The Keep of Fire (57 page)

“Let’s make camp,” Falken said.

The travelers dismounted. As Melia started to slide from the back of her mount, Beltan rushed over, knelt, and made a step of one of his broad shoulders. Melia frowned, but it was too late for her to do anything save place her foot on his shoulder and hop lightly to the ground.

She turned and glared at the big man. “You’re my Knight Protector, Sir Beltan, not my footstool. I thought I told you not to do that anymore.”

Beltan nodded. “You did, Melia.”

“And didn’t you tell me that you were sorry?”

Again the knight nodded. “I did.”

“So what part of this puzzle am I missing?”

A grin illuminated Beltan’s broad face. “Just because I’m sorry doesn’t mean I won’t do it again.”

It was one of those exceedingly rare moments when Melia opened her mouth and no words came out. Grace laughed, and the others joined in the mirth.

“I really don’t see what’s so funny,” Melia said, folding her arms across her chest.

A small figure slipped past Grace and ran to Melia. Tira. The girl reached up and touched Melia’s arm. The regal lady stared in what could only be shock, then her frown crumbled, replaced by a smile that was sweet and almost shy, and which a quick hand could not quite conceal.

Tira ran back to Grace. Sighing, Grace hugged the girl close. The sound of laughter was as healing as the fragrance of the
talathrin
. Together they approached the arched entrance to the Way Circle.

The thundering of hooves halted them. Grace turned with the others to see Durge charging toward them on Blackalock. Clods of dirt sprayed in all directions as the horse came to a halt. Grace looked up
into Durge’s craggy face and knew at once that something was wrong.

“What is it?” she said.

“There is smoke to the north,” the knight said. “Two leagues, perhaps less. It is moving in this direction.”

There was no need to say more. They cast ashen looks at one another, then headed for the horses. In minutes they were mounted again. Grace looked up and saw it: a thick, black pillar rising into the sky.

“They’re coming,” Travis murmured.

Falken glanced at Melia, then sighed. “Let’s go.”

The riders followed their shadows into the east, leaving the
talathrin
and the cool scent of water behind.

Once again they rode long into the night, away from the smoke of fires. To the east a pulsing spark of crimson rose above the horizon, as if lighting the way for them.

But we’re no traveling magi, Travis. And it’s not a birth waiting for you beneath the star. Not if Sfithrisir was right
.

He tried to keep the hissing words of the dragon from echoing in his skull, but it was no use. Maybe it would have been better if the dragon had not felt generous, if it had just burned them all. But Jack’s voice had spoken in Travis’s mind, and it had told him to step forward, to show his hand, and to reveal what he was to the dragon.

Runebreaker
.

And what exactly was that? Travis wasn’t certain, but the dragon had said he was doomed to bring about the end of the world. It was absurd, of course. How
could one person destroy an entire world? Only a monster could do that. But Falken said dragons didn’t lie. And maybe Travis wasn’t just a person after all.

Quiet voices spoke near him in the gloom.

“Where do you think it has been hidden, Falken?”

“I don’t know, Melia. The Barrens, perhaps. But that’s little more than a hunch. Let’s hope Tome will have found more to tell us when we reach Spardis.”

“Yes.” A long pause, then, “There is much I hope Tome will be able to tell us.”

The voices drifted away, and Travis did not try to follow. He wiped sweaty hands against his breeches, then rode into stifling folds of night.

The next day dawned to fog and swelter as usual. Travis packed his saddlebags, then carried them toward Patch, who was picketed with the other horses. He opened his mouth to say good morning to Lirith and Aryn, but as he approached the two turned and hurried away.

They’re just going to get their things, that’s all
.

However, he knew that wasn’t entirely true. Ever since they had left the valley of the temple, he had barely spoken with the young baroness or the Tolorian witch. It was subtle; there was nothing that showed for certain they were avoiding him. However, they always seemed to have something else important to do when he was near them. And more than once he had felt a prickling on the back of his neck, and he had turned to see brilliant blue or smoky brown eyes just looking away.

“Let me help you with those,” a bright tenor said as Travis lifted the saddlebags toward Patch’s back.

Travis looked up. “It’s all right—I can manage.”

“I know.”

Beltan’s callused hands slipped over Travis’s, then took the saddlebags, easily tossing them over the gelding’s back. With deft motions the knight lashed them into place.

Travis regarded the blond man. “Thanks, Beltan.”
Thanks for not avoiding me even though you know what I am now
. However, these last words lodged in his throat.

Beltan grinned. “I’m still your Knight Protector, Travis. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was shirking my duties.”

Travis only meant to clap the knight’s shoulder, but somehow his arms encircled the other man, and he squeezed Beltan in a hug instead. Maybe it was just that, right then, Travis needed to feel the closeness of another human being, as if that meant he was human as well, and not a monster. The knight smelled of steel, sweat, and leather. It was a real smell, comforting.

At last Travis stepped back, and he saw that Beltan’s grin was gone, replaced by a solemn look. Had he offended the knight by being so familiar? He opened his mouth to apologize, but just then Falken’s voice rang on the hazy air.

“All right, everyone. Let’s get going.”

It was midmorning when, after dozing in the saddle for a time, Travis lifted his head to see Lirith just turning her gaze away. She had been looking at him—he was certain of it. Now she leaned to whisper something to Aryn, who rode close by. Grace was on the opposite side of the group. Before he lost his nerve, he nudged Patch’s flanks, guiding the gelding toward Grace’s slender palfrey. Tira, who sat before Grace, looked up as he approached, then bent back over her doll.

“What is it, Grace?” Travis said in a low voice.

Her green-gold eyes were startled. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. It’s those two.” His gaze flickered toward the baroness and the witch. “Why are Aryn and Lirith avoiding me?”

She clutched the reins. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Yes, you do.” He drew in a deep breath. “Grace, after all that we’ve done together, I think you can tell me.”

His words might have been needles for the way they drained the blood from her face. Her gaze moved past him, toward Aryn and Lirith, then moved back, meeting his own.

“I don’t really know how to say this, Travis. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you before, even when I should have. But I think the Witches are—”

“Ho, there!” Falken’s voice rose above the noise of hooves. “Everyone—we’re going to stop here for a minute.”

Travis and Grace reined their mounts to a halt. Falken dismounted, as did Melia. The two of them approached something that was all but lost in a tangle of weeds.

Grace glanced at Travis. “Should we go see what they’ve found?”

Travis was starting to dread the things the bard and the lady uncovered. However, he slipped from Patch’s back, then took Tira from Grace’s outstretched arms and set the girl on the ground as Grace hopped down. They followed after Falken, along with Aryn, Lirith, and Beltan. Durge remained astride his charger, gazing into the distance with sober eyes.

“What is it?” Lirith said, eyeing the milky stone that Falken had revealed by parting the weeds.

Travis drew closer. The stone was not natural. It was shaped like a pyramid, reaching about waist high. Although its surface was worn smooth by centuries, he could still make out the intricate patterns carved into its surface.

“It’s a
talmaren,”
the bard said, squatting down to peer at the stone. “A Way Marker—a relic of the war against the Pale King a thousand years ago.”

Aryn’s blue eyes went wide, and she took a step back. “A relic? Do you mean like the pylon?”

“No,” Melia said. “The
talmareni
had nothing to do with the Pale King. They were placed here by the Tarrasians who fought against Berash. Each one marked a place where a battle was fought and acted as a guide for those who came after.”

Beltan gestured to the Way Marker. “So what does it say? I’m afraid my ancient Tarrasian is a little rusty.”

Melia knelt and traced slender fingers over the surface of the
talmaren
. “Here fell Galarus of the Golden Horn and Tileros the Silent. Twenty
maltheru
were slain by their arrows before the coming of the
siltheri.”

Travis shook his head. “What are they, Melia?
Maltheru
and
siltheri
, I mean.”

The regal woman stood.
“Maltheru
was the Tarrasian word for
feydrim.”
She turned her amber gaze on him. “And the
siltheri
were wraithlings.”

Travis adjusted his spectacles, and it almost seemed he saw them, like faint ghosts on the side of the nearby hill, two shining warriors, raining arrows down on a roiling horde of gray fur and yellow fangs, until the others drifted over the top of the hill: pale and deathly as frost on steel.

Grace’s voice dispelled the vision. “Falken, that symbol on the stone—it looks like the one on your brooch.”

Travis looked at the symbol on the
talmaren
to which Grace pointed: a stylized knot with four loops. She was right—the silver brooch that clasped the neck of Falken’s cloak bore the same four-looped knot.

The bard touched the silver brooch. “Yes. This is a symbol of Malachor.”

Grace frowned. “But I thought you said the Way Marker was a relic of Tarras.”

Now Falken laughed, although it was a sad sound somehow. “That’s right as well. It was the Empress Elsara of Tarras who founded Malachor, along with King Ulther of Toringarth. And do you see?” He ran a finger over the brooch. “The symbol is not quite the same as on the stone. It is the Star of Toringarth at the center of the knot, not the Sun of Tarras.”

Melia let out a sigh. “So many that were so brave perished in the War of the Stones. It was so long ago—sometimes I forget. Yet I must not.”

Falken laid a hand on her shoulder, his faded blue eyes filled with concern. Melia reached up and touched his hand, still gazing at the
talmaren
.

Travis scratched his red-gold beard. There was something here—something about this stone—that was important. But what was it? “You were born in the south, weren’t you, Melia?”

The lady turned glittering eyes on him. “Yes,” she said. “I was.”

He scratched some more, then glanced at the bard. “What about you, Falken? Where were you born?”

“Asheron,” the bard said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Beltan snorted. “Asheron? I’ve never heard of it.”

Falken looked up, his eyes suddenly flat and hard. “That’s because it’s gone.” He turned his back and marched toward the horses.

Beltan glanced at Melia, his expression wounded. “What did I say?”

Melia patted his hand. “It was nothing you said, dear, really. I’m afraid this sorrow is his own.” She started after Falken.

Beltan let out a snort. “Bards.”

Lirith laughed. “Well spoken, Sir Knight.”

The mists crept up from low places and closed in around the riders as evening drew near.

After leaving the
talmaren
, they had given a wide berth to the still-smoking ruins of a group of stone cottages. Travis had lost count of the burnt villages, farms, and hovels they had passed since leaving the temple; each day had brought more than the last. He could only believe that Grace was right, that they were nearing the center of it all.

They stopped to make camp along a line of tall trees that were nothing like any Travis knew; slender branches ended in flat, dark green tufts raised like hands, palms up to the sky. The trees followed the course of a brook that Travis guessed, by the polished stones, was usually brisk and full to the bank, but which was now little more than a trickle oozing over slimy rocks. They scraped what they could from brackish puddles and tried not to notice the bitter tang as they drank.

“How much farther is it to Spardis?” Travis heard Melia ask as he walked back toward the others with another half-full water flask. The regal woman knelt before a fire, alongside Aryn, as the two prepared a meal from what scant foodstuffs they had managed to discover in the saddlebags.

“We’ve been making good time these last days.” The bard paused in the act of shaving his chin and cheeks with a razor-sharp knife—a feat also performed regularly by Beltan and Durge, and which Travis had never dared to attempt for fear of immediate death. “If we set out before dawn, we should make it to the castle before sunset tomorrow.”

Beltan let out a snort and looked up from the mail
shirt across his lap, which he was polishing with a rag. “If this fog gets any thicker, we’re not going anywhere, except maybe off the edge of a cliff in the gloom.”

Durge gave the blond man an approving nod. “Well spoken, Sir Knight.”

Beltan blinked, then shook his head and bent back over his armor.

Travis set the water flask beside Melia. “Here’s the last of that puddle.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ll use it in the stew.”

“You know, it sort of already
is
stew.”

“I see.” Melia set the flask down a safe distance from the pot.

As Travis turned away, he caught a glimmer of blue. Aryn. The young woman had been looking at him. Across the camp, Grace and Lirith sat with Tira. Grace smiled at him, and even Tira wriggled small fingers in his direction, but Lirith did not look up as she combed the girl’s red hair.

Earlier that day, Travis had finally had a chance to talk to Grace. Alone. And now he knew why Aryn and Lirith had kept their distance from him ever since their conversation with the dragon.