The Gates of Winter (43 page)

“Show them, Lord Vathris!” Teravian called out, his voice booming like thunder now. He thrust his hands above his head. “Show your followers what they wish to see!”

A new sound rose from the army: cries of fear, and of exultation. Men pointed at the sky, and shouts of “Vathris! Lord Vathris comes!” rang out.

Aryn gazed upward. The molten clouds above the army roiled, then all at once broke apart. Out of the gap emerged a gigantic shape, as large as castle, as ruddy as the dawn. The thing charged across the sky, tossing its gigantic head and snorting fire from its nostrils.

It was a bull, terrifying and beautiful, born of the red clouds of morning.

44.

A deafening cry rose up from the army. Five thousand men surged in a crushing tide. At first Aryn thought the soldiers were fleeing at the sight of the enormous bull floating overhead. Then she heard Teravian's voice—clear and thunderous—ringing out over the din.

“To me, Warriors of Vathris! To me, Men of the Bull!”

The soldiers weren't crying out in dread, but in rapture. They broke from their formations and raced across the field, answering Teravian's call, gathering around him, swords and spears held aloft to catch the light of the dawn.

In the sky, the bull had wheeled around, and now it halted above the prince. A morning wind sprang up, blowing the clouds to the east, but the bull held its place. It was as large as a mountain now, gleaming red-gold. Wisps of fog curled away from its body like the steam of sweat.

Some of the knights spurred their horses, racing across the field toward Teravian's banner. Aryn fought to retain control of her horse as it was buffeted from all sides. Where were Lirith and Sareth? They would be trampled.

She caught sight of them not far from the king. He rode beneath his banner, shouting orders, his face as red as the bull in the sky. A tight knot of men on horse and on foot surrounded him, and Lirith and Sareth were among them. Aryn pulled on the reins of her mount, trying to guide it toward the king, but men and horses crashed into them. Her mount's eyes were wild with terror.

Get out of my way!

Aryn directed the words along the Weirding with the full force of her will. Men and beasts alike staggered aside; a way opened up before her. She urged her horse, and it sprang forward at a gallop.

“To me!” King Boreas was shouting. “Do not be fooled by witchcraft and trickery! To me!”

A few more heeded the king's call, gathering around him, but they were not many. The shouts of men and the pounding of hooves drowned out his commands, while Teravian's voice continued to ring out as though it issued from the sky itself.

At last Aryn reached Lirith and Sareth. The two gripped the saddle of her horse to keep from being swept away. Aryn tried to speak, but her voice was lost in the din. She abandoned mundane speech in favor of the Weirding.

What's happening? Is it really a sign from Vathris?

No, sister,
came Lirith's reply.
Can you not feel it? It has its source in the web of the Weirding.

Aryn closed her eyes, trying to shut out the noise and confusion around her. The threads of the Weirding were pulled taught, vibrating like the strings of a lute. Something was drawing a river of magic from the great web. Something or someone.

The bull is a form of illusion, isn't it?
Aryn spoke in her mind.

Yes, but one forged of enormous power. Last summer, in Falanor, Grace, you, and I were able to part the fog that covered the village green. But this bull is far larger than the cloud of mist we affected, and its shape is formed with great skill. I know of no witch who could have conjured such a thing.
There was a pause.
No female witch, at least.

Aryn clenched the reins of the horse.
It's Teravian. This is why they wanted him to come full into his power last night—so he could do this.

Remember what Mirda told us—he is more powerful than any witch.

Save for one,
Aryn thought. However, she did not spin these words over the Weirding.

She opened her eyes. The greater part of the army had abandoned its position and raced across the field, falling in behind Teravian. A chant of “Vathris, Lord Vathris!” rose from the men, as well as, “Teravian, King Teravian!”

No more than a quarter of the army had remained with King Boreas. In a way, Aryn was heartened so many had stayed at all. The bull still snorted and tossed its head in the sky. What man would not follow in answer to the call of his god? But at least some men had put loyalty before faith.

Only they were not nearly enough. It was to be father against son, warrior against warrior, and King Boreas's side was too small. There was no hope it could win. All the same, the victory over their brothers would exact a terrible toll on the force that had flocked to Teravian. When the battle was over, half the army of Vathris would lie dead on the field, and many of those who remained would be wounded. No more than a small force would be left to march north to Gravenfist Keep—if it marched north at all. Surely that had been Liendra's plan all along.

But where were Liendra and her witches? Aryn gazed over the field, but all she saw were the men gathered behind Teravian. The prince had ridden forward, so that he was now twenty paces before his army. Duke Petryen and Sai'el Ajhir still rode beside him, the banners they held snapping in the wind. Aryn remembered how solicitous of the prince both had been since the first attempt on his life. The two lords must have been in on this treacherous plot from the beginning.

A silence fell over the battlefield. In the sky, the bull lowered itself on one knee, as if bowing to the prince below.

“Hear me, King Boreas!” Teravian's voice rang out over the land. “There is yet hope for you. Throw down your sword and surrender yourself, and you will be forgiven your deeds!”

The prince's words elicited a string of curses from Boreas. The knights gathered around him shook their swords in anger. However, Aryn hardly noticed. A realization came to her, along with a sudden thrill.

Lirith!
she said, spinning a thread out to the other witch.
Teravian is powerful, there's no doubt of that. But no matter how powerful he is, he can't be weaving two spells at once. He can't be creating the illusion of the bull and magnifying the sound of his voice as well.

Understanding flowed back from Lirith.
Someone must be helping him. Someone nearby.

Aryn gazed again at Teravian. The air behind the prince still shimmered, as though heat rose from the ground. However, despite the rising of the sun, the day was bitterly cold.

Again Teravian's voice boomed out over the field. “What is your answer, Father? Will you obey the will of the sacred bull and surrender yourself to me?”

“I will give him an answer,” Boreas roared, drawing his sword. “I placed my trust in him, and he has betrayed me. He is no son of mine. Prepare to charge, true men of Vathris. We will not let our minds be clouded by spells and deceit.”

Shouts of approval rose up around the king. Orders were given; the men fell into quick formation. Knights held their lances ready; foot soldiers gripped spears and shields. Their faces were stern, but they were far too few. It would be a bloodbath.

“We'd better get out of the way,” Sareth said, looking up at Aryn with wide eyes. “I don't think they're going to stop for anything once they charge.”

The cold seemed to crystallize Aryn's mind, and despite the pounding of her heart a resolve filled her. It couldn't be courage, not when she was so deathly afraid. Rather it was a kind of knowledge; she had seen this in a vision, had she not? This was the way it was to be.

A small round shield and scabbard were strapped to the horse's saddle. Aryn looped the shield's strap around her shoulder, so that it covered her withered arm. Then she unbuckled the scabbard and unsheathed the sword, holding it aloft.

Lirith's frightened voice came from below her. “Sister, what are you doing?”

“What it is my purpose to do,” Aryn said, and with a thought she urged the horse forward.

She heard Lirith and Sareth cry out behind her, followed by an angry shout she recognized as King Boreas's, but the horse was already cantering across the field. Aryn rode with ease, sitting tall and straight in the saddle, gripping her mount with only her knees. She knew if she could look back at herself, she would see a scene she had glimpsed before: a proud woman all in blue riding away from a castle with seven towers, a shield on her shoulder, a sword in her hand. A queen riding to war.

It was Ivalaine who had first revealed the image to her, in the waters of a ewer, what seemed an age ago. Then she had seen it again, in the card she drew from the
T'hot
deck of Sareth's al-Mama. Both times, Aryn had failed to understand. How could she be riding to war at all, let alone from a castle with seven towers when Calavere had nine? However, two of Calavere's towers were gone now, and so was Aryn's uncertainty. She knew she was not yet a queen; all the same, she would be obeyed.

Aryn brought the horse to a halt before Teravian. Petryen and Ajhir treated her to suspicious glares, hands on the hilts of their swords, but the prince's gray eyes were curious beneath his thick eyebrows.

“Go back to your father, Aryn,” he said. His voice was quiet, for her only.

She was aware of Petryen's and Ajhir's angry looks, and of the three thousand men gathered not far behind the prince. All the same, she thrust her shoulders back. “Boreas is my warden, not my father. My place is with you, Your Highness. Am I not your betrothed?”

He blinked, and it was clear her words had startled him. “We can talk about that later. Right now you have to get out of here. There's going to be a battle. I can't stop it.”

“Can't you?” Even as she spoke, Aryn probed along the Weirding, tracing the threads of the power.

His visage grew hard. “No, as a matter of fact I can't.”

Aryn was still searching. She needed more time. “Why?” she said. “Why are you doing this?”

“You'd never understand.”

“I might.”

The wind blew the prince's dark hair from his face. He looked older than before, stronger and more serious. His shoulders were no longer hunched. The awkward and uncertain boy she had always known was gone; in his place was a young man.

“I did it because I love him,” he said so only she could hear, gazing across the field at the banner of King Boreas.

He was right. Aryn didn't understand. However, there was one thing she did know—the weaving was subtle, skillfully done, but at last she had detected it, hanging like a shimmering curtain behind the prince.

“I will leave you then, Your Majesty,” she said. “But first you must let me give you a gift—something to remind you of your wife to be.”

Petryen frowned, and Ajhir started to protest, but Teravian waved their words away. “What is it?”

“Only this, my lord.” She sheathed the sword, and from her cloak she drew out the embroidered scarf. “It is a small thing, a token I made for you. I ask only that you place it around your neck before you ride into battle.”

Teravian hesitated, then reached out and took the scarf. “It's beautiful,” he murmured. Carefully, he unfolded it, then wound it around his neck. “Now go, Aryn. Be safe.” His words were so gentle she almost lost her resolve.

No, she would not fail. She let the cold air freeze her heart to ice.

“Please,” he said. “It's time.”

“So it is.” Behind the shield, she made a motion with her withered hand.

Teravian let out a choking sound, and his eyes bulged. His fingers fluttered up to the scarf around his neck. He tried to speak a word—it might have been
Aryn
—but no air passed his lips. The prince reeled in his saddle, and shouts rose from the nearest men.

“Your Majesty!” Duke Petryen cried out. He reached for the prince, but as he touched Teravian's arm there was a flash of green light, and the acrid smell of smoke permeated the air. Petryen toppled from the saddle and fell to the ground, dead.

Aryn gazed at the corpse. So the magic she had woven into the scarf was complete after all—a spell of death. It had slain Petryen, and while Teravian was resisting, it would take him as well. As Mirda had said, there was one witch more powerful than Teravian.

Aryn was that witch.

Teravian tilted back in the saddle. His eyes rolled up into his head.

“Harlot!” Ajhir cried, his face a dark mask of rage. “Murderer! What have you done to him? Remove your spell, or I'll strike you down!”

He brandished his sword at her, but Aryn ignored him. A new cry rose from those warriors who had rushed to Teravian's banner: a sound of dismay.

Aryn looked up. In the sky, the gigantic form of the bull wavered, like an image seen through rippling water. The shining beast tossed its head one last time, then a wind struck it, and it broke apart into tatters of mist that quickly scudded away to the west. The cries of dismay became shouts of terror. Men threw down their swords and spears.

Teravian had created the illusion of the bull, only now his magic was failing, along with his life. He clawed at the scarf, but it was wrapped tightly about his throat. Ajhir stared at Aryn, at the prince, at the sky, clearly unable to decide what to do. Aryn knew this was her chance. She imagined reaching out with invisible hands, gripping the curtain of magic that hung behind the prince, and ripping it aside.

New shouts rose from the warriors. As though they had appeared out of thin air, thirty-nine women in green cloaks now stood behind the prince. The young witches gazed around, their eyes and mouths becoming circles of fear as they realized their spell of concealment had been broken. However, Liendra, who stood closest to the prince, wore a look of outrage.

“Shemal!” the golden-haired witch shrieked, turning round and round. “Shemal, show yourself!”

A chill descended over Aryn, and her heart fluttered as a patch of shadow thickened and grew, until in its place stood a figure in a black robe. The robe devoured the morning light, and the figure cast no shadow. By her shape it was a woman, though her face was concealed by the robe's cowl.

The warriors who had flocked to Teravian's banner were now turning and running; the field had become a churning sea as men fled in all direction.

Treachery!
the warriors cried.
Witchcraft!

Liendra stalked toward Aryn's horse. “You deformed runt—you're ruining everything.”

Despite the dread in her chest, Aryn's voice did not waver. “It is you who are ruined, Liendra. You did it to yourself long ago, when you cast your lot with darkness.”

For a moment the hatred in Liendra's eyes was replaced by another emotion: fear. Then her visage hardened again, and she turned toward the one in black. “Stop her! The horrid little bitch is killing him. Cast the spell back on her.”