The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [175]
“A banner snapping in the wind,” Graedin said excitedly. “Men clasping hands in friendship. A field of ripe grain. Holding a newborn baby.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “No babies here, Master Graedin. We need something else.”
“Dawn,” said a rumbling voice.
They all stared at Durge. The Embarran blinked, taken aback by their sudden attention.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I will not interrupt again.”
Grace clutched his arm. “No, Durge. You're right. Dawn brings hope. Morning after night. Light after dark.”
She had studied the rune countless times, examining the creamy stone and the three silvery lines that marked its surface. However, in all those times, had she ever looked at the rune outdoors when it was daylight? She couldn't remember.
It was afternoon outside the keep, and sunlight shafted through high windows at one end of the hall like columns of gold. Grace drew near one of the sunbeams. It couldn't be this easy. All the same, she held out her hand, so that the sunlight fell full upon the rune, turning the white stone gold.
Nothing happened. She counted ten heartbeats, twenty. Her hand grew warm in the sunlight and began to sweat. She sighed.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Durge said behind her. “I did not mean to get your hopes up.”
“What's going on in here?” Sir Tarus said, striding into the hall along with Commander Paladus.
“Nothing, unfortunately,” Grace said. She pulled her hand back, out of the sunbeam.
On her palm, the rune continued to glow a soft gold.
“But that can't be,” she murmured.
Only it was. In fact, the rune was getting brighter. The silver lines glowed like fiery copper now. The rune was hot and heavy against her palm.
“By all the gods,” Paladus swore. “It's growing.”
The disk had been the diameter of quarter. Now it was twice as large. Three times. It grew so heavy Grace fumbled, and it fell to the rushes on the floor. They gathered around—not too close—watching as the rune grew until it was the size of a dinner plate. It shone so brightly now they had to squint to look at it.
“Look,” Oragien said softly.
A shaft of light shot up from the surface of the disk, brighter than the sunbeams that fell into the hall. Dust motes swirled inside the golden column, each one burning like a fiery spark. Then the sparks drew closer to one another, chaos becoming order as they arranged themselves into a recognizable shape.
It was a man. He was tall and proud, his features stern, his robe blazing with symbols of power. Grace had no doubt he was a runelord. Or had been when this magic was created centuries ago.
“Greetings, Lord of Malachor, Bearer of Hope,” spoke the image of the runelord. His eyes shone like coals. “As you have been given this rune, so have you been given a most sacred duty, one above all others borne by the heirs of King Ulther. It is your burden to awaken the magic of Gravenfist Keep if times of darkness come again and peril approaches.”
“But how?” Grace whispered, staring at the shining figure. “How do I awaken it?”
The runelord wasn't really there; this was only an image—a kind of magical recording made long ago. All the same, his words seemed an answer to her question.
“By our hands, we forged Gravenfist with magic,” the image of the runelord spoke on. “We imbued its stones with enchantments of power. And once the stones are awakened, no thing of evil will bear their touch and live. To wield these defenses, you have only to command them. The keep will know the heirs of King Ulther. Ever has the blood of Malachor been the key to hope—so your father and your mother will have told you. May the light of the Shining Tower never fail.”
As the sound of these last words faded to silence, the image of the runelord flickered and vanished. The rune lay on the floor, dim and small once more.
Tarus let out a snort. “Well, that wasn't terribly helpful.”
“Fascinating,” Oragien said, apparently not hearing the Calavaner. “Utterly fascinating! I imagine it was not only the sunlight that awakened