The Gates of Winter (22 page)

“Follow me, everyone,” she said, moving just over the top of the ridge to a bare patch of granite.

“What are we to do, Your Majesty?” Graedin said, panting.

Grace touched his shoulder with one hand and rested the other hand on Oragien's arm. Words flowed from her, along the threads of the Weirding. By their startled eyes, both runespeakers—young and old—heard her.

“Instruct your brothers,” she said. They turned to murmur swift words to the other gray-robed men.

What of us, sister?
asked Lursa's voice in her mind.

Weave with me,
Grace said.

She shut her eyes, and twelve glimmering threads entwined with her own. There was no time to explain what to do, and nor was there need. Grace began weaving the threads of the Weirding into a new pattern, and as if they were extensions of her own body, twelve pairs of shining hands followed suit.

For a moment, the sense of closeness, of connection, was almost overwhelming. Grace had woven spells with Aryn and Lirith before, but never with an entire coven. An intoxicating warmth filled her. . . .

The threads—they're slipping through my fingers!
said the frightened voice of one of the younger witches, snapping Grace back to herself.

Be strong, sisters,
came Senrael's wise, rasping voice.
The presence of the Pale King's servants befouls the Weirding and tangles its threads, but even the wraithlings are not so strong as the magic of life. The Weirding will remain true, if only you weave without fear.

Grace wove with renewed swiftness and certainty, and she felt the other witches do the same. Then a tone like a bell sounded in her mind. The new pattern shone on the air, shimmering and perfect. Grace opened her eyes.

Twenty yards away, the first of the
feydrim
were just cresting the ridge, prowling over the stones on spindly limbs. The twisted creatures hissed, their yellow eyes flashing, as they caught sight of their prey. Grace risked a glance over her shoulder. A hundred yards down the slope, where the army had gathered moments ago, there now stood a dense grove of trees, bare branches gleaming in the half-light.

Our spell of illusion is complete!
Lursa wove the words over the Weirding.
The creatures do not see the army.

But they see us
, Grace wove.
Keep back.

She drew Fellring in one hand, then stooped and grabbed two pebbles from the ground with the other. With a thought, she wove one last illusion. The pebbles on her hand began to glow—one fiery red and one silver as the fading twilight. Grace moved in front of the witches and runespeakers and held the two glowing stones before her.

The
feydrim
hissed with glee and started to lunge for her. Grace beat back the first wave with a swing of Fellring, but more of them came behind. The rest of the creatures had reached the top of the ridge. Carefully this time, avoiding her sword, the
feydrim
began to close in—

—then squealed and fell back, cowering and pissing on the ground. A pair of ghostly lights crested the summit and drifted toward Grace. Spindly figures moved within the lights, gazing at the stones on Grace's hand with lidless eyes, reaching out with slender fingers.

“That's right, you bastards,” Grace said through clenched teeth. “Come get your precious Stones. That's what you think they are, don't you? The two Great Stones your master seeks. But I've got another kind of stone in store for you.”

The metallic hum rose to a whine, and the scent of lightning filled Grace's nostrils. All instincts told her to throw down the stones, to turn and run. However, she could still sense the twelve threads that were entwined with her own, lending hers strength. The wraithlings drifted past the sniveling
feydrim
, heading straight for Grace.

“Now,” she whispered.

Twenty male voices chanted a single word, blending together in deep and perfect harmony.
“Sar!”

Grace felt the rush of magic as a gust of wind. There was a sound like thunder, and a crack ten feet long and five wide opened in the granite beneath the two wraithlings. Focused as they were on the pebbles in Grace's hand, the beings did not see what was happening until too late. The stone vanished beneath their feet, and like a great maw the crack swallowed the Pale Ones. Two high-pitched shrieks pierced the air—then were cut short as the runespeakers ceased their chant. With a grinding noise, the crack snapped shut.

Snarls and grunts of confusion rose from the
feydrim
. They milled about, pawing at the ground. Then their hungry eyes fell upon Grace and the others. Now that the Pale Ones they feared were gone, their hunger ruled them again.

Grace threw down the pebbles—dull and lifeless now. “Now, Oragien!”

“Lir!”
the runespeakers chanted, and a half dozen spheres of light burst into being behind the
feydrim
. The spheres were large and silvery—just like the orbs of lights in which the wraithlings always came.

The runespeakers continued their chant, and the spheres of light drifted closer. Fresh squeals of terror rose from the
feydrim
. The creatures scrambled away from the lights, coursing on all fours down the hill, running past Grace and the witches. Still the lights followed, driving them on, though Grace saw that the spheres were starting to flicker.

“Don't stop!” she called to the runespeakers, and despite their haggard faces they kept up their harmony, chanting the rune of light.

The shining spheres drove the terrified
feydrim
on, down the slope and past the grove of trees. Grace waited until the last of the creatures had passed the grove, then she gave the signal. The runespeakers ceased their chant at the same time the witches plucked apart the threads of the spell they had woven. The illusion unraveled, and the trees vanished, replaced by an army of nearly five hundred men.

Grace was so tired, she had no more strength to shout. Instead, she sent a single word spinning along the Weirding, hoping it would be enough.
Attack!

With the call of trumpets, the army rushed forward, attacking the fleeing
feydrim
from behind. Scattered and terrified as they were, the creatures had no chance. Warhorses pounded over them, trampling them into the ground. Others fell with arrows in their humped backs, and more squealed on the ends of pikes.

It was over in moments—fifty
feydrim
lay dead and broken on the ground, their bodies gray as ghosts in the twilight. Grace shut her eyes, probing along the Weirding, then opened her eyes again. A feeling of elation rose within her, and she gave a satisfied nod. Not only had her army not lost a single man, none bore a wound greater than a scratch.

Below, the men let out cheers. Tarus raised his sword in the air, and Paladus let out a victory call on his trumpet. A black charger pounded up the slope toward Grace. It was Durge, Tira on the saddle before him. Shandis pounded behind.

“That was well-done, Your Majesty,” the Embarran said as he reined Blackalock to a halt before her, and to her astonishment, the consistently solemn knight grinned. “Well-done indeed. These men will follow you anywhere now, even into the dark gates of Imbrifale itself.”

His words sent a chill through Grace, but they couldn't completely counter the jubilant feeling of victory. True, this had been but a small force, but they had faced it, and they had survived.

Grace sheathed Fellring and swung herself up into Shandis's saddle. The stars were bright, and she was not ready to stop for the night.

“Come on, Durge,” she said, returning his grin. “Let's ride to Shadowsdeep.”

25.

The next morning, for her official first act as a newly reinstated Seeker, Deirdre was late to work.

She shielded her eyes from the glare of the fluorescent lights and glanced at the wall clock as she stepped out of the elevator—9:32
A.M.
That wasn't so bad, especially given the scotch-induced headache she had awakened with. After all, it wasn't as if anyone would be expecting her.

“Director Nakamura is expecting you,” Madeleine said, peering over the top of her computer. “Didn't you say you'd be in by nine?”

Deirdre worked her face into what she hoped was a jaunty smile. “My train was hijacked by tube gnomes.”

“I thought as much.” Madeleine picked up a pencil that looked sharp enough to pierce Kevlar and made a precise tick on a sheet of paper.

“What are you doing?” Deirdre said.

“Putting you on my list.”

The receptionist turned her attention to her computer and began typing as if she were trying to start a fire by generating friction with the keyboard. Deirdre slung her satchel over her shoulder and hurried down the corridor to Nakamura's office. Why did he want to see her again? He had given her an assignment just yesterday. She found him behind his desk, face furrowed in concentration as he tried to make a wooden puppet walk across the blotter. However, the strings tangled, and the puppet collapsed as if it had suffered a seizure.

“Deirdre, there you are,” Nakamura said, looking up.

She couldn't take her eyes off the crumpled puppet.

The assistant director sighed. “The man in the store made it look so easy. But I suppose controlling another person—even one made out of wood—isn't a simple affair.”

Deirdre sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Is that supposed to be a lesson?”

“Everything's a lesson, Miss Falling Hawk, if we look hard enough. However, this is merely a plaything. I can put it away when I grow tired of it.” He opened a drawer, scooped up the tangled puppet, and dropped it in.

Deirdre sank deeper into the chair and mulled over these words. Were they meant to comfort or caution her? Maybe Nakamura was telling her not to worry, that the Seekers wouldn't try to control her as Farr feared they would. Or maybe Nakamura was just a curious and eccentric elderly gentleman who had bought a new toy. Either way, he was right. You could find a message in anything if you looked hard enough, even if there wasn't really one there.

Except there is a message. It's on Glinda's ring, and it's on that old keystone taken from a building that centuries later housed Surrender Dorothy.

Whoever the stranger was last night—the one who had stood outside her window and communicated through her computer—he knew what the message was. Or at least had an idea how to find out. But who was the other? And why did he—or she—want to interfere in the first place?

One thing was certain—this person was a Seeker, and high up in the order. How else would the other be able to send messages to her computer? What's more, the fact that contact had been made so soon after she was granted Echelon 7 clearance couldn't be a coincidence. Perhaps the shadowy Seeker was the same one who had deleted the file she had found. Except that didn't make sense. Why delete the file to avoid discovery, only to approach her the next day?

Deirdre considered telling Nakamura about it. The assistant director knew far more about the workings of the Seekers than she did. He might have an idea who would make contact with her in such a peculiar way. However, even as she opened her mouth, she found herself unable to speak the words.

“What was that, Deirdre? I didn't quite catch you.”

“I met Anders last night,” she said, blurting the first words that came to mind.

Nakamura smiled. “Yes, Agent Anders. I ran into him first thing this morning. That's why I asked Madeleine to send you my way when you came in.”

Deirdre clenched her jaw. Anders's visit last night had been brief—and unbearably upbeat. He had pumped her arm, crushing her fingers in his grip, had said repeatedly how much he was looking forward to working with her, and managed to use the word
crikey
on at least two occasions. After he left, it had taken an entire tumbler of scotch to stop her nerves from buzzing.

“He's no Hadrian Farr, of course,” Nakamura went on. “But I think he could learn a great deal from you. I do hope you'll give him a chance.”

“Of course,” she said, feeling suddenly guilty. Why was she so quick to damn someone she had just met? No doubt Anders was a good man who was just a bit overeager. Still, it was hard not to think of the words that had flashed on the computer screen just before the knock sounded on her door.

He's coming. . . .

Not,
Someone's coming
, or even,
A man is coming
. But rather,
He's coming
. It was as if the shadowy one had specifically meant Anders.

“Deirdre?”

She sat up straight in the chair. “I'm sorry. My head's a bit cloudy this morning, that's all.”

“Not to worry. We'll start you off slow. You can forget that assignment I gave you yesterday. Anders already started on it this morning. Take this instead, and let me know if you need anything. Good day, Miss Falling Hawk.”

She stared at the folder Nakamura placed in her hand, then with all the grace and self-determination of the assistant director's puppet, she rose and tottered out the door.

When she reached her office, Anders sat at one of the desks, typing on a notebook computer so hard she wondered that the keys didn't fly off. He looked up as she entered, his blue eyes as jolting as before, then smiled, an action that deepened the pits in his cheeks.

“Good morning, Deirdre.”

He pronounced her name
DEER-dree
. She might have found it slightly charming if there had been any caffeine in her system; there wasn't.

“Hello, Anders.”

She slung her briefcase onto her desk and shrugged her leather jacket off, then looked down at the baggy sweater and faded jeans she had donned in a mad rush to get out the door. Anders wore another dark, elegant suit that could barely contain his shoulders.

“I hope you don't mind—I started on that cross-indexing assignment Nakamura gave you. I didn't know which desk was whose, and the assignment was sitting here, so I thought, bugger, maybe I'd better get to it.”

Deirdre forced a smile and held up the folder Nakamura had given her. “Don't worry about it. I'm all set.”

Anders kept typing. “I'll tell you, I never thought I'd be much into computer work. I was a bit worried about that when I decided to join up. But crikey, it turns out I'm a fiend for it. I got here at quarter to seven just to get a jump on things.”

She held a hand to her pounding temple. “I'm sure you did.”

“There's coffee over on the filing cabinet there. Help yourself.”

Deirdre couldn't resist the lure of caffeine and went over to investigate. There was a stainless-steel carafe, several mugs, and a carton of real cream. She filled a mug from the carafe, laced it with a generous dollop of cream, and took a sip. The coffee was superior.

She raised an eyebrow and gazed at Anders over the mug. “Who brewed this?”

“I did. The beans are Kenya Double-A. I got them on my last trip home. That coffee came from the best field in my family's plantation.”

So that was the source of the accent she couldn't quite place. He was Kenyan, descended of British colonials. As she moved back to her desk, she noticed the bouquet of flowers in the center of the claw-footed table.

“Someone sent you flowers?” she said, then took another vitalizing sip.

“Not bloody likely,” Anders said with a gravely laugh. “In case you haven't noticed, I've got a mug only a mother could love. And even my mum squints when she looks at me. I brought those in myself. I thought they might cheer up the place.”

Deirdre sat at her desk. For some reason it bothered her to drink Anders's coffee, but it was a matter of survival. By the third cup her brain finally kicked into gear, and she was able to focus on the papers Nakamura had given her.

She didn't know if it was ironic or simply fitting, but her assignment was to perform a survey of historical cases from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and determine if any of the Nine Desiderata had been broken in the course of each case. The goal of the study was to determine if the modern definitions of the Desiderata were in any way at odds with how the rules were applied in the first two centuries of the Seekers' history. Deirdre had to admit, it was an interesting topic. All the same, it was a bit on the academic side.

Be glad you have work to do at all, Deirdre. They could have ousted you from the order. Besides, research is exactly what you need to be doing right now.

However, as the day wore on, there was no opportunity to perform any more searches about the message on the keystone and Glinda's ring. The way the desks were arranged, Anders only had to turn his head slightly to see her—as well as the contents of her computer screen.

He did this what seemed like every ten minutes, asking her some question or another about how best to construct search queries, or what were her favorite indexing techniques. Deirdre did her best to answer his questions, and each time he'd respond with an outpouring of gratitude that made her cringe before he turned his broad back to punish his computer some more.

By afternoon, despite the warning of the shadowy stranger last night, she could only think that Anders really was nothing more than a chipper tyro. True, he did seem a little old for a fresh recruit. She guessed him to be somewhere in his late thirties. Then again, people came into the Seekers at all ages, and from all different backgrounds. The only thing they had in common was an unquenchable curiosity—and a belief that there were worlds other than Earth.

At five o'clock, Deirdre couldn't take it any longer. Her desk looked like the aftermath of a battle between two libraries; papers and open books were heaped in chaotic piles. She took one last slug of coffee and grimaced; it was ice cold. Her headache had returned—the result of too much caffeine this time. The only thing that would get rid of it was a pint of beer.

And so one vice leads smoothly into another. Maybe hitting the pub isn't such a good idea.

Then again, knowing you had a problem was the first step in ignoring it. She shut her computer, stuffed it into her satchel, and stood.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Anders. Thanks for the coffee.”

Anders looked up from his computer and grinned. “No problem, mate. See you.”

Deirdre noticed that all of the papers on his desk were arranged in neat stacks. She turned before he could see her grimace and headed out the door. Belatedly, she realized she should have invited Anders to the pub. With Farr, it had been an unspoken agreement that they would go out for a pint after a day at the office. However, before she could go back, Sasha appeared from around a corner and hooked her elbow around Deirdre's, guiding her down the corridor.

“So, who's the Neanderthal with the bottle blond hair?” Sasha said, dark eyes gleaming. Today she was dressed like a ski resort vixen, from her too-tight sweater to the pink leg warmers.

“What?” Deirdre feigned mock surprise. “You don't already know? He's my new partner, Anders.”

Sasha scowled. “Is that his last or first name?”

“I honestly don't know.”

“You'll have to try to peek at his ID card. I bet his first name is Leslie or Carol. You know, something that doesn't go with the rough and rugged image.”

“Like designer suits, flowers, and gourmet coffee?” Deirdre mused with a sharp smile.

Sasha didn't seem to hear her. “He's a bit scary-looking, to say the least. The baby blues work, though. And the muscles, of course, but that goes without saying.”

“He's my new partner, Sasha, not my motorcycle daddy.”

“Oh, yes, I bet he's got a black leather getup in his closet,” Sasha went on eagerly, on a roll now. “You know, chaps, studs, whips—the whole scene. If you like that sort of thing. Oh, Deirdre, you don't like that, do you?”

Deirdre gaped at the other woman.
“No!”

“Too bad,” Sasha purred. “Farr was way too vanilla in my opinion. I think you could do with a little danger. It's good for the complexion.” She patted Deirdre's cheek. “See you, darling.”