The Keep of Fire (19 page)

A fortnight later, Beltan had left Calavere to help Vedarr set up operations at the order’s new keep. Vedarr had offered Beltan a position as captain, and this the blond knight had not refused. The first mission of the order was to stamp out the last vestiges of the Raven Cult. The cult had been a front for the workings of the Pale King, and most of its leaders had perished when Berash was defeated—the iron hearts their master had given them failing as he was locked
in his icy Dominion of Imbrifale once again. However, there were pockets where the cult remained active and continued to practice bloody rites of human branding and mutilation.

Grace had feared for Beltan the day he readied himself to ride off with Vedarr and two dozen other knights. She stood in the upper bailey, watching with concern as Beltan saddled his roan charger. His wound had closed, but just barely, and it was an injury that should have killed him in the first place—only the magic of fairies had kept the thread of his life intact.

Her fears had not gone unnoticed. Lady Melia left her pale mare and approached across the bailey.

“Don’t worry, dear,” the amber-eyed woman said. “I’ll watch over him.”

Grace had smiled. Beltan was supposed to be Melia’s knight protector, but Grace knew sometimes these things worked both ways.

Falken called to Melia then, and after giving Grace a warm and unexpected embrace the dark-haired lady returned to her horse. Falken and Melia were leaving Calavere as well, and for the first part of their journey they planned to ride with Beltan and the other knights. Where they were going after that Grace didn’t know. Melia had only mentioned something about traveling to see an old friend.

In all, after the momentous happenings of Midwinter’s Eve, things had gone startlingly well. Still, despite their progress, not all things gave occasion for joy. For after Midwinter’s Eve there had been one other empty seat at the council table: Chair Eredane. Queen Eminda had died at the hands of Lord Logren, her high counselor and an ironheart. The first messengers to Eredane had passed into the Dominion with this news, but they had never returned. Now stories told that all travelers were stopped at the borders by grim knights and were forced to turn back.
That some struggle was going on within Eredane in the wake of Eminda’s death was certain. However, who the players were and what the outcome would be was a dark cloud none could see through.

Now, sitting in her bloody dress in King Boreas’s chamber, she turned her attention to yet another empty chair: Spardis, the seat of Perridon. It was curious that Boreas had summoned her and not another to consult about this issue. Then again, Lord Alerain, the king’s seneschal and advisor, was dead—revealed as an ironheart himself and a traitor. Maybe she was all he had left.

But it’s more than that, Grace. You know it is. When he first asked you to serve him it was because you were useful as a pawn. Now it’s because you’ve earned his respect
.

Grace studied Boreas. He paced now, as he always did when he was thinking, as if his muscular body could scarcely contain the energy within. A month ago, one of the castle’s ladies-in-waiting had stunned Grace by asking her when she was to marry the king. Grace had had to clamp a hand to her mouth to stifle the mad laughter. She would have thought Boreas more likely to behead her than marry her, although on an objective level she could see that in some ways they would be a good match. Boreas was strong, but she had learned that she was just as strong. Maybe stronger in some ways.

All the same, Grace knew she would never be queen of Calavere. She did care for Boreas, but more as she might have cared for a father, had she ever had one. And she doubted he had need of her affections. Besides, Grace could never let herself be touched again, not like that. She had almost dared to let herself believe she could love Logren only to discover he was a monster with a heart of iron. That mistake had nearly cost her life and her soul. She would not make it again.

Boreas moved to the sideboard and poured two cups of wine. Grace cringed in her chair, belatedly realizing that she should have offered to serve the king. It was a lapse she could have been imprisoned for in this world. Instead Boreas handed her one of the cups, and she gratefully accepted it and drank its contents down. Maybe that was the real reason Boreas still asked for her counsel and company. He didn’t have to be a king around her. He could be simply a man: flawed, temperamental, honest.

“You observed Persard during the council, my lady.” Boreas gazed into his wine but did not drink it. “And you spoke with him a great deal—more than myself, really. What’s more, I know you won the admiration of his counselor, Lord Sul.”

Grace bit her lip. Poor Sul. She still remembered the day she and Durge had convinced the mousy little man to speak to them by pretending Durge was out for his blood and that only Grace had the power to make the knight see reason.

“Tell me, my lady. What do you think this news bodes for us?”

Grace forced herself to forget the events of the day, to forget her bloody dress, and consider the question. “It’s not good, Your Majesty. The council’s decision to work together is a great step forward. However, the ink on the treaties is hardly dry. Persard does have an heir, but he’s only an infant, and his wife is little more herself. I heard she was fourteen when Persard married her two years ago.”

“Seventy winters his younger,” Boreas said with a snort that might have been disgust, admiration, or both.

Grace nodded. “So we have a child bride and an heir in diapers. Hardly the kind of situation in which you can count on a fragile new alliance to be upheld. If one of Persard’s dukes or barons ever had schemes to take over the Dominion, he couldn’t have asked for
a wider door. But then, I’ve heard it said that schemes are as rare in Perridon as foggy days.”

“My lady,” Boreas said in a growling voice, “it is always foggy in the Dominion of Perridon.”

“Well, then, I think you have your answer.”

Boreas grunted. “So what do we do?”

Grace sighed. Sometimes making a diagnosis was so much easier than finding a cure. “I don’t know. But Lord Sul spoke highly of Duke Falderan, who was keeping things running in Persard’s absence. If he were to act as a regent to Persard’s son until the boy reached ruling age, there might be a chance things would remain stable. As stable as they can in Perridon, at least.”

A small part of Grace was amazed at her analysis. But then, she had always been a good student, and these last months had given her a crash course in feudal politics.

Boreas was silent, then he nodded. “Thank you, my lady. You may go.”

Grace blinked, then rose to her feet. She was curious what Boreas intended to do, but it was not her place to ask. When the king dismissed you, you went. She moved to the door.

“And Lady Grace …”

She halted at the gruffly spoken words but did not look up.

“My lady, remember … it is the greatest honor of a knight to give himself in defense of his lord or lady.”

Grace clenched the doorknob.
Fuck honor, Your Majesty
, she wanted to say. Instead she bit her lip, then stepped through the door into the corridor beyond.

After her meeting with the king, Grace returned to her chamber to find Lirith waiting for her, along with a serving maid clad in dove gray. Next to the fire was a tub of steaming water. When Grace had asked where Aryn was, the dark-eyed witch informed her that Aryn was resting in her room, and that soon Grace would be doing the same.

Grace did not have the will to argue. Exhaustion enfolded her, as well as fresh horror at the day’s events. She was too numb even to care as the serving maid untied the laces of her bloody gown and let the garment slip to the floor.

Lirith took the leather pouch that was usually attached to Grace’s sash and set it on the mantle. Belatedly Grace realized that the silver half-coin Brother Cy had given her was inside the pouch. Without it she wouldn’t be able to speak and interpret the language of this world. Except that wasn’t entirely true, was it? After much practice she had gotten to the point where she could understand a good portion of the musical language the people here spoke, although she doubted she could have spoken two words of it herself. However, there was no need to talk right then, and it was easy enough to understand the murmured instructions she was given:
Take off your undergarments, climb into the tub, close your eyes
.

After the bath, when she was clothed again, the serving maid had brought a platter of food, and Lirith watched while Grace ate every bite of meat, bread, and dried fruit. When she finished, she climbed into bed and let Lirith pull up the covers like she was a small child. Grace closed her eyes, and when the witch kissed her brow it was comforting rather than
strange. Grace felt the light leave the room as Lirith blew out the candle. Then the door opened and shut, and Grace was alone.

However, despite her exhaustion, sleep was elusive. At last Grace rose from the bed and stood before the window. It was after midnight, and there was no moon.

A spark of crimson caught her eye. The new red star that had appeared in the southern sky with the coming of summer had just risen over the castle’s battlements. A month ago, when she first pointed out the star to Durge, he had frowned and had muttered something about “celestial orbs that shone where none should be.”

Since then, from talking to others, Grace had discovered that no one in the castle had ever seen this star before. Perhaps it was a comet then, or a planet—one on an irregular orbit that brought it near this world only after long absence. Of course, these explanations implied that Eldh was a planet itself, in a solar system much like Earth’s. Maybe it was even in the same galaxy, although Grace doubted that. Something told her it was more than mere physical distance that separated this world from Earth.

Grace gazed at the red star for a while more, then was surprised to find herself yawning. She turned from the window, climbed into bed, and shut her eyes. Sleep should have been impossible after all that had happened, but at last exhaustion won out, and she descended into slumber.

That night Grace had a dream.

She stood at the top of a mountain, on a pinnacle of rock, surrounded on all sides by swirling mist. Then the mist parted, and on another nearby peak, separated from her by an undulating sea of gray, was Travis Wilder. Excitement coursed through her at seeing her friend. She had thought he had returned to Earth, but here he was only a short distance away. His
back was turned to her, so she called out to him, but the fog muffled her voice, filling her throat and lungs like wet cotton.

A light flashed overhead, and she looked up to see the firedrake she had seen earlier streak through the mist. Only then it ceased to move, and it wasn’t the firedrake at all, but the new red star. Its light tinged the fog scarlet, and a note of alarm sounded in Grace’s mind, although she wasn’t certain why. All she knew was that she had to talk to Travis. She tried to call out again, but still he did not turn around. Then the red mist surged upward, engulfing him. Only it wasn’t mist anymore, Grace saw as the tendrils licked up and coiled around her.

It was fire.

Grace stepped through a vine-covered archway into the castle’s garden.

“Hello?”

Her voice drifted among the trees; there was no one else in view. She moved down one of the stone paths, deeper into the tangle of living things.

It was almost Midsummer now, and the garden was a nave of emerald and gold. Grace breathed in warm air that tasted of honey, and for the first time in a week she felt the muscles of her neck unclench and her shoulders ease downward a notch. There was something peaceful and ancient about the garden. In a way it made Grace think of Gloaming Wood and the Little People. And indeed the garden was not unlike the impossible forest she and Travis had once glimpsed in the castle chamber occupied by Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe of actors.

Maybe Lirith was right. Maybe this was a good
place to come after all. Although there was no sign of the one Lirith had spoken of that morning.

There’s someone I believe you should meet, sister. You’ll find her in the garden, I think
.

Seven days had passed since they had gone, at Grace’s urging, for a summer ride. Seven days since she had felt the delicate thread of Garf’s life slip through her fingers and melt away.

They had held a small service for the young knight in the circle of standing stones a few leagues from the castle. The last time Grace had stood among the megaliths had been to say good-bye to Travis before he returned to Earth. This time it had been a different sort of farewell. She knew Garf had followed the mysteries of Vathris Bullslayer, and that Boreas would hold a more secret rite to mark the knight’s passing. So this ceremony had been just for her and Lirith, for Aryn and Durge. They had done nothing more formal than to hold hands, to speak fondly of Garf’s good humor and sincerity, and to lay a wreath of flowers on the ground. It had been enough.

Perhaps the most shocking thing about death was that, in spite of it, life moved relentlessly onward. The sun rose every morning; the castle bustled with activity; Grace ate and slept. It all seemed so petty and stupid in the face of larger things, yet it was a comfort all the same.

In a way it was a sad realization, but Grace knew she would be all right. Being an utter wreck might almost have been more reassuring. It certainly would have been easier. But she knew—with that same certainty she felt when she knew a patient in the ED would survive—that she would go on.

Lirith would be fine as well, of that Grace had no doubt. Not that the Tolorian woman seemed untouched by Garf’s death. On the contrary, of all of them she seemed to grasp on its most fundamental level what a loss his passing was to the web of life
that bound them all. But something told Grace that Lirith had deep roots to draw upon and to hold her steady.

As for Durge and Aryn, Grace was less certain of their prognosis. No doubt Durge had witnessed many men die in his years as a warrior, but she doubted it was ever easy for the stalwart knight. The other evening she had seen him standing at a window, leaning against the sill, hunched over. It was the first time she ever remembered thinking that Durge looked old. However, when she called to him, he had stood straight at attention and asked in a crisp voice how he might serve her.