The Gates of Winter (25 page)

Aryn sighed, and such was her own bleak mood that she had little appetite. Lirith and Sareth had opted for a quiet supper alone, and Aryn wished she had followed suit. When the servants brought out the subtleties—usually her favorite dessert—she stared at them without relish. The sugary confections were molded into various shapes. Aryn had gotten a dragon.

Remembered words hissed again in her mind.
And here are two daughters of Sia, both doomed to betray their sisters and their mistress. . . .

Did Ivalaine know of their betrayal of the Pattern? Was that why she had spurned them? Aryn smashed the dragon with a spoon, then excused herself from the table.

She walked the castle corridors for a time, then found herself before the door to Sareth's chamber.

You shouldn't bother them, Aryn.

However, even as she thought this, the door opened, and she found herself facing Lirith.

“What is it, sister?” the witch said. “Is something amiss?”

“No, nothing.” Aryn grimaced. “Except that Grace has ridden off to the Final Battle, Beltan and Vani have gone to bring Travis Runebreaker back to Eldh, and Queen Ivalaine won't even talk to us. Oh, and I'm going to be married to a prince who abhors me. Other than that, things are just fine.”

Sareth—who sat next to the fire—let out a bell-like laugh. “Well, you might as well come in and have a cup of
maddok
. It doesn't sound like you're going to be getting any sleep tonight.”

Aryn imagined not. She gazed around as she stepped into the room. “I'm not . . . interrupting anything, am I?”

“Only my departure for the evening,” Lirith said briskly. “But you know me—I can always be persuaded to take another cup of
maddok
.”

It turned out to be two cups, not one, and Aryn was glad of the company. Sareth relinquished the chair by the fire, and Aryn sat in it, sipping the hot, spicy liquid. The last things Aryn wished to speak about were current events, so instead Sareth told stories of ancient Amún and the fabled city of his ancestors, Morindu the Dark. Aryn tried to imagine what it would be like—an entire city of sorcerers. What a strange, shadowed, and wonderful place it must have been.

At last the hour grew late. The women bid Sareth farewell, then walked together back to their own chambers. However, Aryn found it odd that Lirith didn't stay behind.

Her thoughts must have been louder than she intended.

“There is no reason for me to stay with him,” Lirith said softly.

Aryn glanced at her, shocked. “I don't understand. Don't you love him as he loves you?”

“I do, but . . .” Lirith hesitated, then took Aryn's hand in her own.
There is no hope for us, sister. I cannot give him a child as a woman should. And ever since the demon took his leg, he cannot do what a man would do with a woman in his bed.

Anguish squeezed Aryn's heart.
But is there no spell that can help you?

I have tried with all my skill, but if there is a magic that can help either of us, it is beyond me.

It doesn't matter, Lirith. You love each other, and surely love is more than lying down together, or making children between you. It has to be.

Lirith pulled her hand from Aryn's and let out a bitter laugh. “Love doesn't matter to his people. Their laws forbid him to wed outside his clan. One day he will return to them. And on that day he will leave me. Good night, sister.”

Lirith stepped into her chamber and shut the door. There was nothing for Aryn to do but continue to her own room.

She chided herself as she walked.
You are small and selfish, Aryn of Elsandry. Your problems are nothing to what Lirith and Sareth are suffering. So what if you are to marry Prince Teravian? He's sullen, yes, but you could do far worse. Besides, it's not as if there's another whom you love.

Except for some reason that last thought left her feeling strange and weak, and her hand shook as she fumbled with the latch on her door. It was the
maddok
, of course. She shouldn't have drunk so much; she would never be able to fall asleep.

Her room was dark—the fire had burned low—but a sliver of moonlight fell through a crack in the curtains. She stumbled her way to the window and pulled back the curtains to let more of the silvery light into the room.

Aryn froze. Below, a slim figure clad all in black stalked across the courtyard of the upper bailey. The figure stepped into a pool of shadow and vanished, but Aryn had seen enough to know who it was.

“Where are you going, Teravian?” she whispered. There was no way to find out without following him, but by the time Aryn got all the way down to the bailey, he would be long gone.

Maybe there's a swifter way, sister.

Aryn didn't give herself a moment to think about it, afraid she would change her mind. She moved to the sideboard and picked up the glove Teravian had dropped earlier that day, then she sat in a chair.

This was foolish and dangerous. Once, when performing a spell like this, Grace had nearly lost her spirit forever. If Ivalaine had not intervened, Grace would have died. Aryn knew she should go fetch Lirith.

No, there isn't time. They always keep saying how strong your talent is, Aryn. Well, now's the time to prove it. If they're right, you can do this.

She gripped the glove with both hands, then she reached out with the Touch, spinning a thread along the Weirding and weaving it around the glove.

An instant later she was flying. Aryn glanced over her shoulder and saw herself through the window of her chamber, sitting in a pool of moonlight, eyes open and staring. A silver strand stretched back to her body. She knew if the thread was severed, she would die. Forcing away the thought, she faced forward and let the magic draw her on.

The spell led her down into the upper bailey. She passed through the shadow of the keep, then feathery shapes rose before her, frosted by the light of the moon. Aryn felt a tug as the spell pulled her through a wrought-iron archway and into the castle's garden.

A dizziness came over her as she flew along twisting paths, and she was terribly cold. Was she dying? She glanced back, but the thread still stretched behind her. The spell led her onward, deeper into the garden.

“I knew you would come to me,” said a woman's voice.

If she could have, Aryn would have let out a scream. Had she been seen somehow?

“It's not as if I really had a choice,” sneered another voice, which Aryn instantly recognized as Teravian's. It was not Aryn the woman had addressed, but the prince.

Aryn drifted around a curve in the path and came to halt. Before her was a grotto sheltered by
valsindar
trees. Teravian stood in the center, his dark attire blending with the night, his face pale in the moonlight. The woman who had spoken stood a few feet from him, though who she was Aryn couldn't say, as she was clad from head to toe in a dark cloak.

“You are dutiful,” the woman said to Teravian, her voice hoarse. “Just as a son should be.”

He let out a sharp laugh. “I'm his son, too, aren't I? But here I am all the same.”

Confusion filled Aryn. What were they talking about? Teravian was son only to King Boreas. His mother, Queen Narenya, had died long years ago.

“You know what you will be asked to do, don't you?” the woman said.

He stared into the darkness. “I've seen it. Bits of it, anyway. It comes in flashes. There's a battlefield, and two armies face each other. Both of the armies carry banners bearing the crown and swords of Calavan, only one is green and yellow instead of silver and blue.”

The woman drew closer. “And what else do you see? Which army will prevail?”

“I don't know. It's all a fog after that—I can't see it.” His eyes narrowed. “And what do you care, anyway? You've cut yourself off from them, haven't you?”

“Care? What do I care?” The woman muttered the words, as if trying to fathom their meaning. “I suppose I care for nothing now, save to keep him from using you.”

His lip curled into a sneer. “What, so you can use me yourself, is that what you mean? I know you've been watching me all these years, prodding me, trying to figure out a way to use me for your own ends.”

The woman pressed a hand to her chest. “You know much. And yet so much less than you think. Perhaps once I did seek to use you, though my intentions were good. But no more. My thoughts are for you only. I would have you do this thing not for them, but for yourself. That's why I've come.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

She reached a hand toward him. “You must trust me.”

“Trust you?” Anger twisted his face, and he clenched a fist. “How can I trust you when you've lied to me all these years about who you really are, who I really am? You're no better than he is. Why should I trust either of you, Mother?”

Shock coursed through Aryn. Mother? What was he talking about? Before she could wonder more, the woman reached up with shaking hands and pushed back the hood of her cloak. Her flaxen hair was colorless in the moonlight, and tears streamed down her smooth cheeks.

“Trust me because I love you, my son,” Queen Ivalaine said. “As I have always loved you, even when I could not tell you the truth.”

Teravian laughed. “Now you're lying again. But I'm not a child anymore. You can't trick me as you used to.”

“Please,” Ivalaine said. “Please don't turn from me, Teravian. You're all I have left.”

He gazed at her, his eyes calculating. “Then you have nothing, Mother.”

The prince turned and walked from the grotto. He moved right past Aryn, but he did not pause. The shadows took him, and he was gone.

“Go,” Ivalaine hissed, the tears drying on her cheeks.

She was staring right at Aryn. Only that was impossible. She must have meant the word for Teravian.

“I see you there, witch,” Ivalaine said, her face a white mask of rage. She pointed a trembling finger at Aryn. “Go spin your evil threads with your shadow coven and leave me alone!”

Horror flooded Aryn. The world became a dark blur, and she felt a wrenching inside. Her eyes snapped open. The garden was gone; she was back in her chamber, and she was terribly cold.

Aryn forced her stiff muscles to move, pushing herself out of the chair. She had to find Lirith and Mirda and tell them Queen Ivalaine had gone mad.

28.

After the battle against the
feydrim
and wraithlings, the army turned north. They kept close to the rugged foothills of the Fal Erenn, marching just outside the borders of Perridon to avoid having to beg Queen Inara for permission to travel across her Dominion.

Not that Grace would have minded seeing how the young queen and her son were faring. Grace had not seen them since last summer, when all of them had faced the Necromancer Dakarreth in Castle Spardis. However, though they continued to make good time thanks to clear weather and Tira's meddling with distances, they could ill afford a detour all the way to Spardis.

The excitement they had felt at the start of the journey was forgotten now. What little of it had remained had died along with the
feydrim
and wraithlings in the rocky hills of the Dun-Dordurun. The camp was quiet at night; the ale had run out over a week ago, and the supplies of food were being rationed carefully. They had many days yet to Gravenfist Keep, and once there, who knew how long their supplies would have to last?

Perhaps not long at all, Grace, if we don't find a way to restore the keep's defenses.

But they still had hope. She touched the leather pouch at her waist which contained the small disk of white stone she had found in the arm of Chair Malachor. The men around her were grimmer than before, hardened by the road but not yet made weary by it. Their victory against the forces of the Pale King in Dun-Dordurun had lent them a confidence they had lacked before. They knew now they could stand against this enemy.

Don't get cocky, Grace. Winning that battle was an accomplishment, but fifty
feydrim
and two wraithlings are just a drop in the bucket. How many thousands more will be waiting when we get to Shadowsdeep?

She gazed at the dark clouds that rose up from the northern horizon. They pulsed with a sickly, yellow-green glow, as if lit from behind by sulfurous fires.

“What is it, Your Majesty?” Durge said.

Only as he spoke did she realize she had sighed. She glanced at the knight, who rode nearby.

“We've turned north, Durge. Every step brings us closer to Imbrifale now. Closer to
his
Dominion.”

“Journeys have a way of doing that.”

She shook her head. “Of doing what?”

“Taking one to a final destination.” Durge started to lift a hand to his chest, then lowered it back to his thigh.

Grace licked her lips. “It's the pain again.”

“It is nothing, my lady.”

She opened her mouth to say more, but at that moment Sir Tarus's charger pounded up to them.

“I just thought I'd let you know we'll be making camp soon, Your Majesty,” the red-haired knight said. “Aldeth tells me the Spiders are scouting for a suitable place even now.”

Grace wrapped her arms around Tira's warm body in the saddle before her. “I don't think anyplace around here is really suitable, Tarus.”

The land around them was broken and barren, a series of featureless plains scarred by deep gorges. All that day, a cruel wind had rushed down from the mountains to their left, slicing through wool and leather like a cold knife. Grace looked forward to sitting as close to a crackling fire as she could without becoming kindling herself.

Aldeth appeared out of a shadow a short while later to let them know a place to make camp had been found. They reached it just as the sun sank behind the mountains: a flat area beneath a cliff that offered good protection from the wind. Already the men were beginning to pitch tents and dig latrines. A group stopped in their work and raised their fists, cheering, as Grace rode by. The men had being doing that a lot lately, ever since the battle, and Grace never knew quite how to respond. She settled for a crooked smile and an awkward little wave.

Durge helped Grace down from Shandis's back, and Tarus lifted Tira from the saddle. He started to set her down, but the girl threw her arms around his neck, gripping him tightly.

“I believe she likes you, Sir Tarus,” Durge said.

Grace moved closer. “No, look at her. She's frightened—that's why she doesn't want to get down.” She touched Tira's cheek. “What is it, sweetheart?” But the mute girl couldn't—wouldn't—answer. She only buried her face against Tarus's shoulder and held on tighter.

Grace met Durge's eyes. “Something's wrong.”

“I think you're right in that, Your Majesty,” said a woman's voice.

Grace gasped as, with a flick of her silvery cloak, Samatha appeared out of thin air.

“What is it, Sam?” Grace said, doing her best to swallow her heart back down.

The Spider's mousy face was pinched with concern. “Two of our brothers are missing. We all went ahead a few hours ago to seek a place to stop for the night, but Henrin and Wulther never returned.”

That was strange news. It wasn't like a Spider to get lost, even in rugged country such as this, and Grace would hardly expect one to fall into a ravine.

“Where's Aldeth?” Grace said.

“He's gone off in search of the missing Spiders. Leris and Karthi are helping him. I wanted to inform you what's happened, but now I must help Aldeth in the search.”

Grace nodded, and Samatha started to move away, but before she could wrap her mistcloak around herself, a cry rose up from the far side of the camp. Several of the men gathered around, shouting. Grace cast glances at the others, then they were running across the camp.

The knot of men parted when Grace approached. She hurried forward, Tarus and Durge at her heels, then clasped a hand to her mouth as she lurched to a halt.

The two men lay in a patch of brambles, staring upward with dead eyes, silver-gray cloaks tangled, limbs entwined as if in a final embrace. A knife protruded from one's chest. Another had bled out from a long gash in the throat.

“Sweet Jorus, no,” Samatha gasped, her face white. She fell to her knees, clutching their bloodied cloaks.

Tarus clenched his hands into fists. “By all the gods, who did this to them?”

“They did,” Paladus said.

The others stared at the Tarrasian commander. He had been in the group of men gathered around the bodies.

“Do you not see it?” Paladus pointed to the bodies. “Look at the way they have fallen, and how this one grips a knife still. These men murdered each other.”

“But why would they have done such a terrible thing?” Tarus said, shielding Tira's eyes with a hand.

“Maybe they accepted what we've all been denying,” Samatha said, rocking back and forth in her grief. “Maybe they knew we're all doomed.”

“Yes,” Durge said softly, gazing at the dead men. His hand crept up to his chest. “Doomed.”

Paladus spun around, his face flushed. “I might expect that kind of talk from a weasel and spy like her, but not from a man of war. Speak that way again, sir, and I will show you doom.” His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

Tarus advanced on the commander. “Hold your tongue, Paladus. You have no right to talk to a knight of the Dominions in such a coarse manner.”

Tira wriggled free of Tarus and ran to Grace, clutching her skirts. Grace picked the girl up, staring, unable to believe what was happening.

Paladus's eyes narrowed. “I'll say what I know to be true. You northerners are a lot of weaklings and cowards. You'd be dead already without us.”

Tarus bared his teeth. “We're not going to stand for talk like that, are we, Durge?” Durge only stared at the corpses, but Tarus seemed not to notice. He advanced on the commander. “We don't need help from a bunch of mangy southern dogs.”

Paladus's face darkened, but before he could speak Samatha leaped to her feet. “Go away!” Her voice rose into a shriek. “All of you, go away! My brothers are dead, and you're like vultures circling the bodies.”

Aldeth stepped out of a swirl of mist; a fog had begun to rise from the ground, its touch clammy and chilling. He took in the fallen men, the angry faces, and his eyes went wide. “By the Seven, what's going on here?”

That was a good question. Grace shut her eyes and reached out with the Touch.

It yawned like a mouth in the Weirding, black and hungry, swallowing all light, all life that came near it.

She was a fool. It was in western Perridon where they had first encountered such a thing. She should have known they might come upon another. Her eyes flew open.

“Durge,” she said, pointing a trembling finger toward the thicket of brambles. “In there.”

Her voice seemed to snap the knight out of his torpor. He stepped over the bodies, using gloved hands to push aside the brambles. His work revealed a stone column about five feet high, the three planes of its sides glossy and black, carved with jagged symbols.

Durge looked back at Grace, his face gray. “It's a pylon, Your Majesty.”

Paladus and Samatha stared in confusion. Tarus held a hand to his head and staggered. “What's a pylon?”

“Evil,” Grace said through clenched teeth. “Get away from it—all of you. We can't make camp here. We have to leave this place. Now!”

As if they were a spell—and indeed, she wasn't certain she hadn't unconsciously woven some magic into them—her words seemed to dispel the dark cloud that fogged their minds. Paladus and Tarus exchanged stunned looks, then both were striding toward the camp, shouting orders. Aldeth helped Samatha to her feet.

“We have to bury them,” Aldeth said, gazing at the fallen Spiders.

Samatha looked at Grace, her cheeks wet with tears. “Only we can't, can we?”

Grace hesitated, then shook her head. “Their bodies are tainted with the magic of the pylon. We must not touch them. I'm so sorry, Sam.”

“Then we'll use fire,” Aldeth said, eyeing the dry bushes surrounding the dead men and the pylon.

Samatha gave a grim nod. “I'll get torches.”

“Come, my lady,” Durge said, his voice hoarse. “Let us get away from this thing.”

They pressed on as night cloaked the world. Thankfully it was clear and there was a quarter moon; otherwise, they would have ridden right into one of the ravines that crisscrossed the landscape. As it was, they went slowly, stumbling their way over heath and stone, relying on the Spiders for their eyes.

As they rode, Grace could not stop thinking of the pylon, and how it had spun its black tendrils out over the world. Last year, they had unwittingly camped near a pylon, and it had driven them all to the brink of despair and madness. However, that stone had taken hours to affect them, while this pylon had seemed to work its terrible effect in mere moments.

It's no longer dormant like the other was, Grace. It's awake, and it's working.

Falken had said the pylons were created during the War of the Stones a thousand years ago, and that the Pale King had used them to communicate with his slaves. Had this one been watching them even as they argued before it?

The horizon had begun to glow with faint silver light when Durge rode close and told her they had to stop. The foot soldiers were exhausted from marching so long without rest and food, and some of the horses were on the verge of collapse. Grace was so tired herself she couldn't manage spoken words, so she simply nodded her assent.

It was dawn by the time they had finished setting up camp, and much as she hated the delay, Grace knew the army would not be going anywhere that day. After a cold breakfast, Durge stopped by her tent to report that all was well, though tempers had been flaring. There was some fighting among the men, and a few had even come to blows, but without serious injury.

The violence was a residual effect of the pylon, Grace knew. She could still feel its presence, like a slick of oil on her skin she couldn't wash off. Leaving Tira in their tent, Grace went in search of Senrael and Lursa, and together they wove a spell that allowed them to gaze for leagues along the Weirding, but they sensed no trace of another pylon.

After that, Grace paid a visit to All-master Oragien and young Master Graedin, and in short order all of the runespeakers were wandering through the camp, speaking the rune of peace. This had the calming effect Grace hoped, and after that the camp grew quiet as the men finally rested.

When she returned to her tent, she found Durge waiting for her with a handful of men. Some stared at the ground, their faces blank, while others could not stop sobbing.

“These foot soldiers were the ones working closest to the pylon,” Durge said quietly to Grace.

She nodded, then examined each of them in turn.

“I don't know what's wrong with me, Your Majesty,” one of the men said as she touched his brow. “I've never been one to tuck my tail and run from a fight.”

Grace smiled. “I imagine not.” He was a burly fellow with big, scarred hands.

Those hands were trembling now. “By Vathris, look at me. I'm shaking like a frightened lamb, and there's nary a wolf in sight. It's foolish, Your Majesty, what with you being such a fierce warrior, and a great sorceress as well—but I feel all cold and watery inside, as if we haven't a hope in the world.”

“There's always hope,” she said briskly. “And don't worry about how you're feeling. It's an effect of the pylon. In fact, you're remarkably brave. Most people who stood near it as long as you did would have been reduced to jelly.”

Or would murder each other in a blind rage. But she didn't say that, and her words seemed to hearten the fellow. She spoke similar words of encouragement to the others, and she examined each of their threads. However, she could see no signs of permanent damage. She discharged the men, giving them each a simple to help them sleep, and excused them from any duties that day so they could rest.

“Yours is a healing touch, Your Majesty,” Durge said after they had gone.

Then why can't I excise the iron splinter from your chest?
Only those were more words she could not speak.

“Get some rest, Durge,” she said instead.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” he said and left her tent. However, she knew he wouldn't. The tireless knight would keep on working so others could rest in his stead. Grace didn't know how he did it. A crushing weariness descended upon her, and she curled on her cot next to Tira, who was fast asleep.