The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  It was true. Krondisar had transformed Tira into a goddess. What her purpose was, Grace didn’t know, but she had the feeling that, even if she wanted to, she could not prevent Tira from coming. Nor could Grace say she was sorry.

  With the guardsman’s help, Grace climbed into the saddle behind Tira. The girl snuggled close.

  “Grace!” said a hoarse voice.

  Beltan stood beside her horse. The knight’s green eyes were desperate, questioning. Hastily, Grace reached into the pouch at her side and drew out a wadded piece of cloth. It was blotched with dark brown stains.

  “Take this.”

  He fumbled with the cloth. “What is it?”

  “A bandage. I took it from Travis’s arm.”

  Shock flickered across his face, then understanding. There was only a small amount of Travis’s blood contained in the cloth, but it was enough. And Vani still had the gate artifact.

  “Bring him back to us, Beltan. To Eldh.”

  The knight looked up at her, his face determined. “I will. We both will.”

  “Now, my lady!” Durge said, wheeling Blackalock around.

  Grace had done everything she could; it was time to ride. On impulse, she drew Fellring and raised it above her head. The morning sun glinted off the blade, setting it afire.

  “To Gravenfist Keep!” called a bold voice, and Grace was amazed to realize it was her own.

  Tira laughed. “Blademender,” she said.

  And a cheer rose on the bitter air as Grace rode down to meet her army.

  22.

  They marched east, following the same road Grace had traveled on the way to the Gray Tower last summer. She rode at the head of the small force, Durge to her right and Tarus to her left. Behind came the knights of the Dominions, followed by the Calavaner foot soldiers and the band of runespeakers upon sturdy mules. Last of all came the one Tarrasian company, bronze breastplates gleaming. As for Queen Inara’s Spiders, Grace could never be certain where they were, though she had little doubt that they were keeping up—and keeping watch.

  The weather was crisp and brilliant. Sunlight splintered into rainbows as it struck prisms of ice, and the jingle of chain mail rose like bells on the frigid air. Despite the cold, Grace was warm in her fur-lined cloak as she rode Shandis. Although she supposed it was neither garment nor horse that accounted for her comfort.

  “Thank you,” she said as the castle vanished from sight behind them. She pressed her cheek against Tira’s unruly red hair. As always, the girl was warm despite her bare arms and legs. “For keeping me warm.”

  Tira ignored Grace as she made her doll dance along Shandis’s mane, as if running through fields of wheat.

  After that, Grace gave her first order as commander of the army. She told Tarus that if at any time as they traveled, any man—or woman, for there were the two lady Spiders—found the cold too unbearable, he was to come walk or ride near Grace.

  Tarus gave her an odd look. “And how will that help, Your Majesty?”

  “You haven’t been cold riding beside me, have you?”

  “Now that you mention it, I haven’t.”

  She hugged Tira and smiled. “I didn’t think so.”

  Tarus shot her a puzzled look, then wheeled his horse around to give the order.

  Grace knew she shouldn’t be enjoying this—they were riding off to war, not a picnic in the countryside—but all the same it was difficult not to feel her spirits soaring. Maybe after they had marched a hundred leagues they would look weary and bedraggled, and things would seem different, but right then she was struck by the grandeur of the army. All of the men looked hard and capable and brave, their helms gleaming in the sun. Bright banners snapped overhead: white on blue for Calavan, gold on green for Toloria, dark violet for Perridon, and russet for the men of Galt. The Tarrasian force carried the standard of the empire—five stars over three trees—and the gray robes of the runespeakers were like their own kind of banner.

  Grace let out a foggy breath. “It seems I’m the only one without a flag.”

  Durge smacked a hand to his forehead. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, in all the haste to depart I quite forgot to give you this. Senility must be setting in already.”

  She gave him a fond smile. “I rather doubt that, Durge.”

  The Embarran rummaged in a saddlebag and drew out a bundle wrapped in waxed cloth. He handed it to her.

  “What is it?”

  “A gift from Falken and Melia. They asked me to give it to you once we were on the road.”

  Grace opened the bundle, and inside was a folded piece of cloth. Grasping two corners, she shook it out.

  It was a banner. The colors were like those of Calavan, though the blue was deeper, and the symbol embroidered in silver thread was not the crown and swords of Calavan. Instead it was a star surrounded by a knot with four loops. Grace knew the symbol well. Falken always clasped his cloak with a brooch that bore the same design.

  “It’s the emblem of Malachor,” she said in wonder.

  “You must select a man to be your standard-bearer, Your Majesty,” Durge said, his brown eyes thoughtful. “He must be a man you trust above all others, one whose heart will never fail you. For if your standard ever falls, then all is lost.”

  Grace didn’t even need to think about it. “You, Durge. I want you to carry it.” She held the banner toward him.

  His hesitation was visible. “My lady, I can . . . that is, surely there is another better suited.”

  For a moment an icicle of fear stabbed at Grace’s heart. Durge had never avoided any duty she had ever asked of him. Why would he resist this? She thought of his words, how the standard must be carried by one whose heart would never fail . . .

  But he can’t know about the iron splinter, Grace. He’s being modest, that’s all.

  She nudged Shandis close to Blackalock and pressed the banner into his hands. “Please, Durge. For me.”

  He drew in a breath, then took the banner from her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. I will guard it with my life.”

  Durge called for a lance to be brought to him. He fastened the banner to the end, then turned it upright, planting the butt of the lance in his stirrup. At that moment a gust of wind raced over the river, and the banner leaped to attention, embroidered star gleaming. Grace heard a murmur rise from the men behind her. She kept her gaze forward, but she knew if she looked back she would see wonder in their eyes. To these men, all their lives, Malachor had been a legend—a story of a golden age long lost. By unfurling this banner, she had just brought the legend to life.

  “Don’t look now, Your Majesty,” Tarus said softly, leaning in his saddle toward her, “but everyone’s staring at you.”

  “Then I’d better not fall off my horse.”

  It was in the late afternoon of that first day out from the castle when All-master Oragien brought his dun-colored mule close to Shandis.

  “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but may I take you up on your offer and ride near you for a time?”

  Grace winced at the reverence in his voice. Everyone was taking this whole queen thing far too seriously, but she supposed there was no way around it.

  “You may ride with me anytime you wish, All-master.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. I fear the cold makes a cruel companion to these old bones, despite young Master Graedin’s diligence in speaking the rune of fire. Have you met him? I have not seen such a promising student in all my years at the Gray Tower. Except for Master Wilder, of course.”

  “I look forward to meeting him,” Grace said.

  Oragien laughed. “Then you are in luck, Your Majesty, for here comes Master Graedin now. I imagine he’s thrilled at the prospect of meeting you, and no doubt he saw my riding beside you as an opportunity. He’s nothing if not bold.”

  “Then he’ll go far, I’m sure.” If I don’t get him killed first, that is, Grace added to herself.

  The man who bounced on the back of a mule toward them was so young-looking that on Earth
Grace would hardly have taken him for a college student. His beard was no more than a light fuzz on his cheeks, and his gangly legs and arms flapped wildly as he rode. For a moment Grace feared his mule would crash into her and Shandis, but at the last second the young man managed to slow the beast down.

  “I do trust you have better control over runes than you do over beasts, Master Graedin,” she said, her voice sharp, though she couldn’t help smiling as his boyish face turned red.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, his tone one of chagrin. “I’ve just learned today there is no rune for mule. And now I know why. This beast is completely uncontrollable.”

  Actually, now that Graedin was no longer yanking at its reins, Grace thought the mule looked placid, even relieved. “I find it’s usually best to let Shandis decide where to go and how fast to get there. You might try the same, Master Graedin.”

  The young runespeaker grinned. “A remarkable idea, Your Majesty. You are wise indeed.”

  “No, I just prefer to worry about the things I can control rather than the things I can’t.”

  “That’s a lesson Master Graedin would be wise to heed,” Oragien said, giving the young runespeaker a pointed look. “He has a tendency to try for runes that are beyond his reach.”

  “But how do you know they’re beyond your reach unless you try?” Graedin said.

  Grace bit her lip but couldn’t stifle a laugh. “I’m afraid he has you there, All-master.”

  Oragien shook his head. It was clear the elder runespeaker was very fond of his student.

  “I wish we had more time, Your Majesty,” Oragien said. “We’ve learned much since you and Master Wilder left us last summer—more than I ever would have believed we could. We’ve managed to reunite several shards of the runestone, thanks in large part to the efforts of Master Graedin here. Yet there’s so much we still don’t know.”

  “We’ll just have to keep learning as we go,” the young runespeaker said.

  Grace smiled at him. “I like that idea. I think we’re all going to be learning on this trip.”

  They rode in silence for a time as their shadows lengthened before them.

  “So, are you truly a witch, Your Majesty?” Graedin said without warning as they passed through a stand of leafless trees.

  “Master Graedin!” Oragien exclaimed, blue eyes flashing.

  Grace held up a hand. “It’s all right.” She imagined many of the men in her army had been whispering about her power. She might as well set the rumors to rest. “I suppose you could say I’m a witch, though not a terribly good one, I’m afraid.”

  “I doubt that, Your Majesty,” Graedin said, eyes gleaming. “Could you do a spell? I’ve always been curious about the magic of witches, and if there are any similarities between it and runespeaking. You see, I have a theory about—”

  “That’s quite enough, Master Graedin,” Oragien said sternly. “It’s time we returned to our brethren. We thank you for your indulgence, Your Majesty.”

  The All-master shot Graedin a meaningful look, then turned his mule around and started back toward the other runespeakers. Graedin waved at Grace, then kicked his mule, so that the beast gave a buck before starting after the All-master. Grace was sorry to see him go. She liked the young runespeaker, and she was intrigued to know about his theory concerning rune magic and witch magic. She had thought the two irreconcilable, only then she had seen the hag Grisla—who was surely a witch—work a spell with runes in King Kel’s camp.

  “By Jorus, I thought those two would never leave.”

  Grace nearly jumped from the saddle at the sound of a man’s voice to her right. She glanced that direction. The tangle of bare branches overhead wove a premature gloom on the air, and it was a moment before she saw Aldeth riding not six feet away. His horse was as gray as his mistcloak, causing them both to blend into the twilight, and bits of soft felt were wrapped around every buckle and ring, so that the horse made hardly a sound as it walked over the mossy turf.

  “Aldeth, I didn’t see you there.”

  “That was sort of the point, Your Majesty.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a piercing look. “You’re my spy, Aldeth. You don’t have to hide from me, just everyone else.”

  “I find it’s best not to make exceptions. That way I’m always covered.”

  Grace gave up. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

  “It’s quite the opposite, Your Majesty. I had a camping site in mind for this evening, only I was afraid our late departure would prevent us from reaching it. But we’ve made good time, and we’re nearly there. Just around this bend is a large dell surrounded by trees. There’s a spring, and it’s protected from the wind. Samatha and Leris—two of my cohorts—are off scouting it now to make sure it’s safe.”

  That was welcome news. Grace’s legs and back ached; it would be a relief to stop for the night. “Thank you, Aldeth. Inform Sir Tarus that we’ll be making camp.”

  The dell was long and narrow, walled on either side by tree-covered ridges, and large enough to accommodate the entire force. Commander Paladus—leader of the Tarrasian company—voiced his approval. Like all of the Tarrasians, he was short, olive-skinned, and muscular, with stern brown eyes above sharp cheekbones. Although she stood half a head taller than he, Grace found Paladus intimidating, though he followed any suggestion she made as if it were a command. Then again, Emperor Ephesian did consider her a cousin, so no doubt Paladus had been ordered to obey her without question.

  Grace stood around feeling generally useless while Tarus barked orders and the men went to work unloading the wagons and packhorses, setting up tents and a mess area.

  “We will place your tent here, Your Majesty,” Durge said, planting the standard of Malachor in the soil between a pair of graceful valsindar trees.

  As night fell, Tarus informed her that dinner would be brought to her tent, and while the thought of privacy was tempting—it felt as if she had been on display all day, like a piece of jewelry rotating in a shop window—Grace decided to take dinner with the troops. Silence fell as she approached the mess area with Tira, and Grace had the feeling a number of tongues had been bitten halfway through the telling of bawdy jokes.

  “Don’t let me spoil the fun,” Grace said with a smile. “I just came for a drink.”

  A goblet of wine was hastily filled and offered to her, but instead Grace picked up a wooden cup filled with gritty, watery ale and quaffed a good part of it down in a long draught. This brought roars of approval from the gathered men, and many hundred cups were raised in Grace’s direction, along with hearty calls of “Your Majesty!” and “Health to the Queen!”

  Grace raised her own cup in return, then tilted her head toward Tarus. “They won’t be drinking like this every night, will they?”

  “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. The ale will all be gone in another day or two, but let them have their cheer for now. It’s a hard road that lies ahead of them.”

  Grace couldn’t disagree with that.

  Dinner was an informal affair. Each soldier carried his own cup and knife, and stood in line to get a helping of salted meat and cheese on a trencher of hard bread, which was eaten sitting on the ground. Grace did consent to taking a seat on a flat rock and let Durge fetch her meal, but she ate the same food as the rest of them.

  “That was well-done, Your Majesty,” Durge said quietly as he took her empty cup. “If there was a man whose loyalty you did not have before tonight, you have it now.”

  “I hope I deserve it, Durge.”

  Grace gazed out over the men, who laughed and sang songs by the light of fires. Would any of them still be laughing after they reached Gravenfist Keep?

  “Come, my lady. It is time for sleep.”

  Durge led her back to her tent, which was a little on the grand side, but Grace didn’t complain as she lay down on a cot, snuggling close to Tira’s warm body.

  It was dark in the tent when a hand touched her shoulder, waking her. Grace
sat up, staring, but she could see nothing in the gloom. Then the tin screen of a lantern was moved aside, and a shard of light spilled forth. A woman stood over Grace’s bed. She wore a gray cloak.

  “Who are you?” Grace whispered, so as not to wake Tira.

  “My name is Samatha, Your Majesty.” The woman’s face was long and narrow, her features sharp-edged. She made Grace think of a gray ferret—small, sleek, and dangerous. “Aldeth bid me come and wake you.”

  So she was one of the Spiders. Grace pushed tangled hair from her eyes and forced her groggy brain to function. “Is something the matter?”

  “There are . . . intruders in the camp.”

  A cold needle injected fear into Grace’s heart. Images flashed through her mind: snarling feydrim and the ghostly forms of wraithlings. “Get Durge and Tarus,” she said, groping for her sword. “We have to wake the army and fight them.”

  “No, Your Majesty. These intruders are not servants of the Pale King. They have not come to fight.”

  Fear gave way to confusion. “Then what do they want?”

  “To speak to you, Your Majesty.”

  Minutes later, her cloak thrown hastily over her nightgown, Grace followed Samatha toward a grove of leafless valsindar. The pale bark of the trees glowed like bones in the moonlight. Durge and Tarus fell in step beside her.

  “What is this all about, my lady?” Durge rumbled, but before she could answer, Aldeth stepped out of a pool of shadow.

  “They await you in the grove, Your Majesty.”

  “Who?” she managed. It was cold, and her teeth chattered.

  “I think you’d best go see for yourself.”

  “You must not go alone,” Durge said.

  Grace nodded—she would hardly argue that point.

  “We’ll keep watch out here.” Tarus gripped the hilt of his sword. “If you need help, you have only to call out, and we’ll be at your side.”

  Grace gave the knight what she hoped was a brave smile, then moved toward the grove. Durge followed at her side as she stepped between two trees.

  She has come, sisters, spoke a voice in Grace’s mind.