The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  “Liendra,” he said in disgust. “Is it she, then?”

  Lirith curled her lip. “I doubt Sister Liendra will do the deed, but I have no doubt she is behind this plot, and I must say it is a clever one. She is using the traditions of the Warriors against them.”

  Aryn’s stomach churned; she wished she had not drunk so much wine. “Do you think he will use his power for the Witches?”

  “I don’t know,” Lirith said, holding a hand to her brow. “Perhaps unwittingly.”

  Aryn stood up; her nerves felt pulled as taut as the strings of a lute. “We have to go to him. We have to warn him about what they’re planning.”

  “I think you’ve forgotten our friend Sai’el Ajhir,” Sareth said with a sour look. “We’ll never get a message to the prince.”

  “What about speaking across the Weirding?” Aryn asked.

  Lirith made a sharp motion with her hand. “No. There are too many of Liendra’s witches about. Such a conversation would surely be overheard. Besides, there is another way.” She glanced at Sareth. “Would you leave us for a moment?”

  He frowned at her. “Why?”

  “Please, beshala.” She touched his arm. His eyes locked on hers for a moment, and Aryn thought he was going to protest, only then he sighed and left the chamber.

  “What’s this all about?” Aryn said after Sareth had left.

  Lirith did not turn around. “I will find the maid who is to be sent to Teravian this night, and I will take her place.”

  “To talk to him, you mean?”

  “No, to do what the one sent to him must do. To make him into a man.”

  Aryn trembled, and a ringing sounded in her ears. Surely she had misheard. “What are you talking about?”

  Lirith turned around. Her eyes were dark, haunted. “There is no other choice, sister. One way or another, he will lose his maidenhead this night—Liendra will see to that. I know he fancies me. A boyish crush, to be sure, but better it is me than one of her minions who does the deed. Perhaps, this way, we will keep him from becoming entangled in their snare.”

  Aryn gripped the back of a chair. “Then it should be me who should do this thing.”

  “No,” Lirith said, her voice hard. “You are pure, sister. You must not give that up, not yet. And with me . . . well, with me it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  This was madness. Aryn couldn’t bear the thought of it. “You can’t do this, Lirith. You can’t.”

  “Yes, I can.” Her expression was stern and cold, then her gaze softened. “Forgive me, sister. I should have told you long ago. Only I was too ashamed.”

  “You should have told me what long ago?”

  “Of the years I spent dancing in the house of Gulthas, in the Free City of Corantha.”

  Before Aryn could ask what she was talking about, Lirith moved to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. The other woman’s shimmering life thread contacted her own. In a single, terrible flash, Aryn saw it all: how Lirith’s parents were slain by thieves, how the lost girl was sold into slavery, and how as she grew she danced for the men, scarves fluttering.

  Aryn tried to look away, only she couldn’t. How many men had paid their gold to Gulthas to lay themselves beside her? How many bright sparks had kindled to life in Lirith’s womb only to be extinguished, until no more sparks would kindle there ever again? They were more numerous than the fluttering scarves she wore; Aryn couldn’t possibly count.

  The last images flickered through Aryn’s mind: Lirith’s flight on bare, bloody feet to Toloria, her first tentative steps along the path of Sia, her marriage to the count of Arafel, and her rise in the favor of Queen Ivalaine. Lirith’s thread pulled away, and Aryn slumped into the chair, weak and sweating.

  “I should have told you,” Lirith said again, her voice thick with anguish. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Aryn looked up, her eyes full of tears. “Forgive you for what, sister? For being beautiful and noble? For being strong enough to survive in a hell that surely would have destroyed any other of us? Why should I forgive you for these things?”

  Tears streamed down Lirith’s dark cheeks. She knelt on the floor and laid her head on Aryn’s lap, and Aryn stroked her glossy black hair.

  “I love you, sister,” Aryn murmured. “Now more than ever.” Lirith’s only answer was a sob.

  They stayed that way for a time, then Lirith stood again, and her eyes were dry. “Do not tell Sareth what I do,” she said.

  Before Aryn could speak, the door opened and shut, and Lirith was gone.

  For a time, Aryn simply sat in the chair, staring. Then a strange compulsion came over her, and she stood. She moved around Lirith’s chamber, searching, and soon found what she needed: an ivory comb lay on the dressing table. Aryn picked it up, and from the comb’s teeth she pulled seven strands of black hair. Quickly, she wove the strands into a slender braid, then knotted the braid into a small circlet.

  “What are you doing, Aryn?” she murmured to herself as she sat back in the chair. “What are you doing?”

  Before she could answer, she slipped the circlet of Lirith’s hair onto her right ring finger and shut her eyes.

  The spell worked at once. It was not like the other magic, the one where she had flown through the night, into the garden, and spied upon Teravian and Queen Ivalaine. This magic was subtler. It was more as if Aryn were gazing through a window—one dusted with frost, so that the images beyond were at once crystalline and slightly blurred.

  She watched as Lirith stood in a dim corridor, in the shadow of a doorway. For a long time nothing happened, and Aryn’s head began to ache. This was wrong, Sia knew it; she should break the spell. Then, just as she was about to pull the circlet from her finger, a figure moved down the corridor.

  It was a woman, though Aryn could not see the other’s face. She was wrapped in a crimson cloak, the cowl pulled over her head. As the figure drew closer, Lirith stepped from the alcove to stand in front of her.

  The hood slipped back, revealing a pretty, slightly plump young woman. Her jaw dropped open, and she stared with surprised brown eyes. Aryn was surprised as well, for she recognized the maiden. It was Belira, one of the young witches who had mocked Aryn at last year’s High Coven.

  Belira cried out and started to turn away, but Lirith was swifter. She reached out and touched Belira. At once the young woman’s eyes fluttered up into her head, and she slumped to the floor. Had Lirith used a spell? Or a needle dipped in some potion? Lirith pulled Belira’s limp form into the nearby room. Then she wrapped herself in the red cloak, shut the door, and hurried down the corridor.

  The witch reached the door to Teravian’s chamber. It was Duke Petryen who stood guard now. Lirith bowed her head, the cowl concealing her face. A grin split Petryen’s beard, but he said nothing. The duke opened the door; Lirith passed through.

  For a moment things went dark, and Aryn feared the spell had been broken. Then things grew bright again, and she found herself gazing into the prince’s chamber.

  It was dim—the only light came from a single candle. Teravian lay on his bed, clad in a white robe bound in front with a sash. His eyes were open, but he stared into space and hardly seemed to see Lirith enter. On the table next to the bed was a wine goblet, tipped on its side. The prince must have drunk most of the contents, for only a few drops had spilled. Lirith touched a fingertip to the spilled wine, then brought it to her tongue. She sucked in a hissing breath.

  They’ve drugged him, Aryn thought. They don’t want any chance of him resisting.

  Lirith drifted close to the bed. She hesitated, then reached toward the prince.

  His hand shot up and caught her wrist.

  “I know you’re there.” His speech was slurred, yet there was still an edge to it. “Whatever they put in my wine has blurred my vision, but I have other senses.”

  Lirith said nothing.

  His lip curled in a sneer. “So have you come to finish the job my mother began?”

  Deftly, Liri
th freed her hand from his grasp. Her fingers moved to the front of his robe and slipped inside.

  He gasped and sat up straight in bed.

  “Hush,” Lirith said, and pressed him back against the pillows.

  “No,” he whispered. “No, don’t do this to me. You don’t understand what this will make me.”

  However, his eyes were dilated like those of a cat in full darkness, and he did not resist as Lirith undid the front of his robe. His chest was smooth, pale, and flat; she ran her hands over it. A soft moan escaped him.

  Aryn made a soft sound as well. That Teravian was a man at least in body, there could be no doubt.

  You shouldn’t be watching this, Aryn. You should break the spell now.

  Only she didn’t. Lirith let her cloak slip to the floor, followed by her gown. In the candlelight, her body was as smooth and shapely as a figurine of polished ebony. She lay in the bed beside him and drew him close, her arms dark against his milky skin.

  “No,” he murmured again, but now his eyes were shut, and he was already moving against her. His hands roamed over her body, and he nuzzled her neck, her breasts, with his lips, a look of rapture on his face. Lirith’s own expression was unreadable in the dimness, but her touch was gentle, experienced. She reached down, guiding him into her.

  The first time was swift—clumsy and over before it had barely begun—but the second was slower, more languorous, as the prince moved with more certainty. All the while Aryn told herself to break the spell, but she could not, and each time the prince cried out, she felt a wave of heat crash through her own body.

  At last he was spent, and he dozed for a time, his head cradled against her breasts. Finally, Lirith slipped from the bed. She picked up her gown.

  The prince sat up. “Don’t go,” he said softly. “I would know who you are.”

  Lirith’s back was to him. “No, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice low. “You would not.”

  “Turn around.” His eyes were clearer now. “And bring the candle closer. I think I might be able to see you.”

  Lirith clutched her gown to herself. “Please, Your Majesty. Let me go.”

  “No.” His voice was harder now, commanding. “I am the king’s son. You will obey me, woman. If you do not, I will call for the guards, and either way I shall see who you are.”

  At last there was an expression on Lirith’s face: anguish. She drew in a breath, then turned around.

  Like the flickering light of the candle, an array of emotions played across his face: shock, wonder, then shame. He lunged for his cast-off robe and threw it over his nakedness.

  “By the Seven, what have you done?” He clenched his hands into fists. “What have I done?”

  Lirith’s expression was hard now. “We have done what we must, Your Majesty.”

  A sound ripped itself from him: half bitter laughter, half moan of despair. “Are you mad? We didn’t have to do this. We don’t have to do anything—don’t you understand?”

  Lirith shook her head. “You’re wrong, Your Majesty. I had to do this thing, even as you did. Whatever happens tomorrow, you must face it as a man of power.”

  His eyebrows drew down into a single dark line. “What do you know of that?”

  “Not much, I fear, but enough. I beg you, whatever you do, Your Majesty, remember your Dominion, remember your wife to be, and remember your father. Do not betray them, no matter what might be offered you.”

  The prince’s eyes were dark, unreadable.

  Lirith reached out a hand. “I bring you a warning as well. There is another in this castle, one whom Liendra is in league with. We believe she is the one who—”

  “Go,” Teravian said.

  Lirith stared at him. His face was pale, and his eyes dark and wide with vision.

  “She’s coming,” he whispered.

  Hands shaking, Lirith donned her gown and threw the cloak around her shoulders. She moved to the door, then cast a glance back at him.

  “Please, Your Majesty.” Her voice shook. “If ever we were friends, and I believe we were, then listen to me now. No matter what happens on the morrow, do not forget who you are.”

  He gazed not at her, but into the darkness. “I’d go if I were you. She’s nearly here.”

  Lirith gasped, then cast the hood of the cloak over her face, threw open the door, and rushed outside. Aryn jerked the circlet from her finger and opened her eyes. Her palms were slicked with sweat, and her head throbbed.

  “Sia help us,” she said. “What do we do?”

  For a moment her mind was dark and frozen. Then, like a whisper in her mind, it came to her. She hurried from the room and returned to her own chamber. It was dim and silent, lit only by the fireplace. She moved to the wooden chest in which she kept her jewels and other fine things. Kneeling, she lifted the lid, took out a small parcel wrapped in parchment, and undid it. Inside was a scarf. The embroidery on it was only half-finished, and in the center of the white cloth was a dark stain. Blood. Her own blood.

  Words came back to her, spoken once by Lady Melia in this very chamber on a rainy day. Now the cloth contains a bit of your power. It will bring your husband luck in battle. . . .

  Luck, yes. Or what else might it bring?

  Aryn took needle and thread, then sat down and, by the light of the fire, began to sew.

  40.

  Grace stood atop the keep, wrapped in her fur-lined cloak, and gazed out across the vale of Shadowsdeep. She had risen an hour ago, when night still ruled the world, and had slipped from the cot without waking Tira. The sentries had nodded to her as she entered the keep and ascended to the battlements. She wasn’t certain why she had come here. Perhaps, if she could look into the distance, she might see the future coming.

  However, all she saw were shadows. They reached into the northern sky, higher than the Ironfang Mountains, blotting out the stars. Now, as dawn drew near, she saw the shadows for what they were: great plumes of smoke. The smoke rose up behind the snow-covered peaks of the Fal Threndur, black as ink, writing ominous runes across the sky.

  The gate is starting to open, Grace. The rune Travis bound into it at Midwinter over a year ago is weakening. The Pale King will ride soon.

  The thought sent a shiver through her, but at least it seemed they would have only one enemy to fight, for King Kel had brought strange news about the Onyx Knights. Grace had spoken with the chieftain until long after midnight. As the bonfire burned low, she listened as he spoke of affairs in the northlands, across which he had traveled these last months.

  Much of it Grace knew in part: how the Pale King’s pylons had awakened, and how his ravens flew the skies, spying on the lands below. However, there was much that was news to her. Kel described how the pilgrims who marched north in answer to the call of the Raven Cult were amassing in the port town of Omberfell in northern Embarr, as well as in Kelcior, the ancient Malachorian keep north of Eredane in which Kel and his people had made their home until the Onyx Knights drove them out.

  “Why?” Sir Tarus had asked. “For what purpose are the followers of the Raven gathering in those places?”

  It was Durge who answered. “They’re waiting for their master the Pale King to be freed of his prison, so they may serve him.”

  King Kel let out a massive sigh. “I hate to sound like a gloomy Embarran myself, but I believe you’re right in that.”

  Grace tried to comprehend what this news meant. Last they knew, the Onyx Knights had held Kelcior. Though deluded by Kelephon, the knights of Eversea still believed they worked against the Pale King. They would never have willingly given up their keep to Berash’s minions.

  When she voiced her confusion about this, King Kel related his most astonishing news. Over the last several months, the Onyx Knights had been preparing for an all-out assault on the remaining Dominions: Perridon, Galt, Toloria, and Calavan. Kelephon would conquer the Dominions under the pretense of serving the Pale King, only at the last moment he intended to betray Berash, seize the Great Stone
s for himself, and set himself up as the king of Malachor reborn.

  Then a fortnight ago, according to Kel, everything changed. The Onyx Knights had fallen into sudden disarray. They had abandoned Kelcior to the pilgrims of the Raven Cult, and they had withdrawn from the borders of Perridon and Galt. Hundreds of the knights had even been seen riding back west along the River Farwander, as if returning to Eversea. What was Kelephon up to?

  “Maybe he’s gotten distracted,” Aldeth had said. “I’m far better at sneaking than fighting, but from what I know wars don’t wage themselves. They take a good deal of concentration.” The Spider shrugged. “Maybe his mind is elsewhere.”

  There was no way to be certain, but it was hard to argue with the logic of Aldeth’s conclusion. Yet if that was the case, what was distracting Kelephon?

  “Perhaps the end comes sooner than he believed,” croaked a harsh voice behind her. “Perhaps he was forced to return to his master lest his treachery be discovered.”

  Grace turned around to see a shapeless figure clad in gray rags shamble toward her across the battlement.

  “Grisla,” she said, her breath white on the air. She shook her head. “Or is it Vayla?”

  The hag batted the air with a bony hand. “Haven’t you gotten over that one yet, daughter? It’s time you quit asking questions and started finding answers.”

  Grace reached into the pocket inside her cloak and drew out the rune of hope. “Do you know what I need to do with this?”

  Grisla scowled at her. “And why should I know about a thing like that?”

  “I saw you.” Grace brushed a thumb over the stone disk. “That time in King Kel’s camp, I saw you work an augury with runes. Only it didn’t make sense. Kel called you his witch. So which are you—a runespeaker or witch?”

  Grisla rolled her one eye. “And why are people always so bent on choosing? This or that, left or right, one thing or the other. Don’t you see? In the end, we’re all just two sides of the same coin.”