The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [259]
His right hand jerked, as if something tugged at it. Startled, he let go of the Stones. The three Imsari hovered before him, shining in the fog. Then they began to move.
Travis was too surprised to do anything but follow. The glowing spheres floated swiftly, like tiny comets. The fog pushed against him, trying to hold him back, but he forced his way though it.
“Krond,” he said, not trying to speak against the mist, but rather whispering with it. “Gelth. Sinfath.” The Stones knew their names. Their light brightened, driving back the fog, and Travis found he could move more freely.
Again he spoke the names of the Imsari, and in so doing he caught a glimmer of knowledge. For so long Travis had resisted the power of the Stones; he had locked them away for fear of those who sought them, and for fear of the havoc he might wreak because he did not understand them. Only now that he had finally dared to speak their names, he realized he did understand them, at least a little.
The Great Stones were everything. Creation, permanence, destruction—the Imsari combined all of those things, just as the Runelords had combined the arts of Runespeaking, Runebinding, and Runebreaking into one. However, while the magic of the Stones was like rune magic in a way, it was not the same. It was deeper, older. Fire, ice, twilight—these essences had been infused into them by the craft of the dark elf Alcendifar long ago. The runes Krond, Gelth, and Sinfath colored their powers. However, at their core, each of the three Stones was the same—a part of a whole greater than any one rune. Together, they might perform wonders. Or horrors.
It was too late to stop them. The Stones raced forward, swifter now, as if they sensed what it was they sought. Travis hurled himself after them.
The fog ended. Travis blinked and found himself in a forest. He turned around, expecting to see the curtain of mist behind him, but all he saw was trees marching away in silent ranks.
In a way, it was like his first journey to Eldh. He had fallen through an impossible billboard, and had found himself in a forest with no sign of the portal, no way to get back home. However, while the gray-barked trees of this forest looked like valsindar, they were taller than the trees of the Winter Wood, and there was no sign of Falken Blackhand.
“Hello?” Travis called out.
The word echoed away among the trees. No reply came back. The three Stones whirred around Travis's head like insects. He held out his hand, and the Imsari settled onto it.
“Which way do I go?”
They glowed on his palm but did not move.
Travis looked up, trying to see the sky, to see if it was broken in this place as in the world outside, but there was no gap in the leafy canopy. A drowsy green-gold light permeated the air, making him think of an afternoon in late summer, and he caught the cool sound of water flowing. A desire came over him to seek out the stream, to drink from its waters, and to lie down on its bank and doze. This was a peaceful place, an ancient place. Travis started toward the sound of the water.
“Now is not the time for rest,” said a piping voice. “You will not find what you seek that way.”
Travis turned around. A tiny man clad in a green jacket and yellow breeches sat on a fallen log ten paces away. His face was as brown as the forest loam, and his eyes as bright as river pebbles.
Travis was beyond astonishment. “Trifkin Mossberry.”
The little man stood on the log, doffed his feathered cap, and bowed.
Travis took a step forward—slowly, afraid that if he moved suddenly the little man might vanish. He had first encountered Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe of curious actors in King Kel's keep. Then, on that fateful Midwinter's Eve more than a year ago, Trifkin had helped Travis and Grace to uncover the conspiracy of murder in Calavere. The next day, the little man had been gone. Travis had not seen him since.
Until now.
“Who are you?” Travis said. “Who