped before the dark circle and gazed into it. After a moment she nodded, the way a child might when obeying an adult’s instructions. She held her chubby arms out.
“No!” Beltan shouted.
A pair of black-gloved hands reached out of the circle of blue sparks, snatching up Nim. The girl screamed.
“Mother!” she cried, twisting in the gloved hands that gripped her, looking back, her eyes large with fear.
Beltan dived forward, lunging for the girl. His arms closed around empty air, and he crashed against an end table. The hands pulled Nim into the blazing iris of the portal, and both they and the girl vanished. At once the gate began to shrink in on itself, a blue eye winking shut.
Travis thrust a hand into the rapidly dwindling circle. Azure magic crackled around his wrist, biting his hand like a hungry maw.
“You must not let the gate close,” Vani said, her voice hard as steel. “There is no other way we can follow her.”
Travis nodded, his face lined with pain. However, the blue circle constricted more tightly about his wrist. Beltan lay on the floor. He wasn’t moving.
“Anders, help me,” Deirdre said as she knelt beside the blond man. Anders helped her roll him over. He was breathing, but his eyes were shut, and there was a bruise forming on his forehead. Anders helped her haul his limp body onto the sofa.
“Vani,” Travis gritted between clenched teeth. “My bandage. Take it off. I think it was my blood they used to open this gate. They must have gotten it from the stomach of the dead
gorleth
.”
Her eyes blazed. “What fools we are! We should have known they would do this.”
Travis flinched as she jerked the bandage off his wound. Blood began to ooze forth.
“More,” he said.
She dug her fingers into the wound, and a moan escaped him. Blood flowed freely from the
gorleth’s
bite marks, running down his arm. When it reached his wrist, the circle of blue sparks flared, then began to expand outward. Travis stuck his other hand into the opening, gripping its blazing edges, straining as he forced it wider. More blood flowed down his arm, and it vanished as it reached his wrist. The gate was consuming it.
Travis staggered. His face was white, and alarm coursed through Deirdre.
He’s lost too much blood. He’s going to pass
out.
“Do not stop!” Vani said, her voice a cruel slap.
Again Travis strained. The gate expanded a fraction; it was as wide as his shoulders now.
“Hello there, mate,” Anders said as Beltan drew in a shuddering breath and sat up on the sofa.
“What’s going—?” The blond man’s eyes went wide. “Travis!”
Travis cast a look of pain, sorrow, and love over his shoulder, his eyes locking on Beltan’s.
“Now, Vani. Help me.”
In a single motion, the
T’gol
gripped his shoulders and pushed him forward, into the mouth of the gate. However, she did not loosen her grasp on him, and his momentum carried her forward as she dived into the circle after him. Travis’s feet vanished, then Vani’s, as the ring of azure magic rapidly contracted.
“No!” Beltan shouted, pushing himself free of Deirdre and Anders, throwing himself forward. However, before he could reach it, the blue circle collapsed into a single point, then disappeared.
The gate had closed.
PART TWO
MASKS
15.
“So, dear,” Melia said, regarding Grace over the rim of a steaming cup of
maddok
, “I hear you had a chat with a dragon.”
The amber-eyed lady sat beside the window in the chamber she and Falken shared. The chamber was small, but it was the sunniest in the keep, and that was why Melia had chosen it over grander rooms. She had been born long ago in a land far warmer than this, and her bronze skin seemed to absorb the morning light that streamed through the window.
Daylight had diminished Grace’s dread a fraction—the rift was invisible against the flawless blue sky—and she gave Melia a crooked smile. “News travels fast.”
“No, dragons travel fast,” Falken said, his hair disheveled from sleep. He poured a cup of
maddok
and handed it to her.
Grace sighed as she breathed in the rich, slightly bitter aroma, then sat in a chair opposite Melia while Falken perched on the windowsill.
“You’re blocking my sunshine, dear one,” Melia said in the kind of pleasant tone that demanded immediate attention.
“I thought I was your sunshine,” Falken said dryly, though he hastily hopped off the windowsill and retired to another chair.
A black cat sprawled on the carpet, licking a paw as it regarded Grace with moon-gold eyes. It had finally outgrown its seemingly eternal kittenhood over two years ago. Grace should have realized then that Melia was no longer immortal.
“So what did the dragon speak to you about?” Melia said, her amber eyes as curious as the cat’s.
Grace gripped the hot cup. “Nothing.”
A frown shadowed the lady’s brow. “If you’d rather not tell us, that’s your prerogative, but please don’t speak a falsehood, Ralena. Sfithrisir is not one for idle conversation. I doubt the dragon flew all the way here from the Fal Erenn simply to tell you about nothing.”
“But that’s it,” Grace said, struggling to find a place she could begin. “That’s exactly what the problem is. It’s nothing at all.”
Falken raised an eyebrow, glancing at Melia. “I think the dragon addled her wits.”
“They’ve been known to have that effect,” the lady agreed.
Grace set down her cup and stood. “It’s the rift in the sky,” she said, shaking with frustration and fear. “It’s growing. It’s going to annihilate this world, and Earth, and any other world that lies close to them, and when it’s done, there won’t be anything left. There’ll be nothing. Nothing at all.”
Melia and Falken were no longer smiling. As precisely as she could, Grace recounted her conversation with Sfithrisir. When she was done, both the bard and the lady stared, their faces ashen.
“This cannot be true,” Melia said, shivering. The sun had gone behind a cloud. “Things cannot simply . . . cease to be.”
Grace looked at Falken. “You’re the one who told me dragons can only speak the truth.”
“That’s so,” Falken said, doubt in his faded blue eyes. “But you have to be wary of what a dragon says. They speak the truth, but they also twist that truth to their own ends.”
Grace thought about this, then shook her head. “He was afraid, Falken. I know that seems impossible, that a creature that existed before the world was even created could feel fear, but he did, I’m sure of it. Whatever the rift really is, Sfithrisir is terrified of it, and he can’t stop it.”
“And you believe Travis can?” Melia said.
“I have to.”
Falken rose from his chair. “What will you do, Ralena?”
She gripped the bard’s hand. “I am making you regents of Malachor, you and Melia both. I want you to keep things running. It won’t be hard—Sir Tarus pretty much does everything. All you have to do is put my stamp on things once in a while.”
Sorrow shone in Falken’s faded blue eyes. “So you’re leaving us.”
She nodded, unable to speak for the tightness in her throat.
Melia stood, her blue gown fluttering as she drew close. Tears streamed from her amber eyes, but she smiled. “Do tell Travis hello for us when you find him, dear.”
Then Grace was weeping, too, as she hugged them both.
Preparations for her departure began at once. Horses were readied, supplies packed, and a proclamation granting regent power to Falken and Melia penned, though Sir Tarus handled the majority of this, and mostly what Grace did was tell people they couldn’t come with her.
Aldeth and Samatha were the first, though the two Spiders were squabbling so intently over which of them should be the one to go south with Grace that they hardly heard her say that both of them were staying there, and she finally had to shout.
“But you’ll need a spy with you, Your Majesty,” Aldeth said, looking as if he had been slapped.
“The idea is to find Travis, not hide from him. Besides, Malachor needs you both. I won’t be able to focus on my task if I have to worry about what’s going on here.” Grace lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll sleep much better if I know you two are keeping an eye on . . . well, I dare not say, but you know exactly who I mean.”
By the look in their eyes, they didn’t have the foggiest idea who she meant, which was precisely Grace’s intention. Trying to figure out who she was referring to ought to keep them occupied while she was gone. Although, as the two Spiders vanished, she supposed she had just doomed everyone in the keep to weeks of constant spying.
Master Graedin came next, then King Kel, and even the witch Lursa. Grace thanked them but told each that they could not come on the journey, that this was something she had to do alone. She was taking a small retinue of knights with her for security on the road, but that was all. Both Graedin and Lursa were disappointed but wished her well, and while Grace feared King Kel would maul her after she refused his offer of company, instead he caught her in a bear hug.
“My little Queenie is all grown-up now.” He released her, then sniffed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Go on, then, fly from the nest. Have your adventure out in the world. But don’t you forget me, lass.”
Grace winced, probing her aching ribs. “I honestly don’t think that’s possible, Your Majesty.”
By late morning everything was ready for her departure, and the good thing about having to tell everyone they couldn’t come with her was that she had already taken care of all her good-byes. Or make that almost all, for there was one person who hadn’t come to her. She found him in the highest chamber of his tower, his face close to the runestone; both face and stone were covered with a webwork of thin lines.
“Your Majesty,” Master Larad said, looking up. “Forgive me—I did not see you there.”
She approached the runestone. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
“I found another piece sundered from it this morning.”
So the power of magic was continuing to deteriorate. “I think maybe I know what’s happening,” Grace said. “What’s affecting magic.”
“You mean the rift in the heavens.”
She stared at him. “You know about it?”
It almost seemed a smile touched his lips. “You were not the only one looking at the sky last night, Your Majesty.”
“I suppose this means,” she said, moderately perturbed, “that you’re not going to be at all surprised when I tell you I spoke to a dragon?”
He shook his head.
Giving up all hope of ever astonishing Master Larad, Grace told him everything Sfithrisir had said, and what she had decided to do. When she was done, his scarred face was expressionless. However, a light shone in his eyes, though it seemed more curious than alarmed.
“I am not certain how this knowledge helps me, Your Majesty. However, it cannot be chance that the rift has appeared just as the power of magic is faltering. I will focus my studies on it.”
She touched his arm. “If anyone can find a way to keep magic from getting any weaker, it’s you, Master Larad.”
He pulled away. “Dragons cannot lie, Your Majesty. You must find Travis Wilder. Is it not time for you to depart?”
She moved to a narrow window. From there she could see the keep, blue banners bearing the white star of Malachor snapping above. “Yes,” she murmured. “It
is
time.”
“You sound as if you’ve decided something, Your Majesty.”
Grace hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but she longed to tell someone what she had been thinking. She looked down at the people moving in the bailey below. They were her subjects, yet at that moment she felt so distant from them. They were like patients who had been discharged from Denver Memorial Hospital; they didn’t need her anymore.
“Melia and Falken will be good regents,” she said, “but in time I think the people of Malachor should elect a leader.”
“Elect?” Larad said, a note of scorn in his voice. “You mean let the people choose who their ruler will be?”
“Yes.” She turned to face him.
His eyes narrowed. “And whom do you think they would choose?”
“You, perhaps.”
Almost never had she seen Larad laugh, but he did now, a sound at once ironic and genuinely mirthful. “I think not, Your Majesty. Yours is a keen mind, but I think in this matter reason has eluded you. I have heard what you speak of before—the absurd notion that common people are capable of choosing their own ruler wisely.”
“It isn’t absurd,” Grace said, a little angry now. “People
can
make wise choices for themselves, if they’re given the chance.”
“Perhaps,” Larad said, though he did not sound convinced. “But even if the people of Malachor did choose their leader, whom do you think they would select? A man who spends all day studying runes in a tower? The people do not follow you because they have to, Your Majesty, but because they wish to. They have already made their choice. There is no need for them to elect a—”
The Runelord staggered back, gripping the window ledge for support. “You’re not coming back. You’re leaving, and you don’t intend to return to Malachor, do you?”
So he had seen the truth—the truth which, like a dragon, she had concealed in a fog even from herself. She crossed her arms over her chest, her heart beating with anguish. Or was it excitement?
“I don’t know if I’ll come back, Larad,” she said softly. “I honestly don’t know.”
He said nothing. She had finally managed to astonish Larad, but already his shock was gone, or at least concealed, and his eyes were hard and unreadable once again.
“Farewell then, Your Majesty,” he said.
Grace found she had no words to reply. She nodded, then descended the stairs, leaving the tower of the Runelords.
A short while later she mounted Shandis beside the gates of the keep. Four stern-faced knights sat ready on their chargers. There was no wagon for supplies, only a packhorse that carried the absolute minimum, for Grace intended to ride fast. She arranged her riding gown over the saddle, then sighed. Now came the hardest good-bye of all.
“No, Sir Tarus,” she said as the red-haired knight placed his foot in a stirrup, ready to mount his charger.
He turned around. “Your Majesty?”
She could not bring herself to speak the words, but by his stricken look he understood her. He drew close, clutching the hem of her gown, and shook his head.
“No, Your Majesty.” His voice was ragged with despair. “Please do not do this thing to me. Do not command me to stay.”
She had to keep her voice hard, or she would not be able to speak at all. “You must, Sir Tarus. Melia and Falken cannot run this kingdom without your help.”
His face grew red, but from grief this time, not frustration. “I am your seneschal. I serve you, Your Majesty.”
“And so you must do what I bid,” she said, hating how cruel the words sounded.
“Have I served you so ill, then, that you must leave me behind?” He was weeping now, and Grace nearly lost her resolve, for in that moment she finally understood why he had been so stern these last three years, so grim and determined.
He had been trying to be Durge.
“No, Tarus,” she said, on the verge of weeping herself. “You have served me better than any other. And that’s why I must ask you to do this. For me. And for Malachor.”
“But I have every reason to go with you.”
She thought of the young Runelord Alfin, and despite her sorrow she smiled. “I believe you have a better reason to stay, Sir Tarus.”
She bent over and kissed the top of his head. Then she urged Shandis toward the gates, the four knights behind her, and without fanfare or further farewells, Grace, Queen of Malachor, left her kingdom.