Beyond the Pale (52 page)

Grace lifted the sprig to her nose and breathed its wild forest scent. Her mind cleared a bit, and she glanced at the bard. “You say the feydrim was a slave of the Pale King, Falken. But why would the Pale King send one of his servants to … to kill me?”

It was Melia who answered. “Only if they stood together would the Dominions have a chance of defeating the Pale King were he to ride forth again. I imagine he desires nothing more than to see the Dominions divided against each other. It seems King Boreas hopes the knowledge you gain will help
him unify the council in war. That is exactly what the Pale King cannot allow.”

No, that wasn’t enough. Grace crossed her arms, hugged her chest. “But how did it … how did
he
know to find me here?”

Beltan gripped the hilt of the sword at his hip. “That is something I would like to know. There isn’t a castle in all the Dominions stronger than Calavere. I don’t like how easily that thing got in here.”

A shudder coursed through Grace. There was so much to sort out, and she needed help. She looked up at Travis. “I was hoping … while the council convenes … maybe we could …”

He started to nod.

“Oh!” Aryn clapped her hand to her cheek. “I completely forgot. Grace, you have to get ready. That’s why I came here this morning. King Boreas has requested your presence at the council.”

She glanced at Aryn. “But I was going to talk with …” It was no use. She looked again at Travis, but he had already turned his back and stepped through the door.

“I’ll be ready,” was all she said.

Travis surveyed the council chamber—crowded with lords and ladies—and felt utterly out of place.

He hadn’t expected to be here. After they had left Grace’s chamber, Melia and Falken had headed down the corridor without so much as glancing at him. No doubt they had plans to make for the Council of Kings. Plans he was not a part of. He had started back to his own room, then a big hand on his shoulder had halted him.

“Come on, Travis,” Beltan had said. “The council is this way.”

He had been too stunned to protest, and had followed the blond knight through the castle.

The council chamber was contained within one of Calavere’s nine towers, at the end of the main keep’s west
wing. At first there had been some difficulty getting Travis inside.

“Commoners are not allowed in the Council of Kings,” a man-at-arms had said, eyeing Travis’s shabby tunic. He had held his halberd across the doorway.

Beltan’s voice had dropped to a perilous growl. “Do you make some comment about my parentage, captain?”

The man-at-arms had taken a step back. “No, Lord Beltan! I meant no such thing. I was referring to your … to your companion. He is not … that is, he does not appear to be noble, and …”

Beltan had waved a hand, silencing the man-at-arms. “First of all, he’s more noble than most of the lords in this chamber. Second, it wouldn’t matter if he were the basest servant. He’s with me. Do you really want to argue about it?”

Blood had drained from the other’s face, and he had moved his halberd aside. “There’s a space waiting for you over there, Lord Beltan,” was all he had said.

Travis had shot Beltan a stunned look—he had never heard the knight speak in such a hard manner. But Beltan already had been moving. Travis had given the man-at-arms a sheepish look, then had followed Beltan into the council chamber.

Now, from his seat, Travis gazed around. The chamber was ringed with tiers of stone benches like a Greek amphitheater. The benches were crowded with nobles who, by their varying manner of dress, represented all seven of the Dominions, and every moment more nobles poured through the doorway. In the center of the chamber was a circular table hewn of dark stone. Around the table were a number of chairs, and embedded in the center of its surface was a disk of paler stone, incised with an angular shape. Travis recognized the symbol from his studies with Falken. It was
Var
, the rune of peace:

He glanced at the knight who sat next to him on the stone bench. “Thanks, Beltan. For vouching for me, I mean.”

Beltan gazed forward. “There is more to being noble than
who whelped you.” He drew in a deep breath, turned toward Travis, and grinned. “Besides, I always enjoy ruffling a few feathers.”

Travis did his best to grin back. Whatever melancholy had gripped the big knight the day before, it seemed to have loosened its hold a bit—but it was not gone altogether. Beltan looked
different
somehow. More serious. But maybe it was just his clothes. He had changed into fine but understated garb of green, and he had shaved his beard, leaving only a line of gold above and on either side of his mouth.

Travis let his gaze wander back over the chamber. He counted the chairs around the council table, then frowned. “I thought there were only seven Dominions in Falengarth, Beltan.”

“That’s right.”

“So why are there eight chairs at the table?”

“The eighth chair is for the king of Malachor.”

Travis’s frown deepened. “Malachor? But I thought Falken said Malachor fell ages ago.”

“Yes, it’s over seven centuries since a king sat on the throne of Malachor, and almost as long since anyone dwelt within that land’s borders.”

Travis scratched his red-brown beard. It was getting wild. “Seven hundred years. That seems like an awfully long time to keep setting a place at the table.”

Beltan laughed. “Yes, but it’s tradition. The Dominions have always looked to the memory of Malachor for their heritage, even as they try to match its lost glory. So they keep a chair at the table, to honor the past, and to invoke its greatness—perhaps in hope a little rubs off on them.”

Travis gazed at the empty chair. It was carved of silvery wood like the other chairs at the table and inlaid with stones and leather. However, its edges were sharper, the leather less worn and polished. It reminded him of the artifacts he had seen at the Magician’s Attic in Jack’s secret room. The other chairs had been used for centuries, but not this one.

“Will anyone ever sit in it?”

“The stories say a witch cursed the chair long ago, and that any who dares to sit in it will be struck dead, unless he is the true heir to Malachor.”

Travis looked at the knight. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

Beltan shrugged his rangy shoulders. “I don’t hold much stock in witches or curses, but I suppose only a fool would sit in Chair Malachor. Or a legend come to life—and despite what Falken might say, the first is a great deal more common than the second.”

Travis couldn’t argue with that.

A horn sounded, a hush fell over the crowd, and everyone stood as the kings and queens of the Dominions entered the chamber. Beltan leaned over and whispered their names in Travis’s ear as each approached the table.

First came Queen Eminda of Eredane, her bearing more proud than regal. She was followed by Lysandir of Brelegond, or at least a moving heap of brocade and jewels in which Travis supposed there was room enough to conceal a royal person. Next came a gaunt man with sunken eyes whom Beltan named Sorrin, King of Embarr. Ancient King Persard of Perridon came next, and after him King Kylar of Galt. As he entered, the young king of Galt tripped on a fold in the carpet that seemed to have appeared only as he approached. Lord Alerain, King Boreas’s seneschal, dashed out to help him to his feet, and Kylar waved as he stood to indicate he was unharmed. A sigh of relief ran about the chamber.

The sigh became a gasp when a woman as radiant as sun on ice stepped into the room. Travis watched, transfixed, as Queen Ivalaine of Toloria glided to her place at the table. Her gown was the color of shadows on snow at twilight, and white gems frosted her hair. In contrast to the ethereal Tolorian queen, King Boreas stalked into the chamber like a bull. However, he was as handsome as he was fierce, and commanded attention as surely as Ivalaine did. Travis had a feeling he would do anything Boreas told him to do. He suspected most people did.

The rulers each stood behind his or her chair, then each lifted a hand to the breast and bowed his or her head toward the eighth and empty chair. The kings and queens lifted their heads, and Boreas spoke, the thrum of his voice rising to the rafters high above.

“Let the rune of beginning be spoken!”

From opposite edges of the room, two men in mist-colored
robes approached the stone table. Eminda of Eredane watched them with suspicious eyes. One of the robed men was older, his face severe and his gray hair shorn close. The other was younger, short and obviously muscular beneath his robe, his face broad and cheerful. They stopped short of the table, bowed in unison, and rose. Then, as one, they spoke a single word.

“
Syr
!”

The word echoed around the chamber like a note of music: clear and thrilling. Travis’s right hand tingled, and he could feel the magic that had been released by the speaking of the rune, could
see
it. The air in the chamber shimmered, like the air over a hot desert highway.…

Travis adjusted his spectacles. The air in the chamber was still once more. The runespeakers were already walking away from the table. He flexed his hand. The tingle had faded into an itch. However, he knew it would not fully vanish. It never did. The power was always there, waiting. He wondered. What might he look like in a soft robe all of gray?

Travis returned to the moment. Boreas was speaking again. “… and the shadows that threaten not just one Dominion, but each of them, and all of Falengarth besides. Thus this Council of Kings has been summoned, under the aegis of all laws and traditions, and thus you have journeyed here to Calavere. You are well met, each and every one.”

Boreas picked up a large chalice from the table. It was filled with crimson wine. “I ask that we each drink from this cup,” the black-bearded king said. “It is a relic of Malachor, and in drinking from it we will remember the legacy of the tower that shines no more. And also we will show that we are one in our desire to challenge the darkness that would challenge us.”

Some of the rulers shifted from foot to foot, notably Lysandir of Brelegond. Not everyone agreed with Boreas’s sentiment.

Boreas took a drink from the cup, then passed it to his right, to Kylar. The young Galtish king took a sip, managing to spill a little bit on the table, which he dabbed at with the corner of his cloak after passing the cup on. Travis watched with interest as the other rulers drank from the chalice. Sorrin
of Embarr took the scantest of sips, while Lysandir drank deepest, but without any sense of ceremony, as if he simply needed the wine. He passed the cup to Eminda.

The queen of Eredane frowned into the cup, as if she expected to see a dead rat in it, or perhaps the taint of poison. The other rulers watched her, and Lysandir fidgeted with the edge of his frilly tunic. The chamber held its breath. Still Eminda did not drink.

Boreas spoke in a voice that, although low, filled the great space. “Know all of you that the rune of peace rests at the center of this table. It was bound into the stone long ago, when the art of runebinding was still known to the world. Because of the rune’s magic no act of violence can be done in this hall, either openly or deceitfully, no matter how strong the hand that would attempt it.”

Eminda shot a black look at the king of Calavan. Travis guessed she cared little for his reassurance. She lifted the chalice, took a small, swift sip, and shoved it toward Ivalaine. Somehow the Tolorian queen managed to accept the cup smoothly. She drank, like a swan bending its neck to the surface of a lake, and passed the cup to Boreas. He lifted it high, then set it back on the table, and his voice rang off the stones.

“The Council of Kings has begun!”

The rulers took their seats, and those watching did the same. Travis leaned toward Beltan. “I don’t get the feeling Queen Eminda cares much for Boreas.”

Beltan gave a snort. “That’s like saying oil has a slight dislike for its old friend water. But she seems thick enough with Lysandir.”

“If you say so. I’m not convinced there’s actually anybody
in
all those clothes.”

Beltan grinned and gripped Travis’s hand. The gesture surprised Travis, but he was glad for the contact. Maybe he was nobody in this world, but at least he had one friend—royal or not. He returned the grip on the knight’s big hand, and they stayed that way for a while.

A shrill voice pierced the chamber air. “Well, Boreas.” Eminda glared at the king of Calavan. “Now that you’ve convened this council, perhaps you will deign to tell us the reason why. We’ve all suffered hard winters and brigands
before. I can hardly imagine that’s the only reason you’ve forced us all to journey here. Or has Calavan grown so weak that a few robber barons have cast the Dominion under a pall of terror?”

The air pressure in the chamber seemed to change as everyone drew in a breath. Even from a distance Travis could see Boreas’s knuckles go white as he gripped the edge of the council table. Eminda was wasting no time. Boreas opened his mouth to speak, but his words were drowned out by a crash as the chamber’s double doors burst open. All eyes turned as a figure strode into the hall.