Beyond the Pale (56 page)

It was not so hard to understand the choice of some of the rulers. Sorrin’s decision could be explained by his madness. And Lysandir obviously followed Eminda’s lead. That left the queen of Eredane as the real mystery—aside from Ivalaine, of course, but Boreas seemed to have his own idea about that.

“A witch always determines what is right and reasonable and then does the opposite,” he had said in a growling voice.

Grace had only bit her tongue and listened to her orders. Some time ago Aryn had told the king about Grace’s conversation with Logren of Eredane. Now Boreas wanted her to pay Logren a visit and try to determine why Queen Eminda had decided against war, what she hoped to gain at the council, and—most of all—what she feared.

Grace had protested. However, trying to explain that she and Logren had spoken only once, and had exchanged greetings with each other only a few times after that, and were anything but friends, was futile. She had given Aryn an exasperated look, the baroness had given a sheepish shrug in return, and Grace had bowed her head and murmured the only three words that guaranteed it would remain attached to her shoulders for another day.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The sound of booted feet jerked Grace out of her paralysis. Someone was coming down the corridor. She rapped on the door so hard her knuckles hurt. She waited, heart thudding in her throat. No answer. The footsteps fell silent. False alarm on that account. She knocked again, but still the door did not open. Relief washed through her. Logren must have been away from his room—she had gotten a reprieve. With a grin, she knocked one more time, just so she could tell Boreas she had done her best.

“Can I help you, my lady?”

The voice was deep and rich and came, not from behind the door, but from behind
her
. Grace whirled around, and her breath caught somewhere between lungs and lips. He was even more handsome than she remembered. Not since
the night of her first feast in Calavere had she stood so close to him and gazed into his intelligent eyes.

Recognition flickered in those eyes, and he smiled.

He has good teeth
.

She almost laughed at the absurdness of the thought, but so many people in this world had terrible teeth, if they had any at all. Yet his were white and straight, and his skin was smooth and unmarked by any trace of disease. Only the fine white scar that ran across his cheek, and this was like the off-center vase in an otherwise exquisite Japanese room—the one small imperfection that made the rest seem all the more flawless.

He arched a dark eyebrow. Grace realized she had been staring too long. She had to say something, anything.

“Lord Logren, I was hoping I would find you here.”

“Indeed, Lady Grace? And who else might you expect to find behind my door?”

A wave of panic rippled through her. What did he mean by that? Had he seen her that day, standing there in the garden, watching the two of them? No, she was overreacting. Mirth glinted in his eyes. He was only making a jest.

Thankfully he spoke again. She was not certain she could have found words.

“I’ve just come from a meeting with my queen, and I was intending to go for a ride with Lord Olstin. He’s been asking me to accompany him for days.”

“Then you had best go, my lord,” she said.

He cocked his head. “My lady, you would so quickly condemn me to such a fate?”

“Nobility has its price.” She sucked in a breath. Where had that come from?

“True enough,” Logren said. “But this is Lord Olstin of Brelegond we are speaking of, my lady. I know you know him. He rides with the reins in one hand and a goblet in the other. I imagine I’ll have to stop every few minutes just to pick him up off the turf. Although I warrant his finery will make an excellent cushion when he falls.”

“I imagine you
could
use any one of his outfits to stuff several good-sized chairs,” Grace said.

He clapped his hands and laughed. To her amazement,
Grace laughed in reply, and it was a genuine sound. Like that night in the great hall, he seemed to take her fear away, leaving her at ease, not only with him, but with herself.

“What are we going to do to save you from this awful fate, my lord?” she said, braver now.

He stroked his chin with long fingers. “As you’ve noted, my lady, I have no choice. Unless …”

“Unless what?”

“Unless I was ordered by another not to go. Of course, that would take a noble of higher rank than myself.”

“And who might outrank a high counselor, my lord?”

“I’m afraid it would take at least a duke,” he said in a grave tone.

“What about a duchess?”

He snapped his fingers. “That would do.”

“Then, my lord, I forbid you to go riding with Lord Olstin.”

He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed. “As you wish, my lady.”

A thrill coursed through her. It was foolish. This was all just a game. Logren wasn’t obeying her orders, he was just looking for an excuse. Still, it almost
felt
real.

“May I invite you inside, my lady?”

He gestured to the door, and only then did she realize that, in her earlier trepidation, she had backed up against it. She hurried aside and let him open the door. Before she even thought about what she was doing, she was inside. The door shut behind her, and now uncertainty crept back into her chest. She was not here to exchange pleasantries with the high counselor of Eredane. She was here to spy on him.

“Wine?”

Grace accepted the cup and gripped it with both hands. He raised his own cup to her and drank. As he did she took in her first glimpse of his room. In size and brightness it was only a fraction of her own chamber. The narrow window faced a blank expanse of stone, and the scant furnishings were sturdy but far from ornate.

Logren noticed her gaze. “Do not worry, my lady. The room is no affront on King Boreas’s part. I asked for a more austere chamber. I prefer to keep my surroundings simple. It sharpens my mind, and allows me to focus on my tasks. I’m
afraid it is too easy to get distracted by the trappings of nobility and forget what it really means.”

Grace sipped her wine. Interest began to replace fear. “And what does it really mean, my lord?”

“Being a noble is a privilege, but it is also a duty. Those beneath us depend on us to make wise decisions for them, to keep their lives ordered, productive, and safe.”

“Don’t you mean to keep them oppressed?”

He set down his cup. “One cannot have safety without giving something up, my lady. That is the way of the world. The commoners work for us, it is true. But in turn we protect them, feed them when food is short, and build them shrines for their mysteries.”

Grace knew this idea should have filled her with repugnance. All the same Logren’s words resonated in her. It was wrong, and impossible, but in a way they made sense to her. Why shouldn’t those who were stronger lead—as long as they were good, benevolent, and wise?

She thought of something. “And who protects you, my lord?”

He shook a finger at her. “No, my lady. That’s not the way the game works. Power is peril. No one protects those who are on top. They have to protect themselves. Or fall.”

A jolt ran through her. Now was her chance. She took another sip of wine to appear nonchalant, but mostly to wet a throat gone dry. “You mean like Queen Eminda did?”

He gazed at her, then his applause filled the small room. “Well done, my lady. Well done, and subtly. I very nearly didn’t notice, and I have an ear for such things.”

Horror flooded her. “What do you mean?”

Logren drew near. He smelled of spices. “You know what I speak of, my lady. Clever questions disguised as beguiling talk. No, don’t be alarmed. I admire your skill, and I understand. You are King Boreas’s guest, and he would not be a very good king if he did not use all means available to him—including yourself—to learn about the intentions of the other kings and queens at the council.”

Grace worked her jaw but could find no words. She felt like a butterfly pinned to a child’s piece of cardboard.

“Don’t worry, Lady Grace. You saved me from riding with
Lord Olstin. I will not send you back to King Boreas empty-handed in return. I will tell you freely why Eminda chose as she did at the council.”

All she could do was nod.

“There are two possibilities, my lady. The first is that the Pale King is a myth—a story to frighten children or to excite bards. The second is that Falken Blackhand is correct, that the Pale King indeed stirs again in Imbrifale. Now, if the first possibility is true, and the Pale King is a myth, then it is folly to send the armies of all the Dominions marching into the northern wilds. There are real enough dangers here—bandits, barbarians, famine—without having to tramp across Falengarth in search of false ones.”

Grace licked her lips. “What if Falken is right?”

Logren studied her. “You believe him, don’t you?” He lifted a hand to halt her words. “No, do not protest. I cannot say whether Falken Blackhand truly is what he claims to be, but whatever people say of the Grim Bard he is not to be taken lightly. Yet if the Pale King does stir, it is every bit as foolish to send all the forces of the Dominions north. We cannot hope to raise so great an army as the stories say Ulther and Elsara did. Better, then, to remain here, to protect the Dominions, and to search for the Imsari, the Great Stones that the myths say hold the key to the Pale King’s power.”

He took a decanter of wine and refilled her cup. “So you see, my lady, either way there is no reason to muster the Dominions for war. Queen Eminda can be abrupt, I know that better than anyone, but she chose as she did to protect Eredane and the other Dominions, not to harm them.”

Grace lifted the cup in trembling hands and drank. She had to admit, once again Logren’s words made sense. Boreas seemed to want war at any cost, without exploring other options. She wasn’t so certain she would have chosen differently from Queen Eminda.

The warmth of the wine filled her, and now Grace let her eyes drink in Logren. She had never met another man who seemed so calm, so governed by reason. Yet she had seen him in the garden. How could one so wise let himself get ensnared by Kyrene’s petty magics? Even as she asked the
question she knew the answer. Logren was tall, handsome, and strong. His duties and his austere room could not possibly occupy him always.

Grace set down her cup. At any rate, it was a relief to have the truth of her intentions out in the open, and she had indeed gotten an answer to take back to Boreas. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you like this, Lord Logren. I’ll go now.”

A hand on her arm kept her from turning away. “I did not ask you to go, my lady.”

Grace stared at his hand as if he had struck her. His skin was darker than hers, and large veins traced lines beneath. Once again she saw him in the garden, naked in the frosty air, white limbs twining about his back. Only this time, when the woman looked up, her green eyes were tinged with gold.

Grace snatched her hand back. “No.…”

He stepped away and bowed. “As my lady wishes. I apologize for any insult.”

No, that wasn’t what she had meant. It wasn’t him. He was a gentleman in every way. It was herself she had spoken to. But how could she tell him that?

“I have to go,” she said.

She didn’t remember opening his door. The next thing she knew she rushed down the corridor, heedless of which way she turned. When she had pictured Logren in the garden the woman had not been Kyrene. It had been herself.

And why not, Grace? Why shouldn’t it be you? They stole it from you, and for so many years you’ve been afraid. Why shouldn’t you be the one to take power from it now
!

She shook her head, cleared her vision, and realized she had come to a halt. She stood before an arched door. A banner hung on a stand beside the archway, yellow on green: Toloria. This was Queen Ivalaine’s chamber. Grace glanced up at a high window and saw a slice of slate-colored sky. Somewhere doves sang their mourning song. A shiver danced along her skin—it was just now twilight.

A soft rustling beside her. Grace glanced to her right, into a pair of large blue eyes.

“I didn’t think I would come,” Aryn said in a quiet voice.

“Neither did I.”

Their hands found one another and held on.

“What on Eldh are we doing, Grace?”

She drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

They tightened their hold on each other. The door opened, and together they stepped through.

Travis began his studies with the Runespeakers the morning after his encounter with Rin. Falken woke him in the cold gray light before dawn. “It’s time,” the bard said.

Still half-asleep, Travis shrugged on his tunic, wrapped his mistcloak around himself, and stumbled outside. He trudged across the frozen mud of the lower bailey—empty at this early hour—to the lair of the Runespeakers. Travis hesitated at the door, teeth chattering. At last the chill won out, and he knocked. The door opened, and smoky light spilled onto the ground.

“Come in,” said a sharp voice.

He did, and the door shut behind him.

There was one good thing about runespeakers, Travis soon discovered. They drank a lot of
maddok
. There was always a pot of the liquid, hot and dark, bubbling over a copper brazier in the tower’s shabby main room. He downed a half-dozen cups of it that first day, until his whole body tingled, and his mind was as light and clear as a bauble of spun glass. Not that it did him much good.

“Do you know what this is?” Jemis pointed to the lines he had drawn with a stylus on a wax tablet. Jemis was the elder of the two runespeakers, a thin and harsh-faced man well past his middle years. His threadbare robe was not so much gray as it was grimy.

Travis pushed his spectacles up his nose and studied the tablet in the glow of the brazier. The tower was drafty, and they sat on rugs as close to the fire as they dared. Yes, that was one of the runes Falken had shown him. He opened his mouth. “It’s the rune of—
ouch
!”

He nearly bit through his tongue as Jemis rapped him
on the hand with the metal stylus. Travis snatched his wounded hand back. That had
hurt
.