The Keep of Fire (41 page)

Travis stepped off the well-worn path. As he drew near the stone, the world receded into the distance, and the beating of his heart seemed to cease. Then he saw the single rune incised into the pitted surface of the stone. It was
Sirith
. The rune of silence.

Curious, he tried an experiment. Softly, and without much force—just in case he was wrong—he opened his mouth and spoke a rune.
Sharn
.

It was like speaking into cotton. He felt the rune of water leave his mouth, then it was swallowed in the folds of enchantment surrounding the standing stone.

Travis attempted another experiment. “Hello,” he said.

This time the word carried on the air, although muffled. So it was only runes that were silenced by the stone. He stepped away from the artifact, and both world and sound rushed back.

Travis gazed at the stone. Why would an object bound with the rune of silence stand before the Gray Tower? After all, this was the fortress of the Rune
speakers
. In silence, how could they work their craft?

Travis shrugged. The stone certainly wasn’t going to answer his question. Above him, the sun was nearing its zenith; Master Larad would be waiting for him. With a sigh, he turned to trudge back to the tower.

It was not until a week after he had resolved to talk to Oragien that Travis finally gained a moment alone with the All-master.

“I spoke with Master Eriaun this afternoon,” Oragien said before Travis could open his mouth. “He believes it is nearly time for you to begin searching the runestone.”

The words caught Travis off guard. He had come upon the All-master quite by accident in the refectory. It was a large room with tables and benches enough for three hundred runespeakers to sit and eat at once. However, these days there were never more than a third of that. Travis was hungry, and he had come to the refectory in hopes that Sky might be there, preparing the evening meal with the help of the tower’s few other servants, and that the young man might be convinced to part with some cheese or an apple a bit early. Instead he had found Oragien, sitting by himself, taking a simple meal of bread and figs.

At last Travis gained the use of his tongue. “Search the runestone for what?”

“For the key, of course.” Oragien’s eyes were sharp and blue as a winter sky. “The key to defeating the
krondrim.”

Travis stared at the All-master. The burnt man in the saloon had spoken of a key. But what was it?

Beware—it will consume you
.

Was it the key he was supposed to beware of? Maybe that was what the burnt man had meant. What was he supposed to beware of if not
them?
The
krondrim
.

Travis drew in a deep breath, then asked the question that had been on his mind ever since waking in the Gray Tower. “All-master, Master Larad said that the Runespeakers had help in summoning me here to Eldh.”

“Master Larad says many things,” Oragien answered before Travis could go on. His words were not harsh or angry, merely crisp and factual.

“But you did have help, didn’t you?”

Oragien nodded. “And does that alter anything?”

“No, of course not.” Travis licked his lips. “It’s just that … I just wanted to know who they were.”

To Travis’s shock, Oragien laughed, slapping the table with a gnarled hand. “A very good question, Master Wilder. And, if you are lucky, perhaps one day they will tell you. Even I am not certain I truly know the answer to that question.”

Travis frowned. This was not the response he had expected. He decided to try one more tactic. “If the Runespeakers summoned me, then why did I appear in the town below the tower?”

Oragien sighed, and the laughter faded from his wrinkled face. “I do not know, Master Wilder. There is much we no longer understand. The runechant with which we summoned you has not been spoken in many centuries. Indeed, it had been long lost, and only recently was revealed to us again.”

“But if you didn’t know where I would end up, how did you know to find me in the tavern?”

Now a hint of laughter returned. Oragien’s eyes
sparkled. “My son, I am the All-master. We have forgotten much, but I am not without my tricks.”

Travis decided that was all the information he was going to get. He took a deep breath, then spoke the words he had been rehearsing for the last seven days. “All-master, I say this with respect, but I don’t think I have the power to help you against the
krondrim.”

Oragien waved the words aside. “Humility becomes you, Master Wilder. Indeed, it is good and all too rare to see one whose pride has not grown in accordance with his ability. But do not forget you are a runelord. The power to discover the key
is
yours.” Oragien’s voice grew soft. “If you would so choose to aid us, that is.”

Travis opened his mouth, but speech was lost as he realized what had just happened. Oragien, All-master of the Gray Tower of the Runespeakers, had just begged for his help.

Oragien picked up his staff and stood. “Come, Master Wilder. It is time for chorus.”

That night, in the chorus chamber, Travis was asked to recount the tale of his first journey to Eldh. As he ascended the dais in the center of the chamber, his knees shook; he was not used to being the center of attention. The air around him whispered with voices past; here, at the focus of the chamber, they abided the longest. How ancient were some of the sounds he could just barely hear? Days? Weeks? Centuries?

Somehow, the thought of all those others standing where he stood now was comforting. Travis spoke, the descriptions of all that had happened to him tumbling out of his mouth. His words echoed around the chamber, each one fading but never quite to silence, weaving a tapestry of sound, until it was almost as if he could see them all there, the ones he spoke of: Melia and Falken, Grace and Beltan, Aryn and Durge.

When he reached the part of his tale that concerned the White Tower of the Runebinders, master, journeyman, and apprentice alike leaned forward, eager to hear of their ancient brethren. Then he spoke of the folly of the Runebinders, and of the blood that had spilled forth with the second breaking of the Foundation Stone. Now cries of dismay mingled with the whispers on the air.

“Master Wilder, you cannot expect us to believe what you say,” a harsh voice rang out.

Travis looked up and saw Master Larad striding toward the dais. Heads nodded as he passed; the dark-eyed runespeaker was not the only one who doubted Travis’s story.

“How could the Runebinders have spilled the blood of a Necromancer at the founding of their tower? All the Dark Ones were destroyed in the War of the Stones. And even had one survived, how might the Runebinders—who were mortal just as we—have captured such a being?”

Travis opened his mouth, although he was unsure what exactly he would say, but another voice spoke first.

“I believe,” a quiet voice said.

All eyes turned toward Oragien, who stood beside his seat, staff in hand.

“Ever were the Runebinders the proudest of the orders,” the All-master went on. “They traced their line directly to the runelords who bound the Rune Gate in Shadowsdeep. Mikelos, last All-master of the Runebinders, once said that his order might bind the sun in the sky, if they so wished, so that it would ever be day. A year later, the White Tower fell, and the Runebinders were no more.” He turned his gaze on Travis. “Now, at last, we know why.”

Heads nodded around the chamber, and some wiped their eyes at the tragedy that had befallen the Runebinders over three hundred years ago. Larad
frowned, although he sat and said nothing more. However, all throughout the rest of his tale, Travis felt black eyes on him.

The next evening, just as the sun was sinking into fire, Travis looked up, startled to see Oragien standing in the doorway of his chamber.

“All-master!” Travis rose from his bed—where he had been sitting cross-legged, working with a tablet of runes—and smoothed the wrinkles from his gray robe.

“It is time,” the white-haired man said.

“For chorus. Yes, of course. Just let me—”

“No, Master Wilder. There will be no chorus tonight.”

Travis froze. There was quiet power in Oragien’s voice.

With his runestaff, the All-master pointed through the door. “This way.”

Travis managed a nod, then walked after the elder runespeaker. As they started down the staircase, two figures fell in just behind, one short and plump, the other taller, sharper, and darker, and both clad in mist-gray. Larad and Eriaun. They did not speak to Travis, and he did not dare to break the silence himself.

When they reached the lowest level of the tower, Travis thought the procession would stop. Instead, Oragien led the way through an opening Travis had never noticed before: In fact, such were the queer angles of the arch’s design and the way it was set into the wall that it was impossible to see the opening until one was already stepping into it.

Beyond the arch was another staircase: smaller, narrower, and lit by a colorless light that sprang from no visible source. Travis lost count of the turns as they continued down. A great weight pressed on the air, and he knew they were descending into the crag from which the spire had been hewn.

Just when Travis was certain that the invisible force was going to crush his body into so much jelly, the staircase ended, and he followed Oragien into a cavernous space. The makers of the tower had left the walls of this chamber rough, but everywhere inclusions of pale crystal marked them, and these caught the sourceless light, fracturing it and scattering the cool shards in all directions.

“What is this place?” he murmured. Unlike the chorus chamber, the air in this place muted his words, although it did not smother them as had the standing stone outside the tower.

Oragien gestured with his staff, pointing to the center of the chamber. Travis took a halting step forward.

The stone was half the height of a man, three-sided, and fashioned of onyx. At first Travis thought it rested on a stand that was the exact same color as the walls. As he drew nearer he saw the truth: The stone floated four feet above the floor of the chamber, suspended without aid of pedestal or wire.

Gray shapes moved on the edges of Travis’s vision—there were others in the chamber, perhaps twenty masters in all. However, he did not glance in their direction, for his gaze was caught and held by the stone.

No, not stone. Runestone. There’s nothing else it could be
.

Incised over every inch of black stone were small, angular shapes. Runes. Here and there Travis recognized one of the symbols. Most were alien to him.

He stopped before the runestone and breathed in a sharp, metallic odor, like the scent of lightning. His right palm itched, and he reached toward the polished surface.

“Stay your hand! a harsh voice spoke, although the echo was cut short by the stillness of the chamber.

“No, Master Larad, let him try,” another, softer voice said. Eriaun.

Oragien’s deep tones cut through the preternatural hush. “Surely the runestone will know its own kind.”

Travis held his breath, then laid a finger gently atop one of the runes.

Fhar
.

The voice that spoke in his mind sounded like Jack’s. But somehow Travis knew it wasn’t really Jack who had spoken. It was a part of Jack, that was all. A part of the runelord he had once been, and that he had given to Travis.

Travis shut his eyes, and he could see the rune glowing against the blackness.
Fhar. River
. Yes, of course, it was so clear.

A gasp sounded behind him. Travis opened his eyes, then saw it was not only in his mind that the rune shone. The grooves that formed the rune
Fhar
seemed filled with molten silver, except it remained cool. Travis touched another rune.

Meleq
, the voice whispered in his mind.
Wood
.

Like the other, this rune glowed when Travis touched it, and a jolt of energy coursed through him, delicious but fleeting. With light motions, Travis touched three more runes. Each of them burst into silvery life as he listened to the words.

Tisra. Kael. Pehr
.

“That is enough, Master Wilder,” a voice said, but it was dull and distant. The light of the runes filled him, singing through his veins. He spread his fingers out and with both hands touched the runestone.

Indar. Sefel. Ris
.

Brilliant light streamed from the stone as the runes sounded in Travis’s mind, each one louder than the last.

Uthen, Halas, Lor
.

He stepped back, but still the runes echoed in his mind, no longer spoken in Jack’s voice alone, but
rather in a chorus of voices that rose in a deafening cacophony. In front of him, the stone began to rotate in midair, spinning like a top, faster and faster, sending wild splinters of silver light careening about the chamber. Travis clutched his hands to his ears, but the voices only grew more clamorous, threatening to split apart his skull.

LavethKrindorAreshJevuWista—

“Dal!”

This rune was spoken, not in his mind, but by a roaring voice that thundered across the chamber. As if a door was shut, the jabbering symphony in Travis’s mind ceased. The radiance dimmed to black, and the runestone jerked to a halt, motionless again. Travis stumbled back, his body as brittle as cracked glass. He turned and found himself gazing into bright, angry eyes.

“Why did you not heed me when I told you to stop, Master Wilder?” Oragien said, his voice low now, but no less hard.

Travis fought for words. “I’m sorry. It was … it was just so …” But he never could have explained how it had felt to be filled with the buoyant light. It was like every possibility come true.

“Never disobey me again, Master Wilder.”

The only answer Travis could manage was a shallow nod.

“Do you see now, All-master?” Larad said. His scar-crossed face was flat and emotionless, but a smug light glinted in his black eyes. “This is the danger I warned of. This is what comes of meddling in what we do not understand.”

Oragien whirled around and advanced on Larad, his staff gripped in white-knuckled hands. “And what precisely do we understand, Master Larad? Anything?”