by Mark Anthony
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.
“Queen Ivalaine,” Aryn said, fighting to get the words out between gasps for breath, “did she come here?”
“Yes, my ladies, just a minute ago.”
Lirith gripped his arm. “Did you let her in? Did you let the queen into the prince's chamber?”
Petryen frowned. “Of course I let her in. The prince was fostered at her court. Why would we deny her entrance?”
They were too late. Aryn couldn't stop shaking. “Is there anyone else in there w
ith him?”
“The Mournish man Sareth came to pay a visit to His Highness,” Petryen said. “His company seems to cheer the prince, so we allowed him in. Why do you ask?”
Lirith stared at the door. “By the gods—Sareth!”
A muffled crash sounded from behind the door. The duke gave the women a shocked look, then turned and pushed open the door. Aryn and Lirith rushed into the chamber on his heels. The scene within froze Aryn's blood.
Ivalaine had fallen against the sideboard, upsetting a pitcher of wine. Teravian lay on the floor, his face white with fear. Sareth bent over him, clutching the prince's tunic.
“By Vathris, get your hands off of him, you dog!” Petryen shouted.
Before Sareth could react, Petryen grappled him, pulling him away from Teravian. Sareth tried to break free, but then the man-at-arms was there, and both men held Sareth, knocking his wooden leg out from under him, wrestling him onto the bed.
“Murderer,” Petryen said through clenched teeth. “I should have known it was someone the prince trusted, someone who could get close to him. Now you're trying to finish the deed.”
Lirith flung herself at the men. “Leave him alone! You're hurting him!”
The two men ignored her cries, and Ivalaine was already moving. She lurched toward Teravian, who still lay stunned on the floor. Something glinted in her hand: a needle, its tip covered with a green substance. She poised the needle above the prince's throat as he looked up with wide eyes.
“I failed once to protect you from them,” she said. “I will not fail you again.”
Aryn had less than the time between two heartbeats. She reached out and gripped the threads of the Weirding, and as the power of life flowed into her all fear was forgotten. With a single, swift thought, she wove the shining threads into a shimmering new pattern.
Ivalaine cried out. Her feet left the ground, and her body flew backward, as if she had been dealt a blow by an invisible hand. She struck the wall, and the needle flew from her hand. The queen moaned—a sound of fear and rage and pain—and she writhed, but her hands and feet were held fast against the wall, as if bound by ropes no eye could see.
No eyes save Aryn's, for she could see the shining strands of magic that held the queen in place, just as she could sense the way Ivalaine fought against them. However, the queen's power was no match for Aryn's own. Aryn gazed at her hands—the left that was whole, perfect, the right that was twisted and withered. Neither trembled.
“By the Blood of the Bull,” Petryen swore. He let go of Sareth and indicated for the man-at-arms to do the same.
Sareth sat up on the bed. He touched his chin gingerly. A bruise was already forming along his jaw. Lirith ran to him, and he held her tight.
“It was the queen,” Petryen said, disbelief written across his face. “It was she who tried to murder the prince.”
“Twice.” Aryn bent down and picked up the needle, taking care to avoid the tip. “This poison would have stopped his heart in an instant.”
“But why would she do such a thing?” Petryen said.
Teravian had regained his feet. He gazed at Ivalaine, a hand to his throat, the expression in his eyes unreadable. “Maybe you should ask her.”
Aryn knew there was no use in that. Ivalaine had stopped struggling, and she sagged in the invisible bonds. Her eyes were rolled back, her lips wet with spittle. She seemed to be speaking something, only she made no sound.
“Inform the king what has happened,” Petryen said to the guard. “And bring more men to carry her to the dungeon.”
The dungeon? By Sia, it wasn't right—she was a queen. However, the guard nodded, then turned on a heel and left the room.
Aryn moved closer, laying a hand on Ivalaine's cheek. She shut her eyes, probing with the Touch, but Ivalaine's thread was dull gray, and when Aryn grasped it she could sense no light, no spark of consciousness.
Aryn turned around, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She's gone.”
Lirith let out a sob, pressing her face against Sareth's chest. He wrapped his arms around her. Petryen shook his head, his expression one of disgust. Of them all, only Teravian seemed without emotion. His eyes were dark as he gazed at the queen. What was he thinking?
I was thinking about what she said to me.
The prince's lips didn't move, but Aryn heard his voice clearly. She stared at him, astonished by the means of his speech as much as by what he said.
What was it? she managed at last. What did she say to you?
Teravian turned his back and walked from the chamber. Then, just as he vanished from sight, Aryn heard his voice in her mind once again.
She said she loved me.
36.
They reached Gravenfist Keep on a cold, brilliant afternoon late in the month of Durdath, just when Grace was sure none of them could possibly walk another step north. As the army entered the mouth of a narrow valley, three eagles flew overhead, their feathers gleaming gold in the light of the westering sun, their cries echoing off the cliffs. Was it a welcome they called out, Grace wondered? Or a warning?
“Well,” she said to Durge. “We're here.”
“I never doubted for a moment we'd make it, Your Majesty,” Durge said through ice-crusted mustaches.
Grace gave him the knight a weary smile. “Funny you should say that. Because I sure did.”
They had crossed the frozen waters of the River Fellgrim three days ago, and Grace had not been sorry to put Embarr behind them. It was not just the bleakness of the Dominion that had affected her; it was seeing that desolation reflected in Durge's eyes, and in the eyes of all the Embarran knights. Embarr was the place where they were born, where they had lived their lives. Only by King Sorrin's order it had become a Dominion of ghosts.
It seemed every few leagues the army came upon another abandoned village. All of them were the same. The doors of the hovels stood open to wind and snow; no smoke rose from the chimneys. The only living things were dogs that slunk snarling away between the buildings, tails tucked, ribs showing. And they would not be alive much longer.
The army passed manor houses as well, and stone keeps on hills, all empty like the villages. Once they came upon an entire walled town devoid of people. They had gone in, looking for any items they could salvage, but they had not stayed long. Walking through the town's silent streets had given them all an eerie feeling. Was this what the world would be like if Mohg ruled it? Not a place of shadow, filled with cries of suffering, but rather cold and empty, without sound, without life?
Eventually Grace began to imagine that the entire Dominion was empty, that even if they went to Barrsunder they would find it as sterile as the rest of this land. Then, two days after Sir Vedarr and his knights joined with the army, the Spiders finally reported seeing signs of human life. However, this was not cause for joy, for what the spies had glimpsed was a company of fifty Onyx Knights patrolling to the west.
Aldeth said he hadn't been able to determine the knights' purpose, but Grace knew what it was. They were searching for her. The runelord Kelephon still wanted Fellring, and he still wanted her blood, so he could wield the sword and claim the throne of Malachor Reborn.
However, the Onyx Knights never came nearer to the army than two leagues, Grace didn't know if she had luck to thank for that or Tira. Either way, she amused herself thinking how Kelephon would be drooling with fury if he knew his own knights had come within a few miles of her and Fellring. When Tarus asked her what she was grinning about, she only laughed and hugged Tira. The knight gave her an odd look and rode off, muttering something about the madness of queens and witches.
The next day they crossed the Fellgrim, with only one minor mishap when a horse fell through the ice and was quickly pulled back out. Both beast and rider were cold, wet, and scraped, but not seriously injured.
Once across the river, they found themselves traveling through a forest. It reminded Grace of the forests of Colorado: light and open, with plenty of space to move between the trees
, the ground covered with a carpet of soft needles. Here and there a small evergreen plant grew in clumps, covered with tiny orange-red berries and looking for all the world like kinnikinnick.
However, this wasn't Colorado. The silvery, leafless trees were valsindar, not aspen, and the needles of the sintaren trees were a feathery purple-green. All the same, they looked so much like ponderosa pine that, as they made camp that evening, Grace couldn't resist walking up to one, pressing her nose to its sun-warmed bark, and inhaling deeply.
“Ice cream,” she said in answer to the curious look Paladus gave her. “Where I come from, some pine trees smell like vanilla ice cream.”
The Tarrasian commander wore a skeptical look. “And does that one smell like this vah'nilla?”
She shook her head. “More like butterscotch.”
Tira touched her nose to the tree and laughed.
Paladus hesitated, then followed suit, moving close and sniffing the tree's bark. He turned around, eyes wide. “It smells delicious.”
Grace laughed. “So it does.”
As the evening wore on, Grace noticed more than one man moving from sintaren tree to sintaren tree, stopping to smell each one. Despite what lay ahead of them she felt her spirits lifting. While this forest was empty of people, it did not give her the same sense of desolation as Embarr. It was sad, yes, but there was a contentedness to it as well. This land had learned to live alone.
Just like you, Grace.
The next day, as they set out, Durge told her this forest was called the Winter Wood. It stretched across the entire north of Falengarth, and once everything within its borders had been part of the kingdom of Malachor. Maybe that was why she felt less afraid here; maybe she had come home.
Then they came upon the pylon, and the feeling of peace vanished.
It was damaged; otherwise, they would surely have felt its insidious effects as they had before. As it was, a gloom seemed to descend over the forest, though the sky above the leafless branches of the valsindar was clear as a sapphire.
