Without it she wouldn't be able to speak and interpret the language of this world. Except that wasn't entirely true, was it? After much practice she had gotten to the point where she could understand a good portion of the musical language the people here spoke, although she doubted she could have spoken^two words of it herself. However, there was no need to talk right then, and it was easy enough to understand the murmured instructions she was given: Take off your unAfter the bath, when she was clothed again, the serving maid had brought a platter of food, and Lirith watched while Grace ate every bite of meat, bread, and dried fruit. When she finished, she climbed into bed and let Lirith pull up the covers like she was a small child. Grace closed her 162 eyes, and when the 158 * mark anthony strange. Grace felt the light leave the room as Lirith blew out the candle. Then the door opened and shut, and Grace was alone.

However, despite her exhaustion, sleep was elusive. At last Grace rose from the bed and stood before the window. It was after midnight, and there was no moon.

A spark of crimson caught her eye. The new red star that had appeared in the southern sky with the coming of summer had just risen over the castle's battlements. A month ago, when she first pointed out the star to Durge, he had frowned and had muttered something about "celestial orbs that shone where none should be."

Since then, from talking to others, Grace had discovered that no one in the castle had ever seen this star before. Perhaps it was a comet then, or a planet-- one on an irregular orbit that brought it near this world only after long absence. Of course, these explanations implied that Eidh was a planet itself, in a solar system much like Earth's. Maybe it was even in the same galaxy, although Grace doubted that. Something told her it was more than mere physical distance that separated this world from Earth.

Grace gazed at the red star for a while more, then was surprised to find herself yawning. She turned from the window, climbed into bed, and shut her eyes. Sleep should have been impossible after all that had happened, but at last exhaustion won out, and she descended into slumber.

That night Grace had a dream.

She stood at the top of a mountain, on a pinnacle of rock, surrounded on all sides by swirling mist. Then the mist parted, and on another nearby peak, separated from her by an undulating sea of gray, was Travis Wilder. Excitement coursed through her at seeing her friend. She had thought he had returned to 163.

159back was turned to her, so she called out to him, but the fog muffled her voice, filling her throat and lungs like wet cotton.

A light flashed overhead, and she looked up to see the firedrake she had seen earlier streak through the mist. Only then it ceased to move, and it wasn't the firedrake at all, but the new red star. Its light tinged the fog scarlet, and a note of alarm sounded in Grace's mind, although she wasn't certain why. All she knew was that she had to talk to Travis.

She tried to call out again, but still he did not turn around. Then the red mist surged upward, engulfing him. Only it wasn't mist anymore, Grace saw as the tendrils licked up and coiled around her.

It was fire.

Grace stepped through a vine-covered archway into the castle's garden.

"Hello?"

Her voice drifted among the trees; there was no one else in view. She moved down one of the stone paths, deeper into the tangle of living things.

It was almost Midsummer now, and the garden was a nave of emerald and gold. Grace breathed in warm air that tasted of honey, and for the first time in a week she felt the muscles of her neck unclench and her shoulders ease downward a notch. There was something peaceful and ancient about the garden. In a way it made Grace think of Gloaming Wood and the Little People. And indeed the garden was not unlike the impossible forest she and Travis had once glimpsed in the castle chamber occupied by Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe of actors.

Mavhp Tin tin ixrac no-lit AA-airl-^ +1-nc -ixrac -3 orrrl 160 * mark anthony place to come after all. Although there was no sign of the one Lirith 164 had spoken of that morning.

There's someone I believe you should meet, sister. You'll find her in the garden, I think.

Seven days had passed since they had gone, at Grace's urging, for a summer ride. Seven days since she had felt the delicate thread of Garf's life slip through her fingers and melt away.

They had held a small service for the young knight in the circle of standing stones a few leagues from the castle. The last time Grace had stood among the megaliths had been to say good-bye to Travis before he returned to Earth. This time it had been a different sort of farewell.

She knew Garf had followed the mysteries of Vathris Bullslayer, and that Boreas would hold a more secret rite to mark the knight's passing. So this ceremony had been just for her and Lirith, for Aryn and Durge. They had done nothing more formal than to hold hands, to speak fondly of Garf's good humor and sincerity, and to lay a wreath of flowers on the ground. It had been enough.

Perhaps the most shocking thing about death was that, in spite of it, life moved relentlessly onward. The sun rose every morning; the castle bustled with activity; Grace ate and slept. It all seemed so petty andstupid in the face of larger things, yet it was a comfort all the same.

In a way it was a sad realization, but Grace knew she would be all right. Being an utter wreck might almost have been more reassuring. It certainly would have been easier. But she knew--with that same certainty she felt when she knew a patient in the ED would survive--that she would go on.

Lirith would be fine as well, of that Grace had no doubt. Not that the Tolorian woman seemed untouched by Garf's death. On the contrary, of all of them she seemed to grasp on its most fundamental 165.

1pi/p1 -lA^hat- a Incc 1-iic -n-accino nr-ac tn flip wfb of life THE KEEP OF FIRE 161.

that bound them all. But something told Grace that Lirith had deep roots to draw upon and to hold her steady.

As for Durge and Aryn, Grace was less certain of their prognosis. No doubt Durge had witnessed many men die in his years as a warrior, but she doubted it was ever easy for the stalwart knight. The other evening she had seen him standing at a window, leaning against the sill, hunched over. It was the first time she ever remembered thinking that Durge looked old. However, when she called to him, he had stood straight at attention and asked in a crisp voice how he might serve her.

You can let yourself cry, Durge. You don't always have to be a rock.

Doctor's orders. But as so often in her life, she had not known how to speak the words she really wanted to.

"Go see if Lady Aryn needs anything, Durge," she had said instead, and he had given her a brisk nod before turning to see to her request.

Unlike Durge, Aryn had wept with surprising and worrisome frequency since the incident. Grace or Lirith--or sometimes both of them--would hold the baroness as sobs ripped themselves from her chest. Had the young woman known about Garf's love for her? Perhaps that was it, but there was something about Aryn's grief that made Grace think it wasn't all for the slain knight. Grace had heard weeping like Aryn's before.

She had been a girl at the Beckett- Strange Home for Children, and she had heard it at night sometimes, drifting on wings of dark through silent rooms: the primal, wordless sounds of utter despair.

Grace sighed. She would keep observing Aryn, but she didn't know what else to do. In this case, whatever was truly wrong, she couldn't diagnose it without the patient's help.

The garden oath wound on, and as Grace walked her thoughts turned to Travis. These last days she had found herself thinking of her friend more often than usual. For some reason he 166 weighed upon her mind almost more heavily than Garf did. Then again, given the dreams, perhaps it was not such a mystery.Nearly every night now she had the queer dream of Travis standing atop the foggy mountain. It was always the same: calling in vain to him, then the red star, and the swirling mist that became fire.

Throughout her life. Grace's dreams had been murky and nonsensical: a series of badly edited foreign films made by drunken directors. This dream was different. Vivid, real. When she closed her eyes she could see the curling fog, the blazing star. But what did it mean?

It didn't mean anything, of course. Dreams were merely the synaptic equivalent of leftovers. Looking for meaning in one was about as useful as looking for a haiku in a bowl of alphabet soup. All the same, it was hard to shake the feeling that Travis was in trouble somehow. However, it was pointless to worry. Even if Travis were in danger, he was a world away now, and far beyond her ability to help. Besides, Grace had far nearer concerns.

Twice more over the last several days, Boreas had called her to his chamber to discuss the matter of Perridon--although as yet the king seemed not to have decided whether action was required, and if so what that action might be. Regardless, Grace had been glad to have a mundane problem to focus on, and she had helped the king by giving him what knowledge she could.

Her studies with Lirith were another matter. She would have thought that, after what had happened, Lirith would have suspended their lessons. And in Aryn's case this was so. But not for Grace. The evening after Garf's death, just as the moon was rising, T Tri+l-l 1-llrl L-n^r-L-orl rvr d-r^ff^'c n^ 3m1-*r r}r}r^r THE KEEP OF FIRE 163.

"There is comfort in work, sister," she had said in answer to Grace's astonished look. "And you have much to learn yet."

167.

Grace had almost laughed. That's the understatement of the century.

Sister. But she had let Lirith into the room and had shut the door behind her.

However, despite her efforts, in the time since that evening Grace had not been able to touch the Weirding once.

"You must concentrate, sister," Lirith would whisper. She always smelled of citrus and cloves. "Unshackle your mind from fear. Allow yourself to reach out, to feel the life around you, to bring it close."

Grace would try, but every time, just as she glimpsed the sparkling threads of magic around her, she would see the shadow that lurked in the heart of the web, and she knew that if she were to follow the thread of her own life it would lead right into the blot of darkness. A sound would split her mind, like a door shutting, and she would blink as the Weirding vanished.

"I can't," she finally said last night, trembling and gasping, sinkingto her knees. "I can't do it anymore."

Lirith studied her, then left the room without a word. Grace thought the witch had given up on her at last. However, that morning she returned to Grace's chamber. And that was when Lirith told Grace to look for someone in the garden.

"Hello?" she called once more.

The word drifted through the vibrant tapestry of vines and branches. She had stepped through another gate into a smaller space walled on all sides by high hedges. The profusion of life there was even greater than what she had glimpsed so far--a dense and glorious cacophony of color that grew with abandon.

"Get out of here, you rascal!"

Grace jumped at the sound of the high-pitched voice. Where had it come from? She turned around.

168.

1 64 ' mark anthony then blinked. A bush on the farside of the garden was moving. Its branches flailed about, as if it were angry, and leaves fluttered to the ground.

"I said get out!"

Grace hesitated. It was hard to know exactly what to do when one was shouted at by a bush. Once, while at a feast, she had seen a heap of pine boughs shake, then had glimpsed a small, green man within. That had been last winter, when the Little People were prowling the halls of Calavere. But there had been no sign of them since Midwinter's Eve. Was there a greenman in the castle again?

"Out!"

With this last word, the bush exploded in a cloud of leaves, and a figure stumbled from it. It wasn't a greenman.

She was old. Grace was a good judge from experience, and she assessed the woman's age at eighty years, although ninety was possible. She was twig- thin, but not hunched or osteoporotic. Her skin had the soft translucence of petals, and veins traced lines beneath. She wore a simple gray dress that was streaked with dirt, and leaves and bits of bark clung to her wispy white hair.

"I knew I'd get you," the woman said, blue eyes sparkling above smudged cheeks.

At last Grace understood: The woman had not been speaking to her, but rather to the thistly-looking weed she gripped in a gloved hand. Grace stepped forward. "Hello," she said again.

The old woman dropped the weed. Grace winced-- she should have known that speaking suddenly would startle the other. The old woman searched about with that unfocused look the elderly sometimes have when169 attempting to locate a sound or a voice. Then her blue eyes locked on Grace, and her expression sharpened at once.

* 165.

The old woman smiled. "Well, now. Here is a lovely flower, sisters."

Grace winced again. She hardly thought of herself as a flower. And who was the woman speaking to? Grace didn't see anyone else in the garden.

"What is it, sweet? Have you found your tongue only to lose it?" Grace shook her head. No one had ever called her sweet before. But she supposed it was better than Your Radiance. "I'm supposed to meet someone here. In the garden. Although I'm not sure who it is. Have you ... ?"

"Have I seen anyone?" The old woman shook her head. "No, sweet.

There's only me. And my sisters, of course."

A frown tightened Grace's forehead. The old woman had said it again.

Sisters. Who was she referring to? Or perhaps she was senile.

Grace tried again. "If you see anyone who's looking for me, could you tell them I was here?"

The old woman nodded. "As you wish, sweet. Although, if you'd like, you could stay a while. If you don't know who you're looking for or where you might find him, aren't you as likely to find him here as elsewhere?"

Grace opened her mouth, but she had to admit there was a logic to it.

Perhaps she would rest a bit, then head back to the castle to tell Lirith she had not found the one she was supposed to.

"You can sit there, sweet." The old woman pointed to a marble bench half-lost within a stand of poppies. "Don't mind while I work. One can't lower one's guard for a moment, or the rogue's thistle will creep in and steal the life from everything else." She bent down, scooped up the recalcitrant weed, and heaved. it onto a small pile. Grace sat on the bench. It was odd to rest while the 170.

166 mark anthony Grace had a feeling she could steal the life from any given plant faster than rogue's thistle. She glanced down at her hands.

Maybe you're not much better with people. Grace.

Except she knew that wasn't true. Ivalaine was right; healing was Grace's gift. But then why hadn't she been able to heal when it mattered most? Why had she let the thread of Garf's life slip through her fingers?

"Is something amiss, sweet?"

Grace glanced up. The old woman was gazing at her, a curiousexpression on her wizened visage.

"No, I'm fine. Really." She struggled for something to say. "I'm Grace.

What's your name?"

"My name is Naida, but most people call me the Herb Mother. You can call me whatever you wish."

Grace thought about this. "I'll call you Naida."

"If it pleases you, sweet." Naida bent beside a cloth bag, rummaged inside, then pulled out a clay bottle. "Would you like a drink?" The day was getting hot. Grace accepted the bottle and lifted it to her lips.

She had thought it would contain water, but instead it was cool, earthy wine. Naida took the bottle, drank, and returned it to the bag. A warmth permeated Grace, from both sun and wine. She let her eyes droop shut.

This was a peaceful place.

"My poor sister," Naida said in a soft, sad voice. "You are so beautiful still, but inside you are dying."

171.

Grace's eyes flew open. She fought for understanding. Did Naida know what had happened? But how? Grace searched for the old woman, then saw her standing under a tree. It looked something like an ash tree, although the leaves were tinged with gold not silver.

Grace stood and approached Naida. "What do you 167.

Naida rested a hand on the tree's bark. "You cannot see it, sweet. But I can feel it there, like a darkness. I'm afraid she rots from within."

The tree. She was talking about the tree, not about Grace.

Naida sighed, then turned from the tree and held out her arms. "We must say good-bye to our dear friend, sisters. This season will be her last."

Grace frowned. "Excuse me, but you keep saying the word sisters. Who are you talking to?"

A smile deepened the wrinkles of Naida's face. "Why, I'm speaking to them, of course. They are all my sisters."

Finally Grace understood. The plants in the garden--it was to them that Naida spoke. Maybe the old woman was daft after all. But no, there was something about her--a calmness, a strength--that was familiar to Grace. She moved to the tree and laid her hand on its trunk, then shut her eyes. At Brst she was afraid, then she forced herself to reach out with her mind, into the tree.

Her eyes blinked open. She had seen it: a dark blot in the shimmering web of threads that wove around the tree. She clutched a hand to herstomach. Was that what was happening to her? Was she rotting from within like the tree?

Naida had been watching her, and now the old woman nodded. "The Touch 172 runs strongly in you."

A breath of uncertainty filled Grace's chest. "Where did you come from?"

she asked quietly.

"Why, I journeyed to Calavere with my queen, of course." She brushed a blossom with her fingers, and her gaze grew distant. "I can still remember the last time I stood within the borders of Calavan, although I was only twelve winters old. One day a nobleman I had never seen before rode up to my father's manor on a white horse. Behind him was a mare with no 168 mark anthony he had come. That night the nobleman dined with us. I remember thinking him to be terribly old, although he was only twenty-four.