The Keep of Fire (69 page)

A coppery voice spoke. “Does he …?”

“Yes,” a smokier voice said as gentle fingers touched his throat. “He lives.”

“He’s shivering,” another voice—this one deep and musical—said.

Only as this voice spoke did Travis realize he was terribly cold. A cloak was draped over his body. The cloth hurt—it felt coarse and rough against his soft, naked skin—but he clutched it around himself anyway.

“Travis?”

Hands helped him sit up.

“Travis, can you hear me?”

A face came into focus before him, and he smiled. “Grace.”

She smiled back, then threw her arms around him. “I thought we had lost you.”

“I think maybe you did,” he murmured, then returned her embrace with strong, new arms.

Falken and Durge were there then, and they lifted him to his feet. The bard grinned. “You needed a shave, Travis, but this is taking things to extremes.”

Travis ran a hand over his bald head and the smooth line of his jaw. Everything—hair, beard, eyebrows—was gone. Only his spectacles, along with the rune of hope and the pouch with the silver half-coin, had somehow survived the flames. Everywhere Travis’s skin was as pink and fresh as that of a newborn baby. But maybe, in some ways, he
was
a baby. He took a step forward, certain he had never walked on these legs before.

He looked down and saw a charred, vaguely human husk. Smoke still rose from the twisted form.

“You were right, Grace. Dakarreth was afraid of becoming what he really wanted—afraid of being transformed. In the end, he turned away from the fire.”

“But you didn’t, Travis. You weren’t afraid.”

Except I was, Grace. I was so incredibly afraid. I just didn’t let go
. However, he only smiled.

Falken helped Melia approach with halting steps. The lady gazed at the remains of the Necromancer. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she said nothing.

“What of the
krondrim?”
Lirith said, rubbing her throat as she approached the tower wall.

Durge peered into the gloom. “The fires are burning out now. I think perhaps they fell when their master did.”

Falken nodded. “You’re right, Durge. It was through Dakarreth that the Burning Plague came. When he ceased, so did the
krondrim.”

Travis sighed. A breeze caressed his face, and he turned to the east. Light glowed on the horizon, warm and golden. Dawn. True dawn.

A small form moved past Grace, padding on bare feet to stand before Travis. The wind blew fiery hair from her face. He smiled, gazing down into placid eyes: one beautiful, the other drooping beneath a half-melted lid.

Tira held out her small hands. “Krondisar,” she said.

Startled, Travis glanced at Grace. Her own eyes were wide. He looked at Melia and Falken, but they stared at the child as well. Kneeling, he gazed again into Tira’s serene face. He held out his hand, and only then did he see that he still gripped Krondisar. One by one he uncurled his fingers. The Stone of Fire
gleamed dully on the palm of his hand, quiescent now.

Grace started forward. “Tira—no!”

The girl laughed, then reached out and picked up the Stone in both her small hands.

It did not burn her. Instead, Krondisar pulsed with ruby light. As Travis had seen once before, a shimmering corona danced along the outlines of Tira’s body, as red as the Stone. Only this time he knew all of them could see it.

Durge gripped Grace’s arm, holding her back. “No, my lady. You must not touch her.”

Grace nodded, and when Durge released her she did not move, but she gazed at Tira, her face stricken.

Tira smiled up at Travis, then she turned toward Grace. “Krondisar,” she said again. A light throbbed beneath her shift, in the center of her chest, in time with the pulsing of the Stone. Then the light expanded, until Tira’s entire body shone.

Lirith gasped. “What’s happening to her?”

“I’m not sure,” Falken said.

“I am,” Melia said. The lady stepped forward, stronger now that the Stone was no longer being wielded against her. She knelt before the child. “Welcome, sister.”

Tira pressed a small hand to Melia’s cheek. Then the girl’s feet left stone as she rose into the air.

“No!” Grace cried, reaching upward.

However, she was far too slow. Tira’s tiny body shone brightly until they could no longer see the girl, only a bright spark of light. The spark soared skyward, faster and faster, until it reached the other stars shimmering in the predawn sky—then hung there among them. The new star glimmered gently, as clear as a ruby in the eastern sky.

“Behold,” Melia said softly, “a goddess is born.”

Grace watched fire break over the horizon as a new dawn came to Eldh. A fresh morning wind blew over the lake, whisking away the dark smoke of night.

“Who was she?” Lirith said, gazing at the ruby star that hung low in the sky.

Falken stood beside the witch. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know. I think she really was just a girl—probably from a village in western Perridon—until she stumbled upon the valley of the temple somehow and found Mindroth.”

“No,” Melia said quietly. “It was Mindroth who found her, and who led her to the temple. That much I was able to glimpse. And it was for this reason that he raised her there, to make her a goddess, that she might protect Krondisar. Except Dakarreth came before her transformation could be completed.”

Falken laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s been completed now, Melia.”

The lady sighed, only it was not a sound of sadness, but rather of mystery. She turned her amber gaze to the sky. “I hope we’ll be able to learn more of you soon, little sister.”

Durge cleared his throat. “Now that Krondisar is a star again, will the Burning Plague return?”

Melia shook her head. “No, dear. The plague is over. On this world. And on the other.”

She glanced at Travis, and he nodded, his gray eyes thoughtful behind his spectacles.

The wind dried the tears on Grace’s cheeks, but it could not blow away the hurt in her heart. “I’ll miss her,” she whispered.

Just above the horizon, the ruby star of the east faded and was lost in the gold light of the fresh-born
day. But it would be there again that night, and the next, and every night after. And each time Grace gazed at the star, she would remember.

Lirith wrapped slender arms around her shoulders, and Durge stepped near.

“You always have us, my lady,” the Embarran said in his rumbling voice.

Despite her tears, Grace could only smile. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

She leaned against Lirith, then reached out to grip Durge’s hand, drawing him in close. However, as she did, Lirith pulled away, turning her back. Durge stared at the witch, his brown eyes intent. What was wrong? Had something passed between the two on their journey into the Barrens?

A high, clear voice drove the thought from Grace’s mind.

“I see that Dakarreth is no more.”

They turned to see a slight form in black step from the top of the stairway and approach. Falken bowed low and Melia curtsied, then the others remembered themselves and did the same.

“Rise,” Queen Inara said. “The saviors of the Dominion need not bow before me.”

Grace straightened, then gazed at the queen of Perridon. Inara had removed her black veil, and now her pale hair tumbled free around the oval of her childlike face.

Inara nodded in response to Grace’s look. “Yes, I have removed my veil. The time for mourning is over. Now is the time for healing Perridon in the name of my son.”

Despite the softness of Queen Inara’s visage, her eyes glinted with a keen wisdom beyond her years. Grace knew the young woman would face many intrigues and perils as she worked to cement her son’s claim to the throne of Perridon. All the same, she knew that Inara would succeed.

The queen gazed at the shriveled husk that had once housed Dakarreth’s fire. “I see that much has happened.” Her gaze rose to Melia and Falken. “More perhaps than I can fathom. But that must wait until later. You must come with me now.”

Travis stepped forward. “What is it, Your Majesty?”

But Grace already knew what Inara would say, and by his face Travis did as well.

“We have found your companion, Sir Beltan,” the queen said. “He is not … well. The Lady Aryn is with him. If you wish to speak to him, I suggest you come quickly.”

Grace knew well the meaning of those words. Beltan was dying. She met Inara’s eyes. “Take us, Your Majesty.”

Minutes later they stepped into the warm, steam-filled catacombs of Spardis’s baths. Grace breathed in moist, soothing air. Then the steam parted before them, and for a moment her breath ceased.

Beltan seemed almost peaceful as he lay on his back on the marble bench, his face turned to one side, his eyes shut. He was naked save for a short kilt around his waist. One arm draped to the floor, while the other was folded over his chest. It almost seemed he was sleeping. However, the illusion was shattered by the river of crimson that flowed from his side, over the bench, and onto the mosaic floor.

Melia gasped, and Falken held her tight as they approached.

Aryn was kneeling beside the knight. As they drew near she looked up, her face wet not only with the steam. “I tried, Grace. I tried so hard. But I just can’t do it, I can’t bind his thread to the Weirding. Not like …”

The baroness clamped her mouth shut, but Grace knew what the young woman had been about to say.

Not like you could, Grace
.

Weeping openly, Aryn leaned on the bench, bowing her head over Beltan’s. Lirith glanced at Durge, but the knight only stared forward. The witch shook her head, then moved to Aryn and helped the young woman gain her feet and move away.

Grace knew Travis was looking at her, but she didn’t return his gaze. He didn’t know—he
couldn’t
know what he was about to ask her to do. Or did he? In that fleeting moment when she was able to speak to him across the Weirding, to tell him what she had glimpsed of Dakarreth, his presence had been right there with her … as had the shadow.

“Please, Grace,” he said simply. “Heal him.”

But I can’t!
she wanted to scream at him.
Don’t you understand? I killed Garf, and I’ll kill Beltan, too. Damn you, I can’t do it!

Instead she met his eyes and nodded. “I’ll try.”

Grace knew all of them were watching her as she moved to the bench, but she let them fade away into the steam. It was only she and Beltan.

Quickly she assessed his condition. He was breathing and his airway was clear. However, his pulse was weak and rapid. Tachycardia. The old wound in his side had been opened again: a gash eight inches long that pierced the peritoneum. She could close the wound, but he was in shock, and the blood loss was profound. His organs could already be shutting down. She needed to get him on a respirator, to get him stabilized so they could operate, and …

And what? This wasn’t Denver Memorial, and the nearest intensive care unit was precisely a world away. There were no crash carts here, no respirators, and no means of artificial life support.

Except that wasn’t true, and she knew it.

Connect him to your own thread, Grace. That’s all you have to do—that will give you the time you need to take him somewhere you can repair the damage
.

But she couldn’t, and she knew that as well. To
connect herself to the Weirding was to go back through shadow. And doing that was to surrender herself unto it.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered.

Travis met her eyes. “I know, Grace.” His voice was low, for their ears only. “I saw it when you spoke to me. I saw the shadow of the orphanage. And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what they did to you there. But don’t you see, Grace? If you don’t do this, it means they’ve won.”

Her heart fell to dust in her chest. “I think they did win, Travis.”

He took her hands in his own. “No, I won’t believe that, Grace. Not when I know how much life there is in you—not when I’ve seen it myself. You can still beat them.”

Grace wanted to scream, or to wail, or to fall into his embrace. However, she could only kneel stiffly on the hard floor and stare at him.

Travis drew a deep breath, then he spoke in a voice both gentle and unrelenting. “Melia told me that you can’t keep your power hidden forever. She was right. And this is your power, Grace—the thing you can’t hide from. It’s like the Stone. You’ve got to let it burn you to get past it.”

His words made her feel like vomiting. “But if I do that, I’ll lose myself.”

To her shock, Travis smiled. “No, Grace. That’s when you’ll find yourself.”

Grace shut her eyes, and for a moment she remembered a sun-drenched garden.

I don’t think I could do it
, she had said.

The old woman, her skin as thin and delicate as the petals of a flower, had smiled.

Yes you could, sweet. You just have to decide to give yourself up for another—to sacrifice everything with abandon
.

Grace opened her eyes. “Help me.”

Travis grinned at her.

She took his hand and laid it over Beltan’s wound, then pressed her hand on top. Taking a breath, she shut her eyes, and in an instant she saw it: the shimmering threads that bound all of them together. Quickly she found Beltan’s thread. It was dim and so terribly slender. Once again she saw the shadow attached to it; the blot seemed larger, and closer, but she couldn’t think about that. There wasn’t much time.

She found Travis’s thread, strong and bright, and tried to connect Beltan’s to it. Both slipped through her glowing fingers. It wouldn’t work—she couldn’t connect them, not directly. First she had to bind them to a common thread. Even as she thought this, it shone before her: the green-gold strand of her own life. She hesitated, then she reached out and grasped it.

The shadow was there, shocking in its speed and monstrous size. Burnt doors flapped like wings, and broken windows stared like blind, accusing eyes. Her thread led directly toward the heart of the darkness.

This time Grace did not pull away. Instead, she followed her strand into the shadow. Memories flew through the darkness like pale owls, calling for her. Hands reached out, grasping her, holding her down. Something pressed against her face, soft yet cruel, smothering her. She shuddered as cold air touched naked flesh. First came sick pressure, then—in one stabbing jolt—pain: bright and shattering. Somewhere a door opened, and in that moment Grace remembered. Truly remembered.