The First Stone Read Online Free PDF Page A

setting up chairs outside one of the restaurants. There was no sign of the shadow.
    All the same, Beltan knew his senses hadn’t lied to him. Something had been there. Or some
things
, for it had seemed more like two shadows than one. Only what were they? He had felt a prickling, which meant
danger
. Perhaps they had been criminals, off to do some wicked deed. Sometimes the fairy blood allowed him to sense such things.
    Whatever it had been, the shadow was gone now, and his stomach was growling. He headed back to the front door, let himself in, and bounded up two flights of steps to their flat.
    “I’m home,” he called, shutting the door behind him.
    There was no answer. He shrugged off his leather coat and headed from the front hall into the kitchen. Something bubbled in a pot on the stove. Beltan’s stomach rumbled again. It smelled good.
    He headed from the kitchen into the main room. It was dark, so he turned on a floor lamp— even after three years, being able to bring forth such brilliant light by flicking a switch amazed Beltan—then moved down the hall. Their bedroom was dark and empty, as was the bathroom (a whole chamber full of marvels), but light spilled from the door of the spare room at the end of the hallway. Beltan crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
    “So here’s where you’re hiding.”
    Travis looked up, setting something down on the desk by the window, and smiled. Beltan grinned in return. A feeling of love struck him, every bit as powerful as that first day he saw Travis in the ruins of Kelcior.
    “What are you smiling about?” Travis said.
    Beltan crossed the room, hugged him tight, and kissed him.
    “Oh,” Travis said, laughing. He returned the embrace warmly, but only for a moment before his gaze turned to the darkened window.
    Beltan let him go, watching him. Travis’s gray eyes were thoughtful. He looked older than when Beltan first met him; more than a little gray flecked his red-brown hair and beard. However, the years had done his countenance good rather than ill, and—while sharper—it was more handsome than ever. Beltan’s own face had been badly rearranged in more than one brawl over the years. How Travis could love someone as homely as he, Beltan didn’t know, but Travis
did
love him, and these last three years had been ones of quiet joy and peace.
    Only they had been years of waiting as well. The Pale King was dead, and Mohg was no more, but Earth and Eldh were still drawing near. What that meant, or how soon the two worlds would meet (if they would even meet at all) Beltan didn’t know. But somehow—maybe through some prescience granted him by the fairy’s blood—he knew Travis’s part in all this was not over. And neither was his own. Sometimes, in the dark of night, he found himself hoping he was right—hoping that one day the waiting would be over, and his sword would be needed again.
    You’re a warrior, Beltan. You aren’t built for peace.
    He dismissed that thought with a soft snort. This wasn’t about him and his warrior’s pride. Something was troubling Travis; Beltan didn’t need magical senses to know that.
    “What is it?” he said, laying a hand on Travis’s shoulder. Then he glanced at the desk and saw the frayed piece of paper lying there.
    Beltan sighed. “I miss her, too. But wherever she is, she is well. She knows how to take care of herself.”
    Travis nodded. “Only it’s not just her, is it?” He kissed Beltan’s scruffy cheek. “It’ll take me a few more minutes to finish burning dinner if you want to take a shower.” Then he was gone.
    Beltan hesitated, then picked up the piece of parchment. It was as soft as tissue. How many times had Travis read the letter?
    Probably as many times as you have, Beltan.
    One cloud had dimmed their happiness these last three years, and that was thinking of all those they had left behind. Grace, Melia and Falken, Aryn and Lirith, and so many others. But of them all, none were in their