The Gates of Winter (47 page)

“Maybe that was a different corridor,” Travis said, though they all knew it wasn't.

“We'd better get moving,” Anders said. “Beltan and Vani have to back off soon if they don't want to raise suspicion.”

Deirdre started down the corridor, Anders after her. Travis didn't move. The Seekers stopped and turned around.

Deirdre held out a hand. “Travis, we have to get to the control room.”

He shook his head. “No,
you
have to get to the control room, Deirdre. You and Anders. I won't be any help there.”

“That's not true,” Anders said, scowling. “We don't know how many people are in there.”

Travis eyed the Seeker's big, capable shoulders. “Whatever's in there, I'm sure you two can handle it. I have something else I need to do.”

“The gate,” Deirdre said softly. “You're going to try to find the gate.” She touched the yellowed bear claw at her throat. “It's below the cathedral, isn't it?”

Travis met her eyes. “I didn't want to tell Beltan and Vani. They would . . . they would just worry too much.”

“Worry about what?” Anders said, shaking his head. “What are you going to do, Travis?”

It was Deirdre who answered. “He's going to destroy the gate.”

“It's the only way.” Travis should have felt afraid, but instead a calmness stole over him. “Once you get that videotape on air, Duratek is finished. They'll never be able to build another gate. But as long as this one still exists, Eldh is in danger. There's no telling who could open it, and if they did, Mohg could return to Eldh.”

Tears shone in Deirdre's eyes, and a hundred questions. The one she asked was, “Will we ever see you again?”

Travis had opened gates before, had passed through them. What would happen when he destroyed one? Professor Sparkman had said breaking things was a dangerous business.

“I don't know,” he said with a faint smile. “I honestly don't know.”

“Good luck, mate,” Anders said, his craggy face somber. “And here's hoping we see you on the other side.”

The two Seekers moved down the hallway, then passed out of sight. Travis was alone. He stood frozen for a moment, then he gripped the iron box in his pocket, turned, and headed back down the corridor.

48.

He spoke
Alth
, concealing himself with a cloak of shadow, and
Sirith
, so that his footsteps made no sounds.

It was draining to speak runes. There was so little magic left in this world; he had to draw the energy from himself. Though he longed to, he did not dare open the iron box and touch the Great Stones for power. The moment he did, the wraithlings would know he was here, and so would Duratek. He kept muttering the runes through clenched teeth as he continued on. He had to get down to the complex of rooms beneath the building.

Just ahead, a security guard opened a door with a magnetic card and passed through. Travis hurried after, slipping through the door before it closed and locked. No eyes saw him, no ears heard him. The corridor ended at a pair of elevator doors. The guard swiped his card again; the doors opened.

“Hey there!” a voice called out.

Travis shrank back against the wall, trying to press himself into an alcove. Another guard, a portly man in need of a shave, waddled down the corridor like a duck whose tail feathers had caught fire. “Hold on, Jackson. It looks like we still need you up here.”

The guard at the elevator turned around. His eyes were flat, lifeless. “What is it?”

The heavyset guard halted, breathing hard. “We're having some problems with overeager fans. They keep trying to get backstage to see Mr. Carson. We need an extra hand.”

Jackson glanced at the elevator with his stony eyes. For a moment he stood without moving, like a machine waiting to be operated. Then he turned and started back down the corridor. Travis only had a moment. He dashed into the elevator. The doors whooshed shut behind him.

He turned around. There were no buttons on the elevator's control panel, no way to open the doors. The elevator whirred into motion. He felt light; it was going down.

The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. Beyond was a white room illuminated by fluorescent lights. A row of hard plastic chairs stood against one wall, opposite a desk with a computer terminal. A guard stood beside the entrance to a corridor; a gun was holstered at her side. Her eyes were as hard, as dead as those of the man Jackson.

Those eyes flicked toward the elevator. The guard squinted, taking a step forward. Travis muttered the runes again and again under his breath. He was shaking; he didn't know how long he could keep this up.

“Is someone there?” the guard called out.

The computer on the desk beeped. She moved a few steps back and glanced at the screen. Travis didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, past the desk, into the corridor.

He was silent and virtually invisible, but his passage must have stirred the air, for the guard turned around, and her hand moved to the gun. However, Travis kept racing down the hallway, and he doubted she would be able to leave her post to follow him. At least, that was what he told himself.

The corridor branched. Left or right? He tried to picture the plans of the cathedral in his mind, but all he saw now were a jumble of lines, like runes he couldn't read. Footsteps echoed down the right-hand corridor; he went left.

Doors lined the hall to either side, all of them unmarked save for numbers that meant nothing to him. He tried one of the doors. It was not locked.

Beyond was a windowless office. Books lined the shelves and papers cluttered a desk. Travis moved on.

He tried several more doors. All revealed offices or labs empty like the first. It seemed this was the place some of Duratek's researchers did their work. But where were they?

Maybe they don't need the scientists anymore. Maybe their work on the gate is done, and they've all been reassigned to other projects.

Or maybe another use had been found for them.

The corridor turned and widened. Travis passed another guard station, but it was abandoned. Why would they leave this place unguarded? It didn't make sense.

Silver light oozed into the corridor, and a coldness crept over him. Maybe it made sense after all that the area was abandoned. No living person would freely choose to be near the wraithlings, and though they served the same master, even the ironhearts hated them.

The silver light grew brighter. Instinct screamed and snarled inside him, a frightened animal desperate to flee. Travis edged past the desk. As before, doors lined the corridor, but they were made of glass, and the rooms beyond were not offices. They contained steel operating tables, IV racks, trays of scalpels, clamps, and forceps, and machines whose purposes he could not guess. He thought of Grace and wished she was here, but she was a world away.

All of the operating rooms were dim and empty, all except the last. Light streamed through the glass door. Travis drew even with it and peered inside.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light. This room was larger than the others. There were two of the steel beds, and he could see a form—a man—lying on each one. The men were held down with straps. One of them was short and pudgy, the other tall, gangly.

Travis's eyes adjusted; terror turned his body to ice. The men strapped to the beds were Jay and Marty.

Two other beings stood in the room. One looked like a man, but Travis knew that was only illusion, that the human-shaped husk was a shell that housed a thing of evil powered by a heart of iron. His dead eyes gave it away. The ironheart wore a white lab coat; in his gloved hands was something dark and heavy the size of a fist.

The other being in the room was a wraithling. Its spindly body was a shadow wreathed in a silvery corona, and its eyes were dark jewels. It drifted closer to one of the beds—the one in which Jay was strapped down.

The little man squirmed, straining against the straps. “Let me go, you freaking weirdos! I told you, all we were doing was looking for a little food, a little charity. Let me go!”

His voice was muffled by the glass, but the terror in it was clear. The wraithling moved closer. Jay turned his head, looking over at the other bed.

“Come on, Marty, wake up,” Jay moaned. “Wake up, dammit. You've got to get us out of here, you big oaf.”

Marty lay still, his eyes shut. Had they drugged him? Travis had to get them out of there. He reached for the iron box—then froze. If he opened it, Duratek would know where he was. They would keep him from reaching the gate.

“Oh, God, no!” Jay choked. “Don't let that thing touch me. Please.” His shirt was open. The wraithling reached a slender hand toward his chest.

The ironheart smiled. “Don't be afraid. It will only hurt while you live. Once the Angel takes away your weak, mortal heart, I will make you strong.”

Jay went limp, his face ashen, all the fire, all the anger gone from it. He stared at the wraithling hovering over him. Its spindly fingers brushed his skin, then dug in.

Jay screamed. The sound broke Travis's paralysis. He opened the box, gripped the Stones, and shouted a rune.

“Reth!”

The ironheart turned just as the door shattered and glittering shards flew into the room. Splinters of glass sliced across his face and hands, cutting skin to ribbons. He howled and stumbled back. The lump of iron slipped from his bloody fingers. Travis snatched it up and threw it at the wraithling with all his might.

The Pale One screamed—a sound at the edge of hearing. It fled away from Jay, its fingers fluttering up to its breast. There was a dark hole in the corona of light that surrounded it. The Little People could not bear the touch of iron, and nor could this thing, for it had been a fairy before the Necromancers corrupted it.

Though wounded, the wraithling was not slain. Neither was the ironheart. The dead man rushed toward Travis. His face was a bloody ruin; strips of flesh hung from his hands.

“Dur!”
Travis said.

The man lurched once. A gurgling sound escaped his lips. Then the lump of iron that served as his heart burst from his chest. With a flick of his hand, Travis sent it spinning through the air at the wraithling. Again the fey being cried out. It slunk back against the wall.

Now, while the thing was weak, this was his chance. He drew one of the Stones from his pocket. Sinfathisar—he knew it by its cool, familiar touch. A hungry light ignited in the wraithling's jewel-like eyes. It reached out toward the Stone.

“Be what you were,” Travis said, and clenched his hand around the Stone.

A new light filled the room, soft gray rather than hard silver. When it dimmed, the pale one was gone. In its place was a slender, putty-colored creature. It lay on the tile floor, naked and dim, its thin arms coiled around its oblong head. Two dark blots marred the smooth gray skin of its chest. It gazed up at Travis, sorrow and pain in its ancient eyes. And gratitude. It shuddered once, then went still. The light faded from its eyes; the fairy was dead.

Travis lowered the Stone, and sickness filled him. He hadn't meant to kill the wraithling, but rather to heal it, to make it back into the fairy it was.

You did heal it, Travis.
It was Jack's voice in his mind.
But this is not its world. Its kind cannot live here, not without the drug the men of Duratek call Electria. Yet the fairy was grateful for what you did. It would not have chosen differently.

He understood. All the same, horror filled him.

“Travis?” said a faint voice. “Holy crap, is that really you, Mr. Wizard?”

Travis turned. Jay's eyes were open, gazing at him. Travis stepped over the lifeless body of the ironheart and moved to the side of the bed.

“It's me, Jay.”

“Hell's bells, so Marty was right. I thought you'd ditched us for good, but he said you'd come back.”

“And here I am. Like magic.” Travis forced himself to smile, despite what he saw.

There was a hole in Jay's chest. Blood oozed from the opening, though only a little, as if the wound had been cauterized by the wraithling's cold touch. Jay's heart was exposed; the organ beat with a spastic rhythm. Travis covered the hole with Jay's shirt.

“So where have you been, Mr. Wizard?” Jay's words were hard to hear; there was little breath behind them.

“Nowhere important.”

“Jerk. I figured as much.”

Travis wiped his eyes and laid a hand on Jay's bald head. His skin was cold.

“So guess who I saw today,” Jay said. “Old Sparky.”

Travis sucked in a breath. “You saw Professor Sparkman? Here in the Steel Cathedral?”

“That's right. And get this—the old professor was walking. It was like some freaking miracle in an old movie about lepers and orphans and crap like that. The angels . . . the angels must have cured him. They must have given him new legs.” Jay's forehead wrinkled. “Only they weren't really angels, were they?”

Travis said nothing. But Jay was wrong. Professor Sparkman hadn't been cured. He was dead, and Travis would never have another chance to talk to him about endings and beginnings, and about how you could destroy something and save everything at the same time.

“Marty,” Jay said, his voice barely audible. “You've got to promise to take care of Marty for me. That big goofball doesn't know anything about anything.”

“I promise,” Travis said, and he could no longer pretend that he wasn't crying.

Jay grinned, and despite the pain in his eyes, it was his same wicked, impish expression. “And you'd better collect your share of cans or I'll . . .”

There was no more. Jay's grin faded as his face went slack. His eyes stared upward, empty. Travis leaned over the bed. One more. One more person had died because of him. How many more would there be before it was over?

Maybe a whole world of people.

“Travis?”

He jerked his head up. Marty was looking at him with his placid brown eyes.

“Travis, help me. I can't get up.”

Marty was still alive. His shirt was buttoned up; the wraithling hadn't gotten to him yet.

Travis rushed to the other bed. His fingers fumbled with the straps, then they came free. Marty sat up. The tall man's face was as serene as ever.

“Jay is dead,” he said, looking at the smaller man.

Travis nodded. “Come on, Marty. I have to get you out of here, and there isn't much time.”

Marty nodded. Travis swung the other man's legs around and helped him stand. Then he turned and started for the door, Marty behind him.

Travis halted. A woman stood in the open doorway. She was petite, though too stern for prettiness. Her brown hair was short as he remembered it, and her uniform wasn't so different than what she used to wear in Castle City, though it was the uniform of a security guard now, not a sheriff's deputy. A crescent moon was sewn just above her left shirt pocket.

Broken glass crunched under her boots as she took a step forward. She held a gun in her hands.

“Hello there, Travis,” Jace Windom said, and pointed the gun at his chest.