Blood of Mystery (4 page)

Or at least she tried to. The book stopped with two inches to go. Grace pushed, but the book wouldn’t slide in any farther. Now that she thought about it, it was because the book had been sticking out slightly that it had caught her eye in the first place. She pulled the tome back out and peered into the gap.

Something was in there. Grace reached in, and her fingers found something flat and hard. She pulled it out. It was a book.

She convulsed in a powerful sneeze.
Make that a dusty
book.

She set down the other tome and regarded the volume she had pulled from the gap. It was uncharacteristically slim. She supposed it had gotten pushed behind the others on the shelf and lost there. A long time ago, by the looks of it. Grace used a corner of her gown to wipe the dust from the leather cover. On it, written in tarnished gold, was the title
Pagan Magics of the
North
.

She flipped through the yellowed pages. All the books she had looked at so far were composed in a bold, blotchy, flowery script on thick vellum, but this book was penned on crisp, smooth paper in a spidery but even hand. A few words caught her eye as the pages fluttered past:
Malachor
,
Runelords
, Eversea...

“What have you got there, Grace?”

She turned around. Beltan’s face was smudged with book dust, and his green eyes were curious.

“I’m not exactly sure,” she said. “It was lost behind the other books on the shelf. And it’s not a history of Tarras. It seems to be about myths and legends of the north.”

“That’s probably why it was lost. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but these Tarrasians seem to think they’re the center of the world.”

“That’s probably because, for a millennium, they were.”

Beltan grunted. “Old habits die hard.”

Grace glanced out one of the high windows. The sky was fading to slate; it was time to go. However, she was loath to leave this book. What if one of the librarians filed it away in a place where she couldn’t find it? True, she was searching for knowledge of the south, not the north. All the same, her hand tingled as she pressed it against the cover.

“I’m going to check out this book,” she decided aloud.

Beltan raised an eyebrow. “Check it out? What does that mean?”

“I mean borrow it,” Grace said, heading toward the main desk near the entrance of the library.

Beltan gave her a sly wink. “Now I get it.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ll just create a little distraction while you make off with the book.”

She shot him a horrified look. “Beltan!”

Several students and a passing librarian looked up as her voice echoed throughout the library. Grace winced and steered Beltan quickly away.

“Listen to me,” she said, this time keeping her voice low. “I am
not
stealing the book. So no distractions of any kind. Do you understand?”

The blond knight looked slightly hurt. “Whatever you say, my lady. But if you get caught pilfering, don’t blame me.”

They had reached the front desk; there was no more time for whispers. Grace handed the book to one of the librarians behind the expanse of glossy wood.

“I’d like to borrow this please.”

The librarian took the tome. “What is this?” She flipped through the book, and her pinched face grew even tighter. “Wizards? Spells? Dragons? I had no idea there was such rubbish in this library. I’ll take care of this.”

She started to turn away, but Grace was faster, snatching the book out of her hand.

“If I could just check it out now,” Grace said, trying to sound demure.

The librarian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not a student here, are you? Do you have a library token?”

Grace swallowed hard. “No, but I do have this.” She lifted her right hand, displaying Ephesian’s gold ring.

The librarian appeared unimpressed. “Madam, even the emperor himself cannot borrow a book without a library token. You’ll have to petition the archdean for a token and come back—”

“Wait,” Grace said. She hated to do this, but there was no choice. “I forgot. I do have a token. Right here.”

Hastily she reached out with her mind and touched the Weirding—the shining web of power that flowed through all things. She wove several threads together into a hasty spell and held out her hand.

The librarian blinked, staring at Grace’s outstretched hand, then gave a curt nod.

“So you have a token after all.” Her dry voice bore a note of disappointment. “Very well, you may borrow the book. But you must sign for it first.”

With a quill pen, Grace scratched her name and the title of the book on a piece of parchment, then turned, leaving the fussy librarian at her desk.

“What just happened back there?” Beltan said, as they stepped out the door of the library. “Your hand was empty, but she acted like she was seeing exactly what she wanted to see.”

Grace could still feel the faint hum of power in her hand. “So she did.”

Beltan gave her a sharp look. “And using magic is different from stealing how, my lady?”

Grace laughed and took the knight’s arm. “It’s far more polite,” she said, and they started across the university grounds as purple dusk fell.

4.

It was late, and Grace’s head ached.

She lifted her gaze from the book on the table and rubbed the back of her neck. Her eyes seemed to have forgotten how to focus. The others had gone to their rooms an hour before, and Grace knew she should go to sleep as well if she intended to have the energy for the next day’s revel with the Mournish.

At supper, she had told the others of Vani’s visit at the library. When she mentioned that the Mournish woman would not be leaving with her people, Beltan had turned away, so that Grace could not read his expression. As if she would have had the power anyway. She was still a neophyte when it came to the subject of human emotion, and unlike medicine or history, it was not something she could learn in a book.

Grace had planned to show
Pagan Magics of the North
to Falken, but he had spent the day going over the notes he had made at the Library of Briel, only without much to show for it. After accepting her necklace back, she decided to show him the book in the morning. Providing he woke in a better mood.

A warm zephyr fluttered the gauzy curtains. Outside the window, Grace could see a pulsing crimson spark low in the sky. Tira’s star was rising, beginning its nightly sojourn across the heavens.

Just one more page, Grace. Then bed. Doctor’s orders.

Falken had told them much of the War of the Stones, and Malachor, and the Runelords. However, the book contained more details than Falken’s stories. She was especially fascinated by references to Eversea—a land far to the west in Falengarth, where it was said many who fled the destruction of Malachor went after that kingdom fell. Could it be that people of Malachor—distant cousins of hers—still dwelled there?

Another question occurred to her. She doubted any of the scholars at the University of Tarras were experts in northern mythology. So who had written this book? The binding seemed somewhat newer than the rest of the volume; Grace suspected the title page had been lost when the book was rebound, along with the identity of the author. Regardless, it was riveting. Stifling a yawn, Grace flipped the page.

The yawn became a gasp.

It was faint, faded by time, but clear. Someone had marked in the book with what looked like black pencil. A brief passage of text was underlined:

...that gods, dragons, and witches of the Sight have all
foretold his coming. The one named Runebreaker will shatter the rune Eldh, which was the First Rune spoken by the
Worldsmith, who bound it in the Dawning Stone at the very
beginning of the world. And so the First Rune shall also be
the Last Rune, for when it breaks, the world shall end....

Disturbing as they were, it was not these lines that froze Grace’s blood. Instead, it was the three words penciled hastily, almost desperately, in the margin next to them:

“No,” Grace whispered. “No, it can’t be.”

She dug in the pouch tied to her sash, pulled out the silver half-coin, and shoved it across the table. Again she looked at the book. Even though she could still read it with effort, the text on the page was now strange and archaic-looking, written in Eldhish letters. But the penciled words were written in English.

Eyes wide, Grace looked up. This was impossible. And there was something else. There was something about the words in the margin—the way the letters were shaped—that disturbed her even more. Only what was it? She stared at the window, thinking. Outside, the red star gazed back like a fiery eye.

The eye blinked shut.

Paralyzed, Grace kept watching, waiting for the crimson spark to shimmer back to life.

Nothing happened. Dread flooded her chest. Trembling, she rose and moved to the window. There were no clouds. The moon was a great sickle, and stars scattered the night sky like shimmering chaff. But where the crimson spark had shone moments ago there was only a black void in the heavens.

The red star—Tira’s star—had vanished.

Grace jumped at a sharp knock on the door. After a moment she gathered her wits enough to stumble to the door and fling it open. It was Falken.

“Melia wants you. Downstairs.” The bard’s eyes were every bit as startled as she knew her own to be.

They found Melia at the table where they took their meals when rain precluded dining in the courtyard. The lady looked up, the expression in her amber eyes far too deep for Grace to fathom. Aryn and Beltan appeared moments later.

The knight yawned. He was clad only in a long nightshirt. “What’s going on? I was dreaming about ale. And not the feeble stuff they make down here, mind you, but real, Galtish ale—the kind that socks you in the gut, then picks you up off the floor, puts a strong arm around you, and walks you back to the bar, grinning all the way.”

Aryn adjusted the diaphanous robe she had thrown on and frowned at the blond man. “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming about Galtish men rather than Galtish ale?”

“Either way, I’d still rather be sleeping.”

“What’s going on, Melia?” Falken said.

Melia’s visage was tightly drawn. “I was hoping Grace might have an idea.”

Aryn glanced at Grace.
What is it, sister?

“Tira’s star,” Grace croaked aloud, struggling for breath. “It’s gone.”

They talked as the crescent moon arced outside the high windows. Melia’s kitten soon made an appearance, prowling across the table, begging affection from each of them in turn. At some point the servants must have come in, for cups and a steaming pot of
maddok
appeared on the table. Grace gladly accepted a cup when Aryn handed her one. Despite the balmy night, she felt cold.

Of them all, only Grace had actually been gazing at the red star the moment it vanished—although Melia had evidently noticed its disappearance within moments, given how quickly Falken came to Grace’s door. Unfortunately, none of them had an explanation for what had happened.

Aryn’s blue eyes were bright with worry. “You don’t think... you don’t think Tira is...”

“She’s a goddess, dear,” Melia said, her tone reassuring. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Beltan scratched his chin. “What about the Stone of Fire? Tira was supposed to protect it. What if she’s lost it? That would be bad, right?”

“More than bad,” Falken said. “It would be disastrous. The Pale King still seeks the Stones of Fire and Twilight to set beside the Stone of Ice in the iron necklace Imsaridur. And his master, Mohg, is trying to get back to Eldh. There’s no doubt this comes at a dark time.”

Melia looked at Grace. “You were gazing out the window at the time, dear. Did you see anything strange in the moments before the star vanished? Anything that might have presaged what happened?”

Grace wished she had, but she shook her head. “I was reading a book I borrowed from the university. My eyes were tired, and I looked out the window to rest them. I saw Tira’s star. And then it was...gone.”

Falken gave her a sharp look. “What book were you reading?”

“It’s called
Pagan Magics of the North
. I was going to show it to you earlier, only after the Library of Briel you didn’t seem in a very probook mood.”

Falken grunted. “I can’t argue with you there. But I have to say, I know most of the books ever written about northern magic, and I’ve never heard of that one. Could I look at it?”

Glad to have something to do, Grace hurried upstairs and retrieved the book. She returned to the others and handed it to Falken. The bard turned it in his hands and thumbed through the pages. Grace explained how she had found it.

“Interesting,” he said with a frown that said
strange
. “The text is definitely written in High Malachorian. But I’ve never seen paper of such fine quality, and the binding is Tarrasian. I doubt
Pagan Magics of the North
was the volume’s original title. It’s far too condescending to be anything but the creation of a Tarrasian scholar. I suppose whoever renamed the volume tossed out the original title page.” He shut the book. “I doubt we’ll ever know who wrote it, but it does look interesting. Would you mind if I borrowed it, Grace?”

“No, but there’s something I want you to look at, something I saw just before the red star vanished.” She sat next to him and tried to keep her hands from shaking as she turned to the last page she had been reading.

Falken’s eyebrows drew down in a glower. “I find it despicable when people mark up books that aren’t their own. And what’s this written here in the margin? It’s gibberish.”

Grace reached into the pouch at her sash and took out the silver half-coin. “Here,” she said, pressing the coin into Falken’s hand. “Now read it.”

He glanced again at the book, and his eyes went wide. He looked up at Grace. “It can’t be.”

“What does it read, Falken?” Melia asked.

Grace licked her lips. “It reads, ‘Is it fate?’ The words are written next to a passage about the prophecy of the one called Runebreaker.”

Aryn sat up straight. “Runebreaker?”

“Yes, but that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that—”

Falken brushed the page. “—the first letter of ‘fate’ is written backward.”

Beltan leaped to his feet and pounded the table. “By the blood of the Bull, it’s Travis! He’s a mirror reader—you said so yourself, Falken. And this was written backward. It has to be him. He’s in Tarras somewhere.”

“Calm yourself,” Falken said in a warning tone. “We don’t know for certain that Travis wrote this.”

Except Grace knew the bard didn’t believe that. A note in English with one of the letters reversed, scribbled next to a passage about Runebreaker. Who else could it be but Travis? Only how could he have written a note in a book that had obviously been lost for years at the University of Tarras?

Grace took the half-coin back from Falken, then flipped to the front of the book. A slip of paper was pasted inside the cover. On it, the librarian had written the date Grace was to return the book to the library—a fortnight hence. Above it, crossed out, was a list of previous due dates. Grace looked at the one just above hers in the list.

Durdath the Second, in the thirty-seventh year of the blessed
rule of His Eminence, Ephesian the Sixteenth.

A gasp came from behind Grace. It was Melia; she had risen to read over Grace’s shoulder.

“But that’s impossible,” the lady said. “The sixteenth Ephesian died well over a century ago.”

Some of Beltan’s exuberance gave way to confusion. “What are you talking about, Melia? Even I know Travis couldn’t have written something in a book that’s been lost behind a shelf for more than a hundred years.”

“No,” Melia murmured. “No, I don’t suppose he could have.”

More conversation and cups of
maddok
ensued. However, at the end of it all, they were no closer to unraveling either mystery. They could only guess why Tira’s star had vanished—and could only hope both the child goddess and the Stone of Fire were still somehow safe.

“Maybe the star will rise again tomorrow,” Aryn said, but even the young baroness seemed unconvinced by the hopeful-ness of those words.

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed. Outside the windows, the moon and stars had vanished, replaced by flat blue light. Aryn was nodding in her chair, and Falken wrapped his faded cloak around her shoulders.

“Come, Your Highness,” he murmured, rousing her with a gentle shake. “It’s long past time for bed.”

Grace pushed a half-finished cup of
maddok
away. Her nerves buzzed like wires. Exhausted as she was, there would be no sleep for her.

Melia glanced at Beltan. “I know you’re no longer officially my knight protector, dear. But would you mind helping a weary former goddess up the stairs?”

Beltan nodded and moved to her. However, his green eyes were haunted, and Grace knew of whom he was thinking.

She pushed herself up from the table. “I think I’ll go see if the milk has been delivered yet.”

Grace had found it amusing when she discovered that, just like on Earth in a bygone era, clay jugs of milk and cream were delivered to the villa’s doorstep each morning. She knew the servants would be tired from having to stay up so late serving
maddok
; if the milk had arrived, she could take it to the larder in the kitchen and save them some work.

As Melia and Beltan followed Falken and Aryn to the stairs, Grace headed for the front door of the villa. She pushed back the iron latch and opened the door, letting in the moist grayness of morning. She looked down. Something indeed lay on the doorstep, only it wasn’t a jug of milk. It was a man in a brown robe.

“Beltan!” she called out on instinct.

In moments the knight was there. “What is it, Grace?”

She knelt beside the figure that slumped facedown on the stone step. Beltan let out an oath, then knelt beside her. Grace was dimly aware of the others standing in the open doorway, but she focused on the man before her.

His brown robe was rent in several places, and the fabric was damp with blood, but he was breathing. She pressed two fingers to his wrist. His pulse was weak but even. All of her senses told her his injuries were not critical. But he was cold, suffering from exposure.