The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [255]
The rune evaporated on Travis's lips. It had been hard to see against the black fabric, but now Travis did: There was a dark, wet patch on the right side of Larad's robe, and it was growing.
“Stand back,” Falken said, his voice stern.
The panther snarled again, its tail twitching.
Falken made a fist of his silver hand. “I don't care what you think he did. It can't be chance he's come upon us in this place, and we're not going to kill him before we listen to what he has to say. Now stand back, Melia.”
The panther let out a complaining growl, then a nimbus of azure light sprang into being around the great cat. Its form shimmered, changed, and a moment later Melia stood in its place. She smoothed her black hair with a hand as the nimbus faded, and her amber eyes gleamed with anger and suspicion.
Beltan appeared nonplussed at this transformation, and Vani looked on in curiosity, but Travis forgot Master Larad and instead stared at Melia.
“Have you always been able to do that?”
She gave him a sharp smile. “It's my little secret, dear. Although I suppose that cat's been let out of the bag, if you will.” Melia turned her gaze on Larad, and all traces of her smile were gone. “For some reason I cannot fathom, Falken seems to be of a lenient mind. I am not so merciful. You killed Sky in the service of Shemal. Why should I not kill you now?”
Larad sighed, a sound of weariness and sorrow. “Because I didn't serve the Necromancer, much as she believed I did, and I didn't kill Sky. He gave himself of his own free will.”
Beltan snorted. “That's not how it looked to us at the Black Tower. We saw you stab him. I'm with Melia. I say we kill you right now.”
The runespeaker did not look at him. “As I said, do what you wish. Just hear what I have to say first.”
Travis hesitated, then moved closer. At the Gray Tower, it had been largely because of Larad's machinations that Travis had been sentenced to die at the null stone. However, Larad had also helped to arrange Travis's escape from that fate, and as they had learned, he had done the things he did to help the Runespeakers find purpose again.
“How?” Travis pointed at the shattered fragments of the bound rune. “How did you manage to break the rune of sky? The art of Runebreaking is lost.”
Larad's expression was part grimace, part smile. “Not lost to you, Master Wilder. And nor to me, now.” He wiped his right hand against his robe, cleaning away the blood, then held it out. A silver symbol shone on his palm: three crossed lines. The rune of runes.
Travis clenched his right hand into a fist; if he were to speak a rune, the same symbol would appear on his own palm.
“By Olrig,” Falken swore, his faded blue eyes wide. “You've become a runelord. But how?”
Larad's eyes were thoughtful in his shattered face. “And if I told you it was Olrig One-Hand himself who made me into this, would you believe me, Master Falken?” He lowered his hand. “No, don't answer, for it matters not. There is no time for this. I have broken the rune of sky. The circle of the world has been cracked open. Mohg, Lord of Nightfall, comes.”
Melia balled her small hands into fists. “It took all of us gods working together, Old and New alike, to banish Mohg from the world. Such an alliance will never come again. And now you have opened the way for him.” Tears shone in her eyes. “Why?”
Larad met her gaze. “Two worlds draw close to one another. They move nearer every day—our world, and the world from which Travis Wilder comes. Once they draw close enough, the way will be bridged, and Mohg would be able to return no matter what any of us might do.”
“But it could have been years before such a thing took place,” Falken said, his wolfish face haggard. “We could have had more time to prepare.”
“And so could the enemy,” Larad snapped.
He winced, pressing his hand to his side, then spoke more softly, so that they had to move closer to listen to him.
“Do you not see it? Sooner or later, evil