The Keep of Fire (37 page)

No
, Travis wanted to say.
No, he’s right. I’ve seen the pictures. It’s not a sickness. It’s a transformation
.

But he couldn’t find his voice. It was all impossible. Yet in a way it made sense. Why else had Brother Cy shown up? The burnt man, the twisted forms in the pictures Hadrian Farr had shown him, even the heat. All of it was tied with what was happening on Eldh.

“It was we who gave a name to the Burnt Ones,” Oragien said.
“Krondrim
, we called them. The Beings of Fire. However, doing so was a mistake. Because we named them, some began to believe that it was we who made them.”

It was ludicrous but believable. People always had a way of blaming the message on the messenger. And it explained the welcome Travis and his gray robe had received in the tavern; the townsfolk had thought him a bringer of plague. But that still didn’t explain why he was here, on Eldh, in the Gray Tower. He drew in a deep breath. It seemed an awfully self-centered question, but he had to ask it.

“So what does any of this have to do with me?”

Travis kept his eyes on Oragien, but he was aware of the others shifting on their benches, and of new whispers being added to the ceaseless drone on the air.

Oragien tightened his hands around his staff. “The Runespeakers have been unfairly blamed for a great evil. There is only one way we can bring respect to our name and our order again. We must find a means
to drive the
krondrim
away. And we summoned you to help us do it.”

Motion was impossible as Travis fought to comprehend these words. He was not as certain as the All-master that driving away the Burnt Ones would redeem the Runespeakers in the eyes of the common folk. Demonstrating power over them might only make it seem all the more plausible that the Runespeakers had created the
krondrim
in the first place. And by the mutterings around him, Travis guessed he was not the only one who held this same concern. However, there was a greater flaw to the All-master’s logic. His voice was like a dying man’s croak.

“But how can I help you against the
krondrim?”

“Who else can help us, if not you, Master Wilder?” Oragien said. “Are you not the heir to the runelord Jakabar?”

The whisperings in the tower rose to a rushing noise that filled Travis’s skull. “Jack? Do you mean Jack Graystone?”

“Yes, Master Wilder. Jakabar of the Gray Stone was a runelord.” Oragien lifted his staff and pointed it directly at Travis’s chest. “And so are you.”

“What did you want to tell me, Grace?” Beltan said, a solemn note entering his usually bright tenor.

Grace glanced over her shoulder. She and Durge had drawn Beltan aside, leaving the others in the circle of stumps around the fire pit. Daynen asked questions Grace could not hear and which Lirith was evidently trying to answer, while Tira squatted on the ground, playing in the dirt with her burnt doll as Aryn watched. Meridar stood apart from them, hand
on the hilt of his sword, his homely face hard—all except for his eyes, which were soft as they gazed upon the young baroness. Grace sighed and turned back to the two men.

“Beltan, there’s nothing I want more than for you to come with us. I think—no, I know we can use your help. And I’ve missed you. We’ve missed you. But”—she gestured to the tree forts all around—“are you sure you can leave?”

The knight’s yellow mustache curved down around his mouth. “What do you mean?”

Durge cleared his throat. “I believe, Sir Beltan, that Lady Grace is concerned your orders will not permit you to part from your troop.”

Beltan stared at them, then grinned. “Well, then there’s nothing to worry about. I get to make my own orders. That was part of my bargain with Sir Vedarr when I joined the Order of Malachor.”

“Sounds convenient,” Grace said.

“It is.” Beltan met her eyes, and his grin faded. “But I haven’t forgotten my duty, Grace. I was charged with the task of finding the source of the fires. And now we know that means the Burnt Ones. So it’s only right that I go with you.”

A frown chiseled furrows even deeper into Durge’s brow. “How is that so?”

Grace looked at Beltan—like Durge, she failed to see the logic of his conclusion.

The blond man scratched his chin. “So you mean you don’t think there’s a connection between Travis’s coming and theirs? The
krondrim
, I mean.”

Grace’s mouth dropped open, but she could find no words to speak. How could she have not seen it before? Everything had been right there in her dreams about Travis: the firedrake, the red star, the flames. And, once, the perfect black eyes with which he had gazed at her. But the dreams had ceased after her vision of Travis at the Gray Tower, and in her urgency
to get to him she had forgotten them. Now all the images rushed back to her, and she found herself shaking.

Two sets of strong, callused hands reached out to steady her.

Grace managed a weak laugh. “Well, a girl knows she’s in a bad spot when she needs two knights in shining armor just to prop her up.”

Durge raised an eyebrow. “My lady?”

She shook her head, then waved a hand, indicating she could stand on her own. And indeed, when the knights released her shoulders, she did not fall face first to the ground.

Beltan’s eyes were still concerned. “Are you all right, Grace?”

Odd for someone to be asking the doctor that question. However, she gulped in air and gave a nod. “You just caught me by surprise, Beltan, that’s all. I hadn’t thought about the … the connection between Travis and the Burnt Ones. I don’t think Durge had either.”

The Embarran shook his head.

Beltan shrugged broad, rangy shoulders. “Sorry. I thought if I could see it then it had to be pretty obvious. I usually expect you and Durge to have everything all figured out ahead of time.”

Grace’s lips turned up in a sharp smile. “I wouldn’t expect too much, if I were you.”

They returned to the others then, and informed them that Beltan would indeed be joining them on their journey to the Gray Tower. At this news, Aryn’s face lit up.

“Oh, Beltan!” she cried, and in that moment she seemed more like a girl just on the edge of adulthood than a young woman experimenting with newfound power. She rushed to the big knight and threw herself into his arms.

Beltan’s smile twisted into a grimace, and a grunt
of pain escaped his lips. A troubled look replaced the joy on Aryn’s face as she stepped back. The knight pressed a hand to his side, his visage pale.

Lirith moved forward and laid a brown hand on the sleeve of Beltan’s green tunic. “Are you well, Sir Knight?”

Grace answered before he could. “It’s the wound. The one you received on Midwinter’s Eve. It’s been bothering you, hasn’t it?”

He straightened, and the expression of pain left his face, but Grace could see the tightness along his jaw, and she knew the effort had cost him.

“A little,” he said. “And only every once in a while. But it’s well closed now. So what’s there to worry about?”

Plenty
, Grace wanted to say. The wound in his side he had suffered at the claws of the
feydrim
should have killed him. And it would have, had it not been for the intervention of the fairies. She pressed her lips together and said nothing.

Beltan gave a cheerful laugh. “Besides, what’s a knight without a few battle scars, eh?”

Grace had a feeling these words were for the benefit of Daynen and Tira, whose respective ears and eyes were locked on the big knight. The boy grinned, and even Tira smiled, although the expression was fleeting, and she bent back over her doll.

“I’ve got to talk to Sir Tarus,” Beltan said to Grace and Durge. “Get your things together, then come find me.”

Fifteen minutes later they found Beltan on the other side of the camp, beneath the largest of the tree forts, speaking with the red-haired Sir Tarus. The two knights stood close, shoulders touching, heads bent together. They looked up as the others approached.

Tarus grinned at Lirith. “And was it something I said that is causing your swift departure, my lady?”

“No, good sir.” She rested her chin on a hand. “But
tell me, does the need for wearing armor necessarily preclude the ability to bathe frequently?”

The handsome young knight did not back off from the charge. “No, my lady. We simply prefer it like this. It’s all very manly.”

Lirith’s small nose wrinkled. “Indeed.”

Tarus laughed, and Lirith flashed one of her mysterious smiles.

“Sir Tarus,” Beltan said, and at once the red-haired knight snapped around.

“Yes, my lord?”

Beltan held out a piece of rolled vellum sealed with wax. “Here’s the missive I penned for Sir Vedarr. It explains I’m accompanying the duchess of Beckett to Ar-tolor and beyond, and the reason why. See to it that it gets to him.”

“Without fail, my lord.” Tarus’s words were crisp, but there was a softness in his eyes, almost like sorrow. His gaze lingered on Beltan as he took the missive.

Beltan turned with a muffled jingle—he wore a mail shirt beneath his forest-colored cloak now. “Sir Meridar,” he addressed the knight, “weren’t you going to join the Order of Malachor after seeing Lady Grace to Perridon?”

Meridar gave a jerk, as if startled, then nodded. “That was my intention.”

Beltan nodded. “It’s hard to say how long it will be before we can fulfill the king’s orders and take Lady Grace to Castle Spardis. If you’d like, you can join the order now and remain here with Sir Tarus. I will write a missive to Boreas, releasing you from your duty to him.”

Grace started to agree—it seemed a logical suggestion—but Meridar spoke in a stony voice.

“I will not forsake my duty, Sir Knight.”

Beltan took a step back, and Grace stared at Meridar. His plain face was flat and without emotion,
but she thought she caught a momentary twitching of his cheek. Before she could be certain, Meridar turned his back and strode to his charger.

Beltan cast a look at Grace. “Is he all right?”

To Grace’s surprise, Aryn answered first, her voice soft. “I’ll go talk to him.”

The baroness followed after the knight. Grace watched her go. Maybe she had underestimated her friend these last days. Or maybe it was just that Aryn was like any young woman of nineteen: a child trying to turn herself into an adult, and trying not to lose herself in the process.

Durge glanced up at fragments of sky through the canopy of the trees. “The day is wearing on.”

“We’d better go then,” Beltan said. He gazed at the red-haired knight. “Good luck, Tarus. I know you’ll be a fine leader for these men. Better than me, I’m sure.”

Crimson flushed the young knight’s cheeks. He saluted with a fist. “Vathris speed you on your journey.”

Beltan nodded.

“And Beltan”—Tarus drew in a deep breath—“I will … that is, we will miss you, my lord.”

Grace studied Sir Tarus, then nodded, making her diagnosis. The signs all had been there: the closeness with which they had stood, the long glances, the way their hands had touched when the missive was exchanged. Whether they had shared a bed or not, she didn’t know, but it was clear the young knight worshiped Beltan. And she supposed Beltan had not been opposed to accepting Tarus’s interest. Tarus was bright and kind, and certainly more than handsome enough.

However, while the smile Beltan cast at Tarus was fond, it was also transitory, and as he turned away his eyes were distant, as if already focused on the gray spire at the end of their journey. He did not see the
way Tarus’s shoulders crunched inward, but Grace did. It was always so much easier for the loved than the lover, wasn’t it? She vowed not to forget that, as if she needed another reason to avoid such intimacy.

As they approached the horses, Grace heard the sound of low voices. Aryn spoke to Meridar, her blue eyes intent, and he stood stiffly, half-turned toward her, half-away. However, what they were saying Grace did not hear, and the two broke away from each other as the rest of the traveling party approached.

Meridar mounted his charger. “I will bring up the rear,” he said, and he wheeled the horse around—although not before throwing one last look at Aryn.

They all climbed onto their horses and followed Beltan’s bony roan charger down the trail. At once trees closed in behind them, and the camp of the knights was lost to view.

All afternoon they rode through the woods. As before, Tira sat on Shandis in front of Grace, and Daynen shared Lirith’s horse. The women traveled together, while Durge and Beltan kept a short distance ahead. Meridar was usually out of sight behind them, although from time to time Grace heard the clopping of his warhorse’s hooves.

The hush of the forest should have put Grace at ease—usually she enjoyed the quiet. However, for some reason she couldn’t explain, the silence chafed against her nerves, and she gripped Shandis’s reins in tight-fingered hands. After riding for an hour, Grace thought about bringing Shandis close to Aryn’s horse. She wanted to ask the baroness about what Meridar had said. However, the idea of breaking the silence was too discomforting. Even Daynen, who usually chattered like a squirrel, spoke little, and when he did his piping voice echoed harshly on the air, so that Lirith took to hushing him.

Just as the light was fading from green to gray beneath the trees, the forest ended in an abrupt wall.
Grace let out a sigh as they found themselves on the edge of a narrow, sloping plain that ran parallel to the forest. Not two furlongs away was a broad swath of silver reflecting the waning daylight. Grace searched with her eyes, then saw it nearly directly ahead: a series of five symmetrical arches spanning the swift-moving river.

“The air has changed,” Daynen said. “I smell water.”

“You have a good nose,” Lirith said. “It’s the Dimduorn that you smell. We’ve left the forest, and now the River Darkwine is just ahead.”

Durge eyed the failing light. “Should we cross the river on the morrow?”

Beltan shook his head. “No, we’ll want to cross the bridge now. The ground is higher on the other side. It’ll be better for making camp.” His grin flashed in the gloom. “Unless some of you happen to like sleeping in a marsh.”