The Keep of Fire, page 29
“But how can I help you against the krondrim?”
“Who else can help us, if not you, Master Wilder?” Oragien said. “Are you not the heir to the runelord Jakabar?”
The whisperings in the tower rose to a rushing noise that filled Travis’s skull. “Jack? Do you mean Jack Graystone?”
“Yes, Master Wilder. Jakabar of the Gray Stone was a runelord.” Oragien lifted his staff and pointed it directly at Travis’s chest. “And so are you.”
43.
“What did you want to tell me, Grace?” Beltan said, a solemn note entering his usually bright tenor.
Grace glanced over her shoulder. She and Durge had drawn Beltan aside, leaving the others in the circle of stumps around the fire pit. Daynen asked questions Grace could not hear and which Lirith was evidently trying to answer, while Tira squatted on the ground, playing in the dirt with her burnt doll as Aryn watched. Meridar stood apart from them, hand on the hilt of his sword, his homely face hard—all except for his eyes, which were soft as they gazed upon the young baroness. Grace sighed and turned back to the two men.
“Beltan, there’s nothing I want more than for you to come with us. I think—no, I know we can use your help. And I’ve missed you. We’ve missed you. But”—she gestured to the tree forts all around—“are you sure you can leave?”
The knight’s yellow mustache curved down around his mouth. “What do you mean?”
Durge cleared his throat. “I believe, Sir Beltan, that Lady Grace is concerned your orders will not permit you to part from your troop.”
Beltan stared at them, then grinned. “Well, then there’s nothing to worry about. I get to make my own orders. That was part of my bargain with Sir Vedarr when I joined the Order of Malachor.”
“Sounds convenient,” Grace said.
“It is.” Beltan met her eyes, and his grin faded. “But I haven’t forgotten my duty, Grace. I was charged with the task of finding the source of the fires. And now we know that means the Burnt Ones. So it’s only right that I go with you.”
A frown chiseled furrows even deeper into Durge’s brow. “How is that so?”
Grace looked at Beltan—like Durge, she failed to see the logic of his conclusion.
The blond man scratched his chin. “So you mean you don’t think there’s a connection between Travis’s coming and theirs? The krondrim, I mean.”
Grace’s mouth dropped open, but she could find no words to speak. How could she have not seen it before? Everything had been right there in her dreams about Travis: the firedrake, the red star, the flames. And, once, the perfect black eyes with which he had gazed at her. But the dreams had ceased after her vision of Travis at the Gray Tower, and in her urgency to get to him she had forgotten them. Now all the images rushed back to her, and she found herself shaking.
Two sets of strong, callused hands reached out to steady her.
Grace managed a weak laugh. “Well, a girl knows she’s in a bad spot when she needs two knights in shining armor just to prop her up.”
Durge raised an eyebrow. “My lady?”
She shook her head, then waved a hand, indicating she could stand on her own. And indeed, when the knights released her shoulders, she did not fall face first to the ground.
Beltan’s eyes were still concerned. “Are you all right, Grace?”
Odd for someone to be asking the doctor that question. However, she gulped in air and gave a nod. “You just caught me by surprise, Beltan, that’s all. I hadn’t thought about the … the connection between Travis and the Burnt Ones. I don’t think Durge had either.”
The Embarran shook his head.
Beltan shrugged broad, rangy shoulders. “Sorry. I thought if I could see it then it had to be pretty obvious. I usually expect you and Durge to have everything all figured out ahead of time.”
Grace’s lips turned up in a sharp smile. “I wouldn’t expect too much, if I were you.”
They returned to the others then, and informed them that Beltan would indeed be joining them on their journey to the Gray Tower. At this news, Aryn’s face lit up.
“Oh, Beltan!” she cried, and in that moment she seemed more like a girl just on the edge of adulthood than a young woman experimenting with newfound power. She rushed to the big knight and threw herself into his arms.
Beltan’s smile twisted into a grimace, and a grunt of pain escaped his lips. A troubled look replaced the joy on Aryn’s face as she stepped back. The knight pressed a hand to his side, his visage pale.
Lirith moved forward and laid a brown hand on the sleeve of Beltan’s green tunic. “Are you well, Sir Knight?”
Grace answered before he could. “It’s the wound. The one you received on Midwinter’s Eve. It’s been bothering you, hasn’t it?”
He straightened, and the expression of pain left his face, but Grace could see the tightness along his jaw, and she knew the effort had cost him.
“A little,” he said. “And only every once in a while. But it’s well closed now. So what’s there to worry about?”
Plenty, Grace wanted to say. The wound in his side he had suffered at the claws of the feydrim should have killed him. And it would have, had it not been for the intervention of the fairies. She pressed her lips together and said nothing.
Beltan gave a cheerful laugh. “Besides, what’s a knight without a few battle scars, eh?”
Grace had a feeling these words were for the benefit of Daynen and Tira, whose respective ears and eyes were locked on the big knight. The boy grinned, and even Tira smiled, although the expression was fleeting, and she bent back over her doll.
“I’ve got to talk to Sir Tarus,” Beltan said to Grace and Durge. “Get your things together, then come find me.”
Fifteen minutes later they found Beltan on the other side of the camp, beneath the largest of the tree forts, speaking with the red-haired Sir Tarus. The two knights stood close, shoulders touching, heads bent together. They looked up as the others approached.
Tarus grinned at Lirith. “And was it something I said that is causing your swift departure, my lady?”
“No, good sir.” She rested her chin on a hand. “But tell me, does the need for wearing armor necessarily preclude the ability to bathe frequently?”
The handsome young knight did not back off from the charge. “No, my lady. We simply prefer it like this. It’s all very manly.”
Lirith’s small nose wrinkled. “Indeed.”
Tarus laughed, and Lirith flashed one of her mysterious smiles.
“Sir Tarus,” Beltan said, and at once the red-haired knight snapped around.
“Yes, my lord?”
Beltan held out a piece of rolled vellum sealed with wax. “Here’s the missive I penned for Sir Vedarr. It explains I’m accompanying the duchess of Beckett to Ar-tolor and beyond, and the reason why. See to it that it gets to him.”
“Without fail, my lord.” Tarus’s words were crisp, but there was a softness in his eyes, almost like sorrow. His gaze lingered on Beltan as he took the missive.
Beltan turned with a muffled jingle—he wore a mail shirt beneath his forest-colored cloak now. “Sir Meridar,” he addressed the knight, “weren’t you going to join the Order of Malachor after seeing Lady Grace to Perridon?”
Meridar gave a jerk, as if startled, then nodded. “That was my intention.”
Beltan nodded. “It’s hard to say how long it will be before we can fulfill the king’s orders and take Lady Grace to Castle Spardis. If you’d like, you can join the order now and remain here with Sir Tarus. I will write a missive to Boreas, releasing you from your duty to him.”
Grace started to agree—it seemed a logical suggestion—but Meridar spoke in a stony voice.
“I will not forsake my duty, Sir Knight.”
Beltan took a step back, and Grace stared at Meridar. His plain face was flat and without emotion, but she thought she caught a momentary twitching of his cheek. Before she could be certain, Meridar turned his back and strode to his charger.
Beltan cast a look at Grace. “Is he all right?”
To Grace’s surprise, Aryn answered first, her voice soft. “I’ll go talk to him.”
The baroness followed after the knight. Grace watched her go. Maybe she had underestimated her friend these last days. Or maybe it was just that Aryn was like any young woman of nineteen: a child trying to turn herself into an adult, and trying not to lose herself in the process.
Durge glanced up at fragments of sky through the canopy of the trees. “The day is wearing on.”
“We’d better go then,” Beltan said. He gazed at the red-haired knight. “Good luck, Tarus. I know you’ll be a fine leader for these men. Better than me, I’m sure.”
Crimson flushed the young knight’s cheeks. He saluted with a fist. “Vathris speed you on your journey.”
Beltan nodded.
“And Beltan”—Tarus drew in a deep breath—“I will … that is, we will miss you, my lord.”
Grace studied Sir Tarus, then nodded, making her diagnosis. The signs all had been there: the closeness with which they had stood, the long glances, the way their hands had touched when the missive was exchanged. Whether they had shared a bed or not, she didn’t know, but it was clear the young knight worshiped Beltan. And she supposed Beltan had not been opposed to accepting Tarus’s interest. Tarus was bright and kind, and certainly more than handsome enough.
However, while the smile Beltan cast at Tarus was fond, it was also transitory, and as he turned away his eyes were distant, as if already focused on the gray spire at the end of their journey. He did not see the way Tarus’s shoulders crunched inward, but Grace did. It was always so much easier for the loved than the lover, wasn’t it? She vowed not to forget that, as if she needed another reason to avoid such intimacy.
As they approached the horses, Grace heard the sound of low voices. Aryn spoke to Meridar, her blue eyes intent, and he stood stiffly, half-turned toward her, half-away. However, what they were saying Grace did not hear, and the two broke away from each other as the rest of the traveling party approached.
Meridar mounted his charger. “I will bring up the rear,” he said, and he wheeled the horse around—although not before throwing one last look at Aryn.
They all climbed onto their horses and followed Beltan’s bony roan charger down the trail. At once trees closed in behind them, and the camp of the knights was lost to view.
All afternoon they rode through the woods. As before, Tira sat on Shandis in front of Grace, and Daynen shared Lirith’s horse. The women traveled together, while Durge and Beltan kept a short distance ahead. Meridar was usually out of sight behind them, although from time to time Grace heard the clopping of his warhorse’s hooves.
The hush of the forest should have put Grace at ease—usually she enjoyed the quiet. However, for some reason she couldn’t explain, the silence chafed against her nerves, and she gripped Shandis’s reins in tight-fingered hands. After riding for an hour, Grace thought about bringing Shandis close to Aryn’s horse. She wanted to ask the baroness about what Meridar had said. However, the idea of breaking the silence was too discomforting. Even Daynen, who usually chattered like a squirrel, spoke little, and when he did his piping voice echoed harshly on the air, so that Lirith took to hushing him.
Just as the light was fading from green to gray beneath the trees, the forest ended in an abrupt wall. Grace let out a sigh as they found themselves on the edge of a narrow, sloping plain that ran parallel to the forest. Not two furlongs away was a broad swath of silver reflecting the waning daylight. Grace searched with her eyes, then saw it nearly directly ahead: a series of five symmetrical arches spanning the swift-moving river.
“The air has changed,” Daynen said. “I smell water.”
“You have a good nose,” Lirith said. “It’s the Dimduorn that you smell. We’ve left the forest, and now the River Darkwine is just ahead.”
Durge eyed the failing light. “Should we cross the river on the morrow?”
Beltan shook his head. “No, we’ll want to cross the bridge now. The ground is higher on the other side. It’ll be better for making camp.” His grin flashed in the gloom. “Unless some of you happen to like sleeping in a marsh.”
Marsh lost by consensus, and the travelers rode toward the bridge.
It was hard to say exactly why, but for some reason Grace was relieved when Shandis’s hooves echoed off timeworn stone. For the entire journey east, the Dimduorn had seemed like a barrier between them and Travis. It would be good to finally leave the river behind them. Gathered in a close knot, the riders started across the old Tarrasian bridge.
They were halfway to the other side when Daynen tilted his head back and sniffed the air. “Now I smell smoke.”
Aryn frowned in the twilight. “So do I.”
Grace drew in a lungful of air, then she caught it, faint but acrid. Beltan lifted a hand, and hooves scraped against stone as the party came to a halt on the bridge. Grace stiffened in the saddle. Why are we stopping? she started to say, but the words turned to ash on her tongue.
On the other side of the river, forms moved across the undulating landscape, approaching the bridge. They were shadows in the gloaming, shaped like spindly people, but as dark as the coming night. A parched wind sprang out of nowhere and blew across the bridge, like the air from an oven. Grace heard a stifled scream beside her, followed by a low oath from one of the knights.
A small hand reached up to touch Grace’s cheek. She looked down into Tira’s frightened eyes.
“The Burnt Ones are coming,” Grace whispered.
Tira nodded, looked back down, and cradled her doll.
44.
Silver twilight stretched across the land on either side of the Dimduorn: a thinner and thinner membrane separating day from night.
“How many of them do you see?” Durge said. The Embarran’s grim face shone like a ghost in the gloom.
Beltan nudged his charger forward, peered past the end of the bridge, then shook his head. “It’s hard to say. There might be three, maybe four.”
Grace tried to count the krondrim, but it was impossible to hold them with her eyes. They melted in and out of the gloaming, vanishing only to reappear in a different—and closer—place. Then she caught the red flickers low to the ground, like crimson blossoms unfurling in the dusk. The grass of the plain was igniting under their feet, burning brightly for a moment, then dimming to ash. By the telltale light she was able to guess the number of the dark beings.
“Five,” she said, her voice turned into a croak by the hot wind. “There are five of them.”
Already the Burnt Ones were less than a furlong from the river, lurching forward in a rough semicircle so that there was no clear route past them. Grace guessed they had two minutes, maybe three until the krondrim reached the bridge.
Hooves rang out on stone as Meridar pressed his charger forward. “Sir Beltan, were you and your men not tracking the movements of these creatures? Did you not know they would be in this place?”
Beltan threw his cloak back over his shoulders, and his chain mail gleamed in the pale light. “We had heard reports they were traveling along the river. But I had no idea they had come this far south, or this close to Ar-tolor.”
“What must we do?” Lirith said, her calm voice like a salve to Grace’s sizzling nerves.
Beltan glanced at the witch. “From all the stories I’ve heard, they don’t move fast. And they only burn what’s in their path. If we go back the way we came, we should be able to outride them easily enough.”
A cold needle injected panic into Grace’s chest. “But that means not crossing the bridge. Is there another way over the river?”
He met her eyes, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Grace.”
She nodded. There was no other choice; if there were, Beltan would have offered it. How they would cross the Darkwine now and get to Travis before the full moon, Grace didn’t know. But they would do Travis no good if they were burned to cinders here. They had to turn back.
Durge nudged Blackalock’s flanks and brought the charger alongside Shandis. The knight reached out, hesitated, then laid a gloved hand on Grace’s arm. “Come, my lady.”
She pressed her hand over his, then let go. Together, the travelers turned their horses around and started back over the bridge. Tira squeezed her thin body back, and Grace did not resist the closeness. She held the girl against her.
Just as they reached the west end of the stone span, Lirith spoke in a quiet voice. “Lord Beltan, do the men of your company ever patrol this near to the river?”
He frowned, glancing at her. “Sometimes. Why?”
“I see torches among the trees.”
Grace sucked in a breath. Even as Lirith spoke, she saw them: red sparks winking in and out of existence against the dark line of trees four hundred yards away. Then the lights moved from the trees, onto the open land between river and wood.
“Those aren’t torches,” she said, her voice rising.
Beltan swore a low oath.
“There must be ten of them,” Meridar said. “Twenty.”
Durge let out a rumbling breath. “More.”
Spindly, onyx forms lumbered from all directions, approaching the west side of the bridge, leaving snaking trails of fire in their wake.
A strangled sound escaped Aryn’s throat. “I don’t understand. What do they want from us?”
“Maybe nothing,” Beltan said. “We don’t know what their purpose is. I suppose we were just lucky enough to get in their way.”
“We must head back over the bridge,” Durge said. “There are fewer of them on the east side of the river.”
Beltan nodded. “And if we can get past those, then we can outride the ones coming from the west.”
