The Gates of Winter (44 page)

Shemal glided forward, the hem of her robe not touching the ground. “Such a magic cannot be turned on its maker. If you were not so weak in the Touch, you would know that.”

Teravian's lips were blue now. He slumped in the saddle, no longer struggling.

All traces of beauty fled Liendra's face, replaced by the ugliness of rage. “Then do something else! I don't care what it is. Just keep her from killing him!”

“As you wish,” Shemal's voice hissed from the cowl. A pale hand extended from the sleeve of her robe. She flicked a finger, and Aryn watched in horror as the embroidered pattern on the scarf vanished, as if the threads had been plucked out. The cloth was white and unmarked. Teravian drew in a gasping breath, clutching the mane of his horse. His eyes were hazed with pain as he looked up at Aryn, but there was life in them. The spell had been broken.

“Sisters, help me!”

The wail pierced the air. Aryn looked at Liendra. So the spell had not been broken after all, only transferred to another.

The same embroidered pattern that had vanished from the scarf now appeared on Liendra's robe—swiftly, as if sewn by a hundred hands. She flailed at the threads, trying to brush them away as though they were insects, but to no avail. The pattern continued to grow until it was complete. Liendra's eyes protruded from their sockets, and she gnashed her teeth, biting her own tongue. Blood ran down her chin. Several of the young witches drew close to her, then as she reached out for them they recoiled, their eyes on Duke Petryen's body.

The golden-haired witch reached a hand toward Aryn. “Die,” she said.

Aryn shook her head.

Liendra went stiff, then fell over, a corpse before she hit the ground. The young witches screamed and cried, sinking to their knees. Warriors raced past them in all directions. Many were fleeing the field, but not all.

“Come to me!” Ajhir was shouting. “We must protect the prince. Come to me!”

A few of the men gathered around him, but others kept moving past. The clang of swords sundered the air, along with cries of pain. Somewhere trumpets sounded. Aryn started to turn her mount around, to see what was happening—then froze.

The figure in black glided toward her.

Aryn's horse let out a scream and reared onto its hind legs. She tried to grab the saddle, but she had only one hand; it wasn't enough. She tumbled to the frozen ground, and her breath rushed out of her in a painful gasp. For a moment she was unable to move. Then, with effort, she untangled herself from her cloak and pushed herself to her knees.

The Necromancer stood above her. Despite the wind, Shemal's black robe hung still. From her position on the ground, Aryn could see inside the hood, and what she glimpsed there froze her blood. A smile, thin and sharp as a knife wound, cut across a face as white, as lifeless, as marble. Aryn gazed into black eyes and saw in them an eon of hatred, of death, of suffering. A moan escaped her.

“What an ugly little arm you have. Such a small and twisted thing. How you must hate it.”

Shemal pointed a white finger. Aryn had lost the shield in the fall, and her withered right arm was exposed.

Somehow, despite her fear, Aryn smiled. Shemal was wrong. She had done what she had to; she knew who she was. “No, I don't hate it. It's part of who I am.”

Shemal's thin lips curled in a sneer. “Really? Well, if you fancy that hideous little arm so much, then I shall mold the rest of you to match.”

Aryn's smile shattered as Shemal brushed her cheek with a finger; her touch was like a cold dagger.

“Wither,” the Necromancer crooned. “Wither . . .”

Aryn threw her head back and screamed.

45.

Aryn had known pain before. Especially during the years of her tenth and eleventh winters, when she had been growing quickly, her right arm had often throbbed with a deep, bone-grinding ache, as if the withered appendage were straining to grow along with the rest of her—and failing. At night she would lie awake, pressing her face against her pillow, so the maids who attended her would not hear her sobs.

That pain was nothing to this: a pinprick compared to the thrust of a red-hot sword. She screamed again as Shemal clenched white fingers into a fist. It felt as if her flesh were clay, her bones wood. She had become a golem, a thing for the Necromancer to mold, to twist into a new shape. To break.

Sister, I am here.

The voice was like cool water flowing over scorched ground. The pain receded a fraction, so that Aryn was able to form words in her mind.

Lirith, is that you?

Yes, Sareth and I are right behind you. King Boreas and some of his men have fought their way close to Teravian, and we followed after.

I can't turn to look at you—I can't move.

It's Shemal's magic that paralyzes you. You must resist it.

The Necromancer's white face filled Aryn's vision like a cold, white moon.

I can't, Lirith. The pain . . .

Do not think of it. I will take the pain away. You can do the rest—you have the power. I know it as Ivalaine did. There is none stronger in the Touch than you, sister.

Before Aryn could question those words, the pain vanished, and air rushed into her, revitalizing her. After the agony, the sensation of wholeness was almost too much to bear.

Do it now, sister!

There was something wrong. Lirith's voice had become oddly tight; her thread trembled.

Please, Aryn, before it's too late. You must strike out against the Necromancer.

But how? Shemal was ancient, once a goddess. And she was not truly alive. What power could possibly harm such a being?

Like a whisper in her ear, it came to Aryn—the answer was everywhere around her. Free of the pain, she reached out with the Touch. She gathered the shimmering threads of the Weirding and began to weave them together.

No—that was too slow. She needed far too many threads to fashion this pattern; she could never weave them fast enough.

Remember what Grace did that time at the bridge over the River Darkwine, when the
krondrim
approached? She didn't shape the river with the Touch; instead she made herself into a vessel and let the river pour through her.

Aryn let go of the threads, and she imagined herself as a thing hollow, empty—a cup waiting to be filled. Like an emerald flood, the power of the Weirding poured into her. Even as she felt she must burst with it, she reimagined herself not as a cup, but rather as a pipe: a conduit through which the power of the Weirding rushed. With a thought, Aryn directed all that magic—all the power of life—at the Necromancer.

This time it was Shemal who cried out. Aryn willed her eyes to see through the green veil of magic. Shemal stumbled back, her hands rising before her in a gesture of warding. The smooth marble of her face was scored with lines of pain; her mouth was open in a circle of astonishment.

A strength she had never known, had never guessed at, galvanized Aryn. She rose and held her arms out, drawing the power of the Weirding to her. It came from the men all around, and the witches who still stared and trembled, and even the horses who galloped by. It came from the grass beneath her feet, and from the ground beneath the grass, where even in the frozen depths of winter life endured, waiting to spring forth anew. It came from the sky, where birds flew, and from the waters of the river a league away, where silver fish swam beneath the ice. It came from the trees of Gloaming Wood, which hovered on the horizon, and from the land farther away than the eye could see. To Aryn, it felt as if the entire world was a shining web, and that she stood in the very center.

She pointed a finger at Shemal. The Necromancer bared her teeth, white and pointed against black gums. A hissing escaped her. She strained, trying to reach for Aryn, but the ancient being could not move—a spider caught in the web of life.

I'm doing it, Lirith!
Aryn sent the triumphant words along the Weirding.
I'm holding her back!

There was a pause, then Lirith's reply came back, weak and quavering.
I knew you could do it, sister.

Fear cut through Aryn's exultation. Something was wrong with Lirith. Aryn sent her consciousness along the Weirding. At first she went too far, swept away by the force of the Weirding, and she was a bird soaring over the battlefield. She could see the chaos as warriors ran from Teravian's banner. There was Boreas, fighting with a knot of men, trying to get close to the prince. Nearby she saw herself and the Necromancer, both standing frozen, and Liendra's fallen body, and the witches in their green robes, clutching one another in fear. Just behind Aryn were two figures. Sareth brandished a sword, keeping Sai'el Ajhir at bay. Lirith knelt on the ground beside him, reeling back and forth on her knees, her eyes clamped shut, her dark, beautiful face wrought into a mask of suffering.

The feeling of ecstasy fled. Lirith had lied; she had not taken the pain of the Necromancer's spell away. She had taken it on herself.

Oh, Lirith . . .

You must not think of me,
came the witch's faint reply.
We each must do what Sia has granted us power to do. I have my task, as you have yours. Now finish it. Destroy Shemal.

In that moment, Aryn left the last innocent wisps of girlhood behind. She turned from her friend, whom she loved, and instead faced the enemy. She opened herself wider, letting all the power of the Weirding rush through her, into Shemal.

It wasn't enough. Shemal writhed, she clawed at the air, she hissed and spat, but she did not fall. She could not die, because she was already dead; the power of life could not destroy her, because she yet lived. It was no use.

The energy of the Weirding flowed through Aryn, as strong as ever, but she felt herself weakening. The vessel of her body was not made to bear the force of such magic. She felt herself being worn away, as stones over which a river flows. Only what took a river centuries would take the flood of the Weirding only a few more beats of the heart. Emerald light shone through Aryn's skin. Shemal's expression changed, from a grimace of agony to a smile of satisfaction.

I'm sorry, sister,
Aryn tried to say, but her voice was lost in the roar of the flood. She felt as transparent and brittle as glass. Another moment, and it would all be over.

“Stand away from her, fiend!” commanded a booming voice.

With the last of her strength, Aryn gazed through the haze of magic. She saw a group of knights on proud chargers, their armor gleaming in the morning light. Their leader leaped to the ground. It was King Boreas, his face handsome and terrible in its wrath. Shemal flicked her gaze in his direction; loathing filled her black eyes, but she could move no other part of her. Boreas drew his sword.

“Heed my command, Creature of Darkness—I said get away from my daughter!”

The king thrust with his sword.

It was forged of mundane metal; the blade should never have been able to pierce a being such as she. However, the magic of the Weirding still crackled around her, through her, binding her. The sword pierced her body, biting deeply as Boreas leaned forward, plunging it through her chest, so that the blade thrust out the back of her robe, slicked with black blood. The Necromancer stared with wide eyes, her white hands fluttering around the sword's hilt embedded in her chest.

“The spell, Aryn!” It was Sareth, shouting behind her. “You've got to break the spell. It's killing her!”

Aryn gazed, not with her eyes, but with the power of the Weirding. Sareth's face was carved with lines of anguish. On the ground before him lay a corpse: Ajhir. Another figure lay beside him as well. It was Lirith, it had to be. She wore the same rust-colored gown; she had the same luxuriant black hair. Only instead of the witch's supple figure, inside the gown was a small thing, dark and twisted. Legs coiled back on themselves like roots; stunted arms reached up from too-long sleeves, ending in fingers thin and gnarled as twigs. Her black eyes gazed, not from a smooth, beautiful face, but from a visage as wizened as one of last year's apples left to dry in the sun.

Aryn let go of the Weirding. Power ceased to flow into her, but there was still too much within her, and the shell of her body had grown too brittle. The magic would shatter her if she did not direct it elsewhere.

There was no time to consider the wisdom of it. With a thought, Aryn redirected the power of the Weirding away from the Necromancer and into Lirith.

Lirith's crooked jaw opened in a croaking sound. Sareth screamed as well, for Aryn was too weak to properly control the magic. He dropped the sword and fell to his knees, huddling over Lirith, as a cocoon of green light wove around them, so brilliant they were lost to sight.

Aryn staggered—she felt so weak, so cold and empty, now that the power of the Weirding no longer flowed through her. She would have fallen, but strong arms caught her. She gazed up into the king's grim face.

“My lady,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes bright with concern. “My lady, are you well?”

Words were beyond her, but she managed a nod. She was dimly aware of many knights all around them. The king and his men must have fought through the confusion to her. She was also aware of Teravian standing nearby. Warriors gripped his arms, but he did not struggle. His face was ashen, and his eyes seemed blind as he stared forward.

Those eyes went wide. “Father!” Teravian shouted. “Behind you!”

Boreas whirled around, still holding Aryn, and what she saw sent a spike of terror deep into her heart. Shemal had not fallen to the ground, but still stood. She wrapped white hands around the hilt of the sword and pulled it from her chest. She licked the black blood from her lips, then smiled as she held the sword before her.

“You are a fool,” she said, and her lifeless eyes were not fixed on the king, but on Aryn. “You should have finished your spell. You should have sacrificed yourself to slay me. Now look what your error has cost you. For I am not undone. And you will still die.”

Shemal thrust the sword toward Aryn's heart.

Boreas roared. He gripped Aryn in strong arms, spinning her around, away from the Necromancer, then pushed her from him. She stumbled away from the king.

There was a wet sound, followed by a soft exhalation of air, like a gasp of amazement. A silence fell over the field; all the men stared, unmoving, as if a spell had bound them. Slowly, Aryn turned around.

Boreas gazed at her, his mouth open, an expression she had never seen before in his eyes: a look of puzzlement.

“So,” the king said, and as he spoke blood bubbled from his lips. He sank down to his knees, then looked down at the point of the sword that jutted from the center of his chest.

Shemal stood behind him, a satisfied expression on her face. “Not what I intended,” she said, “but effective all the same.” She jerked the sword free.

Blood gushed from Boreas's mouth in a flood. His eyes rolled up, and he fell face forward onto the hard turf.

Like the knights, Aryn was frozen, unable to move. She could only stare at the fallen king. However, Teravian broke free of the men holding him and rushed forward.

“No!” he cried out, throwing himself down beside the king. “Father!”

A smirk sliced across Shemal's face. “You little liar,” she crooned. “You loved him after all, didn't you? And yet you've betrayed him. How pathetic.”

Teravian bowed his head over the king. Shemal drifted closer. She laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched but did not pull away.

“Now,” she intoned in her sepulchral voice, “weave the spell. Bring the bull back into the sky, and call the Warriors of Vathris to you. They will yet follow you.”

He looked up, his gray eyes stricken.

“That's it, my beautiful prince! Weave the magic. You know what you must do.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I do.”

The prince shut his eyes and held out his hands. Shemal looked on, gloating.

Aryn . . .

She went rigid as the voice spoke in her mind. It was Teravian.

Aryn, you have to help me.

What?
she managed to cast the word back.

Gods, Aryn, don't be so thick, not now. We only have a moment. She can't hear us speak across the Weirding, but she'll get suspicious in a few seconds if I don't conjure the illusion of the bull again. We have to cast the spell.

What spell?

This . . .

He abandoned words. Instead, his thread drew close, connecting with her own, and knowledge came to her. Terrible knowledge.

Horror filled her, and regret. How long had he woven alone and in secret, knowing that failure would mean his death, knowing that success would mean the same?

Never mind that, Aryn. I crafted this spell for so long, only today I realized it wouldn't work—I didn't have the power to cast it alone. But you can help me. Do it now. Not for me, for the king.

The words were like a slap, clearing the uncertainty from Aryn's mind. She gripped Teravian's thread, and as he revealed the pattern to her, she wove with all her strength and skill.

Teravian wove with her, so fast she could not keep up with him. His skill with the Weirding was great—greater than her own, greater even than Grace's. But his power wasn't enough; he could not complete the pattern on his own.

Aryn joined her shining hands with his. Once again she opened herself, letting all the magic of the Weirding flow through her, and she felt his astonishment. His skill was great, honed in countless lonely hours, but her power ran deeper, flowing from the well of her soul. With every hateful look at her arm, with every person who had recoiled from her in disgust, she had dug the well a little farther, into the very foundation of of her being. There she had struck bedrock, and a spring from which power welled forth. It did not matter what others thought of her; she knew who and what she was. She was a woman. She was a queen.