The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  —stumbling straight toward the artifact.

  “Master!” he gasped.

  His body gave a single, violent jerk. In a spray of blood and bone, a dark lump burst out of his chest and flew to the center of the stone circle. The onlookers stared. The only sound was the thud of the man’s body as it fell to the floor.

  The king returned to his place. “Finish the procession,” he said to the guards.

  The last few castle folk hurried before the artifact, faces pale as they glanced at the crumpled body at their feet. Then, blessedly, it was over.

  Boreas approached the corpse of the peasant. “Here is our would-be murderer. The artifact will now be moved to the entry hall, and any who would enter the castle must pass by it. All other entrances will be sealed. From now on, no slaves of the Pale King will be able to enter this keep.” He looked at Aryn. “Is that not well, my lady?”

  Aryn tried to turn her gaze away from the body but could not. This man had been a tool of evil; surely he had plotted against the king. Yet something told her this was not the one who had slipped poison into the prince’s cup.

  All she said was, “It is well, Your Majesty.”

  Later that afternoon, Aryn paid a visit to Teravian’s chamber to see how the prince fared, and to bear the news of what had happened in the great hall.

  “How is our patient?” Aryn said when Sareth opened the door.

  “Get your grotty hands off of me, witch!” came the prince’s voice from inside the room.

  Sareth grinned. “He’s feeling better.”

  Aryn stepped inside as Sareth shut the door. Teravian lay in his bed, and Lirith bent over him. A struggle seemed to be in progress. Lirith was trying to pull down the covers, and the prince was steadfastly holding them up.

  “You’re not going to cast any more spells on me.”

  “I told you, I just want to listen to your heart. I’m not casting spells.”

  “You bloody well could have fooled me.”

  Lirith threw her hands up. “This is absurd. What am I to tell the king? That I let his son perish because he insisted on hiding under his blanket for no reason whatsoever?”

  This was getting out of hand. Lirith looked as if she was about to pounce on Teravian, and the young man appeared quite ready to fight back.

  Aryn touched her shoulder. “Sister, would you please speak with Sareth and me for a moment?”

  Lirith cast one last glare at the prince, then followed Aryn and Sareth into a side chamber. Aryn pressed the door shut.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  The dark-eyed witch let out a frustrated sound. “The prince has suddenly decided I’m not allowed to touch his person.”

  “I don’t understand. He has a crush on you, Lirith. I should think he’d be happy to have you touch him.”

  Sareth cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my ladies, but it’s clear neither of you know what it’s like to be a young man confronted by one whom you admire. At his age, certain reactions might not be entirely under his control.”

  Aryn shook her head. “What do you mean?”

  Sareth stroked the pointed beard on his chin. “Let’s just say he might be worried that if Lirith examines him, his excitement might become plain to see.”

  Aryn clapped a hand to her mouth, though whether to stifle a gasp or a laugh she couldn’t decide.

  “Oh, I’m terrible,” Lirith said, groaning as she flopped into a chair. “I never considered that. He must be utterly mortified. Sareth, can you help?”

  Sareth opened the door and poked his head out. “Your Majesty, how about if I listen to your heart while the ladies stay in here, and I report to Lady Lirith what I’ve heard?”

  Teravian nodded—blanket pulled to his chin—giving the Mournish man a look of utter gratitude.

  Minutes later, Sareth returned to report that the prince’s heart beat steadily. He tapped the rhythm as he had heard it on Lirith’s wrist, and she was satisfied that all was well.

  “It seems you are on your way to recovery, Your Majesty,” Lirith said, touching his brow gently.

  Teravian sighed, then after a moment glared at Aryn. “What are you looking at?”

  She smiled. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

  Her smile vanished. It was still so hard to believe Ivalaine was really the prince’s mother. But now that she knew to look for the resemblance, she could see it in his eyes and in the fineness of his features.

  “I’ll return in the morning,” Lirith said to the prince. “Until then, I want you to—”

  Faint but clear, trumpets sounded outside the chamber’s window. Had more warriors arrived at the castle?

  Sareth moved to the window, pulling back the drapes. “Lirith, Aryn—I think you’d better come see this.”

  The women hurried to the window. Aryn heard Lirith’s gasp, then she saw the banner that flew above the small host that rode toward the castle, and dread surged through her.

  “She’s here,” Teravian murmured behind them.

  He lay in his bed. There was no way he could have seen out the window, no way he could have glimpsed the yellow-and-green banner that flew above the riders.

  It’s the banner of Toloria, Aryn. But who rides beneath it? The queen is already here.

  For a hopeful moment she believed it was Lady Tressa, the queen’s loyal advisor, come to minister to Ivalaine, to soothe her madness. Then Lirith clutched Aryn’s arm.

  “Liendra,” she whispered. “It’s Sister Liendra.”

  Sareth gazed at her. “What does that mean, beshala?”

  “It means we’re in grave danger,” Aryn said.

  Minutes later, Aryn stood with Lirith in the keep’s entry hall. Sareth had remained in Teravian’s chamber to keep watch over the prince. It was cold in the cavernous hall, and Aryn couldn’t stop shivering.

  What has she come here for? Aryn spun the words over the Weirding.

  Lirith shook her head. You know as well as I. But I can only believe her arrival bodes ill for all of us. I can only wonder why the king granted her entry to the castle.

  Aryn wondered the same. There had been no opportunity to speak to Boreas, but she had encountered Lord Farvel.

  “The king has nothing to fear from a band of hags and hedgewives,” the old seneschal said. “There are but twoscore of them. What harm can they cause?”

  Plenty, Aryn knew. She and Lirith had both counted the riders. Their number was not twoscore, but one less than that. Thirty-nine. Thrice thirteen. Liendra had brought three covens with her. But for what purpose?

  A pair of guards opened the doors of the keep, and a gust of frigid air blew in, along with three figures clad in green cloaks. They pushed back their hoods. Two of them were young and pretty, their hair carefully braided, their eyes bright and haughty. The third was a decade older, a woman in full bloom. Her hair was fiery gold, and she would have been beautiful were it not for the look of cunning on her face.

  The guards directed the women to walk past the artifact of Malachor, and they did so slowly, with great elegance. Once they were finished, they approached Aryn and Lirith.

  “Greetings, sisters,” Liendra said, bowing her golden head. “I had hoped I would find you here.”

  “May Sia bless you,” Lirith said in answer.

  Liendra gave a flick of her hand. “It is not Sia’s blessing we seek any longer.”

  “And whose blessing do you seek?” Aryn said despite her fear, but Liendra only smiled.

  Lirith took a step forward. “Why have you come, sister?”

  “Surely you must know,” Liendra crooned. “Dark times come to the Dominions, and I must speak with the one who would plunge these lands into war. For is it not the way of all witches to seek an end to violence?”

  “Forgive me, sister,” Aryn said, choosing her words with great care. “Is that not Queen Ivalaine’s duty as Matron of the Witches?”

  The two younger witches pressed their hands to their mouths but failed to stifle their
cruel laughter.

  A smile touched Liendra’s coral pink lips. “Ivalaine is no longer Matron. She rescinded that role of her own free will. I am Matron of the Witches now, and these are my Maidens.”

  Lirith affected a puzzled look. “Your Maidens? Help me, sister, for I am confused. What need have you of two Maidens? And where is your Crone, so that your circle can be completed?”

  “We don’t need a Crone,” one of the younger witches said, her voice as prideful as her gaze. “We don’t need any horrible old hags to work against the Warriors.”

  Liendra made a hissing sound to silence the young woman. Lirith let out a soft laugh. “Youth offers power and beauty, but it is age that brings wisdom, as your Maiden here has so kindly demonstrated for us.”

  Both young woman cast pretty glares at Lirith.

  “You speak of Ivalaine,” Liendra said, her words sharp. “Where is she?”

  “Surely you must know, sister,” Lirith said, casting the golden-haired witch’s own mocking words back at her.

  Liendra’s eyes narrowed, and she drew close to Lirith and Aryn, speaking softly.

  “Do not think you can toy with me. Sisters. I have no evidence of your treachery, yet I have great suspicion of it. I am your Matron now, and as you are bound to the Pattern, so you must do as I say.” She lifted a slender finger. “If I sense any disobedience in you two, if I see even the slightest hesitation in following my orders, I will have your threads plucked from the Pattern. And do not think I cannot do it. I have three covens at my disposal, and powers you cannot even guess at.”

  Aryn could not catch the gasp that escaped her lips. Next to her, Lirith shuddered.

  Liendra smiled again. “I see I have made myself clear. Now, I must present myself to the Bull King. I will see to both of you later.”

  Liendra started after the guards, the two young witches following on her heels, leaning their heads toward one another and whispering. Once they were out of sight, a sudden weakness came upon Aryn; she felt as if her knees were going to give out. However, Lirith gripped her hand, holding her up.

  “What do we do now?” Aryn whispered.

  “We pray to Sia,” Lirith said.

  32.

  From horseback, Grace watched as the desolate landscape slipped by, and she wondered if they would ever reach their destination.

  They had forded the River Serpent’s Tail yesterday evening before making camp; Perridon lay behind them, and it was through Embarr they traveled now. All day, the gray line of the mountains had receded to their left as they rode across a windswept moor. There was little to break up the monotony of the plains—only the occasional clump of wind-stunted trees and great boulders that stood alone, as if set there by giants.

  “Are you glad to be home, Durge?” Grace said when the knight’s charger drifted near Shandis.

  “Glad, Your Majesty?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  She bit her lip. That probably wasn’t the best word. In her experience, Durge hadn’t actually ever been glad about anything.

  Except that’s not true. He was glad to see Aryn when we returned to Calavere. You could see it in his eyes.

  But Calavere was leagues and leagues away, and Grace hadn’t received any more messages from Aryn. It was too dangerous to speak across the Weirding. Since encountering the pylon three days ago, they had come upon two more of the Pale King’s magic stones. However, this time they had been prepared. Senrael, Lursa, and the other witches had sensed the evil of the pylons from a distance, and the Spiders had scouted a trail for the army that gave the stones a wide berth.

  Grace glanced at Durge, trying a different tactic. “How long has it been since you’ve been to your manor?”

  He stroked his mustaches with a gloved hand. “It is nearly two years since I have set foot upon the lands of Stonebreak. Nor will I have an opportunity to do so on this journey, as it lies many leagues to the east.”

  “I’m sorry, Durge,” Grace said, and she meant it. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you so long away from your home.”

  His look was one of genuine surprise. “Why, Your Majesty? What is tending after a patch of rocky soil compared to serving the queen of Malachor?”

  Safe, she wanted to say. But all she could do was nod and try to keep from weeping.

  They rode in silence after that, Durge’s craggy face turned forward, and Grace lost in her thoughts. Over the last few days, she had gone over her conversation with the Duratek operative a hundred times. Duratek was going to open a gate to Eldh. They had perfected the technology, and they were close to synthesizing the fairy blood they needed. But when was the gate going to open, and what was it going to let into Eldh when it did? An army of Duratek agents, or Mohg?

  Maybe both.

  “Time,” she murmured. “How much more time do we have?”

  Durge glanced at her. “What did you say, Your Majesty?”

  “I said it’s time to start looking for a place to camp.”

  The knight nodded. “I’ll inform Sir Tarus.”

  There was nowhere on the moors that offered much protection from the wind, but the Spiders managed to find a patch of ground that sat a bit lower than the surrounding landscape, and there were a number of the large boulders—left behind by glaciers rather than giants, Grace supposed—which Oragien and Graedin and the other runespeakers touched while speaking the rune of fire.

  Dinner that night was a meager affair. They still had a considerable amount of food, as they continued to make impossibly good time on their march north, but their supplies would have to last them a long while yet, as they would not be stopping in Barrsunder to purchase more.

  The course Aldeth had plotted for them would take them no closer than thirty leagues to the Embarran capital, but even that was cause for concern. The last time Grace was in Embarr, the Raven Cult had held sway, and there were the Onyx Knights to contend with as well. If they went to Barrsunder, there was no telling whom they would find in power. As for the rest of the Dominion, it seemed deserted.

  “Does anyone live in this place?” Aldeth said that night as they ate hardtack and cheese, huddled close to one of the stones over which Master Graedin had spoken Krond. “While Sam and I were out scouting, we came to two keeps, both of which were empty. And Leris and Karthi found an abandoned manor where the cattle had all died of starvation.”

  Samatha reached her hands toward the hot boulder. “It’s as if all the people who lived here have vanished.”

  “They’ve gone to Barrsunder,” Grace said. “King Sorrin is mad, and he’s summoned all of his knights to protect him from death. I think the Onyx Knights may be controlling him, using his position to weaken the Dominion.”

  Commander Paladus glanced at her. “That explains what happened to his knights. But what about the rest of the people—the folk who work the land? Where have they gone?”

  “North,” Durge said in his deep voice. “The Raven Cultists are on a pilgrimage north. Like all the slaves of the Pale King, they must answer his call.”

  Grace stared at the knight. His eyes were unreadable in the dark, and his right hand was tucked inside his cloak.

  “The stone,” Tarus said softly. “It’s getting cold again. We should find Master Graedin or Master Oragien to—”

  Tira broke away from Grace’s arms. She pressed her hands against the small boulder and laughed. A moment later they all felt it: waves of heat radiating outward.

  The others gaped at the girl, and—shy now—she ran back to Grace, burying her head in Grace’s skirt.

  “Thank you,” Grace said, cradling Tira in her arms.

  “Krond,” the girl murmured, and shut her eyes.

  They began their march again with the dawn. The air was bitter, and the day was bright and clear, without a trace of a cloud. Once Aldeth reported seeing a dark smudge off to the west, but it was gone before the rest of them caught a glimpse of it. At least the wind had blown itself out, and the air was still, which was a blessing.

  O
r, so Grace thought. For if the easterly wind had still blown, there was a chance the Spiders might have heard the sound of their approach. There might have been time for the witches to weave an illusion, or for the runespeakers to work magics of protection. However, the wind had chosen that day to betray them, and so it was they did not see the company of a hundred knights until they crested a low rise and glimpsed the men below, thundering across the moor on sooty horses.

  “Back!” Aldeth hissed. “We must get back before they see us!”

  It was already too late. The company of knights veered to the right, pounding up the slope toward them. Grace and Aldeth had ridden a little ahead of the main force, along with Durge, Tarus, Master Graedin, and the young witch Lursa. The rest of the army was two furlongs behind.

  Samatha stepped out of thin air, pushing her mistcloak over her shoulders. “I take it you’ve seen them.”

  “Are there any more?” Aldeth said.

  The Spider put her hands on her hips. “Isn’t fivescore enough? But no, I think this troop of knights is alone.”

  “What do they want?” Master Graedin said, a nervous hand at his throat.

  “It looks like we’ll find out soon enough,” Tarus said. “We can’t possibly outrun them. They’re all on chargers, and we have three hundred foot soldiers.”

  Grace glanced down at the Spiders. “Sam, Aldeth—go tell Commander Paladus what’s happening. Tell him to be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Samatha said.

  Grace’s mouth was so dry she could hardly speak the word. “Battle.”

  The two Spiders wrapped their gray cloaks about themselves and vanished, blending into the dull colors of the landscape.

  Lursa looked at Grace, a brave expression on her plain face. “Might we perhaps weave a spell of illusion, sister? Or is there some rune magic Master Graedin might perform to conceal us?”

  “It’s too late to hide,” Grace said. “But hold that thought, Lursa. We may well need magic before this is over.”

  The knights were closer now. She could see their steel helms and the swords at their sides.