Beyond the Pale (76 page)

Travis spoke between chattering teeth. “Lucky us to come along at just the right time.”

Beltan ran a hand through his thinning hair. “So what do we do now?”

Falken picked up a leather pouch from the windowsill. From the way he handled it, it was heavy. Travis felt his gorge rise. He knew what the sack contained.

“We talk to the kings and queens,” Falken said. “One by one if we can get audiences with them. And we show them this.” He hefted the leather pouch. “We have to try to convince them it’s not too late to stand against the Pale King.”

“
If
it’s not too late to stand against the Pale King,” Melia murmured.

No one attempted an answer to that.

“I’ll go talk to King Boreas,” Beltan said. “Hopefully he can set up meetings with the other rulers.”

“I’ll help,” Aryn said.

The blond knight cast a sharp look at Durge. The Embarran gave a solemn nod, then Beltan and Aryn left the room.

“What now?” Falken said as he looked at Melia.

She set the kitten on the floor and rose from her chair. “I would like to spend a little more time examining the place where Travis encountered the ironheart.”

“What for?”

Melia turned her striking gaze on him.

He nodded—another secret message. The bard and the lady started toward the door.

Travis spoke the words in a soft voice. “He said the Pale Ones would see the light of Sinfathisar.”

Falken and Melia halted, and the bard regarded Travis with grave eyes. “The ironheart wasn’t lying about that. They lost our trail after the White Tower, and I was hoping they had lost it for good. But when the Stone was released from the box, there was nothing to keep its power from shining forth. That will be like a beacon to them. It’s only a matter of time until the wraithlings get here.”

Travis could only nod.

“Come, Falken.” Melia touched his arm. “Let us not be defeated by what is not yet here. There is still much we can do.”

Falken took her hand in his, then the two stepped from the chamber.

Grace glanced at the door, then looked at Travis and Durge. They were the only ones left in the room.

“So what do
we
do?” she said.

“What
can
we do, my lady?” Durge said. “The second conspirator is no more. Lord Falken and Lady Melia will do what they can to convince the council to act. It is best we remain here and watch for those who search for Goodman Travis.”

“No.” Travis looked up. “No, that’s not enough, Durge.”

Grace turned toward him. “What is it, Travis?”

He threw off the blanket and stood. Something was wrong about this. Something he had missed. What was it? He searched his mind—it was so close.

The council? But what council is this you speak of that will do this thing
?

Travis sucked in a breath. “This isn’t over. The ironheart is dead, but this still isn’t over.”

Grace took a step toward him. “What do you mean?”

He paced before the fire now, and his mind raced. “It was something the ironheart said before he was … before he died. Something about the council.”

Durge frowned beneath his mustaches. “What was it?”

Things aren’t always what you think, for all can vanish in a blink
.

There could be only one answer to that riddle. “The council,”
Travis said. “They plan to do away with the entire Council of Kings.”

Grace took a step back in shock. “Are you certain?”

“Positive. They’re going to kill all the rulers at once.”

“Who do you mean?” Durge said. “The second conspirator is dead.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Travis approached the knight. “The ironheart hinted that something is going to happen to the council members. That means there’s someone left to do it. I don’t think he was the second conspirator—I think Alerain’s murderer is still loose in the castle.”

“I think you’re right, Travis.” Grace met his gaze. “The man who attacked you, the one I saw in the town, he was shorter and heavier than the one I saw in my vision.”

“But when and how will the conspirator strike?” Durge said. “It seems unlikely he will be able to do away with all the kings and queens at once. Two of them will hardly stand in a room together at this point, let alone all seven.”

Grace’s green-gold eyes grew large. “The feast!”

Travis and Durge both stared at her.

“Aryn said King Boreas is planning a feast for Midwinter’s Eve,” she said. “It’s the only time all the rulers will be together before the council meets again. That has to be when the conspirator will strike. It’s his only chance.”

“But the great hall will be closely guarded, my lady,” Durge said. “I can assure you of that.”

“It won’t matter.” Travis didn’t know why, but he was certain Grace was right. “Not if the murderer is already in the great hall.”

“In which case we have to find him before the feast begins,” Grace said.

“A fine idea, my lady,” Durge said. “But how do you propose we accomplish this?”

She grimaced. “I don’t know. We’d need some sort of distraction—something to throw the murderer off his guard so he reveals himself. But I can’t think of anything to do that.”

Travis started to agree, then winced in pain. He glanced down to see the black kitten pounce again at his shin like a miniature panther. Its sharp claws sank through the fabric of his breeches to pierce the skin. He started to shout in protest, then halted. The kitten sat and looked up at him with
large golden eyes. Of course—it was only playing, only pretending to be ferocious.

Only playing, only pretending …

Travis laughed. The answer was so impossible, but even as he thought this he knew it was right, that it was their only chance. Grace and Durge stared at him, probably afraid he had lost his mind. He reached down, scooped the kitten into his grasp, and stood again.

“I think I know someone who can help us,” he said.

Grace and Durge stepped close to listen. In the crook of his arm the kitten licked a paw and purred.

Minutes later the three of them—minus the kitten—stood outside a wooden door. This was a quiet part of the castle, a tower some distance from the main keep.

Travis glanced at Durge. “Are you certain this is it?”

The knight gave a sharp nod. “The Lady Aryn mentioned the king’s actors were being housed in the north tower. This is the only chamber large enough to accommodate an entire troupe.”

“This has to be it,” Grace said.

Travis drew in a deep breath. Did he really mean to do this thing? But there was nowhere else to turn for help. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then rapped on the door.

There was no answer. Silence crept down the corridor on padded feet. Travis swallowed hard, then reached out his hand to knock again.

The door swung open.

“Who’s there?” Travis called out.

No answer. Through the door he saw only shadows and gloom.

“Let’s go,” Grace said.

Durge loosened his knife in its sheath. “I will wait out here. Call me if you require my aid.”

Travis doubted the knight’s blade would be of much use against anything they might encounter beyond the door. However, he did not say this. He exchanged looks with Grace, then the two stepped through the doorway.

A heavy sound echoed behind them—the door shutting, Travis supposed, although it sounded muffled and distant. He adjusted his spectacles and peered around him. There was light in the chamber after all, silvery and sourceless.
Rushes strewed the floor, and tapestries draped stone walls. The weavings depicted a green forest with tangled trees hiding white stags, birds, and crystal fountains. His hand found Grace’s, and they stepped farther into the room.

Bells shimmered on the air, then faded with a lingering shiver across his skin,

“This way,” Grace said.

They followed the sound through an archway. More tapestries draped the walls, only they seemed closer now, and darker. The tapestries had been woven with great skill. He could see minute details: the texture of a tree’s bark, the dappled light on the surface of a brook. He and Grace pressed on. A moist scent rose on the air, fresh and green, so unlike the usual odor of the castle.

Another stone archway, this one half-draped by one of the tapestries. Travis reached out to push aside the curtain and step through the arch.

His hands brushed across smooth bark, and cool leaves caressed his face.

No, that was impossible. It was only a tapestry. He looked at Grace. Her eyes were startled. He opened his mouth, but a rustling sound interrupted him, and something crimson streaked between them. Travis followed it with his gaze. It alighted on a branch: a small bird, its breast as red as berries. The bird regarded them with bright eyes.

Grace squeezed his hand hard. “Where are we, Travis?”

Travis looked around. He could still see the chamber’s stone walls here and there, and the floor was still wood, although now it was covered—not with cut rushes—but with fallen leaves. Somewhere water flowed, and branches arched overhead instead of beams or rafters.

“I’m not sure, Grace.”

But maybe he was. Maybe this was both castle and forest.

“Greetings,” said a piping voice.

Travis and Grace turned around.

“Trifkin!” Travis said.

The little man sat on a stump, cross-legged, his jacket blending with the leaves. It was difficult to be sure, but the silvery light seemed to emanate from his direction.

“I knew you would come,” Trifkin said. “Yet I feared you would not.”

“We need your help, Trifkin.” Grace took a step toward him. “We need to find a way to—”

He raised a small hand and nodded. “I know.”

Travis followed after Grace. “But how can you know?”

“I have seen it happen,” Trifkin said. “Your plan for the Midwinter’s Eve feast.”

“Then it’s going to work?” Grace said.

“Yes,” Trifkin said. Then, “No.”

Travis groaned. This was too much. “But what are you saying? How can it be both?”

The little man held out his arms. “A tree has many branches, yet it is all one tree. Still, in the end, you can choose but one branch to follow.”

Travis hesitated, then grinned. It was like the chamber and the forest. Sometimes two possibilities could exist at once: a fork in a road, a branch in a tree. There was no way to know which would be true, not until you picked one.

“It’s not too late,” Grace said. “That’s what you mean. We still have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Trifkin said. “It is what you will choose that is unknown.”

Travis drew closer to the little man. “Will you help us then?”

Trifkin’s round face grew solemn. “The Little People retreated from this world long ago. It had its New Gods—it needed the Old Ones and their children no longer.”

Grace sighed. “Then you won’t help us.”

Trifkin regarded her with his deep eyes. “Yes, that is one choice.” He stood on the stump. “Yet there is another choice as well. That which was once forgotten comes again. We were lost in our dreams of the old days, but now the old days are returning. The time for action has come.”

“But what can we do?” Travis said.

Now Trifkin smiled again. “But you already know. You have only to follow that branch to its end.”

Travis shook his head. How could he possibly know? Then somehow he did. It glowed before him, perfect and whole, like a ripe fruit he had only to pluck. He looked at Grace. Her eyes shone—she understood.

“You must go now,” Trifkin said.

There was peril in his voice. The meaning was clear: This place was not safe for mortals.

“But first,” the little man said, “I must give you each a gift.”

A silver bracelet appeared in his small hand. From it dangled a dark, wedge-shaped stone. He handed it to Grace, and she slipped it over her wrist.

“Follow this, Blademender,” he said, “until you can learn to follow your own heart.”

Now a bundle wrapped in leaves appeared in Trifkin’s hand. He handed it to Travis.

“What is it?” Travis said.

“Hurry,” Trifkin whispered.

“But—”

Travis blinked, then stared at Grace. Before them the wooden door swung shut. They turned around and saw the Embarran knight.

“Durge!” Grace said. “You’re still here.”

“Of course, my lady. You were gone but a moment. Did he not speak to you then?”

Grace could only shake her head. She lifted her hand, and silver glinted around her wrist.

Travis looked down at the bundle in his hands. It was not covered in leaves any longer, but with green felt. With trembling hands he unfolded the cloth. Beneath was a disk of creamy white stone. His heart fluttered in his chest. He did not need Falken to tell him what the object was. He knew the meaning of the angular rune, and the meaning of the jagged break that divided the disk in two.

It was
Gelth
.

The second seal from the Rune Gate.

And it was broken.

After a week of muffling clouds and mist, the day before Midwinter dawned clear and brilliant over Calavere. It had snowed during the night, and a thick, white cloak mantled the fields and walls of Calavan. Grace rose with the sun,
threw open the window of her chamber, and breathed in icy air. Snow capped the castle’s towers and battlements and concealed—for a short time at least—the mud of the baileys.

Grace spent the day doing simple things. She passed the morning beside the fireplace, reading a book taken from the castle’s library. It was a history of Calavan. She read of the terrible winter five centuries ago, when the River Darkwine froze over and barbarians crossed the ice to attack. However, the Tarrasian captain Calavus—who had never in his life traveled to the great city of Tarras—met them, not with swords, but with skins of wine and joints of roasted meat. He forged a pact with the barbarians, they knelt to him as their leader, and in that moment Calavan was born.

Grace set down the book and gazed again at the frigid world outside the window. The Dimduorn had not frozen since that winter five hundred years ago. She had heard it said in the castle how some thought it would freeze that night.