Beyond the Pale (54 page)

Other heads around the table and chamber nodded at this.

“Don’t we?” Falken said, his voice rising. “Perhaps children have more sense than we. The Pale King stirs, there can be no doubt. The Dominions must take action, and take it swiftly. They must raise an army as strong as that of Ulther and Elsara of old, and they must do it now.” Falken raised his black-gloved fist on high. “By the blood of Malachor in my veins, I demand a reckoning of the council!”

Eminda stood, her broad face crimson. “This is ridiculous!”

King Sorrin, who had hardly moved throughout the bard’s tale, now lifted his head. His sunken eyes were unreadable. “Let the bard have his reckoning. Then we shall be done with it.”

The other rulers nodded in agreement. Eminda sank back into her chair. Boreas motioned to Alerain, and the seneschal hurried over with a leather pouch. Boreas emptied the pouch onto the table. In it were seven white stones and seven black stones. He passed one stone of each color to each of the rulers.

“The question stands before this council whether to muster the Dominions for war,” Boreas said. He held up his white stone. “White signifies agreement, and a mustering for war.” The king lifted his black stone. “Black signifies disagreement.”

Each of the rulers held their two stones beneath the table, then drew one out, hidden in the hand. They rested their hands on the table before them. Grace held her breath. She barely knew Falken, but his tale had affected her in a way she could not explain. She did not pretend to understand everything about this Pale King. However, she had seen a thing of evil—a man with a heart of iron in his chest—and she had seen the feydrim as well. She knew there was danger, and greater than any of them could imagine. However, as the kings and queens opened their hands, Grace knew before she saw each stone what color it would be.

On the open palms of Boreas, Kylar, and Persard rested a white stone: war. Revealed on the hands of Eminda, Lysandir, and Sorrin were stones of black: no muster. Only
Ivalaine was a mystery to Grace. The beautiful queen of Toloria sat still, then she too opened her hand.

There was no stone upon it. “I abstain,” Ivalaine said.

Boreas’s eyes flashed in rage, but before he could speak Eminda stood.

“Then it is a deadlock,” she said. “And a deadlock means no muster!”

Falken gazed at the queen of Eredane and the rest of the council. His face was gray and haggard. Grace started to reach out a hand, then snatched it back. What could she possibly do to help? If Falken could not sway the council, she hardly could. Falken gathered up the broken rune.

“Then there is no hope for Eldh,” he said, and walked from the tower.

The next morning, Durge came to Grace’s chamber to teach her how to use the knife Aryn had given her.

“There has been one attack upon your person, my lady,” the knight said when she opened the door. “That makes another all the more likely. I do not expect to let you far from my sight, but I cannot be with you every moment.”

Grace gave a tight smile. “You could, Durge. I just don’t think I’d appreciate you quite as much as I do now.”

Durge stepped into her room and asked if he might see her knife. Grace gave it to him. She had cleaned the feydrim’s blood from it, and its edge glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window. The knife was small, but its blade bore a sensual curve. It seemed alive, but then knives could be living things. Grace knew that from the ED. Sometimes a scalpel could jump out of her hand. Other times it seemed to guide her fingers, as if it knew better than she the incision that needed to be made.

“It is old and of a good make,” Durge said. “As good as any blade from the forges of Embarr, although I would say this blade was fashioned here in Calavan. Third century after Founding I would hazard, which means it is nearly two hundred
years old. Of course, it’s been hafted to a new hilt since.”

“How do you know all that, Durge?”

The knight shrugged. “I have a passing interest in metals and other elements, my lady. Do not be too impressed. Certainly my speculation is quite wrong.”

Grace doubted that. She took the knife back and gazed at it with new wonder. How many hands had held it before her?

“One can study for years to learn how to wield a knife properly,” Durge said, “and we have but a morning. However, I can teach you some moves and positions. They are simple enough, but they will make an enemy think twice about attacking you again.”

Grace steeled her shoulders. “Show me.”

For the next hour Grace concentrated, knife in her hand, as Durge showed her how to position her body to guard her most vulnerable areas—the stomach, the throat, the face. He taught her to make, not large slashes, but quick, short thrusts. The goal was not to kill the opponent, only to stick him, to slow him down, and make him hurt. That would give Grace time to run, or to call for aid.

By the end of the hour Grace’s cheeks glowed with effort, and the shoulder of her knife arm ached. However, when Durge made a feint at her from behind, she was able to crouch quickly and thrust behind her.

A strong hand clamped around her wrist. “Very good, my lady.”

She looked back over her shoulder. The tip of the knife was no more than an inch from Durge’s thigh.

“I knew that blow was coming. Your enemy would not. I think he would have felt that sting.”

Grace stood, her heart pounding, and grinned. Could she really do it? Could she really harm another to save herself?
Why not, Grace? You’ve done it before. Remember the baker in the lower bailey. And that was not the first time. That was not the first.…

Her grin faded.

Durge cocked his head. “I think that is enough for today. You are a swift learner, my lady, although I would that I
could teach you how to use a larger weapon. Even in close quarters, I prefer my greatsword …”

“… but this is a little easier to fit in one’s boot,” Grace said. She bent and slipped the knife into the sheath inside her deerskin boot. It was foolish—she shouldn’t let herself feel this way—but she
did
feel more confident with the knife snug against her skin.

She rose, and a thought occurred to her. “Durge, what does King Sorrin think of your spending so much time with me?”

Durge was in the act of strapping on his sword harness, which he had removed for their exercises. She could not see his face—only his broad back, his stooped shoulders.

“Do not concern yourself with Sorrin, my lady. I have pledged my sword to you, and in Embarr the word of a knight is stronger than steel, more enduring than stone.”

Grace opened her mouth, but any words she might have uttered were preempted by a knock on the door.

“Grace!” Aryn said as she rushed into the room. “I’m so glad you’re here. King Boreas wants to see you.”

Grace crossed her arms over her gown—the paler lavender today. She had known it was only a matter of time before the king summoned her, although she had not expected it this soon. After the disastrous reckoning of the council yesterday, a recess had been called. She had thought Boreas would want to be alone with his thoughts.

Aloud she said to Aryn, “When did Boreas want to see me?”

“He said at once.”

Grace swallowed hard. Boreas always assumed everyone would carry out his orders immediately. That he had specified
at once
did not bode well.

She glanced at Durge. “I think I’d better go.”

“No, my lady. I think you had better run.”

Moments later she and Aryn dashed through the corridors of the keep. Servants and petty nobles scurried to get out of their way. One red-cheeked page dropped a bowl of apples, and they went bouncing and rolling away across the floor. Grace shot him a look of chagrin as he ran after them. She hoped he wouldn’t be beaten. However, if she didn’t hurry, she wasn’t sure her own fate would be any better. She
thought Boreas was above throwing her over his knee and spanking her, but she wasn’t perfectly certain.

“Do you think the king is still angry with me for asking Falken that question at the council yesterday?” she asked Aryn as they ran.

Aryn shot her a look that was halfway between smile and grimace. “Don’t worry, Grace. There hasn’t been a beheading at Calavere in months.”

Grace didn’t waste her breath with a response. She quickened her pace.

“My ladies, can you delay a moment in your haste?”

Grace and Aryn stopped as though they had hit an invisible wall. Nor was Grace so certain they hadn’t. She may have lived her entire life in a democracy, but there was a power to royalty that could not be denied. They turned to gaze into the ice-blue eyes of Ivalaine, Queen of Toloria.

At once they affected hurried curtsies. “Your Majesty!”

“Rise,” the queen said, and they did.

Ivalaine stood in an alcove, her arm resting upon a pedestal, as if she had been standing there for some time, waiting. But waiting for what?

Don’t you mean waiting for whom, Grace
?

She looked over the queen’s shoulder and expected to see a flash of emerald. However, Kyrene was nowhere in sight. Only Tressa stood behind the queen, a serene expression on her plump, pretty face. The queen’s lady-in-waiting looked like an angel. Except angels didn’t have long red hair, did they? Grace returned her gaze to Ivalaine. On the pedestal against which the queen leaned was a bronze ewer filled with water, and next to it was a cup of horn. The medieval version of a drinking fountain.

“How can we assist you, Your Majesty?” Aryn said between gasps for breath.

“Drink,” Ivalaine said. “You are thirsty.”

Grace lifted a hand to her throat. Yes, she
was
thirsty, terribly so. Her throat burned with thirst. She took the cup, filled it from the ewer, and drank greedily. Aryn fairly snatched the cup from her hands and did the same. Grace wiped at her damp chin with the back of her hand. The water from the ewer had been cold and sweet, but already her
throat was growing dry again. She started to reach for the cup. A slender hand on her wrist stopped her.

“The thirst is not so easily quenched, is it, my sister?”

Grace thought her touch would be like ivory, but instead the queen’s hand against her own was warm and light, the touch of a bird. She could feel a pulse, like a tiny, fluttering heart.

Grace licked her lips. “We should go.” Her voice was a croak. “King Boreas is waiting for us.”

Aryn nodded. “The king.” She could seem to speak no other words.

Ivalaine’s gown was the color of water. The air seemed to ripple. “Look into the ewer,” she said. “I think you will find something there.”

“What do you think we will see?” Aryn said, but Ivalaine did not answer. She only watched, and her eyes glittered like secret gems.

Grace and Aryn peered into the water.

What are you doing, Grace? You have to go. Boreas is going to feed you to his mastiffs if you don’t get moving. Besides, there’s nothing in the water.…

Grace drew in a sharp breath. If there was nothing in the water, then she should have been able to see the bottom of the ewer. She couldn’t. The inside of the vessel was black. The darkness claimed her vision, dragged her down, until she could see nothing else. A queasiness came over her, as though she drifted on a choppy ocean.

“I see a castle!”

It was Aryn’s voice, although she sounded too far away. Her words were bright and excited, like a small girl’s on her birthday, opening presents.

“There are seven towers—I can see them so clearly—and a hundred knights with banners tied to their lances. The banners are as blue as the sky. There’s a woman riding before the knights, on a horse as white as clouds. She must be their queen. She’s all in blue as well, with a sword belted at her side, and her dark hair streaming behind her on the wind. She’s so proud, so proud and … oh!”

Aryn’s words ended. What had she seen? Grace could not glimpse the castle or the proud queen. She saw only blackness.

No, that wasn’t true. There was something in the blackness after all. They were faint, but she could see them. Hands. Some were long and slender. Others were thick and rough. They reached out, pale against the darkness. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. And they were all reaching for her.

No
!

The water in the ewer changed from black to crimson. Flames shot out of the darkness. Engulfed by the fire, the hands curled like dying spiders. She thought she heard screams. Then there was only the fire. Pure, hot, cleansing fire.…

“Lady Grace!”

The voice was stern but not alarmed. Grace snapped her head up. Next to her Aryn blinked, her expression bewildered. Ivalaine still watched them both, but now her gaze was calculating. Behind the queen Tressa nodded, a knowing look on her broad angel’s face.

Aryn shook her head. “What … what happened?”

“There is a power in water, a life,” the queen of Toloria said. “It has the ability to reflect both past and future, if one knows how to look.” Ivalaine stepped toward them and caught their hands in her own. Her expression was exultant. “There can be no doubt of it now. The Touch runs strong in both of you.”

Aryn cast a frightened look at Grace. Yet there was something else in the baroness’s gaze. A hungry light. Grace tried to swallow—her throat burned with thirst.

“What if we don’t want it?” she said. “What if we don’t want this Touch?”

Ivalaine’s gaze was as distant and frosty as a winter sky. “Then do not come to my chamber this evening at sunset.” The queen released their hands and without further words moved down the corridor, Tressa silent in her wake. The Tolorian women vanished around a corner. As if waking from a spell, Aryn slapped her forehead.

“The king!”

Grace didn’t move. She kept staring at the ewer. Small bubbles rose in the water, and a faint wisp of steam curled from its surface. Except that was impossible.

A tug on her sleeve. “Come on, Grace. We have to
go
.”

Still Grace didn’t move. “What did you see, Aryn? In the ewer, when you stopped speaking.” She looked at the baroness.

Aryn blushed and hung her head. “It’s foolish. A whim, a fancy. It can’t mean anything.”