The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [224]
Except that didn’t make sense. Tarras had emperors, not kings, and Grace had a feeling none of them had ever looked this barbaric. The statue was chipped and worn; it was clearly very old.
“What have you found here, Grace?” a musical voice said behind her. “Well, look at that.”
Only as Falken spoke did Grace realize she had been staring at the statue. How long had she been standing there? She turned toward Falken. The others were drifting in her direction as well.
“What a king he must have been,” the bard said softly.
So Grace had been right. “Who was he, Falken?”
“It’s Lord Ulther, the king of Toringarth a thousand years ago. I think you know his story, Grace—how he and Elsara, Empress of Tarras, worked together to defeat the Pale King in the War of the Stones.” Falken stepped closer to the statue. “So that’s what Fellring looks like. I’ve always wondered. I had always believed its likeness was never recorded before it was shattered. But Elsara must have commissioned this statue of him when he came to Tarras to beg her aid.”
Grace felt strange, light. The warm, spicy air was suddenly stuffy and cloying. “Fellring?”
“Yes, that’s the name of Ulther’s sword. Do you see?” Falken pointed to the blade gripped in the statue’s hand. “It’s writ with runes of power.”
Grace’s attention had been on the statue’s face; she had hardly glanced at the sword. Now she did—
—and the floor fell away from her feet as the world went white.
When her vision finally cleared, she saw faces hovering above her. Falken, Melia, Travis, and the others as well. At last the ringing in her ears receded, and she could hear voices.
“—you all right, Grace?” Travis was saying.
“Please, dear,” Melia said, her amber eyes concerned. “Can you speak to us?”
Two more voices sounded in Grace’s mind, weaving together as one. Sister, what is wrong?
All this attention made Grace acutely uncomfortable. She managed to disentangle herself and stand.
“I’m all right.” Except that wasn’t true. At the moment, she was anything but all right. She was … But she didn’t know anymore. Perhaps she never had.
“You’re the doctor, Grace,” Travis said, his gray eyes intent, “but even I know people don’t keel over when nothing’s wrong with them. What’s going on?”
There was no point in hiding. Besides, she wanted to see—had to see—if she was right. With shaking fingers, she drew a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. It was the drawing Deirdre had given her before they stepped through the gate.
The drawing of a sword.
There could be no doubt about it—even she could see that the runes were identical—and by Falken’s oath he saw it as well.
The bard looked at Grace, blue eyes stunned. “I don’t understand, Grace. How can you have a drawing of Fellring?”
“Not … just a drawing, Falken.” Shaking now, she reached beneath the loose-fitting Mournish shirt and drew out her necklace.
Usually she kept it hidden, a secret relic of the childhood she had never known. She supposed, for all their time together, Melia and Falken had never seen her necklace before.
Falken actually staggered, his hand to his chest. “It can’t be. By the Seven, it can’t.”
Beltan groaned. “Enough mysteriousness, Falken. Would you please be kind enough to explain to the rest of us exactly what it isn’t supposed to be? I think we’d all like to be shocked, too.”
Vani’s gaze was half-lidded, curious. “It is a shard of the sword, is it not? The blade the statue holds.”
“The shard of Fellring,” Falken murmured. “But how can it be?”
Grace was struggling for understanding herself. The air seemed to throb around her, and her mind was buzzing.
“I’ve always had this,