The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Read online

Beyond the trees they found easier terrain for the horses—the pebbled dales and rolling, grass- and snow-covered foothills of the Cambrian Mountains. Less than a league after they entered the lowlands, they intersected a proper road. A vaguely familiar road, in fact, and Finn was not at all surprised when Cerrigwen led them northwest along one of the narrow vales that cut between the hillocks. Before long he found himself anticipating what lay on the other side of the next rise, and suddenly he knew exactly where they were.

  “Cwm Brith,” Finn spat.

  “What?”

  Finn ignored Pedr, intent on what was ahead. Sure enough the hillocks gave way to the bowl-shaped expanse that formed the valley head, where the road reached its end. Less than half a league ahead they would reach the gates of a secluded and well-fortified keep.

  “Curse that woman, and curse my soul to the darkest depths of Balor’s realm,” Finn muttered. “I’d hoped to never see this place again.”

  FOUR

  “His Eminence will see you.” Elder Algernon waved the smoldering rush stalk in the direction of the inner courtyard, indicating the rectory on the other side with dripping wax and spitting embers, and then proceeded to lead the way at a maddeningly deliberate pace.

  “I have come on a matter of some urgency,” Thorne said. It required fair effort to restrain his pace enough to keep from trampling the frail, elderly man—and a good deal more to find the patience to be polite. “I remember the way.”

  “You’ve been too long in the wilds again, Brother Edwall.” Algernon paused, obliging Thorne to do the same. “You forget your manners.”

  Thorne gritted his teeth, offered a bow of respect, and then followed Algernon plod for plod across the stone pavers that floored the central round of the keep. Courtesy was a small price, given how rarely he returned to Castell Banraven to pay tribute. “Thank you, Elder, for granting me entry at such a late hour.”

  “Is it late?” Algernon gave a chortle that was more a short-winded cough than a laugh. “I hadn’t noticed. The business of the Ruagaire is almost always conducted in the dead of night.”

  One side of the double entry to the rectory stood open, and Algernon waved him in before shuffling away. Thorne quelled a sudden flare of warning and announced himself as he entered the antechamber. “Your Eminence.”

  Master Eldrith nodded to him from behind his desk. “Close the door.”

  Thorne obliged and then returned to the customary position of address at the center of the room. “I have unexpected news.”

  “I assume it must be grave, given how rarely you trouble yourself to return.” Master Eldrith’s stern gaze had a sobering effect. “How many weeks’ service do you owe, Brother Edwall?”

  Thorne struggled with humility. “A matter of months now, I believe. I’m afraid I have lost count.”

  “Hmm.” Eldrith folded his hands and rested them on the desktop. “We shall discuss your tithe later. What is your news?”

  Thorne had not realized how tightly he had been clenching his gloves in his right fist, and tucked them into his scabbard belt in an effort to relax. These visits were always uncomfortable—this one more than most. Master Eldrith was not a particularly warm man, but tonight he seemed unusually aloof.

  “An emissary from the Stewardry has approached me with an unusual request, but perhaps even more unusual than the request are the circumstances that prompted it.”

  Now Thorne realized he had taken to fidgeting with his ring, twisting the signet back and forth on the forefinger of his right hand. “More troubling even than that is the fact that I did not already know.

  “Master Eldrith,” Thorne queried pointedly, watching his superior’s face for signs of surprise, “are you aware of recent events at Fane Gramarye?”

  Eldrith’s expression was essentially unchanged. “Go on.”

  Thorne had a vague sensation of foreboding. “Madoc is dead. Machreth has turned rogue and taken the guardian Cerrigwen with him. I have been engaged for the hunt.”

  Eldrith released a heavy sigh and glanced down at his hands before returning a now saddened gaze to Thorne. “Have you anything else to report?”

  “No.” Thorne was suspicious, though he wasn’t sure why. “The last information I heard came to me by way of Trevanion, months ago. I would guess he reported to you as well.”

  Eldrith nodded. “Tell me, have you had any word from the Brothers Steptoe?”

  “I have not.” Thorne had the distinct impression of doom gathering like storm clouds in the near sky. Eckhardt and Gavin Steptoe were among the few men he counted as blood kin, though they were his brethren only by way of the Ruagaire oath. “Not since the cold weather settled in, but I imagine they would winter at Elder Keep unless you have ordered them elsewhere.”

  “Elder Trevanion is dead.”

  “What?” Thorne’s entire inner being ignited from the shock. He had been Martin Trevanion’s last apprentice and his closest confidant for many years. Suddenly, the lack of communication made sense. But Eldrith’s vague and cryptic questioning did not. “How? When?”

  “Some weeks ago, I’m afraid. I am truly sorry, Thorne. I wish it were not so.” Eldrith appeared genuinely mournful, but he did not disclose the details of Trevanion’s death. “I wish many things were not so.”

  “Master Eldrith,” Thorne began to question further, trying to wrest understanding from what he realized was an intentionally evasive conversation. He then noticed that Eldrith’s eyes were focused somewhere beyond him. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “Forgive me, Thorne.” Master Eldrith rose to a stand, his hushed voice far more pained than his expression. “There are powers at work here that are no longer in my control.”

  As Eldrith spoke, Thorne’s instincts were already goading him. The need to escape was unmistakable. Thorne sidled back two steps and positioned himself perpendicular to the master’s desk, his back to the exterior wall and his fingers coiled around the hilt of his sword. He heard the echo of footsteps crossing the cobbled courtyard. Thorne calculated four men or more, still half a minute away, maybe a few seconds less.

  On his right, Thorne heard the metal tongue of a latch clasp slide back, and a hidden door behind the banner on the wall swung in. Elder Algernon beckoned from the threshold. “This way, Edwall. Quickly, now.”

  Thorne glanced at Eldrith as he started for the door, gauging whether or not his superior intended to hinder or help. Not that it mattered—Thorne had already assessed the odds of success and had made his choice. He would leave or die trying.

  Eldrith stood at his desk, for all appearances impassive—even removed. Thorne suppressed a flare of anger. Such emotions were no aid under threat. It was harder, however, to ignore the betrayal—it tempted him to stay and fight if he must, if only to find out what had gone wrong. Fortunately, he was trained to respond to his reflexes, and Algernon was providing a way out.

  “We will distract them as long as we can,” the Elder whispered as Thorne passed, offering his sputtering rush dip for light. “Take the tunnel, and avoid the gaolers.”

  Thorne accepted the advice and the light with a nod of thanks, as he broke into a dead run down the stairwell a few feet beyond the rectory. If there were gaolers, there were prisoners. As far as he knew, the hold had not been in use for years. There was no time now to wonder further about Algernon’s cryptic remark, though Thorne understood the message. He also understood that somehow he now had more enemies than friends in Banraven.

  The short passage at the base of the keep ran in a straight line directly to the dungeon, with but one slightly curving turn. Once past the curve, anyone traveling the passage would be visible to the sentry standing watch at the hold, and likely to some of the occupants of the pens. At the end of the tunnel was an exit used to put prisoners to work in the fields. Thorne stopped just short of the turn. He knew another way out.

  Angry vo
ices echoed from above, with the strike of boot heels on stone steps soon following. With only a minute or two to spare, he waved the rush dip over the right-hand wall of the passage until he found the hatch to the wastewater sluice. It took a good tug to wrench open the metal cover, but good fortune was with him—at least this far; the hinge was well-oiled and moved silently. Thorne tossed the burning rush stalk into the culvert, to douse the light and free his hands.

  Gripping the top of the hatch for leverage, he swung his legs through the opening and perched on the narrow shelf just above the drop, so he could pull the hatch shut behind him. The effort unbalanced him, sending him plummeting down the narrow chute in a feet-first gut slide. Less controlled and less prepared than he had intended, but at least the hatch had closed.

  The culvert was set at a straight, steep incline that ran a good forty feet before letting out in the cesspool. Thorne wondered briefly which was more nauseating—the stench rising from the rancid pool as he barreled toward it, or the thought of landing in the wastewater itself. The landing was worse by far.

  He was out of the cistern nearly as quickly as he had entered it. From the pool edge he only had to kick the cantilevered vent out of its housing to get free of the keep. Then it was a short scramble down the steeply pitched earthen mound that formed the defensive foundation of the castle, and a short wade across a ditch that once had passed for a moat.

  It wouldn’t be long before his pursuers discovered his route, but by that time he would be nearly a league ahead of them. He’d left his horse tethered in a small copse of ash trees a dozen yards from the moat. Fresh clothing was still some miles off. However, far more discomfiting than the fetid, wet cloak and shit-soaked leather leggings, was the fiery tingle he’d felt at the nape of his neck, just before he’d slid down the shaft.

  Glain positioned the hornbeam wand-rough she had brought from her room in the center of the spell room floor. Any rigid thing of similar size and weight would do—a rush stalk or even a candle. But Glain believed that something of meaning and value to her, something inherently magical like the length of consecrated wood she had chosen to become her next wand, would bring her luck. She had been trying all morning with a raven’s quill with no result.

  The finding was a complex invocation. The act of envisioning an object and calling it forth seemed simple enough on the face of it, but to coax the thing to reveal itself actually required remarkable control and concentration. The wand-rough was merely a conduit, a medium of sorts that connected her to the object of her desire. It would respond by pointing out the object—a bit like a divination stick or a south-pointing needle.

  Handling it lightly, Glain held forth her wand and called to mind an image of parchment rolls fixed with the wax impression of Madoc’s signet—a bearded wizard encircled with a wreath of laurel leaves. This had long been the sigil of the Stewardry. Once she had the vision of the scrolls firmly fixed, Glain then imagined them in as much detail as she could summon from memory—the faint mottled texture of the fine vellum that Madoc favored, the scent of tallow and pipe smoke, and his sprawling letters penned in the signature blue-black ink. For years she had prepared the unique mixture for him—from albumen, soot, and honey—and just a drop of indigo dye.

  Anguish unsteadied her, like a chill rippling along her spine. The memories were reawakening her sorrow and making it hard to think. Madoc’s loss was still fresh. The chaos of the last weeks had prevented a proper mourning, and any plans for a public tribute had been put off for a better time. A practical decision under the circumstances, but there were days when Glain resented being forced to hold onto her suffering. The strain would weaken her if she let it.

  Two deep, slow breaths helped to quiet the pain. She wanted to find those blasted scrolls, more now than ever, if only to bring some small part of this nightmare to an end. Again she focused her mind on the scrolls. If she tried very hard, perhaps she might even envision the words on the pages.

  “Think on the vellum,” Glain murmured to herself. “Think hard on the seal and the script.”

  “Alwen had you teach me the finding spell in this very room.”

  “Good Gods, Ariane!” Glain had been working with her back to the door and was caught unaware. Ariane had startled her silly, completely fracturing her concentration.

  “Do you remember?” Ariane continued, oblivious to the disruption she had caused. “The magic went wild.”

  Ariane’s oblivious rambling annoyed Glain nearly as much as the reminder. “Yes, I remember, and no, it did not go wild.”

  Ariane laughed. “What would you call it, then?”

  Glain bristled at her friend’s insensitivity. Had Ariane forgotten that it was in her defense that Glain had overreacted in the first place? Besides, Glain had not actually lost control of that spell; it had been accidentally fueled by her anger. Perhaps her pride as well—but Glain was wiser now. She turned her back on Ariane and tried to pick up where she had left off. “Hush now, or leave me in peace so I can work.”

  “Cupboard doors banged and books went flying across the room,” Ariane continued, as if she were regaling an audience with a dramatic reading. “If I recall, even the floor stones shifted.”

  “There are half a dozen spell rooms on this floor,” Glain said through clenched teeth. “There must be at least one left for you to search.”

  “Perhaps I should stay”—Ariane continued to poke at her—“in case you need my help.”

  Exasperated with the taunting and still piqued by Ariane’s indiscretion with Hywel the day before, Glain lost her composure. She spun around, almost eager for confrontation. “The sun will set in the south before I need your help, Ariane. And who are you to mock me? How many times have I rescued you from your mistakes? I may count you as my friend, but when it comes to duty and skill, we are not equals. You would do well to remember that.”

  Glain might have regretted her harsh words, were it not for the unexpected flash of defiance that illuminated Ariane’s usually dull chestnut eyes. What had come over her these last several days? Ariane was a shy, slightly awkward girl who rarely spoke, and certainly never in disrespect or contempt.

  “Ariane,” Ynyr’s firm baritone interrupted from the doorway, “Euday needs your help in the scriptorium.”

  There was a fleeting and indecisive moment before Ariane decided to leave, in which Glain was sure she sensed a challenge brewing. At the very least, she had seen the looming shadow of something intentionally left unsaid. It was unsettling.

  Ariane had barely passed into the hallway before Ynyr rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “I will never understand why you take up for that halfling.” He propped his shoulder against the doorjamb, with one leg crossed over the other and his arms over his chest. “She is not as deserving as you like to think.”

  “Everyone deserves a chance to become their best.” Glain turned back to the wand-rough, more disgruntled than ever and equally as determined. “A halfling witch is still a witch.”

  “If she chooses to be,” Ynyr argued. “She could also choose to suppress her magical side, to live among plain folk and never be noticed as anything other than ordinary.”

  “Doesn’t that make her choice to embrace her magic all the more admirable?” Glain countered. “It is certainly the more difficult path.”

  Ynyr shrugged. “One could say it takes courage to choose to be extraordinary rather than ordinary, but I think you miss my point. A halfling will only ever be half a mage, no matter how hard they may wish to be more. Some will be content with their limitations, and some may actually grow beyond them, though that is exceedingly rare. And then there are those who will only ever make the smallest effort and then feel sorry for themselves when they fail, all the while secretly resenting everyone else.”

  “You are such a cynic, Ynyr,” Glain said. “And a snob.”

  “If by ‘snob’ you imply that I am proud to
be mageborn, so be it,” he admitted. “I am proud, and so are you, if you are honest. But that does not mean I think any less of the wildlings or the halflings. I am merely pointing out there are differences.”

  “Hah!” Glain huffed. “You are pointing out Ariane’s differences—and not the flattering ones.”

  Ynyr smiled at her. “Food for thought, little one, that’s all.”

  She glared at him. “If you insist upon staying, please be quiet.”

  Thoroughly flustered, Glain tried to ignore Ynyr and focused even harder on the wand-rough. He meant well, but she thought he was overly critical of Ariane. Unfortunately, his was the prevailing opinion, and for the moment, Glain was finding it hard to oppose.

  A heavy sigh and a good shake of her shoulders brought her close to calm, and Glain started afresh. She held forth her wand and made a concerted effort to cast off any lingering misgivings. Alwen had told her the spell worked itself to the expectations of the mage who conjured it, so Glain was careful to invoke only the specific objects she wanted to find. As the detailed vision of the scrolls began to form again, the wand-rough waggled. And then a stray thought threaded through the images she held in her mind. What other secrets might be hidden here?

  The wand-rough spun sunwise twice and then back full around once, stopping abruptly, with the narrower end pointed at the west wall. Glain was perplexed, but relieved that she hadn’t lost control. At least this time the drawers hadn’t flung themselves out of the desk.

  “Odd,” she wondered. There were no furnishings on this wall, nothing at all of interest but for an iron torch sconce and a tapestry depicting a celestial view of a full moon in a night sky. “Could there be a keepsafe within the wall?”

  “Or behind it.” Ynyr was already examining the wall face, testing the mortared seams between the stones with his fingertips. “From where you’re standing, do you see anything amiss? It would be subtle.”

  Glain stepped back to take in the expanse as a whole. “Near your right knee, Ynyr. There is a brick that seems off.”