The Dark Remains (62 page)

A sigh sounded beside Grace. She turned to see Lirith standing behind her.

“Where are the others?” Grace said.

Lirith’s brown eyes gazed into the deepening gloom. “He loves her, doesn’t he?”

“Loves her? I’m sure of it.”

Lirith gave a stiff nod. “Well, then. Good for him. I hope … I hope they are happy when they are married.”

“Married? What are you talking about, Lirith?”

The slender witch blinked. “Vani and Sareth. If they love one another, are they not to be wed?”

Finally Grace understood. How could she have been such an idiot? But then, while she could listen to the heart of another with a stethoscope, there was no instrument that would let her glimpse what lay within it.

She laid her hand on Lirith’s arm. “Vani and Sareth love each other because they’re brother and sister.”

“Brother and sister?” Lirith’s jaw worked as she fought for words. “Then you mean …?”

The slender witch turned away, arms folded over her chest. A tremor passed through her. Grace couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to her it was a sob. She hesitated, then reached a hand toward Lirith.

“Grace, there you are!”

She turned around, as did Lirith. It was Travis.

He glanced at Lirith, then cocked his head. “Are you—?”

“We’re fine,” Grace said, finding Lirith’s hand and squeezing it.

He nodded. “Come on. Falken is practically rabid to talk to Sareth, but it seems they’re going to throw us a feast first. I gather it’s not often the Mournish—the Morindai—accept guests into their circle, so when they do they have to make a big deal of it.”

Grace glanced at Lirith. The witch’s eyes glittered in the darkness.

I am well, sister
.

Grace tightened her grip on Lirith’s hand. “Lead the way,” she said to Travis.

The Mournish might have forgotten many things in their millennia of wandering, but how to throw a party was clearly not one of them.

Travis watched as sparks soared upward from a bonfire toward the strange stars above, along with wild strains of music. His belly seemed to contain more spiced meat, flatbread, and olives than should be physically possible, and he held a cup of some sort of red, fiery wine in his hand—the reason the pleasant warmth he felt came not only from the fire.

He stood on the edge of the circle of light, near Aryn, Lirith, and Durge, while the others were gathered across the fire. Melia and Falken sat on piles of cushions as if they were royal guests. Some of the Mournish sat on the
ground, making their music with drums, wooden flutes, things that looked like fiddles, and instruments of bone Travis did not recognize.

Those Mournish not making music were dancing to it, swirling in patterns that seemed utterly chaotic, yet which suddenly formed into precise circles or interlocking squares, then just as quickly dissolved into whirls of color again. Even the children made music and danced, the girls wearing bright dresses and scarves, the boys in loose pants and colorful vests.

All the Mournish—whether infant or ancient—wore jewelry: bracelets, necklaces, and rings on their fingers, their toes, and in their noses and ears. However, Travis noticed that only Vani bore tattoos: the strange symbols that coiled up her arms and neck. Grace said they were symbols of her training. Of her skill as a T’gol.

She’s an assassin, Travis. That’s what the
T’gol
are. Vani has been trained since she was a girl in the art of killing people in the swiftest and most efficient ways possible
.

Travis gazed across the fire. For a moment golden eyes gazed back at him, then turned away.

Earlier, he and Grace had stepped away from the fire for a moment to talk.

They think you’re
A’narai
, Travis
.

A’narai?

It means fateless. Vani and Sareth’s grandmother said you have no past and no future because your hand doesn’t have any lines anymore
.

So that’s what they meant. The old woman—she said it was not my fate to uncover Morindu, but that it was the fate of the Mournish that they would regain Morindu through me. That didn’t really make sense
.

Agreed. And what makes less sense is that they think I’m going to be the one who gets you to the lost city of Morindu so you can raise it from the desert for them. According to her, that’s my fate
.

What do you think your fate is, Grace?

But she had only looked away, and Travis couldn’t decide which was worse. Knowing your fate—or not having one at all.

Colors whirled before Travis, and when they stopped he saw a Mournish woman clad in jewel-colored scarves.

“Dance with me,” she said in a lilting voice.

Travis started to stutter his decline when he realized her rich brown eyes were not gazing at him, but at Durge—or rather, at Durge’s hard chest visible through his open vest. The Embarran hastily crossed his arms, but this only caused his biceps to bulge. The Mournish woman draped a scarf around his neck, pulling him toward the music and the light.

“This is not proper, my lady,” Durge sputtered.

“It is quite proper among my people,
sayeh
. And it is among my people that you are at present.”

Durge cast a desperate look at Travis, but Travis only grinned and waved, knowing there was nothing he could do to save the hapless knight. Towing him by a scarf, the Mournish woman led him into the throng.

“Poor Durge,” Aryn said with a sigh. “He must be dreadfully embarrassed.”

“Actually, sister,” Lirith said with a laugh, “he seems to be doing rather well.”

Lirith was right. The Mournish woman used her scarves to guide Durge in the dance, but in moments the knight seemed to have figured out the complex steps and moved in perfect unison with the woman. She lowered her scarf until it encircled his hips and used it to draw him closer.

Aryn’s blue eyes grew squinty, and her left hand clenched into a fist. “That … that harlot. She doesn’t actually think she can have Durge, does she?”

“No, sister. They cannot …” Lirith’s voice wavered, her visage suddenly stricken. “That is, I’ve heard that the Mournish can never marry outside their clan.”

Aryn seemed puzzled by this, but Lirith turned away from the fire, her face lost in shadow. Had Lirith drunk too much of the heady wine? Travis started to move toward her, then paused. He saw another figure standing apart from the light and music. Despite the gloom, Travis’s new eyes made the other out clearly. He hesitated, then left Lirith and Aryn and moved toward the shadow beneath the trees.

“Beltan, what are you doing way out here?”

The knight stared into his cup; it was still full of wine. “I’m afraid I’m not much in the mood for merriment.”

“Then I don’t think the fairy did heal you, at least not completely.”

“It’s not that. The fairy patched me together well enough. I suppose I owe it my thanks for that.”

Travis stepped closer. It was surprisingly cool away from the fire. He could feel heat radiating from the other man.

“Then what is it?”

Beltan was silent, his eyes glittering in the cast-off light of the fire. “I learned something about myself, Travis. In Spardis, in the baths. Dakarreth told me. It’s … it’s something I did. A terrible crime.”

The big knight was trembling. What was wrong? Travis didn’t know, but he did know one thing: not to trust the words of a Necromancer. He reached out, took one of the knight’s hands, and held it between his own.

“Beltan, I don’t know what Dakarreth told you, but he was evil—he wanted to hurt you. It can’t be true.”

“No, it is true,” Beltan said, his voice hoarse. “I know it is. Five years ago, in Calavere … I was the one …”

Beltan’s words trailed off. In the hospital, in Denver, Travis had dared to bend down, to press his lips to the knight’s. But that had been a cowardly act, one the recipient could never possibly respond to—or pull away from. Travis let out a breath, then leaned forward, bringing his lips nearer the other man’s.

“Travis? Are you there?”

He sucked his breath in again and stepped back. Beltan stared, expression confused, his hands frozen halfway before him, although whether in the act of reaching out or drawing back Travis couldn’t say. The darkness stirred, and a lithe figure stepped into the moonlight.

“You should come back to the fire,” Vani said. “Both of you.”

Beltan’s eyes narrowed. “We were doing fine out here.”

Travis worked his jaw, suddenly anxious for something to say. “What’s wrong, Vani? Do we need to be watching for the Scirathi? You said they could be here in Tarras.”

She broke her gaze from Beltan and spoke in a crisp tone. “They are indeed here in Tarras. Sareth told me he has seen their signs. But I do not think they will attack us openly, not here in the caravan. They yet have some fear of the Mournish. As well they should.”

Travis thought about this. “Your people are sorcerers as well, aren’t they, Vani?”

“No, it is forbidden for us to work blood sorcery until we return to Morindu the Dark. But we have … other means of keeping the Scirathi away.”

Travis studied her lean form, her easy stance. He supposed they did at that. Things like the T’gol.

Beltan seemed to notice Travis’s gaze, and the knight scowled.

“Come on,” Travis said, suddenly wanting to be near light again. “Let’s go back to the fire.”

The Mournish had just called for a song from Falken, and they were laying down their drums and flutes to watch the bard. Travis saw Grace, Melia, and the others and moved toward them, Beltan and Vani following. Grace looked up, smiled at him, and he smiled back. However, his smile faltered after a moment. Something had happened there in the shadows beyond the fire. He had been about to kiss Beltan. Why had he pulled back?

Falken stood and strummed a chord on his lute. “I
think this song is appropriate for this place and this night. It’s called ‘The Lay of Ulther.’ It’s a song about the south and the north, and how they came together long ago.”

The last strains of the bard’s music faded, and the night was silent. The Mournish still watched the bard, their faces strangely solemn. Then, in twos and threes, they stood, bowed to Falken and Melia, and departed the circle of the fire. In moments, the eight companions stood alone in the firelight, along with Vani and Sareth.

“I guess the party’s over,” Travis said to Grace.

She gazed into the fire, gripping the steel pendant that hung at her neck.

“Grace, what is it?”

“That song. I … I know it.”

“Maybe you heard Falken sing it before.”

“No, that’s not it.”

Grace moved to the bard, who was putting his lute back into its case.

“Falken, could you play the music for the first verse again?”

Melia smoothed her white shift on the pillows where she sat. “Whatever for, dear?”

“I’m not sure. Falken?”

The bard nodded. “Very well.”

He took his lute back out, then strummed the now-familiar chords of “The Lay of Ulther.” Then, to Travis’s surprise, in a husky voice, Grace began to sing:

Falken’s hand fell still on his lute. He looked at Grace with piercing eyes. “I’ve never heard those words sung to this tune.”

Melia rose to her feet. “But they sound similar, don’t they?”

Falken nodded. “With Fellring sword of Elfin art …”

“And farewell words too often part.…” Grace looked up, her own eyes startled now. “But I used to sing that song as a child. I don’t understand.”

Sareth stepped forward, his sharp features cast in stark relief by the firelight. “Perhaps you can consider this mystery later. I think now it is time for us to talk.”

The fire burned down to a circle of glowing coals as Vani spoke of the three years she had spent on Earth: how she had searched for the ones fated to raise Morindu the Dark from the blasted sands of the Morgolthi, how she had learned in a message from Sareth that Travis and Grace were the ones she sought, and how together they had fled
Duratek, the
gorleths
, and Denver on that last terrifying day.

It was only when Aryn spoke that Travis realized Vani had finished her tale. The young baroness’s eyes were large as she looked at Grace and Travis.

“So you’re supposed to help the Mournish find the lost city of their ancestors?”

“The fabled city of Morindu,” Falken said. “But how can that be? What do Travis and Grace have to do with the City of the Dark?” He looked at Melia.

The amber-eyed lady shrugged, shifting on her cushion. “Well, don’t ask me. I wasn’t even born when the cities of Amún were destroyed in the War of the Sorcerers. Nor were any of my brothers and sisters.”

“No,” Falken said, rubbing his chin. “No, they weren’t.”

“How, Vani?” Grace said simply. “I would like to help you, to thank you for what you did for us, but how are we supposed to find a city that’s been lost for millennia?”

It was Sareth who answered. “I believe we were hoping the two of you would have some ideas about that. All the
T’hot
readings tell us is that it is your fate to raise Morindu the Dark.”

Travis let out a groan. “You mean you have no idea how we’re supposed to find this place?”