The Keep of Fire (42 page)

The All-master did not wait for a reply. He turned on a heel and strode from the chamber.

Master Eriaun cast a worried glance after him, then sighed, pressing his hands together. “Olrig will guide us.”

“Will he?” Larad said. Then he, too, left the chamber.

A sickness swam in Travis’s stomach. He gripped his right wrist and gazed down at his hand. On the skin of his palm, the rune of runes shone faintly.

Why, Jack? Why did you have to do this to me?

But this time the voice in his mind was silent.

There was no chorus again the next evening. Master Eriaun told Travis it was because there were many questions to be considered and researched before they could be properly discussed. However, Travis knew the real reason Oragien had canceled the meeting. After the incident with the runestone, there were likely to be many in the tower who agreed with Master Larad—that in letting Travis touch the stone they had dabbled in something perilous and unknown. Were a chorus to convene, those voices would likely speak the loudest and prevail. By avoiding the chorus, Oragien avoided that dissent—and perhaps outright rebellion.

It was nearing sunset when Sky brought a tray with a light supper to Travis’s cell.

“Thank you,” Travis said. There was bread, soft cheese, and a crock of herb-and-vegetable soup.

Sky smiled and gave a half bow.
You’re welcome
.

The homely young man turned, but before he could leave the room, Travis spoke.

“If you can do something, Sky, does that mean you should?”

Travis winced, uncertain what had made him speak the words, and to Sky in particular. Maybe it was simply that there was a peace about the mute young man that Travis envied.

“I mean, even if you have a … a power to do something, is it all right not to do it?”

Sky didn’t move, and Travis feared he had offended him. Or maybe the young man hadn’t understood his words. Then Sky stepped forward. He brought a hand to his throat and the other to his lips, and his eyes went wide, as if he was surprised at a sudden discovery. Opening his mouth, he moved his hands outward, like birds flying from him. Then he lowered his arms and regarded Travis with solemn eyes. The message was clear:
Had I a voice, then I would sing
.

Shame warmed Travis’s cheeks. But it wasn’t that simple, he wanted to tell Sky. Singing couldn’t hurt other people. However, when he looked back up Sky was gone.

By the time Travis finished his supper, twilight drifted through the window, along with a light as silvery as that which had welled forth from the runestone. He lifted his eyes to the window. Outside, the moon was nearly full.

A restlessness stole over Travis. There was no chorus, but that didn’t mean he had to stay cooped up in this cell. He moved through the door, onto the great spiral staircase. Before he could decide which direction to go, his feet started taking him upward.

At first he passed doors behind which runespeakers dwelled. Some were ajar, and here and there he caught glimpses of light or snatches of murmured conversation. Once, as he passed a door, loud words spilled forth.

“… that it is impossible. We have forgotten too
much over the centuries. Far too much. We should not …”

Travis hurried up the staircase, leaving the angry voice beneath him.

The tower grew silent. He had ascended above the cells still used by the runespeakers. Now the doors he passed had drifts of dust in front of them. How long had it been since some of these doors had been opened? Years? Decades? More, perhaps.

Travis halted before one of the doors. There was nothing to distinguish it from the others; it was fashioned of the same gray wood, unmarked by rune or symbol. He gripped the tarnished bronze knob and turned. It was not locked. Curiosity filled him, and guilt. He glanced down the staircase, but it was empty.

Curiosity won out.

Travis pushed the door open and stepped inside. At once he choked as dust filled his nose and lungs. He blinked, clearing the grit from his eyes, but still could not see. Even if this room had a window—and he could not tell if it did—night had fallen outside. He considered leaving. Instead he hesitated, then spoke a single, quiet word.

“Lir.”

A soft radiance flickered into being, centered in the air just above his head, driving the shadows back to the corners of the wedge-shaped room. Part of him winced at this display of power. But of all the runes he had ever spoken, the rune of light was the gentlest, and it gave him the most comfort. And there was no one else here—no one who might get hurt.

Now that he could see, he peered around the cell. However, it was empty save for a moth-eaten cot and a chair that listed on three legs. With a sigh he stepped back through the door.

Travis knew he should return to his cell. However, as it usually did, boredom got the best of sense. He
walked up several steps of the staircase, then opened another door. But the room on the other side was completely empty—without even a scrap of furniture—as were the next three after that.

He shut the last door and leaned against it. A peculiar disappointment filled him. But what had he hoped to find behind the doors? With a shrug, he started back down the staircase, toward his cell.

After three steps he stopped. Had it not been for the pale light hovering above his head—which he had forgotten to banish—he never would have seen it. As it was, there was only a thin shadow, like a crack in the wall.

But the walls of this place don’t have cracks, Travis
.

He ran his hand along smooth stone. His fingers reached the shadow—then touched nothing. It was an opening in the wall, like the arch that led to the runestone beneath the tower. He only meant to explore it, to see the optical illusion by which the builders of the tower had managed to conceal it, but before he realized what he was doing he had stepped through the arch to the room on the other side.

There was no need of his light there. With a thought, he let it dissipate. A misty glow permeated a space as large as three of the smaller cells put together. Like the other rooms, a veil of dust and cobweb draped the walls and floors. Unlike the others, this room was not empty.

Kneeling, Travis examined one of the pieces of shattered stone that scattered the floor. It was smooth on one edge, sharp on the other. At first he thought the stones must have fallen from above, but a quick look up revealed the ceiling to be as flawless as the rest of the tower. So where had the rubble come from?

He picked up another piece, then stared. It was a hand, broken off at the wrist, larger than his own but
perfectly proportioned. He turned the stone hand over, and a thrill coursed through him. Carved into the palm was a symbol. No, not a symbol. A rune, one made of three intersecting lines:

Travis knew the rune well. It was a mirror to the one that, at times, shimmered on his own right palm. The rune of runes. The mark of a runelord.

A quick search of the room confirmed his suspicion. The stones were the remains of a statue. It was a man—or had been at any rate—clad in a flowing robe. From what Travis could make out, his features had been sharp and stern, but the corner of a mouth Travis found seemed to curve upward in a knowing smile, softening the harshness of the countenance. Beyond that, Travis could tell little, save that the entire statue seemed to still be here. He had found two eyes, two ears, and two feet. But, now that he thought of it, only the one hand. Perhaps some of the pieces were missing after all.

Nonsense, Travis. Of course it’s all here. And you know perfectly well who it is
.

Travis winced at the voice—Jack’s voice—as it sounded inside his skull.

Who was it that gave up his hand to the dragon’s maw that he might steal away with the secret of the runes?

It never ceased to amaze Travis that Jack could still chastise him even when he wasn’t around anymore. But he was right—Travis did know who the statue depicted. In some ways, Travis supposed, he had been the first runelord. Olrig, the Old God called Lore Thief, who stole the secret of rune magic from the dragons and granted it to men.

But not to women. At least Travis had never seen
any women runespeakers. Only witches. Why was that? Perhaps it was simply that women had more sense than men did.

He sighed and gazed at the hand. “Maybe it would have been better if it had all stayed a secret.”

“Tell me, Master Wilder, do you often speak to broken statues?”

Travis spun around, still clutching the stone hand. A steel ball of dread wedged itself in his throat. “Master Larad, I didn’t see you there. I’m sorry. I know I probably shouldn’t have been in here, but …”

Larad stepped into the room, the pale light illuminating the fine net of scars that covered his face. “So, can you put it back together?”

Travis gaped. What was Larad talking about?

The dark-haired runespeaker gestured to the stone hand, then to the other pieces. “The broken shards of our lord Olrig. Can you not make them whole again?”

There was a bitterness in Larad’s voice that Travis suspected was not reserved for him. All the same, instinct told him this man was dangerous. Travis chose his words one by one.

“I suppose I could try. If I had the right tools.”

Larad laughed: a short, mocking sound. “Well, that’s more than they would say, I will grant you that, Master Wilder. In all these years, they have never even spoken of trying.” Larad walked among the shards of the statue, then he looked up, his gaze piercing. “Tell me, Master Wilder, did you know that it is possible to feel greed for knowledge?”

“What do you mean?” Travis spoke before thinking, but the runespeaker’s words were both puzzling and intriguing.

“It is true.” Larad bent down, brushed a stone arm, then stood, dusting his hands. “Many of the All-masters of the past were selfish of what they knew. They held their secrets precious, and they perished
without passing all their knowledge to their students, clutching it instead to their breasts as they died.”

He gestured to the fragments. “There is an enchantment in this statue, one worth recovering. Five centuries ago a journeyman runespeaker working alone could have put it back together. Now all of the masters in the tower together could not do so. Not that any of them have tried.” He met Travis’s eyes. “Do you understand what I am saying, Master Wilder?”

It was strange, but Travis thought he did understand. “The Runespeakers have given up trying. They think everything’s impossible.”

“Yes! They’re like men dying of thirst, trying to keep the last droplets of water they have from running through the fingers of their cupped hands, when beneath them lies a great well of water, if only they would dig for it.”

“That’s why they called me here, isn’t it?” Travis drew in a breath. “Because they think I can do what they’re afraid to try themselves.”

Larad’s silence was answer enough. Travis gazed down at the hand of Olrig. What Larad had said was important, only he wasn’t sure exactly how. With a thumb, he started to trace the rune of runes carved into the hand, then stopped and looked up.

“Why did you come to the Gray Tower, Master Larad?”

The runespeaker’s face tightened. At first Travis thought it was anger, then he knew it was something else, something more.

“I was eleven winters old when a runespeaker came to my village.” Larad gave a humorless smile. “In those days, our kind could still walk abroad without being stoned. But nor were they greeted with joy. Still, a few boys went to be tested by the runespeaker. My mother sent me, for she still followed many of the old ways, although she did not tell my father.”

“And the runespeaker discovered your talent,” Travis said quietly.

Larad nodded. “I was the only one in the village with promise. My mother was pleased when I showed her the mark the runespeaker had drawn in ink on my hand. But when my father saw it he flew into a rage. He took up a knife and swore he would cut out my tongue to keep me from speaking runes. But I was of a mind to keep my tongue. I struggled, and so I got these instead.” He traced a finger along the white lines marking his face. “That night, after my mother bandaged my wounds, I stole from our house. I could barely see for the blood in my eyes, but all the same I found the campfire of the runespeaker outside the village. He spoke runes of healing over me and brought me back to the tower. And here I have been since.”

As Larad spoke, Travis’s fingers had curled tighter and tighter around the stone hand. Now he forced them to unclench, then bent to set the hand back on the floor with the other fragments.

“What if you had kept it a secret?” Travis said as he straightened again. “What if you had never told anyone about your power, and had never used it?”

Larad raised a dark eyebrow. “And would that not have slain me more surely than my father’s knife?”

The runespeaker did not wait for an answer. He moved to the archway, which was clearly visible on this side.

Travis took a step forward. “Wait,” he said, surprised at his own action. “How did you know I was here?”

Larad paused, his eyes unreadable. “I didn’t, Master Wilder.”