The Keep of Fire (14 page)

As he walked, he stuck his hands beneath his armpits. It lessened the sting a little, and it slowed the bleeding. When he had dived out the back door of the saloon, he had sailed over the steps and fallen six feet to the alley, landing on his outstretched hands. Bits of gravel and pulverized glass had ground into his palms, lodging beneath the skin. The wounds hurt. But not that much, not so much he couldn’t bear it, and the drop was the only thing that had saved him.

For several seconds after he had fallen, he lay there as splinters of burning wood and scraps of hot metal rained down on him. Although he didn’t remember the percussion—it had all seemed to unfold in perfect silence—his ears shrieked with the aftereffects of one. Then, quickly, the heat had become too much. He lurched to his feet, stumbled down the alley, and turned to gaze at the inferno that a minute ago had been his life, his livelihood, and his home.

It was several seconds before he could take it all in, before the scene in front of him had made any kind of sense. Most of the rear half of the Mine Shaft was gone. Only the cement block of the steps that had led up to the back door was intact; it was this that had protected Travis from the blast.

A second explosion had shaken the ground then.
Glass shattered, and a gout of flame shot into the sky, merging with the crimson sky. Flames embraced the buildings to either side of the Mine Shaft; they would go as well. However, the force of the second explosion seemed to have extinguished part of the fire, and at that moment the sirens had sounded over the roar.

Travis had known that he should stay, that he should talk to them, should tell them that Max Bayfield was dead, along with three people whose names he did not know.

Yet what did it matter? What could he say that might possibly make a difference? Max was beyond help now. And Duratek would take care of their own: He had no doubt of that.

The wail of the sirens had grown louder, and a shard of fear had pierced the numbness that encapsulated him. What if Duratek
was
on its way there? What if he stayed to talk to the fire marshal, to the sheriff, and
they
showed up? Max had bought Travis’s escape with his life. What was that worth if Travis just walked into their waiting arms?

Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Travis
.

Everything Travis had done
to
him. Wasn’t that what Max should have said? Travis had killed Max as surely as the man in black. As surely as Duratek had. But now his pain was over.

With a groan, the roof of the Mine Shaft had slumped in, weaving a funeral shroud of sparks. Travis’s eyes stung from smoke and loss, but his scorched tear glands could produce no soothing moisture.

“I’m sorry, Max,” he whispered.

Then, for the second—and last—time in his life, he had turned to run from the place where a friend had died.

As the scarlet curtain of sunset still hung in the western sky, Travis reached the top of the hill. He
turned to look back the way he had come. The valley splayed out below him like a map. He let his eyes move from point to point. From the center of the valley rose a column of black smoke: the Mine Shaft, or what was left of it. His gaze moved south, to a cluster of brown buildings where Max had lived. Now northwest, up the pencil-thin line of the railroad tracks, to the scattering of tiny rectangles he knew to be boxcars. Then finally across the black serpent of the highway, to a smudge on the edge of town. The remains of the Magician’s Attic. Jack Graystone’s antique shop. Where all of this had begun.

Except that wasn’t true. His gaze moved eastward, but the sight he looked for—fields stretching to the flat and hazy horizon, an old farmhouse washed of color by years of rain and sorrow—was beyond the reach of his eyes. Yet it was there, somewhere, beyond the ruddy slopes of Signal Ridge, across the sundering sea of the plains. That was where his journey had really begun.

Now his gaze traced its way back: antique shop, railyard, Max’s place, the Mine Shaft, here. For a moment Travis wondered what he was doing. Then he knew that he had just said good-bye.

Where am I supposed to go?

That was the question he had asked Child Samanda when she and Sister Mirrim had appeared to him. As he ran from the saloon, her murmured answer had come to him once again.

You must die to be transformed
.

In that moment, he had known where he had to go.

Travis opened a rusted iron gate, stepped through, and shut it behind him. Then he moved down a gravel path, deeper into Castle Heights Cemetery. The wind moaned a low hymn as it passed among weathered headstones. Travis made his way among the old and nameless graves. It did not take long to find what he was seeking.

The man stood near the center of the cemetery, on a low hump of rocks and weeds, as if he needed a better view than the hill alone could grant. He was tall and straight as a fence post, clad in a black suit. A long hand held his broad-brimmed hat against the tug of the wind, and his craggy face was turned toward the far distance—not the fiery horizon of the west, but the deepening line of the east, and the coming of night.

Travis made his way across the cemetery, but the other did not move, as if he did not see, or did not care, or already knew and was patiently waiting. Then Travis was there.

“Who are you?” he said.

Brother Cy did not turn his gaze from the east, but a grin sliced across his cadaverous visage. “Well, it’s good to see you again, too, son.”

Travis winced. Strange how a voice so low and sweet could smite so sharply. He circled around the mound, until he stood before the preacher. “Tell me.”

Silence. Then, “We are the forgotten ones, son. But we have not forgotten ourselves. Is that not enough?”

Travis thought about this.
No
, he started to answer, but then he stopped. Perhaps it was enough after all. He knew about Jack, he knew about the Seekers, and he knew about Duratek. But knowledge had gained him nothing in all this. Maybe it was time to give mystery a chance.

“Why are you here?” he asked, because a question was all he could think of.

Brother Cy’s lank black suit coat flapped in the day’s dying breath. Cinders of twilight drifted from the sky.

“Two worlds draw near. When one burns, so then does the other.”

“I don’t understand,” Travis said, even though he thought maybe he did.
A New Black Death
, the paper had called it. But few diseases really sprang forth
anew. They almost always came from somewhere else.

“Eldh needs you, son. They’re calling for you even now. Can’t you hear?”

Travis clenched his bleeding hands into fists, but it wasn’t anger he felt, only weariness. “I don’t care. All I want to do is look out for myself for a change. I don’t want to save the world.”

Now Brother Cy did move: He threw his head back, stretched his gangly arms wide, and laughed. His face screwed up into a homely, comical mask, and his Adam’s apple protruded so sharply it looked as if it would burst from his neck. Travis stared at the grotesque sight. At last the preacher’s mirth faded. He sagged weakly, as if exhausted.

Travis squinted at him. “What’s so funny?”

Brother Cy wiped tears from his eyes. “Why, it’s a joke, son. You made a great joke.”

Travis only shook his head.

“But don’t you see?” Brother Cy clapped big hands together. “Save the world, save yourself. What’s the difference, son? What’s the difference?”

But Travis didn’t see. He wished he could laugh like the preacher did, but it felt as if his heart had burned up, and all that remained were ashes. “There’s nothing left for me here,” he said.

Brother Cy nodded, his expression solemn now, and one of profound understanding. “Then it’s time to go.”

He gestured to the plot of earth beside him. There were two graves on it. The first looked freshly filled. Beside it was a granite marker carved with a single word:

Was the word a name? Travis wasn’t sure. His gaze moved to the other grave.

This one was open still, a rectangle six feet deep, a shovel stuck into the pile of dirt beside it, waiting. At first he thought there was no headstone by this grave, then he blinked and saw there was. He read the sharp words carved upon it:

Travis started to laugh, but the sound was strangled somewhere in his throat before it could escape. Yes, of course. Die and be transformed. But into what? He gazed at the preacher, then nodded. He would find out soon enough.

“Take your boots off, son.”

Travis hesitated. Didn’t gunfighters always want to die with their boots on?

“Now, son. There’s not much time.”

Travis glanced up. Only a few wisps of red laced the sky. The remainder was purple hardening to slate. He bent and pulled off his boots.

“The rest, son. All of it. Naked are we born, and naked must we go.”

Travis unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the ground. He shrugged out of his T-shirt, his singed jeans, his socks and briefs—everything but the bone talisman that hung around his neck. Then he stood naked before the preacher. The parched wind threw dust on him like a gritty baptism.

Brother Cy bent, picked up the boots, and tossed them into the open grave. Then, from nowhere, a bundle of cloth appeared in his hands, and this too he heaved into the open hole. Finally, he reached into the pocket of Travis’s fallen jeans, pulled something out, and pressed it into Travis’s hand. It was small and hard: a half circle of silver.

“You’ll be wanting this,” the preacher said.

Despite the heat, Travis shivered. “I’m afraid.”

Brother Cy gave a knowing nod. “As are we all, son. As are we all.”

The last tinge of red slipped from the sky. Overhead, the first stars appeared, diamonds in the veil of night.

“Now, son, while there is yet time.”

Travis turned and gazed at the yawning hole in the ground. He swallowed, then crouched down on the edge and lowered himself into the grave. It was deeper than he had thought, and darker and hotter. He lay down on the floor and curled up like a small child. Time to sleep.

From above came a final whisper. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.…”

Then Travis felt the first shovelfuls of dirt pour down on him. Only it wasn’t dirt.

It was rain. Sweet, cool, quenching rain.

Grace clung to her horse’s saddle as the castle receded in the distance behind her.

The morning air was moist with the green scent of life, and the sun was a balm on her cheeks. Before her, the land rose and fell in gold-and-emerald waves, marching south toward the heart of Calavan. It was a glorious day for riding—just as yesterday had been, and the day before that. Summer had come at last, and it was impossible to imagine it would ever leave.

Of course, Grace still remembered the gnawing chill that had radiated from Calavere’s stones only a handful of months ago, and the clattering of her teeth when she rose each morning and went to bed each night. Then, one afternoon early in Erenndath—which by her calculations was akin to March—she had looked out the window to see patches of brown amid the usual fields of white. By the next evening the snow was gone, and the world had become one gigantic puddle.

At the Feast of Quickening, it had been warm enough to hold the required revel in the upper bailey,
and the scent of flowers had drifted from the castle’s garden to sweeten the air. Yet spring had been as brief as it had been mild. It was summer in her brilliant crown who ruled in this Dominion now.

And King Boreas, of course.

Grace leaned forward in the silver-trimmed saddle. The palfrey—slender, long-legged, and blond as new honey—was only two years old that spring and required little urging. She sprang forward in a gallop, splashed across a shallow stream, and raced up the long slope of a knoll. Grace shut her eyes and cast her mind outward. Yes, if she concentrated, she could
feel
the land rushing past; the imprints of plants and small, hidden animals flashed across her mind like bright snapshots.

She sighed, then opened her eyes and gave a pull on the reins. The palfrey slowed to a halt and tossed her head. Grace laughed—she laughed often these days, as if the action were natural for her, and she supposed just maybe it was. Lord Harfen, the king’s marshal and keeper of his horses, had warned her that the young mare liked to run.

“All right, Shandis, that’s enough for the moment,” Grace murmured, stroking the palfrey’s arched neck. The horse had been a springtime gift from King Boreas, and Grace had picked the name herself. It meant
sunberry
.

Shandis gave a delicate snort, as if to indicate she hardly required rest, but if Grace needed the excuse in order to take a break, then so be it. At least, that was how it sounded to Grace. However, as a scientist, she knew it was at best silly and at worst dangerous to personify nonhuman species. A two-year-old mare could no more grasp a concept like humor than she could grasp a baseball with her hoof.

Then again, science had nothing to do with the way Grace’s heart had pounded that day in the stable when Lord Harfen had led the palfrey into the aisle, or
the thrill that had coursed through her when Shandis had approached with halting steps to nuzzle her outstretched hand. Maybe thumbs weren’t everything.