The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [209]
Falken stood and strummed a chord on his lute. “I think this song is appropriate for this place and this night. It’s called ‘The Lay of Ulther.’ It’s a song about the south and the north, and how they came together long ago.”
“With Fellring sword of Elfin art,
Ulther smote the Pale King’s heart
The magic blade was riven twain,
But Berash did not stand again.
“Then came the Runelords to the vale,
To bind the gates of Imbrifale—
And witches too with their fey art,
Wove passes high with perils dark.
“Lord Ulther knelt before the Queen,
And a pact they forged between—
They set the guard of Malachor,
That shadows gather nevermore.”
The last strains of the bard’s music faded, and the night was silent. The Mournish still watched the bard, their faces strangely solemn. Then, in twos and threes, they stood, bowed to Falken and Melia, and departed the circle of the fire. In moments, the eight companions stood alone in the firelight, along with Vani and Sareth.
“I guess the party’s over,” Travis said to Grace.
She gazed into the fire, gripping the steel pendant that hung at her neck.
“Grace, what is it?”
“That song. I … I know it.”
“Maybe you heard Falken sing it before.”
“No, that’s not it.”
Grace moved to the bard, who was putting his lute back into its case.
“Falken, could you play the music for the first verse again?”
Melia smoothed her white shift on the pillows where she sat. “Whatever for, dear?”
“I’m not sure. Falken?”
The bard nodded. “Very well.”
He took his lute back out, then strummed the now-familiar chords of “The Lay of Ulther.” Then, to Travis’s surprise, in a husky voice, Grace began to sing:
“And farewell words too often part
All their small and paling hearts.
The fragile glade and river lain,
Beneath the hush of silent rain.”
Falken’s hand fell still on his lute. He looked at Grace with piercing eyes. “I’ve never heard those words sung to this tune.”
Melia rose to her feet. “But they sound similar, don’t they?”
Falken nodded. “With Fellring sword of Elfin art …”
“And farewell words too often part.…” Grace looked up, her own eyes startled now. “But I used to sing that song as a child. I don’t understand.”
Sareth stepped forward, his sharp features cast in stark relief by the firelight. “Perhaps you can consider this mystery later. I think now it is time for us to talk.”
70.
The fire burned down to a circle of glowing coals as Vani spoke of the three years she had spent on Earth: how she had searched for the ones fated to raise Morindu the Dark from the blasted sands of the Morgolthi, how she had learned in a message from Sareth that Travis and Grace were the ones she sought, and how together they had fled Duratek, the gorleths, and Denver on that last terrifying day.
It was only when Aryn spoke that Travis realized Vani had finished her tale. The young baroness’s eyes were large as she looked at Grace and Travis.
“So you’re supposed to help the Mournish find the lost city of their ancestors?”
“The fabled city of Morindu,” Falken said. “But how can that be? What do Travis and Grace have to do with the City of the Dark?” He looked at Melia.
The amber-eyed lady shrugged, shifting on her cushion. “Well, don’t ask me. I wasn’t even born when the cities of Amún were destroyed in the War of the Sorcerers. Nor were any of my brothers and sisters.”
“No,” Falken said, rubbing his chin. “No, they weren’t.”
“How, Vani?” Grace said simply. “I would like to help you, to thank you for what you did for us, but how are we supposed to find a city that’s been lost for millennia?”
It was Sareth who answered. “I believe we were hoping the two of you would have some ideas about that. All the T’hot readings tell us is that it is your fate to raise Morindu the Dark.”
Travis let out a groan. “You