Beyond the Pale (72 page)

Durge stood and heaved a sigh. “At least he is at peace now.”

Travis gazed at Alerain’s twisted face and wished he could believe the knight.

Aryn sobbed, her head against Beltan’s chest. “Oh, Alerain. What will Boreas do without you?”

Beltan looked up and swore.

Alarm replaced the horror in Grace’s gaze. “What is it?”

“The rulers,” Beltan said. “Alerain was the one seeing to the switching of the rooms of the kings and queens.”

“Which means he knows exactly where each one of them is sleeping,” Durge said.

The five exchanged looks, then together launched into a run.

“Grace, Travis, come with me,” Beltan said through clenched teeth. “Durge, take Aryn and tell the king. We have to check on all of the rulers. Now!”

Durge nodded, took Aryn’s hand, and the two of them
careened down a corridor. Beltan charged in another direction, and Travis and Grace followed.

“Do you think the murderer will strike now?” Travis said to Grace as they ran.

She glanced at him, face grim. “He killed Alerain, which means he must know we’re close. If he doesn’t strike now, when will he?”

“But who will be the victim?”

“One who voted for war—and one who the murderer thinks he can get to.”

Travis ran faster.

They reached King Persard’s chamber first. Beltan didn’t even stop. He knocked two men-at-arms aside, kicked in the door, and burst into the chamber. Travis and Grace tumbled in after him.

“Hey, there!” said a testy voice. “What’s this? Can’t a king have a little privacy?”

It took Travis a moment to sort out the scene before him. The frail king of Perridon sat in his bed with a creamy-skinned maiden on either side of him. All were in a state of undress.

Beltan’s face flushed red. “Sorry, Your Majesty. King Boreas will explain later.”

“He certainly will!” Persard snapped.

However, Travis, Grace, and Beltan were already out the door and running down the corridor.

“Who’s next?” Grace said between breaths.

“King Kylar is closest,” Beltan said. “We’re almost there.”

They rounded a corner and heard a terrible crash: the sound of stone on stone. Gray dust drifted from beneath a door next to which two armed men stood. They looked in surprise at the dust, then at the three who ran toward them.

“Open the door!” Beltan commanded.

The men did not hesitate. One pushed open the door. More dust billowed out to choke the air.

Travis tried to see through the cloud. “What happened?”

Beltan blinked and peered through the dust. “By the Bull! It looks like the wall has collapsed on the bed.”

Travis’s heart sank—they were too late. The kind young king of Galt had been the murderer’s target, and the conspirator had succeeded.

Beltan pressed the hem of his cloak to his mouth to ward against the dust. “I’m going to go in there and—”

He stopped short as a shadow appeared amid the swirling dust. Beltan reached in and pulled something out of the cloud and into the corridor.

Grace clapped her hands together. “King Kylar!”

His face and hair were streaked with stone dust, and coughs shook his shoulders, but it was clear the young king of Galt was alive and whole. She rushed to steady him, and Travis did the same.

Beltan disappeared into the chamber, then returned a moment later, his hair and face white. He looked at Kylar, his expression one of amazement. “The whole wall fell in—I think the mortar was chiseled away—and the bed is in splinters. How did you survive?”

“The b-b-bed,” Kylar said in his halting voice. “It was full of bedb-b-bugs, so I went to s-s-sleep in the wardrobe instead.”

To Travis’s astonishment, Grace laughed. He could not help but join her.

Grace gripped Kylar’s hand in her own. “It seems you’re not so unlucky after all, Your Majesty.”

He grinned at her through the dust. “P-p-perhaps I’m not at that.”

The following day, at the Council of Kings, Boreas told the other rulers of the failed attempt on King Kylar’s life.

When Grace entered the council chamber she started toward her usual seat in one of the front rows, then hesitated. She usually sat beside Aryn and Lord Alerain. But Aryn was not here yet, and Alerain …

Gentle brown eyes caught her own. Grace looked up to see a plump, red-haired woman motion to her. It was Tressa, Queen Ivalaine’s lady-in-waiting. Grace froze. What would Boreas think if he saw her sitting next to Ivalaine’s closest advisor and a known Witch?

That’s his problem, Grace. Besides, you’re supposed to be learning Ivalaine’s agenda at the council
.

She braced her shoulders inside her purple gown and moved toward the red-haired Tressa.

It was easy to navigate through the council chamber. The tiers of stone benches were not so crowded as they had been on that first day. Many of the lesser nobles had returned to their respective Dominions, some bearing messages or orders from their king or queen. No doubt the rulers grew anxious to return to their own keeps and castles, to see to the affairs in their Dominions—and to make certain no barons had become overly ambitious in their absence. However, they were bound by the ancient rules of the council. Aryn had said no one would be able to leave until the council reached a final reckoning.

Then again, if King Boreas’s plan worked, a reckoning could happen that very day.

Last night, Boreas had acted strangely when they told him of Alerain’s treachery and death. They did not all go to the king’s chamber. Instead Grace and Beltan went alone. Beltan had said that Alerain had been like an uncle to Boreas in the king’s youth. They thought it best he should hear the news from as few as possible.

The king had sat perfectly still in his carved dragon chair the whole time they spoke, his eyes locked on the flames. When they finished Grace had expected disbelief or outrage. Instead he had only nodded, then asked to be alone. Boreas had rested his hand on the head of one of his hounds and had continued to stare into the fire. They had left him that way.

That morning Boreas had seemed a different man. He had paid a rare visit to Grace’s chamber. She had heard his booming voice outside her door while she was still getting dressed and had barely had time to shimmy into her gown before he burst through the door.

This was the Boreas she knew—the small room hardly seemed able to contain his bulk and energy. Boreas had explained his plan to her, to tell the council of the murder plot and the attempt on Kylar’s life, in hopes the rulers would put aside their differences in the wake of this mutual threat. Or at least that those who had opposed a muster would be convinced
to decide otherwise, for Boreas intended to force a reckoning of the council that day.

Before she even thought whether it was wise to ask the question, Grace did. “Will you tell the council of the Raven Cult and the Pale King, Your Majesty?”

Boreas had cocked his head and had given her a piercing look from the corner of his eye. Then, without another word, he had turned on a heel and had stalked from her chamber. A vacuum had seemed to form in his wake, and Grace had felt the need to clutch the bedpost to keep from getting swept out of the room after him. Once she had caught her breath, she had thought to go find Aryn and the others, to tell them what King Boreas intended. Then a young page had appeared at the door to lead her to the council chamber, and there had not been time.

Grace reached the place beside Tressa and sat down.

“Good morrow, Lady Grace,” Tressa said.

Grace smiled. “Good morrow, Lady Tressa.”

It was difficult to be certain how old Tressa was, and Grace was good at estimating age. The lady-in-waiting’s plump face was smooth and pretty, but there were other signs—the fine lines about her eyes, the few strands of gray in her thick hair, the blue veins on the backs of her hands—that made Grace think she was older than she seemed.

Grace started to arrange her gown—it always took a bit of work to keep from sitting on a bunch of cloth—then halted. Her arms prickled, and she looked up. Two sparks of emerald burned into her. Grace tried to avert her eyes, but like one driving past a car wreck, she could not.

Kyrene sat alone on a bench across the council chamber. She wore one of her sumptuous green gowns, but now she hunched inside, and her dark blond hair—always before so carefully brushed and arranged—was ratty and tangled. She chewed on a fingernail as she stared at Grace. The countess looked hurt and dangerous, like a small animal that was wounded but quite alive. Kyrene noticed Grace’s attention and smiled. The expression was both sullen and smug.

Grace held her breath.
She’s plotting something still, she has to be. Ivalaine may have cast her out, but Kyrene won’t give up that easily. But what does she think she can do
?

An image came to Grace’s mind: dark hands on pale flesh.
Logren. Would she try to do something to Logren? Grace was trembling, and Tressa must have noticed, for she took Grace’s hand in her own.

“Pay no attention to her, child,” Tressa said. “She has no power to harm us.”

Grace shook her head. She wanted to say Tressa was wrong, that Kyrene was up to something, and that it couldn’t be good. Then trumpets sounded. The council was about to begin for the day.

One by one the rulers marched into the chamber. Grace noticed Falken and Melia seated in one of the front rows. Travis, Aryn, Durge, and Beltan sat just behind. They all must have entered while Grace was distracted. She tried to catch their attention, but they did not look back. Grace sank back to her seat. She would just have to talk to them when the council recessed.

The nobles took their seats on the benches, and the rulers took their own chairs—all except for Chair Malachor, which remained empty as it had for centuries. However, the other rulers were hardly settled when Boreas planted his hands on the edge of the round stone table and stood back up.

“Last night,” Boreas said in a thundering voice, “an attempt of murder was made upon the life of King Kylar of Galt.”

A gasp ran around the hall. The other rulers stared at Boreas—except for Kylar, who slid down in his chair, obviously uncomfortable with the attention. Grace winced. Boreas was certainly wasting no time on subtlety.

“Is this true?” Sorrin of Embarr asked in his deep but hollow voice.

Kylar nodded. “I f-f-fear that it is.”

Lysandir sniffed at a gold-embroidered handkerchief. “1 must say, for one who has been murdered you look quite well today, Your Majesty.”

“And in that we are lucky,” Boreas said.

The king of Brelegond let out a high-pitched laugh. “Lucky? That’s not a word one usually hears in association with King Kylar of Galt.”

Boreas glowered at Lysandir. “What’s wrong, King Lysandir? Are you disappointed the attempt on Kylar’s life failed?”

Lysandir dropped his handkerchief. Even without the thick layer of powder his face would have been white. “What are you saying, King Boreas?”

“What do you think I’m saying?” Boreas growled.

Ivalaine stood from her chair. At once all eyes were on the graceful queen. She fixed her ice-blue gaze on Boreas. “Is it your intention to accuse a member of this council of arranging this terrible crime, Your Majesty?”

He swept his gaze around the table, then he shook his head. “No, it is not. You see, I already know who was behind the murder plot—for one of my own, in an act of treachery, allied himself with the enemy.”

Another gasp circled the chamber.

Persard raised a shaggy white eyebrow in interest. “Indeed, King Boreas? A traitor in your own court? Who is this individual, and what will become of him?”

Boreas seemed to chew his words before he spoke them, and it was clear he found them bitter. “It was Lord Alerain, and he is dead.”

It took several minutes, and a number of hard looks and strong gestures from the king of Calavan, to restore order to the chamber. Grace knew this news of Alerain’s treachery was a blow to everyone, especially the nobles of Calavan. If Alerain—always so good and stolid—was not above betrayal, then who was? However, Grace knew the truth. There were dark gifts even good men did not have the power to resist. What had Alerain thought he was buying with his heart? Perhaps he had believed, by agreeing to help the enemy, that the darkness would spare Calavan. If so it had been a vain hope.

“This is ill news, Your Majesty,” Sorrin said. The king of Embarr’s visage was more gaunt and sallow than ever. “But you have not told us who this enemy is that Alerain allied himself with, and who wanted the death of Kylar of Galt. Tell us, who is the one to blame for this wretched deed?”

The council chamber fell silent, and all leaned forward to hear. Boreas met the eyes of each of the other rulers in turn.

“I will tell you this,” he said in a low voice. “Then I will call for a reckoning of the council, for when you have heard the words I am to speak, you will see there can be but one course of action.” He drew in a deep breath. “The plot to
murder Kylar and change the council’s decision was perpetrated by the Raven Cult, acting under the control of the Pale King himself.”

Grace’s heart soared in her chest. He had said it. Boreas had dared to tell the council the truth! Falken leaped to his feet. All in the chamber gaped as if these were the last words they had expected Boreas to speak, and Falken most of all.

Grace lifted a hand to the bodice of her gown, afraid to breathe.
The council can’t deny him now. Boreas has offered them his own seneschal, they can’t discount him. They have to decide in favor of a muster, they have to—

A harsh voice cut through the chamber.

“How dare you, Boreas!”

It was Eminda. The queen of Eredane had stood, and she glared at Boreas with her small eyes, her face red with rage. “How dare you attempt such a coarse and vile ruse? Do you truly expect me to believe your precious Alerain is dead, that he isn’t simply hiding in a room in this castle while you work your horrid little trick?”

Even from a distance Grace could see Boreas shaking. She thought the stone table would crack beneath his grip.

“I will show you his head, Your Majesty,” Boreas said through his teeth.