by Mark Anthony
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 comm
ander. “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.
Grace, can you hear me?
The voice was familiar, comforting. Grace must have been dreaming.
Please, Grace. Are you there?
Grace's eyes opened, and she sat up. “Aryn?”
Yes, Grace, it's me. Thank Sia I've found you. There's a shadow in the Weirding not far from here. I had to follow other threads far around it. Lirith had a terrible feeling that something had happened. Are you all right?
Grace sighed. We are now. At least, most of us.
Quickly, she explained what had happened: the dead Spiders and the pylon. She spoke also of the battle in Dun-Dordurun and her strange meeting with Queen Ivalaine.
Oh, Grace, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have waited so long to reach out to you. I think I was afraid talking to you would only make your being so far away harde
r to bear.
Grace smiled, her weariness lifting as the bright energy of her friend filled her. How are things in Calavere?
The Warriors are arriving in droves now, even from the far south. Soon Boreas will march north with a great host. But there's something else, and hearing your story helps me understand it a little better. Still, I have to think she's going mad.
A chill passed through Grace. What are you talking about, Aryn? Who's going mad?
Queen Ivalaine. . . .
Grace wrapped a shawl around herself as Aryn spoke of Ivalaine's unexpected arrival at Calavere, and of the way the queen had spurned Aryn, Lirith, and Mirda.
She said she'd have nothing to do with us, that she had come here for one only. I couldn't imagine what she meant. Then, last night, I wove a spell. It was dangerous, I know, but I saw Prince Teravian in the garden talking with Ivalaine.
Grace shivered. But what on Eldh does she want with the prince?
The words flew along the Weirding in a rush. He's her son, Grace. Queen Ivalaine is Prince Teravian's mother.
They spoke for another few minutes across the web of the Weirding, until at last the effort was too much for Aryn.
I have to go, Grace. I'm getting tired, and I can't guard our thread any longer. I can't be certain that she . . . that someone isn't listening to us. We all love you, and I'll contact you again soon. Sia be with you.
Good-bye! Grace called out in her mind. Only Aryn was already gone, and Grace was shivering, alone in the tent save for Tira, who was still fast asleep.
Grace was glad to know the men of Vathris were answering the call to war. But what was Ivalaine doing, and how could the prince be her son? Before she could think of an answer, the tent flap opened.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Samatha said, ducking her head inside the tent. “But you must come with me at once.”
Grace met her gray eyes, then she grabbed her cloak and headed outside. The sun was at its zenith, and the day was bright and cold. She instructed the guard posted by her tent to keep an eye on Tira, then followed the Spider across the camp.
