The Gates of Winter (32 page)

“Who are you?” the first security guard, the one called Ben, said. His eyes were like black stones.

Travis shrugged. “She told you. Just a guy who was helping her with her box.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Come on, Ben,” the other guard said. “Leave him alone. He's just some homeless guy scrounging for tips.”

Ben shook his head. “I have to report this.” He punched a button on the phone. The crescent moon logo glowed in the dark, white as bones.

Fear flashed through Travis. He couldn't let them do this. He opened the box in his pocket, and his fingers brushed the smooth surface of one of the Stones—Sinfathisar by its cool touch. He pointed his other hand at the phone.

“Reth,”
he said.

The phone shattered in the guard's grip. Shards of plastic traced red lines across his face, but he did not flinch.

The other guard did. “What the hell?” He grabbed for his gun with a shaking hand and pointed it at Travis. “I don't know what you just did, but you're coming with us.”

“No,” Travis said, then spoke another rune.
“Dur.”

The gun flew up, striking the man on the bottom of his jaw. His eyes rolled up into his head, and without a sound he crumpled to the pavement.

The remaining guard, Ben, was watching him with his lifeless eyes. “I know who you are.”

Travis swallowed the sick lump in his throat. “And I know what you are. You gave it up for them, didn't you? You're not a man anymore, you're a thing. No, don't come closer.”

The guard stopped. “There's no point in resisting. The world is changing. A new order comes, and those who resist it will not survive.”

“Neither will you,” Travis said through clenched teeth.

The guard raised big hands and lunged for him. Travis was faster.

“Dur!”

He directed the full force of the rune not at the man's gun, but at the center of his chest. The guard stopped. A shudder passed through his body, and he lifted up onto his toes, as if something was pulling him from above. His eyes bulged, and a dark trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

“Help me . . . Master,” he choked. “I don't want . . . to die.”

“Too late,” Travis said. “You're already dead.”

He made a fist of his left hand, closing his fingers around empty air, then pulled back. At the same moment the thing burst from the guard's chest: a dark lump of metal. It thudded to the pavement and rolled to a stop. The guard stared forward with empty eyes. Then he toppled facefirst, a corpse long before he hit the pavement.

Sound and motion. Travis looked up. A door opened in the side of the building. Several shadowy forms rushed out. In the distance, the wail of sirens approached. So someone had made a phone call after all.

However, it wasn't guards or police officers he feared now. Blue-white light spilled from the mouth of a nearby alley, and a metallic whine rose on the air. Renewed dread pumped energy into Travis's legs. He turned and ran from the parking lot.

“Alth,”
he whispered, speaking one last rune before closing the box, and shadows gathered around him, cloaking him in darkness as he vanished into the night.

35.

“This is perilous, sister,” Lirith whispered as the two witches moved as quietly as they could down the corridor. “I do not know why I agreed to this.”

“Because you know as I do we have no other choice,” Aryn whispered back. She did not spin the words across the Weirding; it was too dangerous to speak that way with so many witches about the castle.

Lirith clutched Aryn's gown, holding her back. “If Liendra or one of her spies sees us here—”

“Then we tell them the truth,” Aryn said, trying to sound confident. “We tell them we're going to Queen Ivalaine to try to convince her to help us.”

“To help us, yes—against Liendra.”

“We'll just leave that last little bit out.”

Lirith gave her a dark look. “And don't you think Liendra has ways of getting the truth out of us?”

“Maybe. But if she has the power to pick apart our minds, why hasn't she done so already? Liendra has a hold over the Witches—but I don't think it's as strong as she would like us to believe. We weren't the only ones who joined with the Pattern reluctantly. She has to play her cards carefully.”

“As do we,” Lirith said. However, she let go of Aryn's gown, and the two women continued down the corridor.

The last two days had been the longest of Aryn's life. Liendra had vowed to watch them closely, and the golden-haired witch had not lied. It seemed at every turn she was there, or one of the young witches who followed her every command as if it were the word of Sia herself.

Except they've shunned the name of Sia, just as they've banned the crones from their covens.

And that was the one thing that gave Aryn hope. Without the older witches and their wisdom, Liendra and her minions were bound to make mistakes. At least, Aryn had to hope so.

That Liendra plotted something to prevent the Warriors of Vathris from marching north to Gravenfist Keep was a given. Even King Boreas seemed certain of that fact. However, exactly what Liendra planned was a mystery—one they had to solve if they were to have any of hope of stopping her. And they had to stop her. Grace was depending on them.

Aryn longed desperately to reach out with the Touch, to fling her consciousness over the intervening leagues and speak to Grace. She didn't dare, of course, and not just because of all the witches in the castle. The Pale King's pylons had been awakened at the command of their master, and their magic tangled through the threads of the Weirding like vipers.

We haven't forgotten you, Grace. Already the Warriors of Vathris number five thousand, and more come every day. Just hold on a little while longer.

She had to pray the words to Sia rather than spin them across the Weirding, but maybe somehow, by the will of the goddess, Grace would get the message.

In the meantime, the best way to help Grace was to learn what Liendra was planning. Whatever it was, it had to come soon. The army of Vathris was to depart on the morrow under the command of King Boreas. Liendra was running out of time.

Which made her behavior earlier that morning all the more strange. They had encountered her at breakfast in the great hall, and she had been all smiles and bright laughter. She had seemed utterly unconcerned that the men of Vathris were ready to march.

“We shall see what weather tomorrow brings,” was all the golden-haired witch said. “Storms can come upon one swiftly this time of year, as I'm sure the king knows.”

Aryn had dared to relay these words to the king. After all, Liendra couldn't punish her for talking to her liege and warden. At least, she hoped not. However, Boreas had seemed every bit as unconcerned as Liendra.

“Of course Lady Liendra plots against me,” the king said, standing before the roaring fire in his chamber. “She's a witch. She can't help plotting.” He raised an eyebrow, giving her a piercing look. “No offense intended, my lady.”

Despite her fear, Aryn gave him a wry grin. “None taken, Your Majesty.” Then she voiced the question that had weighed on her mind these last two days, asking the king why he had allowed Liendra and her witches to stay in the castle.

Boreas laughed. “That's simple, my lady. It's far better to have your enemies near at hand, where you can keep a close eye on them. I do not plan on being caught unawares by any spells Lady Liendra might try to spin.”

Aryn wanted to believe that, but she didn't know if she could, and that was why they had to try to speak to Ivalaine. Until recently, she had been Matron of the Witches, and if anyone knew what Liendra intended to do, it was her. There was just one problem: Ivalaine had forbidden Aryn and Lirith ever to try speaking to her again.

The two witches turned down an empty corridor. Ivalaine's chamber lay just ahead.

“What if she's not there?” Aryn said, suddenly uncertain at the wisdom of this.

“She will be,” Lirith said. “The servingman I spoke to said the queen takes all her meals in her room.”

Aryn reached out with the Touch, but she sensed no threads nearby. She hurried after Lirith to the queen's door. They exchanged one last nervous look, then Lirith lifted a hand to knock.

The door flew open.

“Did I not tell you I would have nothing to do with you?” Ivalaine hissed.

Lirith gasped, and Aryn clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. The queen of Toloria was barely recognizable. Always in the past she had carried herself tall and straight, her flaxen hair as flawless as her skin, her eyes as clear as ice.

That woman was nowhere to be seen now. Ivalaine stooped over, her shoulders hunched like an old woman's, her gown wrinkled and soiled. Her hair was snarled and dull with oil, and scratches marred her face, as if she had been clawing at it. Her eyes were the same ice gray as always, but they seemed too bright, and they focused on nothing for more than a second.

Lirith recovered first. “Please, Your Majesty. We have to speak with you just this once. After this, we'll leave you alone, if that's what you wish.” She reached out a hand.

The queen batted it aside. “I wish you to leave me alone now. I should weave an enchantment—I should make you run away screaming.” Her fingers fluttered, then knotted together. “But my spells have fled me. The authority of the crown has fled me. Love is all I have left, and bitter comfort that is. Would that I had nothing left at all.”

She turned from the door and lurched into her room. Aryn and Lirith exchanged startled glances, then they stepped into the queen's chamber.

The smell hit Aryn at once. The air was thick with the reek of spoiled meat. The room was dim—tapestries had been drawn over the windows—but after a moment Aryn's eyes adjusted. Trays of food lay all around, none of it eaten. Aryn glanced at the nearest tray; maggots writhed atop a piece of venison. She clutched a hand to her throat to keep from gagging.

The queen must have sent her maids away along with everyone else. The covers had been stripped from the bed and wadded up on the floor in a kind of nest. The stench of urine rose from an uncovered chamber pot. It was almost too much, and Aryn staggered, but Lirith's grip on her arm held her steady.

“Your Majesty,” Aryn said. “Are you well?”

It was a ridiculous question. However, Ivalaine seemed not to hear her. She paced before the cold fireplace, muttering, as if she was the only one in the room.

“I was young . . . so young, and still a maiden. But I did as they asked. I did what they wanted me to do. I sacrificed myself to that bloody bull.”

Aryn cast a startled look at Lirith. The witch's dark eyes were locked on the queen.

Ivalaine pulled at her hair as she paced. “A male witch, one of full blood. They needed him for their schemes, and I helped to create him, I gave him up for them.” Clumps of hair came away in her hands. “But he is my son. I cannot let them . . . I cannot let her use him. She would . . . in the shadows . . . not alive, and not dead . . . she thinks she can stop me from . . . from . . .”

Ivalaine's words phased into a meaningless hum. She stared with empty eyes, swaying back and forth.

“Now, sister,” Lirith whispered. “While her guard is down. You must spin a thread out to her, you must try to glimpse what is in her mind.”

Fear paralyzed Aryn. She couldn't.

Lirith squeezed her arm. “You must. You are stronger than I. And we have to know.”

Aryn let out a moan, then she shut her eyes and reached out with the Touch. She could see the queen's thread. It flickered like a dying candle, bright one moment, dull the next. Aryn hesitated, then extended a shining hand and gripped it.

Wonder filled Aryn, and terror. She saw everything in an instant. It was all so clear, only it was chaotic, fragmented—like gazing into a shattered mirror. There, in one shard, was Ivalaine as a pretty young maid, no more than sixteen. And there was King Boreas. Only he wasn't a king yet, but rather a man just entering his prime. And there, in another shard, was a woman in a dove gray gown whom Aryn recognized only from paintings. Queen Narenya. A baby appeared in her arms, an infant with dark hair. The broken shards started to align themselves. . . .

Ivalaine had been so young—just sixteen winters old—and newly a witch. She had been willing, even eager, to do as her coven bid her. For many years they had been trying to bring about the birth of a male witch, one as full in his power as any woman who ever touched the Weirding.

To match the men of Vathris, we must have a man of Sia,
spoke the wise ones, the crones, the seers of prophecy.

Many of the most powerful witches had used herbs and spells, along with the simpler magics of wine and beauty, to find their way into the beds of strong warriors, but to no avail. A few girl children had been born strong in the Touch, but no males. Until . . .

Aryn could see it as if it was happening before her. Ivalaine had clad herself in one of Narenya's gowns and had waited in a chamber. The king was brought to her, his mind fogged by herbs that had been slipped into his wine. He was rough, but so dull were his wits that he did not hear her soft sounds of pain, did not see the blood upon the sheets.

Yet that was only half the deception, for Narenya had secretly followed the ways of Sia herself. Though she loved Boreas, her duty was to the Witches. Unable to bear his child herself, for she proved barren, Narenya did what she knew she must. With the help of her two handmaidens, both disciples of Sia, she had deceived the king and his court. It had been simple enough to pad her gown a little more each week, and when she was alone with Boreas in their chamber, spells of illusion had made him believe her naked belly swelled even though it remained flat beneath his hand.

Ten moons later, the deception was completed. Narenya told the king the time for their child's birth had come. She ordered all from her chamber save her handmaidens and an old midwife who was Crone of her coven. At the same time, in a room deep in the castle, Ivalaine birthed her own child—a son, fine and healthy. The threads of the Weirding coiled themselves around him like a blanket woven of light. And before she could even kiss his damp head, he was taken away from her and spirited into Narenya's chamber. And that was how Teravian was born.

“Get out!”

The queen's shrill cry pierced the air, breaking the spell. Aryn staggered, clutching a hand to her head as Lirith gripped her shoulders to steady her.

“Get out now!”

Rage twisted the queen's visage. But did she mean get out of the room, or out of her head? Ivalaine picked up a plate, threw it, and it smashed against the wall behind them. Aryn and Lirith stumbled back.

“I see now what I must do.” Ivalaine's voice was low, trembling with power. “You would use him just as she would, but there is a way to be certain no one uses him.” She shuddered, and a softness stole across her visage. “I am his mother. It is the last thing, the only thing, I can do for him.”

With that the queen moved past the two stunned women, through the door, and was gone.

Aryn slumped down into a chair, no longer caring about the stench in the room. Her legs seemed incapable of bearing her; she had to sit for a moment.

“Oh, Lirith . . .”

“Hush, sister.” Lirith stood above her. “I touched your thread as you touched Ivalaine's. I saw everything. Sia help us, what cruel treachery. I wonder, when did Boreas finally realize what Narenya had done?”

Aryn didn't know; that had been missing from the shards she had glimpsed. “Whenever it happened, by then it was too late. Boreas couldn't tell the truth—not if he wanted Teravian to be his heir. And I think, even then, he still loved Narenya.” However, it surely explained the king's attitude toward Ivalaine and the Witches. They had used him. Just as they meant to use Teravian. Only how?

“I don't know, sister,” Lirith said, not requiring magic to understand Aryn's thoughts. “I don't see how using Teravian can help Liendra.”

Aryn sighed. “It's broken Ivalaine. She was a queen, and a witch, and a mother, but circumstances wouldn't let her be all three at once. Each required something different of her, and in the end it drove her to madness.”

Sorrow shone in Lirith's dark eyes. “Ivalaine has been a victim of these deeds, just as Boreas and Teravian have.”

These words plunged a needle of fear into Aryn's heart. “A victim of these deeds,” she murmured. “A victim . . .”

Fear became panic. Aryn leaped to her feet.

“Sister, what is it?”

By Sia, she couldn't be right. Only she knew that she was. “Ivalaine said there was only one last thing she could do, one way to make sure no one used Teravian.”

Lirith's eyes went wide. “Sia help us, we have to stop her.”

They dashed out the door and careened down the passageways of the castle as servants, knights, and nobles alike hurried to get out of their way. By the time they reached the prince's chamber, they were gasping for breath, their gowns askew.

“My ladies,” Duke Petryen said, “what's the matter?”

The duke stood outside the door to the prince's chamber, along with one of Boreas's men-at-arms. Since the attempt on Teravian's life, Petryen and Sai'el Ajhir had taken turns standing guard outside Teravian's chamber. The behavior seemed excessive to Aryn—were not the king's men-at-arms good enough? However, it showed great loyalty on the part of Petryen and Ajhir to be so solicitous of King Boreas's son. Aryn could only hope that loyalty had helped the prince now.