Part 63 (1/2)

”How?” she said. ”How can you possibly be here?”

His voice was soft with wonder. ”I'm not sure I know myself, Grace. I'm not sure any of us do.”

”And is that true, Runebreaker?” Grisla said. She let out a cackle. ”Or should I say, Worldmaker?”

Grace gave Travis a questioning look. He pulled his hands away from hers.

”Travis, what is it? What's happened to you?”

Grisla hobbled toward him. ”I'll tell you what happened. He did it. He broke the First Rune.”

An edge of terror cut through Grace's joy. ”That's what happened to the sky, isn't it? It was the other Runebreaker. He broke the rune of sky, and Mohg returned to Eldh to break the First Rune, but somehow you stopped him.”

”No,” said a sardonic voice. ”He didn't.”

There was one more figure they hadn't seen; his black robe blended with the twilight. He approached Grace-slowly, hand pressed to his side-and the webwork of scars on his face glowed in the half-light.

”Master Larad?” Grace stuttered, completely confused. ”How are you here?”

He said nothing, but only gestured to his black robe.

Confusion gave way to cold understanding. ”You,” Grace said softly. ”You're the other Runebreaker. You broke the rune of sky and let him back into the world. That was the shadow that fell over us, right before the end. It was Mohg.”

”Yes,” Larad said, pain twisting his face. ”It was.”

”But you stopped him, Travis.” She clutched his arm. ”You must have, or none of us would be here. You stopped Mohg from breaking the First Rune. Only how?”

A queer light shone in Travis's gray eyes.

”I'll tell you how he did it,” Grisla said with another cackle. ”He broke the First Rune himself, that's how.” She jabbed a bony finger at his chest. ”Bones and stone, that showed him, lad! Mohg wasn't ready for that.”

Grace stared at Travis, trying to understand. Only maybe she didn't need to. Travis was here, and so were the rest of them. So was the world. That was all that mattered.

”The witches were right,” Aryn said to Travis, her blue eyes wide. ”You really were the Runebreaker. Yet if that's so, how are we still here?”

”He chose the world that was!” Grisla said gleefully. She capered about in a circle and chortled as if this all were a grand joke. ”For the world to be, he chose the world that was! He's the Worldsmith now!”

Grace reached up and touched his face. His beard was coming in, copper and gold flecked with gray. ”Is it true, Travis? Did you really choose this world?”

He gripped the bone talisman that hung against his neck. ”Hope. I chose hope, Grace.”

It was growing colder and darker; all the same none of them could move from that place. More questions were asked. In quick words Melia, Falken, Vani, and Beltan explained what had happened to them, and Aryn, Teravian, and Tarus did the same. On Eldh, Shemal and Kelephon were dead, along with their master the Pale King. On Earth, Duratek was doomed. However, there was one thing Grace didn't have the heart to speak of yet; she didn't tell them about Durge.

”What about Mohg?” Vani said, gazing up at the deepening sky. ”Is he dead as well?”

Grisla gave Travis a piercing look. ”Well, lad. Is he?”

Travis seemed to think for a long moment, then he sighed. ”No, he's not dead. But he's . . . dispersed. He was right there when it happened, when the-” He swallowed. ”-when I used the Great Stones to break the First Rune. I think he was torn apart by the force of it.”

”That he was, my lad,” Grisla said. ”Mohg remains in the world, but only his spirit, not his hatred, not his will. Never will he gather himself again.” She looked up at the darkening sky. ”Night still comes. There will always be darkness in the world, there will always be evil. But dawn will come again, at least tomorrow.”

Grace smiled at Travis. ”Hope,” she said.

Though the expression was tentative and fragile, he returned her smile.

Falken moved to Grisla, giving the old woman a sharp look. ”If you don't mind my saying, you seem to know an awful lot for a simple hag. How did you know Travis broke the First Rune?”

She shrugged k.n.o.bby shoulders. ”It was a lucky guess, Your Nosiness.”

”I think not,” Melia said, gliding forward, her catlike eyes gleaming. ”You were not there in Imbrifale with us. So how could you know?”

Kel roared with laughter, slapping his thigh, the sound of his mirth ringing out over the vale. ”Well, it looks as if the bard and the moon lady have finally got you, hag. Don't you think it's time you finally told them who you really are?”

She scowled at the petty king. ”What are you talking about, Your Deludedness? I'm Grisla, your witch.”

Kel's laughter subsided, and his face grew unusually thoughtful. ”In one of your guises, yes. But you are other things to other people, are you not? Don't look at me that way. I am not quite the simpleton you take me for.”

Grace didn't know what Kel was talking about. Or did she? She held a hand out toward the hag. ”Vayla?”

Grisla was silent for a moment, then she sighed. ”It's time for me to go,” she said softly. ”I suppose there's no harm in it now.” She hobbled toward Grace, and as she did she changed. In the place of Grisla stood another old woman, still gnarled and withered, but she wore a brown robe rather than motley rags.

”Greetings, my queen,” Vayla said, bowing. She turned toward Aryn. ”And to you as well, child.”

As she spoke these last words, Vayla was gone, and in her place was a striking woman of middle years clad in a rainbow-hued gown, her jet hair marked by a single streak of white, her almond-shaped eyes accented by fine, wise lines.

Aryn's eyes went wide. ”Sister Mirda!”

”Yes, sister,” the beautiful witch said. ”It is I.”

”But how?” Aryn gasped.

Mirda smiled. ”Does she not have many faces to wear? Crones. Mothers. And Maidens.”

With this last word, her form s.h.i.+mmered again, and in her place was a radiant young woman Grace had never seen before. Her hair was like flax, her lips as red as berries.

Falken staggered, clutching his silver hand to his chest. ”You!” the bard said, his voice hoa.r.s.e. ”For so many centuries I've searched for you.”

She laughed, a sound like water over stones. ”And you found me, only you didn't know it. Yet I would always know you, Falken of Malachor.” She reached out, taking his silver hand. ”Tell me, has it suited you?”

He gazed at her, amazement on his weathered face. ”It has. Thank you. It's served me better than my own hand did.”

”I am glad,” the young witch said. ”For I know what it is like to lose a hand.”

Now the flaxen-haired woman was gone, and in her place stood a tall man, his face stern and imposing, but softened by kindness and wisdom. His left hand was missing at the wrist. He held up his right hand, and a silvery symbol shone on his palm: three crossed lines.

”The rune of runes,” Travis murmured. ”So that's who you are. You're Olrig Lorethief. You're an Old G.o.d.”