The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  No, she would not fail. She let the cold air freeze her heart to ice.

  “Please,” he said. “It’s time.”

  “So it is.” Behind the shield, she made a motion with her withered hand.

  Teravian let out a choking sound, and his eyes bulged. His fingers fluttered up to the scarf around his neck. He tried to speak a word—it might have been Aryn—but no air passed his lips. The prince reeled in his saddle, and shouts rose from the nearest men.

  “Your Majesty!” Duke Petryen cried out. He reached for the prince, but as he touched Teravian’s arm there was a flash of green light, and the acrid smell of smoke permeated the air. Petryen toppled from the saddle and fell to the ground, dead.

  Aryn gazed at the corpse. So the magic she had woven into the scarf was complete after all—a spell of death. It had slain Petryen, and while Teravian was resisting, it would take him as well. As Mirda had said, there was one witch more powerful than Teravian.

  Aryn was that witch.

  Teravian tilted back in the saddle. His eyes rolled up into his head.

  “Harlot!” Ajhir cried, his face a dark mask of rage. “Murderer! What have you done to him? Remove your spell, or I’ll strike you down!”

  He brandished his sword at her, but Aryn ignored him. A new cry rose from those warriors who had rushed to Teravian’s banner: a sound of dismay.

  Aryn looked up. In the sky, the gigantic form of the bull wavered, like an image seen through rippling water. The shining beast tossed its head one last time, then a wind struck it, and it broke apart into tatters of mist that quickly scudded away to the west. The cries of dismay became shouts of terror. Men threw down their swords and spears.

  Teravian had created the illusion of the bull, only now his magic was failing, along with his life. He clawed at the scarf, but it was wrapped tightly about his throat. Ajhir stared at Aryn, at the prince, at the sky, clearly unable to decide what to do. Aryn knew this was her chance. She imagined reaching out with invisible hands, gripping the curtain of magic that hung behind the prince, and ripping it aside.

  New shouts rose from the warriors. As though they had appeared out of thin air, thirty-nine women in green cloaks now stood behind the prince. The young witches gazed around, their eyes and mouths becoming circles of fear as they realized their spell of concealment had been broken. However, Liendra, who stood closest to the prince, wore a look of outrage.

  “Shemal!” the golden-haired witch shrieked, turning round and round. “Shemal, show yourself!”

  A chill descended over Aryn, and her heart fluttered as a patch of shadow thickened and grew, until in its place stood a figure in a black robe. The robe devoured the morning light, and the figure cast no shadow. By her shape it was a woman, though her face was concealed by the robe’s cowl.

  The warriors who had flocked to Teravian’s banner were now turning and running; the field had become a churning sea as men fled in all direction.

  Treachery! the warriors cried. Witchcraft!

  Liendra stalked toward Aryn’s horse. “You deformed runt—you’re ruining everything.”

  Despite the dread in her chest, Aryn’s voice did not waver. “It is you who are ruined, Liendra. You did it to yourself long ago, when you cast your lot with darkness.”

  For a moment the hatred in Liendra’s eyes was replaced by another emotion: fear. Then her visage hardened again, and she turned toward the one in black. “Stop her! The horrid little bitch is killing him. Cast the spell back on her.”

  Shemal glided forward, the hem of her robe not touching the ground. “Such a magic cannot be turned on its maker. If you were not so weak in the Touch, you would know that.”

  Teravian’s lips were blue now. He slumped in the saddle, no longer struggling.

  All traces of beauty fled Liendra’s face, replaced by the ugliness of rage. “Then do something else! I don’t care what it is. Just keep her from killing him!”

  “As you wish,” Shemal’s voice hissed from the cowl. A pale hand extended from the sleeve of her robe. She flicked a finger, and Aryn watched in horror as the embroidered pattern on the scarf vanished, as if the threads had been plucked out. The cloth was white and unmarked. Teravian drew in a gasping breath, clutching the mane of his horse. His eyes were hazed with pain as he looked up at Aryn, but there was life in them. The spell had been broken.

  “Sisters, help me!”

  The wail pierced the air. Aryn looked at Liendra. So the spell had not been broken after all, only transferred to another.

  The same embroidered pattern that had vanished from the scarf now appeared on Liendra’s robe—swiftly, as if sewn by a hundred hands. She flailed at the threads, trying to brush them away as though they were insects, but to no avail. The pattern continued to grow until it was complete. Liendra’s eyes protruded from their sockets, and she gnashed her teeth, biting her own tongue. Blood ran down her chin. Several of the young witches drew close to her, then as she reached out for them they recoiled, their eyes on Duke Petryen’s body.

  The golden-haired witch reached a hand toward Aryn. “Die,” she said.

  Aryn shook her head.

  Liendra went stiff, then fell over, a corpse before she hit the ground. The young witches screamed and cried, sinking to their knees. Warriors raced past them in all directions. Many were fleeing the field, but not all.

  “Come to me!” Ajhir was shouting. “We must protect the prince. Come to me!”

  A few of the men gathered around him, but others kept moving past. The clang of swords sundered the air, along with cries of pain. Somewhere trumpets sounded. Aryn started to turn her mount around, to see what was happening—then froze.

  The figure in black glided toward her.

  Aryn’s horse let out a scream and reared onto its hind legs. She tried to grab the saddle, but she had only one hand; it wasn’t enough. She tumbled to the frozen ground, and her breath rushed out of her in a painful gasp. For a moment she was unable to move. Then, with effort, she untangled herself from her cloak and pushed herself to her knees.

  The Necromancer stood above her. Despite the wind, Shemal’s black robe hung still. From her position on the ground, Aryn could see inside the hood, and what she glimpsed there froze her blood. A smile, thin and sharp as a knife wound, cut across a face as white, as lifeless, as marble. Aryn gazed into black eyes and saw in them an eon of hatred, of death, of suffering. A moan escaped her.

  “What an ugly little arm you have. Such a small and twisted thing. How you must hate it.”

  Shemal pointed a white finger. Aryn had lost the shield in the fall, and her withered right arm was exposed.

  Somehow, despite her fear, Aryn smiled. Shemal was wrong. She had done what she had to; she knew who she was. “No, I don’t hate it. It’s part of who I am.”

  Shemal’s thin lips curled in a sneer. “Really? Well, if you fancy that hideous little arm so much, then I shall mold the rest of you to match.”

  Aryn’s smile shattered as Shemal brushed her cheek with a finger; her touch was like a cold dagger.

  “Wither,” the Necromancer crooned. “Wither . . .”

  Aryn threw her head back and screamed.

  45.

  Aryn had known pain before. Especially during the years of her tenth and eleventh winters, when she had been growing quickly, her right arm had often throbbed with a deep, bone-grinding ache, as if the withered appendage were straining to grow along with the rest of her—and failing. At night she would lie awake, pressing her face against her pillow, so the maids who attended her would not hear her sobs.

  That pain was nothing to this: a pinprick compared to the thrust of a red-hot sword. She screamed again as Shemal clenched white fingers into a fist. It felt as if her flesh were clay, her bones wood. She had become a golem, a thing for the Necromancer to mold, to twist into a new shape. To break.

  Sister, I am here.

  The voice was like cool water flowing over scorched ground. The pain receded a fraction, so that Aryn
was able to form words in her mind.

  Lirith, is that you?

  Yes, Sareth and I are right behind you. King Boreas and some of his men have fought their way close to Teravian, and we followed after.

  I can’t turn to look at you—I can’t move.

  It’s Shemal’s magic that paralyzes you. You must resist it.

  The Necromancer’s white face filled Aryn’s vision like a cold, white moon.

  I can’t, Lirith. The pain . . .

  Do not think of it. I will take the pain away. You can do the rest—you have the power. I know it as Ivalaine did. There is none stronger in the Touch than you, sister.

  Before Aryn could question those words, the pain vanished, and air rushed into her, revitalizing her. After the agony, the sensation of wholeness was almost too much to bear.

  Do it now, sister!

  There was something wrong. Lirith’s voice had become oddly tight; her thread trembled.

  Please, Aryn, before it’s too late. You must strike out against the Necromancer.

  But how? Shemal was ancient, once a goddess. And she was not truly alive. What power could possibly harm such a being?

  Like a whisper in her ear, it came to Aryn—the answer was everywhere around her. Free of the pain, she reached out with the Touch. She gathered the shimmering threads of the Weirding and began to weave them together.

  No—that was too slow. She needed far too many threads to fashion this pattern; she could never weave them fast enough.

  Remember what Grace did that time at the bridge over the River Darkwine, when the krondrim approached? She didn’t shape the river with the Touch; instead she made herself into a vessel and let the river pour through her.

  Aryn let go of the threads, and she imagined herself as a thing hollow, empty—a cup waiting to be filled. Like an emerald flood, the power of the Weirding poured into her. Even as she felt she must burst with it, she reimagined herself not as a cup, but rather as a pipe: a conduit through which the power of the Weirding rushed. With a thought, Aryn directed all that magic—all the power of life—at the Necromancer.

  This time it was Shemal who cried out. Aryn willed her eyes to see through the green veil of magic. Shemal stumbled back, her hands rising before her in a gesture of warding. The smooth marble of her face was scored with lines of pain; her mouth was open in a circle of astonishment.

  A strength she had never known, had never guessed at, galvanized Aryn. She rose and held her arms out, drawing the power of the Weirding to her. It came from the men all around, and the witches who still stared and trembled, and even the horses who galloped by. It came from the grass beneath her feet, and from the ground beneath the grass, where even in the frozen depths of winter life endured, waiting to spring forth anew. It came from the sky, where birds flew, and from the waters of the river a league away, where silver fish swam beneath the ice. It came from the trees of Gloaming Wood, which hovered on the horizon, and from the land farther away than the eye could see. To Aryn, it felt as if the entire world was a shining web, and that she stood in the very center.

  She pointed a finger at Shemal. The Necromancer bared her teeth, white and pointed against black gums. A hissing escaped her. She strained, trying to reach for Aryn, but the ancient being could not move—a spider caught in the web of life.

  I’m doing it, Lirith! Aryn sent the triumphant words along the Weirding. I’m holding her back!

  There was a pause, then Lirith’s reply came back, weak and quavering. I knew you could do it, sister.

  Fear cut through Aryn’s exultation. Something was wrong with Lirith. Aryn sent her consciousness along the Weirding. At first she went too far, swept away by the force of the Weirding, and she was a bird soaring over the battlefield. She could see the chaos as warriors ran from Teravian’s banner. There was Boreas, fighting with a knot of men, trying to get close to the prince. Nearby she saw herself and the Necromancer, both standing frozen, and Liendra’s fallen body, and the witches in their green robes, clutching one another in fear. Just behind Aryn were two figures. Sareth brandished a sword, keeping Sai’el Ajhir at bay. Lirith knelt on the ground beside him, reeling back and forth on her knees, her eyes clamped shut, her dark, beautiful face wrought into a mask of suffering.

  The feeling of ecstasy fled. Lirith had lied; she had not taken the pain of the Necromancer’s spell away. She had taken it on herself.

  Oh, Lirith . . .

  You must not think of me, came the witch’s faint reply. We each must do what Sia has granted us power to do. I have my task, as you have yours. Now finish it. Destroy Shemal.

  In that moment, Aryn left the last innocent wisps of girlhood behind. She turned from her friend, whom she loved, and instead faced the enemy. She opened herself wider, letting all the power of the Weirding rush through her, into Shemal.

  It wasn’t enough. Shemal writhed, she clawed at the air, she hissed and spat, but she did not fall. She could not die, because she was already dead; the power of life could not destroy her, because she yet lived. It was no use.

  The energy of the Weirding flowed through Aryn, as strong as ever, but she felt herself weakening. The vessel of her body was not made to bear the force of such magic. She felt herself being worn away, as stones over which a river flows. Only what took a river centuries would take the flood of the Weirding only a few more beats of the heart. Emerald light shone through Aryn’s skin. Shemal’s expression changed, from a grimace of agony to a smile of satisfaction.

  I’m sorry, sister, Aryn tried to say, but her voice was lost in the roar of the flood. She felt as transparent and brittle as glass. Another moment, and it would all be over.

  “Stand away from her, fiend!” commanded a booming voice.

  With the last of her strength, Aryn gazed through the haze of magic. She saw a group of knights on proud chargers, their armor gleaming in the morning light. Their leader leaped to the ground. It was King Boreas, his face handsome and terrible in its wrath. Shemal flicked her gaze in his direction; loathing filled her black eyes, but she could move no other part of her. Boreas drew his sword.

  “Heed my command, Creature of Darkness—I said get away from my daughter!”

  The king thrust with his sword.

  It was forged of mundane metal; the blade should never have been able to pierce a being such as she. However, the magic of the Weirding still crackled around her, through her, binding her. The sword pierced her body, biting deeply as Boreas leaned forward, plunging it through her chest, so that the blade thrust out the back of her robe, slicked with black blood. The Necromancer stared with wide eyes, her white hands fluttering around the sword’s hilt embedded in her chest.

  “The spell, Aryn!” It was Sareth, shouting behind her. “You’ve got to break the spell. It’s killing her!”

  Aryn gazed, not with her eyes, but with the power of the Weirding. Sareth’s face was carved with lines of anguish. On the ground before him lay a corpse: Ajhir. Another figure lay beside him as well. It was Lirith, it had to be. She wore the same rust-colored gown; she had the same luxuriant black hair. Only instead of the witch’s supple figure, inside the gown was a small thing, dark and twisted. Legs coiled back on themselves like roots; stunted arms reached up from too-long sleeves, ending in fingers thin and gnarled as twigs. Her black eyes gazed, not from a smooth, beautiful face, but from a visage as wizened as one of last year’s apples left to dry in the sun.

  Aryn let go of the Weirding. Power ceased to flow into her, but there was still too much within her, and the shell of her body had grown too brittle. The magic would shatter her if she did not direct it elsewhere.

  There was no time to consider the wisdom of it. With a thought, Aryn redirected the power of the Weirding away from the Necromancer and into Lirith.

  Lirith’s crooked jaw opened in a croaking sound. Sareth screamed as well, for Aryn was too weak to properly control the magic. He dropped the sword and fell to his knees, huddling over Lirith, as a cocoon of green light wove around th
em, so brilliant they were lost to sight.

  Aryn staggered—she felt so weak, so cold and empty, now that the power of the Weirding no longer flowed through her. She would have fallen, but strong arms caught her. She gazed up into the king’s grim face.

  “My lady,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes bright with concern. “My lady, are you well?”

  Words were beyond her, but she managed a nod. She was dimly aware of many knights all around them. The king and his men must have fought through the confusion to her. She was also aware of Teravian standing nearby. Warriors gripped his arms, but he did not struggle. His face was ashen, and his eyes seemed blind as he stared forward.

  Those eyes went wide. “Father!” Teravian shouted. “Behind you!”

  Boreas whirled around, still holding Aryn, and what she saw sent a spike of terror deep into her heart. Shemal had not fallen to the ground, but still stood. She wrapped white hands around the hilt of the sword and pulled it from her chest. She licked the black blood from her lips, then smiled as she held the sword before her.

  “You are a fool,” she said, and her lifeless eyes were not fixed on the king, but on Aryn. “You should have finished your spell. You should have sacrificed yourself to slay me. Now look what your error has cost you. For I am not undone. And you will still die.”

  Shemal thrust the sword toward Aryn’s heart.

  Boreas roared. He gripped Aryn in strong arms, spinning her around, away from the Necromancer, then pushed her from him. She stumbled away from the king.

  There was a wet sound, followed by a soft exhalation of air, like a gasp of amazement. A silence fell over the field; all the men stared, unmoving, as if a spell had bound them. Slowly, Aryn turned around.

  Boreas gazed at her, his mouth open, an expression she had never seen before in his eyes: a look of puzzlement.

  “So,” the king said, and as he spoke blood bubbled from his lips. He sank down to his knees, then looked down at the point of the sword that jutted from the center of his chest.