The Keep of Fire (62 page)

“Will we be able to get by the guards at the gate?” Lirith said, glancing at the bard.

Now the old wolfish grin cut across Falken’s haggard mien. “We’ll find a way.”

“Farewell, my lady,” Durge said to Grace, bowing low in the saddle. “It has ever been my honor to serve you.”

Lirith cast one of her mysterious smiles at Grace. “I’ll miss you, sister.”

Grace nodded. An ache welled up in her chest. There was so much she wanted to say—that she loved
them all, that she wanted them to take care of themselves, and that she was so terribly afraid they would never come back. But the mist seemed to creep into her lungs, constricting them, and all she could say in a soft voice was, “Good-bye.”

The three wheeled their horses around and rode across the bailey. After a moment the fog closed behind them, and they were gone. Grace gazed into the mist, then sighed, turned, and headed back into the castle.

It took her longer than she had intended to return to their chambers. However, in Castle Spardis—she had discovered over the last two days—the shortest distance between two points was nothing even close to resembling a straight line. She passed through archways to nowhere, walked down corridors that led her in circles, and climbed stairways that ended in blank walls.

In a way getting lost was welcome, for it gave her time to think—something she had not had in great quantities since leaving Calavere. Falken, Durge, and Lirith had their mission, and Grace had hers. And it wasn’t simply determining the political situation in Spardis.

Once again, in her mind, she went over every aspect of Melia’s condition she had been able to assess. Melia’s breath rate and pulse were depressed, and she exhibited no pain response. However, her pupils still responded to light, and there was no sign of reflexive contraction in her extremities. That was good—it meant there wasn’t brain damage. If brain damage was even something one like Melia could suffer from.

And that was part of the problem. Melia was not mortal. Grace had no idea what effect that had on her physiology—if the lady even
had
a physiology. However, Grace had no choice but to treat her as she would anyone, and so far there was nothing that indicated a diagnosis.

She had examined the room where Melia fell, but she had found nothing of interest—some furniture, a tapestry, and a marble bust of a man. That was all. Beltan had suggested the wine might have been the cause, but all of them had drunk of the same wine, and Lord Siferd was the last person in the castle who would have wanted to poison Melia. Besides, Lirith had examined the residue in the wine goblet with the Touch, and she had detected no trace of toxin.

Before Grace found any answers, she found their room. With a breath she opened the door and stepped through. Travis looked up from the chair in which he had been slumping.

“Well,” she said, “they’re gone.”

He nodded, his gray eyes dim behind his spectacles.

Grace glanced at the door that led to Melia’s chamber. “How is she?”

“The same. Beltan’s with her. He still won’t sleep. I think he’s waiting until he collapses on top of her. But Aryn and Tira are resting in the other room.”

“You should get some rest yourself. You look awful.”

He grinned up at her. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Travis lay down on a cot. Grace set his spectacles on a table and covered him with a blanket. Then she rose and started to turn away.

“Do you think they’ll do it?” His voice was low and hoarse. “Get the Stone of Fire from Dakarreth.”

Grace turned around. His eyes were shut.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Yes, I believe so. I think maybe I have to.”

Travis did not open his eyes, but he nodded. Grace watched him until his breathing grew deep and even—it took a minute, perhaps less—then she moved across the room and slipped quietly through the door, into the corridor beyond.

Now what?

She sighed. There was nothing more she could do to help Melia. She supposed she might as well work on her other mission, the one given her by Boreas, although it hardly seemed important. If Falken failed, then who ruled what Dominion would be moot. Dakarreth would rule them all. But if she really believed the bard was going to succeed, then it
was
important to find out who this new regent was, and whether he had Queen Inara’s and Prince Perseth’s best interests in mind.

Renewed purpose brought energy to Grace’s limbs. She started down the corridor.

Five missteps, a half-dozen questions asked of servants, and thirty minutes later, she found herself in front of a gilded door in the castle’s north wing. Exactly
which
north wing it was she couldn’t say, for Spardis seemed to have three of them. As she approached the door, two guards in black polished armor intercepted her, crossing spears to bar the way.

“No one is to disturb Queen Inara,” one of them growled.

Grace took a quick step back to avoid having her nose sliced off. “Then could I please send a message to her?”

“The queen is taking no messages during her seclusion.”

She lifted a hand to her chest. “By whose orders?”

“By command of the regent. If you wish to send a message to the queen, you may petition the regent when he returns.”

Grace ducked her head, then turned and walked down the corridor before she got a spear stuck in her. She hadn’t thought she would be able to get in to see the queen, but the attempt had been interesting. If Inara really was in seclusion, shouldn’t the prohibition against communication have been her own?

Not if it’s a forced seclusion. You have to admit
,
it’s a convenient way to keep her out of the picture. If she breaks the mourning, she looks callous. So she has no choice but to stay in her room and watch the regent rule things for her
.

She was jumping to conclusions, of course. For all Grace knew this regent had Inara’s complete support. If only there was someone else she could talk to. But maybe there was.…

It was afternoon before Grace finally found the room she was looking for. She spoke to a dozen servants, but as soon as she said who she sought, each cast a startled look over his or her shoulder and scurried away. Finally she found a boy carrying a bucket of refuse who, in exchange for a silver coin, was willing to talk.

“My grandmum is watching him,” the boy said. “You’ll find his room in the east wing.”

“Which
east wing?” Grace said with a sigh.

A grin split his scabby face. “Why, there’s only one, my lady.” Then he had scampered down the hall.

Surprisingly, the boy’s words had proved accurate. Grace hesitated, then knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a cracked voice spoke from the other side.

Grace opened the door and stepped through, then nearly fell back against the stench. She lifted a hand to her mouth, steeled herself, and moved farther into the dim chamber.

So this is what happens to sick dukes in Spardis
.

There was little more to the room besides a cot and a chair. On the cot, propped up with ragged pillows, was a middle-aged man in a filthy bedshirt. His hair was greasy and unkempt and his cheeks unshaven. He stared with blank eyes while spittle rolled down his chin. In the chair sat an old woman who looked little cleaner than the man. She leaped to her feet when she saw Grace.

“My lady!” she said with a clumsy curtsy.

Grace moved closer to the bed. The scent of feces was strong. When had his sheets been last changed? She studied the man’s unseeing eyes, then looked at the old woman. “Is this Duke Falderan?”

“Aye, it is.” The woman pawed at her snarled hair, utterly failing to smooth it down. “I’ve been set here to care for him, I have.”

Grace clenched her teeth. What use was there chastising the old woman? She knew nothing about caring for the infirm, that was clear. No, it was the one who had sent her here who deserved Grace’s wrath.

She knelt beside the bed and snapped her fingers in front of Falderan’s eyes. No blink response. Then she noticed the bandage on the side of his head, dark with old blood. She looked up at the woman. “How long has he been like this?”

A shrug. “Since I came to him, my lady. Over a moon it’s been now.”

“Do you know the nature of his illness?”

The woman let out a harsh cackle. “A disagreement with the regent, that’s what his illness is, my lady. He took a tumble on the steps, but not without help, I’d say.”

Grace rose. There was nothing she could do for Falderan.

“You think the regent had this done?” she said.

Now the old woman’s eyes went wide. She backed up against the wall. “Oh, bless me! Are you a spy then, my lady? But it was only a jest. Yes, a jest. I love the regent, I do. Gods be with him.” Tears streamed down her dirty face. “Bless me, oh, gods bless me.”

“It’s all right,” Grace said. “Really.” She reached out a hand, but the old woman howled as if stuck with a knife, cringing and sniveling in the corner, snot running from her nose. Before she made things worse Grace left the chamber, shutting the door behind her.

Outside, she drew in deep breaths, trying to clear the stench from her lungs, but the reek of death followed her all the way back to her room.

Travis moved down the corridor, glancing left and right, wondering if anyone had seen him.

What do you think, Travis? This is Spardis. Probably two dozen people have noticed you in the last minute
.

But he was not concerned about any of the scheming residents of the castle spying on him. It was the eyes of his friends he was trying to avoid. He didn’t want any of them to ask him where he was going. He didn’t want to lie to them. And he didn’t want to wound them with the truth.

You’ve got to get away from the others, Travis—before you hurt one of them—and this is your last, best chance. Beltan’s not going to leave Melia, not while she’s sick. And Grace has a mission here she’s got to finish. With what she found out about Duke Falderan the other day, it looks like there’s plenty for her to investigate here
.

As for Aryn and Tira—Travis knew they would stay wherever Grace was. He gripped the felt-wrapped runestaff in one hand, shifted the bag he had tossed over his shoulder with the other, and kept walking.

He had nearly blown it all that morning. He had taken breakfast with Grace, Aryn, and Tira in their chamber, and gazing on their faces—for what he knew was likely the last time—had conjured bitter tears.

“What’s wrong, Travis?” Aryn had said, touching his arm lightly with her left hand.

“I’ve just got something in my eye,” he had said—the lie had come easily—then turned away.

After that he looked for Beltan—not to say farewell, he couldn’t do that—but just to see the knight one last time. Of them all, Travis had thought most of Beltan since his decision to leave. He wasn’t entirely certain why; maybe it was just that Beltan was his Knight Protector. Regardless, Travis wondered if he would ever again feel as safe as he did when Beltan was close. But now it was his turn to be the protector. After all, how long would Beltan be safe if Travis remained?

The knight had actually left Melia’s bedside that morning—to stretch his legs, he had told Aryn, although the baroness believed that Beltan had gone to find a shrine of Vathris where he might pray. Travis had searched for an hour, then had finally seen the knight heading away from him down a corridor.

“Beltan!” he had called out.

By the way the knight had hesitated, missing a beat in his stride, Travis knew he had heard. Then the knight continued on without turning, disappearing around a corridor.

Travis’s heart sank in his chest. It was clear Beltan had been avoiding him ever since their struggle with Eriaun and the
krondrim
. Had he done something to offend the knight?

He didn’t know. Maybe, in the end, Beltan did think of him as a monster, and not a man. Either way, it was for the best, for it made escape easier. Although, at that moment, Travis suspected he would have given anything to see one of Beltan’s brilliant smiles one more time.

Instead he retrieved his things from the alcove where he had hidden them earlier, then headed down the passageway with quick steps. He had to make sure he was outside the castle walls before the others found out he was gone.

Ducking through an archway, he stepped onto a cobbled street crowded with people. He fell in with the crowd, walking in the direction of two soaring spires that he knew flanked the castle’s gates. Beyond them was—what?

Travis sighed. He supposed he would find out when he got there. But maybe he already knew. Even now he could feel it on his heels, following him like a shadow. Power.

Go, Runebreaker! Go destroy the world by saving it!

No—that was why he was leaving, going as far away from anyone as he could. Travis clenched his hand around the runestaff and quickened his pace.

The movement of the crowd slowed. Ahead, Travis caught a glimpse of a cart of turnips that had spilled across the street. A flock of goats milled around it while a barefoot boy with a willow switch tried in vain to gather them together. Travis groaned. He didn’t need a delay just then. Searching, he spied an archway that opened onto a side lane. He jostled his way between angry people, then stepped through the arch.

After the bustle of the main street, the lane was dim and quiet. The walls leaned toward each other above, nearly shutting out the sky. Travis started into a trot.

After a few minutes, he began to wonder if this detour had been such a good idea. At first he had been able to see the tops of the towers that marked the castle’s gate. Then the lane turned, and the towers were lost to sight. Again the narrow way twisted, and again, until Travis wasn’t certain if he was going away from the center of the castle or toward it. Here and there bridges arched overhead, but it had been some time since he had seen an opening that led out of the lane, and there was no end to the way in sight.

“Are you lost, friend?”

Travis came to a skidding halt. He jerked his head from side to side, but all he saw were blank stone walls.