Travis scratched his chin-the gold-and-copper stubble had grown into a thick, full-fledged beard- and glanced at the bard. "But if that man 441 was one of the king's suies, what was he doing here?"

432 ' mark anthony "King Persard is dead," Grace said in a low voice.

Lirith's eyes glittered. "And a new king has new spies."

"But we have heard nothing of a new king in Perridon," Aryn said. Beltan fingered the hilt of his sword. "Maybe we just have.""What now, Falken?" Melia said, folding her arms.

"We ride," the bard said. "This changes nothing. Except perhaps to make our errand more urgent yet. Come on." He nudged the flanks of his stallion.

Travis hesitated, then cast a glance back at the two towers. The mist was rising, and the towers floated like islands in a colorless sea. He squinted through his spectacles. Was that a small shadow he saw moving atop the westernmost spire? Before he could be certain, a gray wall heaved upward, obscuring his view. He turned and followed the others, riding into the thickening fog.

It was midmorning four days later when Falken, who rode at the head of the traveling party, raised his black-gloved hand and brought the group to a halt.

At least Grace assumed it was midmorning, but this was a vague supposition at best, with little visual evidence to support it, and only the growling of her stomach. The mist-heavy air was so dim that Grace nearly continued on past the others after they had stopped. If Shandis had not snorted--recognizing the location of her companions by smell--Grace supposed she would have kept riding until she and Shandis and Tira all fell over a cliff or into a pit. There had certainly been enough such perils as they made 442.

433.

their way north through Perridon, across the rock- strewn moors at the broken feet of the Fal Erenn.

With one hand Grace held on to Tira while she used the other to tug on the reins, bringing Shandis hard around. Squinting, she made out a number of darker patches of gray against the fog ahead. Either she had found her friends or a group of stumps shaped remarkably like people on horses. As she drew near, the fog parted a bit, and she glimpsed rocks and thorny shrubs along with her companions--all of them slicked with moisture.

Despite the words spoken by the Spider at the guard towers, their ride through Perridon had been mostly uneventful. They did come upon a few isolated farms and villages after crossing the border, but all had appeared to be fine. Or at least as fine as any medieval village with open gutters for sewers and a population rife with rickets, scrofula, and other diseases of malnutrition. At any rate, there had been no signs of another, far more virulent disease--the Burning Plague. Along the way they had been able to pick up a few supplies to replenish the foodstuffs packed at the Gray Tower--but only a few. These were the hinterlands of Perridon, far from any major castle or keep of power, and the folk who lived there were both shockingly poor and fearful of strangers. In one village they had managed to purchase a small amount of dried fruit, unleavened bread, and sour wine.

"We'll have better luck in the next village," Beltan had said, a slightly desperate crack to the big knight's voice. "Don't you thinkwe'll have better luck, Grace?"

But there had been no next village. After that they had ridden across only barren plain and moor, interittently choked with fog and crisscrossed every434 mark anthony rain-slick slate that placed both horse and rider at peril.

443.

Despite the fog and moisture, the coolness of the wild lands between Toloria and Perridon had vanished at the border along with the sun.

Instead, the misty air was hot and dank, like that of a steam room that had been allowed to mold. The damp permeated everything--armor, tunics, gowns--and the heat conjured sweat which had no chance of evaporating, but only soaked their garments further.

As they traveled, Falken had spoken little more of their destination--only that it was the place where he believed the Stone of Fire had dwelled for a time. While she had heard Falken tell stories about the Im- sari--the three Great Stones--Grace still didn't really understand what they were or where they had come from. All she knew was that the Pale King had been willing to go to any lengths to gain Sinfathisar, the Stone of Twilight, but instead Travis had given it to the Little People to guard. Understanding that, Grace knew it was possible Krondisar could be used in the manufacture of many evils.

Including plagues of fire. It looks like you've finally got your disease vector. Grace.

But whether or not she could find a vaccine or a cure was another question altogether. However, wasn't that what they had journeyed there to find out?

Falken swore, waving a hand at the swirling mist. "Can't you do something about this, Melia?"

Somehow Melia could gracefully perch sidesaddle upon a slender-legged white mare and exude menace all at the same time. "And what exactly would you propose I do, Falken?"

"I don't know." The bard made indeterminate weaving motions with his hand. "Can't you just . . .

435.

The mist did not soften Melia's glare, and Falken's words faded into the gloom.

444.

Beltan smeared damp, pale hair back from his high forehead. "And here people say I'm not too bright. At least I know better than to ask questions like that."

Lirith's lips curved in a musing smile. "Silence is the oft-forgotten seasoning in the stew of wisdom."Beltan groaned and clutched his stomach. "Don't talk about stew. I'm starving."

Melia turned her gaze on the big knight. "I thought you said you were fasting in order to gain the blessing of Vathris."

"Actually, I just said that so I wouldn't have to feel so bad about not having anything to eat."

"Are you entirely certain that makes sense?" Aryn said, casting a puzzled glance at the knight.

Beltan shrugged. "It does to me."

Melia gave the blond man a withering glare. "You should know better than to make a jest with the name of a god, Beltan."

Falken grinned, clearly glad to have Melia's displeasure directed elsewhere. "And we should know better than to take large knights on long journeys without carting along a packhorse loaded with food."

"And ale," Beltan said with an emphatic nod.

Durge guided Blackalock closer to the others. The Embarran knight's sooty charger blended with the mist, so that it seemed Durge was floating in midair. "Why have we stopped here, Falken?"

Falken turned in the saddle and pointed. "That's why."

Even as the bard spoke, a gust of warm, sodden wind sprang out of nowhere, tearing a rift in the fog and sending the tatters scudding across the moor. Grace craned her neck, following the bard's gaze. A 445 sheer wall of black stone loomed before the travelers, Jutting into the slate-colored sky.

436 * mark anthony Travis peered over the rims of his spectacles, the lenses clouded with moisture. "What is this place, Falken?"

"A place of death."

Grace shuddered despite the muggy air.

They dismounted, picketed the horses, then approached the wall. Except it wasn't truly a wall, Grace saw as the mist continued to unravel, but rather a sheer cliff--part of the eastern escarpment of the Fal Erenn.

The entire face of the cliff had been hewn flat and polished smooth as glass. Grace lifted a hand, and her fingers danced across the wall's surface. The stone felt slightly oily to the touch, but her fingers came away without residue. She looked up, but as far as she could see the wall was without mark or feature.

"I've found something," came Aryn's voice from off to the leit.

Grace was the first to reach the baroness. On instinct she reached out and gripped the young woman's left hand as both of them stared.

"It's a door," Grace murmured, and Aryn nodded.The arch was a foot or two taller than Grace and protruded slightly from the surface of the wall. Etched into the stone were intricate geometric designs. The designs were difficult to trace with the eye, and they were like nothing she had ever seen before. Shadows lurked inside the arch, suggesting an opening beyond, but when Grace reached forward her hand met hard, smooth stone after only a few inches, confirming her suspicion. It was a door, but it was shut.

The others arrived, crowding around Grace and Aryn to look at the door.

Beltan pushed on the stone inside the arch, but despite his straining muscles, the door did not budge.

446.

Melia looked at Falken. "In case you hadn't no 437 "And you were expecting a friendly greeting instead?"

Melia tightened her arms around a purring ball of black fur. "No, I suppose I didn't. Not here."

"What is this place, Melia?" Grace said. However, if the lady heard the words she did not choose to respond.

Lirith ran slender fingers over the markings on the arch. A frown touched the dusky skin of her brow. "These designs are clearly Tarrasian, but they are not quite like any others I have seen. I would guess them to be very ancient."

"And you would guess right," Falken said. "This door was forged well over a thousand years ago. Long before the Dominions were founded.

Before even Malachor was built." He drew in a deep breath. "And we have to go through."

"All right," Beltan said, hands on his lean hips. "So how do we open it?"

Falken opened his mouth, but Durge, who had been peering inside the archway, now pulled his head back. "There are markings on the stone within. I am not certain, but I think they might be runes."

"Light," Falken said. "We need light."

Beltan turned and started toward one of the horses--to get a torch, Grace supposed--but before he could move two steps Travis reached out and spoke a soft word.

"Lii."

A pale radiance sprang into being, driving back the shadows inside the arch and glinting off fine, silvery lines. Falken gave Travis a sharp glance, but Travis did not meet his gaze. The bard turned back, then peered at the glowing lines traced upon the recessed stone inside the 447 arch.

"You're almost right, Durge. The markings do remind me of runes in a way. But they're not quite 438 mark anthonyLirith lifted the back of a hand to her chin. "I don't understand. If the door is Tarrasian in design, why are there runelike symbols inscribed on it? Runic magic has never been practiced in Tarras."

"This place was built by one who came from the south," Falken said. "But it's another--one who came after--that we're concerned with."

"Can you read what the symbols say?" Aryn asked, her words breathless.

Falken shook his head. "I'm afraid not. If they are runes, then they're too worn and fragmentary to read. But I think maybe they're some sort of code. After all, he would not have left the way open for anyone."

Melia glanced at him. "What are you talking about, Falken?"

"My guess is that it's a message meant only for a runelord. Only another runelord would be able to decipher it."

"But do we not have a runelord with us?" Lirith said.

Travis held up his hands and took a step back. "Don't look at me. I have no idea what it means."

All gazes returned to the bard.

He let out a sigh. "Let me work on it."

A small form slipped between Grace's and Aryn's skirts. Tira. She reached out and brushed the bard's black-gloved hand. For a moment his grim expression lightened, and he smiled down at her. The girl nodded, then turned and ran back to Grace.

448.

"Olrig help me," the bard muttered, and turned again toward the ancient door.

They made camp around midday, after it became clear Falken was not going to open the doorway anytime soon. Travis kept a prudent distance away as the bard worked, but by the periodic curses that rose on the damp air, Falken wasn't having a great deal of luck. Sometimes the bard leaned deep into the arch, and at others he paced in front of the doorway, head down, black-gloved hand to his head.

"Just try to ignore him," Melia said after a particularly loud and colorful burst of swearing.

"Does it help him concentrate?" Aryn asked.

Melia smiled. "Not that I know of, dear. But it certainly makes things easier for me."

They made a scant and cheerless meal as the fog closed back in, but even Beltan seemed to. have no appetite. The iron-gray sky pressed down on them, and any good-natured words they attempted to speak fell like lead weights to the ground. Beltan and Lirith tried to start a fire to dryout their clothes, but what little wood they managed to scrounge was soaked through, and after much trying they finally threw down flint and tinder in disgust.

Travis knew he could have started the fire. After all, Lir had come easily enough to his lips. Too easily, in fact, for he had spoken the rune before even thinking to do so.

That's how you'll hurt people, Travis. By getting lazy, and by forgetting how dangerous it is.

And, as he knew well, Krond was far more perilous to speak than Lir. He was grateful that no one asked him to use magic to get the fire going.

449.

After a while they all gave up trying to talk. Grace 440 mark anthony Aryn followed suit. Both Durge and Beltan attempted to wipe off the moisture that kept condensing on their armor--already the two reeked of rust. By contrast, Melia seemed to have no trouble keeping dry, even though she had covered herself with only a sheer veil of gauze. Travis huddled inside his mistcloak--the cloak that, except for its frayed edges, was just like the one worn by the dying man they had come upon at the border. A Spider, Falken had called the other. Was it from one of King Persard's spies that Falken had gotten this garment? He resolved to ask the bard about it., But later, he amended at another outburst of curses.

Durge let out a rumbling sigh. "I suppose this means Falken will never open the door." His voice was as dull and heavy as the mist. "We'll most likely all die waiting here."

Grace sat up. "He'll open the door, Durge. You'll see."

The Embarran's shoulders slumped even farther than usual. "Then I suppose we'll go through and get choked by foul air on the other side.

Or we'll be bitten by poisonous snakes, or get lost in the dark and never find the light again."

The knight bowed his head, and Grace cast a startled look at Travis. He nodded. Such sentiments were disturbingly gloomy--even for Durge. Travis opened his mouth but was interrupted by an angry voice.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Durge?"

All of them looked up at Beltan. The blond knight had leaped to his feet, his face ruddy and eyes hard. "I think you'd like it if something terrible happened, if all of us were killed. You say it so often I have to believe you want it to be true."

450.

The Embarran did not look up.you what-I'll give you something to worry about. ..."

"Beltan!"

Melia's voice was not loud, but it sliced through the mist all the same.

Beltan jerked his hand away from his sword and sat down again, but he did not take his eyes from Durge.

"Is that all you knights can think of when you're faced with a problem?" Lirith's voice was a hiss of contempt. The dark-eyed woman was sitting. She braided her hair with rapid movements, then as quickly unbraided it again. "Is the sword your answer to everything?"

She twined her hair once more; it was getting snarled.

Beltan snorted, his lip curling. "And what would you do, witch? Cast a spell and have us all do your bidding?"

Dread rose in Travis's throat. Was he really hearing this? He felt as if he was going to scream, although he had no idea why, and he glanced again at Grace. How ever, she held Tira tightly, her head bowed over the girl.